Rant Day! Things That Pissed Me Off, April 2 – April 8

Ladies and gentlemen, presenting the defending champion for the Worst Week of 2018!

Monday

It’s a public holiday, I can sleep, I can chill, I’m having so much fun, life is good!

Tuesday

Aaaand they’re turning the water off again. For the entire day this time. Glorious. Nothing I like more than not being able to use my flat that I pay rent for. “But you can use it! Just fill some bottles with water!” You walnut, what d’you think I did? However, buckets and bottles are not the best replacement for an actual flushing toilet. Look, the recession is over, okay, we don’t have to live like it’s the 1930s anymore. Yes, I know, there’s children exploding in Africa that have it way worse than me. Yes, First World Problems. If we can’t even get the First World organised and functioning, how d’you think we’re ever gonna improve the other two, huh? Yeah, that’s what I thought.

So I do what every entitled Millennial does: I crawl back home to my folks. My parents, who in recent years have morphed into Most Awesome Parents in the Entire World, don’t mind me chilling at their place, getting some work done, or raiding the fridge. Massively better option than hanging around Starbucks for eight hours. Problem is: I’m not good at getting up at 6:30 (waaaaay out my natural rhythm) so I can shower before the water is off until evening, then spending an hour on the subway dragging my huge-ass laptop with me. Not that I didn’t do it, but fuuuuuck did I need sleep.

Wednesday

Still no water to be had in this house. This is the fourth time in two weeks. When are they gonna be fucking done replacing pipes?

Shit, my building is in the paper. No, the actual newspaper. Because this renovation has been going on for nearly three years now.  Hear that? That was the sound of someone’s patience shattering into a million little pieces. And no, it wasn’t me. This time, it wasn’t me. But I’m the nagging pain in the neck who’s calling house management again this week to find out if they know of any other dates this week or in general that the water’s going to be turned off. Because it’s kinda annoying coming home in the evening and squinting around for the tiny bit of paper at the door that’s gonna tell me if I’mma have water tomorrow or no. And what do ya know, house management have no fucking records of anything. They don’t know. They’re gonna tell the foreman to call me back on this (spoiler alert: he doesn’t).

I love the area I live in, but I fucking hate this building. Scaffolding up since spring 2015. And the only thing’s missing is a coat of paint. Meanwhile, down the street, some private company started building an entirely new block of flats in February 2017. People are gonna move in next month. They can build an entire fucking house in 1 1/2 years but can’t renovate one in three years. Someone fucking explain this.

So off back to my parents’ place… which is chill, but the way back in the evening is an absolute nightmare. Subway is late. Okay. I live in a big city, I can live with that. Subway has a problem and won’t stop between a couple stations, one of them happens to be mine. Okay. I live in a big city, I can deal with that. I’ll just get out sooner and take the bus. Subway stands still seemingly forever in every station. I live in a big city, I can deal with that. Subway announces the problem has been solved and we’re going the normal route again. Fucking hallelujah! Praise the gods of public transport! I can get out at my station!

Subway stops in the middle of the route and boots everyone out. This train gets withdrawn from service. Why? No one knows. When’s the next? Ehhhh, it’ll be around. Sometime.

All around me people are sighing, rolling their eyes, calling their loved ones to say goodbye, because this subway station is where we live now. At this point I have been trying to get home for over an hour. This is like one of my nightmares. And when the next train finally arrives, it’s sardine time. Somehow the entire city squeezes into the same carriage as me. And that’s when I realise with horror that I’m standing on the wrong side. I’ll never make it to the right door alive.

Kidding, I do. And just lightly scratched, too! While profusely apologising to everyone on the train. Some of their eyes speak murder. Nothing people hate more than a packed train and someone trying to get out.

Thursday

Two separate clients decide to play Waiting for Godot with me. Both told me they’re gonna send me their files on Thursday. Guess what’s in my inbox on Thursday: You guessed it, nothing.

