I’m trying to decide between an iPod Mini and a Zen Micro. It’s so annoying reading about iPods being sold out everywhere when I don’t have one. Even Jeremy from Zits has got one! Plus when I spot someone on the street with the telltale white earphones, it makes me just itch to wrap the cords around his/her neck and string him/her up on the nearest lamppost.

But the question is whether I ought to get the iPod or a Zen. A Zen Micro
• has got an extra gig for just a hundred bucks more
• also has a user-replaceable battery (sore point for the iPod)
• has longer battery life
• comes in cooler colours (i.e. black)
• has hard drive space you can divide
• is also sold out in various stores here, so it probably works
• slips easier into the pocket than the iPod does
• does not spawn hate websites

An iPod Mini on the other hand
• is sexy
• has white earphones
• is sexy

So it all boils down to one question - looks or personality? God I’m a shallow, shallow zebra.

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Do I really look that clueless? Is there "Patronise Me" painted on my forehead in big, red letters? Cuz people seem to be doing that a lot lately. Petrol station attendants, waiters, my 13-year old sister...

And today my mechanic.

I was on my way home when the speedometer suddenly went berserk. The needle flew all the way to 180, then flopped back to 0 and died. Which was very strange, seeing as I'd been driving behind a blue Beemer at a steady...somethingty. Then the gear light started flashing. And the yellow engineish-looking symbol lit up. And it was all very scary because I had absolutely no idea what my car was trying to tell me. It'd be so much easier if there was a little ticktape slot somewhere (e.g. "You idiot, you forgot to change my battery AGAIN").

So I headed straight for my Mechanic (garage, not to run him down) who stuck his head in the inner recesses of the car for a few minutes, hemmed and hawed a bit, fiddled with a little electronic thing with masses of wires protruding from it, and finally scribbled something down on his notepad.

"It's your VSS sensor."

Ahh. I was about to pop in with "That's exactly what I was thinking" or "Yeah, those VSS's can be tricky little devils, eh?" or something equally knowledgeable-like. But before I could even move my lips, he plowed straight on.

"Don't worry, you won't understand what that is. I'll take care of it, alright?"

And he had a smile so condescending, so superior, so...PATRONISING, it was all I could do not to smack it off with a spanner.

As if I don't know what a VSS sensor is. It's just a fancy name for the sensor that tracks how fast the wheels are spinning. VSS - Vehicular Spinny Spheres.

Or Very State-of-the-art System.

Ventilated Space Shuttle.

Maybe Vernon's Split Second.

Velma's Scooby Snacks?

Alright. So I don't know what VSS stands for. But he didn't know that.

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This begs a thought or two:

You do not die for being bad, you die
For being available...

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I am a polytheist. My gods are Writers. I worship them.

They are artists. I use italics because they are so much more than that but I don't know how else to describe them. Their art - just words strung together. But in such a way that if feels like they've looked into the depths of your thoughts where all your beliefs lie, so strong that they remain in the murk, incoherent and inexpressible. Then they bleed them out and drink them in so that when they exhale, they breathe out words so profound and true that it makes your breath hitch.

And you ache to know this person, this god who has exposed you, vulnerable in unforgiving black ink. Only you were never in the picture. The soul laid bare was his, not yours or anyone else stripped naked by his words.

And this makes it hurt all the more. Because in him lies your soul-mate, in him lies your lover - his intimacy in his words, and you will never know him. Oh you may have met, be on first-name terms, be best friends, share the same bed. But you will never know him. Because his thoughts lie deep inside, all jumbled up in such a mess that it would take another Writer to unravel and reveal them.

I wish I were that Writer. I write, but I am not a Writer. And I'll never be one, however much I ache to be. And so, I have to remain content with worshipping Writers from afar.
___________________________

I realise that I refer to Writers above as masculine. My apologies to anyone offended by this. It just so happens that most of the Writers I worship are male.

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For the past three days, I've woken up to the chirruping of a bird outside my window. Now there are many people who can wax lyrical of such early morning surprises. I am not one of them. This bloody creature's sole purpose in life seems to be to hide itself just out of reach and chirrup incessantly in the most aggravating note imaginable. And it doesn't stop until I've stumbled out of bed and thrown the window open violently in the faint hope that I might catch one of its toes in the hinges.

It's worse than an alarm clock. That at least you can fling against the wall.

I read somewhere that an average person sleeps a third of his or her life away. I'm falling behind now and it's unfair that I should miss out. It's also playing havoc with my eating habits. I don't normally wake up in time for breakfast, a very good thing as that only makes it two meals a day. But this morning I found myself in front of the TV with a bowl of muesli.

This has got to stop.

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I have a confession. I'm a sentimental sap. Yes, I'm afraid it's all bluster and bravado. I might seem like a hard nut with my flashing scimitar and titanium pegleg, but in truth, I'm like an armadillo - tough on the outside, squishy on the inside. Plop me down in front of a sappy movie, and I'll be crying buckets in two tics.

The same goes for this new wave of emo-ridden songs I'm suddenly soaked in. First it was Damien Rice (whom I hold responsible for the cringe-inducing bawlfest during "I am David"). How can one album hold so much want and heartbreak without physically melting into a puddle of angst? So if you're a sucker for mental writhing (in a good way, you masochist), go buy the album, or download "Cold Water", "The Blower's Daughter", and "Amie".

Is it the weather? Is it the lack of cheery sunshine? Maybe the boredom of each other's accents (too much of a good thing). Cuz I've just been slammed with another Brit - James Blunt. Again, your expected lashings of despair and pain. But what gets me is that while he's not the only person singing about the brutality of war, he's one of the few who've actually experienced it. "No Bravery" was written lying in a sleeping bag in a tank in Kosovo. His "You're Beautiful" vid reflects the tone of the album. Stark, yet full of emotion. And *cough* taking off his shirt helps as well, haha. Momentary panting aside, I have to stress again how good James Blunt is. The above songs along with "Cry" easily land me in the fluffiest of moods. And I've had him on repeat for an hour or more now.

So the truth is out. It doesn't take very much for this zebra to get going. Go on then, hit me.

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By the gods, where is the Key to Hell?!


Caz Marciniak

How has it evaded my grasp for so long? Surely someone must know where it lies! O, to have the Key to the fiery pits of Hell swinging from my neck! My skin shivers with delight at the very thought.

I have hacked my way through the cruel forests of Novaya Zemlya. Crawled across the forgotten desert of Taklamakan. Journeyed across the river of Hades.

All to no avail. For the Key has not been made mine.

Does anyone (mortal or otherwise) possess knowledge of how one might go about obtaining this great treasure? That is, save actually striking a bargain with the Kings of Hell - I'm quite attached to my soul.

Name your price.

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