lolwhites shoe post made me realise my age is becoming apparent in my shopping habits...


when i was a young blade i wore expensive shirts and was very keen to be stylish, a fop you might say.

now i dont give a flying fuck. shoes - basically i wear boots, generally timberlands – they’re made well and last, i have over the years bought other types of shoes but generally they lie in a wardrobe gathering dust - so i go through two or three pairs of timberlands a year. I LOATHE shopping for clothes, everything about it just annoys me - back in the uk the shops were always too bloody hot - here (dubai) there too bloody cold. Shop assistants:

IFIWANTYOURFUCKINGHELPIWILLASK. FUCK. OFF.

YES OF COURSE I KNOW MY FUCKING SIZE YOU FEY ORANGE MONG

NO IM SORRY - THE LURID VOMIT PATTERNED 'SHIRT' YOU ARE TRYING TO FOB OFF ON SOME MYOPIC BUFFOON WOULD NOT FUCKING "SUIT MY COLOURING" I DONT HAVE FUCKING "COLOURING" I AM A BLOODY BLOKE.

*breathes*

I have developed a system to combat this. I call it Speed Shopping™. I shop twice a year. I select ONE shop - invariably GAP, yes i know they boil children for fun but you can’t have everything in life. I take maybe 8 or so pairs of jeans, maybe some combats or whatever, a dozen or more t shirts, a few shirts and charge into the disabled changing room - I have no disability but i appreciate slightly more space than a bloody battery hen – (naturally i would not do this if a genuine spakkamong required the room - i do have some sensitivity)

God help the fey orange mong that waves some ‘5 items only’ thing at me.

Within 20 mins i will march to the counter with approximately one third of the items from my original selection.

Shopping. Done.

I recently introduced my missus to an adaptation of this (tailored to her girly needs naturally). Basically I took her to a large department store wandered round with her helping her select items until she had a fairly large pile then fired her into the changing room. i then spent the next 40 mins or so ferrying back and forth various sizes, colours, alternatives, belts to match etc. If she found an item she liked but started to dither over which colour to choose both are put to one side 'til later' *taps nose*

Soon Mrs Spimf had an array of 10 or so outfits that she ‘definitely liked’ just as she was about to go into extreme dither mode of ‘narrowing the selection down’ – the coup de grace…

Sweep the whole bastard lot up, march over to the till and buy the bloody lot.

Mrs Spimf marvels at my helpfulness generosity and ‘patience’ - no more being dragged round shops for a MINIMUM of 6 months.

I WIN!
( spimf ™ is whoever you want him to be, Tue 5 May 2009, 10:59, 17 replies)

Salt n Vinegar, Cheese n Onion, Roast Chicken, even Chili and Chocolate...

Fuck that for a game of soldiers...

Nowadays I'll go for Ready Salted every fucking time...
( SpankyHanky, Tue 5 May 2009, 10:42, 4 replies)

Just like my parents
I'm seeing the relentless decline of my physical body into decrepitude as I edge towards death at some unspecified time in the future. The sheer pointlessness of human existence and the hierarchy topped with useless eaters who lie to us while they steal our futures, pales into insignificance compared with the blandness of modern popular music.
(SSSSS, Tue 5 May 2009, 10:33, 1 reply)

In Reverse
I am increasingly getting the feeling that my Old Man is turning into me

It started when I was 16 and started to gather interest in drinking, smoking and girls. In a bid to be 'cool' I inevitably started smoking cigarettes...something my parents had always been dead set against and I had been made well aware of the dangers. So it was to my surprise when one of my mates bursts into the common room declaring that he saw my Dad smoking a cigarette walking down the street.

It continued when I was 17 and on a post exam holiday in Newquay. You can imagine my hormonal and adolensent dismay when my parents told me 1) that they would be on holiday in Newquay at the same time and 2) by the way, did you know you were conceived in Newquay?...uuugh!! ..It was a saturday night and myself and 10 of my underage friends were on our way to Sailors nightclub to try and get in. My father calls. He's in bloody sailors! When we get in to the club, my dad is standing there with 2 buckets full of booze.
Before you know it, he is getting alot of attention from women and giving the lads (my mates) high fives and challenging them to downing competitions.

