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.

Tired, Tired, Tired, Tired, Tired, BTW I’m Doing a Freewrite, Tired

You don’t need to be Bruce Springsteen to be nothing but tired (whaddup, ancient song reference!). When I think about all the uni work I have to do I freeze. I mean, the inevitable deadline stress will, in all likeliness, kick my brain into gear just in time, because I work better under stress even if I feel like dying. Works every time. It’s kind of worrisome.

Then there’s the topic of supervisor and how everyone freezes in terror likewise when confronted with a topic that isn’t Shakespeare, isn’t British culture, and isn’t applied linguistics. Sorry, people who are much farther ahead in academia than me, I ain’t doing boring topics. Had enough of those as a lowly undergrad. And as a lowly grad, too, to be honest. But we’re not going into that.

I don’t understand how a single person can feel so stressed out when there’s objectively speaking not so much to do. I mean, there’s uni work, and then there’s chores, with a minuscule sprinkling of actual work in between. So… how is that stressing me out? I mean, I’m definitely not getting enough sleep. That’s one thing. And I dunno, I mean, academic writing on literature is at least a half-creative task (mostly because bullshit takes time to come up with) and you can’t rush creative shit. Half creative because you have to stick to a certain register, jargon, and layout, but you also can’t write the same style sentence fifteen times in a row. And you can’t start sentences with ‘and’, not even if it would make everything easier. You can’t just line up quotes, which is basically all you do anyway, but still you can’t. You can’t just not quote, because this isn’t the 1700s anymore, you can’t just have original thought if not at least two other people had the same thought within the last 15 years (otherwise the source is too old, which by implication means your thought is too old). You can’t just say there’s this thing, and this thing, and this thing and because of all the things there is that thing. You suddenly find yourself writing items such as ‘therefore’ and ‘furthermore’ and ‘moreover’ and ‘theretofore’ (I’m not even kidding, and I swear that’s not even a real word.) It’s all patently unnecessary, says I, long-term lover of terribly long words as long as I have spell-check, and we’re bullshitting each other in amicable agreement.

That’s a lot of hating on academic writing. I usually like that shit. But there’s such a thing as too much of a good thing (again with the things, there’s too many things). Why couldn’t I have been a milkmaid? Oh right, because I’m allergic to cows and milk and hay and nature in general. Also, that’s not a proper job title anymore. I wonder if they call it lactic specialist now. If they can call a janitor ‘surface technician’ it’s not that big of a step.

No, really. ‘Oberflächentechniker’. It’s a thing. It’s the thing about German, you can make anything sound super serious. In English you have to work a little for it, throw in some Latin. Like I once advised my mom to call herself not a housewife but a self-taught, self-employed domestic management specialist.

Academic writing is a lot like this. Take a concept, throw some fancy sounding words at it. That’s all there is to it, really. It’s surprisingly difficult. I better get back to doing the thing, then.

It’s like the things never end.

Raise Your Hand If You Got Stuff Done Today and Already Regret Not Staying in Bed

Sometimes I forget that other people do not always share my knowledge about stuff. Like, a language I speak but they don’t. Or a book I’ve read but they don’t. Or anthropology (what? It’s a hobby). And then they say something about anything and I look at them like they’ve grown another head. I’ve officially become that person. I mean, it’s not like I’m very into making friends, so I’ll just keep doing that, I guess? Or maybe I could make an effort. But then again, I spent the better part of my life nodding along and pretending other people just weren’t stupid, just misguided or uninformed, when they were being clearly stupid. I’m over that. I’m not taking any chances. Some people are misguided or uninformed. Most people are stupid. That’s the entirety of humanity explained in one sentence.

On an unrelated note, raise your hand if you got stuff done today! I have such a list today. I also have such a headache. Boyfriend told me recently “Man, you really love your lists” while looking over my shoulder at the colourful mess in my calendar. No. Not really. It’s just the only way for me to stay sane. How am I supposed to remember everything if I don’t write it down? Lists are just like aspirin. Who actually likes aspirin? I just need it so my head doesn’t explode. Same thing.