Until precisely 9 p.m. And me, being the nicest person on the planet, of course answer that e-mail. And the next one. And the next one. Why am I answering client e-mails until 11 p.m.? Do I hate myself or something? Yes. And also, they had some wishes concerning their files that I have to definitely pay attention to this, yes, you’ll do that exactly like I’m telling you, yes?!

You pay me so I can’t exactly say no.

What’s that? You don’t think it’s professional of me to complain about clients on the internet? There’re of websites dedicated to complaining about customers in the service industry, sit the hell down. Every human needs to vent.

Friday

What’s the opposite of the Ancient Mariner? You know, the poem that goes “Water, water everywhere”? Again! Fucking again! How many pipes are there in this godforsaken house that need changing? There has to be a finite number of pipes! Or do we have a wormhole in the basement where the universe’s lost pipes accumulate?

Anyway. Off to the opposite side of town again. Creep into my parents’ apartment like a freaking ninja, I’m so cool.

Start laptop. Laptop kills itself over a Windows update. Freezes completely. Okay, power it down, start it again… Laptop powers up, laptop refuses internet connection. As in, won’t open the fucking menu where the connections are chilling and waiting for one of them to be chosen. Okay, power it down, start it again… laptop has a stroke and only half the screen is working, the other half has the worst case of half-black-half-acid-colours I have ever seen. I can’t see the fucking menu. At this point I just feel like screaming. And launching the thing off the balcony. But the neighbours around here are all elderly people and they get a little shirty when you throw electronics into their gardenias, even if it’s totally justified.

Dad’s doing home office today which is my luck, so I tiptoe over (trying not to make any noise so as not to wake mum down the hall, because mum’s had a wild night featuring riveting historic novels and is still snoring) and ask if I can borrow a computer. My dad, being the engineer he is, quizzes me on what’s wrong with mine for fifteen minutes, then makes a beeline for the thing and starts taking it apart. He has no idea what’s wrong either. So I work on one of his spares, no biggie. He has a dozen. Because he’s an engineer. For an engineer, possessing six different computers of various sizes with various OS is perfectly normal, and I’m starting to see the wisdom in this weirdness. I got all my files in the cloud. No problem. I’m a fucking professional. I feel like crying and pouring a pint of whiskey into my tea. But in a professional way.

Somehow I survive that day, do the usual weekend grocery shopping with Boyfriend – who incidentally is still coughing like he has the Black Plague and refuses to see a doctor – then return to my file… and it’s not in my fucking cloud. This is the version I had this morning, the time stamp is staring me in the face. Like, the only reason cloud technology exists is because it synchronizes automatically, right? So you can use all your files anywhere always, right? Well, someone might wanna tell Microsoft. Because their shit not working. It’s not synchronizing. No, I swear I did everything right. Yes, I saved it to the right folder.

Okay, so maybe I did something wrong, I’m not the most proficient user ever, but doesn’t that make me Microsoft’s target audience? Because their thing is that any idiot can use their products? Methinks they’re not testing on free-range idiots.

I might have accidentally saved the file on his harddrive instead of on my Onedrive, even though I worked online the tnire time. So I, of course, phone my dad. I swear I’ve talked more to my father this week than in the thirty years before that. Explain mine predicament. The problem is, my father has a very specific way of doing things. I tell him, “Okay, I’ve created a shared folder, just find the file, it’s named X, it should have been edited last at around 5 p.m., and drop the file in there.”

He says, “Let me try something.” And I’m glad that my phone plan includes 2000 minutes. Because of course he doesn’t do the simple thing. I don’t get what he wants at first, because he can’t phrase requests. Never did and never will. You have to say things like, “What is the preferred outcome of the action you are looking for?” and then you figure out he’s looking for the Logout button.