6 years later and it is not unusual for my mates to ring my dear old alcoholic, womanizing, chauvanistic father before inviting me on a night out.

The latest is that one of my best mates has asked him to be an usher at his wedding.

He is a genius and a git at the same time but i wouldnt swap him for the world!
(Eggstrovert isnt patronising you...honest..., Tue 5 May 2009, 10:04, Reply)

This morning I cleaned my bathroom.
I'm not sure I'm turning into my mum though. I think it has more to do with my company getting rid of the maid to save money.

Fucking credit crunch.
( The Awful Puppy Bakery is still bored, Tue 5 May 2009, 8:53, Reply)

FORGETFULNESS
A few years ago my dad went to the local cornershop, bought a paper and some eggs, then went home. Just as he turned the key in the door he remembered the Renault was nearly on empty, so he turned, clambered into the car, and drove down to Tescos. Filled up the tank, went to the kiosk and paid, and drove home.

And when he got back in he looked down and realised he hadn't put any trousers on...

Unfortunately forgetfulness appears to be hereditary.

A couple of months ago my mum crashed at my flat; she was going to see Joseph and his Technicolour Wankcoat with some of her blue rinse brigade friends.

I get a phonecall at work:

"Spanky!" she says. Shit - has something gone wrong? She sounds fucking adgitated, like a fella on deathrow given a pencil and some paper and asked if he'd like to play a few games of hangman to pass the time.

"You ok, mum?" I ask, concerned.

"Spanky! You've got a parcel! I've signed for it for you!"

Woooo.... Fuck me sideways...

Now, I'd forgotten that I'd ordered anything (beer and a genetic disposition to forgetfulness coupled with the ability to purchase shite twenty-four hours a day on the web has effectively and repeatedly raped my credit rating hard up the arse without the aid of lubricants).

Intrigued, I say to my mum: "Open it, mum."

And I hear her struggling to unwrap the package over the phone.

Then it goes quiet.

"What is it?" I ask, genuinely fucking bemused.

...silence...

After a while my mum says: "I'll be out with Maureen when you get home. I bought you and Liz some milk; you were running low."

-CLICK!

And the line goes dead.

Strange... I replace the receiver and go about my business, selling shit to shits.

Then after a hard day trying to look busy I go home.

The flat's empty, my mum's gone out.

I shrug off my jacket, walk into the living room and see it, on the coffee table.

My internet purchase.

Placed there with love and care by my mother. Equally spaced out on the table, largest item at the rear, smallest at the front...

"Fuck..." I say to myself.

As I suddenly recall sitting at my computer the previous week and ordering the multi speed black mamba with realistic veiny finish, topped with a HUGE fucking bell end (in the hope that Liz would find it sexy, rip her cloths off and sit on the fucker), the black PVC hotpants, the pair of fluffy pink handcuffs, and the complimentary five-inch butt plug I received as a free gift for spending over thirty quid...

All - arranged - with - loving - tender - care - on - the - coffee - table - by - my - mum.

Forgetfulness...

It is, quite simply, a scabby old puss filled, crab infested, Camembert-smelling, crusty rancid old wizard sleeve of a cunt of a condition...

(Cheers for the genes, dad).
( SpankyHanky, Tue 5 May 2009, 8:36, 9 replies)

Good timing kid
So as per the usual, I'm out to dinner with my kids. (Cooking? Pah! That is for sissies*)

As we are sharing a lovely meal and a delightful conversation, a subject change was made by the eldest child. The new subject of choice from the eldest child was her desire to describe her grandmother's farts...in great detail. Sadly, the description was cut short by The Baby (all of 6 years old):

Oldest mini flirt: "So we get to B's house and she lets out this huge fart. You wouldn't believe the smell! It was--"

The Baby flirt: "Now ladies, you know we don't discuss such subjects in public."

Then The Baby stopped herself with a look of horror on her face. She smacked herself on the forehead and moaned, "Oh man! I've turned into my mother."

