darknation

Confession time; - I have done nothing creative for the past year.

This obviously sucks, and frankly I feel poor about it, but at the same time I am a lazy motherfucker and it's easier to fuck about online / irl rather than do anything about it. Used to be I'd spend at least ten hours a week trying to better myself when it came to writing, but these days I doubt I've spent more then ten hours during the whole fucking year doing anything even remotely productive.

It's not good.

I think I pretty much broke myself rewriting my shit novel for two years straight, all the time kidding myself about what a monstrous task I was undertaking. Finally, it set in that I was looking at another two years at least of rewrites before I would be anywhere even close to finishing and, having stupidly spent all that time writing the same fucking thing over and over and over again, I had actually forgotten how to look at a blank page and come up with something new.

Dumb mistake, strangling myself like that, but whatever. Worse, now I look at what I'd been writing for all that time and have a paralyzed "Ugh, fuck that," reaction, close down the word processor and instead go to youtube to veg out.

Thing is, I really need to be working on something to make myself feel viable as a human being; this fucked up laziness, while being the easy option, is beginning to eat away at my self esteem and devaluate my my feelings of worth.

So, trying to figure out what the fuck to do about it. I'm asking how other people deal with being creatively burnt out / being a chronically lazy bastard and what the best road back to recovery is.

I think I good start might be to remove the internet entirely from my work computer, but I'm willing to try other less drastic solutions to the problem first.

An update from Scotchland.

We are fucked.

Brexit has fucked us. Here are the gory details.

Once upon a time, there was a Conservative / Liberal Democrat coalition. This was the Lib Dems first time in government, and to make it there they sold their fucking souls to the devil. Their leader, Nick Clegg, was elected on the promise of doing certain things (like abolishing university tuition fees) and then he promptly reneged on those promises, shat in a pot and told us all it was delicious beef olives, we must eat it.

This went on for four fucking years.

Come the next general election, David Cameron made a cunning plan. His Liberal Democrat partners and he made a pact - the Conservatives *would* stand candidates in Lib Dem held seats, but those candidates would consist solely of swivel-eyed lunatics that no one in their right mind would vote for. Thus the Lib Dems would hold onto their seats, the Conservative party would be rid of their loonies and the coalition would march forth into a bright future of cheerfully fucking the poor over ad infinitum.

Then the Lib Dems lost all their seats, because no one was voting for a bunch of lying, scheming snottery shitbags who would fuck their granny's corpse on live TV for the merest scrapings of power. David Cameron did not see this coming, because David Cameron is a stupid cunt.

Instead, England voted in 50 seats worth of fucking homicidal maniacs. Those very people that Cameron was trying to put out to pasture returned to Westminster in triumph.

Scotland, meanwhile, was busy planning the Hilarious Rape of the Labour Party. You see, we had a little independence referendum all of our own, and we watched in horror as the Labour party combined forces with the Conservatives, much like a shit Captain Planet. And if there is one thing we in Scotland hate more than a fucking Conservative, it's people who willingly consort with Conservatives.

The Independence vote failed narrowly. If we removed those over the age of 65 from the equation, then we would have won. Pensioners fucked us. We don't care. It seemed a simple matter of waiting till those old fucking bastards die and then going for another referendum. This is Scotland, home of the Deep Fried Mars Bar, so it won't take long.

To make time until the elderly totter off into their early graves, we raped Labour, much for the same reasons that England raped the Lib Dems. Gone were all the Scottish Labour MP's, in were 54 seats worth of hilarious ginger Nationalists. And, because we are a spiteful race of pure bastards, we invested Alex Salmond with his new title of 'Fucker of the English' and sent the whole fucking busload of them down to Westminster.

Labour promptly imploded.

Tony 'speak anywhere but the fucking Hague' Blair's loathsome little homunculii were deposed in favour of a geography teacher. The homunculii went REEEEEEE and spent the next fucking year trying to stab the geography teacher in the back, missing, and stabbing themselves in the face instead. Repeatedly. The Conservatives also went batshit insane, the right wing uniting under Boris Fucking Johnson. David Cameron did not see this coming, because David Cameron is a stupid cunt.

And then Brexit.

The term being bandied about is 'Post-Truth Politics', a nice way of saying 'everybody lies.' And it's not like they were even being subtle about it. Voting is easy when one side is clearly lying their fucking arses off; it becomes rather more difficult when both sides are actually clinically fucking insane. It's not so much a case of voting for the lesser of two evils; it's a case of voting for either a man who looks he uses his hair to wipe sperm from the faces of bukakke actresses or voting for a man who actually fucked a pig.

