Photographing Children - The Original Cover Model

Time Flies

Be Friendly

Drying my hands on the front of my shirt, I make my way to my front door, where a repeated knocking with intermittent spouts of doorbell-ringing imply a great deal of impatience on the part of my visitor, which tells me they must have been there for some time. I steady myself by grabbing a hall table, mould myself into a posture somewhat resembling that of a dignified human being and swallow hard.

The gilded door handle is cold in my sweaty hand. I turn it.

“Hello. Can I help you?” I make the appropriate noises for the situation of seeing a uniformed stranger at one’s front door. My smile seems to be working; the man before me certainly looks like he believes it.

“Yes, you can.” Confidence. I almost sighed with relief. Whenever you hear confidence in a policeman’s voice, you know you are more or less safe. It’s when they get nervous that you have to worry. “My name is Detective Robert Grant, do you mind if I come inside?”

Inside? Damn it, I hadn’t planned for this contingency. I can’t say no, that won’t look good. Must be polite. Must always be polite. I’ll have to let him, offer him a seat. I might even have to get him a drink.

Keep smiling, for God’s sake, or he’ll see straight through you.

I let the man in and close the door after him. I lead him into the kitchen, where the while tile flooring gleams like a hellish parody of a cleaning product commercial. The walls have stopped moving, which is fortunate, but there’s a window open and a ghastly breeze of fresh air is drifting in. I pull up a wooden chair and the detective sits. I am required by social custom to ask if my guest would like a drink, and he politely accepts my hospitality, inquiring as to what my range of beverages includes. I know that to respond to his query I must examine the contents of my refrigerator.

My heart rate is well above average. Each pump shakes my chest and thunders in my ears, filling my body with blood. Blood races from my heart to my lungs, where it acquires oxygen necessary to fuel my bodily functions. It shoots around my body, delivering its vital packages. Blood runs through my arms, down my legs, around my head, around and about every organ inside my corporeal self.

That’s a lot of blood.

I realize I have paused, though I don’t think the detective noticed. I grasp the door of the refrigerator and swing it open.

“I have orange juice, and some cola. There’s plenty of water in the tap, or I could make up some tea or coffee. Or if you’d prefer I could slit your throat with that knife over there, and you can have your fill of whatever soulless black liquid gushes forth from your inhuman carcass you cold-hearted, moronic son of a bitch.”

“A cup of tea would be nice. Black. Two sugars. Thanks.”

He’s still calm. Still confident. Which means I’m still safe.

The sun shines through the open window and the sky is so blue it’s making me sick.

“Nice weather we’re having, isn’t it?” A lot of people play up the innocence of animals in a lot of ways, and one of those ways is saying that only humans lie. That’s not true. Chameleons lie compulsively, as do cuttlefish and octopi, changing colour to suit their location. Opossums lie about being dead, false coral snakes lie about being coral snakes. The only difference is we humans are better at it. Through generations of evolution we have mastered the art of deception to the point where we do it out of curtsey. Sometimes we even lie out of pure habit.

“Yes, it is, but I’m not really here to talk about the weather, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh, yes. Of course. Sorry. What are you here to talk about?”

I take the kettle over to the sink to fill it. As I turn on the tap I catch my reflection in the highly-polished metal basin. It takes me while to recognize it. My smile is still there. I need to make sure I keep it casual. I can’t look like I’m enjoying this.

I really need to step outside and take a few deep breaths to calm myself, but I can’t arouse suspicion. I could pretend to go to the toilet, but then what would he think? What would he do while I was gone? What would he do while I couldn’t see him?

I think he’s talking to me but I’m not listening. I’m filling a kettle up with water. I’m putting that kettle into its electric holster, flipping a switch on the side. I see a red light glow and I already know that the process has begun.

“Mr. Dolphy?” wrenched back into conversation I realized that I had been expected to reply.

“Oh, sorry detective, I was…” damn it! Come on, Eric, you can do this! “…I was somewhere else.”

“If this is a bad time I can-”

Must not show weakness!

“No! No, no, no, no. This is fine. I’m fine. The time is fine, and I’ve already put the kettle on. Now, what was it you wanted to say?” I pulled myself together, my face, voice, posture and mind snapping back into place, leaving no traces of the person behind them.

