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This is a question Starting something you couldn't finish

Finnbar says: I used to know a guy who tattooed LOVE across his left knuckles, but didn't tattoo HATE on the other knuckles because he was right-handed and realised he couldn't finish. Ever run out of skills or inspiration halfway through a job?

(, Thu 24 Jun 2010, 13:32)
Pages: Popular, 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1

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Not finishing a video game
is an opportunity to achieve something, not a failure.
(, Fri 25 Jun 2010, 20:45, 5 replies)
Sometimes i start writing things and just

(, Fri 25 Jun 2010, 20:21, Reply)
violin
in school, i decided that i would become a musician(and prove my mother wrong). i would have liked to learn to play the piano, but i have what my darling mater refers to as "cow's tit fingers", which pretty much ruled that idea out. my second choice was the drums, but nobody was allowed to go near the music teacher's beloved tina turner drumkit, so that was a no-go, too.
after perusing my timetable, i realised that violin classes coincided with double maths. perfect! i could learn the violin and get out of a double maths lesson! so, on a sunny tuesday afternoon, i trundled off to my first violin lesson.
being young and cocky, i was utterly convinced that i would easily be able to master this lump of tuneful wood in a matter of weeks.
did i bollocks.
i realised, very quickly, that i hated the violin. not as much as i hated maths, but it was a close-run thing. fortunately for me, the violin teacher was more than happy to be paid for sitting in the practice room with me for an hour, chatting about films and smoking out of the window. he was a pretty cool teacher.
2 years later, i failed my maths GCSE and abandoned my violin lessons. after all that time, i could just about play little brown jug. badly.
the best bit of it all was the violin, which the school had given to me as they'd just received some form of grant for a shitload of new musical instruments. i was informed by the music teacher that my violin was pretty much worthless.
turns out it was worth £120.
(, Fri 25 Jun 2010, 19:43, 4 replies)
I'm reading a teach yourself Japanese course ..
.. just for the fun of it, really. There are 20 chapters in the book and some audio to go along with it. I started in good pace about two years ago and made it through the first chapters with great determination. Then I gradually slowed down although the book stayed on my bedside table. Maybe this is part of the problem, since memorising vocabulary lists in a very foreign language never really seems feasible by the time that I hit the sheets at night. Another part of the problem is that I set very high standards. I don't progress to the next chapter unless I still remember the vocabulary and grammar rules from every preceding chapter.

I'm at chapter 15 now. And yes, I still intend to finish someday.

BTW, although it's a bit demanding, I enjoy the challenge of learning the vocabulary. The trick (at least the trick that works for me) is to try to make up silly mnemonic rules. E.g. "shita" means "down" because that's where your shitter is located. And "naka" means "inside" because you are naked on the inside. A "shingo" is a traffic light, since it shines and then you go. My homegrown mnemonics are sometimes a bit of a stretch and may combine vocabulary debris from English, Danish, Norwegian, German, French and Spanish. As long as it makes sense to me ..
(, Fri 25 Jun 2010, 19:35, Reply)
A colleague of mine
is one of those suave, rugby-playing types. He's big, dashedly good looking, intelligent, and likeable to boot.

On the door of his office he has pinned a letter handing in his resignation, stating that within four weeks he will find a new job, and he will be leaving the company.

The letter is dated May 2009. Poor old Symes-y, maybe his dream will come true soon.
(, Fri 25 Jun 2010, 19:26, Reply)
Fall out 3 Broken steel.
Why is the final mission on Fall out 3 ALWAYS fucking bugged, so i CANNOT complete the mission to play the add on.

Grrr.
(, Fri 25 Jun 2010, 18:15, 10 replies)
When I was a mature student...
...back in 1995, I worked part-time for a gardener. Usually Wednesdays and Saturdays with more days during the hols.

One day we were clearing a very over-grown garden, cutting back trees and shrubs etc. I was cutting some branches off a couple of trees: ash and yew, and a couple of the branches looked ideal for making into walking sticks. I'd have the ash one and Mrs G would have a beautiful yew walking stick.

I took them home and varnished the cut ends to prevent them drying out too quickly and splitting. The following year, I stripped off all the bark and began paring them into walking stick sized sticks, as they were both easily two or three inches diameter and much too hefty for a stroll.

When my Stanley knife blades were all knackered, I put them away in a shed. When we moved house, Mrs G told me to chuck them as I'd never get around to finishing them. I didn't.

