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.


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.

I’m not doing anything in particular, you wanna hear about it?

Updates from my life.

I’ve been at my new job for a month now and I think I’m doing pretty okay. At least no one’s complained about me so far, so that’s good, right? Still a bit confused about some of the administration-esque stuff but that’s just a matter of time. I suppose I might be confusing my boss a little, she keeps asking if I like it there. I’m like yeah, I like it, please keep me. Is it so weird for someone to like working? My colleagues probably think it is. I mean, we have these phases during the day when there is literally nothing to do, like nothing’s coming in, and they just go on facebook and stuff while I’m bored. And they keep telling me to be happy that there’s not much to do. I think I’m still suffering from newbie motivation.

It’s just like with the weather, I’m overjoyed that it’s raining again while everyone around me is tolling the death bell for summer already. I can’t wait for summer to be over. If summer was equipped with an agreeable temperature I wouldn’t mind so much. But the 30C and over nonsense? Keep that. Who actually likes sweating?

I suppose if this job thing takes off and I can find something full-time later on it’s gonna be time to move, I’m apparently not made for extreme climates. Is there a place on this planet that’s constantly within the 20-25C zone? No? Damn.

It’s like I came to Earth with a “Keep at room temperature” sticker attached. I’m like a fucking potted plant with feelings.

In other news I handed in the theory chapter of my thesis and as luck would have it, exactly two minutes before submitting my work I stumbled across more literature. That could be useful. Which somehow didn’t show its sorry face before that exact moment.

Speaking of thesis, how often can you use ‘disregard’ and ‘thus’ in 20 pages without sounding like you don’t give a fuck anymore? There really aren’t that many synonyms, though.

And then there’s the whole business of signing up to half a dozen scientific networks just so you can get access to ONE paper that looks promising and then you don’t get it because the author can’t be arsed to give you access and meanwhile you get notifications that your profile has been viewed, like no, don’t, stop looking at me! I’m just here to quote your shit, get off!

This might be the last academic thing I’ll ever write and I’m not sure if that thought should scare me.

And other than that… I’m doing nothing. I’ve never felt so lazy in my life. Sports? Nah. Computer? Still a month until Legion. Friends? Eh, every couple of weeks is fine. Family? They went to Greece and I haven’t seen anyone in over a month. Boyfriend? Lost that one to Pokemon Go.

I still have the sneaking suspicion that Pokemon Go is a cunning plan to get our overweight generation of children moving again. It’s damn more effective than any school programs, that’s for sure. Remember how old people used to complain that kids these days don’t play outside any more? Fixed that for ya! Everyone is playing this stupid game! If this was a Doctor Who episode it would be a plot by disgruntled aliens to take over the world. It’d work, too.

So I’m meeting a friend for coffee and we have coffee and then she says, hey, wanna take a walk in the park, weather’s so nice, so I’m like, sure. One minute in she pulls out her phone to just “quickly check” if there are any of those pesky little things about. Another minute and she joins the walking braindead. Half the city’s in the park. Almost no one’s moving. Everyone is staring intently at their phone. And I know I’ve lost.

I’m meeting some other friends a week later at my place. Everybody on their phone catching things I didn’t even know were in my flat. Also, apparently I live near a Pokestop. Hot?

Meanwhile I’m over here like… you fuckers laughed at my WoW pet collection and now you’re wasting precious cell phone space on this? You suck!

I mean, it’s not even like there’s a feature that projects a hologram of those things so it looks like they’re running along with you. You know? That would be nice, just having a little computer generated animal following you all day. It’d be cute! But no. Just run around like an idiot and get hit by a car trying to catch some fucking flappy ass bat thing.

And now suddenly, my reclusive shut-in semi-hermit of a boyfriend has the urge to take walks. Hey, let’s take a walk in the park! Flashback to when I said things like that last year and it was like… nah, gotta finish this Hearthstone game. Nah, I wanna play Hero League. Nah, Diablo season. Nah, people I don’t know are livestreaming their Heroes of the Storm games, don’t wanna miss it. Nah, don’t feel like going out, sick of people, I have to see people all day, I wanna stay home!

