Act V, Scene II: In Which I am Really, Really Depressed and Vent mine Angst and Frustration

This post is not going to be funny because I’m at my lowest mood-wise since a long, long time. I’m having a bad week. Actually, the bad week started back in March. It’s the bad week of the year.

Nothing bad has happened. No one died. Well, no one I know. I’m sure someone died somewhere. Shit, now I feel guilty. Anyway. Nothing bad has happened but I’m miserable as hell.

Somehow I got roped into having a friendly talk with the Blatherer, and I think I got some points across, but who knows how long this will last. And all because no one else will open their damn mouth. Why does the not-people-person always get tasked with the someone-might-shoot-the-messenger quests? In other words, I’m no good with people, usually I just yell and threaten physical violence, so why do I have to go and talk calmly and reasonably to someone I really just want to throw a brick at? Read my lips: I. Am. Not. Friendly. I’m the worst at being nice. I wish I was nicer. I wish I still had it in me. But then people take advantage of my niceness. So I’m rather a really evil bitch. I’m really good at being a really evil bitch. Somehow I can deal better with people not liking me than people liking me for what they can get out of me. I dunno. I could just cry, but my tear ducts haven’t been working right for months now.

I’m good and ready to quit this sodden job thing, but I keep telling myself, two more months. And plenty of uni work to distract myself, what with a thesis, the theoretical base of which will just not shape itself. Okay, so I’m trying something new. I could have gone with an established theory like marxism, throw three novels together and I’d be fine. But I have to go and make life complicated. Also, that workshop thing didn’t work out so well, because even after all these years, speaking in public makes me nervous. Yes, yes, practice makes perfect and all. No! The inner perfectionist will not be satisfied with a less-than stellar performance! That’s the problem with me, I have to be perfect on the first go or I lose all faith in myself. Can I at least blame that one on my mom?

I don’t think I could hate myself more if I suddenly and inexplicably slept with any ex of mine, is what I’m trying to say. I’m at a point where the Camelot song from Holy Grail can’t cheer me up. I would jump off a bridge if it wasn’t so damned cold outside. Few things are worse than having your suicide go wrong in April, you end up having to drag your drenched ass out of an icy river and you come home cold, wet, and even more miserable. So not worth the effort of getting out of bed.

I just don’t want to see anyone or talk to anyone for a week or five.

Also, those bitches from my side hustle won’t pay me until May. Christ, I worked for you in early March, gimme! I need a substance abuse problem badly and I can’t afford one if you fuckers won’t pony up my cash!

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The Return of the Abominable Blatherer!

So I’ve been keepin’ busy. Our apartment building’s been getting new windows in and Tuesday it was our turn, and I can still feel the dust in the air. I can feel it because I’m allergic. I haven’t stopped sneezing in days. And no amount of airing and vacuuming will get it out.

I’m also preparing a workshop. I’ve never lead a workshop before. Safe to say I’m a nervous wreck. Never been more nervous in my life, in fact. I want this to be good, you know? I want to distribute knowledge amongst my students-for-the-day. I want them to walk out of that room at the end of the day going, “Jup, that helped.”

Somehow this master’s thesis is also not writing itself and I need to go see my supervisor sometime soon.

And the last thing I need in between all of this… is this guy.

I feel like Jack Nicholson in that old Batman movie: I’ve given a name to my pain, and it is Batman the Abominable Blatherer. Now, if my problem was Michael Keaton, I’d be overwrought with joy. Because it’s Michael Keaton. Instead, I’m settled with… this guy.

So last year, before he was here, the team decided against putting pictures of our faces on the website. Because seriously, the team is rotating so much you’d have to switch out pictures ever year. Like, I’ll be gone come summer. Also, some of us are very concerned with control of our images on the web because by damn did we learn from American examples. Then internet is no longer our own private hidey-hole like it was in the early 2000s, now it’s a public place. No, we don’t even put pictures of us partying on facebook. No, not even if our bosses can’t force us to facebook friend them. No, not even if it’s illegal for our bosses to even ask us for our facebook name (we don’t even use our real names! And all our profiles are set to private! Because!). European millenials know how the damn internet works, so we like to keep our faces to ourselves until we get a real job, thank you very much.

