My Weekend Review

It's now coming to the end of what's been only my second weekend in a long time. I've only had two weekends in the last 65 days. Sure, one of them was 58 days long but in terms of numbers two is not a very high one.
As weekends go, this four day one can best be expressed as a parabola function, positive, with a negative factor a little higher than its positive factor and a (4/11) marked in red pen evaluating just how well I think I did in expanding my metaphor using knowledge from year 12 maths. Wow, that was 3 years ago.
3 days ago was Thursday, and off I went in my recovery from the 2 days of uni i'd experienced in the 3 days prior to that. Numbers aside, the weekend did follow a rather up, down then up again pattern.
Thursday I slept in, ate some carbs, burnt some carbs... I think I coded something, then played and lost 2 games of basketball. After that I decided to go to Uni where apparently something called "the tav" was happening. So I went there with Chow. Pornland were playing there, and I didn't know who they were but I was told to dress as a porn star anyway so after trying to decide whether or not I should cut the arse out of my jeans (I eventually decided not to) I put on my sailors hat, padded my crotch slipped on a white shirt and some blue pants and away down the hill I went.
I don't recommend driving down hills with 3 socks in a ball being pressed against your crotch by the forces of gravity. Arriving at the tav, and then after waiting for 30 minutes, I finally entered it for the first time in my academic life that spans three years now. My first thought was 'Wow, pornland are a rock band'. Chow and I had a couple of beers and I met a few people and I began to think that maybe it would have been ok to cut the arse out of my jeans because I actually wasn't doing any sitting down at all. Chow and I stood and watched Pornland who were ok but who kept interjecting their set with references to their impending break up. Yelling 'break up!' at them didn't seem to hasten that process and they still had songs to go when I decided to investigate the bathroom situation and plotted my most direct route as being just through the dance floor.
It was at this stage of the walk that I was interrupted by a drunk Dusty yelling my name from a circle of people near the dance floor so I was temporarily distracted. Sensing my distraction, my padded crotch or perhaps both a girl from this circle then accosted me and suggested firmly that we should dance to pornland's last song ever in South Australia. So I danced, forcing my brain to try and remember all the things I learnt from the last time I danced with a girl in public, which was probably about nine months ago. Alarmingly this list didn't really contain much about 'what to do when dancing with a girl' in it, but the opposite would easily be said about the 'what not to do while dancing with a girl' portion and so I succesfully didn't do any of that. This seemed to work in my favour.
Leaving the tav later that night with Chow, who'd also made friends during the evening, although with a far less female companion, I commented that the tav was probably somewhere I should have started going to more earlier, and that I was probably going to continue padding my crotch everytime I went out. Chow wasn't quite as enthusiastic about the last part, possibly because I succesfully tested his catching reflexes by throwing my sock ball at him right before I got in the car to leave.
On Friday I went down to the gym at uni and spent the afternoon playing basketball, and this was quite an enjoyable time. That night I went to see the Vascoe Era and Regurgitator, who were about as good as each other. Vascoe Era exceeded expectation, Regurgitator played their new crap to below expectation levels. Possibly because I didn't pad my crotch that night, but it wasn't as good as previous.
I woke up Saturday morning, turned on Fox Sports and what I originally thought was highlights of Ricky Ponting's innings was, in fact, Ricky Ponting's innings. Then I waited around for basketball. I got to the stadium 10 minutes early with the rest of the team in time to learn that the stadium selection had been altered for the day, and so we got to the actual game 10 minutes late and the game was quite a let down. Paying $7 to play on a three-quarter court with a one-quarter umpire duet against a team of dirty (literally) dudes who we would've beaten quite soundly had we actually had the correct stadium details to begin with was a downer. What's worse is that the league seemed to have gotten 'competent umpire' and 'player's sister' muddled up when selecting an appropriate referee. Already feeling disgruntled, I watched the Bulldogs get destroyed by Carlton which was even more depressing. God, I think this was the first time I've ever found The Phantom Menace to be attractive viewing.
By now my spirits were deflated. Then slightly lifted by the receival of a text message from a girl, then deflated again when I accidently replied through habit by sending "FLIRT" to her phone. To this I got no reply, and as time passed I assumed I'd done bad, so two hours later I sent "STOP" but alas... The rest of the night was spent at Josh's where a lot was said but a lot less was done. I went to bed as a local minimum of man.
But on Sunday the sun was shining, it was a beautiful day. I walked to work reasonably carefree, then played basketball for Grant's team where we won. Then into the evening, after remembering but then accepting that a lot of women send sms with grammar skills that would dissapoint an international student, Kat and then Dusty assisted me in using my phone to talk to a girl. Well, in actual fact they told me exactly what to write and after questioning the placement of every character in the message I would send it ensuring they would take responsibility for whatever came of it. Then I went to bed ready for another hard three day week at uni, and with dreams that next weekend won't require a mathematical description in order to sum it up. And also dreams of a Tomato and Cheese Twisted Delight from Baker's Delight because they are really nice.