But give him some virtual Japanese clone failures and he’s all systems go! Need to walk 10 km to hatch this egg!

What’s happening to the world? Is this some sort of anti-terror strategy? Get everyone hooked on Pokemon so the suicide bombers and religious nuts are too distracted to blow something up because they found a Pikachu? I mean, whatever it takes, I guess.

Or is it exactly the other way round because I swear I could transport a dead body through the city on public transport and absolutely no one would notice. Hell, I’d probably make it to the cemetery (wha? where do you hide your dead bodies?), start digging, hide the body, cover grave, get rid of evidence, and saunter out of the cemetery. If there’s any witnesses all I’d have to do is get out my phone and scream “Oh my god, is that a Mewtew?!” or “Pokestop by the entrance, way at the other end of the graveyard!”

And I had this great idea for a zombie movie. Picture this: the sun is setting as a lone Pokemon trainer wanders into the graveyard without even noticing his surroundings. He sees a rare Pokemon. He aims his phone! Doesn’t notice the scuffling of feet behind him! Shoots pokeball after pokeball and misses as a grey hand reaches for him…

A blood curdling scream.

And then a cut, and we see a blood spattered phone falling to the ground. The Pokemon is still uncaught. Screen fade to black, next scene.

Or just, the zombie apocalypse has happened, but it’s less an apocalypse and more a bit of an inconvenience as a band of brave Pokemon trainers arms themselves with shotguns because a bunch of lurching corpses is no excuse to not Catch Them All.

Look, I think it’s funny, okay?

And yes, I will always and forever make fun of all the new and cool things the world can throw at me. I’m a contrary bastard and proud of it.

My Life as a Colour TV Stuck Forever in Fast Forward (Long Ass Post Ahead)

It’s been pretty quiet on here for, what, a month? How did that happen? And in my defense… I was busy. Yes, I know, everyone always says that, but… I’ve really been busy and when I wasn’t busy I was depressed. So there. Let me count the ways!

The following things happened (not necessarily in that order): The Abominable Blatherer got his ass fired and is now threatening to sue everything that moves. I got the green light from my supervisor to start the theory part of my thesis. I went to a requiem mass. I had a lot of meetings. I planned an event. I took care of my aunt. I had a presentation. I spent unimaginably little time in the library because now my thesis topic is registered I can just take books home with me for weeks on end. I’m also starting a new job.

Okay, move the camera, rewind.

This is me, a month ago, bitching about my co-worker who in actuality is a volunteer, I just call everyone a co-worker who works with me. Now fast forward juuust a little. It became completely impossible to work with him, for reasons I’m not at liberty to disclose (I mean… any more than what I already disclosed) so it was decided he had to leave.

I thought Nero had no chill when he burned down Rome. It’s generally agreed that Hannibal was fairly un-chill when he dragged elephants up the mountains and dissolved boulders with vinegar. Attila the Hun, my possible ancestor, possessed exactly zero chill, as is established by historians across the globe. Davros, creator of the Daleks, was at his un-chillest when his creation turned against him.

And then there’s this guy. The Grand Poobah of No Chill What-So-Fucking-Ever.

First he lets one of his weird friends send us a letter to tell us to take him back again or else…! Yah, or else what, you and what army? Then he writes long-ass rants to the office e-mail account. Then he threatens to sue everyone in the team for… lies and slander unless we take him back? Huh? Then he writes e-mails to individual people. Then he calls people under different numbers. Then he refuses to hand back the office key. Then he finds some higher-up and says we’re bullying him. Then…

Do I really need to go on? So because of this nonsense we’re busy for close to a month with damage control and emotional breakdowns. We check in twice with an actual lawyer to confirm he can’t actually do anything in terms of suing or pressing charges or whatever. And all this on top of the usual office stuff. Needless to say, we’re a team of nervous wrecks. Talks are to be had. Talks with mediators and moderators and god knows what else. While there is a barrage of e-mails coming in every second day about how he’s going to sue us. To which I would just love to reply, “Bring it, you useless paperclip”, but I’m not allowed to do that. So now I just have to sit and wait alongside the rest of the office for things to cool down, quietly singing DMX songs to myself, because as the great poet used to say: “Suck my dick.”

