Sand, tears and melodrama

Some sand. Image via WikipediaThe desert stretched out in front of me like a big desert, spreading from horizon to horizon like Lawrence of Arabia. Or a big desert. Sand, filling the area like a bathtub fills with sand, stretched across this aforementioned area. I'd wandered from the road. Where I was going, we didn't need roads.
 Still, I'd noticed some tracks heading off into the distance about 3 hours ago. Having no sense of direction, nor natural compass, I decided to follow them, falling step after step into pace with the ghost of my predecessor. As I walked, I began to study the tracks. They were... strange, to say the least. Long, sideways strokes that I'd at first taken to be snake, and also large paw-claw prints. You know, feet shaped like claws, but more padded and cuddly? But still not quite paws. Those kind of footsteps, intermixed.

So that was 3 hours ago. Now, after that time, I noticed something in the distance. A spec at first, as all things are when first conceived, growing into a blob of uncertainty as I approached. I drew nearer, still unable to understand the scene ahead. If I had know what tragedy lay in front of me, on that lukewarm desert, I would probably have turned back. Or maybe not - as I say, I have no sense of direction.

 The scene unfolded in front of me like a pop-up book of tragic proportions. This wasn't one for the kids, unless of course, you hate your kids. Two figures were ahead of me, animals flat in bestial movements. The Octopus, long and red and squidgy, lay prone on the ground. His eyes were glazed like solid ice, a substance he would surely have greeted gladly some time ago. His stare looked upwards, asking the Gods themselves, "why?".
 I looked into the eyes of his companion, and saw that no reassuring answer was forthcoming from the heartless azure that stretched above us. These eyes were fluid, melted ice that filled the wells and traced a path down the face of the Armadillo. She looked up to me, her tears still spilling and pooling on her companion's otherwise drenchless body.
 "What happened?" I asked.
She looked at me, her eyes -as I have mentioned - filled to the brim.
 "My parents told me it would never work. They were old fashioned like that."
 I nodded. I didn't know what was going on here, but this didn't seem the time to bring that up. Best just to let her talk.
 " 'Marry one of THEM?', they said. Back home, they don't like us inbreedin' with Octopus."
 I nodded. It was all I could really do.
 "So we runs off, Olly and me. Heads for America, got an aunt out there. Of course, the desert ain't for Olly. But he didn't say, never did like to complain. And now look at him! Look at him!"
 I looked at the dead Octopus. Secretly, I was impressed he'd made it this far. Resisting the temptation to fry him, I patted the Armadillo on the back and began to walk on.

The desert goes on for miles. Otherwise, it would just be a sandpit of a little beach without any water. Up high, we all look like ants. Desert ants. From the clouds, the Gods watch as one ant walks on. Behind him, there's a figure - could be two ants, could just be one really fat ant. After a while, a pool of salty tears forms. Eventually, a lake spreads out and drowns the two ants. The years go on, and life begins anew, trees spout by the lake, grass grows. Eventually, helicopter, pilot blinded by a reflection from the lake's surface, crashes into the pool. The oil leaks out, destroying the Oasis. But the Gods watch on, impassive. All live has it's place, and what can an ant do but play his role?

 Probably not run off with a Octopus into the fucking desert, I suppose.

Happy Valentines day...

And once again, I have been locked in my room. This time, however, I'm sadly missing a bucket of fish heads. Why, you ask? Well, discarding the benefits to humanity of locking me away in any situation, my flatmates are having a romantic meal in the living room. (That's Steve and Lizzie for anyone who knows us. Ben and Steve have yet to come out). It's cold in here, I can see my breath. Seriously, that's not one of my lies. I can't feel my toes. I don't want to freeze to death and ruin the day for anyone, so I'll do my best to stay warm. Perhaps I could use this as an incentive to do some exercise, or something. Or just justify masturbating. What if I freeze anyway? I don't want to be remembered as the guy who was found in his bedroom, frozen to death with one hand on his junk and the other lifting weights, on Valentine's day...

Jaws 5

If you were to look across my flat, you would be presented with an interesting sight. Really, you would in any situation - I mean, you're probably noisy anyway, and to look 'across' a flat, you'd probably have to take a wall down, which is also interesting. But I digress, and with bad sentence structure...
 Anyway, you would notice that my flat was flooded, almost to the ceiling, with water (Could have been custard, don't get snippy). If you watched for a little longer (Again, sorry for the interruption. A little longer though? What does that mean: Longer from when? Relative to what?) you would be further interested to see me, soaking wet, emerge from the water and pull myself onto a ceiling fan. The water has been flowing into my flat since my last update, and it seems nothing can stop it - fire proved useless, electricity betrayed me, and throwing baby sharks at it was just stupid. My doors, before you ask, are air-locked - my fear of gases that turn you inside-out got the better of me - and open inwards, so they offer no escape. My windows, similarly airtight, I cannot open.
 For days I took refuge in the fridge, but without power, the eggs went off, and it smelled bad. Emerging, I found one shark had eaten the others, absorbing their powers through a Satanic ritual. Now, he's eyeing me up casually. Very casually, in fact. He's sitting on my sofa, underwater. Soon, he'll probably laminate a newspaper. There seems to be no escape. I always mocked those "how will you die" quizzes dotted around the Internet, but it seems they're dead on. And I scoffed when they said a Demonic shark would eat me in the living room. Learn from my mistake gentle reader! Forward chain mail, quick as you can! Tragedy could befall you all at any moment!

Something about tortoises... I dunno, I need to use titles more.

"It's not working"
It wasn't, there was no point in denying it. I was in serious trouble here - debts up to my ears. This race was serious live or die stuff, and this was a serious problem.
Slowly, the first tortoise crossed the finish line. Serious expressions on their faces, another 4 crossed the line in due time. My tortoise however - overly optimistic named El Diablo rápido, it transpired - lay dead at the starting post. Once again, my attempts to rig a race had gone wrong - my using of the old radish trick, steroids, and tranquilizers on the opposition had failed before. This time, however, I had tried mutation. In my mind, a super-mutant tortoise was the ultimate racing animal (and after, I could sell him to the military). Tragically, it transpired that when one dips a tortoise in stolen nuclear waste, it does not grow to huge proportions and become... muscly... (is that the word? You know, a ripped tortoise... Like condoms full of walnuts, in a shell)
In fact, it makes a tortoise die slowly, in a cruel and unnecessary manner. I'm going back to jail. Stealing nuclear waste and torturing animals - as well-intended as these acts may be - is illegal, you see.

When I die...

Please don't film my funeral and put it on Youtube.