Nothing in my life ever works the way I want it to because I’m a dingus, man…

Welcome to the newest episode in my eternal crusade against the delivery services of the world! Today: it’s kinda my fault.

I’m planning a party-sort-of-thing to celebrate some academic achievement or another, not important, anyway I thought it’d be funny to print invitation cards and send them through the actual mail, real old-school, befitting an aging lady such as myself. I order them online and have them shipped and while I wait, I purchase some envelopes to send them with. Easy, right? Well.

The day the cards arrive I unpack them, rejoice, grab my envelopes to begin addressing… and am stopped dead in my tracks, for the envelopes I acquired are… not envelopes, but blank cards. That looked exactly like envelopes, probably because they were right next to the envelopes in the store. Incidentally, they also have “envelopes” printed on them. Stupid factory errors. Anyway. I now have to go out and get actual envelopes. The problem is, my city is in the middle of an arctic cold spell, and I don’t want to venture out in -15 C weather (Canadian laughter in the background). So, what do I do because I learn nothing from my mistakes?

I order envelopes online.

Do they arrive? Somewhere, yes, they’re definitely on the same continent.

I realised too late they were being shipped with DPD instead of regular mail. Why? Why does amazon no longer send things through the mail? Oh, DPD is cheaper? I don’t believe you, and also, I’m going to charge you a self-pickup fee. Because that’s basically DPD delivery, self-pickup at a store somewhere close-ish near you. Strong emphasis on the ish. Turns out DPD drivers don’t want to venture out of their heated cars in this kind of weather either.

Of course I get the customary mail of “We haven’t been able to reach you” at 16:00. I read it at 16:17. Home the entire day. Most of my day spent in the hallway lurking by the front door. But nope. I’m going to start laying Scooby Doo style traps around the building and the street. Nets! Trip wires! Bear traps! One day I’m going to catch one of them and in the ensuing hostage situation we might finally reach some agreeable terms of delivery.

Now I have the choice of going out to retrieve the fucking things, or I can get creative and make my own envelopes. No one is gonna notice, right? And there isn’t a law that says you have to use actual purchased envelopes, right? Guess which one I go with?

And then, just as I’m about to get paper out of my stash in the bureau to start some major epistolary folding action, a box falls right the fuck on my head (because I’m shit at keeping things in order and then avalanches happen). It’s a box full of stationary. Coincidentally, it contains some old envelopes.

Now my question is, will I be awarded the World’s Greatest Dingus hat for the third consecutive year, and if yes, should I plan a party for that? I could print invitations.


I just want to GET my fucking parcel, man…

One day I’mma throw a nail bomb into the DHL main office.

I had a lot to do last week but all my light bulbs blew and my headphones too, so I thought, you know, as a citizen of this wonderful century, surely I can just restock my supplies by ordering online and having everything delivered to my door. Delightful!

Except I fucking can’t.

Seriously, what’s even the point of Amazon Prime if they ship with DHL, the nidus of the single most incompetent shitfuckers on the planet (next to DPD)? The entire premise of online shopping is to NOT having to leave the house. DHL defeats this fucking point. I’m home the entire day because I work from home, and Friday night at 18:52 Amazon hits me in the mouth with “Oh oops, guess you weren’t home when we rang right the fuck now, guess where your parcel is?”

Again, home the entire day. Definitely between 6 and 7 pm. I have the sneaking suspicion that DHL only employs the kind of people who used to play ding-dong-ditch as kids, and now they’ve advanced the fucking game to nope-nope-ditch-get-it-the-fuck-yourself.

So where the ever-loving hell is my parcel, you may ask? Did they put the order in the DHL parcel shop up the street from me? No. Did they put it in the parcel shop down the street from me? No. Random pizza place way at the other end of the district? Yes.

In that moment I just think, fuck it. I’ll leave it there to rot. I’m not going there. Everything in my body is trying to move itself into the general direction of the other side of the solar system, that’s how much I don’t want to go. I will eat your children! You fuckers gonna bring the fucking thing here! But of course they don’t. And I already paid for that shit, so… urrrrrrrrggggghhh.

