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.



So James Joyce, a Burnt Out Grad Student, and a Pair of Black Socks Walk Into a Bar…

Literally, my stat connection for this year so far reads like the beginning of a beer-fuelled joke. One that ends in something stupid, too, like “And then he says, ‘That’s not a duck’!”

Why were they successful, comparatively? Well, one thing: timing. Tuesdays are popular, somehow? Second: my tag game getting stronger.

Anything else? I dunno, topics? It’s not every day you see the late, not-so-great James Joyce getting slut-shamed by a big-mouthed grad student who’s in the midst of a slight breakdown after the umpteenth Joyce lecture complete with an interpretation of Ulysses. Actually, in hindsight, maybe the prof was just making all of it up on the spot because he secretly hates Joyce too and wants to discourage all the hopeful bright-eyed students from ever reading the damn thing. Certainly worked for me, kudos to you, sir.

Also… I just imagine I was not the only student struggling with a paper deadline in January and lengthily venting my frustrations, so I guess that’s why. Seriously, is there anything worse than writing a paper you don’t really want to write?

Actually, yes, there is. Writing a paper to impress your future thesis supervisor is definitely worse.

And the last one was a daily prompt that had nothing whatsoever to do with black socks despite that being the title, in which I wax less than poetically about my inability to communicate like a basic human. Again. But daily prompts have a large audience, so duh, numbers game.

Also, people keep clicking on my Tale of Two Titties post even thought it’s at least two years old by now. Which was also a daily prompt. With a pandering eye-catching, attention-grabbing, market-research-approved title. I dare you NOT to click. It’s not very good, anyway. Okay, so it has a couple of tits in it, but that’s REALLY NOT that interesting. Seriously, don’t click.

… you just clicked it, didn’t you? Bad reader!

NOT a People Person, Socks or No Socks

Okay, so first of all, “naked with black socks” describes my Boyfriend’s boudoir style perfectly. No, really. This man will get ready to go to bed, take off all his clothes… except his socks. And then he’ll walk around the flat, trying to find his phone, packing his work backpack, hunting for his sports newspaper… all while naked in black socks. It’s irritating and I’m always glad when he finally finds his pyjamas.

That being said…

The idea of talking to people at all, ever, in general, terrifies me. To the point where I get depressed when I have too much people contact. Happened to me just this week. I had an appointment with a professor to discuss a paper I had submitted, that same day I met my parents for dinner, then the next day I had another uni related thing. I almost started crying on public transport on my way home. No, it’s not rational. No, it doesn’t make sense to me, either. All I know is that always happens when I get too much sociality shoved at me. I have to time my entire social life around mental rest days, because otherwise I might make plans with people and on the day those plans are supposed to happen, even if I like the people involved, I feel like I’d rather nail my feet to the side of a moving car than to see any of those bitches.

Now put me in front of an audience.


Ironically, I was in a theatre group in high school. I never had problems on stage. Never forgot my lines. Never got stage fright. Probably because I wasn’t on stage as myself, but as someone else.

That’s why I hold presentations like I’m doing a stand-up routine. Relevant jokes and puns all planned. Three copies of notes. I used to be extremely intimidated by public speaking, to the point where I was literally shaking so much I lost grip on my cue cards. I started pretending I was playing a role to get over it.

I mean, my original strategy was drinking a tall glass of whiskey with a little whiskey and a shot of whiskey before I came up with this solution, but hey, I got there. Now when I have to talk in front of a crowd I get out there and I’m not myself. I’m a 2.0 version of myself, someone who has her shit together and can open her damn mouth without stuttering.

Problem is, I have to play this role all the time. All damn day. Being an actor is exhausting, we all read the interviews. Now imagine you can never get out of your role again, ever. I can’t be myself with people because Myself would rather book a shuttle to Mars, but then, even if you can book online something will go wrong and I’d have to call the travel agency, and then at the space port there’d be people checking my passport, and gaaaaaarrrrrrgggghhhh, you can’t escape people.

And everyone’s still complaining that I talk too fast. Yes, I’m talking fast, you know why, because my brain is trying to run away from you. It’s detaching itself from my brain stem as I speak and tries to squeeze out of my right ear. When you see me moving my head side to side it’s not because I’m giving emphasis to the joke I’m telling you, it’s to get my brain to stay put because if I don’t it’s going to be half-way to Mexico and you’ll be talking to zombie-me. Zombie-me is not what you’d call a good conversationalist.