For the record, Scotland was 62% in favour of staying in Europe. I assume this means that we had a harsh winter and the old pensioner bastards are dying off quicker than expected. England, being apparently retarded as well as racist, voted out. Wales also disgraced themselves. Ireland joined Scotland in the sanity club, which means that even a bunch of alcoholic celtic maniacs who enclose pipebombs with their voting slips managed to fuck things up less than the rest of you fucking assholes.

None of this matters, because what England says goes. Scotland will be dragged out of Europe against our wishes. Or will be, once this latest bout of internecine party warfare finally expires. No sooner was the Brexit vote confirmed than the entire of Westminster collectively went Caligula. David Cameron rage-quit like a autistic counterstrike player. Gove stabbed Boris. The Blarite homunculii tried to depose Corbyn for the 177th time this year, and stabbed themselves in the fucking face again. Someone found Margaret Thatcher's head in cold storage and reanimated the cunt in a satanic ritual. Nu-Thatcher swooped in to save Boris, made him Foreign Secretary (da fuk?) and Boris performed what can only be described as a political falcon punch straight back into Gove's tiny, hairless little bollocks.

Oh, yes. Nu-Thatcher. Theresa fucking May, a woman so fucking foul that every time a poor person dies her vagina dentata clatter in delight and whisper ALLL IISSSS DUST on winds that reek like an open grave. The Scottish LOVED Thatcher, this clotted fucking revenant will be SURE to save the fucking union.

And so we come to the present day. There is probably a moral to this story somewhere, but fucked if I can see it. Maybe, when you see your next door neighbor wandering around in blackface screaming about how the Polish have stolen all his jobs and erecting a burning cross in his front garden, you should run like fuck whilst you have the chance.

Or maybe I should have pulled a Shipman when I worked in the nursing home and killed all those old bastards what fucked us in the first place.

The benefit of hindsight, I guess.

Ngaz represent Blogs 4 life yo

has been declared. Two enter, only one will leave.

I have three mates; Jock, Paul and Shaun. Both Paul and Shaun own property right next door to each other. This is ironic and slightly tragic, because they fucking loathe each other.

Jock, Paul and I are in the pub getting minkit. Shaun is not in the pub, because he is banned again for twatting somebody during a particularly aggressive karaoke competition. Everyone is pished.

Jock and Paul go home together, and because Paul is stuck in the 90's, decides to start blaring Happy Hardcore on his stereo at one o'clock in the morning. This irritates Shaun, who proceeds to Paul's doorstep and has the mother of all chimpouts allover his welcome mat. Paul and Jock answer door and threats are made; things are said that cannot be unsaid. Shaun threatens to do Jock in, so Jock punches him in the face.

Riots erupt.

The police are summoned. Jock makes his escape out of a second floor window and flees into the night, a wanted man who is still, as far as I know, at large. Paul declares his innocence of the assault; as he is only guilty of terrible taste in music and not of actual assault, the police leave him be with a simple caution.

Shaun rages.

Fast forward half an hour after the police have left. Paul sits in his living room in a coma. He is rudely awakened by the brick that comes sailing through his front window. Clean through. There is no note attached to the brick, because Shaun has a bit more class than that. Paul rushes to his door to confront his attacker, but of Shaun there is no sign. Instead, he sees that someone has spent his half-hour productively, and has carved the word DICK nine inches high into his door with some sort of cutting instrument.

I fucking love my mates. But they are probably going to kill each other at some point this week.

No reason, other than I felt like sharing a quote that has been bouncing around inside my skull for the past decade. I will quote, and then you will add a quote, and we will all revel in some awful heathen quotation gangbang and look less spastic by association.

“There is a common emotion we all recognize and have not yet named -- the happy anticipation of being able to feel contempt.”

- Thomas Harris

Next.

I must share this, else I will go mad.

I have a friend. He is an idiot, but I try not to discriminate. Said friend has two dogs; they shit mountains.

The council introduced "Garden Waste" bins about three years ago. They are for stuff that is clearly meant to be fertilizer; old plants, grass clippings, etc. And, indeed, dog shit. Dog shit is apparently A-OK with this scheme. I imagine it is full of nitrates and worms.