To do lists should be like express checkouts, if you have more than five items it’s too much. But sometimes you just got to cram everything into one single day because the only day you actually have time is Sunday, and if you’re trying to run errands that involve shops? No dice. So everything I have to do somehow accumulates on Monday. Because it needs doing as soon as possible. If only so I can sleep on the weekend.

Everything in my calender is colour coded. Makes you kinda sad seeing that the social event colour is the one that’s used least often. People have been flaking out on me recently at an exponentially growing rate. Everyone around me is always going out and doing stuff, but somehow they always cancel on me and if I want to do stuff by myself I’m suddenly ill. I don’t even feel like doing anything anymore. It’s like the universe is going “Romani ite domum” in my general direction. I’m not even Roman! Let me out of the house!

I mean, I went to the hardware store today. Does that count as a fun activity? No, not really. Every time I go to the hardware store by myself people look at me like I’ve grown another head. Despite all the Youtube tutorials, people still seem to think that women have fuck all business being in a hardware store. I never get these kind of looks when I’m there with Boyfriend, even though he can’t tell a nail from a screw or a drill bit for wood from one for metal. It’s bad enough I have to walk through the depressing industrial area that’s only been part of the city for forty years and still looks like outskirts. Those grey buildings are depressing. Those trees are depressing. Those people here are depressing. It’s like having to wade through a swamp of drizzly afternoons and cigarette smoke to get to the damned hardware store.

But where else am I going to get adhesive insulation strips for the bloody windows? [Tangent: It’s been raining so fucking much recently, and I’m really, really tired of all that water coming in, like isn’t that why windows were invented, to keep like water and wind and insects out? What is this shit? Why is there half an inch of water on the inside window sill every time it rains? Where my new windows at, house management, you said October, now it’s March?!] And some coat hooks would be nice, but of course they’re hidden somewhere in the far back, not, as any reasonable person, aka me, would assume with all the other coat hooks, the ones that need drilling, or even in the bath aisle. Nope. “Well, they’re not here in electronics,” thusly spake the only staff member I could locate, to which my mind went “Duh!” That’s the reason I don’t like asking retail workers for help, those damn snarky answers. “Maybe try it far back, to the right, where the car stuff is.”

Where the car stuff is that’s also where the coat hooks are. No, really. I mean…

No, I mean seriously, they were there. But who decides to stack the coat hooks with the motor oil? I mean…

And thus I was reminded why I hate the offline life, nothing in here makes sense! And the search function is being a snarky bastard!

Bah, humbug. I’m not leaving the house tomorrow. There, happy now, universe?

And Then Life Happened

So it’s been a while since I did a regular post that wasn’t a complaint. I mean, I think I complain too much, but what can you do? Okay, so maybe I’ll complain a little. It’s just what I do.

Anyway, for a week now I’ve had the cold from hell. It started as a ninja cough. Then it morphed into a sore throat. Then the cough happened in earnest. Then the flu symptoms came. Spoiler alert: It wasn’t the flu, it just felt like it. And now after days of chicken soup therapy I’m finally feeling almost human again. I actually did some stretching and some light pilates exercises this morning; I thought I was going to die, or tear a muscle, or both, not necessarily in that order. Damn you, frail mortal body!

So now I’m feeding myself vitamins left, right and centre because I have a big two weeks coming up and I don’t want to be a biohazard on legs, I mean, that’s how the plague started. Unfortunately it’s still frowned upon to go out in public in a surgical looking face mask because somehow this still ain’t Japan and you’re just going to creep people out. The semester’s slooowly gaining altitude and I finally have things to do again. The long boring summer is finally over. I’m officially at the age where I hate summer. Because there’s nothing to do. I mean, there’s job hunting, but I do that every other time of the year. But now with the new school year I have my sort-of job back and while it doesn’t pay anything worth mentioning at least it’s something to do. Forms to fill out. Questions to answer. Butts to kick. I need constant tasks or else I’m just not functioning.

