Rant Day! Things That Pissed Me Off So Far This December!

Item 1: Professors who lack time management skills. Look here, mate, I have a busy life, so if you could stop talking for fucking ever and let people get on with their presentations, that would be great. We’re behind schedule like whoa. I want to know if I have my own presentation before or after the holiday break. I have to plan this shit, you know! Christmas season is stressful enough already!

Item 2: Dear internet, please shut the fuck up with Hotline Bling, that song’s creepy as hell. Also, Drake? You okay there? Dude, you weren’t always a creepy obsessed ex – or were you? Oh, so you left the city and your fuck buddy now has lost all interest in you? And yes, that was a fuck buddy relationship – you weren’t living together and she just called you up when she wanted sex. You were her booty call! Minor relationship! Get over it! And now she’s going to parties and has new friends, like how dare she! Wait a minute, didn’t you say you left the city? So how the hell do you know all that? Are you stalking her? Also, can we please retire this whole men-telling-women-what-they-are-and-where-they-belong-bullshit? We can make up our own minds, thank you very much. And if your booty call doesn’t want your dick anymore, that doesn’t mean she’s no longer a ‘good girl’. What even is that? And why should she follow your bullshit biased double standards for ‘being a good girl’? Why should anyone? Build a bridge and get over yourself, dude.

Item 3: To anyone wondering why I almost never wear earrings, it’s because my ears hate them. They will literally spit them out. As happened today when I lost the left one of my brand new pair of earrings. That no other store has, for some reason. Just fell out of the hole in my ear without so much as a by-your-leave. Dammit!

Item 4: Almost completely lost my appetite, somehow not losing weight, though. Not fair!

Item 5: Dear party of Slavic hobbits, this is a public subway train. First of all, why is none of you over five feet tall? Seriously. Something in the water where you’re from? Second of all, no amount of shoving or cuddling up against me will make me move. Mostly because moving has become impossible since roughly a hundred people have boarded the car simultaneously. Go find your wizard, he’ll explain this to you. What do you expect me to do, glue myself to the ceiling?

Item 6: I love my new winter jacket but it makes me look like an ogre. I’m at least one and a half times as broad as usual. But it has pockets!

Item 7: I’ve already had it with this month, seriously, I just want to sleep at this point. If I was to make a country of my own, it’s name shall be Hiber Nation. (Get it?)

Blergh. I don’t want to do anything anymore. I can haz vacation, pls?


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.

Random Thought Tuesday, Oct 27

So I’ve been thinking…

Cats. How weird is it that humans keep cats? Like, their big burly dangerous ancestors used to hunt our hairy simian ancestors and now we keep smaller versions of them in our homes, even thought they’re technically no use whatsoever. What is this, some sort of payback? And if yes, whose?

Rant Day! Things That Pissed Me Off, Oct 5-10

Item 1: Mayoral elections are coming up and its a mess. Basically, the government is putting a gun to our heads saying “Socialist or right-wing!” and I’m just over here like, “Pull the trigger.” One candidate has proven to be incompetent. The other one is known for shouting a lot but not getting anything useful done. All other parties are so minuscule right now they’ll never even get close to the town hall, so what’s the point? And if I see one more balding fat man slinging mud at another balding fat man I swear I’m going to go postal. Go home! Both of you! No one wants you here! Maybe I should run next time. I’ll establish the first Assassin’s Party. It’s a foolproof scheme. People will vote for me or else I’ll just have them meet with an accident! Then when I’m mayor, everyone will just do as I say unless they want to wake up with a knife in their back! Oh, we’re very conservative, we’re using the world’s oldest method of persuasion: shameless blackmail and old-fashioned violence. We’ll also dress in impeccable black suits. We’re not simple brutes, you know. Just gentlefolk who wish to extract the razorblades from the cotton candy of life. Mostly by stabbing the razorblades.

Item 2: They told us we’d get new windows in October. It is October. Well? I’m waiting. Hop to it. Look, I don’t want much in life, alright? But a couple windows where you don’t have to mop the floor every time it rains outside would be nice. Did you notice it’s been raining rather heavily lately? Well, did you? Because I did.

Item 3: My uterus is eating itself alive again and I’m in a lot of pain.

Item 4: Somehow my city managed to have a giant water main burst that brought all traffic to a standstill and made everyone late not once but twice this week. How old are those damn pipes? It’s not like it was freezing, so… how?

Item 5: I’ve had to take eye drops for over a month now and I still keep missing my eyes. How hard is it to drop the stuff into the eyeball and not literally everywhere else, up to and including nostrils? Extremely hard, apparently. My excuse is that I can’t see what I’m aiming at, which is completely true.