Now, picture this if you will - My friend is no gardener. He owns two dogs. He has a brown topped, eco-friendly bin for garden waste. He has put a year's worth of dog shit into said bin. A pound of dog shit, no more, no less, only dog shit, multiplied by two and multiplied further for every day of the year. This bin is made of dog shit. It is an epic dog shit bin.

Out he wheels it onto the street during the designated day. The deed is done.

Now, the council bin collectors are well trained. Verily, they expect people to try to sneak toasters and broken electronics into their Garden Waste bin. They check before they recycle shit into their bin lorry. They give all offerings an eyeball before they add it to the pile.

They find the dog shit worthy. The little green polystyrene bags that the dog shit is contained in, however, are not bio-degradeable.

They refuse to lift the bin and depart, chortling, for new horizons.

My friend, my dumb, stupid, mentally retarded friend, now has 240 litres of dog shit to separate from bags by hand. Or, alternatively, he has 240 litres of dog shit to fly-tip somewhere out in the country. A tricky task, because my friend is also a massive spastic, and has only one functioning arm and a gammy leg and only one hemisphere of his brain works at any given time.

The bin is full. The dogs keep shitting. Wedging the bin lid down will only work for so long. And I don't think I have ever laughed so hard in my entire fucking life.

yes! I have been introduced to dwarf fortress by an utter wanker and thus have lost my life until next year. So, to keep me company until spring, I need MP3's, because I am now fed up of the DF soundtrack.

Specifics: old video game sound tracks. Made of Metal, preferably. If not, at least orchestrated. Anything from the NES - PS1 era will do nicely. Already jamming to the Stemmage Metroid remixes, so there's the watermark. Still looking for a good version of FF VII's JENOVA, so points for that if at all possible.

Straight to the MP3 if you please. No Youtube shit, unless accompanied by a direct download link. Not fucking about here, this needs to keep my ears well wanked until April. Unleash your finest. No doubt other people on the forum are looking for similar, so we can make this a SPAM MUSIC THREAD.

No retards.

Apparently I drink an average of 44 units of beer in a week. This is considered to be a bad thing.

Compiling a high score board of DW regulars. Be honest.

And now, I'm off to the pub to drink until I'm retarded.

So, I called the police a bunch of fascist pigs about a month ago. Many lulz were had.



HOW TO ARREST A BITCH: STEP ONE

Approach from the rear as the insanely handsome criminal is walking away. Stick your foot in in the back of his knee, causing him to fall face down on the pavement. Revel in the torrent of muffled abuse that comes forth as darknation eats concrete.

Sit on him to restrain said perp, like the victory hump you give a corpse in Halo multiplayer. Apply handcuffs. Make sure that they are good and tight; if his wrists aren't fucked for the next two weeks then you are doing it wrong.



STEP TWO: ENTER THE PARTY VAN

It is an irony that the police will fuck you for not wearing a seatbelt. And yet, the first thing you will notice upon entering the party van, is that there are no fucking seatbelts.

It is difficult to hang on when you have been handcuffed and hogtied. Expect the party van to lurch wildly on cunted suspension. Expect further damage to your fine facial features as you smash headfirst into the metal bench opposite.



STEP THREE: PROCESSING

They strip searched me. I shit you not. My clothes were confiscated after PC Homo was finished staring at my cock and arsehole. I was presented with my new jail uniform; a pair of blue shorts made out of some weird form of piss-proof kevlar. The t-shirt is a luminous abomination.

Think of the world's worst football kit and you'd not be far off.



STEP FOUR: JAIL

It is cold. You have no socks. There is no sheet on the bed, which is three inches off the concrete floor and bolted to the wall. The mattress is made of weird blue plastic. The urinal has no seat and weird rubber around the rim. Shitting presents a problem.



STEP FIVE: THE CREEPY OLD GUY STARING AT YOU THROUGH THE CATFLAP

There is a creepy old guy who opens the perv-hole in the door once every two hours to make sure you aren't Shawshanking your way out of this dump. The creepy old guy does not speak. The creepy old guy has bug-eyes. He likes to watch you poop.



STEP SIX: GETTING KICKED OUT

There is no breakfast. There is no coffee. Clothes will be returned. Officer Homo has gone home and has been replaced by Officer Acne. Wallet is presented with money intact; this was done with great and serious joviality, the implication being that We, the Police, would not stoop to stealing the money out of your pocket.

And then you get a forty pound fine for being drunk and disorderly and calling the police a bunch of fascist fucking pigs. If you do not pay it within the month then the fine doubles and warrants for arrest will be issued again. Suck the dark cock of justice.