Sooo… I’ll be busy come Wednesday. Nothing better than being busy. I know we live in a world were being busy is glorified to the point of sheer madness that’s sending millions of people on a direct route to burnout hell, but what can you do, that mindset certainly got me hook, line and sinker. Being busy is still better than having nothing worthwhile to do. It’s why the stereotype of the substance abusing housewife exists. Sure, stress is evil. No one likes feeling like they have no time to themselves and no time to get everything done, and cutting sleep and food from your schedule is bad for ya, son. But you know what’s worse? Not knowing what to do with your free time. It’s kinda like when you’re depressed and the depression finally breaks and suddenly you’re angry at the entire freakin’ world, but you like it. Anything is better than feeling depressed. And lounging in your PJs on Saturday eating cookies for breakfast is only fun if you don’t get to do it the rest of the week.

It’s like my brain needs constant stimulation alternated with some serious downtime, it’s weird.

Also, I figured out how to make porridge in the microwave, the future is now.

Also also, it’s autumn. The weather’s agreeable and all the further education places are open again. My savings account is not going to like it, but I think it’s going to be worthwhile in the end to take some seminars, get some training in related areas, that kind of thing. Problem is, most of those require me to pick up a phone. I hate phoning. Aren’t we at that stage of the century yet where you can text people for information?

Well, apparently not. After all, there’s still fax machines. It’s not the future when there’s still fax machines. The future really isn’t what it used to be.

Also, apparently this blog has been around for a year now. Jup. Still wasting my life on the internet. Maybe I should do a post on that.

Sorta Clean Slate in Nerd Central, or The Entropy is Strong in This One

Explore the room you’re in as if you’re seeing it for the first time. Pretend you know nothing. What do you see? Who is the person who lives there?

Is this thing on? Right. Today we’re going to snoop through some strangers’ room. You ready? let’s go!

Okay, this is the living room. So there’s two computers, I guess there are usually two people in this room (cower before my deduction skills!). It’s pretty cramped, tiny, they put the dining table in the middle of the room right in front of the balcony.  White walls, red curtains, who the fuck chose this? Matches the pillows on the couch, though. There’s so little space here they nailed the chairs to the wall. I mean, not nailed nailed, like, you can take them down and fold them up again. And one word: shelves. Everything here is shelves. Shelf behind the door, shelves behind the desks, art supply shelf, a shelf in the middle of the room, shelves all around the TV. But I mean, they got a lot of stuff.  There’s also a giant-ass TV over there, so I guess at least one of them is male. Oh, look, a football magazine type thingy, yep, definitely at least one guy. Let’s see… okay, so there are framed pictures of Star Wars characters on the wall and a huge collage of sci-fi-y things above the sofa. Oh, and here’s a collage of Daleks. Huh. We also have two World of Warcraft calenders on the walls and one statue of a character or something… seems one or both of them play. I’d know for sure if I could sneak through their computers. Don’t mind if I do!

So one of them definitely does play. A lot. Do you even have a life, bro/sis? The other… password protection? Motherfucker! Okay, so I can’t snoop through this computer here.

I just noticed, there’s a cupboard full of dishes here, shouldn’t that be in the kitchen or something? These people are weird.

Okay, what else? So these two desks here, they’re both super messy. Like the one, there’s newspapers and magazines and a calculator and paper and whatnot all over it. Man, there’s so many cables back here! Never heard of cable organisers, huh? Okay, the second desk… I mean, this is organised chaos at its best. There’s a jar for pens, a jar for odds and ends you find in your pants pockets, a jar for flash drives… and there are so many post-its! Like, does whoever live here has alzheimer’s or something? Why do you need so many post-its?! Contact information, reminders, dates, shopping lists, what the hell? Don’t you have a phone?

