These are Green, plastic Army Men that I was playing with recently. There should be no other variety. These little men came from little moulds, forged in the image of men destined to die. I played with Army Men a lot as a kid... although many got melted with magnifying glasses. Occasionally, I'd piece them apart, carefully, and then melt them back together in new poses... segmenting their limbs and making them look more 'battle ready'. I mean, look at Mr. Balacklava on the left. One hand akimbo, the other thrusted into the air... although the shadow hides it, he is holding a small pistol. Deadly. On the right, the soldier has his left hand floating below the gun, making no contact. I could make him look better. The point of me writing this is History. I like learning history, seeing how then became now... but I hate regurgitating it. I don't like being told "No! You need to emphasise the death, desolation... how cruel man can be. How selfish, pompous, loathing - how cancererous man is upon himself. Understand? Your pen should run red with the blood of the fallen soldiers, trivialised in your simple hand writing... you need to detail mass murder to inhance your marks. Ryan! You miss the point. You write the eulogies, I give the marks."
This is why History leaves me feeling depressed...
In response to the title, I actually don't mean the 1970's. I mean 70%. On my trials, every exam ended in the proximity of 70%. I don't mind 70%, but I feel so far off where I want to be. I still don't know what profession I'll follow... or if I'll simply spend all my savings on many fine suits and live in the hills. A Debonaire Mountain Man. Sitting in a cave, legs crossed sipping Eucalyptus Tea... tie straight as an arrow, face gaunt with sophisticated delight and hair twisled fashionably. I guess I'd die rather quickly. Still... 70.
The snow today was so magnificent. I truly wished it settled so I could march home through. I love the crunch - how it seems to hold you up for a single moment and then give in... and the cold. I love the cold. I love being cold and knowing how relaxing it is to get warm again. I love music written for the cold. I love cold colours... even more than I like eccentric colours. I saw this blind man once, he had dark skin and the palest shade of blue you could ever imagine. I wished I had eyes so noticable. Ironically, he'd never see them... they were probably that blue because they had never been stimulated. The pigment fading after being hidden by black glasses all of his life. I was lucky enough to see them and I still remember them. I love cold colours.