So the following Monday I gather all my strength and go. But not so fast, dear reader! First the transport needs to be sorted out, which drives another nail into my coffin. This isn’t exactly the largest European city. It’s actually one of the smaller ones. So why do I need 36 minutes on public transport just to get to the other side of my really small district? At this point I’m like fuck it, half an hour on the train, half an hour on foot, to-may-to, to-mah-to, I’ll just walk.

By the honour of Google Maps, I have to power… to get lost regardless because I have as much sense of direction as a dyslexic beached blue whale. Finally get there. I see the random pizza place that doubles as a DHL shop. It’s right in front of me… only problem is that the shop is on the other side of a six lane semi-motorway that someone thought was a bright idea to build in the middle of the fucking town. That’s the kind of street you can’t cross without injury unless you’re literally the Flash. It reminds me of every fantasy novel when the hero’s party gets to a mighty river and have trouble finding their way across. Only with a river all you need to do is throw a rope to a tree at the other side and then move hand over hand along said rope. You can’t do that in an urban setting. So I, the stranded hobbit, look desperately for a crossing. There are two, one 2km in one direction, and the other one 2km in the other direction. While Google is panicking and telling me to “proceed to Arghlblrargl street 15” like a wizard who overdid it with the pipeweed.

After what feels like two hours I’m finally on the other side of the street and proceed. The pizza place seems to be doing more business hoarding parcels than with pizza. Probably because it looks like really doughy pizza and they make burgers with tomato sauce. Who in the hell does that? Old lady at the counter checks my ID and goes on the hunt for my package. There are a lot of packages in the shop. Like, a lot. So it takes a while. Maybe she’s taking so long hoping I’ll get hungry and get a pizza, too. I’m not hungry, I’m angry at the world. The only thing I’m feeling peckish for is a lightly fried DHL delivery man, preferably with teriyaki sauce. Anyway.

Get package. Get out. Get to decide which pedestrian crossing I want and decide on the one on the other side, because I naively assumed it would be a wee bit shorter because the mess of wiring above the street looked like it might lead to a traffic light. It doesn’t. It’s not shorter. It’s right down at the train station, in fact. Google is panicking again and I yell “Shut up!” Get weird looks from people around me. “No, that wasn’t to you, I was talking to… Google.” Time to shut the fucking app, I guess. And since I’m at the station, I decide, fuck it, which at this point should be my life’s motto. Might as well take the underground for two stations and walk the rest.

One thing of interest at my stop is that there is exactly one elevator and approximately 376 people who want to get on it. So, again, fuck it. Might as well take the stairs instead of waiting for the third elevator. I still got some serviceable legs. You know that one underground station in London with the like 1000 steps? This one is similar. Nothing tells your asthmatic ass to start working out like going up those flights of stairs.

Now fast forward. I finally get home. Struggle with my keys. Tear into my parcel like a hungry tiger and hug my lightbulbs to my chest. My pretties! My pretty pretties! Now if only one you doesn’t work I’ll destroy the fucking Earth.

And this is why next time I’ll just go to the fucking store myself. And why I declare open season on DHL delivery men.

I just want to send a fucking parcel, man…

Seriously though, is there something in the local post office’s canteen food that makes everyone rude? I mean..

All my life I have sent and received packages with the sender’s address copied on a piece of paper with “Abs.” (German for sender) in front of it, and the receiver’s address below that with a little “An” (German for “to”). All my goddamn life. Today, Grumpy McPigsnout at the post office decides this is not good enough for him. “You can’t write it like this! Never write it like this!” And crosses out the sender with a thick black marker. Okay. This package is for a friend, she’s gonna know it’s from me, so not that big a deal. But because I’m already in that age category where I am Too Old For This Shit, I say, “Sender and receiver are clearly marked.”