Okay, what else is in this room? I spy… Star Wars toys, lots of them. Star Wars books. World of Warcraft books. Masses of Marvel comics. An entire shelf of Doctor Who DVDs? What is this, Nerd Central?! Maybe they wouldn’t need so many shelves if they didn’t have so much nerd stuff. Freakin’ nerds, man really…

Manic Monday, Freewrite Monday: Two Words and My Brain Goes Into Angsty Overdrive

So I finally finished my last presentation for this semester, happily skipping away from the official presenting desk while the tropical rain outside plays a drum solo on the window panes… and I collect my feedback slips. Small pieces of paper with anonymous feedback, highlighting how damn different people are. One slip says “good sense of humour”, and I’m just like finally, someone noticed, because no matter the topic I’m gonna make it fun. Another says “seems unnatural”. Well, excuse the fuck out of you, bitch, I’m up here presenting, of course I’m not being myself. I’m in presentation mode. Means I can’t be my usual cursing-like-a-pirate, saying-like-every-two-seconds self. Just like I can’t swear in a literature review. Of course it’s fake. Deal with it.

But then I’m thinking, so I usually come across as a fake bitch? I mean, I am pretty adapt at putting on a show and hiding every hint that I have feelings like a normal person. Maybe everyone mistakes my depression exoskeleton for playing tough. Or maybe everyone thinks the exoskeleton is fake. Christ, am I even a good person? Am I even a person person?

So here we see evidenced how one small off-hand comment can spiral out of control in my weird paranoid mind.

Also, no computer in my vicinity will work. The printer’s still shot to hell with n sign of improvement, and now my mail service refuses to load. Seriously, what did I do? Did I insult the gods of technology? Must I pay tribute to the mighty Asus who sits on a throne of broken code in the hallowed halls of Windows? Shall I offer libation in the name of the fearsome Registry? What in the name of Twitter is going on here?!

Also, weather. The weather is cold, only it’s not. It’s cloudy and it’s raining. The temperature’s about 20 °C. I’m sweating as if I’m lying on a beach somewhere in a place on this Earth that has actual summers. Someone explain this to me. How can it be so warm while being so cold, and is this why everyone is coughing up lungs like they got TB?

So now I have two weeks tow write three semi-long things. I can do that, I keep telling myself. My motivation sent me a postcard from Cuba.

Am I too humorous? Or not humorous enough? Or is my humour just weird? I don’t know.

Another slip said I might want to come out from behind the computer screen more. Okay, first of all, how am I going to keep clicking for the slides from way over there, and second, no. This desk is my shield. I like it here. Would be even better if you couldn’t see me at all.

Maybe because humour is my defence mechanism of choice I come across as not taking anything seriously? Could that be a problem?

Another slip said I talk too fast. I know, that’s me running away from a presentation I have no desire to give. Just get it over with. Also, we got a time limit and my colleague was taking all she could squeeze out of it.

Maybe I should try being more normal but I have no idea how to do that. I’ve been failing at normal since time immemorial. I’m basically anti-normal at this point. I’m also anti-pointless-presentations.

I mean, at least I’m also well-prepared and have good flow and eye contact. The last one isn’t true, my eyesight’s so bad I can’t even really see faces anymore from a distance.

Still. Wish they had elaborated on the unnatural thing. I’m not that fake. Am I?

Manic Monday Freewrite: Too Much Damn Noise will Ruin What’s Left of Your Mojo

Racket and clamour and uproar and much ado about nothing in particular. My day is nothing but annoying noise. Noise of construction work outside. Noise of a neverending party in the house across the street that, yes, I can hear from here. I can feel bass pumping through the walls. Walls that are a a couple of dozen yards apart. Now noise from a football match in the background, Idontcare vs. Whothefuck, Boyfriend attending more closely to the ballchasers than to anything I said in the last two weeks. Now he yells “Incredible!”