STEP SEVEN: NEED NICOTINE

There is, conveniently, a garage next to the police station. Fags can be bought and smoked in profusion.



STEP EIGHT: TRIUMPHANT RETURN

I am now three hours late for work. I have not washed, my palms of my hands are bloody as fuck from the decking I got upon arrest. I have a million missed calls on my mobile. Pub greets me with the proper amount of respect upon my eventual resumption of bar duties. Cool old dude with a beard, so impressed with my heroism in the face of the anti-lulz, gives me forty quid to pay my fine and buys me a pint.



STEP NINE: REFLECTION ON LESSONS LEARNED

yeah. Baby killing simulator.











bored bored bored bored

so, I got a job in a pub, which mostly involves me oscillating between beer pumps until someone buys me beer. As jobs go, it could be worse.

Two weeks ago this little European dude walks in and orders half a Guinness. Then he deposits said Guinness on the table and fucks off for a shit in our opulent lavatorium. So far, so good; at least one regular has been banned from shitting in his own house because his ass is so rotten that it makes his wife puke, and so he has to fire his shit down our toilet and hold his butthole to the extractor fan afterwards.

People shit in the toilet is the point I am making here. It is not unusual.

The pub begins to fill up with punters. No one buys me beer, which is fucking irritating. Half an hour later I notice that the half pint of Guinness is still sitting neglected on the table. Not a single fuck was given.

This was the first mistake of the evening. I should have put two and two together at this point. I did not.

Half an hour after that, a big dude with a beard informs me that there is something awry in the toilet. Big dude with beard, another accursed pub-shit doer, cannot enter the cubical to drop a tactical nuke. He has peered beneath cubical door - he has seen someone kneeling unresponsive on the pissy concrete floor, like he is praying to Mecca or some shit.

Oh dear.

The landlord gets a screwdriver and removes the lock. Landlord promptly freaks out because this guy looks pretty fucking dead. Living people do not lie in this position. This fucker has ragdolled up against the cubical wall, his neck at a 90 degree angle.

Phone the fucking ambulance.

darknation the pint-puller is suddenly promoted to darknation the corpse-mongler. Our intrepid hero enters the cubical, which is about four-foot square, and ties to check the kneeling body for a pulse. There is a needle still clamped in the body's hand. His hand is freezing cold. His trousers have come down to reveal three-stripe, red-white-yellow boxer shorts. There is vomit, this man has pissed his pants, his last act upon this world was to shit himself. Landlord has phoned for an ambulance and the NHS 24 want to know if this dead dude is breathing. Trying to get to check is a nightmare. His neck is boneless, his head flops about, about a litre of clear liquid has pooled in his mouth and is slithering out like fucking anal lube.

That shit was the grossest part. It fucking got everywhere.

I try to lift him. Impossible, this fucker is a dead weight. His lips are blue. I know I've got to get him out of the cubical and lie him down so I can think about CPR. Then I look at this dead blue bastard and the shit that is coming out of his mouth and I actually hope that he *is* dead so I won't have to pump and french kiss the fucker.

Somehow we get another person into the tiny cubical. Somehow we manage to haul him out of the stall. His trousers fall all the way down as we pull him. Yes, he has definitely shat himself. Yes, this fucker is blue and he is not breathing. No, am I not doing CPR. Fuck that.

Not sure what this post is really meant to be about, but fuck that little European dude for overdosing in my pub toilet and totally ruining my Friday night. What a fucking prick.

I have some now. Celebrate, for darknation has returned to you.

yeah, so I was drunk the other night and I think I caught my foreskin in my zipper.

It's fucking sore. It looks gross, lightly skinned, still weeping white blood cells. The scab that is forming... well, it's less of a scab, more of a geological formation made of pus, blood and copious pants fluff.

I wish I had worn better coloured pants so the scab would look less like a gangrenous bubo.



Also related;

You walk into the toilet. Your ass is full of shit. You are desperate. The seat is down. The porcelain beckons. You unbuckle your belt and drop your pants. The metal buckle clatters on the cold, unforgiving bathroom floor.

Something is wrong. Very wrong. Sudden dread infuses you on an instinctive level. Your fingers quest across your butt cheeks and into your crack. Your blood curdles in your veins as your index finger reveals the terrible, gut-wrenching truth;

Your asshole has vanished overnight. There is now nothing but a flat piece of inviolate skin in between your quivering buttocks. There will be no release from this torture.

