occupy ball street

i know literally nothing about this occupation stuff except:

it's happening in wall street, and now other places, and now my town centre

it's about the lack of government regulated banking/ outrage at 1% of society (bankers) fucking up economy and expecting 99% (not bankers) to pay for it

i think it's a protest of some kind

obviously what i do best is to charge relatively uninformed into a hot topic public debate, brashly make bold statements, refuse any correction or advice and pigheadedly insult anybody who challenges me. SO

it's cool that people are doing it and all; i understand, i am part of the 99% not being a banker and all. i think what happened economy-wise is unjust because the bankers never actually got any handslapping at all and continue to award themselves bonuses while everyone else has their income slashed. this may be biased since i'm from england and sociopolitical (BIG WORD) unrest is at a massive high, and everyone hates the government so much that everything has sort of ground to a mad halt. i think people don't like obama very much at the moment and sarkozy and burlusconi are pretty much shitsacks anyway, so this whole economics thing is terrible timing like diahorrea on a first date. so all the dreadlocky type activist soy people have taken to the streets as usual because they will do it for literally anything, except now normal people have joined them. with tents and everything. i believe kanye west was there, although probably accidentally because he is a moron. everyone is being angry and finally doing something after being so monumentally shat on by banks, except it's pretty misdirected. just being in the street is not occupying it. i thought that's what petitions are for, all that jazz. i'm not a bastard, i just think being in a street is not going to change anything. i'm sitting in my house and that's not doing anything, so why if i am sitting in the centre of the city is that going to make a difference. it's like when people do the 'repost this status if you care about child abuse' thing on facebook, which is worse than not doing anything, because you're calling attention to a horrid thing, then pretending that you are actively involved in changing this thing, but not actually contributing anything at all because you're a stingy dick and all you think this issue is worth is a status on facebook. robin hood tax is something i'd be happy to protest for, so are the monumental nhs cuts david cameron promised he wouldn't make (THE DICK) and government regulated banking and or sanctions for the bankers who did all this. i just wouldn't sleep in the street to do so. i don't think it changes anything. but then again says me from the country where civil unrest leads ultimately to the pillaging of trainers and xboxes. but at least i'm not a faux activist.

-n.b i have a bank account and am thinking quite seriously about emptying it and keeping all my money in my house because i think i'm more paranoid than i have ever been and that is really saying something

i totally wrote something

We lived in a tall, sweaty house on the outskirts of a grey town; we kept a cod called Moriarty in a scratched lobster tank on the kitchen windowsill, and I grew sweet peas on the balcony to disguise his wet odour. Michael periodically cried with Moriarty. He said he felt as contained and by his thoughts as Moriarty was by us and he felt like a hypocrite. The drinking left Michael blanched and his eyes reflected what fermented in his guts. When he drank, he drank cheap bourbon, and his eyes became full. Full of sadness, full of confusion, tears, hatred. When he was sober, his eyes were dry and empty as two green highball glasses, waiting to be full again. I loved Michael because despite his drinking, his was the nature of boyish wonder and innocence. His friendship with Moriarty had been the first thing that attracted me to him, because it seemed so pure. He sighed when Eileen on the floor below us would scream at her dogs and call them bastards, and I loved him for it. He didn’t love me back. He claimed he had Narcissistic Personality Disorder, and was unable to truly love anything. I knew he was fond of Moriarty, but I wasn’t even sure is he was straight if he could be classified as anything at all. After all, his bleached white hair and high cheekbones were the envy of many of my female friends, and he was known to favour velvet leggings and dusty red cowboy boots. He held the same contempt for girls with too much makeup as he did for boys with hoop earrings. The closest thing to sexual attraction I ever saw him display was a fascination with a white stone statue of a water nymph in our local park. It basked in the brassy circle of a fountain, elfin limbs and pre-Raphaelite features perpetually glistening with filmy water. With the shoulder length curls and lean figure it was impossible to decide which gender it was, which in retrospect was probably what attracted Michael to it. He sat by it intently, as if waiting for it to speak to him. The way he looked at it was the way I wished he would one day look at me; with beatific fascination and lust, and all those things women want to be looked at with. I would sit by him knitting scarves or tying blankets together out of strips of old bed sheets and curtains. When angry confused teenagers stuck chewed gum to the statue’s face or spray-painted luminous symbols on it in some mysterious code, Michael would sulk the whole day. I followed him constantly, watching him and slopping milky coffee from Cuppa Joe’s down my front. Cecilia-Delia scorned our living situation when I asked her if she thought he could fall in love with me. ‘He’s above love’ she would say, ‘the only things he loves are himself and hating everybody else.’ Of course she was right, but loves makes fools of us all. I worked at a cheap DVD rental shop, and while I scanned membership cards and ate stolen chewy popcorn, I’d pretend that I’d go home to those highball glass eyes full and wet with intoxicating love for me, and that I’d feel as wonderful as the statue in the fountain.