Sometimes I get worried, genuinely worried, I don't know enough stuff. I can't begin to tell you how many times I've tried to fill in the many gaps but no matter how much I try (and honestly, these tries are probably rather half hearted) I can't retain information.
Ask me a famous person's baby name and I'll tell you. Ask me the about some of the most insignificant moments of my life and I'll recite them perfectly. Ask me me a Dean Cain fact and I'll bore you for hours.
But I can't work out percentages. I don't know what most big words mean. I don't know plant types, dog types or even religious types. I don't know how long cooked meat should be left in a fridge and I ashamedly can't remember the finer details of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. How can I possibly ever have children when I have the most useless information to pass onto them?
"Mummy, tell me about the Cold War"
"How about we ask Google?"
FOR FUCK'S SAKE, I CAN'T EVEN REMEMBER WHERE INVERTED COMMAS GO. AND NOW I'M HAVING A MENTAL BLANK, ARE THEY CALLED INVERTED COMMAS OR QUOTATIONS?!
My brain is a murky pond of plankton, and not much else. By my age, I'm supposed to know more. I know I am.
I even tried consulting Bill Bryson's Short History of Nearly Everything. It was really interesting. I wanted to retain everything I read so badly. I read about how the universe was created and about atoms and neutrons but fuck, the plankton is infiltrating my brain's best intensions and I think perhaps neutrons might belong in your brain and not in the stratosphere.
Oh god. I'm confused. I think I need to lay down.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Innies and outies
Large groups of people make me shrivel back into myself like an old man's penis.
One of two things happen. I either say nothing at all or what does manage to come out of my mouth makes people look at me like I've just wet myself. Before you start thinking I'm a complete social retard, I'm not. Sometimes I'm actually ok, but as a general life rule, I just don't do small talk well. And in the instances I'm under performing, the following happens.
Let's pretend I'm in a scenario where I'm running around holding up alphabet letters while being filmed. I'm with a big group of people who seem to say funny quips straight away rather than thinking of them half an hour later. These people are 'extraverted'. Now people who are loud and have 'high levels of outer excitement' make me sleepy. And the bouncier they get, the more unenthusiastic I become. It's like I have to balance out the situation. Most of the time, I end up having to use my back up energy sources for fake laughter. Then I have to remember to keep my lips from curling into bitch face in between the good humored ha ha's. This leaves me running at -24 and needing a nap.
Now let's move to the second scenario when I'm shriveling out of my penis and going into saggy old man's balls scenario (I believe either one of the two happens when you get older, please correct me if I'm wrong) i.e small talk. Now, I've mentioned this problem a few times, but I have a new scenario I thought I'd share.
I recently had a job interview where my mouth decided to take the mic. Usually when this happens I have absolutely no idea what's going to come out.
Important man: So, er, how was your weekend?
Me: I bought an iron [oh god, I think I was supposed to talk about films or something]
Ha. I haven't ironed in four years. Ha. But I have a pair of 'fun pants' that need ironing so I had to give in. Ha. [brain, abort]
Yeah and do you know you can get an iron from Argos for £3? Ha, I can't believe I waited this long. Ha ha ha [abort, abort]
So now I'm an ironer, ha.
[abort signal accepted]
I think it went well.
One of two things happen. I either say nothing at all or what does manage to come out of my mouth makes people look at me like I've just wet myself. Before you start thinking I'm a complete social retard, I'm not. Sometimes I'm actually ok, but as a general life rule, I just don't do small talk well. And in the instances I'm under performing, the following happens.
Let's pretend I'm in a scenario where I'm running around holding up alphabet letters while being filmed. I'm with a big group of people who seem to say funny quips straight away rather than thinking of them half an hour later. These people are 'extraverted'. Now people who are loud and have 'high levels of outer excitement' make me sleepy. And the bouncier they get, the more unenthusiastic I become. It's like I have to balance out the situation. Most of the time, I end up having to use my back up energy sources for fake laughter. Then I have to remember to keep my lips from curling into bitch face in between the good humored ha ha's. This leaves me running at -24 and needing a nap.
