Editor's 2024 note: This post was imported from another
Oh, man. I can't wait to tell you guys about my boring
I can completely see this blog turning out like my "Saving Drowning Furbies" newsletter. (Just wait a second. The batteries on my CD player just killed themselves on me. I'll go get new ones from the charger. Hooray for rechargables.)
Never mind. There weren't any in the recharger, so I had to steal some out of my mum's camera. Ah, Steriogram.
Where was I? Oh, yes. "SDF". It was New Year's Eve, two years ago, when I decided to document my fabulous* life. Well, obviously I was distracted from the fact that my life was utterly boring, except for when I saved my brother from the jellyfish, but that's a story for another campfire. I would spend two and a half hours every Saturday writing and formatting my newsletter to bore the public with. (Writing took half an hour and formatting took the rest.) The problem was that I would try to turn it from a page document into a page image, which was stressful, especially with a lack of understanding of all the processes.
*I'm obviously, unfortunately
Anyway, after fifteen people or so gave up putting up with it and got new e-mail addresses, I realised that it would only work if I was James Bond or Santa Claus or someone like that with an interesting life. (Actually, Santa would probably have a boring life, just sleeping and manufacturing, except for the odd rush at the end of the year.) But now that my life is getting interesting, other than just being "homework, homework, homework" like most guys back in California, I might have something to offer. You guys can let me know when I'm getting boring. I refer to you because I know that you're reading this blog, because you'd have to be reading this blog to read these words.
I'm babbling again.
I have so many things to say, yet so little time... and I don't want to end up living my life through a video camera, or through a web blog.
I'll start with an introduction to this blog you're apparently attracted by. Or maybe it's just the centred text.
My name is Matt, and that is all you need to know about my name, for now. I may tell you my last name if you're lucky. Or someone my post it, and then I'll have to flog them. And that's a warning to all y'all. I'm going to keep this blog relatively casual, unlike some of my other writings. My writing is often rather formal, although I hate "Formal Writing" in English. In all my writing (except for this one,) I call my "mum and dad" my "mother and father". I even talk like that. The main reason was that I didn't like being laughed at in NZ for saying "mom" and I didn't like being laughed at in California for saying "mum".
Just laugh and get it over with.
Anyway, as you can tell, I live in New Zealand. Wellington, actually, which is the capital of NZ and also the new film-making centre of the world, amateur film-making at least. I go to school in the middle of the city. An all-boys school with uniforms. The problems with an all-boys school with uniforms:
- No girls.
- We have to wear uniforms.
- No girls.
- NO GIRLS!
They go on about how "recent studies prove that boys do better when there aren't girls to distract them", but I say "bollocks!" (Actually, I don't say "bollocks", but it's such a fun word to say.) I've been to a co-ed school with many pretty girls and I must say that... oh, sorry. I thought I saw a pretty girl.
The uniforms aren't that bad. I just became a senior at my school, so I got a new, better uniform, which is much less "bleuh" than what my brother has. Mwua hah hah!
I like to make amateur films, but would like to start doing it part-time professionally. You know, with a profit. When I make films, I get my high from the whole production process, not the art, like my friends. That's why I can spend six and a half hours non-stop in one night writing my screenplay. I'm fascinated by all the different jobs of all the technicians you see the names of when you squint at the end of a movie, when you're looking for your friend's uncle, who "supposedly" worked in that movie. (That was a long sentence.)
This blog is called "F @ T M @ T" because if you replace the "@" with "at", you get "fattmatt" which originated from one of the short films I worked on. First of all, the reason why I used "@" is because I figured out that I could spell my name "Matt" with three characters, which I needed to figure out how to do when I once got a hi-score on some arcade game. M@T. Matt. Anyway. We were at my friend George's house, and we had a rugby ball and a video camera. So we naturally decided to make a horror film about a seriel (sic) killer getting revenge on me because he didn't get to play rugby. As you would.
We were filming one of the last scenes, and the sun was beginning to go down. We filmed the silhouette of the killer crossing against the white wall of the house. In the corner, there I am, crying because one of the other kids beat me up because I sucked at rugby. Along comes the killer and whacks my guts in and out as if the blanket stuffed under my sweater did any good in protecting me.
Editor's 2024 note: There was originally an image inserted here but that was hosted on a now-defunct website called Hiveports. It was likly a still from the mentioned short film.
When Dan, my fellow beater of an actor, would bludgeon me with the hockey stick, the blanket would be pushed aside, and he would start beating me full contact. Out of self-preservation, like any sane person, I instinctively pulled my hands in front to protect me. Subconsciously, I was pulling my hands forwards, and consciously, I was pulling them back, not wanting to get them hit. It was funny wiggly dance, like the mix between a chicken with convulsions, and a boy with his foot jammed in an escalator.
Afterwards, I had bruises all the way down the side of my ribcage. But I shrugged them off. "For the sake of the movie", right?