Life... and pimples: the antithesis of aging...

There is a pimple on my face.

I am twenty-eight, and a pimple has erupted to life like a maturing urban legend - all except this isn't an urban legend. This is real, surreal and uncanny. I can almost be angry, if I am not bottling it up inside like a two litre bottle of coke, all shaken up.

Why does this happen to me? Even once I have reached the very mature age of twenty-eight? Surely such dermatological malignancies defy the laws of medical science and quantum physics? I was certain that such occurrences were supposed to cease completely a decade ago. I should be free from the devilish clutches of red, pus-filled complexion complexities. I should be free to roam the confectionery and potato chip aisles without a single thought of the herpetic-like facial eruptions. Gorging on mountainous piles of cholesterol bricks should come without a single skin pore rhetoric. I thought I was just supposed to be an old geriatric doosh bag. Life isn't supposed to give me the worse of both worlds, is it?

Perhaps once I roll over the hill of thirty I will be rid of complications such as this. It is only two years away, I think I can wait that long... maybe. What would someone of my age give to have a life without giving birth to such harrowing herpetic horrors? A Datsun? Toyota? Astin Martin? What is left of my masculine disposition perhaps? Though I will be more glad to trade the generous pad of insulation I have around my hips. I could be pregnant. I'll trade that.

Someone once said the path of least resistance in life could either be faith or despair. I think the latter may apply to me right at this moment. I don't think there is anything I can do to fend off the cosmetically impossible. My DNA is flawed with a hideous abnormality. My job has doomed me to grotesque facial asymmetry. The nocturnal magical midget gnomes have littered my face with their pimple growing pixie dust. The fate of my face is sealed - the depression will continue.

The dermatological tyrant has won. I must come to accept it... after I have squeezed and strangled it until it has begged for mercy. Should the white flag not rise, then the ensuing miniature explosion will serve its cathartic purpose enough. I would have at least won a small battle and retained a small portion of my dignity.

Life... and the joys of aging...

There is a gargantuan fissure on my forehead - cruel fate has placed it for all to see. If it is any bigger it would form a malevolent smile and mouth the words "you turn twenty-eight today". A normal person would say it is just a wrinkle, and Michael Jackson's hard white mica skin texture is just an unfortunate acquired albino disease.

I stand in front of the mirror at Hallensteines holding a ghastly fluorescent green top, debating if it will accentuate my youth or my Yoda-like maturity. I decide it was neither. Instead, what it would really accentuate is my own psychotic semantic attachments to aging. If I stare at the shirt hard enough I can see it laughing at me - I think psychiatrists call it Schizophrenia. If I convinced myself that buying the shirt would be a good idea, I fear the shirt would not be the only one that laughs - my psychiatrist and many of their colleagues would no doubt also join in.

I now officially hate shopping.

I think I'd rather be morbidly obese while retaining my youthful good looks, it will certainly be better than having an acceptable BMI while putting a deposit on my walking frame. At least the few more pounds can be expedited in numerous ways: lipo suction, stomach stapling, psychological conditioning and hypnotism to name just a few. To fight the ravages of aging? There only appears to be make-up and Womens' Weekly Magazines, both of which I have developed a deadly allergy to. The war has been lost even before it was conceived.

The solution? Perhaps I can just hang out with people who look older than me. This is easy, some overtime work in the rest home would suffice nicely. Or alternatively I can just come to accept that aging, like breathing air and acquired albino diseases, is a natural part of living a healthy few decades.

There appears to be a rest home position available here for the people that would like to join me on my quest for lost youth... I would welcome you all on my long intrepid journey.
http://www.seek.co.nz/users/apply/index.ascx?Sequence=27&PageNumber=1&JobID=8281205

Life... and the absence of narrative brain juice...

Ok guys. My well of inspiration has run dry. Just photos today.

Boogying on down with the Macarena at Christchurch Idol kareoke. We got 100% for Smells Like Teen Spirit. Ji Ho, the guy on the right, is going to be a dentist in a few years - I think I will start flossing now.

Jonathan and Diana at Mido Japanese restaurant.

Clinton - reviewing the anatomy of mankind.

Ya... no comment.

Life... and the unwavering preoccupation with lips and chocolate...

She had chocolate on her upper lip - the part where it lined up neatly with the left edge of her nose and easily hid whenever she pronounced any syllable with a 'm'. It appeared to have been there for many years, unassuming and unobtrusive to the conversation. It had only been there for the last ten minutes, all from the first moment the warm glazed pottery met her lips.

She talked with a smile from her heart and with an untainted vigor from her eyes. Her hands moving in unison, orchestrating it all into one synergistic voice. She does not appear to know it.

I watched on, though discreetly so as not to stare and make obvious of the new flavoured lip gloss she has applied. My mouth on autopilot, making the required responses to keep the conversation going. She does not appear to know this either.

I felt selfish, and amused at my own sefishness. She is a doctor, probably will be a paediatrician. She will be a good paediatrician. I should probably inform the future paediatrician that she has some chocolate on her lips.

My conscience asked me to point to the opposite side of the lip, where it is prestine. She widened her eyes in disbelief and wiped not only that side, but also the other side... plus the entire lower lip with both of her hands.

