Tell me a story...

Someone recently told me that... "Everyone has a story, and everyone wants to hear them." I'm not sure if I completely support this statement, and here's why.

Firstly, does everyone have a story that's worth telling? It has been known for some people to live wholly uneventful and dull lives, and in this case, surely their story wouldn't be worth telling? And if so, what constitutes an interesting story? Is a tragedy necessary? Or a mental illness? Or perhaps just one hideously nasty event is required in order to make a story worth telling? Either way, the presence of dull lives in this world goes towards disproving the above statement and should be kept in mind. That is, if you have a dull life which is lacking a personal tragedy, illness or catastrophic event, then just shut it - nobody wants to hear your story.

Secondly, does everyone want to hear other people's stories? Is it possible to say no? If everyone suddenly got wind of the fact that a story is supposed to be told, wouldn't we all just be inundated with stories and eventually get completely sick of not only the sound of other people's voices but also of hearing the same old drama's of parental divorce and teenage angst? Additionally, these seemingly tragic and pertinent events would lose their effect, and would eventually be pushed to the bottom of the 'interesting' pyramid, leaving thousands of adults at a loss to understand their dormant childhood issues?

I think I can safely assume that not everybody has a story. But I'm a little confused as to whether or not everyone wants to hear the stories, interesting or not. Can anyone shed some light?

Birthday Rules

I have a few questions. It's IT Helpdesk's birthday today, and he was mentioning that a) he has received no presents so far, and b) he reckons he's not gonna get lucky at all. This raises the question of rules. Should birthday rules be put in place?

Another annual event that seems to have rules attached to it is Valentine's Day. If you're attached, it's the rule that you pay your other half lots of attention and give them flowers/chocolate/a shag - there's no questioning of these rules, and they are strictly adhered to. So why is it different for birthdays?

When I was younger, there was an unspoken rule that I didn't have to do any housework on my birthday, and I always received a chocolate cake. At this later stage in my life, I expect those rules to be maintained, with the addition of a) receiving presents and b) getting lucky. I imagine that these rules aren't Bazza specific, and can be translated to other people, so I am proposing that they are put in place for all who celebrate a birthday, indefinitely.

Additionally, I'd like to question the main birthday rule; that is, once a year, on the day of your birth, you celebrate your birthday. What's the deal with this anyway? It's completely unfair to people like me who are cursed with a birthday 2 weeks after xmas - I'd like to propose that such unfortunates as me can have a mid-year birthday. Like xmas in July. I don't see a problem with that.

The many pitfalls of food outlets...

Is it my imagination, or are all being duped by food outlets...? Has anyone else ever thought, my-oh-my this salad is rather large - I'll never finish it. What a waste. Well, I have, and I'm sick of it.

My current salad place seems to only offer the one size. I assume this because there appear to be no other containers floating around their outlet, and I've never been asked 'would you like a small or a large?' Additionally, I'm a little perturbed as to the restrictions on salad 'packages'. I will discuss both these issues at length.

Firstly, the package restrictions: I usually opt for a 'make your own' salad, whereby you choose a certain amount of ingredients to be added to your salad. However, after much trial and error, I've discovered that the allotted amount of 8 salad choices leave far too much room for error, and, quite frankly, places a bit too much pressure on your average lunch goer. Every time I choose this option, I'm informed 'you've got 4 left', which is shockingly distressing knowing full well that there's no way artichoke hearts will go with my previously chosen tandoori chicken, and I sure as hell aint putting any beetroot in with my feta.

So, I propose that salad vendors think more carefully about their instructions vs. the number of ingredients available. If you're going to enforce a choice of 8 extra salad options, make sure that there are at least 4 different possible combinations of salad ingredients for the customer, so as to prevent any mishaps, such as capers with anchovies. Now, after I go and drink a gallon of water to wash away the saltiest salad I've ever eaten, I'd like to talk portion sizes...

Some of you may be familiar with my email of complaint to 'Boost Juices'... why do you offer customers a size called 'original' that is the largest size available and by no means adheres to the common preset that 'original' size is in fact 'medium'? ... I'm now wondering what stance I should take with a salad place that only offers one size? Not just that though - this one size is possibly the largest size ever created. In fact, I'd like to challenge anyone to eat a whole salad from this place. I don't think it's possible! Even my gutsiest fans (Mason and Destro) couldn't handle the sheer enormity of this salad - a clear sign that there's something wrong with the world.

I'd appreciate your feedback on these issues. Alternatively, please someone indicate just how far along the overreactionometer this post goes.