“I was asking you if you knew John Goldman.” A question. Usually not a good sign but at least he’s not panicking. My nerves are buzzing like a powerline and I need a moment alone to calm myself down and pour me back into myself. I pull two coffee mugs out of a draw because I don’t have real tea cups and there is very little difference anyway. He patiently awaits a response. My chest tightens and the air gets very thick around me, clinging to my skin and squeezing.

“Oh, yes. I knew him from work.” Polite. No, not polite. Friendly. Yes, be friendly. For the love of God be friendly!

The kettle beside me is beginning to bubble. I can hear it, and I think he can too. The air is getting thicker, so I have to breathe deeper, and my heart needs to beat faster to get the oxygen around in a proper fashion. God damn it, how is he not feeling this? Can he taste that air?

“Did you know him well?” The casual cheer and mild curiosity in his voice is toxic to my senses. He’s being friendly. Why can’t I do that? Am I doing that?

Two sugars. He wants two sugars. I reach for the virginal white jar of sugar, filled with pristine granules of sweetness.

I pause before I answer his question, as if to contemplate the answer.

“Not really. He mostly kept to himself.” Incredible. I pause to absolute perfection. You really should have seen it. I left it just long enough to be truly believable, but not long enough to make it look like I was formulating some lie. The pause had a touch of fondness to it, as though I was recalling the personality of this man I liked, though never really spoke to. I titled my head in just the right way and pulled all of the right muscles in my face to replicate just the right nuances of emotion. The performance of a lifetime.

But already I feel it slipping. Could I do such a pause again? Not in my current state. When I’m like this I get one, maybe two good pauses tops. With one that good, I severely doubt my pause reserves have anything left.

“Do you remember when you saw him last?”

He bought the pause. He not only bought it, he took it to a fancy restaurant, had dinner with it, tried to get to know it and began liking it more and more. If he could he would take that pause home with him.

The kettle next to me keeps bubbling.

“It would have been a couple of days ago. Thursday, I think.” I think. Brilliant! “At work, I was leaving. He was the only person left in the building. He said he wanted to finish something off.”

My face is itchy but I can’t scratch it. That’s what people do when they lie, isn’t it? Scratch their face. I can’t do that. Not after I came this far.

The air is getting heavier. It’s getting harder to hold myself upright, but I persevere. Each breath is more of a strain, but as I look at the detective sitting in front of me he looks as calm and confident as ever, and breathes with a natural ease that would suggest that he has no idea how thick the air in here is. He isn’t sweating, he seems perfectly fine. At least he isn’t nervous. You know something bad is going to go down when a cop gets nervous.

“Do you remember what time that was?”

The kettle is bubbling more violently; I can tell it is almost boiled.

Do I remember what time that was? What time? I feign reminiscence, but it lacks the appeal of my previous pause. Hmm… about an hour before I killed him, so that would make it… six o’clock.

“Five-thirty, I think.”

Damn my face is itchy. And the air in here is worse than ever.

Smile, damn you, smile.

The walls are moving again.

“And what did you do then? Did you go straight home?”

No. I waited until no one was around except for me and him. I offered him a lift to his place. Then I came straight home, him with me.

I open a box of tea bags, and see that there is only one left. I try to meet his gaze but the damned sun light from the open window keeps getting in the way. My heart is pumping the blood through my legs so fast that they begin to wobble. I clutch the kitchen bench as subtly as I can.

“Yes. I went straight home. I took John Goldman with me. I knocked him out and cut him into little pieces because that son of a bitch wouldn’t give me the five minutes of peace and quite that I needed!” Dear God, did I say that? “He asked too many question, imposed on my hospitality too much, and would not give me a fucking break! So I took him to my place and I fucking killed him!”

No, I mustn’t have said that. The detective is still smiling, still friendly.

“And can anyone confirm that?” God, he reeks of friendliness. He believes me! The kettle beside me is starting to whistle, I can feel it boiling.

This God damned air, these God damned questions, the kettle boiling beside me the nauseatingly fresh air saturated with blue skies and sunshine bouncing off the squeaky clean tiles from which I scrubbed the blood stains, the blood rushing through my own veins the blood I can clearly see moving through the body of my interrogator who seems hell-bent on abusing my hospitality and not giving me a moment to myself and being fucking friendly about it! The kettle is well and truly boiled.