I mean, look, it’s one thing to ask a question if you don’t know there was already a decision on this. It’s one thing to ask again because after all, we do have some newbies as well who may or may not want some pictures of themselves. That’s all fine.

But the Blatherer went ahead and contacted a professional photographer and got an estimate for group and single pictures. Mind, he did that literally five minutes after he said “Hey, we should have photos!” and literally three days before he thought to ask the twelve other people on the team about this. And now he keeps going on about it via e-mail. “I don’t understand why we can’t have pics!” Because the rest of us said no last year. Just because you are here now doesn’t change the minds of everyone else. Also, money. Why should our collective fund go to something only one of us wants and which is no use to our target audience? Hell, I even offered to lend out my old reflex camera if he absolutely wants a damn picture of himself so badly. But nope, it needs to be professional!

Now there are about 30+ e-mails in my inbox of people going back and forth and trying to get him to accept a solution that does not cost more than a hundred bucks. Does anyone beside me realise how much this guy is trying to run the show? Is anyone else tired? Is anyone else losing their motivation?

Also, we need an emergency meeting to discuss the new statutes he’s drawn up.

Someone should talk to this young man. But why me? Don’t we have people to deal with this? Like psychologists? Or HR? Or hitmen? Anyone?

The Amazing Adventures of the Abominable Blatherer!

Okay, so, I’m breaking a bit of a codex here. I made pact with myself that I wouldn’t talk about work. More precisely, that I wouldn’t talk shit about my colleagues. Such pacts are all well and good until your gorge rises and your heart speed is suddenly in the three digits area.

Do you know those people who talk… but they’re not actually saying anything? Like, they just talk? And talk? And talk? And talk? And no matter how often you tell them to shut up they just won’t? Even if they’re labouring a moot point? Even if whatever they’re complaining about was already resolved? Even if whatever they want just makes things more complicated and less efficient?

I have one of those at my work place. It’s getting ridiculous.

Usually, we’re quite an informal group. Things get discussed, pros and contras are brought in, and decisions are made via a simple majority of raised hands, or just a round of ‘yeah, sure’s. Also usually, we’re unanimous because most of our plans are sensible.

And then there’s this guy.

He’s not against anything, per se. But he’s trying to turn us into fucking parliament. We can’t just make a suggestion for a project or something, no, no, no, we need to propose a motion. And to show us how this works, he puts forward a motion that we sponsor a fund-raiser for a history related project he’s doing. Problem being, the way our place is set up, we’re not legally allowed to take in money from people. Don’t ask me, it’s complicated legal shit. All we can do is ask for donations, but we can’t, like, sell tickets or something. So we discuss this, because we all think this is what he wants us to do, and we go back and forth for ten minutes, with him yelling in between about democracy, until we finally arrive at the conclusion… all he wants is for us to promote the project and fund-raiser, which he’ll organise himself, on our homepage and social media.

Okay? Why didn’t you just say that? I mean, the project is interesting enough for our target audience and it’s for a good cause so why all this legal mumbo jumbo about motions and compliance audits and applicable documents? Just send us your shit and we’ll do it!

Somehow, though, he’s convinced that our team has dire troubles with decision making and general leadership, never mind the fact that we’ve all been rather happy with the way it’s been. But no, we need some really strict guidelines. And we can’t just have simple majority when we vote on something, we need to stick to three-quarters majority. And why are there never any abstentions, eh? Is everyone being pressured into casting their vote on something they don’t want by our evil chairpersons?! This is not how democracy works, we need to act according to democratic lines, what we really need are decent statutes that list in detail how we vote and in which order topics are dealt with, and which kind of projects receive aid, and how we propose motions and how to carry a motion and how to reject a motion…

Meanwhile, we’re all over there like

And if we want him to stop talking we should just propose a cloture, a motion to close debate, which I do, because fuck him, let’s get a laugh out of this, and we got a three-quarter majority on that particular motion and yet somehow, he keeps going.