Am I Insane?

[Post has been removed due to realisation that it might not be appropriate content. I have left the final sentence, as a parting thought.]

Maybe I should have restricted access to the internet? Maybe I should be kept under lock and key? Or maybe I should just personally ban myself from certain websites and stop taking my work laptop home on the weekends... idea!

Not very verbal...

Do you ever get the feeling that you're censoring yourself? The multitude of thoughts that go through a person's head every day rarely get verbalised. My question is, how much of it should be?

There are currently a few things that have been sitting around in my head for months, and I just refuse to allow them to come out. Verbalising them involves the act of telling them to someone else, and I think it's the reaction of that person that is stopping me. Now, really I have no idea what their reaction is going to be, but I'm afraid that maybe I DO know and because this supposed reaction is not favourable, I'm afraid to verbalise my thoughts.

Why can't I just forget about it, and move on to other thoughts? Good question... I don't know why. I've tried my hardest to forget the shit, and have distracted myself with other Muse's and other trains of thought, but it just doesn't make any difference. I think that if I don't just say it, I will explode. And I'd hate for my colleagues to be covered in a big mess of gooey Bazza all over the place. That's not pleasant, and not very friendly. So, for the good of humanity, I should just talk talk talk away.

After reading this through, I've realised that I am potentially over-reacting. What I have been thinking about isn't really that important; it doesn't affect anybody that much; it is merely a realisation of something. Very boring - not worthy of a blog post - but I had to get it out.

General Moan.

And the torture has begun. I'm officially two days into the Challenge, and my trainer has already caused me to have 3 separate muscle strains. While I'm tempted to tell her to fuck off and leave me alone, I also understand that I signed up for this, I pay her for this service, and therefore I should just shut the fuck up and stop moaning about it.

But what would my life be without a good moan every now and then??

To add to my misery, I think I'm getting sick. The 10 hours of drinking on Saturday seems to have effected my usually solid immune system, and I think a cold has lodged itself in the general area of my nasal cavity and sinuses. I've just purchased some codeine laden pills to try and ward off the germs, but I think I'm too late. It's been over 18 months since I was last sick, (since leaving the UK), so I'm highly pissed off and wondering just who I can blame for this travesty...?

The main culprit is Roy - he sits next to me and was sick last week; he made no attempt to prevent his germs from floating my way. In fact, I think he purposefully moved closer to me, in order to give me the germs.

With this in mind, I will now direct all my moaning at Roy - I give him 2 hours before he cracks and has to move seats.

...can't ... breathe...

I've eaten so much, and drunk so much water, that I am having severe difficulty breathing... My personal trainer just phoned me and told me to go to Cold Rock and purchase a take home tub of cookies and cream ice cream, mixed with turkish delight, and topped with hot chocolate fudge sauce. What she doesn't know is that I don't think I'm even capable of moving from the sofa, let alone getting changed out of my PJ's, getting into the car, and walking from the car to the shop and back again - and then there's the repeated lifting of spoon to mouth... nope. It's too much.

Oh... I just burped and I think some water might have come back up my throat. That's not pleasant.

As I sit and stare at the litre bottle of Evian waiting for me, I wonder if it's going to kill me, or if the slow but steady absorption of the water already consumed will lead ultimately to a slow and painful death, much akin to drowning... will this sofa be my last vessel of comfort? Will my feet ever see the ground again? Is my arse doomed to fuse with the cheap throw rug over my sofa, and will I forever be known as 'The woman who became her sofa, drowned in Evian water, and was eaten by her cat'?

I don't think I can carry on this way. I know I'm supposed to weigh as much as humanly possible for tomorrow morning, but I can't eat anymore - I think I've officially reached the stage of being completely and utterly full. What has shocked me most though, is the fact that my dessert stomach has apparently disappeared - I've been gorging myself on savory items, and yet, my dessert tummy says no. I can only assume that the fight for space between my internal organs reached the point where they had to start consuming each other - savory stomach ate dessert stomach, colon ate ileum, and my liver and kidneys became so cleansed that they just floated out of my arse in the night...

Give me FOOD

I have been instructed to put on weight before the first weigh-in for the Twelve Week Challenge on Saturday. So, for the last week I've been eating chocolate, chips, fried goods, baked goods, cake, creamy stuff, and lots and lots of white bread with butter. I weighed myself this morning and I've only managed to put on 0.5kg - this is an appalling effort.