Forward a bit. The mediator talk was had and even the mediators were at their wit’s end with this guy. He’s just unable to listen to what people are saying without automatically hearing what he wants to hear. Seriously. Says it’s out of the goodness of his heart he won’t sue us. Whoop-di-fucking-do, jerkface, sue for what? I could tell a joke about your mom, you gon’ sue me for that? No, please do, I’d love to see a judge try to keep a straight face. “You said what to the plaintiff?” – “His momma so hairy only language she speaks is Wookiee!” – “*pffffffrrr* Yes, uh, you shouldn’t *pffffrrr* you shouldn’t say things like that, but that’s not actually a crime.”

I’d just love to fast forward twenty years to see him lose job after job after job for the same bullshit and hear him say how it’s all the employer’s/colleagues’/country’s/aliens’/disgruntled Ewoks’ fault.

ANYWAY. Halt the camera, close up of my annoyed face, change scene. I finally developed a theoretical concept that more or less makes sense for my thesis. Lotsa working definitions. Definitely lotsa working definitions needed. In writing this, I have misspelled definitions twice because by now it no longer looks like a proper word. Why do some words have so many i’s in them anyway?

Fast forward to three months from now and my inevitable nervous breakdown.

Rewind to my presentation when a colleague actually tells me they’re angry they did not come up with my topic idea themself. Cut to me doing a winning gesture in front of my entire class. The entire presentation went really well, actually. I really nailed the self-depreciating humour presentation style that’s informative and academic as well as light-hearted. Go me!

Rewind to last week when an acquaintance tells me about this friend of hers who’s working for a place who’re looking for someone to proofread, part-time like. My time at sort-of job is coming to an end anyway so this looks very much like destiny. Close-up of my brain, jumping in the air and clicking its heels together. One quick communication later I hold some contact details in my hand. I’m so going to write them, like, right now!

Stop camera, enter crushing self-doubt. But what do I write? Do I just jot down a quick note? Do I go with a full-blown cover letter? But those are always so over the top and fake because I can’t write to save my life! Do I attach my CV and credentials or is that too forward? What do I do?

I could sleep on it, I guess. But it’s like 10:30 in the morning and if I don’t act now maybe my acquaintance will have given that contact to twenty other people! I can’t wait! But what if I don’t have the skills? I mean, I have a certificate, but still. What if I don’t have enough work experience? I mean, I basically don’t have any. In this field. I mean, none that counts. You know how it is when you’re a student and your friends’ friends start paying you to read their papers, that hardly counts as experience, right? What do I do?



Write now!



Oh, fucking alright!

Fast forward to literally ten minutes later and I close my eyes as I hit send on a very short e-mail that is expressing my interest and is also offering to send my CV if the interest is mutual.

Fast forward even more to me finding out this is not the right person and they’re forwarding my mail to someone who’s the actual right person. Fuck!

Fast forward a day. Actual Right Person has written back with some details about the position and asks me to call them.

Fuck! Phone! I hate phones! I hate people! I hate communication! And telecommunication in particular!

Okay, forward one last time. I have stalked this person’s linkedin profile, I have prepared my lines, I’m making a phone call. Elevator music greets my ears. I prepare myself for a five minute wait. The five minute wait is actually only 30 seconds, which was enough time for me to forget everything I wanted to say. I sort of stumble to the call, sounding probably like the escaped village idiot trying to make a living in the big city.

Fast forward to three days later when I’m having the probably shortest job interview of my life and get the job.

First I’m like, yes! Job! Money! I am employed and therefore special!

But it’s part-time. Still not bad, I can join the ranks of the walking underemployed!

Gee, that was pretty fast of them to decide to take me on. They must be really desperate for someone to fill in.

Shit, they would have just taken anyone, wouldn’t they? I thought I was special!

Then I remember that in a capitalist free market economy a few years after a recession no one is special. And I feel even worse, because society.