You know? That kinda person who keeps coming up with all sorts of rules which apply to anyone but him?

I leave that particular meeting early. Because fuck it, I said I got two hours time, I’m not getting paid anyway, so two and a half hours is all you get from this bitch. And I’m not in here to get yelled at about democracy.

Look, I’m all for trying new things and better solutions and faster processes, and I respect the guy’s dedication to order. The problem is, he’s entirely inefficient, and efficiency is the thing I’m dedicated to. He’s slowing everything down with his inability to shut the fuck up. He’s making everyone resent his ass, thus fucking up the work climate. He’s actively blockading any decision. Just because he’s so in love with his ideas about motions. Like, didn’t he notice that parliament doesn’t exactly run smoothly? And that the number one complaint in this country is the mass of bureaucracy you have to wade through just to get a simple thing done? Like repair a bridge that needed repairing for the last twenty years? (But that’s a complaint for another time.)

But this dude just doesn’t realise that this particular three-quarter majority is so not on board with his suggestions. Because he’s not making suggestions, he’s flat out telling us that everything we do is wrong because he says so, because obviously he’s the expert in all things conduct and guidelines and law and politics. To me he’s sounding like he’s using democracy and bureaucracy as a shield to mark the beginning of a personal dictatorship which he will achieve by talking relentlessly until we all just give in to make him shut up. I’m so not here for that.

I’m also wondering what his sex life is like. “Motion to receive oral pleasure!” – ” Motion denied.”

Next time I see him I’ll just toss jelly babies at his head while shouting, “Hold it! Objection! Take that!”

And before any of you come in here like, “Yeah, tough gal, how ’bout you tell all that to his face instead of talking shit behind his back?”, I have. I have, multiple times. Multiple times over the last half a year he’s been here. I tried it nicely. Then I tried it not so nicely. Then I started yelling because he gave me a headache. Do you honestly think that type of person listens? And certainly not to me. Jelly babies it is!

Forget What They Told You in Kindergarten, Whining DOES Solve Things

Breaking news from the Grad School front.

Okay, I got this shit in the bag! I got my supervisor, I did get into this stupid course, now I just need to write my thesis and…

And the record screeches to a halt.

Now all I have to do is write an 80+ page academic work.

If you’re frozen with fear, raise your hand. Oh, wait, you can’t. Try blinking. Yes, you blinked. I blinked, too. Because I’m scared. Very scared. Zombie apocalypse ain’t got nothing on this. With zombies, you know where you’re at. They either wanna eat you or you don’t register on their radar because you are also a zombie.

But with academics… they need to like you and your work.

Fuckity fuck.

Okay, stay cool, Self, you got this far. And we did it all by whining in the right place at the right time. We just need to keep doing that.

No, seriously, a bit of whining and a half-breakdown in front of people solves a lot. I mean, you won’t get your dignity back, but otherwise, a lot. I was venting my frustration to a colleague at the department. You know, I was trying to get into this final seminar? And then I didn’t get a grad in time for registration? And someone told me her friend had just done the seminar from the other degree programme instead and it worked out fine? And then someone else told me the same? And so I was all hopeful? And then the office told me that’s not even possible? Because who woulda thunk, I either imagined all this, or those other students found a loophole that had been closed for renovations the minute I turned up. Because of fucking course.

So I expose my vulnerable self to my colleague, finally admitting that I’m not an android programmed in sarcasm but a real human being with like feelings ‘n shit who has had a bad frustrating month. Colleague is like, don’t worry. Five minutes later I’m talking to a professor who then talks to the lecturer and two weeks later I’m in. Magic!