I kept them the next time we moved house too - seven years later. And the next time, three years after that. Now they're in the garage, in the same state that they were in 1997 or so.

One day...
(, Fri 25 Jun 2010, 17:32, Reply)
Harry Potter.....
Still havent finished the last one.....
(, Fri 25 Jun 2010, 17:27, 5 replies)
About a month ago,
I decided to get rich by spending my Sunday afternoons coming up with a proof for Goldbach's conjecture. It's not going well so far.
(, Fri 25 Jun 2010, 17:17, 3 replies)
Oh melody's post reminded me

I bought the lord of the rings trilogy in a special case and everything and it's currently being used as a makeshift chair leg
(, Fri 25 Jun 2010, 16:56, Reply)
I started reading...
... The Twilight Saga because everyone was telling me how fantastic it was.

I couldn't finish it.

Then I reread Harry Potter instead.
(, Fri 25 Jun 2010, 16:52, 8 replies)
My inheritance
I learned of my actual parentage when I was 18, which was a bit of a shock (as it turns out I am technically a bastard's bastard - my father was illegitimate, and begat me similarly). But both my father and grandfather died intestate, and within a year of each other, and I got the lot. I thought I was just another abandoned babby, so this all came as quite a surprise. The thing is though, the executors only allowed me a stipend between 18 and 21, and didn't actually tell me how much I stood to gain in total - owing to my 'reputation' (went through a few foster homes/'caring' institutions etc.), they figured I'd squander the lot. Unsurprisingly, this condescension did not please me greatly and I resolved to do precisely that as soon as I turned 21 and got my hands on it.

Three years and several wavy lines later (ha!), not a scintilla weaker in my resolve, I began the task of drinking my birthright. It did take me about seven years, several thousand airmiles, a few outstanding warrants and broken bones but I am delighted, on several levels to reveal that I eventually came to the conclusion that this was both an impossible and inappropriate task. I am minor bastard nobility and nouveau bloody riche after all. Huzzah!
(, Fri 25 Jun 2010, 16:52, 9 replies)
FInal Fantasy XIII
Love it but it's just not as good as the others.

I'm currently on Mass Effect 2 which I class as a much better game.
(, Fri 25 Jun 2010, 16:28, 2 replies)
Several relationships
plus several non-consensual ones
(, Fri 25 Jun 2010, 16:28, Reply)
It was an addiction
A horrible, all consuming addiction that took over my life for years. An addiction that took all of my disposable income. And yet despite these constant failures, I continued.

I continued to invest my time and my money in this addiction and encourage others to get involved with it and to share with me their unwanted spoils. Year on year I swear it was the last time, and eventually in 1986, after the World Cup in Mexico I kicked the habit.

Panini sticker albums. I started all of the football ones from 1982, finishing my football collection with the Mexico 86 sticker book.

Did I finish any of them? Did I fuck. The closest I came to finishing an album was that last one, but even with a massive pile of 'swapsies' I was unable to get the last half-dozen players I needed.

(I also did the E.T and Return of the Jedi sticker albums as well - both incomplete, so it wasn't just average footballers who let me down).

Do kids still collect the stickers or is it all 'online' these days?
(, Fri 25 Jun 2010, 16:07, 12 replies)
I have discovered a truly marvelous proof that it is impossible to separate a cube into two cubes, or a fourth power into two fourth powers, or in general, any power higher than the second into two like powers.
This QOTW post is too small to contain it

Bindun?
Too obscure?
(, Fri 25 Jun 2010, 16:06, 13 replies)
Should be loaded by now
Ive had great ideas over the years and put my coding and technical genius to work to make them happen, but usually I cant sell them or make hype around them, so get bored and move onto the next big idea and repeat the cycle. Some ideas I had over the years which never quite made it to fruition

1994: Domain names. Tried to persuade mum and dad that as domain names were still free to register, all i would need is two servers to host namesevers on (as that was all you needed back then) and I could get all kinds of names on this new fangled internet thing. Was promptly shot down in flames, calls of 'the internet is nothing, live in the real world, son.' I still remind them to this day how much we would be worth, had they shelled out the couple of hundred quid to co-lo some machines and let me gobble up some good domain names.

2000: Sick of using those crappy customer support/relationship manager tools in various support jobs, I built a full on hosted, managed CRM system online. Fully secured, encrypted, even the backend DBs were encrypted just in case. Worked great and tried to sell the product to people, but no one was interested over 'security' fears of putting their customers information onto an online system. Few years later salesforce.com shows up and its the best thing since sliced bread. Fucksocks.