Now let's move to the second scenario when I'm shriveling out of my penis and going into saggy old man's balls scenario (I believe either one of the two happens when you get older, please correct me if I'm wrong) i.e small talk. Now, I've mentioned this problem a few times, but I have a new scenario I thought I'd share.
I recently had a job interview where my mouth decided to take the mic. Usually when this happens I have absolutely no idea what's going to come out.
Important man: So, er, how was your weekend?
Me: I bought an iron [oh god, I think I was supposed to talk about films or something]
Ha. I haven't ironed in four years. Ha. But I have a pair of 'fun pants' that need ironing so I had to give in. Ha. [brain, abort]
Yeah and do you know you can get an iron from Argos for £3? Ha, I can't believe I waited this long. Ha ha ha [abort, abort]
So now I'm an ironer, ha.
[abort signal accepted]
I think it went well.
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Stripes, arrows and roots
I have nothing of interest to write about, so instead, I'm just going to write a story, straight from my brain, un-edited and see what comes out.
Here it goes:
Once lived a loser mouse called David-Peter-Steve. He was given three first names because his mother, Sue, couldn't decide which one she liked better. David-Peter-Steve was a loser because when they were handing out life labels to the new borns, Sue was too busy eating her jelly to go and get a good one. So while David-Peter-Steve could have been a 'winner' or even 'smack bang on average', he was stuck with being a loser for life. But being a loser was ok. He was pretty good at it. Along with his life label he got a list of instructions on how to be a loser. He went through his first couple of years sticking close to the list, but recently, he had gotten creative. David-Peter-Steve's favourite loser activity was clicking his paws. It made the same noise as a human finger click and he clicked everywhere he went. In fact, there wasn't a single second of the day where he wouldn't finger click. Another day, he kept a leaf of spinach in between his teeth and inserted his finger up his nose where it stayed breakfast, lunch and dinner. And another day, David-Peter-Steve yelled 'car' every time a car went past on the highway where he lived.
Yes, David-Peter-Steve was a loser.
David-Peter-Steve's best friend was a 'winner'. His name was Number 1. Now Number 1 had been very lucky. His mother had been first in line on his day of birth, forgoing the free maternity ward jelly. So Number 1 breezed through life. One day, while David-Peter-Steve and Number 1 were out, David-Peter-Steve, mid paw click, found a life label on the road. It said 'A-Ok'.
...to be continued, or not.
Bunting update: Two letters sewn, chances of me finishing it are slim.
Here it goes:
Once lived a loser mouse called David-Peter-Steve. He was given three first names because his mother, Sue, couldn't decide which one she liked better. David-Peter-Steve was a loser because when they were handing out life labels to the new borns, Sue was too busy eating her jelly to go and get a good one. So while David-Peter-Steve could have been a 'winner' or even 'smack bang on average', he was stuck with being a loser for life. But being a loser was ok. He was pretty good at it. Along with his life label he got a list of instructions on how to be a loser. He went through his first couple of years sticking close to the list, but recently, he had gotten creative. David-Peter-Steve's favourite loser activity was clicking his paws. It made the same noise as a human finger click and he clicked everywhere he went. In fact, there wasn't a single second of the day where he wouldn't finger click. Another day, he kept a leaf of spinach in between his teeth and inserted his finger up his nose where it stayed breakfast, lunch and dinner. And another day, David-Peter-Steve yelled 'car' every time a car went past on the highway where he lived.
Yes, David-Peter-Steve was a loser.
David-Peter-Steve's best friend was a 'winner'. His name was Number 1. Now Number 1 had been very lucky. His mother had been first in line on his day of birth, forgoing the free maternity ward jelly. So Number 1 breezed through life. One day, while David-Peter-Steve and Number 1 were out, David-Peter-Steve, mid paw click, found a life label on the road. It said 'A-Ok'.
...to be continued, or not.
Bunting update: Two letters sewn, chances of me finishing it are slim.