I pick it up by the handle and walk over to where the detective is sitting. My formal posture shifts to a deranged lank, my polite smile becomes a horrendous grin and I breath deep of the air around me, flushing out the oppressive force with which it strangled me before and feeling the blood run even fast through my body.

“Are you ok?” He asks. He had forgotten what his question was, startled by the transformation he has witnessed. He looks up at me, confused, bewildered. Nervous.

I pause. I tilt my head on a perfect angle: to the right and slightly forwards. My lips tighten in a smile that goes to no effort to mask the sadism they carry. My eyes darken with thought but light up with glee, and he can tell I am considering the question in great detail, and loving it. My apish hunch still towers over his sitting figure, my arms all boxy with the kettle gripped in front of my stomach, slightly to the right. It is a pause that says everything I need to say. It has a mischievous countenance coupled with a sinister glee; eyes revealing an unsuspected honesty and an overall feeling of dominance. A tone of freedom surrounds the pause; emotional freedom and the freedom to be myself. The smile reinforces the sense of glee with enough vigour as to confirm the suspected insanity. The duration suggests a deep and considered analysis of the question, without being so long as to detract from the question itself, or the answer that is to follow.

“Oh, yes.” I replied, my smile widening, “Yes, for the first time today, I feel wonderful.” A deep breath. “You see, I killed John Goldman. I hacked him to pieces in this very room. And now, I’m going to kill you.”

He heard me. I actually said it. I said it all. The look of terror on his face is incredible. The adrenaline pulses through him, and as the terror hits a peak a wave of endorphins flood his body and mind. He begins to sweat, he breathes deeply, his knuckles turn to snow as he clutches the chair beneath him. His eyes widen as the near-orgasmic fear overtakes him and I raise my kettle above his head.

A fast and powerful swing spills blood and boiling water everywhere. He stops breathing so deeply. He stops breathing at all. I let out a deep sigh of relief, basking in the pleasure of my act. My pulse gradually drops to a slow and healthy rate. I pant as though after strenuous exercise, and feel physically exerted. I grab an empty wooden chair and collapse into it, tilt my head back and sigh once more. The kettle drops to the ground and what remains of its contents pours onto the floor.

The walls stop moving.

Search: Georgia Quinn

Georgia Quinn (born 30 April 1987) is an Australian pop performer. She is best known for her starring role in the 2000 Sydney Summer Olympics Opening Ceremony and her single "Strawberry Kisses". Quinn is best known for her controversial appearance in a sex tape in 2003 (a night in Georgia)

At about 2:45 p.m. (EST), on 22 January 2008, Quinn was found unconscious in his bed at 421 Broome Street in the Soho neighbourhood of Manhattan. 

the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner of New York released its conclusions, based on an initial autopsy of 23 January 2008, and a subsequent complete toxicological analysis. The report concludes, in part, "Ms. Quinn died as the result of acute intoxication by the combined effects of oxycodone, hydrocodone, diazepam, temazepam, alprazolam and doxylamine." It states definitively: "We have concluded that the manner of death is accident, resulting from the abuse of prescription medications.

Her epitaph read ‘too fast to live too young to die’

Pictures of Butts

Christmas Jokes You Can Actually Laugh To

Haiku for the Modern Gentleman

Your mother has slept

With many men, despite her

Gross obesity

Darling it's better down where it's wetter.

Disney or porn?

You decide.

Too School For Cool

Don’t get me wrong.
I’m not taking a moral stand here
I’m not trying to be a good role model, and
I’m not trying look after myself, or to stand against an unethical and self-destructive lifestyle,
I’m just not that into sex and drugs and rock and roll.

It’s not that I wouldn’t like to be
It’s just that I’m boring.
I want to be the kind of person to throw a TV out of a hotel window
But I don’t want to have to pay for it later
And I would probably feel like a jerk afterwards.

I don’t even know where to get drugs
And I hear they can be pretty expensive, anyway.
Marijuana smoke makes me cough
And I am left confused by the strange glass devices,
And I would look pretty stupid with dreadlocks.

I want to be addicted to something
Other than computer games and wanking.
I want to go out in the scunge and dinge.
I want to get my kicks like a rockstar, full of chemically induced hedonism
But I hear Left 4 Dead 2 is pretty good.

Don’t get me wrong.
I wanna be the kind of person
To pump my music loud and annoy my neighbors,
But my speakers distort pretty bad if I turn them up too much
And I can’t afford new ones.