2001: A site where people could have their own page profile, chat to eachother, connect their page to friends pages and share random shite about their day. Made about half of it, got caught up in life then kicked my own arse when myspace came out.

2005: Letting people pay for things on website from their mobile phones. I made the whole thing, its still there and it works great, i just never publicized it or did any sales. Made the mistake of speaking to my (now ex) boss about my wicked idea. He went off and founded a (now well known) company which do exactly the same thing. Hes rolling in the cash.

So yeah, seems im good at thinking up this stuff and making it well. I just dont seem to be so good at generating the sales pitch/hype. Anyone here good at that and fancy being loaded?
(, Fri 25 Jun 2010, 16:01, 5 replies)
The lanes were silent...
...There was nothing, no one, nothing around for miles.

I doused our friendly venture, with a hard-faced, three-word gesture...




Bindun?

(, Fri 25 Jun 2010, 15:48, 1 reply)
I'm a horrible person
Every Thank You letter I've even contemplated writing.

I know it's a nice thing to do, but I seem to be incapable of thanking my aunt for the Jamie Oliver cookbook she bought me for Christmas...
(, Fri 25 Jun 2010, 15:37, 3 replies)
Not me, Mrs SLVA has this new habit
She'll go to bed to read for a bit. I usually go to bed about 10 mins later, mainly because I'm the one that locks up and so on; that sort of pre-bedtime pottering about that seems to take far longer than it ought to.

So, I get upstairs and get in bed. I'm not one for reading, so I usually stick the headphones into my phone and listen to podcasts I've downloaded earlier that day.

She will then reach down and start fondling me. Less than 20 seconds later, I'm at full tumescence and I'm getting what is essentially a free handjob. This lasts for a few minutes and it's beginning to feel good, leg-tensingly good. Then she'll just stop and will not continue.
"What did you stop for?" I ask.
"Well, I didn't want a shag or anything, I was just having a fiddle"

This happens regularly. If I end up not getting a shag for a few days (such as when she's up on bricks), all of these false starts are going to result in a huge build up in pressure and I'll be set with a hair trigger. She'll start 'having a fiddle' and I'll go off with such force, it'll wash her off the bed, she'll be hopelessly gummed to the bedroom wall and the only way I'll free her is by steaming her off with the kettle.
(, Fri 25 Jun 2010, 15:32, 12 replies)
last night
me and my mate, after her nan's funeral, started on a bottle of bacardi.
i'm so, so glad we didn't finish it :(
(, Fri 25 Jun 2010, 15:08, 2 replies)
Yes, I know that losing 10 kilos would be good.
I know that it's something I want to do. But there's a biscuit in front of me, and I just can't stop myself...

Do feel free at any future bashes to apply a touch of peer-pressure on this...
(, Fri 25 Jun 2010, 14:55, 21 replies)
I
started to eat something, then found I couldn't be bothered and left it all - for the rest of my life.

Yours,

Bobby Sands.
(, Fri 25 Jun 2010, 14:11, 3 replies)
Iconic?
I've been told by many people that it's not hard to build a website. That mastering HTML is no great shakes. And I've believed them.

I never had any intention of building a great site; but, all the same, I don't like having no idea at all how to build one at all, and I've been meaning to get a teach-yourself-HTML-for-dummies kind of book for years. People tell me I'm smart(ish): I should be able to do it.

My ambitions are now getting progressively less ambitious. I've long given up on building a tolerably impressive site. Tolerably impressive became tolerable; tolerable became basic; basic became... well, I can't even be arsed working out what one-step-below-basic would be.

So I set my sights lower. For a while, I thought that I'd be happy simply knowing how to make an icon for the minichallenge, or how to make a hat for my icon. Maybe they'd serve as nice, small, interim targets.

Nope. Not even that. I still don't even know how to make the left-and-right-pointing chevron things appear in this box. (You know: the pointier version of { and }.)

So it's not so much starting something I couldn't finish, as never really getting beyond a vague aspiration to do something that I believe to be pretty easy. Damn me and my indolence.
(, Fri 25 Jun 2010, 14:08, 12 replies)
Oops, I did it again...


Earlier this year, after getting increasingly miffed with numerous attempts by Greenpeace to try and drag me back into the sea so I could re-join my fellow whale comrades, (which is no mean feat considering I live in Coventry) I eventually stumbled to the begrudged conclusion that I might be just a teensy bit overweight.