Oldest mini flirt replied with, "That's not too bad. I've already turned into my grandmother.", before leaning over to let a fart make its escape.


The apples do not fall far from the tree.


*or people who actually enjoy cooking, of which I am not one
( flirting with badgers What? It sounded good at the time., Tue 5 May 2009, 4:10, 3 replies)

Sheds
They are the greatest invention ever. I've just acquired my first one (and before my 40th birthday too). I've mentioned this to a large number of friends and the only response I've had from any of them (as long as they're male) is utter jealousy. It's not an age thing or a turning into your dad thing, it's just that every man regardless of creed, colour, sexual orientation or number of limbs was born to have a shed!

I'm going to hang some tools up on hooks in there now and perhaps sort some nails of different sizes into jam jars too!
(The Inevitable Pelican, Mon 4 May 2009, 22:39, 10 replies)

It finally dawned on me outside the butchers
So my old man has to venture into town every saturday morning, to do a number of chores.

He goes into the bakers for bread, into the butchers for his weekly supply of meat, into the papershop for his lottery, then into the library to take his books back and get new ones.

Its a religious thing, but the thing is, he has to be outside the butchers early doors because 'you always get the good cuts of meat'. If he doesn't get into town by 9am it ruins his whole weekend.

I found myself outside the butchers at 9am last weekend and the realisation that I had indeed turned into my dad, was a little too much to take in!
(a5972s, Mon 4 May 2009, 22:15, Reply)

Idiots
So my parents got divorced. Big deal! *yawn* happens all the time. Then they got married again. Then they divorced again. Shit even I knew the 2nd time was a bad idea and I was 12. Now I've been married once and had that annuled. The Credit crunch, bovine flu and lack of sex were contributing factors. I'll be fucked if I marry the same bint twice. Seriously, you can't make this shit up. Mum and Dad I love you dearly, but I'll be burned alive with sulphuric acid and a blow torch before I marry again.
(The Archduke of South London I'm in your Girlfriend eating her organs, Mon 4 May 2009, 21:56, Reply)

My kids
have phones with slide-out keyboards, and have envy of my sister's iPhone.

I have a basic Motorola flip phone, and really don't want to have a phone that does a thousand things badly- I'd rather have a separate laptop that does most of those things well, and a simple reliable phone.

Is this a sign of impending geezerhood?
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Mon 4 May 2009, 21:45, 6 replies)

Bag mania
There is an odd inherited trait in our family to put things in plastic bags. Not just things that might escape in your kitchen cupboard like a split bad of rice or what have you but anything at all. My Nan's handbag rustled with her purse in one little bag, her brolly in another. Nothing went in naked - each had its own little plastic wrapping.

Mum started doing the same thing about ten years ago with the added refinement of using the little wire ties to keep things secure. Oh how we laughed at her.

Now it's got me. Recently I was struck with the idea that a packet of pain-killers wouldn't disintergrate in the bottom of my bag if I slipped it into its own little bag. Then my diary was getting a bit scrappy looking and I thought a bag might reduce the wear. I haven't reached the full-on purse in a bag stage yet but it's only a matter of time. Does stop your stuff getting wet in the rain though...
(Innogen, Mon 4 May 2009, 18:28, Reply)

I will not be like them.....
My relationship with my parents is fairly complicated, due in part to a fucked up childhood, product of a broken home yadda yadda yadda, but mostly due to the fact that they're both mental and not in a good way.

My dad left home when I was 8 weeks old, and was conspicous largely by his absence when we were growing up. The break up was as far from amicable as you can get and my mam and dad hurled abuse at each other via us for many a year afterwards. Bound to lead to productive, well-rounded children right?

Dad was, and still is, a borderline alcoholic who has no paternal instinct whatsoever, and thinks that children are an emotional and financial drain and not much else (fair play if that's your opinion but for fuck's sake keep it in your pants then!). Mam is emotionally unstable, and had a tendency towards all sorts of substances and men of varying degrees of dodgyness. Led to an, erm, interesting childhood.