McPigsnout’s old wrinkled face turns red. “The system can’t read it, the machines won’t recognise it.”

And I’m just there like, bitch, I literally received a parcel yesterday that was marked exactly like that, is it only the machines in our city that have this problem, because I’d like to know.

I don’t say any of this out loud, of course. I’m a fucking lady. The problem is, I’m an 80 year old lady trapped in the body of a much younger smartass, so what I say out loud is: “Get smarter machines, then.”

“It’s not about getting smart machines.”

I bite my tongue so I won’t say the words that are now brewing in my brain, and those words are, “Okay, get smarter staff, then”, because seriously, if you can’t read, maybe working a job that depends on reading addresses and understanding abbreviations that have been in use for the past fifty years is just not your destined career path.

Also, BULLSHIT! You haven’t changed the computer system in ten years, and this has never been an issue, so just fucking deliver this fucking package before I rip out your intestines and turn them into sock suspenders for someone’s grandpa. Which I will then send via your post office.

Ohhh… well, my mother always says that fate delivers three idiots to you each day, at 3:15 in the afternoon at the latest. I check my watch.


Thirty: The New Awkward Age

And I thought my teenage years were weird.

So I finally passed the threshold. The big 3. The age of reason, the age of unrest. And honestly? It’s completely the same? What?

Maybe I’m too influenced by television, but I was always under the impression that you hit thirty and you’re old, fucking old, no one will love you ’cause you’re old. Supposedly your twenties are for finding yourself. Personally I’ve given that up at 21, I’ve no idea where that bitch got to. Finding myself? How about myself finds me for a change? I feel like I’m always doing the heavy lifting in this relationship! But at thirty, you’re officially an old woman.

But why? In reality, it just means back pain. The rest is exactly the same as it was at 29. The world will piss on your birthday cake and tell you it’s raining.

I never had a clear picture of being thirty. Mostly because I never thought I’d get this far. I’ve procrastinated on my suicide so much, by the time I’ll finally get around to it I’m probably gonna be in my 300s. Anyway, when I was a kid I thought (or feared) I’d be like my mother, married, nice flat, one bratty child. I had some vague idea of working somewhere where I’d wear a suit. I didn’t get the thirties. I had all these questions! Do I do anything different? Do I have to lie about my age? Do I need to go to a hairdresser? I haven’t been there since I was twelve! Do I do different make-up? Do I have to buy a car? Do I have to like wine? Or coffee? Do I have to get a stock portfolio? Then in my twenties I just thought, eh, thirty’s the new twenty, and the twenties suck anyway, no way to go but up!

I don’t mind being thirty, except for the soul-crushing despair at having achieved basically nothing in the first third of my life. But hey, I can still be a great bad example. I can be the woman who parents point out to their highschool aged spawn to say, “Study economics and apply for all unpaid internships or you’ll end up like her!” No, what really bothers me is that people react all weird to this innocent number. Like I’ve just revealed I’m a human-shaped ticking time bomb, about to explode into a frenzy of home decor, pregnancy stories, rosé and The Bachelor. Now kids, remember that time is an illusion, invented by humans to press our lives into neat little segments so we know how long we have to wait for the blissful embrace of death. Other than that, it doesn’t mean anything.

And I’ve always been a late bloomer. So the big 3 actually feels okay. I haven’t had a nervous breakdown all year! Okay, the year’s barely a month old, but that counts! I think I’m even growing into my face. I’ve looked at pictures of me at twenty recently and, as the kids say, the cringe was real. I always had an odd moon-face, all round and pale and weird looking, but somehow my lips were the exact same shape as my face. My lips have changed so much it’s like I’ve had work done, only I’ve always been too poor. It’s like someone broke in while I was sleeping and got me new lips, over a period of ten years, a cosmetic fairy godmother. And I have a jaw line now. I thought I’d never see the day.