Ironically, again, is that people often describe me as hilarious once they get me alone. I can be the life of the party, provided the party consists of three to eight people and I know everyone. And there’s not too much background noise. And I’m not tired. But when the moon’s just right and the stars align and all that, I’m apparently really entertaining and everyone is surprised. But I mean… I have to wait an appropriate twelve months before letting slip the hounds of weirdness. You can’t tell inappropriate and slightly kinky jokes to just anyone, you know, that would be rude.

I’m just waiting for humanity to climb the next rung on the evolutionary ladder and develop telepathy. That would be so much easier! Everyone could see clearly that my reclusive shut-in brain is scared of social interaction and they’d keep it brief. Maybe. Or maybe they’d just start singing terrible and catchy songs inside their heads to annoy me. And all their thoughts would make so much noise.

Dammit! You just can’t escape people. One-way ticket to Planet Nine, please.

Soul What?

Leaving aside for a moment the pressing question of whether or not a thing like the soul even exists in any scientifically tangible way…

How do I define soulmate? What kind of tired TV trope even is this ‘soulmate’ business?

Okay, so as far as my understanding goes, cultivated by abundant amounts of American movies, a soulmate is That One Person who just ‘Gets’ You (or anyway the person you end up with in act three of every romantic comedy after the Big Terrible Misunderstanding has been cleared up with minimal to zero effort). You know, that instant connection, something-meaningful-to-connect-two-people-for-the-rest-of-their-lives-and-no-one-else-can-ever-be-this-special kind of tired ass bullshit. It’s bullshit because every kind of media would have you believe that your soulmate absolutely has to also be your One True Love.

I like to call this the soulmate romance fallacy. Let’s try an example: Imagine you know this absolutely wonderful person, you’ve known each other for years, you just click, you can talk for hours, if you are apart for a while you fall right back into your old habits when you’re reunited, you have so many things in common, you’re a comfort to each other, you complement and complete each other, you stick to each other’s side in good times and bad alike. But you can’t be in a romantic relationship because you’re both women and heterosexual. Now what? Back to square one?

This obsessive tying of soulmateship and romance is what I see as the principle problem of the entire damn concept. Nothing about the suggestion that a soulmate is the person you like best and that you have the most in common with and that you get along with the best suggests an automatic romantic or sexual connection, yet this is probably the only kind ever to be portrayed in media. So, because I’m notoriously unromantic, I’ll give you some other possible scenarios:

1)Soulmate + Romance

a) You and your soulmate are in a romantic relationship. Everything’s fine, roll the credits.

b) You and your soulmate are in a romantic relationship, but it’s not going well. Despite your many similarities, your sleep schedules crash, you have different ideas what a commitment is due to your upbringing, and your levels of OCD when it comes to household cleanliness are not the same. So what do you do? Break it off like every other relationship that is not working out or stick with it because you feel obligated because after all, this is your soulmate and you’ve seen all the movies and know how it’s supposed to go? Are you still soulmates if you’re not together?

2) Soulmate + Unrequited Love

a) You found your soulmate. For whatever reason, however, you can’t be together. They’re in a relationship. You’re in a relationship. Maybe they’re gay. Maybe you’re not. Maybe you live half a planet away and only communicate online while both of you are happily coupled with someone else. Maybe you live next door but there just is no sexual attraction for any number of reasons. What do you do? Become romantically involved anyway, even though it will not work out?

b) You found your soulmate. You’re in love with your soulmate. They very much do not feel the same for you, even if you are their most important person, they just don’t feel that way about you. So now what? Do you remain friends? Do you get over it? Do you do the awkward fade out? Do you obsessively try to make them fall for you because after all, you’re soulmates? Maybe they are in a relationship with someone else, would you sabotage that so you can be together?

3) Soulmateship vs. The Infinite Irony of the Universe

a) You found your soulmate. But you are not this person’s soulmate. No one ever said soulmateship had to be a mutual thing.

b) Your soulmate was born in a different time than yours, either having died before you two could meet or they are yet to be born, probably when you’re dead.

c) What if your soulmate is not even a human being, but, say, a cat? One of the twenty five you own because you’re convinced you never met your soulmate and opted for the next best thing, namely dying a crazy cat lady/man death? Or maybe it’s a place, or an occupation, or a book, or a culture, or, dunno, horticulture?

d) Your soulmate was born in a different part of the planet, or even on a different planet, and you’ll never meet.

e) Your soulmate is a giant squiggly ten-eyed tentacled alien from planet Zoon but you’ll never find out because you two have absolutely no way of communicating with each other even if you do meet. Star-cross’d lovers indeed.