Anyway, as a result growing up I wanted to be the exact opposite of both my parents, and spent a lot of time with my grandparents, living with both sets for fairly lengthy periods, but mostly my mam's mam. My nanna was an amazing woman, and I'm told I'm a lot like her, which frankly is the biggest compliment anyone could pay me. She was everything a parent should be in my eyes. She took me in numerous times, she made sure I had clean clothes and was fed and all the boring stuff. She made sure I did my homework. But more than that she was the only person in my life I absolutely knew I could count on, without a shadow of a doubt, no matter what. She has dragged me thorough every crisis of my life thus far (they have been numerous and legion, I don't do things by halves :D). She made me laugh, she made me cry, and she loved and protected me with a ferociousness I'd never before experienced.

Anyway, to get this back on topic. As I get older I realise that I am like my parents in lots of ways, much as it annoys the fuck out of me to admit it.

From my father I get:
* a tendency to drink whenever life pisses me off that bit too much, and not stop until something or someone forces me to.
* A love of reading (I remember visiting him when I was about 14 for the first time on over 2 years and he made me sit in silence for over an hour while he finished reading the latest Stephen King, twunt), to be fair the best thing he ever got me was a subscription to Brittania before everyone had the internetz and books were out of my spending power.
* Lots of my fav music (including but not limited to 10cc, Beautiful South, Madness, Led Zep, Bowie, Pink Floyd, any and all Motown and Northern Soul)
* My temper (tho I control it a lot better than he does)
* Sarcasm
* Hair that refuses to be controlled
* Exceptionally small ears
* A tendency to state the obvious, in a very patronising way
* A love of cooking, but not conventional cooking. The type of mess around in the kitchen chucking loads of stuff in a pan to see what it tastes like kind of cooking.
* I like James Bond, despite being determined not to.
* A love of cars. Damn not being allowed to drive!
* An intense dislike of my paternal grandparents that conflicts with an intense love of them. I've watched him battle with this as I got older and started seeing him again, and it fucks me off that I now have the same internal battle.


From my mother I get:
* My looks (my kid looks exactly like me, I look exactly like my mam and she looks exactly like her mam)
* A love of Scrabble and a dislike of tv
* Lots of my fav music (including but not limited to The Rolling Stones, The Beatles, The Kinks, The Drifters, Erasure and other camp dance)
* A fair bit of emotional instability
* A metric ass-ton of guilt about the way the family situation turned out
* A whole fuckload of 'Why can't you be more like your sister?', erm cos she's a fucktard with less personality than the dog's last shite!
* An inclination towards befriending camp gay men
* A 20 a day ciggie habit, and in my misspent yoof a tendency towards a fair few not-strictly-legal substances (that's sorted now tho, I'm a good girl these days).

From them both I get a determination not to fuck things up for my kid, and to remember that above all else I am a parent and for at least the next 15 years there's a littley relying on me to make sure everything is ok. So far I think I'm doing pretty good all told.

The bad news for my kid is she's turning into me more and more by the day, from her love of Star Wars, to her flippant responses, to her crazy mind-of-its-own hair, and her total lack of subtlety or tact. She also seems to have inherited my incredible natural grace, love of reading (down to signs on buses and cereal packets ffs), intolerance of bullshit, and lack of any sense of direction.

The only thing I can't fathom is her hatred of cheese, weirdo.

Apologies for length internet peeps, I came over all Magnus Magnusson for a moment there.
(flyme, Mon 4 May 2009, 18:08, 3 replies)

when i lived at home
it drove me mad that my father insisted on keeping the tv remote on top of the tv. surely that is the most stupid place of all, as if you've got that far, you might as well just do it manually.

but now, now i am old and have my own place, it drives me mad if people don't put my remote back on top of my tv when they stay here.

bollocks.
( rachelswipe with a fork, Mon 4 May 2009, 16:57, 3 replies)

When I was about 15
my parents seemed horribly right-wing, to the point of wilful stupidity or outright selfishness.

Nowdays I'm more and more starting to realise that they knew what they were talking about!

Yours,
Eric Hitler.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Mon 4 May 2009, 16:06, 1 reply)

It's worse than I thought
Today I went into town to do some shopping, so I put a couple of reusable bags and my shopping list in my handbag and off I went.