Monday, May 10, 2010
Today
I used my brain. It hurt and the stuff that came from it won't change the world. In fact, it will probably do more harm than good, but lets not dwell on that (perhaps I will elaborate on this at a later date). The brain usage was great, it really was.
MY BRAIN WORKS!
P.S I'm currently creating some bunting, I know, very out of character, so I thought I'd give you an update of my progress. I have 10 flags* to sew on, and have 8 more to go. I'm so womanly, really I am.
*Cut out complete with letters also cut out and sewed on
MY BRAIN WORKS!
P.S I'm currently creating some bunting, I know, very out of character, so I thought I'd give you an update of my progress. I have 10 flags* to sew on, and have 8 more to go. I'm so womanly, really I am.
*Cut out complete with letters also cut out and sewed on
Sunday, May 09, 2010
Newness
Friday marked the end of something which pretty much started bang on three years ago.
My new life in London started all in one go. Pretty much straight away, I got a job, a house and well, a life. All the elements transitioned so seamlessly that I didn't really notice that this 'everything' was going on in a foreign place. Whether it was actually seamlessness or ambivalence, who really knows. But since then, some parts have changed, but the constant has always been my job. It has represented a massive chunk of my time here; both good and bad, and has shaped my experiences and perhaps who I've become as a person in a lot of ways that I probably couldn't even begin to explain.
Now, newness is here and again, the transitions are happening so seamlessly that the ambivalence has once again set in. Is change supposed to feel a certain way? Am I supposed to feel satisfied, relieved or even excited? I recognise none of these things, I feel as robotic as my earlier sentence sounded. Don't get me wrong, I'm looking forward to the future, but not in the anticipatory, I'm about to pee my pants way of an upcoming holiday or, I don't know, if I was about to bathe in Belgium chips with ketchup and mayo. I guess I thought the end of my sometimes vein popping (insert your own hateful thing here) job would feel different, but it doesn't.
Clearly, I'm dead inside and the only thing keeping my heart beating is the promise of tomorrow's breakfast.
Wish me luck for tomorrow. Oh wait, I don't care.
My new life in London started all in one go. Pretty much straight away, I got a job, a house and well, a life. All the elements transitioned so seamlessly that I didn't really notice that this 'everything' was going on in a foreign place. Whether it was actually seamlessness or ambivalence, who really knows. But since then, some parts have changed, but the constant has always been my job. It has represented a massive chunk of my time here; both good and bad, and has shaped my experiences and perhaps who I've become as a person in a lot of ways that I probably couldn't even begin to explain.
Now, newness is here and again, the transitions are happening so seamlessly that the ambivalence has once again set in. Is change supposed to feel a certain way? Am I supposed to feel satisfied, relieved or even excited? I recognise none of these things, I feel as robotic as my earlier sentence sounded. Don't get me wrong, I'm looking forward to the future, but not in the anticipatory, I'm about to pee my pants way of an upcoming holiday or, I don't know, if I was about to bathe in Belgium chips with ketchup and mayo. I guess I thought the end of my sometimes vein popping (insert your own hateful thing here) job would feel different, but it doesn't.
Clearly, I'm dead inside and the only thing keeping my heart beating is the promise of tomorrow's breakfast.
Wish me luck for tomorrow. Oh wait, I don't care.
Monday, May 03, 2010
I bought an iron
I know.
I know.
Frankly, I feel a little disappointed in myself. I mean, I've gone four whole years without ironing. Four. I've hung clothes in the bathroom while I've showered (doesn't work as well as you think), I've shook things, I've even tried sitting on my clothes - pulling them to make them straight (this doesn't work either).
I guess on the other hand, it's a turning point in my maturity. People who are 28 on the cusp of 29 should really iron their clothes, right?
Right?
I know.
Frankly, I feel a little disappointed in myself. I mean, I've gone four whole years without ironing. Four. I've hung clothes in the bathroom while I've showered (doesn't work as well as you think), I've shook things, I've even tried sitting on my clothes - pulling them to make them straight (this doesn't work either).
I guess on the other hand, it's a turning point in my maturity. People who are 28 on the cusp of 29 should really iron their clothes, right?
Right?
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