So the file is not on his harddrive. It’s gotta be in the cloud. Dad has to check if the thing is really not synchronising. There must be a technological solution. Because this problem could happen again at any time, so there must be a permanent solution. So he checks. And I have to guide him through it, because he’s not the most proficient user ever, either. It’s the blind leading the tone-deaf. That’s the problem when you have two different kinds of autism in the family. Finally have him log in with my account to copy the fucking file I worked on all day over to the folder it should have been in in the first place. And somehow within an hour it actually appears! Glory-fucking-halleluja! But now I’m so exhausted from dealing with this shit that I need to take a Honey Nut Cheerios break! Why do I have Honey Nut Cheerios in my house? They’re pure sugar wrapped in carbs. Yeah, and also they’re the only thing that cheers me up (cheerios me up?).

And at this point I’ve had it with OneDrive. Oh, you don’t wanna work, you half-eaten lobster? Fine. I’ll do it the old-fashioned way. There’s loads of hard-working USB flash drives that would love a job like this.

Shit, at this point I’m ready to get a slate chalkboard. That’s technology you can rely on.

Or maybe I’ll just pour whiskey into my Honey Nut Cheerios and put myself in a coma. But I wanna get paid. So back to work.

Saturday & Sunday

Work, work, work, work, work, Rihannadoesn’thavethisdamnworkload, work, work, work, work, work…

What? There’s no conclusion here, I’m still working! Now shoo, go play or something!

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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.

Things We Don’t Talk about Enough: Infections in Your Special Place

Few things will make a man go pale in the face like a woman coming back from the gynecologist with the word “Surprise!”

In my case that complete sentence was “Surprise, we have a vaginal infection.”

Now, Boyfriend works in the medical field, so he isn’t easily shocked. Hell, he’s probably the reason I have one in the first place. He picks shit up from patients and I pick shit up from him. It’s an endless circle of bacteria because humans are gross and disinfectants can only do so much.

So all he does is say, “Again?”

I know, I know. I get an infection every winter. Other people get the flu, I get… well, vaginal flu. At least the thing doesn’t sneeze. Can you imagine how weird it would be if your vagina would suddenly sneeze? Anyway.

This, kids, is why you should go to your gynecologist twice a year. Because without check-ups I wouldn’t even know what’s going on in there. In case you didn’t know this, vaginal infections can be entirely symptom free. The only symptom I had was dryness, and I thought that was just because I’m stressed and I’m getting old. Bunch of bacteria and/or yeast particles partying it up in your personal fun zone and you won’t even know until your gynecologist looks at you from between your legs and goes, “Ah, again.”

The good news is this is entirely normal and easily treatable. It’s just your regular candida. For the uninitiated, candida, besides sounding like a nice name for a girl, is a type of yeast that, according to a German insitute, can be found in 75 % of people. For the rest, it’s probably just a matter of time. It’s plenty harmless and unless you’re immune-compromised it doesn’t really do anything except exist. Sometimes it gets a little bold and gives you a vaginal infection, sometimes a gut infection. A week of microbiozidal agents sends it right back to its cave like a tiny grumpy yeast bear.

Apparently, according to my doc, some women get infections like they get a cold. Some even get an infection every time they get a cold. And it gets even more common after age 70. Which makes me wonder why there’s such a stigma attached to something so comparatively harmless. On the other hand, it makes me wonder how humanity ever survived without modern medicine. I mean, every year! A thousand years ago I would probably be dead! Some demented priest-type would probably make up some lark about my vagina being possessed by a dark matter demon, and I’d go along with it for the fun, up to and including making my vagina do voices, and then they’d throw me off a cliff. Anyway.

It’s not that big a deal, all it means is a week of vaginal suppositories that leak worse than a stress period. This time, my doc decided that we’re going hardcore, so it’s more like three weeks. I started treatment right after my period ended. Basically, there will not be a single day this month where there is nothing shoved way up my vagina. This is a lot less fun than it sounds. Anything for the little queen.