(On reflection I should have spotted the warning signs, like losing whole items of furniture in-between my flapping wadges of man-cleavage…and there was that time when someone mistook me for Jupiter…but hey ho.)

‘Ah ha’! – I hear you yelp, as you try to find something remotely ‘on-topic’ in what I am rambling about: ‘I bet the thing that you started was a diet, and you couldn’t finish it….so…you’re still a whopping great big lardy-tarded blob of wastoid wobble-bottom-ness, right?’….wrong!, gentle reader – I knuckled down, managed to shoe-horn my chubby digits away from the patented ‘Mr Creosote’ bucket that I used for my half hourly chow-a-thons, and promptly lost 5 stone and 6 inches off my waist…

So nope, that’s not what this is about – and this is only at best a half 'on-topic' post, mainly due to the fact that although it is about a time when I started something...by Lucifer’s spikey ball-sack, I sure as shit couldn’t stop it.

To aid me in the early days of my belligerent battle against bulbous blubber & bollock-bending bulges I exercised a bit, but most importantly I slashed my calorie intake down to next to bugger-all, and this led to my body fervently soaking up every last scrap of what I was slowly drip feeding into it.

This process, however successful, resulted in an unfortunate (but all-too predictable) side-effect…

I couldn’t poo.


Not even a smidge, a niffy nugget or a whiffy winnet. All efforts and attempts to deploy a good old 'didgeridoo' were futile, and much like my sex life, merely resulted in much grunting, sweating, heaving and straining with eventual zero end product...and all round dissatisfaction for all involved.

This was a new experience for me – I’m more used to dumping dungtastic destructive depth charges of gargantuan proportions, with the awesome regularity of an atomic clock in Greenwich. ‘For fuck’s sake’, I used to remember thinking, ‘I am Pooflake! – hear my rear roar!’ My bowels are my nemesis, so a lack of ability in this department was unthinkable, like being robbed of a part of my very identity. I had unwittingly become a shadow of the backside-blasting bastard B3tard I used to be….but now…what good was Pooflake without the ‘poo’?…If there wasn’t already someone on B3ta called flake I would’ve changed my username. I ended up staying off B3ta, as my stories and posts dried up like my pathetic excuse for a chutney cupboard – when I wasn’t dropping brown death from above it seemed like I wasn’t doing anything…

Things were bad.

The days rattled on and the dust and cobwebs started to develop in my redundant and draughty dark bung-hole. I considered reaching up my own cack-cavity with a dessert spoon and seeing what I could dig out, but then I thought of another solution...

I’m afraid to say that in my sorrowful desperation, I decided to dabble towards a chemical answer...And lo, one evening, I took some laxatives. I didn’t go mad…Just two, tiny, insignificant little yellow tablets that I got from Tesco.


That was enough. Trust me. That was well enough.


The next day started fine, filled with my usual hope for the future before the weight of the world crushes my spirit – (usually by about 9am) – I was toffed up to the nines in my new office clobber of light grey suit trousers with crisp white shirt, and I strolled into the office, brimming with the confidence you get whilst losing weight (as everyone tells you 'how much better' you now look, before you realise that it’s actually a back-handed compliment because what they’re actually saying is that you used to be a proper fugly-bloater-boy, but now you’re slightly less of a fat cunt – so well done you!)

Anyhoo, my day progressed without incident, no worries...nothing to report……until….UNTIL….


HOLY FUCKING PISS DRIPPING OFF A MONKEY’S FOREHEAD!!!!! WHAT THE SWORD-SWALLOWING FUCK IS GOING ON IN MY CRAP FACTORY?!??

It was like someone had lit the fuse on the opening titles of 'Mission: impossible'...However, the mission I had no choice but to accept was to get squatting on a chod bin before my anus self-destructed in the next five seconds.

I dropped my work like it was on fire, and leapt to my feet before rocketing towards the nearest bog at a pace that would make Usain Bolt weep into his spray-on lycra tights.

After just a few spirited bounds I already had the otter’s nose sticking out, and it felt as if the first two inches of the impending doom were already cold. The crushing desperation to go and urgently ‘hang a rat’ was overwhelming – this suddenly felt like a matter of life and death….

I single-mindedly pushed past the old lady from the service desk as my memories of poo-calamities past started to flood back. Thankfully, before long I was hoofing open the door to trap 1 – the scene of so many fecal crimes before - with my kex already dropped round my ankles …


I plonk my sweaty backside down and wait for the Inevitable….