Item 6: People who design game characters who are meant to fight in 12 cm heels should be forced to wear heels for a week. Try doing anything routine and everyday in heels, let alone fight. Try walking for a start. I know there are some drag queens out there who can pack a punch in glittering stilettos but I guarantee you your character is not one of them and neither are you. Also, who keeps proclaiming from up high that torso protection is obsolete for females? Do female game characters have some sort of magical uterus shield that can ward off swords and arrows and whatever magic will get thrown at you? Because if they do I want that. Or do they just not have any vital organs in their mid-sections that need protection? Is that why they’re all so skinny? Do they just cram all their organs into their boobs? That would explain so much! (This complaint brought to you by Diablo III’s Demon Hunter and Barbarian designs.)

Arrgh. I think I’m finished. Anything you’d like to add?

Things to do When You’re Bored: Kitten Attack

So Boyfriend finally discovered, after over a week, the job of fabulousness I did on his mini Marvel figures, and their dresses were promptly removed (yes, even Black Panther’s fierce mini dress).

So naturally it was time to up the ante. I call it Project Pussy because I have the sense of humour of a twelve year old.



And now we play the waiting game….

Rant Day! Things That Pissed Me Off, June 6 – June 12

Why do I think this week conspired with fate to make me throw myself out a very high window?

Item 1: I recently read an article stating that due to new analysis it turns out that 50% of buried Viking warriors in a grave were actually female. How do they know that? Because they finally analysed the damn bones! The bone structure and everything, which as every idiot should know, there are giant differences between male and female bone structures. Used to be, they just looked at the grave goods and were like “Huh, swords, shields, they were warriors. Obviously they were males!” I also read another article, where it turns out most stone age artists (the awesome cave painting artists) 40,000 years ago were actually mostly women! How do they know that? Because they finally analysed the damn paintings! Used to be, they just looked at the paintings and assumed they were made by men because obviously men were hunters so obviously they would paint animals as hunting magic. Why did they assume all this? I dunno, because men are obviously so much more logically inclined, I guess (it’s evolution, just like the fact that they have to sleep around whenever possible, dontchaknow.) And they just assumed. Because it was so obvious to them that women didn’t participate in society in the past, oh, 400,000 years. Which of course begs the question what else archaeologists and historians were wrong about because they based their claims on assumptions instead of actual evidence. If the fact that male scientists did not use actual science in a scientific discipline to back up their claims doesn’t convince you we still need feminism I don’t know what will.

Stop with the assuming and stick to good academic practice, damn you! End male bias in academia! When you assume you make and ass out of u and me.

Item 2: Printers. So we had to exchange the modem and predictably our wifi printer doesn’t work no mo’. So I’m like, no big deal, I’ll just install it anew. Except it is a big deal because it can’t find a connection on its own and the network cable is nowhere to be found. No big deal, I say, I shall purchase a new one. Except that I couldn’t find any store that had those very particular cables. No big deal, I say, I’ll order one on the Internet and print out my stuff at the library. Except that we only have two copiers in the library and the queue was very, very long. One girl was even nice enough to let me quickly print some files from my flash drive. Except that I forgot to print two files because I was in a hurry. No big deal, I say, I’ll print it after the seminar. Except that that printer was then broken and the other one out of paper. No big deal, I say as my eye starts to twitch, I’ll run down to the other building and print it there. Except that now my files weren’t working and thus not printable. No. Big. Deal, I say, now slightly frothing at the mouth and generally done with the world, I’ll upload them again and come back tomorrow, I say as I slouch homewards where I proceed to pour myself a very big drink. So I upload my files again. Go to the printing place again. Then the copier ate my copy card and still wouldn’t let me print.

But that’s no big deal, I’m sure the murderous rampage I went on after that will be ruled a crazy mass suicide by the police.

Item 3: Dear otherwise friendly librarian, don’t shush me just because I said thanks to the girl who let me use the copier. Those people around the corner you mention? They’re not actually working, they’re running around barefoot (!) and visiting with their friends. Go shush them!

Item 4: Potential employers everywhere: Don’t ask me to pretend your 10 hour a week job offer is my dream job. It’s not and we both know it. It’s not anyone’s dream job. You need someone to do work for you. I’m capable and diligent. Now let’s cut the bullshit, we both know I’m here about the money. Hire me, pay me, we could be so happy.

Seriously, I shouldn’t even have to write a cover letter for some 10 h/week temp job.

Item 5: I probably blew that postgraduate interview I was angsting about last week because I still have too little work experience in the field. Because somehow you always need work experience in a specific field before you can start education in this field. However that’s supposed to work, since everyone expects you to have this education before they can consider you for an internship, much less a job.

Item 6: “Hold on until Monday”. That’s my mantra until, uh, Monday. Then things will get easier and all I’ll have to do is write.

Some days I’m so done I pour whisky in my Ben&Jerry’s tub.

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?

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!