It took me longer than it sometimes does because it's a bit rainy today and the wet weather makes my arthritis worse.

It seems that, at the age of 26, I have in fact skipped turning into my parents and turned straight into my grandmother.
(teacake, Mon 4 May 2009, 13:04, Reply)

Bandit
It's a tenuous posting for the QOTW, but I'm telling the story anyway.

My mum is an Eastender. No, she's not a soap actress, but was born and brought up in East Ham, East London.

As a true salt-of-the-earth cockney, she naturally has some very cockney ways about her. One of which is that everyone, bar none, gets a nickname.

This is the trait that I swore to avoid as I was growing up. I’m pretty sure that despite seeming to laugh along, Michael doesn’t appreciate being called “Fat Mick” and Phil, who has worked for Royal Mail his entire life, probably tires of being called (unimaginatively) “Phil The Post”

Recently though I find myself adopting nicknames more and more. My best friend is called Badger, for no other reason than a passing comment she once made. Another friend, Lisa, is called Peg which dates back to an old username she used on AOL years ago, and more recently a girl that I know who is always ill has been lovingly referred to (behind her back) as Dead Girl.

Chatting to girls online is the new vogue. Everyone's doing it, or so I'm led to believe, and using dating sites like PlentyOfFish is no longer to be sneered at.

I was chatting to a girl online on Saturday night that I met through POF. Within a few lines she mentioned that she was born with one arm slightly defected and went on to say that she'd gone through life without too many problems and leads an otherwise normal life.

We were chatting away and I found more and more that I was instigating the conversation and getting very little in way of a response. Several things I was asking were answered with yes or no answers, and when I tried to get her to ask some questions, she declined to.

I figured that we'd reached the end of a natural conversation, and so said that I was signing off to go and watch TV even though there was nothing on worth watching.

"No!" she said, "stay and chat. I'm only ironing; I could do with someone to chat to."

Taking this as a sign that she was still interested (and subliminally thinking I may get laid here sooner or later) I carried on chatting. Again, I was making all of the conversation and quite frankly was running out of things to talk about.

I'd asked for her number, figuring that it may be easier to get a conversation going verbally than via MSN, but was told that she was wary as she'd given her number out before and ended up with a psycho. I asked if she fancied meeting up for a drink, but she was only able to do next weekend when I have the kids, so that was put on a back burner, especially as she wouldn't commit to anything midweek.

The conversation went slower as I struggled to find something that may ignite a decent response. We'd discussed work, cars, family, even religion.

Suddenly, seeing my guitar in the corner of the room, I thought of a question.

Music is a broad subject, and can be opened up in a variety of ways. Everyone has favourite bands and varying opinions, so I tapped away an opening gambit:

"Do you play any musical instruments?"

My fingers moved quickly from the question mark to the Enter key. Too quickly.

In the fraction of a second it took for the message to be sent though cyber space, my brain did a quick run through. Guitar. Piano. Trumpet. Trombone. Flute. All instruments that could only be played with two hands. Bugger. If the conversation was stifled before, this would be kill or cure.

"That would be a bit difficult" came the reply.

I tried to rescue the situation. I joked about it, apologising as I did, I said that it was still a valid question. I may even have mentioned the word "kazoo", but to no avail.

I then tried my piece de resistance and said “Sorry Bandit if I caused offence.”

“Bandit?” She replied.

“Well it’s the only other thing I could think of that had one arm – A one-armed bandit."

Unsurprisingly, I haven't heard from her since, and like all good kids, I blame my mum and her habit of assigning nicknames.
( SeasonTicketless is too often the statue, and rarely the pigeon., Mon 4 May 2009, 12:45, 2 replies)

I want a shed.
Unfortunately, living on the 6th floor, with only a balcony, this particular pleasure is not to be.
Sheds are ace.
(Bear Pookie The Frankly Challenged. Halloween is coming to town., Mon 4 May 2009, 12:37, 4 replies)

ron
whenever someone asks me if i'm going to eat something i say "i'm saving if for ron"
then when they question it, i laugh and say "later on"

i'm turning into my dad telling crap jokes.
i'm 18
there's no hope!
(stitched, Mon 4 May 2009, 12:00, Reply)

I think that we often turn into other family members rather than our parents.
One of my sisters is very much like my uncle who was a lovely chap but died an alcoholic. My mother tells me I'm turning into my paternal grandmother who's nickname was Battling Monica and I have a nephew who everyone says is just like me, (lucky bugger).