WHAT DO YOU DO NOW?

because MY BALLS, that's why.

So.

Fucking hard post to write, but I guess I better get it out of my system. Went to work a few weeks ago leaving girlfriend in house, prior to her going to her own work. Lah de dah, everything is nice nice. I assume my GF brushed her teeth at some point.

And forgot to switch the tap off.

Now I don't fucking know how a human being can just walk out of a building and leave a tap on. She's diabetic; I assume she was in some sort of walking coma. Regardless, the overflow is fucked and the downstairs flat gets pissed all over.

Not good.

They phone their landlord, who is on holiday in some third world shithole spending all that hard earned rentz moneys on blow and hookers and shit. He is displeased with the fact that his house is sinking like fucking atlantis. He phones my landlady, who tries to phone me.

I is at work. I is not answering phone.

So, she takes her key and enters my flat. And my flat is a shithole. There is a bountiful mountain of pizza boxes. The carpet is a swamp of split beer and fag ends. The roof, which has been leaking for a month now, has let an interesting genre of fungus colonize one of the walls. Speaking of walls, I have spray-painted the word FRAD on the living room wall for some reason that sounded really hilarious at the time.

She has not been up to visit the flat in five years. And the tap is still pishing water downstairs.

She is displeased.

So I get a rage-phonecall after the event. The plumbing is all fucked anyway, has been for years, but maybe I should have squirted some shit down the pipes occasionally. Whatever, problem solved, phone the plumber when I get off nightshift, just don't use the sink in the bathroom.

Aaaaaand the overflow pipe is also apparently connected to the bathtub. Because I don't know, what sort of retarded plumber does that shit?

I shouldn't be surprised. The flat used to be an attic and the plumbing is the most retarded thing I have ever seen. Big holes cut through floorboard to make the bathtub actually fit in, meaning there is less than 50% floor beneath the bath and any spillage flies directly through my neighbor's ceiling and into their coffee. Oh, and the seal on the toilet burst last year and bored a shit-piss hole straight through their roof into the walk-in cupboard. Fuck your clothes, bitches, I defecate on them with impunity for a week until you notice.

Anyway, latest and greatest travesty against the downstairs neighbors has been decreed to be the Last Straw. I am out of there in T-minus two weeks.

Went to council, who will not help me because I have neither a heroin habit, fifteen kids or a prison record. Also they decree that my notice to quit the property is illegal, so won't help me with a council house until landlady provides a N3545435X form or some shit to say yes, I have kicked this fuckwad's lame ass into the street and he is now living in a bin outside of Tesco.

Basically I am staring into the asshole of oblivion and it has farted in my face. Internets look unlikely. Laugh, by all means, but remember;

I WILL BE BACK.

fannying about on the internet instead of doing work on my book. Need some mojoes. Motivate me.

think I nailed it pretty hard. Of course, I will wake up tomorrow and find it full of fail and delete it.

For posterity then.

I am not mellowing with age.

and I cannot stop laughing. Help me.

friday night: work's night out in hotel. Free Bar (eventual tab: 300+ quids). Behaved semi-reasonably by all accounts.

saturday night: woke up at 6pm and met up with old school friends. Forgot to eat before drinking. Got totally smashed on cheap beer before heading out for expensive beer. Might have had some (microwaved) stovies when I got home, evidence inconclusive.

sunday night: woke up feeling like a deep fried turd. throw clothes on, got on train to Glasgow. Cannot physically force myself to eat. Beer o'clock is 12 o'clock (afternoon). Got steaming minced ruined. Discover a 32% (ish) ale called a Tactical Nuclear Penguin and proceed to new heights of total destruction. Get into an argument with a Big Issue seller. Went to the O2 to watch Gogol Bordello. Amount of gig I can remember: none. Alcohol bill for weekend = two hundred quid and still rising. Return to youth hostel and experience extremely vivid nightmare about murdering the Queen of England. Awake at 4am and run around hostel room screaming about dead Queen (suspected alcohol induced psychotic break lol) with no clothes on. Other occupants of room (2 female) rather unimpressed with said behavior. Smoke cigarette through closed window to calm self down. Go to someone elses' bed still not wearing any pants.

monday night: liver in a state of severe distress. Finally ate a cheese sandwich. Bank account hanging in tatters. Still no idea if I like the new Gogol Bordello album or not.