No, seriously. Seems a lot like magic. Maybe the whining sent out energy waves all across the department and threw off everyone’s vibe and they all subconsciously decided to get rid of the source.

And now I just need to write a monster of a paper. And then present this in front of an audience of bored academics who don’t care about anything but their own subjects. I’m so screwed, aren’t I? Couldn’t be more screwed if I was a cabinet.

I’m trying to sign up for an additional writing workshop. Therefore, I need to whine about this on the internet so they’ll let me in. Trust me, this works. I hope.

In other news, I was researching trap remixes of Frank Sinatra and suddenly got an idea for a zombie novel so I guess I have an alternative career path if the whole thesis doesn’t work out.

Yeah, that would be a nice thing for them to cut on my tombstone.

And now, the weather.

The Revenge of Dr. Daffodil

I’ve been gone and busy for a week again. And boy, did I have myself a time. It was such a time, you guys! Very time-y. I mean, what’s better than sitting in a draughty room for days on end listening to people present their latest papers on topics that may or may not make sense and be worth researching?

I don’t want to hate on people who are far more successful in academia than I’ll ever be actually I do, but uh… some of them I just wonder how they got in? Or if they ran out of ideas somewhere in the last three years because their current research focus is slightly bonkers?

I mean, we had a very special case. Being a good student, I took notes throughout the talks, even though it wasn’t required, but hell, I wanted to remember who I’m going to library stalk. And then this one guy came in, who I’ve nicknamed Captain Daffodil, though in hindsight Dr. Daffodil would have been funnier. ‘Cause he’s got a Ph.D. and all. Captain Daffodil gave a talk about nature poetry and… somehow he was really into plants. Like, reeeaaally into plants. To the point he was talking about the rhythm of plants and made us watch a short clip of grass growing. Needless to say, I was slowly breaking down. With laughter. And the only way I could contain myself was to write my feelings down in my notebook.

So without further ado… here are the original notes [with additional info because this is a written medium and you’ll need context] I took during this particular talk:

  • tradition of plant narratives (Plato, Aristotle)

  • plant life and poetic form

  • Greek stories of people being turned into plants

  • word “verse” connected with cultivating of plants

  • lack of plant agency in nature poetry (I can’t believe I’m writing this down)

  • Seriously? We’re watching grass grow now? This is a thing that happens?
  • [prof is reading a poem by Alice Oswald about basically stumbling over a mustard field] fucking mustard, didn’t even notice this fucking bright yellow plague! Now suddenly I’m in a fucking field, how did that happen?

  • Alice, who the fuck is Alice? Yes, we know you want to bone Alice, shut up about Alice.

  • Is Alice secretly Poison Ivy?

  • Like is that her new secret identity after she escaped Arkham?

  • I mean, no one would expect that.

  • Postplantism!

  • Is that a thing now?

  • Is he secretly a World of Warcraft druid trying to spread the call of nature?

  • I’m not writing from the perspective of a laptop, dammit, stop writing from the perspective of a vegetable!

  • Someone get this man a cactus, stat!

  • Can’t wait for the questions. Can’t waaaait for the questions.

  • Or maybe he’s Poison Ivy’s minion.

  • [Someone in the room asks a question starting with “I’m actually glad my plants can’t talk”] Yeah, it’s good your plants can’t talk. Who knows what those plants have seen.

  • Does anything contribute to your argument?

  • Wait, what is your argument?

  • Did he and Alice Oswald have a threesome with a rhododendron?

  • Oh, my mistake, was mustard.

  • [Somewhere in the back a screw falls out of a chair.] The chairs are falling apart for nonsense!

  • Oh my god, I’m gonna throw you in a mustard field, when is this over?!

  • I wish I had a burka so no one could see me laughing.

  • Official nickname: Captain Daffodil.

  • Maybe he’s a sort of plant zombie.

  • This some Batman shit going down right here!