Oh and nature or nurture?

I have an adopted sister who is just like my step-dad.
( girlinthehole, Mon 4 May 2009, 11:35, Reply)

Depressing reality
When as a teenager you thought your parents' views on pretty much everything were morally repugant.

14 years on, you find yourself agreeing with them as they seem to be grounded in a lot of common sense.
(hating swallows is 20 yards from the nearest Jaffa cake, Mon 4 May 2009, 11:08, Reply)

The difference that was no difference at all
As I am slowly turning into my father (my brother bypassed him and has turned into our granddad at 32), I thought there's one thing that will always separate us and stop me from wearing a flat cap, braces and belt all at the same time - I'm gay and he's not.

Sadly, me and Mum constantly compare notes on the men we fancy on telly. We both had a crush on her dog's vet. Bugger. No hope. No hope at all.
(badfox1 wonders who he's played by this episode on, Mon 4 May 2009, 10:45, Reply)

At 30...
I am fast becoming a weird amalgam of both my parents, who in turn are turning into theirs.

This means a quick temper where I turn from my usual Londonish accent to deepest Yorkshire and shout at the dogs to "GIVE OVER!" and the ability to make irritating corrections to people's grammar.

I have a theory that there are only really several people in the world, and that the same personality has survived like bacterium down the centuries. Think about it - if we all turn into our parents... where did it all start?
(badfox1 wonders who he's played by this episode on, Mon 4 May 2009, 10:40, 1 reply)

Getting Old or Turing into Parents?
Getting old is a side effect of life. Hey the alternative it Death so I quite enjoy getting old, Cheaper Car Insurace, More stories to tell, Staring down the barrel of 40, I feel slighty smug about having grown out of Binge Drinking, I still maintain my fasion sense is better than the Bus Stop Feral Kids, And its allways nice to Compare Origianal Films/Music/Media Trends to the Original. I had a great time introducing my 15 Year old Stepston to The Original Wicker Man, Barberella and Repo Man. He thinks the Clash are as good as Green Day and we can listen to both bands. And he comes to me when he has Girlfreind Trouble.

Its sobering at times to see how far things have come since I was a child, The Young Ones - once my favrote TV show now reeks of the 80's, Madonna has gone from a Sex Godess to a double bagger, The Inteweb has been invented, as have ASBOS, Happy Slapping and Emos.

As far as Turning into my Parents goes, I take steps for it not to happen, Like many of the I neither want to be a Narrow Minded Bitter Man whos Standards are so incredibly High No one can live up to them or a Alaholic who could polish off a bottle of Gin a day (Untill I was 15 I thught eveyone had Bottles of Gin hidden under the sink, I just assumed that was where you put the booze if you couldn't afford a drinks cabient)
It took me 20 years to undo a lot of the Damage caused by my Father. It took me 20 years to speak to my Mother and i'm slowly building that relationship up now.
Hey theres people on the board with much much worse tales than mine so I'm not bitter.
But these days I watch how much I drink and carefull not to set the bar too high with the kids, after all they are just kids. They need support rules and guideance but they also need a bit of slack, Teenage hormones are a terrible thing.

Apart from the Physical side effects of getting old Male Pattern Baldness and Moobs, I'm quite enjoying it.
(Gru being trolled since 1998, Mon 4 May 2009, 10:04, 1 reply)

this
was a reply to an earlier post but i felt that it would stand alone as it's own post (though slightly out of context but i'm sure you'll get the gist)

Some people coming from an abusive relationship with their parent(s) may not have the emotional, physical or intellectual capacity or fortitude to distinguish (and therefore make an effort to eradicate) "bad" behavior that they know is "bad". it's a herculean task for most to come to terms and make an effort to be "good", despite all they have been told or experienced.in my opinion,to attain (and maintain) a healthy sexual, emotional and intellectual disposition takes a hell of a lot of work, regardless of your past circumstances, especially in times like these ( is there any other kind?)