4) Soulmates and Numbers

a) Where is it set in stone that everyone gets only one soulmate? Who decided this? First door on the right, one soulmate each? I don’t think so. So you have one and then they die, then what? You can never have a soulmate again? You spend the rest of your live in sub-par relationships because, after all, they’re not your soulmates but merely props to fill the void in your sad trampled heeeeaaaarrrrrt, so they can’t possibly be as meaningful?

b) What if you have multiple soulmates at the same time? But not all of them are mutual? And not all of them are in your time or your planet? This is getting pretty confusing.

5) Extra Credit

You’re your own soulmate. Boom!

And that, in a nutshell, is why the entire idea of a soulmate is doomed from birth. Too many variables. Too damn complicated. Also, too damn clichéd, go back to watching The Notebook if that’s what you’re into. Your soulmate sure as hell isn’t.

Risky Business, Also Known as Daily Life

As a slowly recovering sociophobe (ignore your spell check, it’s a word), I take chances every damn day.

I mean, I guess the biggest chance ever to take was to get actual psychological help, which did not work out at all. But that’s a sad story and I’m not feeling it today.

So instead let me regale you with the fact that sometimes I get up, get ready, get my stuff, open the door…

… go “Nope” and head back inside.

Some days leaving the house is just not happening. I mean… people. Construction workers. Children. Parents with children. Dogs. Birds. Social interaction with cashiers and ticket inspectors and random weirdos and those elusive beings called acquaintances. Hundreds of thousands of people being carried through the public transport system like so much cholesterol in an American’s bloodstream. The noise of a million grunting voices, crying, yapping, tapping on their phones, the irregular tick-tock of two million shoes going in every direction and at every pace, all while you are trapped in the enormous body heat of a stuffed subway car like you were travelling through the bowels of some huge alien creature. Smells like it, too. And you want me to partake in all this? Nah.

So some days, I step outside, decide that ‘literally, I can’t even’, and go hide in my bedroom.

I’m absolutely convinced this is where this dreaded phrase comes from. You’re so paralysed with fear you can’t even finish the sentence. Your brain just shuts down from sensory overload.

But sometimes, you do have to go out. Yes, even me with my thorough calculations of how long I can put off buying toilet paper. There’s university, and grocery shopping, and going to the drug store for tampons, and visiting relatives, and a billion other things you just can’t avoid. And then you just have to brace yourself, give yourself a good mirror pep talk about how you are a kind and loveable and entirely normal not-at-all-weird-or-awkward person, and go.

And then your brain puts on the next horror show. Did I lock the door? better go check again. Did I close the windows? There’s scaffolding all over the place, anyone could climb in, better go check again. Did I lock the door again after I checked on the windows? Better go check. Wait, did I check the kitchen window? Wait, did I turn off the stove? Should I really leave the dryer running, I heard that can cause a fire. What if someone starts a fire in the basement again? What if I lose my keys? What if I lose my phone? Wait, where’s my pepper spray even? Wait, where’s my list? What if it rains, should I take an umbrella? What if it gets cold, should I take a jacket? Wait, what if someone breaks the windows and steals all my stuff?! Maybe I should hide everything I own real quick…

And all this just to take a ten minute walk to the post office.

I took a huge chance today by going to a job interview. Do you want my inner monologue?

Oh my god, they answered so quickly! Wait, does that mean they’re desperate? Does that mean their last assistant quit suddenly? Did someone die? That’s why you can’t ask why the position’s free, no matter what they tell you in those get-ready-for-your-job-interview articles, because it’d be super awkward. Wait, how many other candidates are there? Oh my god, I really don’t have much experience, what if they hire me and then I can’t do it? Oh my god, what do I say when they ask why I want this job, I can’t say “Because I’d be getting paid”! But literally, that’s the reason. What if they ask me what my dream job is, I can’t say ‘billionaire heiress’! But literally, that’s the truth. Oh my god, what if they don’t like me? What if they’re mean? What if they make a joke they think is funny but is actually really hurtful and/or offensive? It’s going to be 90 degrees out, what am I going to wear? What if they don’t have AC? Ahhhh… blouse. Okay. Should I do pants? I can’t do my suit pants, too hot. Should I do a skirt? Great, now I look like I’m going to boarding school. What are they wearing on their website? Is this more business casual or business professional? What if that’s just for the photos and they’re really like super relaxed? What if I look odd? What if they don’t like my nose? Or my voice? Or my accent? Oh my god, I can’t do this. You need a job, though. I can’t do this! You need a job, though! I’m not half as good as I don’t even think I am! You need a job, though. Okay, so I’m here, and they are super relaxed about clothes. And it’s a group interview. Aww, all the other girls are so much prettier than I am! And they’re younger, too! Argh, Jesus, there’s no way they’re going to take me, not with that girl over there, she’s probably perfect. Argh, why can’t I pretend I’m a smiley, happy person, why is my strict organiser showing?! They want an organiser, though. Who cares, no one ever cares how efficient I am because I’m not a pretty smiling-at-all-hours sort of person! I’ve resting bitch face! It’s my natural condition! My masticatory muscle is cramping from all the smiling, this is the worst thing ever! Actually, this interview wasn’t so bad. Yes, it was. Wasn’t. Was. They seemed to like you. Didn’t! I said a stupid thing. I said a lot of stupid things, actually. Argh, why did I even go? Because you need a job. What I need is being a normal person!

