Braving the barf

Hello, readers of us!

My fellow blogger and vice-manager of TBS (Terrific Biology Society) was right: I have not been very faithful in updating this blog. The main cause is, of course, my parents. They won't allow me on the internet every day, afraid that I might contract an addiction of some sort, or that I get acquainted with dirty old men who want to do Unspeakable Things to me (I have no idea what my mother means by that, but I imagine it can get quite violent. And silent, lol).

Also, I have been very busy, managing my new club. There was a brief quarrel with Mathew for the supreme leadership, but I won out, because my grades were better and because I knew the size of an amoeba and he didn't (roughly 700 µm!)! The club also had a heated argument over whether we would allow girls in our club. Arguments against were that a "club" is typically masculine (although this new law in Britain will open up traditional clubs to women), and that most girls will only want to contribute pretty pictures of their cute pussy or their puppy. Arguments for (my position) were that they were girls and the above-mentioned law. The issue was left undecided.

Yesterday the strangest thing happened: After I had braved the verbal diarrhoea of yet another argument over computer games (my parents won't allow me to buy Cruise ship tycoon), I was nearly sicked on by Mathew's little sister, who's suffering from tummy aches and, apparently, violent tummy contractions. Her vomit ended up at least two feet from her mouth, quite close to my shoes. Thinking of any responsability I might have to acquire in view of any paternal developments in my life (which I have been thinking about lately, hence the discussion about girls in the club), I started cleaning the floor. The scent, however, made me so dizzy I vomited too, after which I was excused of further cleaning duties.

I might have to alter my point of view on the admission of girls in the club. I had to suffer painful remarks from my fellow TBS-ers, and I prefer no girl ever finds out about this. It would prevent me from coming across as capable of looking after children.

Distraughtly yours,

Martin "Sigi" Miller

Hello, my readers!

Milk consumptions: 5. Alcoholic beverages: 1. Nicotine doses: 0!

This is my first post! I am Martin "Sigi" Miller, a very good friend of Mathew Knightly. Sigi used to stand for "Super Intellectual Grand Inventor", an acronymic code name I invented for myself for the first club Mathew and I founded. The name kinda stuck, cause my friends still call me by it.

I hate to start off my first post on the internet by sharing bad news with you guys. I find myself in the same situation as Mathew, with a broken leg. You will notice that Mathew didn't give much details about my leg. Well, that is because he was embarrassed! For, in fact, if it weren't for him crashing into me, I wouldn't be in this situation. By way of some consolation for the suffering I have gone through (and continue to go through, I may add), he has agreed to include me in this blog of his. So I'm going to try and insert some good writing into this blog. No hard feelings, M! And here I go!

I know you all lead pretty busy lives, so I know your thoughts have been with me as I suffer from daily and nightly pains and unreachable itches from my broken leg, even though your posts weren't (except for you, men-a-men: thank you so much! Mathew is inpolite and doesn't take the time to thank people on his posts, sorry about that). Really: this itch under the cast is unreachable. I have to use one of my knitting-needles to relieve myself. On top of that, the leg really hurts at times. And on top of that, I had to go back to school, unlike my lucky friend Mathew. Can you believe it? I'm supposed to be healing, generating new bone-bits. That's why I'm drinking so much milk. I tried to explain to my mother that it was irresponsible to send me back to school, but she wouldn't listen, would you believe it? I'm practically dismembered here! But at least I'm comforted by the thought that I'm the only one of my class (and indeed my grade), with the exception of Mathew, who has ever flown in a helicopter. That feeling really is so fab. I'm not counting Judith, whose father is stinking rich (that's what my father says on Friday nights when his breath smells like desinfectant) and who's travelled across the entire world in all sorts of transports. She can't stop bragging about het riksha ride in Bangladesh, so no-one will listen to my helicopter. It's not fair!

I'm including a picture of my leg, taken in an alp meadow some time before my father decided to return home. It still is that way. Empty, I mean. Bruce, who won't stop even now calling me stupid and all sorts of names, wanted to write something on it. I thought that was really nice of him: perhaps my plight had softened his hard shell of what passes as his bully-feelings. But when I cleverly required as to what that would be, he said "Kick me in the crutch". I believe he even got the pun in that. It goes without saying that I refused to allow him to write that on my leg. I still offered him the space for "get well soon", but he just stole my crutches and made shooting noises with them. He's still such a child.

To make matters worse, I have consumed alcohol. While ill! One of my sister's friends took pity on me and offered me chocolates that tasted sharp and tingly. Turns out they had rhum in them! I looked it up on the internet. If the chocolates held overproof rum, then I consumed something with an extremely high level of alcohol. I'm hoping it was flavoured rhum: it says here that that one is used in fruits and the like. On the plus side, though, I'm still not smoking.

And my discouraging experiences will not stop. *sigh* The other day, this same friend of my sister gave me a blank disc on which he had copied a computer game called Age of Empires. I'm not one for computer games (or for illicit distribution of copyrighted material), but this game is fab! Besides, I had not much else to do: one can only watch Star Wars so many times a day. We had to have come back from Austria early because of my leg, and there were only pain-filled holiday days ahead, without even the solace of Horatio's beautiful poetry. The game in itself is fab, though, but it is way too violent for my taste. All the civilisations are out to kill you! They want war! I kept sending messages of peace and harmony and a better life lived in unison to the computer, urging it to immediately cease all hostile activities, since I was only intent on creating a peaceful civilisation, but it would not listen. It kept on destroying my trade fleet and my fishing ships! In the end, my towers, my industrious and peace-loving villagers and my scout cavalry proved no match for the combined forces of the Persians and the Vikings (I was the Britons, rule Britannia!). I then decided to try and wage a peaceful war, but monks are sadly enough no match for soldiers. It's not fair! I'm going to try again, though, despite my leg and all that. I will not be deterred! I want to be proud of myself, later, when I look back upon this black page in my personal history. I have a feeling I will smile to see how I am pulling through, not giving up, but trying again.

Wow! Look at all this! I have nearly written an essay! It feels great, being able to produce something creative even while being disabled.

See you later!
Martin "Sigi" Miller

(PS: I just put this in Microsoft Word and counted the words: 977! I feel so proud right now...)