Desmond & The Fresh Dosage.

Ever so often, one is faced with the prospects of a better life.
Ever so often, one is presented with alternatives to existing lifestyle.

Ever so often, one is forced to remember his dreams and fantasies, then watch as they take off with someone else on some runway. And he's left behind, as if he missed his flight. Where's my passport? Shoot! My ticket! I should have checked, I should have packed... It should have been, could have been...

I've got a fresh dosage of wanderlust.

And considering that on any given day, I already have so much wanderlust, I think it's perfectly safe to say that I'm at a new wander-high. What the heck, I am wander-highest.

- For now.

Desmond & the Westlife Call.

I love British & Irish Boybands. I played some Westlife tonight, because when Westlife-Craving knocks, you always answer.

man, i am so tired. it's so tempting to give up.

Desmond and Worm Journalism.

It is nearly 6am, and having just woken from what must have been the world's sorriest excuse for Sleep, I am awake.

It is as it sounds -- World, I am awake.

And while Awoken Workers work, and Awoken Birds catch worms... somewhere on (in) this earth, Awoken Worms curse their sorry excuse for an early morn' walk. The irony? While the massacre happens, Awoken Bloggers make light of dying worms. We are Worm Journalists: Morbid, Cruel, and Awake.

I'm certain I will pay for this predawn musings later in the day, but I have given in to sleepless-ness. The sheep is counted and the milk is drunk, but the mind still wanders.

Maybe writing is the lullaby of the mind. For Worm Journalists, Writing is Counting Sheep. Writing is methodical. Who dies? Where? From What? How? Why? Why, why, why in the world, am I awake.

My writing is done. My mind is tired.
And I quit.

(But really, the resignation is necessary. This individual has been leeching wifi for almost an hour now. He requests that you look at his Morbidity, Cruelty and general Awake-ness, instead of judging him for leeching. Journalism is tough.)

Desmond and Michael Owen.

Michael Owen is joining United?!?

Of all clubs!

I have a usual disregard for all news sports, meaning that portion of the papers is moot to me. But Michael Owen is one of those very few football players I know, since the 98' World Cup. He and Alan Shearer were the first players I knew, and liked.

I don't have a clue about his playing now. To be quite frank, I don't care either. It's just that Shearer and Owen remind me of a younger-me. With younger-take on younger-world.

Owen was just 18 when he played in the World Cup! Watching him then, I used to think 18 was old. And when 18 finally came, it passed by so quickly, I didn't realise I was already 19.

The United fans might have an adverse reaction to this addition, but for me, I will always remember him as England's youngest player in the World Cup (at that time). He was good. And I liked him then. Even his sickly days will not discredit him in my memory.

At least, not until the next I see him play (for the meh team). But if my disregard for sports holds, that might be never.

Desmond and the Flickrish.

I like hanging out at Flickr. It's a hobby that on most days is obsessive. I sometimes spend hours just photo-surfing.

But it's more than looking at that one picture. I love scrolling through someone's photostream. (That would be Flickrish for 'album'). It says a lot. I learn a lot about some stranger who's willing to share little tidbits of his/her life with me. And I'm not obliged to react.

It's a window into a different view of the world. Often, it's crazy and wacky. And it does not overwhelm you. They accompany their photos with clever lines, which is always a welcome in my book. Like "Can't believe Pluto has been downgraded! My faith in science has gone. (must do religious backflip)". Or "Even after all the cosmetic surgery, Molly couldn't change the fact that inside she was still an awkward primate. And, "Before the cleaning lady comes to make my bed... man I'm spoilt. Thanks Tourism Queensland."

All that said, I have to admit this has got to be the longest I've worked on an entry. I've been feeling a great desire to write, but I've just about run dry discussing my love for rainy weather. Not that that's a written agreement to never blog about it again, because it is my blog.

I know this entry reads jump-ily, but I've typed each part in blotches of concentration. Yes, that will be my official excuse. And I want to go on rambling randomly. Really, I do. But all good things must come to an end.

And if even good things end, then nonsense should too.

-Dear me, am I tired.

Desmond and The City of Black & White.

Whoopee! Mat Kearney's sophomore album is out!
(And in my opinion, better than his first!)

Changing my playlist to this, since playlist has the entire album.
And because I can.

Desmond and the Cold Tap-water.

Weather-wise, Today has been splendid.

The morning started off with a rain shower that did two things for me. First off, the soft sound of rain falling on the ground, gently nudged me awake. Second, that very same splishing, splashing, rain-is-falling, cradled my consciousness into a state of indecision -- "back to precious sleep, or get up to a beautifully cold morning?"

My said-Consciousness finally settled for "laze in bed half-awake". I agreed, of course.

The cold morning carried on to a cold afternoon which, considering the recent spate of oven-weather, I welcomed with opened arms.

I love waking up to cold mornings. And snuggling under my oft-unused-blanket. And turning the tap to find cool water drenching my hands. Rainy days like today do these for me.

Even now, 60 ticks to midnight, the roads outside are covered in a sheet of fallen-rain, reflecting the warm orange glows of the street lamps.

I love these sights.
I love rainy days.

Desmond and gRoss.

Of all the Friends, Ross is my least favourite by a far mile.
Enough to want to blog about it.