So, I’m thirty, I’m unmarried, I’m unchildren-ed, I live in the same tiny apartment, I’m starting a new career. Somewhere in the distance, someone’s going “Aw, poor thing”. No, you guys, this is good!

Certainly doesn’t mean I’m old. As long as I’m not at an age where it is socially acceptable to wear a bathrobe all day, call loud annoying kids half-monkeys, mutter obscenities under my breath, and beat people with my walking cane I won’t consider myself old. I’m in for a looong time, baby!

Ice Cream at the End of the Universe

You know that feeling when you’re working two jobs and you start seeing the numbers on your bank account climb? That’s a great feeling, yeah? Right before you realise you gotta pay rent. Again. Why do you have to pay rent every month? Who came up with that system?

In other news, I’ve had my period anniversary and I celebrated… by having my period. But I mean, how often do you get your period on the same day you got your first period? I think it’s significant. I also can’t believe I’ve been bleeding every month for years. Years as in decades. Okay… one decade and a bit. Still. That’s a lot of blood. I think someone on tumblr once worked out that over your lifetime you spend seven years bleeding. Seven years of blood! That’s a lot of blood. I wonder if you could forge a sword from the iron of seven years’ worth of blood.

Also, it was long museum night again here in our lovely little town and what better way to blow my hard earned cash than by gaining even more useless knowledge with some trusty smarty-pants friends.

Everyone flaked out on me. Okay, so they didn’t flake… Boyfriend’s sick (got the sniffles), friend one is sick (got a worse case of the sniffles), friend two is not sick but otherwise engaged (presents at a motherfucking conference, go friend, that’s my friend!), friend three does not live here… So what’s an ‘ardworking independent modern woman to do but go on her fucking own. Which I did.

It’s glorious and I don’t understand why I don’t do things alone more often.

I mean… for one I could pick the museums I wanted to visit without any regard whatsoever for someone else. Then I could go at my own pace. Get absolutely lost and be in no hurry. Talk to literally no one except the customary “Hello, one ticket please.” Hang out longer in one section and breeze past another one that didn’t interest me. Wonderful, elating selfishness!

This year’s museums were Technological, Film, and observatory. Bit disappointed about the observatory because the waiting time for the telescope was over an hour and I was already too tired to sit it out, but oh well. Just have to come here some other time when there’s not the entire supply of the city’s school-age children on the loose. Also, the guy doing the usual astrophysics presentation was getting on my nerves. I mean… you’re watching the ocean from the point of view of a grain of sand. You have no more but a snapshot of the universe and you try to stuff it into a corset of numbers. Don’t tell me the universe will just end in 22 billion years, according to everything you know right now, and then that’s it because entropy. We’ve had thermodynamics for less than two hundred years, you don’t know jack! I’d be surprised if you guys even got the age of the universe right. And you didn’t even go over multiverse theory!

“According to the laws of…” Well, have you ever considered changing the definitions of these laws, because the universe doesn’t seem to give two shits. Look, science is good, science is great, but when it comes to the cosmos I’ll always pick the theory that makes the best story. So neener-neener-neener to your eternal end. Just wait what your successors will discover in the next only thousand years, and I’ll come back from the grave and laugh. If I’m still sitting here in 22 billion years and listen to how people believed it was the end of the world, I will absolutely point and laugh.

Technological was great, though little did I know that they had renovated the entire thing and I got a bit lost somewhere between an 1851 summer train carriage and the last surviving WW1 fighter jet. Big topic this year: urban studies. Yes, that’s a thing. Everything about the city, and let’s be real, city life is fascinating. I’m a big fan of the everyday section because… this is how people lived! Actual people! Who are now dead! Who used incredibly big and unwieldy vacuum cleaners and giant toothbrushes! And flat irons with coals in them! What I like the most about museums is the sense of epiphany they give me, the feeling of connectedness to entire generations of humans I never knew and who never knew me, and we’re all just trying to make a living and make life comfortable, and we’ll never know if someday the things we used every day without a second thought will be displayed so someone else can take their child to see it like “Look, little human, this is your history.” Hell, in fifty years I’ll probably see the make and model of the laptop I’m typing on right now in one of those glass cases, and all the future wide-eyed whippersnappers laughing at our way of life back then. Wait until you see our ergonomic chairs.