So if you’re in the same situation right now, get your behind to the doctor’s and get your meds. The pharmacy people won’t judge you, they hand out suppositories and hemorrhoids cream to old men like Halloween candy. Go forth and treat your happy place.

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!

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!”

So James Joyce, a Burnt Out Grad Student, and a Pair of Black Socks Walk Into a Bar…

Literally, my stat connection for this year so far reads like the beginning of a beer-fuelled joke. One that ends in something stupid, too, like “And then he says, ‘That’s not a duck’!”

Why were they successful, comparatively? Well, one thing: timing. Tuesdays are popular, somehow? Second: my tag game getting stronger.

Anything else? I dunno, topics? It’s not every day you see the late, not-so-great James Joyce getting slut-shamed by a big-mouthed grad student who’s in the midst of a slight breakdown after the umpteenth Joyce lecture complete with an interpretation of Ulysses. Actually, in hindsight, maybe the prof was just making all of it up on the spot because he secretly hates Joyce too and wants to discourage all the hopeful bright-eyed students from ever reading the damn thing. Certainly worked for me, kudos to you, sir.

Also… I just imagine I was not the only student struggling with a paper deadline in January and lengthily venting my frustrations, so I guess that’s why. Seriously, is there anything worse than writing a paper you don’t really want to write?

Actually, yes, there is. Writing a paper to impress your future thesis supervisor is definitely worse.

And the last one was a daily prompt that had nothing whatsoever to do with black socks despite that being the title, in which I wax less than poetically about my inability to communicate like a basic human. Again. But daily prompts have a large audience, so duh, numbers game.

Also, people keep clicking on my Tale of Two Titties post even thought it’s at least two years old by now. Which was also a daily prompt. With a pandering eye-catching, attention-grabbing, market-research-approved title. I dare you NOT to click. It’s not very good, anyway. Okay, so it has a couple of tits in it, but that’s REALLY NOT that interesting. Seriously, don’t click.

… you just clicked it, didn’t you? Bad reader!

Thoughts You Have While Writing an Academic Paper

Stage 0: Having a topic assigned to you

Okay, this topic. Well, could have been worse. Could do with some instructions, though, but I guess we’re practising academic minimalism again. Time to hit the library!

Stage 1: Primary literature

Bored.

Bored.

Bored.

Bored.

Weird sex scene.

Bored.

Bored.

God, how many more pages?

Bored.

Dear Author, do you have anything interesting to say in this?

Bored.

Hella bored.

You, Mister White Heterosexual Protagonist, are a waste of literary resources with your constant existential angsty whining.

Bored.

Stage 2: Research and secondary literature

Why are all the books I wanted taken? How many people were assigned this topic again? Is this just really popular right now?

Why isn’t this digitalized yet, anyway?

Why isn’t everything digitalized yet?

Why am I not digitalized?

So, online resources… what? Nothing? Try some other search terms…

Nothing? Oh, come on!

There we go, fucking system on the fritz again…

1982?! What the hell kinda old shit is that?

Seriously, library system, would it kill you to open a tab normally?

This one looks promising… no access?! What the hell?

Okay, how about this… 1979, nope. 1985, nope. 1987, also nope. 1974, what the fuck, is there no new research on this writer?

Okay, fuck this, shift the focus of this paper slightly…

There we go. About 25,000 results for the civil rights movement. None of which have anything to do with this writer. You know what, fuck it, I can come up with some bullshit myself.

Stage 3: Reading and selecting quotations

This has nothing whatsoever to do with my topic.

This has nothing whatsoever to do with my topic.

This has nothing whatsoever to do with my topic.

Nice read. This has nothing whatsoever to do with my topic.

One useful quote, sold!

This is okay… but it’s old. Can I quote this even if it’s more than fifteen years old? Welp, I can.

What’s the deal with psychoanalysis in literally everything, why do these ancient fossils see penis everywhere? And what does it say about them that they do? That’s not what the D in Ph.D. stands for, dammit!