So, I now have the task of eating MORE than I've ever eaten before. I have learnt that I automatically censor the cravings when I see, for example, an attractive looking cup cake in a shop window. I need to stop the censorship, and I need to just buy it and eat it like the cake that it is.

There's no stopping me - I'm going to eat everything I see. Even if I don't like it, I'll eat it. Even if it's not technically food, I'll eat it. (There's a highly tasty looking piece of paper on my desk - it's sure to have at least 50 kcals in it... couldn't hurt...)

So wish me luck - over the next 1.5 days I will be doing nothing but eating - when I'm not eating I'll be looking for food - when I'm not looking for food I'll be sitting around NOT exercising.

I ask you...

I actually feel like my PMT is controlling me. I keep going to say things, and then just milliseconds before the utterance leaves my mouth, I manage to stop myself. Will it get to the point where I can't stop myself? Tell me, would the following statements be best left unsaid? Or would their verbalisation be merely a small dot on the pile of crap that's spoken every day anyway?

1. Why are you so ugly? Were you born that way, or is this something that happened in an accident?
2. Can you massage my feet? The hormones coursing around my body are giving me a feeling of severe bloatedness and my feet are suffering under my new found weight.
3. I think you're highly attractive - you must have good genes - would you like to donate some sperm that I can freeze and save for a later date when the need to be a mother inevitably arrives?

I'm thinking the latter is just a fair enough question worth posing if applicable. But as to the other two - well, my hormone riddled mind just can't work out their social acceptability. Please advise.

Upset

So I'm feeling a general sense of upset. This upset could be stemming from a slightly premature bout of PMT, or it could be from a number of things which pissed me off this morning.

Firstly, Colin decided that climbing up the inside of my dressing gown while I was straightening my hair was a good idea, until he realised that he couldn't get back down without performing a maneuver that involved twisting around and digging his little claws into my upper thigh. This pissed me off.

Secondly, I made a cup of coffee and ate my bowl of muesli - I enjoyed it wholeheartedly, until I remembered that I start the next 12 Week Challenge in exactly 4 days, and any joy that I previously obtained from the consumption of food and beverages would shortly be taken away from me. Pissed off.

Thirdly, on my drive into work I noticed a new billboard which was advertising 'Pro Life' - it had a picture of an unborn foetus and a speech bubble indicating that the 2 month old foetus was saying 'I can suck my thumb now'. This pissed me off beyond belief - so much so that I embarked on an angry lecture to the cars around me about the disgusting state of affairs in the world that indicate it's ok to force your views on other people on their drive to work. It's pure proselytising, which is illegal on most university campuses, so why is it not illegal everywhere else? Hmmm? Then I decided that I would take a stand, and instead of just saying that I am Pro Choice, I'd go as far as to buy a can of spray paint and graffiti the billboard with an Anti Life slogan of some description. Yes, I am Anti Life, and proud. And pissed off.

And fourthly, the gradual realisation that yes, I am suffering from a premature bout of PMT, has pissed me off.

Back To My Usual Self

One of my most loyal fans came to my house on the weekend to meet Colin. After the familiar "Isn't he cute - you're so lucky to have such an attractive pussy" diatribe, she got on to more serious issues; "What the fuck is going on with your blog?"

I admit, the posts of late have been, at best, contrived. The sporadic nature of their postage is merely a side effect of a deeper problem lying within my head, which I choose to blame this lack of quality on. This module of pain which has caused the lack of literary freedom I have been suffering is called 'Wisdom Tooth'.

Perhaps ironically, the presence of my wisdom tooth has apparently taken away my ability to write for the sake of writing; to speak for the sake of speaking. It's all been too fucking serious lately, and my blog has suffered. So, I'd like to inform you all, oh avid readers, that the old Bazza has returned. The tramadol and other opiates and sedatives that have been necessary during the time of wisdom tooth have gone. My brain is now back to it's previous state - it's state of non-wisdom, if you will.

I would like to make it known that this blog spits in the face of wisdom, and curses the perils of a theme. Such structures are not wanted here - this blog is a free spirit and it will continue to express feelings of woe, hatred and complaint in its most pleasantly unwise voice.

I'm not a big fan of...

... lots of things. Today, I would like to vent some pent up anger and display the things that I currently despise about this world that we live in.

