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Mad Dogs and Englishmen

Wanna head to Greece? Here’s some first hand news. 🙂

Diary of an Aesthete

On living theSimple Life in a rural Greek fishing village – Agii Apostoli – on the Gulf of Evia

Simple words and pictures – by James Dee Clayton.

A resting place for heart and mind…

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Having Greek family comes with its bonuses. Not only do I have a constant connection to this pure land I so love, with its rich cultural heritage, its humble people, its delicious FOOD – but also this place holds so many memories for me – memories I’m blessed to have shared …under those blue, blue skies.

After my stint Alone in Venice, I headed over to Athens, and the surrounding coast, to spend some time with my loved ones. (As if I hadn’t already been spoiled enough with a whole month in Venice!)

Life can be so strange sometimes – so wonderful, so colourful and light – and then suddenly blue, sad and lonely…

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Existential Angst

A good-night post, before bed. 🙂

Stories By Another Insomniac

Anticipating the anticipation,
Anticipating the living-life-on-the-edge days.
The ones you hear about
Or you think you’ve heard about.

You, you’ve fallen into monotony,
An inescapable feeling of restless contentment.

Some call it depression,
You call it boredom.
They’re one in the same,
Except boredom has a much less negative connotation;
And a much shorter life-span.

Mostly, it depends on your age;
The children are bored,
The adults are depressed.

Filling days with self-innovated anxiety,
The kind that didn’t always exist,
Or you don’t think it always existed.

A drive to be taken by storm
Overwhelmed.
Engulfed.
Something to shake you out of this trance you have been stifled by.

Like a visitor from afar,
You continue to sit in that hotel room,
Anticipating the anticipation of travel.

While you glance
Between the alarm clock,
The room service menu,
The T.V. Guide.

Bored.
Depressed.
Anticipating the anticipation of living.

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A Physics Lesson For The Hopeless Romantic

🙂

Thought Catalog

The fact is always obvious much too late, but the most singular difference between happiness and joy is that happiness is a solid and joy is a liquid.
–JD Salinger

Relationships are somewhat of a glorified concept. One spends so much time trying to “get in” one, then the sparks fly and this feat is actually accomplished. A point is reached where it feels like this the appropriate time for a new goal to be set. What is the next step? Quite simply, there isn’t one; at least, there shouldn’t be. This was the ultimate goal to have reached, and I’ve made it. I’ve been here before, but this time it feels different. This is a level of comfort that did not exist before—a level of mutual sentiment that I’ve never felt.

I have in the past been on both the staggeringly high and low ends of doling out and…

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You May be Irish if…

This post helped me come up with a new term that I was looking to invent. It turned out to be a great read! 🙂

arlene stafford wilson

Irish pub

The Top Ten Ways to tell if you’re Irish:

1. You have the ‘gift of gab’. There is an ancient rock near Cork, Ireland at Blarney Castle and they say that anyone who kisses the stone will have the gift of gab. If you are truly of Irish descent, then there’s likely no pressing need to make the journey, as you surely already possess the talent of talking rings around most other people.

2. You are musical. Maybe you play an instrument or perhaps you just sing in the shower, but the gift of music is in your Irish blood and you will not be able to resist tapping your toe or strumming your fingers on the table when someone gets their fiddle out and plays a tune.

3. You have strong convictions. Whether the topic is religion, politics or your favourite sports team there will be no point in…

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Population Control: Not Ebola… But Not Science Fiction Either

So is Ebola a reliable mean to achieve for ethnic cleansing?

Such Is Life and Such are the Life Sciences

Yesterday, The New York Times took an interesting angle on the recent, media-consuming Ebola epidemic. After continuously consulting the experts and the people on the scene, the Times decided to review the “fringe” interpretation of the tragedy in an article aptly titled, “The Ebola Conspiracy Theories.” The dominant theory, echoed in the Liberian newspaper The Daily Observer and on Chris Brown’s Twitter account, is that the epidemic is an intentional incidence of population control–making the virus itself a bioweapon intended to carryout a massive genocide.

Just to be clear: like many journalists, experts, politicians, victims and casual observers, I don’t buy into this theory. But I am a bit discouraged by the diction some have used to dismiss it–Politico even labeled it “crazy.” While a sophisticated analysis reveals that Ebola would make a poor choice for a bioweapon (it spreads inefficiently and is difficult to produce in a lab setting), generally categorizing all paranoia about population control as…

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The Augmented Reality of a Schizophrenic

Blew my mind! It is raging with rain outside, and this happens to amuse me a lot!

Under my stars


I opened my eyes to see her staring at me. I looked at her with disgust and shame. She looked at me with soulless eyes. Her eyes turned dark. I was astonished and mortified at her sudden change of demureness. I sat aback and turned to my left. She sat aback and turned to her left. She bemocks me with grimace… I tried to push her but I couldn’t reach her. I got farther every time I came near her. Then I saw the mug on the table which I used to drink milk this morning. I took it and hurled it at her. Boom. Shatter. And the next thing I saw was a pool of blood. I looked around and saw pieces of shattered glass. I picked up a piece and saw her again. The glass pieces piercing on her face with grumes of rose red everywhere. We then…

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The Last Words Of A Serial Killer


Surprisingly the blood didn’t spurt. There was where it happened – In the corner of a dimly lit alleyway, by an old swimming pool. The smell of chlorine wafting through the warm summer air.
I stood, she lay. And in my head I did a quick replay – of all that had commenced since the death of my wife had sliced though the jugular of Miss Janice Mellar.
Everything had gone according to plan – until the blood hadn’t chosen to spurt.
Awkwardly the moments stood before me – anti climatic. Although the measures these days to commit these crimes were less drastic.
The list of women whose flesh had tasted my blade isn’t much elaborate. Martha Swinston, Cassie Munro, 14-year-old Helen Swazniq, Isha Dunham, Michelle Mossburg and my dear ladies and gentlemen, Janice Mellar.
Although the last on there was the most stellar. In looks and victimology. Meh.321629_239534822756483_2480481_n
Yet surprisingly, oh-dear-god, the blood didn’t spurt!
Now don’t look at me miss with those accusing eyes. I completely understand, but it is this numbing remorselessness lately that has grabbed my senses. Neuroscientists say ‘haha’ that I have issues with my serotonin.
All I can say, Doctor, is that I just cannot take it in.
There are times when I have to hide and stay low. A ruthless man, by the name Detective Crossbow, is looking for the Jugular Killer. You see, he doesn’t enjoy the popularity of people like me.
It is this madness sometimes that dazzles my every bone, certified from the classic psychopathic tendencies that I have shown – where murder is my only sexual getaway and release, and the gap between my artistic acts is starting to decrease.
But don’t you take another breath, because what I felt…when the blood from her paling body did not spurt. It was a revelation; heavens were opening up to listen, while I stood by the swimming pool dirt.
My name is Alfred Kevins, and dear Janice, haven’t you figured out still? I am not the man with whom you will sleep tonight. For I am, ‘drum rolls’, a killer! A murderous victim to all theories of lust, paraphilia, distraught development and ill sociological conditions!
And even though the Scooby Doo and Gang would call me devilishly charming, sometimes the skin I live in…has me alarming.
I may have a soul, but I am never going to be a soldier, dear mother. I am in too deep in sin.
Surprisingly the blood didn’t spurt, as the blade ran one last time, cutting through my skin.

– Shaun D’souza
(I study forensics, play beats with my fingers
and sometimes take a nap.)

Say hi to me @hunchbakdsouza