So this is the extremely renowned academic my professor likes, definitely have to throw in a quote of his.

Copying machine? Psshh! What you think I have a phone for?

Picture of book page. Picture of book page. Picture of book page. Selfie! Picture of book page. Picture of book page. Picture of book page….

Okay, on to the PDF articles.

New word document, make a nice list of quotations for future reference.

Why won’t this copy and paste!? Come on, I don’t want to type the entire paragraph! Okay, this can be copied and pasted…. aaaand suddenly it’s a completely unreadable font. There’s not enough tea in the world to get me through this.

OMG, I CAN COPY THIS, PRAISE THE MOTHERFUCKING LORD!

Hm, this researcher really knows their stuff, but I can’t quote just them. Doesn’t any of the others say the same thing, only different?

You know what, I should just insert a hyperlink and quote the entire article, this some good shit. I wonder what else they wrote….

No, no, focus. Need to select quotes. So which are the most useful?

WHAT DO YOU MEAN I CAN’T COPY AND PASTE THIS?!

Stage 4: Writing

Structure… Intro, whatever. Second, characters, because the old fossil who’ll be grading this changed his mind and now he also wants old school general character analysis and narratology like this is some fucking undergrad course. What does this have to do with my topic?! When I said instructions would be nice I meant something useful, like which style sheet you want, or what are your criteria for grading! Okay, next section, my actual fucking topic. Four, no… three subsections. Yeah, I can pull those two into one section. Alright. Conclusion, whatever.

Okay, introduction. “This paper discusses the thing you’re about to read so you might just want to go ahead and do that”.

Nope. I’ll get on with that later.

No one cares about all these minor fucking characters, this is not the focus of my paper, why are you making me do this? I’ll do it later.

Finally, the real stuff. Time to write!

Okay, doing pretty well, and we have… still at least 6000 words to go.

Bored.

Bored.

How many times can you say ‘however’?

How many times in a row can you quote the same person?

Maybe I’ll just paraphrase.

Come on, there must be a synonym for this!

Fuck it, quotation it is.

Can’t start two successive sentences with ‘therefore’, dammit, re-write…

I’m so hungry.

Urgh, I want a cake!

“Mentions”, no. “Draws the readers’ attention to”, no. “Deals with”, oh not again. “Discusses”, hell, I just used that! How do you say ‘It’s a thing in this novel’ without actually saying ‘It’s a thing in this novel’?

Is ‘moreover’ even a word?

This sounds stupid. Re-write. Now it sounds worse. Re-write. Oh for the love of… Re-write.

You know what, just quote it.

Seriously, why am I always hungry when I’m writing? How many calories can thinking possibly burn?

What’s that word that sounds like “comprise”?

Uuuuuuuuuurrrrrrrrrrrgggggghhhhhhh.

Maybe I should take a break.

Cat video time!

Somehow the paper did not write itself in the last two hours while I was watching cat videos.

Okay, back to work.

Maybe I should check my e-mail.

Maybe I should check facebook, what if something important is going on?

Actually, this place needs cleaning.

Somehow the paper did not write itself in the last three hours I spent cleaning the entire house.

Why does ‘therefore’ even exist?

Stomach: FEED ME, SEYMOUR!

If I add emphasis to a quote, do I do that at the end in square brackets or right after the author’s name? I dunno, it looks weird in square brackets.

Why won’t this style sheet tell me how to indicate that I added emphasis?

Why won’t any style sheet tell me how to indicate that I added emphasis?

You know what, fuck it, square brackets it is, even if it looks weird.

Still need 2000 words, time to bullshit my way through character analysis.

“This character…” is really boring. “This character represents…” my will to live throwing itself out of the window. “The main characteristics of this character”, oh my god, you can’t have ‘characteristics’ and ‘character’ in one sentence! “The protagonist is…” obviously an author self-insert. “The female protagonist…” could be replaced with a table lamp because she’s only a love interest, and no straight guy in the history of ever wants to fall in love with an interesting person with like thoughts and ideas ‘n shit.