It remained untouched, unsmeared and unaged.


Victory is mine.

Life... and memoirs of a sloth...

The water envelopes me like a cozy atmosphere of fur. It is a hug long overdue. My eyes are closed. I am at my happy place. Sounds of screaming children are distant, but they do not reach me. Drops of rain stream towards my face like kamikaze missiles, determined to flush me out of serenity - yet I do not feel them. I lie still, arms floating. I could be dead, but this felt multitudes better.

I feel safe.
Invisible.
Healed. The right medial epichondritis I sustained from air hockey is certainly more bearable than before.

Maybe I've grown older? More mature? More boring? Perhaps a beer belly would really complete the moment?

It has been quite a while since I visited the hot pools of Hamner Springs - fifteen years to be exact. On this particular Christmas Eve Andrew, Clinton and myself ventured towards our destination with one common purpose in mind - to relax and be merry. The purpose of the place use to overwhelm my comprehension of an eleven year-old world. What? Sit in a smelly hot tub for hours with other strangers? I can't put my head in the water? I could have done that in the comfort and convenience of our bath at home, without the strangers; and the funny sulphurous smell would be mine and mine only.

Now it appears the tables of desire have turned. The purpose is clear. The reason shines like day light. The method is second nature.

Maybe I am more mature? I'd like to think so.
More impervious to laziness? Sure... why not...

Life... and the tale of the silly midget storeperson...

*********************
Once upon a time, in the mystical swamp of Christchurch, there stood a silly midget store person. The midget store person was short and stout, with a pair of bifocals to accentuate the worldly knowledge of her Whitcoulls store. There she stood in front of the DVD shelves, diligently ruminating over if Southpark should really be in the childrens' section.

Then out of nowhere a customer miraculously appeared in a cloud of smoke, with a DVD in each hand she asked with great puzzlement:

"Is The Polar Express a good movie? Better than A Bugs Life?".
To which the store person replied, "I haven't seen The Polar Express before, but the cover looks good so it shouldn't be bad at all..."

I looked on, in stuttering bewilderment.

"Wow, ok" said the mother, with a plume of uncertainty in every syllable. "I'll get it then...".

Shocked, I stood by. Thoughts of a little boy's Christmas ruined racing through me. Should I barge in? Save the day? Rescue the weak minded from the evil temptations.... no... mind tricks... of the dark side? Christ... its just a DVD, am I going mad?

So she follows the silly midget store person, down the dark thorny path of eventual disappointment. Appearing satisfied with doubt she stands at the checkout. A credit card in her hand pays for the DVD.


And a little boy waits...

*********************

For those who have not seen the The Polar Express - don't. At least save your retinas for something that may blind you but incite some form of laughter and mirth: have a friend shine a laser pointer in your eye, stare into the sun, look closely at Helen Clarke's massive predatory incisors. Whatever it maybe, I assure you life will be better that way.

(Erika, yes... you... put the Polar Express DVD down before you take it to a DVD night.)

Life... and best wishes with love...

Wayne, a good buddy of mine from school, just had his wedding celebrations in Oamaru last weekend. The venue was at the Burnside Homestead; it is situated in a rather remote location outside of town and surrounded by vast quantities of sheep perched on top of rolling green hills. The weather, whilst not abysmal and did not equate to any biblical plague, did not entertain us with the warm and loving embrace of sun light. Instead it pretended to be a bum and threw some rain clouds over our heads.

The ceremony went well. I took out my video camera for the first time and tried my best to capture the essence of the moment. Unfortunately my artistic qualities only appeared to have equated to a blind, drunk monkey.

Note to self: New kung foo style, the blind drunk monkey.
Another note to self: New dance fad to exploit the unsuspecting populace with, the blind drunk monkey dance. Will make millions.

The bride, groom and the wedding cake:

Note to self: name for my own romantic comedy, Bride, Groom and the Wedding cake.

The very hospitable Burnside Homestead:

The obligatory photo of food, with proof of its most delicious quality:

The obligatory photo of a cute baby (and photographic evidence to prove that Wayne, does indeed, love kids):

Best wishes, with lots of love.

Will

Life... and the never ending story too...

Deeply apologetic for the lack of posts recently. But just to briefly recap my recent happenings:

1. I found a house.
The house is situated a mere 3 minutes drive or 10 minutes walk away from home. Which suits the paracitic urge to leech off my parents should I decide to move in. What is perhaps more exciting is that the owner still needs a resource consent for the garage to bedroom conversion. Yes. What a wanker. If all goes well it will be all mine in March. If not, then I will be immensely pissed off.

Just as a note, I don't think I am ever 'immensely pissed off' as such. Think of what Kramer from Seinfield looked like when he was unsatisfied with lifes' various happenings, I think thats pretty much me when things tick me the wrong way.

2. I got my learners.
Yes. Learners licence. For the motorbike I don't have quite yet. I remain cautious about the whole exercise, which is comforting as I have no inclination to follow the footsteps of humankind: which is essentially finding and inventing new ways of destroying itself. I think having brunch always makes me more philosophical than I really need to be.