Rewind to beginning of June and it’s funeral time. Only there’s nothing to bury because grandmother decided to do the nice thing and leave her body to science. Considering the rare spinal deformation she had that’s actually pretty sensible of her. So all we have is a mass somewhere in a village at the ass end of nowhere, which is closes to where she lived, which was the other cheek of the ass end of nowhere. Priest is wearing Nike’s. I’m having an allergic reaction to frankincense. The family and me are in the first rows. The crowd isn’t huge. Actually, it’s only us, some of grandma’s neighbours, and the evening regulars.

The awkwardness hits hard. We’re all heathens and haven’t got a clue of what to do, because apparently you don’t just sit in church, you do things. We’re nervously watching the old lady three rows back because she’s an absolute church pro. Standing up, sitting down, kneeling, standing up, she’s doing great! Such vigour and she’s at least 80! Total champ at this Catholic cardio the priest is making us do! And singing along! I don’t know what you want me to say! What’s going on? Can’t you have one of those statues hold an electronic sign, or a prompter, that tells you what to do and when, and your lines? Do it for Jesus! I’m sure he’s shaking his head at my incompetence!

And I can’t stop laughing! I’m trying to keep it in, but it’s just so funny! And I can tell my aunt’s trying hard not to laugh as well! Did this guy even know my grandmother? He’s being much too nice. And what’s this anecdote? You know the one. The one about a young boy with a terminal illness and he’s dying and the doctors get him back to life for like two days, and he’s waking up like “Hey, why’d you bring me back, it was so nice there”? I read that story about a hundred times on the internet, with varying names and places. I don’t buy that you, priesty boy, have witnessed this first hand and it inspired you to become a man of the cloth.

And then he goes on a tangent. Yes, if you have no faith you have no hope for a life after death, which means you have to do everything in this life, you have to have every bit of fun and indulgence while in this life because after that you’ll be gone forever… I look over at my dad and my boyfriend and we all exchange a glance of “Sounds like a pretty sweet deal”.

And then there’s this weird food ritual. Any christians out there who can tell me if it’s normal for the priest to mix water into the wine? Or are they just on a budget out there in the sticks? I mean, I get the waffle part. But sweeping the leftover crumbs in the cup and washing that down? That seems weird. Can anyone confirm that this is how it’s done?

So we leave the service somewhat elated and no one wants to join us for dinner, so we set out to go eat, just the family. And we have a blast. Does any other country have the concept of “schöne Leich”? Because we do. It basically means a very good funeral. This was a very funny funeral. A true funeral feast. One might assume we put the fun in funeral. Both my mother and my aunt had a very good time discussing shapely men and looking at pictures of Brock O’Hurn and Lasse Matberg on my phone. Why I have pictures of those people on my phone is of course entirely beside the point. It’s much more important that you know how my father put his head in his hands in defeat and the Boyfriend asked, with his brows so high they vanished in his ample hair, if I’m going to be like that when I’m older.

Spoiler alert: Yes.

Also, yah, we’re heathens. Really easily amused heathens.

Fast forward to tomorrow when I have my first day at work. Cut to a close up of my terrified face.

Halt camera. Cut to ‘To be continued’ sign.

Rant Day! Things That Mildly Annoyed Me, March 5-12!

Item 1: This agonizing wait to find out if I can have a place in my last class!

Item 2: Nudity. No, not nudity itself. I’m very pro-nudity, nudity for everyone. But then there are lecturers who show a film clip, pause it in the middle of a naked woman swimming and go, “I’m sorry, I tend to forget to warn audiences about nudity.” Oh no, not the boobs! Anything but the boobs! Especially in this room full of people who have boobs! Seriously, there’s like 30 people in here, 25 of which have boobs themselves, including you btw. The other five have a 98% of having been nursed by boobs, a 80% chance of being attracted to boobs, and a 50% chance of having seen actual boobs in their life. I think they gon’ be fine. Now shut up, Kate Winslet is showing me her tits and I’m in love.

(Also, the males wouldn’t dare complain. They’re outnumbered, 50 boobs to none, we have them surrounded!)

Item 3: Kinda wanna dress up more, kinda wanna buy Nike sneakers and not give a fuck.