There’s not enough vodka in the world to get me through this.

I know I had a quote for this somewhere, where the hell is it?!

Things I accomplished today: Won three imaginary arguments. Things I didn’t get done: Work on paper.

I’m going to eat the entire fridge.

Is this English?

Do I even know what I mean?

I don’t know, what is the proposition?

Endemic across regional boundaries, yes, totally.

What?

Maybe I should take a break.

Why is it suddenly two days before the deadline?!

Works Cited Page… I did not actually quote this guy. Neither this one. Nope, this one’s out, too. And this one wasn’t actually that useful. And this one said the same thing as the other guy. Jeez, I hope that’s enough sources.

Wait, where’s that one guy?! Oh, there he is.

Wait, did I forget the one about desegregation?! Oh, there it is.

OH MY GOD, IS THIS THING STILL NOT DONE?! How many more pages do I need?

I don’t wannaaaaa….

Maybe I can get a deadline extension.

But I have this exam the week after, so if I had this out of my way I’d be able to concentrate on the exam a lot better….

Uuuuuuuuuurrrrrrrrrggggggghhhh.

Whatever, just type some 700 words on those shitty characters and drop it in the secretary’s office, who the hell even cares.

Wait, why the hell am I only finding this article now?! Oh my god, this is exactly my topic! RE-WRITE!

Are we done yet?

Are we done yet?

Are we done yet?

Conclusion… some bullshit… “As demonstrated”… “clearly illustrates”… “Furthermore”… “Finally, the main point”… Jesus, can’t you just read the fucking thing?

Stage 5: Home stretch

Okay, time to edit out all my mistakes.

Why the hell do I keep typing ‘at least’ as ‘as least’?

Why are keyboards in this order, even?

Who in the hell decided it was a good idea to put ‘i’ next to ‘o’? Which prankster wanted me to keep writing ‘in’ when I mean ‘on’?

Oh fuck, I have this part twice, how did that happen?!

Okay, but now it’s done.

PRINT, MY SLAVE!

Printer? Hello-ho, printer?

Uuuuurrrrrggghhh!

PRINTER!

Oh, come on…

Who’s a nice little printer?

Why can’t I just hand in the PDF via e-mail? What year is this, 1403?

PRINT, YOU INK-FILLED MALCONTENT, OR I WILL END YOU AND CURSE YOUR OFFSPRING TO THE SEVENTH GENERATION!

Finally!

Fine, don’t have an office hour, I’ll drop it in the secretary’s office, they’ll get it to you.

WHAT DO YOU MEAN, YOU DIDN’T GET IT?!

See, this is precisely why this kinda shit should to be handled via e-mail!

Oh, so you did get it? Just buried under all the other papers, is it?

Ugh, I don’t even care any more. If anyone needs me, I’ll be in the couch, crying into a tub of Ben & Jerry’s.

Wait, did I remember to close the quotation marks in that one quote I shortened?

Uuuuuuuuuurrrrrrrrrrrgggggghhhhhhh.

Rant Day! Things That Pissed Me Off, Oct 19-25

Item 1: Dear guy on the tram, I’m sorry I spent the entire ride staring at your Captain America belt buckle, I’m sure you thought I was staring at your penis, sorry for making you feel objectified (and double sorry if you enjoyed the attention). I mean, I guess I could have just screamed “Captain America!” and pointed straight at your general belt area, yet somehow I feel that would have been worse. But, honestly? A rather large belt buckle on low rise pants is nothing but a penis advertisement. A dick ad. A cock sign. If you put a very large and colourful metal circle directly over the bulge, chances are all eyes are gonna go straight to the money maker. I mean, your loose fitting hoody was tucked behind it. So…

Item 2: More shapely dudes need to wear slim fitting pants. So I get on the tram and immediately my thoughts set back human evolution by about a million years, because daaaaayummm, he got them long lean legs! Not that I always want to get on public transport and have my inner horny ape come out, but… actually I do. So thanks, guy in the tight blue pants. Nothing against ogling women’s legs all the time but a bit of variety doesn’t come amiss. Get it together, every other dude!