So, yes, I’m definitely taking chances. Chances of going absolutely insane. Thank you and goodnight, I’ll see myself in.

Tuesday at a Space Port Bar

Okay, so three people walk into a bar and recognize the bartender. “Here, I know you!”, says one of them. “You’re this joke! I’m your biggest fan!” This Joke is humbled and mumbles something about how nice it is to meet fans and then regales the three people with stories from when This Joke waited tables at the Last Supper because that’s how old it is.

So I’m filling in the blank… but in a different way.

Tuesday night, according to the chronometer; no point in trying to determine night or day in the endless dark of space through which the Kennedy Space Port twirled around New California in geostationary orbit.

Kennedy Verhoeven, who had heard absolutely every joke concerning both her first name and her work place, was tending the bar, wearing a pair of hologram glasses that made her look like Harra Lawrence in Gone Days because when she had woken up for work that day she had found herself disenchanted with both her wardrobe and her face. Not that anyone would have thought she actually was Harra Lawrence, because acclaimed 4D movie stars wouldn’t be caught dead mixing drinks in a third rate space port bar. Kennedy was also not exactly ecstatic about the prospect of sharing the shift with Jessa, who was a nice enough girl and an okay waitress but who had the annoying habit of relating boring pieces of celebrity gossip every time she returned to the bar for orders, as if she had to bargain for her customer’s drinks offering Cynthia Zottegem’s pregnancy rumours in exchange.

The crowd was normal sized for a weekday, two or three early drunks, a couple Earth soldiers breaking curfew (which meant that at any minute now a higher-up from the army might come barging in to verbally cut them back down to size, and Kennedy had already readied her microcam to record it for her blog), a few business people, haggard-looking, waiting for their next flight to be ready for boarding, the rest station workers come in for after work drinks that somehow always got prolonged. There were a couple shady figures floating around or seated in the corners, but that was to be expected.

Three newcomers approached the bar, two guys and a girl, none of them could be even in their mid-twenties yet. So much for tips, she thought as she sauntered over.

“Well, that didn’t work,” she overheard one of the guys say. Then the other one piped up.

“Hey, Harra Lawrence! What’s a guy gotta do to get a drink around here?”

“Say please, for once,” Kennedy shot back.

“Shut up, Drew, Christ, can’t take you anywhere,” the other guy said, evidently the older one of the two. “What’ll twenty credits buy us?”

“Andalusian beer,” Kennedy said and meant it.

“Andalusia on Earth or Andalusia the moon?”


“Damn. Guess it’ll have to do. Two Andalusian beers, please.”

The young man named Drew meanwhile was busy harassing the girl they had come in with, who was busy checking something on her computer screen. “C’mon, Marnie, you can’t let us drink alone. What’ll you have? D’you have any money left?”, he added hopefully.

“Go away, Drew, busy,” the young woman said, typing something.

“This guy bothering you?”, Kennedy asked, one eyebrow raised.

“Yeah, since birth. His birth that is.” She slipped her computer inside her coat pocket and tapped the bar twice for the drinks menu to light up. “Art, Drew, you guys get a table or something, I’ll be a while.”

Kennedy brought their beers, received no tip, and watched them disappear to a table near the stairs. “What’ll it be?”, she asked the girl, idly giving the bar a quick sweep and wondering why the young brunette was hanging out with two idiots like that.

The girl, Marnie, looked around quickly, then back to the menu as if indecisive. “I got a hundred.” She slipped a credit chip out of her pocket.

“Coma’s not on the menu.”

“Is enlightenment?”

Kennedy started polishing a glass as if she wasn’t even talking to the other woman. “Maybe. What d’you want?”

“Know anyone in here interested in some merchandise? Tax-free, y’know.”

Kennedy glanced to the side. “Leather jacket at the other end of the bar.”

“What’s their drink? Can you send them one from me?”

Under the dish towel Kennedy rubbed her thumb and forefinger together in the international sign for ‘motivate me’.

“Christ. Twenty.”



“Done,” Kennedy said, pocketing the credit chips.