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The woman with the fake tan stepped into my office, sat across from my desk and lit a cigarette.
At least, she would, sometime in the next 20 minutes. Smelling the future has advantages, but precision isn’t one of them.

Admiring my Handywork

When I went to bed last night I wanted today to have ended in one of two ways. By the time my head hit the pillow I wanted to have either gotten together with a girl or learnt how to code sessions with PHP. Whilst it seems that I came close to one, I did do the other. And that satisfies me. Which one? Well, I think you can tell just by the fact that you're reading this.
You see, I'm posting this fresh from the admin control panel of I can do this because I'm logged in as the administrator. It's like moving into a new house.
Today I've done a lot of work on Bradism. It now contains 14 stories plus the last year of journal. I had to upload all the recent entries in manually because of the temporariness of the last journal, but it's done now. From doing this I've realised that there haven't been a lot of entries lately. Also worrying is that, what passes for an entry once a week disturbs me about what I'm doing that doesn't pass for the other few days. Nevertheless, I do recall spending a lot of that time coding this. Majority of this effort was spent developing the 'Select Timmy Picture' applet for journal entries. It was worth it.


Most important thing out the way first, today's Twisted Delight was the Jalapeño & Green Tomato Twisted Delight and it was the most delicious twisted delight ever. It was even nicer than the first Twisted Delight I ever ate, and that one was so nice that after eating it I said 'I think I will eat one of these every day of uni'. Current Twisted Delight Count for semester 1: 6.
The second best part of uni today was learning more about which topics I will be able to skip. Ryan and I spent an hour working out what parts of our timetable we could trim to make it more fashionable. If 'working out how to skip uni' was a subject itself, we'd probably have HDs for it and probably have skipped all the lectures and most of the tutes.

