I was Computer Code, I was Ones and Zeroes

No, this isn’t some reference to bizarre experiences caused by strange chemicals and such like.

But been thinking… How much of our fucking lives do we spend in a total virtual state? How much of our reality and identity is just a total cyber-existence, a created personality only there at the end of a computer terminal? I mean: I have a website, then framed into there is my live journal. Ok – that’s largely musical promotion. And of course for that I have a different MySpace. So that’s two of those. And the list goes on.

Considering how much I disagree with the amount of information that the MegOrgs store about our lives I seem to be all too keen to pass on, post plaster and advertise half my life on the Net.

Of course it has bonuses: We can all flirt with people that we don’t know and probably wouldn’t really like. I guess on a sensible level it’s a good one to keep up with people we don’t see for real too often. It’s great to try and get some attention and company (of sorts) when we’re too hungover to get our arses out of the house of a morning.

And yeah… for that it’s fucking great…

But has the power of speech been lost to us now that out thoughts, emotions and lives are just a continual meta-existance whizzing down a fibre-optic at however many megabits per second?

Of course I’m now back to thinking sociology and the slightly dystopian feeling I get from this “‘scapes and flows” idea of Globalisation and how Giddens (I think) came up with some of these ideas on spacial distortion

(Note to self: when I’m finished doing this pick up some Manuel Castells from the library and have a good shuffle through the cyber culture bits of the shelves and check I do know what I’m on about).

An ex-client of mine (mad as a balloon, but more intelligent than I can ever dream to be) describes aeroplanes as a method of time travel, in that human beings are not supposed to be able to get to the other side of the globe in a day.

Maybe, you know, she has a point…

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I am not normally a Violent Man

I‘m quite glad, in retrospect, that it was too cloudy to go and sit on the park on Sunday.
Why?
Well…
Not, as it could have been, that I thought it was a really really good idea to walk up to Kirkstall and back in brand new paraboots the night before therefore turning my feet into a bleeding puddle of prime chuck…
Not, as it could have been, that it would have chipped even further into the cash that I was keeping aside to get absolutely fucking blasted in Rockworld this coming weekend…
Not, as it could have been, that I was sunburned and hungover and would have felt even more shite on Monday than I did anyway (which I cant understand as in the event I actually slept most of Sunday…)

But, because, if the park had looked (which I guess it did, just not in front of me) anywhere near how it seemed to be heading when I left on Saturday night, I would have quite possibly wanted to FUCKING KILL SOMEONE!!!!!!!!

Right. I know that Leeds University is so totally shite that your pathetic little brains don’t learn anything whilst you are here. I know that you are all so fucking stupid that you can’t do simple sums like £90 per week loan does not leave enough for your £70 rent, £30 food and £50 boozing money in the Quilted Fucking Llama. I know that you are so fucking dense that you can’t understand plain fucking english half the time ‘cos you’ve fried your brain spending daddy’s money on dope when you can’t even handle your drugs enough to take a paracetamol with out zoning out like a fucking cabbage…

…But, you Stupid, Idiotic, Vacuous, Student, SCUM
Why are you unable to understand that you have a lovely green park right on your doorstep, so as much as anyone else’s, it’s in your interest to clean it up.

I mean, how much fucking effort is it to put all the empties from your 2.1% pisswater that you guzzle down thinking it makes you look grown up in the bin? And do you not understand that if you light a load of hot coals in a tin foil box it will BURN THINGS? Shall I try lighting a disposable barbecue on the pasty, peeling, hairless flesh that you feel the need to exhibit thinking that it gets the girls wet? Grass doesn’t just magically reappear after you burn it to charcoal you know. Litter doesn’t just disappear overnight by the fairies.

Just fuck off. The lot of you.

Or get a FUCKING BRAIN!!!