Kennedy knew the drinker with the leather jacket, came in here most nights, nursed her gin for an hour at least, tipped regularly if not exactly generously, but you didn’t work in a bar like this without picking up on some things. She put a fresh glass of gin in front of leather jacketed arms. “Greetings from the brunette,” she said briefly, cocking her head in Marnie’s direction.

Leather Jacket looked at the bartender, then at the girl at at far side of the bar, with a face so nondescript and common it might have been the result of hologram glasses because this level of average could just not be real. “I’m a married woman,” she said, sounding just the slightest bit sarcastic.

“Not that kinda drink,” Kennedy whispered before walking away to the shelves and pretending to be busy with the order screen. She could hear Marnie move over to Leather Jacket and some snippets of quiet conversation between the two business women. She decided that this had probably been the highlight of her shift and it wasn’t even halfway through.

Business was picking up at the bar. A shuttle arrived outside, bringing in a dozen or so passengers waiting for their connection flight, followed by a throng of late-shifters from the docks. Jessa barely managed to get a sentence in about Ron Fischer’s new hair cut which even holo glasses couldn’t fix.

Kennedy spent a good ten minutes trying to divine the order of an attaché to the Andalusian ambassador, but they managed, communicating mainly through the use of gesture, two arms on one side of the bar and five on the other. Jessa chimed in with news about Esla Chang and her plans to adopt all the poodles on Mars according to The Star, a newspaper which wasn’t what anyone with a functioning brain would call a reliable source and which Jessa read religiously.

The crowd thinned again with the next ship announcement. It left in its wake a the regular scattering of people. A small man in a suit was leaning against the bar on one elbow and started to snore; the army boys were still at their table and disappointingly no one came to rouse them and drag them back to their barracks ship; a woman with a briefcase and black tie was drinking like the world was going to end without showing any sign of the effects of alcohol.

“You sure you want another?”, Kennedy asked cautiously.

“Yeah, one for every idiot I had to meet today,” Black Tie said, sounding so sober it was scary.

“Riiight.” Kennedy delivered the drink and fled to the other end of the bar where Jessa nattered on about the many love affairs of New Punk idol Jimmy Phan. Kennedy nodded absently; that just wasn’t right, being sober after six whiskeys. Did this woman have the implant or something?

At this point, Marnie’s brothers came trudging back to the bar and joined the girl; Leather Jacket had apparently left. “… that’s how you do it, you idiots. I swear, if we didn’t share genetics…” Kennedy heard her say, with the tone of someone who knew all too well that they were the one who inherited the family’s supply of brains.

The chronometer chimed to let Kennedy and Jessa know to get their tails out of the place and clock out because the boss would rather get bitten by an Andalusian than pay overtime. Parvati, Jo, and Luke arrived on time to take over and after some polite small talk Kennedy was out on the halls, pursued by Jessa.

“What says we drive into town tomorrow?”, she twittered cheerfully. “Do a real girls’ day! Brunch and all.”

“Sure,” Kennedy said, knowing she would regret it, while planning out her next Confessions from the Space Port blog entry in her head. “Your sister coming, too?”

“I’ll message her. Y’know, you should really upload Yvette Coa on your glasses, she’d suit you.”

“Uh-huh.” Maybe a good way to spend some of her new hundred-and-fifty.

Snooorrrrrrrre: Confessions of a Secret Frequent Sleeper*

*in Metropolis because obscure song references are kinda my thing.

Actually, sleep is the weirdest thing ever. I mean, you lie down in a darkened room for hours, near-comatose and wildly hallucinating. And we have an extra room just for being comatose and hallucination. And an extra piece of furniture. And special clothing.

If you had to explain to someone who’s from a species that doesn’t sleep what sleep is you’d sound completely mad. “So… you’re telling me humans put on their special sleep clothes and go into their special sleep room, lie on a sleep slab and then just… what?”

Yeah, what?

Scientifically, sleep is very interesting, mostly because you can’t explain it. No one actually knows why we sleep, but most species on this planet do it. It’s useful for a number of things, that’s true. Relaxation. Improved healing. Slowed metabolism so you don’t starve while putting in your eight hours of hallucinating. You also go crazy if you don’t sleep. But all evidence to date seems to point to one simple answer: you fall asleep because you are tired. And then what? You also wake up tired, wanting nothing more than to go back to sleep instead of slugging over to your work place in your special work clothes with the biggest cup of choice caffeine known to humankind in hand.

So no one knows why we do it. We don’t have sufficient data to say if other species on other planets do it. All we know is: sleep is fucking awesome! Why else would you spend a third of your day in your sleep slab? It’s like holidaying with your brain. Granted, your brain can be fucking terrifying at times (killer clown in the tool shelf level of terrifying), but nevertheless.