Thus ends the tragic talk of Dr. Daffodil and needless to say, the audience was astonished. Stunned. Very stunned. Words could not express how stunned we were. I now have to go and read Frankenstein Makes a Sandwich to get all the bad poetry out of my head.

Rant Day! Things That Mildly Annoyed Me, March 5-12!

Item 1: This agonizing wait to find out if I can have a place in my last class!

Item 2: Nudity. No, not nudity itself. I’m very pro-nudity, nudity for everyone. But then there are lecturers who show a film clip, pause it in the middle of a naked woman swimming and go, “I’m sorry, I tend to forget to warn audiences about nudity.” Oh no, not the boobs! Anything but the boobs! Especially in this room full of people who have boobs! Seriously, there’s like 30 people in here, 25 of which have boobs themselves, including you btw. The other five have a 98% of having been nursed by boobs, a 80% chance of being attracted to boobs, and a 50% chance of having seen actual boobs in their life. I think they gon’ be fine. Now shut up, Kate Winslet is showing me her tits and I’m in love.

(Also, the males wouldn’t dare complain. They’re outnumbered, 50 boobs to none, we have them surrounded!)

Item 3: Kinda wanna dress up more, kinda wanna buy Nike sneakers and not give a fuck.

Item 4: Kinda wanna do something silly and teenager-y, like steal a traffic light, but that’s immature, but that’s fun.

Item 5: Diablo III is addictive as hell, and it’s also hard on Torture V, and those demons are hitting me, and Kormac, goddammit, where the hell you at, you supposed to tank! Move your shiny templar ass in front!

Item 6: Mom, thanks for trying to make me feel normal about my non-existent wish to procreate, but actually I wasn’t feeling weird about it. Like, at all. Look, your sister doesn’t have kids. Dad’s aunt doesn’t have kids. I grew up in a family where having kids is just one option. I know I’m approaching the age where you gave birth, but I’m fine. I can always freeze my eggs and have a child at sixty, you know how long we fuckers live, it’ll be great.

Item 7: I can haz moneys plz?! How long does it take you to pay my invoice? Come one, chocolate bunny season is about to start, I need cash!

So Ru Paul said “You Better Work” and We May or May Not Have Different Definitions of the Word “Work”…

So I’ve been doing ten hour days which rendered me too tired to think.

For the past few days I’ve been doing an advice/consulting thing in the name of ye olde Alma Mater. Meaning I spent ten hours being squished into a booth with ten other people doling out advice about studying to the future of the nation, aka teenagers. I don’t like talking. We’ve established that. But the fact of the matter is, it’s unavoidable in daily life. And people seem to listen to me, because I can make myself sound like I have my shit together. The thing about introversion is you’re not completely unable to function in public. You just don’t like it. I don’t like it. But I think I’m doing a rather okay job.

And I might actually get paid! Is this what working life feels like?

Thing is, my work history is a bit frazzled. Any job I ever had I didn’t have for longer than a couple of months, mostly because I only ever had jobs in one of two categories: bored-out-of-your-skull or drained-of-all-life-force. No in between. And, uh… I actually don’t mind working odd-jobs? Is that weird? Like, I have no problem schlepping boxes for three days, get my money, and move on to sorting through someone’s paper work for a week. It’s no plan for the future, but basically, that’s my work history. The sort-of job I now have, I think it might just be the longest I’ve ever had.

I mean, that might be another consequence of being a socially awkward nutcase: I like the kind of jobs where there’s not chance of getting too close and personal with people.

Also, I may or may not be leading a workshop next month. And I’m on a committee to find ourselves a fresh new professor. I just feel like things are moving, you know?