Eventually….

oooh my god here it comes….UUUURGGHGHGHG NGNNGHGHGNNMMMMMMPH!!!!!!

*papper-papper-splat-splash-a-papper*whimper*SPLASH-A-PAPPER-PARP-SPLADOOSH!!!!*


…*Brief respite*...



“OOH for fuck’s sake here comes some mo….AAARRGGHHH URGGHH!!!….(the next few minutes’ experience is censored on humanitarian grounds)

I was stuck there…stranded, alone and helpless – a slave to the relentless explosions of this dirty bomb as it ruptured my spleen with its sheer rage and velocity. It was all I could do to perch there, semi-silently shuddering as I contemplated what the spluttering ‘splashback’ alone was doing to my pitiful battered butt-cheeks and they dangled precariously into the pan and relentlessly continued to catch full-on what was spewing forth in such hideous handfuls of hateful horror

But.it just.did.not.stop.

As I pleaded for my life it was as if some grim arse-ghoul had reached up my trembling turd tunnel with his ghostly claw, grabbed my frantically spasming intestines and was wringing them out like a grannies’ dishcloth, leaving my mind wandering and my body involuntarily shaking in what felt like a crippling case of what could only be described as ‘Poo Parkinsons’

During the thunderous clackervalve-projected holocaust I can just remember hearing somebody opening the outside door of the toilet block, before muttering ‘Jesus!’ under their breath and wisely deciding that they were no longer that desperate to use the facilities any more.

As the devastation ploughed on relentlessly by the trough-full, I sank to my lowest ebb. My poor tattered brownstar felt like the eye of Sauron from the Lord of the Rings, and I began to consider reaching for the bog-roll to write out my last will and testament - before realising how difficult a task that would be considering I had my legs dangling in the air and feet pushed up high against the lavvy door for extra leverage - in the fashion of someone in stirrups, painfully giving birth to a squishy cocophany that was not so much a brown trout, but more a school of angry brown ravenous acid-spitting piranha fish, trying to chew their way through the fast-buckling bog porcelain whilst simultaneously infecting the atmosphere like a mutated airborne virus.

But then…almost as quickly as it had begun…it subsided. I was pale and exhausted, and it was a close thing, but I had survived!

I checked my watch and discovered that if I got a wriggle on I would still be on time for the death-defyingly dull meeting I was due at.

Hurridly wiping my sandblasted shite socket was one of the most disturbing experiences of my life, but It was soon over, and as I made my mental note to buy a lifetime supply of mindbleach, before I knew it I was outside the meeting room with a couple of minutes to spare.

Thinking that the smart thing to do would be to get the next hours’ worth of vuvuzel-arse related misery out of the way before subjecting my colleagues to the decadent displeasure of my mud-oven-mishaps in a small meeting room, I strained a bit and managed to squeak out a crafty ‘parp’ or nine – As my trousers trumpeted triumphantly, the hallway was treated to a mixture of sounds, forces and general textures but most importantly I was soon assured that I must now be officially empty.

So I strode in confidently and sit down and as the meeting started and then proceeded to trundle on with the gritty pace and interest level of a bag of mouldy potatoes. Of course, I dazzled my employers and peers with my vice-like grip on all issues, and encyclopedic knowledge of all technical matters…well….by that I mean I managed to stay awake, and every now and then I would nod, mutter indifferently and do general meeting wotnot. Unfortunately, what was actually keeping me awake was being distinctly aware of the unwelcome return of the recent and all-too-familiar gut-gurgling, which was accompanied by quite frankly unacceptable, wet-yet-thankfully—silent-ish guffs that I luckily got away with as I squirmed about rather uncomfortably…it was a quite a hot day too, but I was still quietly confident that the rancid stench emanating from my frequently dropped guts were not being detected, considering nobody was falling off their seats or calling for an ambulance…or a priest.

The perfect crime!

Eventually, the meeting was over and I made good my escape, making the most of the time remaining in the day to go and visit some workmates and talk football-related bollocks – the last hour or so flew by….Time to go home…

Yet as I returned to my car I caught sight of something that I could not quite initially fathom. There, in the car park, right by my car door, was the very boardroom seat that I had used an hour or so earlier.

After calmly declaring ‘Wtf?’ to myself, I moved in closer for further inspection and was quite taken aback as I slowly clapped eyes on what stood before me….


All over the seat cover was was about a foot-long, fetid, dark brown streak of purest poo-pipe produce, smeared deeply into the fabric making the whole item resemble some sort of sick sacred shrine to shite-related inhumanity.