Sleep is so important a huge part of our culture revolves around it. There is an entire industry dedicated to making mattresses and pillows and bed sheets. Articles over articles that tell you in five easy steps how to sleep better. Get more sleep in less hours! Pulled an all-nighter? When you’re over 25? You’re so badass! How are you not dead? Sleep is the first thing that gets axed when there is a lot of stuff to do and it always involves this great personal sacrifice because everyone knows that insufficient sleep is unhealthy. You sacrifice sleep, then you sacrifice food, it’s like paying tribute to an ancient god. One in a suit who holds your paycheck hostage, but nevertheless.

Personally, I love sleep. Forget about sleeper agents, I’m a sleeping agent. But I’m really bad at it. I’m an insomniac, for one, I cannot fall asleep before midnight, for another. It takes me hours to fall asleep. But when I sleep, I sleep. No alarm clock? See you in ten… hours. Or twelve. Better make it twelve. Nap? Hah, good one. I can’t take 20-30 minute naps like normal people. Not even 90 minute ones. Nope. I nap 3 hours or not at all. Why? Dunno. If I lie down in the afternoon I know I won’t see anything but whatever my crazy brain is cooking up until evening. I can’t lie down for 20 minute because 20 minutes turn into two hours, then I check the time, think “Fuuuuuck” and fall back into the pillows because 1) I’m tired as all hell, 2) it’s so fucking late anyway, why bother getting up?

Then of course there’s the entire waking up part, which is gruesome, because 1) NOISE!, 2) my brain always wakes up first but the body is somehow lagging behind. Like, I’m already making a list in my head, or planning a short story, or just having very deep and meaningful thoughts that may or may not involve donuts, but my body is like… “Okay, inventory: left arm, check. Right arm, check. Head, check, because the fucker is babbling again. Breasts, two, check. Stomach, check, empty. Bladder, check, full. Spleen, check, still there. Liver, check, whatever happened there? Left leg, check. Right leg… wait a minute… oh, there you are. Check. You can open the eyes, Jim. Jim? Oi, Jim! Dammit, can’t get any decent help around here these days, now I have to open them manually *exit stage left while muttering expletives*”

Or that’s how I imagine it anyway because by the gods if it doesn’t take me forever to physically get up. If I do end up sleeping I’m gone. If someone put a do-not-resuscitate order on me, I could take a nap and wake up in a morgue, scare the crap out of some pathologist. Might as well send a rescue team with emergency caffeine. Or just keep me from sleeping.

Seriously though, I woke up once to my care assistant soon-to-be-nurse Boyfriend checking my pulse. That’s how I sleep, motherfuckers. You think this is a game?

Is There Even One Chore I Like?

No, there isn’t, otherwise it wouldn’t be called a chore. Oh for life to be like an MMO! Move your hands over the fire and tada, food! Hack at some rock and receive ore. Twiddle your hands again to make clothes. Oh to carry a wand and not a broom!

Now there’s nothing intrinsically wrong with chores. After all, eliminating bacteria from your living environment is a good thing. But then again, it’s wooooork. I mean, who actually likes scrubbing toilets? And I’m sure only very specialised perverts like taking out the trash. And worse than the fact that it’s work, there’re the people who share your living space who seem to be on a constant mission to thwart your efforts. So let’s rank things according to groan-worthiness.

11. Laundry. Ranked lowest because I have a washerdryer I bought myself because fuck everyone, there’s no room for a decent dryer in my house and I’m not hanging things out to dry. Can’t get a decent load of laundry hung up on a drying rack.

10. Dishes. We have a dishwasher. I insisted we get a dishwasher when we moved in here. I fought tooth and nail because everyone told me, oh but you’re only two people. I said, you’re right, and got the dishwasher anyway. Early in our relationship Boyfriend and me decided that dishes should be his chore. And of course nothing ever got done because Boyfriend can be a lazy sack o’ something and the only way he ever did the damn dishes was by being nagged to almost-death. So I put my foot down and said, dishwasher. Thinking of course that this would free him up for additional chores so I didn’t have to do everything. Did that work? Nope. And as if to mock me he always, with military precision, puts his dishes on top of the dishwasher instead of taking the five seconds to open the damn thing and putting the dishes inside.

9. Kitchen cleaning. I usually wipe the kitchen counter any chance I get. Put something in the oven? Perfect time for a wipe. Put something in the microwave? Let’s see how clean I can get this sink in 60 seconds. Now wiping the fronts of cabinets, that’s a real chore. And one reserved for spring cleaning.