But back to the advice giving stint. So I repeat the same things over and over again, and it gets really tiresome. I mean, there’s only so many ways to explain the prerequisites, or lack thereof, to people, you know? And then the age old question, the question as old as time, the first question: Doctor who? What do you do with a BA in English? Well, if you’re lucky, you’ll be stood in a booth at an education fair and rattle off the same spiel about your curriculum to eight dozen people a day. Well, I mean… hope you’ll get into some sort of internship, get some sort of job using all your parents’ connections, actually, yeah, looking back taking a language course and studying law or economics would have been the better choice, but…

And now I’m crying, thanks a lot.

No, seriously, if you want to make your life an adventure, choose English. Getting a job will be your adventure. You’ll do battle with uppity bosses, uptight old fossils, rigid administration, you’ll traverse the fields of “not quite enough experience”, climb the mountain of “‘But everyone speaks English already!’ they say as they proceed to write ‘definitely’ as ‘defiently'”, meet the league of evil wizards who will curse you thusly: “‘But you didn’t study translation! We’d rather have someone who studied translation’ as they hire someone who thinks idioms are to be translated literally”. And many, many more!

But I can’t say any of that. Because I’m at work. I have to make this shit look worthwhile. All while feeling like a meandering fool and maybe I should have done something like office administration, which admittedly I would have had to start at age 15 because this is an old-fashioned country…

And those kids make me feel so old. Like, I didn’t know what the hell to do with my life at age 18. I couldn’t even find a successful way to end it. And then there are these bright-eyed young things who look twelve and arrive with their parents, and they ask me to divine their future career. Sorry, kiddo, this is Languages and Literatures, the fortune teller lady is down the hall and to the right.

Dammit, why couldn’t I have been a fortune teller and scam people?

And then of course there were the special cases. The special kind of wack job variety who should burn in the special hell of specialness. Because… oh dear… they are oh so special.

Let me set the scene. Friday, late afternoon. We are already fidgeting in hopes of going home, it’s only an hour until freedom and food and sleep. No one has come up to the booth in at least fifteen minutes. We start to relax. I’m sat out front at the desk together with a colleague from the comparative literatures department.

This fifty-something woman comes up. We do the hello-how-can-we-help-smile-smile-thing. Oh, how can we help indeed. “Well, my son is thirteen and he writes, he’s a great writer, he has always loved to write…”

You know how in movies they do this sound like a tape whirring to a halt, or a needle being taken off a record suddenly? I can hear this in my head right now.

First I think I misheard her. She definitely said seventeen. Maybe sixteen.

Nope. It’s thirteen. The kid is thirteen and loves to write and don’t we have a study program for that?

Lady. This is an education fair for people who are about to finish high school. This is Languages and Literatures. Creative Writing is not part of the menu. And even if it was, your kid is way too young. They’re doing something like that at the art academy, but… your kid is thirteen.

We say something akin to that, albeit a lot friendlier. Lady has that special kind of stare that bores into your soul until it finds the answer it wants to hear. We can’t give her what she wants. Hell, I don’t even know what the hell she wants! For us to pull a writing degree program out of our collective arse? Think we’re hiding the good degree courses in the back of the store?

Thankfully, I am called away to help someone else. Colleague is stuck and I feel sorry for her.

Lady leaves rather disappointed-looking after about, oh, fifteen minutes of back and forth. I mean… your kid is thirteen. He’s currently graduating in Excessive Masturbation. Also, you think his writing is great. He probably thinks so, too. My parents thought my writing was great. Everyone thinks their writing is great at thirteen because we never get any critical opinions. It’s called encouragement and it should die a slow and painful death. Also also, what the hell does your son even write? Is it anything worthwhile, or just erotic Sonic the Hedgehog fanfiction? And just because all the other thirteen year old perverts on fanfiction.net love to jack off to it, doesn’t mean your son’s the next J.K. Rowling.

After we recover from this nightmare, we receive a battalion of people over the weekend who are absolutely convinced that we only offer language courses. No. We don’t. Please don’t get pissed at us, we can direct you to the proper place!