Item 4: Kinda wanna do something silly and teenager-y, like steal a traffic light, but that’s immature, but that’s fun.

Item 5: Diablo III is addictive as hell, and it’s also hard on Torture V, and those demons are hitting me, and Kormac, goddammit, where the hell you at, you supposed to tank! Move your shiny templar ass in front!

Item 6: Mom, thanks for trying to make me feel normal about my non-existent wish to procreate, but actually I wasn’t feeling weird about it. Like, at all. Look, your sister doesn’t have kids. Dad’s aunt doesn’t have kids. I grew up in a family where having kids is just one option. I know I’m approaching the age where you gave birth, but I’m fine. I can always freeze my eggs and have a child at sixty, you know how long we fuckers live, it’ll be great.

Item 7: I can haz moneys plz?! How long does it take you to pay my invoice? Come one, chocolate bunny season is about to start, I need cash!

Rant Day! Things Never Stopped Pissing Me Off, But I Forgot to Write Them Down!

Item 1: Welcome to grad school, where the rules are made up and deadlines don’t count. This whole MA thing might just take an entire year longer because they maybe won’t let me in the write-your-thesis seminar because I didn’t get a grade on one stupid other seminar in time. So fucking inflexible. But then I keep hearing stories that many girls just got in anyway, never mind that they were only halfway done with all their prerequisites. Look, I got everything done, I registered my topic, and I have a supervisor. Why can you never make an exception for me, huh?

Item 2: Had a very bad bout of depression about the state of women and the state of the world in general, and Boyfriend thinks I can’t read his thoughts. I know that he thinks its ridiculous, that’s why I don’t talk to him about it, even if he insists I talk to him about it. It’s not like he could solve the world for me. It’s not like he can even listen without an uncomfortable sigh or an interjection of “Well, men have it bad too, you know”. Yeah, well, that’s your own problem, isn’t it? Who’s creating problems for everyone?

Item 3: Boyfriend and my clothes. First it’s, “Are you wearing sweatpants?!” Yes. Yes, I am. We’re going to the grocery store, I’m not dressing up for that. It’s aisle 4 at the corner store, not the New York fashion week or some shit. Then later he said to me, “You could wear something like this sometimes” after seeing a woman presenter on TV in a dress. Okay, one: A guy who spent every day of the last thirty-odd years in jeans and t-shirts does not get to tell me how to dress. Two: Right, where? Am I going on TV? Am I getting paid? Do I get my own stylist? Are we going out? No, we never go out. So now I’m sitting here in my best red dress with all my jewellery on, and I’m playing Diablo III, and I’mma get my season char to level 70 before him. In style. Suck it, motherfucker.

Item 4: Overwatch is taking forever to get here, the alpha’s been out forever, come on, Blizz, I need something new to waste my life with!

Item 5: I’m so done with losing weight, I’m just going to pretend this is the fault of the Neanderthal DNA I no doubt carry in large quantities, they got a new study coming out in Bonn that Neanderthal DNA can influence your weight, maybe I should just send them a blood sample?

Item 6: I think I’m going to write a lengthy exposé about why school dress codes are fucking disgusting, because literally the only thing you’re teaching kids is that girls’ bodies are free to be policed by so-called ‘authorities’ at any and all points in their lives. So glad we don’t have this shit here, but who knows, stupidity is known to spread across the globe real fast.

Item 7: I’m not half as creative as I think I am, as evidenced by the fact that all porn parody titles I come up with already exist. Bet you didn’t know that “Whorrey Potter and the Sorcerer’s Balls” was a thing, eh? Apparently that one won an award.

Item 8: There’s an influx of graffiti in the ‘hood, so now I have to go out in the cold with my red pen and correct their spelling and grammar mistakes. Assholes. Everyone has a smart phone, but gods forbid they download a dictionary.

Item 9: So I looked at some what the facebook friends-of-friends promised me to be amusing pictures titled “Why my kid is crying”. Like the Queen, I was not amused. Most of the time I was thinking, Why are you snapping a picture when you should be slapping some sense into your dumb fucking kid? And that’s how I realised I’m still not ready for parenthood.

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.


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.