Exit through the gift shop.

I’m a grown adult, I tell myself slowly and mercilessly as I make my way to the exit. I’m an adult, I tell myself through clenched teeth as I force myself to put down the grow-your-own-crystal set and the archaeological kit for kids. I’m a motherfucking adult, I tell myself as I put the mini planetarium back on the shelf and return the plasma globe to its place, and I don’t need to overcompensate now for my lack of scientific toys in childhood. I realise I’ll be one of those parents one day who buys unholy amounts of stuff ‘for the kids’ and uses it all herself. Because I’m an adult. And I want to dig out my own dinosaur bone and look at it through the microscope!

So to console myself I bought an ice cream cone somewhere in the inner city. Yes, it is October. Yes, it’s a tad chilly. Yes, it was roughly 10 pm. And I still wanted nougat and coconut flavoured ice cream. Have I mentioned I’m an adult? Well, fucking adults can buy fucking ice cream in fucking autumn if they fucking want to! There must be some upside to this whole paying bills and cooking your own meals thing.

Anyway, this whole night had me thinking… why don’t I do things alone anymore? I did all the time when I was a teenager, I went to the movies alone because no one had told me it was weird, and I took walks alone and bike rides alone… granted I had no friends and now I do. Somewhere and somehow everything I did became a couple’s thing. Why is that? Why this push towards sociality? Why is being alone seen as something to be pitied? I think it does a body good to be away from people for a bit. Like, fuckers, how can I miss you if you’re never away from me? Seems like a healthy thing to do.

At least this way no one stops you from buying ice cream in October in the middle of the night. Apparently that’s frowned upon by most people. As if there was a bad time for ice cream. Hell, I’d eat ice cream while the universe was ending. According to thermodynamics, it’s going to be cold anyway.

Rant Day: Tales of Urrrrrgh

Item 1:

Let’s talk about digital hoarding for a second. I’m sure you’re doing it. You, yes, you. Yes, you with the face. You’re a digital hoarder. Don’t pretend like you don’t know what I mean. Are you trying to tell me you dont save millions of screenshots, pictures, recipes, conversations, thirty different versions of your résumé, and no longer relevant documents?

Oh, you really don’t? I’m so sorry!

And the worst of the offenders are of course us MMO playing wackos. Currently, I’m facing the mammoth task of… cleaning out my WoW characters’ banks. I could sing hymns of praise to our dark overlord Blizzard for finally installing a wardrobe so you don’t have to keep collecting outfits in like a semi-physical sense that clogs up all your bags. But I’m getting the same irrational separation anxiety I already suffer every year when I have to clean out my actual closet. But, but… what if I still need it?! What if it fits me after I lose some weight?! What if they get rid of this new feature?! What if the system crashes and I lose everything?! What if…

Yeah. I may or may not have a problem. Is it still First World Problems if it’s online? Do we call this First Cyber Problems? European Server Problems? Problems of a semi-millennial part-time digital native?

Item 2:

In other news, I’m fairly confident my thesis supervisor has fallen down a well somewhere. I haven’t heard anything from her since I sent her my theory part a month ago. She hasn’t had any office hours since mid-July. I feel like I’m at the beginning of an epic adventure film (parody) in which I will travel distant fantastical lands and battle demons and beasts and rare mobs in my quest to rescue my supervisor and thus can finally complete the main quest, my thesis!

Or maybe she’s just on vacation. But I like my version better.

Also, I still have at least 60 pages to go. I’m so fucking dead.