Then there’s those fuckers whose kids are, again, so special the world just bends to their desires, or at least it should. Look here, Mistah and Missus Our-wealth-is-not-blatantly-compensating-for-our-lack-of-personality, there’s no need to look down your noses at us like that. Yeah, like that. You know what I mean. Yeah, that look. The look that says, “Well, if youre doing this, it can’t be that hard”. That fucking look. Well, excuse the hell out of me, guv’nor. I will point and laugh when your kid comes home crying because they failed the intro lectures.

And just like that, it’s Sunday. Last day! We gon’ get that money, money, money aaaaand we have to deal with Snotty McWasteourtime first. Snotty looks like Kylo Ren in blond. Snotty comes up, carrying a brochure for Physics, looks at the title of our booth with a look of pure patronizing judgement, and proceeds towards me: “So, what do you even do in a language degree program?” I rattle off my lines about how we study linguistics, literature, history, cultural studies…. Snotty looks at me like I’m speaking a rare dialect of Tibetan. “But do you study one language?” Depends on the degree, in English yes, it’s only English, but if you study Romance languages you choose one main language… Colleague from Romance languages department pipes up beside me: “For example, you could choose Spanish as your main language and French as your sec…” – “I had Spanish in school,” Snotty says in that tone that heralds to the world his disdain for us and everything we stand for, and also that he thinks we’re idiots to even answer his question. “Okay, great, would you like a brochure for our program?” – “No, I don’t want to study this.” And walks off. Thanks for wasting our time, I guess? Have fun finding a job with a physics degree, it’s not like you’re the next Einstein, you’ll be teaching fourteen-year-olds to build a battery for all eternity! …thus rang my silent curse.

And after all these trials and tribulations I am finally home in my pyjamas, in bed, with my laptop, where I belong, because fuuuuck the public. I’m never leaving this room again. Until tomorrow, anyway, because the next week of “you better wooooork” is about to begin.

Rant Day! Things Never Stopped Pissing Me Off, But I Forgot to Write Them Down!

Item 1: Welcome to grad school, where the rules are made up and deadlines don’t count. This whole MA thing might just take an entire year longer because they maybe won’t let me in the write-your-thesis seminar because I didn’t get a grade on one stupid other seminar in time. So fucking inflexible. But then I keep hearing stories that many girls just got in anyway, never mind that they were only halfway done with all their prerequisites. Look, I got everything done, I registered my topic, and I have a supervisor. Why can you never make an exception for me, huh?

Item 2: Had a very bad bout of depression about the state of women and the state of the world in general, and Boyfriend thinks I can’t read his thoughts. I know that he thinks its ridiculous, that’s why I don’t talk to him about it, even if he insists I talk to him about it. It’s not like he could solve the world for me. It’s not like he can even listen without an uncomfortable sigh or an interjection of “Well, men have it bad too, you know”. Yeah, well, that’s your own problem, isn’t it? Who’s creating problems for everyone?

Item 3: Boyfriend and my clothes. First it’s, “Are you wearing sweatpants?!” Yes. Yes, I am. We’re going to the grocery store, I’m not dressing up for that. It’s aisle 4 at the corner store, not the New York fashion week or some shit. Then later he said to me, “You could wear something like this sometimes” after seeing a woman presenter on TV in a dress. Okay, one: A guy who spent every day of the last thirty-odd years in jeans and t-shirts does not get to tell me how to dress. Two: Right, where? Am I going on TV? Am I getting paid? Do I get my own stylist? Are we going out? No, we never go out. So now I’m sitting here in my best red dress with all my jewellery on, and I’m playing Diablo III, and I’mma get my season char to level 70 before him. In style. Suck it, motherfucker.

Item 4: Overwatch is taking forever to get here, the alpha’s been out forever, come on, Blizz, I need something new to waste my life with!

Item 5: I’m so done with losing weight, I’m just going to pretend this is the fault of the Neanderthal DNA I no doubt carry in large quantities, they got a new study coming out in Bonn that Neanderthal DNA can influence your weight, maybe I should just send them a blood sample?