8. Taking out the trash. Now this is also one of Boyfriends chores and also involves a lot of nagging. Why nagging? Because a friendly “Could you please take out the kitchen trash when you leave for work tomorrow?” is always met with a groan of agony like I just asked him to get me peaches from Tibet.

7. Dusting. This is annoying because I have to do it every second day because I’m allergic. Of course being allergic doesn’t make it easier to dust. A couple times a year, usually somewhere around a holiday, I bite the proverbial bullet, get out the ladder and even dust in places my 5’4” ass usually can’t reach.

6. Changing bedsheets. I don’t know what it is with changing bedsheets and covers but I find it supremely annoying and time-consuming. Like I have to take everything off the bed, get the new covers, strip the old covers off, put the new covers on, take the old sheet off, put a new one on, then make the bed, then put everything that was on it on it again.

5. Bathroom cleaning. Who even invented shower cubicles and who decided they should be so difficult to keep clean? Also, why is there beard hair all over the damn place? I can have the bathroom spotless by mid-afternoon and by 6 pm at the latest it will be ruined again because Boyfriend showers and somehow manages to flood the room and get hair from various parts of his body all over everything.

4. Ironing. It’s not really the ironing itself, because I’m actually pretty fast. I can get two loads of laundry ironed and folded in an hour. What I don’t like about it is the fact that, because I usually iron on the weekends, Boyfriend just sits around in the same room, playing on his computer, leisurely as you please, while I have to do manual work that makes me feel like such a housewife. Dammit, I want some free weekend, too, dammit!

3. Groceries. One, everything is expensive as hell and I get severely depressed each time I see the numbers at the checkout. Two, so I make a list. A nice comprehensive list that takes into account this weeks meal plan as well as the kitchen inventory I did not half an hour before leaving the house. Then Boyfriend keeps putting things in the cart that aren’t on the list. And then I have to argue. I don’t like that. Just keep to the list.

2. Vacuum cleaning. The vacuum cleaner is heavy. I don’t like dragging heavy things around, especially not if they snag on every damn corner or door or whatever is lying on the floor again that I didn’t put there. And I always have to change the front part for another because someone decided you can’t vacuum furniture with the normal part. And then I lean the whole thing against a wall or something and it won’t stand still for one goddamn second and falls on my foot.

1. COOKING! OMG, nothing I hate more! Do people who don’t cook even realise how much mental effort goes into cooking? It’s small wonder I suffer from decision fatigue. Like, you have to budget. You have to make a more-or-less plan for an entire week because shit you have other things to do when you get home besides deciding what you’ll eat today (you know, like laundry and vacuum cleaning because ain’t no one gonna help you). You have to buy groceries accordingly and hope to heaven or hell that the thing you bought on Friday that’s supposed to be good for a week will not have gone bad by Monday. Then you have to consider all the other people who’re gonna eat the same thing. And then you cook, you chop your veggies, you agonize over too crisply cooked meat, you feel guilty because this meal is not entirely in line with your diet and you really need to lose weight and why do humans even have to eat? And then you serve and it takes forever to get the people who live with you to abandon their digital devices and come tot he table, and then they don’t like it. And then they don’t feel like it. And then they’d rather have something else, like X, you didn’t make X in a while. And this has to be done every day, over and over and over, until you finally snap, reach for the steak knife and stab your way into the history of great criminal cases.

And I don’t even have kids. Guess I better keep it that way.

The Day Someone Made a Conscious Decision to Put Nipples on Mannequins

Oh, to be a shameless and unseen eavesdropper. The places I would be in! Let me count ’em all! I would love to be a fly on the wall…