Note: it appears that I passed the basic training test with flying colours.
Side note two: Nick, I ran into Doug in AA while I was sitting my learners. You'd be happy to know that I aced the test so you won't be too embarassed by associating yourself with me. Not much anyway. Maybe.

3. I've started going to the gym.
Or the sweaty emporium as I sometimes elegantly put it. The place is attached to Jelly Park swimming pool, and for a simple and somewhat affordable admission fee of $8 I can have access to the gym and the pool in one foul swoop. Perhaps some time is needed in the gym first before I take up the latter offer.

4. I've started cycling again.
After a year off cycling, I've jumped back on my bike. It felt good, if I could ignore my set of aching buttocks. Let me show you what I mean with the following few pictures:


plus...

equals...


When we send people to the moon, I sure hope they're not sitting on these seats.

Note: the buttocks depicted above are NOT mine.
Side note two: why does statue of liberty look like a guy?

Life... and the flight of the bumble bee...

Here ends my tragi-comic nine month at Palmerston North. The work here has come to an end; the lives saved, the hunger nourished and the tuberculosis fiasco has spread like herpes on steroids. My job here is done. I fair welled all my immensely good looking friends, ignored all the fuglee ones and took off in to the sunset (well sunrise really, since I left at 7.30 in the morning).

The drive to Wellington was fairly uneventful. I have grown accustomed to the rather pedestrian road traffic of Palmerston North, so the trip was lively and suited my eager-beaver temperament of the day. Once I have navigated through the various rat maze to arrive at the ferry terminal, I was greeted with the following:

Awesome. Nice to see people making at least some vague attempt at socialising these days. Even if it involves being surrounded by unsavory parts of someones' anatomy.

The boat ride was, again, fairly uneventful. I took the time out to watch Robot Chicken on my notebook. For the people who have not seen the show, it is a puppet show of sorts made by Seith Green. It has a large element of sick twisted humour with a dash of subtle vulgarity on top. After my funny bone was tickled to the point of unconsciousness I woke up and took some obligatory photos of the Cook Straight:

After much 'oooo'ing and 'ahhhh'ing at the young (but legal) European fauna, the drive down to Christchurch was surprisingly quick. It only took me a period of no longer than four hours and ten minutes to arrive at the serene sanctity of my parents house, where I shall leech and rob them of their foodstuffs for the next successive three month. Life shall be good.

Life... and the inevitable addition of friendly photographs...

I would say that my friends are like the fence posts of my life: they hold the number 8 wires in place so the hordes of rampaging psychotic sheep are unable to escape and cause wanton destruction upon the benign unsuspecting population. Quite disappointing really, but I'm sure my mental well being is spared from otherwise tragic roadkill similes. A few weeks ago my friends and I decided to conduct a road trip to Wellington, a short drive from the boring rest home confines of Palmerston North.

Here is Shay Lan doing his best to impress the girls. Needless to say they were all wooed by his stunning charisma.

Here are Kevin and Jennifer perusing through photos of themselves:

This? This just looks a bit gay really:

I have no idea who the guy on the right is. He just came out of no where and Shay Lan put his arms around him. Maybe he desperately wanted to share his ice cream with someone.

One thing they really should have more of in Wellington are food courts. One per two blocks may just be enough. I very much support the grand strategy of the local city council; starving their residents so they will look attractive is a fabulous idea and I have no doubt at all that it is working well. But when Shay Lan and I were trying to find some scrap of food at 3pm in the afternoon, the difficulty of the hunt was complicated by a) the lack of food courts available, and b) hypoglycaemia induced by the lack of food courts, as we haven't really had anything since the booze up the night before. We really should have carried some of that 50% Southern Comfort as a form of nutritional back up.

Life... and the eternal urge to have my own blog site...

Let the world rejoice! My own blog site! Cue opening speech:

I could start by thanking everyone for visiting and saying how overdue this has been. But I know if I used that as my main topic of discussion, you'd all think I'm a pussy and never come back again. So instead I shall start with an in depth dissection of the site name. As per http://www.dictionary.com/, the definition of the word 'bachelor' is as follows:

bach·e·lor
–noun
1. an unmarried man.
2. a person who has been awarded a bachelor's degree.
3. a fur seal, esp. a young male, kept from the breeding grounds by the older males.
4. Also called bachelor-at-arms. a young knight who followed the banner of another.
5. Also called household knight. a landless knight.

Wow, what a wealth of learning experience you say. You didn't know about the poor psychologically castrated young seal did you? Worthy of a disney movie really. Anyway, I digress. All definitions are, fortuitously or there lack of, currently quite applicable to my life at the present time; though I am currently working on 3 and 5 at the moment, so neither should be an issue in the future should my plans for world domination comes to fruition. After all, whats life without a gorgeous Swedish farm girl with fake implants at your side, whilst commanding tracks and tracks of land and imposing compulsory revenue from its peasant inhabitants?

Hint of the Day: spell check your blogs. Spelling mistakes corrected = 3

Please also visit joffin.blogspot.com should your liberal-thinking tastebuds feel unloved.