Attached to my car windscreen was a note that read:

“Dear Pooflake.

You really are a dirty, dirty twat. Fuck knows what you ate. The chair is now your problem, not ours - Enjoy”


Trying to fathom what was going on, I nervously reached for my phone and called my manager, asking if she knew what was going on. I could distinctly hear the tremble in her shell-shocked voice as she explained the situation:

Between bursts of restrained rage and fits of stifled giggles, my boss then revealed to me that my stomach gurgling and ‘silent’ guffs were not quite as silent as I thought I had endeavoured to conjure them. Instead, everyone in the meeting was merely being polite whilst slowly chewing back thoughts of murder / suicide brought about by the nose-bursting aroma that I was quacking out at a relative frenzy.

As my bedraggled balloon-knot burped and bubbled I was aware of the possibility of some slight seepage, but I thought it was merely to the level of an uncomfortable, soggy, but private misdemeanor that would only later possibly result in a tactical wipe. However, I was unknowingly splurging finest chemical-induced terror all over the unwitting seat fabric below.

After the meeting, blissfully unaware of this abomination I had created and was about to abandon, I stood up and strode out confidently, heading off on my rounds, leaving the sight that befell the poor lady sat next to me to hit her with such violent vigour that it apparently nearly had her doubled over and gagging.

Incredibly, (but hardly surprisingly being 'managers'), they decided to have a meeting at this newly-crowned ‘ground zero’ to decide what action to take. Initially, they were going to give me an almighty bollocking and hit me with the cleaning bill for the chair, but then after further discussion, they all decided as a collective that even if the poor seat was scrubbed raw with industrial-strength atomic-powered Cillit-Bang, then there would still be no way that anybody would ever willingly let themselves ever again come into contact with the disgraced turd-rag throne from hell, (after all, you can’t gouge out your mind’s eye). So it was duly decided that the best option short of demolishing the building was to just ‘get rid’ of the grossly offending item. (probably for the best…)

I must admit that despite the predicament I was in, I smirked a bit when I discovered that henceforth lots were drawn and one unfortunate colleague (who is a bit of a git anyway) was given the dubious honour that nobody really deserves; of dragging the aforementioned befouled seat out into the car park and abandoning it by my car with the note – (I understand that he may now need counselling)

I hung up and tried computing this information with my usual lightning reflexes, before slowly realising that if I had done this repugnant vandalisation to the chair, then it could only have done so after first seeping through the fabric on my dunghampers and then my sorry trollies. As instinctive as it was purely stupid, I moved my hand round the back as I gazed at what was written at the very bottom of the note:

“PS – check your arse – and burn those trousers you are wearing*.”

With that, I gradually came to the painful realisation that for the last hour of the day, about 100 people had witnessed me walking around like a cock-sure bell-end, whilst proudly sporting a stonking great skidmark the size of the QE2 trying to navigate a course half way up my back.

So I was stood there, even more humiliated than usual, with a dirty, stinging, stained-beyond-recognition rusty ringpiece, and now runny shite smeared over my right hand...whilst next to me lay a tainted, honking office chair that I had no idea what to do with.

I think I should only wear brown clothes from now on – it’s either that...or get a nappy :(




Epilogue: The chair is now positioned pride of place at Coventry City Dump (rather fitting really) where you can visit it if you like – I did briefly consider selling it on Ebay, but for the love of jellied fuck, even I have to draw the line somewhere…


*Another result of weight loss - having to replace 90% of my clothes. Fucksocks.
(, Fri 25 Jun 2010, 13:22, 25 replies)
Mission Accomplished!

(, Fri 25 Jun 2010, 13:19, Reply)
Cloverfield and The Blair Witch project
Started them both and couldn't finish either. DAMN YOU MOTION SICKNESS!!
(, Fri 25 Jun 2010, 13:15, 1 reply)
Suing Simon Singh
signed

The British Chiropractic Association.
(, Fri 25 Jun 2010, 13:14, Reply)
Gamers with unobtainable goals-
So many posts on what games haven't been completed.
Who actually buys a game with the specific goal of completing it?
If I buy a game, it's to enjoy till I get bored of it, completed or not.
I've come to terms with the fact that I'm unlikely to ever get a platinum for example, and that I don't mind.
Tetris and zoms. You can't complete. Neither can you stop.


"Have you smoked all your life?"
"Not yet..."
(, Fri 25 Jun 2010, 13:05, 6 replies)

This question is now closed.

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