Why Gallows Humour Will Keep Me Alive Until 98

The other day I saw a tramway decorated with Christmas lights, a Christmas wreath and a big bow in front. Just driving around, content as you please, with some people on board who seemed to be having themselves a glorious time. And the first thing that popped into my mind was, I want that for my funeral. Party train! All the way to the cemetery! Put a table cloth on my coffin and use it as a buffet table! Beat that for a wake!

My former therapist would remind me that planning elaborate funerals for myself is neither normal nor conducive to my mental health. I have another theory about my funeral obsession: If I plan it in a way that makes me sorry I’m going to miss it – you know, by being all dead and stuff – this will convince my jerkbrain to stay alive through sheer stubborn bloodymindedness. I see my therapist wagging his finger at me as the train goes past, but what does he know?

Anyway, it’s almost midnight, I went to bed two hours ago in a heroic attempt to get a decent night’s sleep because I have an important presentation tomorrow, and here I am, wide-eyed as a marigold. Oh, who cares about presentations? Who cares if I look like an extra from The Walking Dead and sound like one, too? It’s my own stupid fault anyway because I made the mistake of reading. Reading before going to bed! That thing people do to fall asleep! But somehow reading doesn’t make me sleepy, reading recharges me. Even if it’s reading for class. Boring reading. Oh, when will I learn?

It’s all because I went to bed at 10 pm. I’m my own Dorothy Parker now. If only I’d learned from her example, I’d have known that nothing good ever comes from that. Then I wouldn’t be in this mess right now, typing away at almost midnight. Reason, prudence, common sense that tell you to get a solid eight – what have they done for me lately?

Well, it’s not just the reading. The stress might have something to do with it. Presentations are stressful. And everything else in life, too. But the night before the performance, that’s so me! And yes, a presentation is a performance. If you can perform gender, you can perform being a normal human. And there’s the wagging forefinger again. Yes, yes, it doesn’t do to sort people into ‘normal’ and myself into ‘not normal’. No matter how true it is in practice. But what does the old quack know, anyway? If this whole therapy thing had been any good I wouldn’t be in this mess right now  at 11:40 pm when all the decent people are just heading out the door.

If I fall asleep right now I still get seven hours. That’s a big If. Almost as big as the joke I’ve got planned for my cremation. It all depends on whether or not I can convince someone to hide five pounds of popcorn kernels in my coffin.

Again with the funerals. Yes, yes, I shouldn’t. But what can I do? It’s what I think about when I’m stressed. I’m not suicidal; I think. To use the words of an ex-friend, if I was really suicidal I’d be dead. Either way, no one inherits anything unless I get a train to chug-a chug-a me over to my semi-eternal resting place. And whoever does the best locomotion at the reception gets the good silverware. If I have any good silverware, that is.

Dorothy Parker would just get up and read her head off. Then again, I’m pretty sure she also drank herself to death. Maybe I should do that. But booze is costly, like… really now. I got my dad some fine whisky for Christmas because the man’s a connoisseur, or whatever that godawful French word is for people who like expensive stuff once in a while. Spell-check will tell me. Ah, there it is. And I spent an ungodly amount of money on just two bottles. I mean, I suppose if you die penniless that’s just excellent financial planning, but still. What if I’d need an emergency bottle of whatever I’m drinking myself to the pearly gates with? And you can’t drink yourself to hell on cheap booze. That’s just not classy. Who ever heard of someone dying from Heineken, or Bud Light, or Eristoff Ice? No, no, no, it has to be the fancy stuff. Otherwise it’s just sad. Death shouldn’t make you sad, that’s what taxes are for.

Maybe I should try for those seven hours. Or a bit less than seven now. Maybe my upstairs neighbour should get their bladder checked, because they always get up to pee at the exact same time each night. Thin goddamn walls. I wonder if they can hear me type. Are they thinking about their funerals, too? They should, because I’m calling dibs on the train.

I suppose I’ll just leave ol’ Dorothy here for other sleepless minds to read (or people in the southern hemisphere who are wondering why I’m talking about midnight at, like, noon.): “I might repeat to myself, slowly and soothingly, a list of quotations beautiful from minds profound; if I can remember any of the damn things.”

You tell ’em, Dot. Now, post this or sleep on it? Reason, prudence and common sense are sitting in the corner, drinking fizzy water and shaking their maiden-auntly heads. Eh… I’ll just smash my face into the touch screen and see what happens. And then I’ll try to get some 6 and a half hours. Maybe.


What Day Is It? Monday? Better Do A Freewrite, Then.

You might have noticed that I’ve been curiously absent for a bit.

Well, a bit. A week. Well, a week is a bit.

Rest assured it wasn’t on purpose. Well… maybe a bit. Well, actually not. You ever get so tired you go to bed at 9 pm? That thing you haven’t done since you were eight years old? Yup.

So this job training thing went well, actually. I learnt stuff. I love learning stuff! Give me more stuff I can learn! So now I’m just waiting for them to send me a piece of paper that says, yes, you can edit other people’s shit now. I mean, I’ve edited other people’s shit before but I never had a piece of paper that actually said I could. So if anyone needs an editor, I’m looking for paper-approved work experience. And money. Bummer, right?