I want to stick it to the Man.
I want to be a revolutionary,
But I can’t help but think that politicians are people too
And that they are probably doing their best
And that their parents are probably very proud of them.

I want to want to rock.
I want to be hardcore, on the edge,
Outrageous, extreme, underground and raw,
But I always liked the Beatles more than the Rolling Stones.
And I’m not really into much of this new stuff.

Also, I want to have a lot of sex.
I want to have lots of sex with lots of girls,
And I want them to love it. I want to be a stud,
But I’m usually not very comfortable with strangers
And with my friends it would be weird.

Don’t get me wrong.
I don’t want it to be special.
I want deprived, dirty, rock-star sex
With girls whose names I can’t even remember,
But I’m much too shy, not very smooth and I get very nervous.

I want it to be degrading,
Probably the kind where one of us cries
When it’s all over, and there is a sneaking
Suspicion that they might be tears of relief.
I want it to be nasty and meaningless.

I’m not afraid of diseases
Or overdoses, or emotional damage.
I want all of that.
I want to die tragically at a young age
Like Charlie Parker, or Jim Morrison

But I’d have to do it after my parents die first
I don’t want to upset them
And my Mum would be very disappointed with me.
Also, I hear liver failure is very painful
And I don’t cope well with pain.

Don’t get me wrong.
I’m not suicidal.
I wish I was, though.
I want to be a troubled youth, completely misunderstood,
Dark and brooding and melancholy.

But I’ve got nothing really to be miserable about.
I could try being miserable
About that fact that I want to be miserable,
But that would be stupid
And not very dark or troublesome at all.

I want the sex
And the drugs
And the rock and roll
And to be disrespectful, self-destructive, wild and revolutionary,
But the kettle's nearly boiled.

I’m making a cup of tea.

An unfortunate by-product of studying philosophy in high school

Hours and hours of Left 4 Dead, all for nothing.

Christmas Jokes You Can Actually Laugh To

Haiku for the Modern Gentleman

Speaking in haiku
Is difficult, but it is
Also really cool

The amount of an alcoholic beverage needed to consume one’s bodyweight in alcohol

The amount of alcohol needed in order to consume your own body weight can be denoted as the variable W. The value of W can be calculated using the formula

Where p is the density of alcohol and m is your mass. The density of alcohol under room conditions is 789g/L (meaning that 1 litre of alcohol weighs 789g, or 0.789kg). The mass of an average adult male, according to my highly reliable source Yahoo! Answers, is 86.6kg. Using this data, the equation becomes

Meaning that for an average adult male to consume his own bodyweight in alcohol, he must drink 109.76L of pure alcohol. Of course, most people do not take their alcohol pure, but instead enjoy it as a solution of alcohol, water, and other substances. So, to calculate the number of servings of your favourite alcoholic beverage you would require in order to drink your own bodyweight in alcohol, the following equation can be used

Where n is the number of bottles require, v is the volume of each bottle, c is the concentration of alcohol and W has the value calculated previously.

Let us take the example of one of Australia’s most popular beverages, Carlton Draught. How much of this beer would be needed in order to drink your own bodyweight in alcohol? Well, if we assume you are an average adult male we can use the W value previously calculated (109.76L). Let us assume you are drink 375mL stubbies or cans. This gives us our volume (v). Finally, the concentration (c) of alcohol in Carlton Draught is 4.6% alcohol per volume. Using these values, we get the equation

Carlton Draught, like most beer, is often sold in six-packs, as well as slabs of 24 bottles. 732 bottles makes up 30 slabs and 2 six-packs.

The LD₅₀ of alcohol is 7g/kg, meaning that consuming 7 grams of alcohol per kilogram of body mass will result in death by toxicity 50% of the time. Therefore 606.2g of alcohol has a 50% of killing an average adult male of 86.6kg. Obviously, this means that consuming your own bodyweight in alcohol would be likely to kill you many times over (roughly 143 times). This only takes into account death caused by the toxicity of alcohol. Most alcohol-related deaths are caused by the psychological effects of alcohol, such as impaired judgement and decreased reaction time. These will come into effect long before the toxicity does, so any attempt at this feat would be extremely likely to result in death before any significant progress is made. As such, any person who would undertake such a suicidal task would certainly be a fucking legend advised not to.

And in other news...

In a documentary about the life and times of Morgan Freeman, he is going to be played by God.

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