Item 3:

I just read today that Pokemon Go is losing players rapidly. I mean, I guess we should have seen this coming. It was new and innovative and new, and games don’t live long on the newness factor. After a while I guess people become bored or frustrated or don’t feel like bracing the sun and the rain and the group of jeering youths that mock you mercilessly because you’ve been trying to catch an ugly ass duck thing for five minutes now. Not that that happened to Boyfriend or anything, its just a random, oddly specific example.

The entire premise is discomforting anyway. I mean, look at it through the eyes of a peasant from the 14th century. You’d see a lot of invisible demons that might turn up everywhere, literally on your shoulder, and the only one who can control them is that weirdly clothed warlock with his magical handmirror. And maybe if you offend the warlock he’ll sic all the enslaved demons on you! Run!

Now there’s a movie idea. Forget Yankees in King Arthur’s court, fucking cart Arthur into the present! A present full of wizards! Witchcraft! The forces of evil have finally overtaken the land! And the good burghers think it’s a lark!

Item 4:

I made a mistake at work the other day and I feel like I should crawl under a rock and die a slow perfectionist death.

Item 5:

So anyway, y’all see the new Ghostbusters?

Actually, I don’t wanna hear it, I don’t care, that movie is awesome, my inner nine-year-old loved the everloving hell out of it and has also decided to marry Jillian Holtzmann when we grow up. I mean, mom would get used to her eventually and dad would be so proud because I’m sure he always wanted for me to marry an engineer!

And to anyone trying to come in here like, oh, but she’s not canon gay, I say she’s the gayest gay to ever gay! And it’s fucking obvious if you’ve been hit with the queer stick yourself! Chrissakes, she’s been hitting on Erin the moment she walked in the door! That was very obvious hitting-on! The only way to make it any more obvious was to hit her over the head with a phaser pack! While chanting “I want to get in your pants for sex purposes!”

Also, they shot that ghost in the boo-balls. Spooky nuts. Geisterklöten. I approve of that.

Well, that’s one way to get high, I guess.

Picture it: It is a grey, cold Tuesday morning. Your Boyfriend has gone to work at six in the fucking am because old people need caring at 7. You have gone back to sleep because your schedule will not see you out of the house before noon. And then this happens.

Boyfriend came back home at 9 am high as a kite, rendered unable to work. Why? Because he overdosed on nose drops.

You read that right. Boyfriend’s been having a bit of a cold or tonsillitis or both, so he, uncharacteristically, went to the doctor’s and got some meds. One of them were nose drops for his poor stuffy nose. He took them in the morning, then got a headache and took an aspirin. Then all hell broke loose.

So he comes in at 9, I stumble out of the bedroom to check what’s up, and he’s sitting at the dining table, taking his blood pressure and laughing his fucking ass off at everything. At this moment, I knew exactly what to do.

I got my phone and made a video. But that’s beside the point.

I was also trying to tell knock-knock jokes, because that’s a tried and true remedy for patients who are laughing at their own hands, but he was having none of that.

Then I checked the package leaflet and now I feel like living in Bizarro World. The side effects of a nose drops overdose may include psychosis, hallucinations, high blood pressure and accelerated pulse. There was no warning not to take them with aspirin. Yeah, this man needs a doctor.

I mean… just the fact that fucking nose drops can cause you to hallucinate… I… what?

His blood pressure was through the roof. So was his pulse. Then he got the idea to finally assemble his Lego Tardis I got him for Christmas. And he kept complaining he wanted to watch Doctor Who. And how stoked he was for K-9. When I said, Honey, go to the doctor, I did not mean this Doctor. Does he even have a license? I don’t believe this man has ever been to medical school!

I couldn’t make this up if I tried.

So while he came down after a while (and one Doctor Who episode) the doctor’s office was finally open and so he went. And I’m sitting here, three hours later, mind boggling over the fact that nose drops can make you trip balls apparently if you try hard enough. Or even if you don’t.

You could sell this shit to high schoolers, make a fortune!


Brb, coming up with a new business venture.

Kidding, those are prescription only. I’ll never be able to fake enough of a cold to keep the business going.

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.

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.


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!”