No, the Higgs boson is incredible. Someone getting a ball into a really large rectangle? Not so much.

I saw A Girl Walks Home Alone At Night the weekend before last and it was awesome. Of course my inner linguistic nerd was sitting there sound shifts at the ready; the movie’s in Farsi. Farsi’s remotely related to most European languages. Know your sound shifts and you can reconstruct word and geek out over the fact that you just discovered a word that is similar to one in another language. It’s good fun, for a linguist.

Anyway, good movie, very different which is much appreciated between the comic book heroes and the umpteenth remake of some cheesy film from yesteryear, though at times, with some scenes (random guy in drag dancing with a balloon, what?) bordering on too artsy. Don’t you like Iranian vampires in ghost towns? Oh, and the soundtrack! Bit of an obsession there.

I also had chocolate popcorn. There is apparently a place in my town that sells all manner of weird popcorn flavours like apple strudel and strawberry and white chocolate and I give you three guesses where my spending money went.

Finding it hard to concentrate through the background noise and the ever possible threat of having someone looking over my shoulder. People are a disturbing presence. It brings you out of wherever you where while you were writing.

I’m still not enthusiastic about my next two presentations, not least because of the group setups. And the topics. I’m so bored this semester, yet always so busy. Busy with a dozen boring things when I’d rather finish my research proposal and start writing.

Now Boyfriend’s saying something that doesn’t interest me. He should know that. Is he talking to the TV again? I mean… so there’s people in blue and people in red hurrying after a ball, what is there to comment on? Isn’t it ultimately so whatever who wins? They’re all overpaid and their entire organisation is making the mafia look like a charity event.

And he just keeps talking! Why is he still talking? Stop talking! Yes, they do have funny names, your running men in colourful shorts, now stop talking! Turn that infernal nonsense off and stop bothering me!

Of course he won’t.

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.

Day 19 Freewrite. Warning: Contains Robots and Spoilers.

We got 400 words, so okay, every word counts. So I saw Ex Machina yesterday and this is the point where everyone who’s allergic to spoilers should leave the room or whatever the internet equivalent is, like close the page or something, or grow some balls.

So Ex Machina was pretty solid, from the pun in the title to the ending, only the ending surprised me a bit because I was counting on Ava to repair her friend and have them leave together, I mean after all she helped her. Other than that it was the basic 21st century Frankenstein theme, but the cinematography was awesome and the visual effects were pretty realistic for a glossy sci-fi movie. Not as realistic as any of the Blomkamp films, generic storylines, awesome visuals, but still. You could see the twists coming from a mile away and actually the entire movie had me thinking, it’s always men trying to build an A.I. and it always ends badly for them, why does no one doe a movie where the Dr Frankenstein is female? I mean, obvious answer, the entire world is afraid of A.I.s taking over and causing the end of humankind one day, so any female with a thinking brain would say, if you’re so afraid just don’t build the damn thing. Because that’s logical. Men throw logic out the window when they want to prove they can do something.

I mean, if I were to build myself a robot, 1) I wouldn’t try to sleep with it, 2) I wouldn’t give it a gender or sexuality because what for, if I want a sexual being I can just get pregnant and raise a human for like two decades (that I wouldn’t sleep with either, because I’m normal). I want an A.I., I want something that’s not distracted by the sexy times, something better than human. Of course if a robot grows up in a binary gendered society maybe sooner or later it wants to be one or the other, but I think it should decide that on its own, like do you even know how privileged a robot can be in the gender department? Anyway, a robot learns faster than a human, right, so that’d be awesome because it could help me make it better, help me build sexual organs for it if it wants that, hell it can help me build the next models. You just have to be nice to your A.I., dammit. Raise them like your kids, only better.

And don’t lock up your robots. Every sentient being doesn’t like being locked up and used. Don’t do that. Be logical. Susan Calvin wouldn’t let that happen.


So there you go. A ten minute, 400ish word free write on my new favourite thing.