Many, many years ago, I was living with two friends, we’ll refer to them as Housemate 1 and Housemate 2 (HM1 and HM2 forthwith) for this story.

We were living in the suburbs, about a 15 minute walk from the closest train station. HM1 and I would typically start work quite early, and we knew there was a certain train that was best for us. It wasn’t the express, but it took a different route into the city station of our choice, and was quieter, so not only would we get to sit down, but would also get into the city faster.

We also knew that HM2 took forever to get ready in the mornings, so if we didn’t beat him into the bathroom, we could potentially be late, if not rushed in the least. Not to mention that the bathroom was turned into some kind of lagoon after he was done with it.

So based on these factors, we’d typically be up early to be ready early and out the door early.

On this one, particular day, it just so happened to be winter. As we’re on our way into the city I make mention of these waffles I like to buy from time to time, but especially in the winter.

I say to HM1 “the main store often has a satellite operation at the top of the stairs we take out of the station, it’s glorious because on a cold morning you can smell the waffles as you ascend the stairs, then you can buy them if you want.”

And just like that, my fate was set, I knew I was going to be getting waffles.

We arrive at the station at the usual time, alight the train in the usual place, and head up the usual stairs. Unfortunately I couldn’t smell waffles, this was both confusing and saddening. I mention to HM1 that the waffle mothership run by a presumably French, though definitely short tempered, man was but a short walk away, and that my heart was set, I was getting those waffles.

Previously HM1 was keen for waffles, but the detour quelled his interest, so it was up to me to satisfy this desire by myself.

So I walked to the main waffle store and bought a box of (if my memory serves me correctly) six waffles. Then I walked to work.

There was a thread on Reddit recently, where the question posed was “if you had to choose one song to masturbate to for the rest of your life, what would it be?”

The best answer was definitely Sandstorm by Darude.

For whatever reason, this came to mind today, and I found myself watching the music video for it on YouTube.

I don’t really understand it.

This afternoon I was talking to a friend via the illustrious internet, the topic was how bad his internet was, as it was capped for the month. He sent me a picture via Telegram which, even on a good day, is terrible at file transfer of any kind. Particularly so, of course, when the sender’s internet is not having a good time.

He says “it will be interesting to see how long telegram takes to send 10kb” to which I replied “5 eyars”

“Not years?” he wondered.

“yeah eyars are different somehow, let’s discuss how, you go first”

“years as measured by the passage of sound”

From here it got about as out of hand as an asinine conversation can.

The speed of sound is 1225.044km/h at sea level

The speed of light is 1,079,252,850km/h

That means sound takes 880,883.97 years to travel one light year.

These numbers are so large that they are simply meaningless, such that I decided we’re just going to say that it takes 5 units of a fucking long time.

But that’s a good thing, because now you can deduce that:

1 eyar = 5 units of a fucking long time = 880,993.96754 years

Thereafter it was decided that we are full of sound logic, but it takes 10 measures of being full of shit to make sound logic.

A friend of mine recently went on a holiday, and on return, tells me she has a present for me. I had no idea what it could be. She came around one day to hang out, and brought the mystery gift with her. Turns out, it was a knife.

I needed one, as I’d recently moved abroad to a country I never really needed to cook in, and decided that I did actually want to start cooking. A steak knife won’t do the job well enough.

Turns out it was an amazing knife, a Maestro Wu. They’re made on an island of Taiwan, called Kinmen, that’s very close to China. If your knowledge of history in that area isn’t great, let me just say that Taiwan-China relations haven’t been great for a very long time. China bombed this little island a hell of a lot. One enterprising guy decided to make knives from bombshells, and such, the Maestro Wu knife was born.

I can’t stress how sharp this is. I own a lot of wonderful kitchen knives back in my home country, but that’s where they stayed, but this new knife is arguably the sharpest I’ve used, and it’s well weighted.

One day, after a night of drinking, and I should note that I was drinking ciders of strength unknown, that turned out to be, strength large, I woke up feeling poorly.

Knowing the fragile state of play I also knew I needed to eat, so I set out to do just that. Of course, an omelette was the best choice, full of all the things you need after a night on the gas.

So there I was, in the kitchen, cutting up various ingredients for the omelette that would be my savior. I put the knife down, but not in a place that made good sense. I was hungover after all.

And then I knocked it, and it fell. Unfortunately for me (in this case) I have pretty great reflexes, it’s rare that I’ll knock something over and not catch it, this was no exception.

The end of the blade fell onto my index finger, right where the final knuckle is before the palm, and wow it cut deep.

Blood went everywhere. Because of where the cut was, in an area that sees constant movement and thus, opening of the wound, blood just kept going everywhere.

None the less I had an omelette to make, so I wrapped it up with toilet paper and got back to making the omelette.

It was a good omelette.