the hardest thing for me was to forgive. i'll never forget, but when i truly forgave (not to sound like a twat but i probably do) the scales fell from my eyes, and i could breath and live again.

i burnt her up 8 years ago now. for a time i hated her more than i thought it possible to hate another human being. the only person i have ever really hated, actually. hated her the only way a son could hate his mother, for i loved her as much. still do ( love her).

i'm not a "hard" man, nor do i wish to be. by all accounts, and judging by your logic i should fucking well be, and have every right to be.but it's hard to be hard. too much energy spent for no beneficial end. it's so exhausting being angry ad nauseum. it's just not my bag (or rather it's no longer my bag). i want (and will) to love my wife and kids when the time comes.to give them what i didn't have at the time. but the only way to do that is to love yourself first, which sometimes seems impossible.

for the record i know my mother loved me to the ends of the earth. she was the most intelligent, empathetic, stubborn and vital person i have ever known. but she didn't love herself.she was a star. and then she was a supernova. i reel in her wake, eat her dust, and still roil from her energy. she drank herself to death.

the greatest contradiction in my life is how she was such an epic fail, yet she infused within my brother and i the tools and temperance to be compassionate, understanding, and tough as nails =)

live and let live (within reason - personally not down with paedos, thieves and the like)

let sleeping dogs lie

forgive, but never forget

i'd do anything to hear her voice again. i see her in dreams, and for that i am blessed.

R.I.P mom, because i know you never had peace in your waking life.

that being said, this is my post, really not meaning to come off as a righteous twat. it's late, and this QOTW has obviously cut me to the quick.

there are no things - only possibilities
UNCERTAINTY IS CERTAIN

edit - to be fair, i am very much my mother's son. i just intend to go about parenthood the other way around =) i'm 33 ><
(goorf, Mon 4 May 2009, 7:19, 1 reply)

Dad, MK II
Let's see...

Dad says "I used to drink like a fish; spent an entire year, give or take, drunk." - this was in response to yet another morning being woken still completely plastered, going into my job. I shook my head.

"Never shall i become my father!"

But Dad joined the forces after leaving school. It wasn't really planned, it just sorta happened. This is what i'm doing now - only difference is i'm opting for officer selection, after my degree. It just, y'know, sorta happened...

Dad's previous girlfriend track record reads like my todo list. It seems i'm notching up the same types. Exactly the same types. Arab girls? Yep. Short, pretty brunettes? Yep. Irish chicks? Yep. Chicks who may turn out to ruin the space-time continuum by being my mum? Yep.

"I dig redhead chi... oh wait, you do too son?" - Bastard.

He has one-upmanship due to my inability not to ape his former actions.

The night i tripped balls on magic mushrooms? The look on his face wasn't "What a terrible thing, you awful drugged-up junkie!" it was "I know, i know... but seriously, i did it in Amsterdam with hookers and blow too."

Bastard.

The time i wrote a car off? "Yeah, don't worry - i did something similar. I was going way too fast too."

Bastard.

I don't want to be my father (Well, i respect the hell out of him really) but i am essentially a younger version.

*sigh*
(Schumann makes awesome quiches., Mon 4 May 2009, 1:44, Reply)

I fancy sommat
but i don't know what. Ha! I laughed at my dad when he said that. And then sometimes there is that desire to eat something but is it ice cream? is it chips? pizza? Biscuits? I'm not sure..........
(Discreditor wants the dream to come true, Mon 4 May 2009, 1:40, 3 replies)

Sad humour
I was waiting for my sister to get ready so we could visit my grandparents (who puts make-up on to visit relatives?), she was taking a while so my mother went up to nag her. I heard my mother ask "If you're just putting on make-up why have you taken your jeans off?" to which me and my dad shouted up the stairs at the same time, "Shes powdering her cheeks!"

there is no hope for me...
(Lovefist233 Bothering Sheep since..., Mon 4 May 2009, 0:09, Reply)