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I Hold Words

In my life, and despite 6 units of Comm Skills last semester, I've never been good at reading body language. In actual fact, I'm not even very good at reading bodies. My inability to recognise acquaintances aside, however, one area I find I really fall down in is interpreting signs from members of the opposite sex.
I recently was informed that some girl who I only met once found me hot. This was a bit weird for me mainly because when we did meet I was splashed in my own vomit and running towards some bushes to make more. But still, I only found this out three months after I met her! The fact that I was unable to recognise an interest (even when you consider that for the next two hours I was passed out on a trampoline) that was actually verbally acknowledged speaks volumes about why I might not be able to register more subtle indications of attraction.
There are times I wish I was a graphic artists. Pretty much all of those times are when I want to create graphics or illustrate something, which is predictable really. You see, pictures could explain better than words my inability to read these signs. I’m as good at picking up signals from girls as geriatric elderly drivers are of obeying road signs. And this is what I wish I could portray for you. Fortunately history has done it for me and this article, which describes the biggest ‘Oh, Grandpa!’ moment since the bathroom scene near the start of ‘Priscilla, Queen of the Desert’ will help you feel what I mean.
Yes, that carnage is about parallel with what happens in my mind when I misread signs. This doesn’t just apply to signs like ‘Wrong Way, Go Back’, ‘No Parking’, ‘Stop’ and ‘Children’s Crossing’. It’s also signs like ‘Merge Left’ and ‘Increase Speed on On Ramp’ that I’m completely oblivious to, and all this leads to is more carnage, as you will. And that’s the reason that I’m probably going to spend more time than I want to striking the back of my own garage.
Ah, oh God I love analogies. I love metaphors and I love similes. The level and power of description they afford you is amazing. I really, really, really like them. I like them a lot.
Anyone who’s read my stories knows that I use more metaphors and similes than most rappers. Which brings me to my point:
Love is hard to find, far harder than late night television advertisements would have you think. Whilst most people look for love, find it and live happily ever after, some people devote all their energy looking for it and never turn up anything. Other people find it in their face when they’re not even looking. Yes, finding love is like playing hide-and-seek with a kid with ADHD.
I don’t know what makes me think I’m qualified to write about love, seeing I’ve never experienced it nor do I seek it, but people like to read stories that have metaphors about it in them. If that tricks people into thinking I’m deep then it will probably benefit me in some way. Most likely I’ll be able to get away with being obnoxious later because I’m ‘profound’.
Know what I’m talking about? The bit in italics I mean. I now have a photography mission.

St. Patricks Day

Today's entry is 90% motivated by getting value out of this Timmy picture.
The other 10% is this:
I watched an episode of 'Andy Richter Controls the Universe' that was about the Irish.
I hurt my neck really badly.
I wore green underwear.

Also, I didn't consume any Irish liquids for personal enjoyment like I should have. Unless Flexall 454 is an Irish product. It says made in USA on the back of it, however, there's no mention of why's it has a suffix of '454' on its name. Yet, like whiskey, it too has been good for what ails me.


Ah, phones.
A girl who sends SMSs less than daily is pleasantly horrible. Yes, that is an oxymoron, I did write 'a girl who sends SMSs less than daily'.


Puzzle Bobble: Round 16 - Or as it's otherwise known as, 'The Widow Maker'.
Not the only game I played today.

Easter Break

Stupid EMIT today. I hate it when I have to go to uni on the weekend.


Today's entry is 90% motivated by getting value out of this Timmy picture.
The other 10% is this:
Some principles learnt in Puzzle Bobble can be adapted to games of pool successfully, others cannot.
As of today it's the official beginning of the 9 months of the year where I can't park my car anywhere at night that requires reversing to get out of.

And this:
A week or two ago I stepped into the shower on a mild morning to begin my daily routine. This optimistic plan was at that point shattered as I was immediately confronted by two intruders in the shower recess, a black container of "Radox Body Gel" on the shelf as well as a fluffy yellow ball hanging from the 'C' tap. Further investigation revealed this yellow object to be the aptly named "body puff".
Now I'm down with this new-age man stuff, and I'm cool with being both rugged and bold as well as fresh and clean smelling, however, this may be a step too far. After all, I can achieve all of these attributes with soap. Good old manly soap. No one's going to look at you twice for using soap. Soap's the number one ingredient in brutal gaol house rape, and let me tell you, you'll be hard stretched to find something manlier than huge, musclebound, skinhead shower rape.
Yet this soft, yellow ball, and invigorating, cleansing body gel have not left, and I admit, I've done more than wonder whether puff is pronounced as you'd expect, or as the French would say it, ie. "Poof". In fact, I've used them, both, together. As you'd expect, it does feel a bit queer for a 200cm man to be lathering up his hulking body with a dwarfed, meek bundle of intricate layers of fabric drenched in pleasant smelling gel. But I did it. And I think I'll continue to do it, because I've never been one to look away in the face of a challenge. I'm always willing to adapt, to accept new ways of doing old things. Even then, I still doubt there's going to be any gaol shower rapes initiated soon when an inmate drops the body puff.