My life would probably be easier if I had a useful talent, like cooking, or fixing stuff, or a knack for people. As it is, my biggest talent is finding mistakes other people made. Which also explains the history of my love life, ba-dum-TSS!

My other talent is making horrible jokes.

This Pringles can keeps falling out of my hand as I type this, which is probably the universe’s way of trying to keep me from consuming even more calories. I generally eat too many carbs and too much unhealthy shit, why, because I’m stressed, I’m tired, food makes me happy, and because I bloody well can. Still don’t understand how we as a species can go about planning life-long Mars missions, yet somehow we don’t have some sort of pill that makes your body reject calories. What’s the deal, science? At least make salad taste like cake.

Ugh, salad. I still can’t eat salad. I don’t know how other people do it. It’s water held together by chlorophyll. And it’s bitter tasting. How? How you do eet?! Isn’t the bitterness a sign that you should not eat it? And how many vitamins can possibly be swimming around in all that water anyway?

I’m kinda through believing all that shit about being healthy anyway, mainly because it never seems to work for me. There was a time (barely a year ago, actually) when I worked out five times a week and through a feat of barely imaginable, not to mention barely manageable, strength of will cut down on carbs and didn’t eat chocolate or sugar besides what you might find in fruit. Did I have more energy? Nah, I was just tired all the time. Did I feel better? Nope, just miserable. Was my skin better? Hell no. Good on you if you can make that shit work, I can’t. And anyway, no one in my family ever worked out regularly or ate five servings of vegetables every day, and so far no one died under the age of 90, with the exception of skinny-as-a-twig grandpa who loved hiking and who had a fatal heart attack at age 80. So, in short, I think I’ll live.

Really, the only reason I even kinda sorta watch my weight is because I don’t want to go clothes shopping again. Shopping is stressful. I love having new things, but I don’t love the process of acquiring new things.

You know what else sucks about clothes? Pitiable lack of pockets. Every item of clothing should come with at least one big pocket. This is the 21st century, goddamn, I need to put my phone somewhere! Until humans develop technology holding pouches on our bodies, you’ll just have to give us pockets!

That’d be great, though, pouches…

Ugh, better get back to work. So much stuff to write, still.

Manic Monday, Freewrite Monday

So it’s Monday and it’s also a public holiday which means I’m here, stuck at home, feeling bludgeoned by all the things that need doing. When I grew up free days where for doing all the things that you didn’t get around to during the week. I’m still in this habit, and then I’m surprised when I don’t feel relaxed and rested even after a long weekend because I feel like I did nothing in particular anyway; I was just at home, staying in, working on half a million projects. But it’s not like I have a choice, I mean, I still have two presentations to prepare, and each has me less than enthusiastic, but I complained about that on Friday already.

This morning I sent out my application for a postgraduate programme for library science, which is a relatively new thing in my country which is why they only take like 40 people each year. Yes, 40 people. Apparently no one needs librarians. And this programme targets people who already are librarians. Wish I had known what I wanted to be at 14, then I could have just taken on an apprenticeship, but who the hell knows what they want to do for the rest of their life at 14? Our job system is so old it’s not even funny. Like, it’s from a time when people died at 50 and just did the same job their parents or other relatives did.

I think this whole idea of having one job your entire life is just not feasible anymore. People of my generation have a life expectancy of 85 and a shaky prospect of receiving any sort of pension. Most companies don’t even last 85 years long anymore.

I sent the application with my eyes closed. I always do that with important mail, close my eyes and hit sent, like I’m hitting the big red button on a cartoon bomb, only it feels like dropping an h-bomb on my life.

My mind is so frazzled this week I wrote down my to-do lists on three different mediums because I’m scared of forgetting absolutely everything. It’s probably to do with the migraine. Really scared of early onset alzheimer’s though. Being forgetful and disorganised just shouldn’t happen at my age. Not without the help of alcohol, at least.

Maybe it’s because it’s a public holiday and Boyfriend has been home all weekend. And today. And will be tomorrow. Which means I don’t get to be alone as much as I’d like. Which is bad, because too much social interaction does horrible things to my easily overwhelmed brain. My brain is like a toddler, it needs quiet time or it goes crazy.

Also, social interaction. I should be more social, so I don’t go another kind of crazy, but no one wants to be social with me. At the moment, it’s easier to get a doctor’s appointment settled than a meet-up with any of my friends. One just up and left the country for a few weeks. Another is always busy, then when we finally schedule something cancels at the last minute. None of them use any form of social media (and yes, they’re my age), so staying in touch is actually only possible via text. Why do I always have to text y’all bitches anyway if you won’t text back, anyway?

Blergh. Mondays are hard and depressing. Who invented those things anyway?

Also, there’s construction work going on at my building and I have to navigate in a sort of zig-zag pattern just to get to my front door. This is annoying.

Okay, twenty minutes are up and back to work I go.

My right mouse button seems to be broken. This is also annoying.