Item 3: Whyyyy does everything have to be done at once and by me? Are there no other people in the world? Has the zombie apocalypse finally happened? Why do I have to do everything?

Item 4: All my deadlines are, through none of my doing, really close together and I’m having a mild freak out. How am I going to write all those papers?!

Item 5: I need to get a grip on myself and pester people about supervision. Like, reaaaalllyyyy get on their nerves until one of them shows mercy. Ugh, people contact, eww.

Item 6: Another complaint about public transport? Say it ain’t so! Dear group of youths (six of them! Fucking six of them! Oh, the humanity!) who looked like you escaped from a Pinterest fashion board, why do you think leaning against the door is a good idea? Especially when we’re approaching a much frequented station? Prepare for the Expectant Eyebrow Raise of Doom. Then prepare for a pair of cheap plastic Chelseas to land on your suede Oxfords. Get. Out. Of. My. Way.

Ohhhh, whyyyyy must it be too cold and wet already to bike everywhere?

Rant Day! I’m Getting My Rant Game Back on Track!

Item 1: So I actually got a compliment the other day. In public, no less. And it weirded me out, because, hello, since when do we talk to strangers on public transport?! This is Autism Central, we don’t acknowledge people’s existence until we bump into them! So I’m on the subway, White Lies blaring in my ears, when I feel someone tapping my shoulder. Thinking it’s just a late tourist trying to get to the airport, because that’d be the right line for that purpose, I unplug my ears, turn and say, “Yeah?” And this hipster looking dude with round turquoise Harry Potter-esque glasses says, “Hey, I just wanted to say your glasses are real cool. That’s it, really.” And proceeds back to his corner as I say a slightly baffled, “Okay. Thanks. Yours are nice, too.” And spent the rest of the train ride stewing in my own awkwardness, suddenly questioning the entire universe. Who is this guy? What’s so special about my glasses? Is he doing a Random Act of Kindness kind of project to get more followers on his Twitter feed? Is he tweeting about this now? Is he snapchatting his bros about my glasses?! What just happened?! Does not compute!

Safe to say I’m bad with compliments. Probably because I never get any except from my mom.

Item 2: I got back into Pilates with the end of the heat wave and now I’m hurting in places I didn’t even know could hurt, or, for that matter, were located within my body.

Item 3: I recently found out that my dad and most of the people he knows of the 50+ generation never wrote a single letter of application in their entire life. Not one goddamn cover letter, and those guys ain’t exactly poor. They just knew people who were like, hey, you seem cool, wanna come hang in our brand new office? Like, the first job my dad ever had, he walked out on the second day all like, screw you dickwipes. And it’s like, why are you asking me why I don’t have a proper job when the real question should be, how do YOU even have a proper job?! You didn’t exactly work for it, no pun intended. Fellow millenials, it’s time we take to the barricades! As soon as we can afford any.

Item 4: Mom got her first smartphone and I’m so proud of the progress she made so far, even though she says it’s like having to learn to read all over again. And now dad’s all jealous of me because I’m a better teacher than he is. Right in the generation gap.

Item 5: I seem to be hanging out a lot with my parents, is that normal?

Item 6: I swear job interviews are getting weirder every year. Like, they make you do little tests now like maths and proofreading. What’s next, asking me what kind of animal I’d be if I was an animal? (BTW, the answer is either cat or koala. I excel at sleeping and I’m a picky eater.)

Item 7: The next heat wave is rolling around! Run for your lives! Meet me in Iceland!

P.s.: It’s been over a week and Boyfriend has not noticed the kitten attack.