Tag Archives: pants

Holiday pant time

I am now at the beginning of a week off. I have mentioned this a few times, one because I’m needy and crave attention, demanding you all know what’s going on in my pathetic little life. And two, because I’m actually relieved at this fact.

I’ve had time off, obviously, but I haven’t had proper time to just sit and do fuck all, with no responsibilities, outstanding work, travel, other such shite to deal with for a long time now. Not since about this time last year, actually.

Not that there’s anything wrong with taking time off to go to Groezrock, or Portugal, or visit people wherever, or go home for super fun time funerals. It’s just good to know that the only thing I have planned until the Monday after next are to probably go out tomorrow* and go to see Doug Stanhope on Thursday.

That’s all I have to do.

I still have to do these blogs though, which is seemingly quite difficult judging by the fact I was totally unable to do one yesterday. Fortunately I can blame beer for that, rather than laziness or the inability to come up with a totally inane topic to waffle on about for a few hundred words.

But yes, as I’ve stated elsewhere: I’ve been picking out my finest pants, in which I will be sitting around in all week. Who knows – I might even tidy my flahahahahaha I can’t even finish that thought. Ridiculous.

*My wallet already hates me, not like I can make it much worse between the two of us.

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Time off: THANK CRIKEY

And here we begin the first proper day of my time off – the first time in a long, long time I’ve had time off with nothing coming up: no work to do, no trip 12 hours after you get back from another country, no freelance pending, no stress, nothing to think about. There’s food in the kitchen (rice, mainly) and games to be played. There’s sleep to be had and a dressing gown (with many coffee and food stains on it) to be worn all day every day.

I am aware I am not an EMT, a stockbroker, a police officer, a shop worker, a vet, a bounty hunter, a space cowboy, a professional homosexual impersonator, a dog whisperer, a woman whisperer, a marmoset whisperer, a Quetzalcoatl whisperer or any other job that actually matters. But that doesn’t mean I don’t get tired out by it – mentally and physically.

So yeah, now the week of sitting, with a couple of parties, begins. If you get in touch with me, expect responses constantly mentioning that I’m in my pants. If you follow me on Twitter (@PlayMagIan), expect me to be tweeting a lot more, usually about how I’m in my pants. If you’re on my friends lists on PS3 and 360, expect to see me on there a lot more probably replaying Skyrim (also: in my pants).

Now is my time to shine – now is my time to show the world what I am really, truly good at: not doing anything. It’s what I was made to do, and one day I will find a way to be comfortable, or make a living, doing just that. YUSS.

(Thus concludes the batch of blogs I’ve written on the train. They will return to their normal velocity (and lack of quality) as of tomorrow. We’re almost in the home straight now)

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A short love-in for pyjama bottoms

I cannot believe I went for so long without pyjama bottoms. I used to wear them as a child, but then opted for the simpler, quicker choice of simply sleeping in my pants. I even had a period of (MENTAL IMAGE ALERT) sleeping wang-loose through the long, lonely nights.

But at some point around five years or so ago, for some reason I genuinely don’t remember, I bought me some PJ bottoms. Turns out they make everything right with the world – comfortable and casual, they show off your attitude of “yeah, I’m not in bed, but I’m wearing them. Wanna fight about it?”

Boxers are somewhat restrictive towards leg movement, and seeing as I’m well known for my awesome spin-kicks while I’m asleep, I obviously can’t like with this kind of restrictive fabric around my thighs. No such troubles with the loose and free world of pyjama bottoms.

In fact, I’m tempted to become a hippie so I have an excuse to wear PJs all the time. I can pretend they’re made from hemp and an eighty year old woman called Moon Mooning Moonson knitted them with organic knitting needles (made from hemp). Then I can wear pyjama bottoms all the time, and the world will be better for me.

Three points to whoever guesses what item of clothing I’ve just put on.

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Packing, lists, forgetfulness, things like that

Howcome every single time I have to pack my bag – which is quite often, at least compared to how it used to be – I have to sit around and think about it for nigh-on some minutes? It should be a simple case of routine, knowing what I want to take, knowing what to put in the bag, not thinking about it and just going pack-wild.

But no, I have to sit here and think about things. In fact, I’m going to make a list. I’m going to make a list for a bag of stuff I have to take just about everywhere I take bags of stuff. Pants is one thing on the list – why will I write that down? What’s wrong with my tiny mind? If I could just get a mental imprint of the list then maybe things would be easier.

It won’t work like that though, and instead I’ll probably forget something really obvious. Like pants, even though that’s the second time I’ve mentioned them this entry. Either that or I’ll write a perfect list, pack the perfect bag of things and then spend the remainder of the evening thinking of more throwaway blogs I can write. Yeah, probably that.

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