  • When it was decided to put nipples on mannequins. That didn’t just happen. Someone made a conscious decision to put nipples on mannequins.
  • When someone decided to put nipples on the bat suit in Batman and Robin. That also didn’t just happen.
  • When someone decided to make Batman and Robin.
  • When that James person decided to actually sell her Twilight fanfiction.
  • With whoever decided to name a character Mr Sinister. Extra silly name even by X-Men standards. Same with Sinister Six, I mean just go the whole 500 yards and name your group the Evil League of Evil.
  • When Tinder was invented. “Hey, I have a great business idea! Let’s create a thing that helps people find a shag! I volunteer myself for the first test rounds!”
  • When someone looked at a camera and was like, “You know what? I’m going to use this astounding new technology to film people during coitus!”
  • At the set of the Anaconda video.
  • When the first codpiece was invented.
  • When this guy was painting because I’m pretty sure he was high as a kite all of the time.
  • After every job interview I ever had, I want to know what you bitches are saying about me!
  • Same goes for ever application I ever sent anywhere.
  • When this particular call to the fire brigade happened.
  • Actually, just put me on the wall of any emergency room on a weekend because this kinda shit just happens waaaay too often. “It’s kind of a long story…” – “There’s a halibut up your butt.” – “Yes, well, as I said, it’s kind of a long story…”
  • When Ben Franklin decided to go kite-flying in a storm. “I have the best idea ever!”
  • When Ching Shih decided to show everyone how to do this whole pirate thing.
  • When food bloggers take their pictures. I’m sure the food gets cold in the process. Or is there a magic trick?
  • When corsets were invented because I’m pretty sure the inventor was a mortician. “You know what’s sexy? Girls not breathing!”
  • When Nyan Cat happened. “Let’s put a rainbow cat and some annoying music together! We’ll troll the entire online world!”
  • The first time a horse was ridden by a human. Horse must’ve been like, “The fuck is this hairless ape doing, off!”
  • To find out what really happened when Mary Shelley got the idea for Frankenstein.
  • When Hannibal was like, “Yeah, drag the elephants up the mountains, that’ll show those Romans!”
  • When the first blow-up doll was produced. “Can’t get a date? Now you can, just take a deep breath.”
  • When the stage-manager read through the script: “What do you mean, ‘exit pursued by a bear’? You want to get a real bear? Will, you’re nuts!”
  • Hypothetically, in the Tardis when the Doctor, any incarnation, is alone aboard because I have the sneaking suspicion they’re all doing the dance scene from Risky Business when no-one’s watching. Or at least I hope so because it would be awesome.
  • And while we’re at it, can I be a fly on the wall when the first aliens discover life on planet Earth?

So a Pirate, a Space Cowboy and a Dalek Walk Into a Bar…

I forgot the rest of the joke.

Buuuut I got another! So a pirate walks into a bar with a steering wheel stuffed down his pants. The bartender says, “Hey, pal, doesn’t that hurt?” and the pirate says, “Yarr! It’s drivin’ me nuts!”


Okay… Knock-knock! – Who’s there? – Chu. – Chu Who? – What are you, a train?!

Still not?

Okay, uh… oh, here’s one my Hungarian grandma used to tell. Hope the punchline doesn’t get lost in translation: So there’s a huge party going on at a farm in Hungary. At some point the stone-drunk maidservant stumbles out of the house for some fresh air. After a while she wants to go back in, but loses her way and ends up in the cowshed where, drunk as she is, she falls under a cow and falls asleep. She wakes up several hours later, looks up and says: “Gentlemen, please! One at a time!”

Ta-da! Okay, admittedly, it’s funnier when a 90 year old drunk Hungarian tells it. At Christmas.

Everything I know about humour I was taught by Monty Python, Michael Mittermeier and George Carlin. I must’ve been a subpar student, though, because I’m not really good at telling jokes. I’ve been told I’m funny, but I don’t usually walk around with a routine prepared. Nope. Jokes, puns and innuendos should be spontaneous. Depending on the crowd, this can be super easy. Like when you’re in a group of people who still have the sense of humour of thirteen-year-olds and absolutely everything suddenly becomes a sexual joke. A simple “put it in” or “put it there”, even with no penis around for a hundred miles, will suffice.

Aaaand of course, the minute someone asks me to tell a joke or an anecdote, I forget every funny thing that I said, ever. And what everyone else said, ever. I mean, usually when I visit my parents we’re a laugh a minute because we’re all secretly hilarious. When I was younger I used to write everything down, but now I can’t even remember things for long enough to do that. All I know is that people laugh a lot when I say anything. Maybe it’s just because I’m really mean and everyone thinks I’m joking.

I’m really good at telling other people’s jokes, though. I can quote Monty Python at you all day long! When I poke you with cushions you know what’s up! I know the Ballad of Brave Sir Robin by heart and I sing it every now and again. Same with the Viking song from the Spam bit. And the Fisch Schlapping Song from Spamalot.

I’m told it’s really annoying.

I mean, what is a good joke? Well, for one thing, nobody expects a good joke. Its chief weapon is surprise, surprise and astonishment, its two weapons are surprise and astonishment, and misleading expectations, its three weapons are surprise, astonishment, misleading expectations and sometimes a complete disregard of social norms and reality, its four, I’ll come in again.

Ahem. Nobody expects a good joke. Amongst its weaponry are such elements as surprise, astonishment , misleading expectations, sometimes a complete disregard of social norms and reality and the words knock-knock, oh damn.

Okay, so maybe I’m not that funny. Not on demand, at least. Let’s leave it to the experts, shall we?

Why aren’t you laughing? It’s funny, I tell ya!