Item 6: I think I’m going to write a lengthy exposé about why school dress codes are fucking disgusting, because literally the only thing you’re teaching kids is that girls’ bodies are free to be policed by so-called ‘authorities’ at any and all points in their lives. So glad we don’t have this shit here, but who knows, stupidity is known to spread across the globe real fast.

Item 7: I’m not half as creative as I think I am, as evidenced by the fact that all porn parody titles I come up with already exist. Bet you didn’t know that “Whorrey Potter and the Sorcerer’s Balls” was a thing, eh? Apparently that one won an award.

Item 8: There’s an influx of graffiti in the ‘hood, so now I have to go out in the cold with my red pen and correct their spelling and grammar mistakes. Assholes. Everyone has a smart phone, but gods forbid they download a dictionary.

Item 9: So I looked at some what the facebook friends-of-friends promised me to be amusing pictures titled “Why my kid is crying”. Like the Queen, I was not amused. Most of the time I was thinking, Why are you snapping a picture when you should be slapping some sense into your dumb fucking kid? And that’s how I realised I’m still not ready for parenthood.

World’s Best Allrounder

If I had magical engineering powers, what would I build? Seriously?

A TARDIS, duh! Post’s over.

Oh, you wanna know why? Well, think for a minute, will ya? Sure, I could build a replicator to replicate food and other goods. OR I could go to a future where that already exists. Sure, I could build a robot servant. OR I could go to a time period where that’s already mainstream. Sure I could build a super fast quantum computer. OR I could pop into 2236 and try theirs.

I mean, I could also build a space ship… oh wait, I have one!

Or a time machine… oh wait, I have one!

Or a really big wardrobe that doesn’t take much space on the outside, oh hey, the Tardis’s got one.

Maybe some sort of magical laundry device, oh wait, we got one of those, too.

I guess I could just build something really impressive to steal your girlfriend, oh wait, I got a spaceship, chicks dig spaceships.

Literally, a Tardis is the only thing you’ll ever need, because the thing comes standard with so much technology and everything else will be invented eventually and somewhere, you just need to go there and get it. And avoid ill-tempered bastards in silly hats and robes while you’re at it.

Duh.

Introvert Truths

There is no such thing as too much alone time.

Dim lights are comforting, get over it. No, I don’t need more light in here.

Noise is the enemy. Not even necessarily loud ones, but quieter, persistent ones. Like people’s voices.

People are not evil. They don’t actually mean to hurt me or encroach on my boundaries deliberately (most of the time). They just can’t take a goddamn hint.

Introvert hints are so subtle, to other people they sometimes just look like blinking or breathing. This is a problem.

Social gatherings are not evil, but they’re overwhelming.

A minimum mental preparation time of no less than 12 hours is to be given before any form of social contact. This does not include sleep time.

Okay, 1,2,3,4, smile, say “Hello”, hand over card, pay, walk away calmly, heart rate is up, keep panic at bay, regulate breathing, don’t think about how you sounded when you just said “Hello”, just keep walking. Another successful interaction with a cashier!

Time to go to bed, or rather, time to replay every conversation of the day and agonize over how they could have gone better if I had just said something else/been funnier/been more confident/had not been in the middle of fleeing the building.

When used sparingly, Christmas lights will cheer you up.

Commenting on YouTube videos in your head counts as conversation.

Saturday night and we’re in the spot… on the sofa.

That moment when going into space and making contact with alien civilisations seems easier than leaving the house to buy milk.

More books than friends. More books than family members. More books than Facebook friend suggestions.

That moment when you buy something at a fancy, intimidating place and the guy at the counter was nice and you didn’t say anything stupid and inside you’re like: “I’M SO HAPPY, I CAN DO ANYTHING, I COULD PUNCH A BEAR, I COULD TALK TO A STRANGER ON THE BUS, GO ME, WOOOO!”