I'm not a big fan of family feuds; being ignored by a family member; people who don't return phone calls; people who don't respond to text messages clearly stating a question; people who make decisions that clearly have an effect on you and don't tell you about it; people who can't see that you're in a bad mood and need to be just left alone and continue to make jokes and play around in your presence and then get even 'funnier' when you get angry; sandwiches that have tomato in them which is frozen; wisdom teeth; toothbrushes that hurt too much to use properly when your wisdom teeth are coming through; banana smoothies that are too icy; wrinkles; people who are far to adept at hiding their feelings so you never ever have any fucking idea what the hell they're feeling; people who cause you to be too afraid to express your feelings in front of them because they don't express theirs; fax machines; cats that scratch everything BUT the scratching pole that you bought them; winter.

I think that's it. Thank you for your time.

Do I Smell?

In the never ending quest to become the most desirable woman in the world, the female race need to consider numerous factors: Clothing, hairstyle, waist to hip ratio, and perhaps the most important factor is, a woman's scent.

Putting the natural smell of raging hormones to one side, each woman has their own smell. Some smell musty (mainly elderly women who cover their mustiness with Yardley's Lavender perfume), some smell toxic-sweet (largely 10-16 year old high school girls using too much Impulse Body Spray or Body Shop's Vanilla perfume), and some smell just right (in a Baby Bear kind of way, not the popular Kellogg's cereal).

It's this 'just right' that I think I'm still searching for. I've used many perfumes in my time, and at the tender age of 18 found Noa by Cacharel which was perfect for me. Unfortunately, Cacharel decided to stop making it - was I consulted? No. Once I'd gotten over the anger of this clear crime against me, I realised I needed to find my new Baby Bear scent. I visited Chanel, Yves St Laurent, Jean Paul Gaultier and Issey Miyake - all to no avail. But I believe now I've stumbled across a pair of perfumes that might just fit.

Agent Provocateur's Maitresse and Stella McCartney Rose Absolute.

Two very different scents; The former is distinctly earthy and woody, the latter is flowery and sweet. After testing both on the men in my office, I believe the 'woody' element of the former may prove literal, while the 'flowery' of the latter may be less, um, confronting.

So, do I want to create a veritable brothel around my person, or an air of comfort, sweetness, and all things pleasant?

Perils of Motherhood

Don't get me wrong, having my little treasure, Colin, in my life is a joy - it's a blessing - it's full of rewards. But there are some things that I don't think I was prepared for.

Firstly, I now have responsibilities outside of ensuring my own shelter, hygiene, feeding and watering. I now have to ensure the shelter, hygiene, feeding and watering of another being. I can't just come home and make my own dinner; I have to make Colin's dinner first. I can't just wake up and head straight for my muesli; I have to get Colin's breakfast first. This constant 'putting someone else in front of myself' is harder than you think.

Secondly, my schedule is all out of whack. I ran a tight ship Pre-Colin, and now... well now I am having some major logistical issues. This morning is a perfect example: I woke up, fed Colin, then instead of my usual-to-the-second ritual, I left the house 20 minutes late with an empty stomach, had forgotten to take all my various pills and potions, hadn't washed my hair, and had mistakenly put on yesterday's underwear instead of finding a clean pair. So the first part of my day was spent finding food, supplementing my vitamin deficiency, and finding a suitable vessel to carry home my underwear which I'd had to discard in favour of a commando approach to the day.

As I reflect on my motherhood issues, young Colin is chewing the edge off the spine of a very rare copy of Alfred Jarry's 'Ubu Roi'. Is this an allegory for the changed state of affairs? Is his choice of book possibly reflecting my complete lack of understanding and comprehension for the situation that I've chosen? Or do I need to just give in and watch my collection of rare pieces of literature, and indeed, the rarity and perfection of my somewhat obsessive lifestyle, turn into kibble?

Pod Rules

As most of you know, I work in an office comprising many pods. My pod is the ultimate pod, and every man and his dog wants to join. In the last couple of months we've welcomed a new member - known as IT Helpdesk - and I'd like to comment on his loyalty...or lack thereof.

When a person is a member of a pod, or indeed, any club, society or elite group, there must be an element of exclusivity. Joining the pod necessarily means that you take on the manners of said pod, and act accordingly. IT Helpdesk has committed the following crimes since joining:

1. Regression to old Pod - that's right, not only does he consistently enter and converse with his old pod, but he also joins in on their 'pod meeting' on a weekly basis.
2. Misdirection of Interest - a Pod member must retain a constant state of disinterest to the goings-on of other pods. Conversing with other pods in an inquisitive manner is just not on.
3. Misdirected loyalty in general - when your pod decides to slag off and laugh at the expense of other pod members, your interaction is required. Defending, and covering up for, other pod members is a crime of such a magnitude that it may be unforgivable.

In short, IT Helpdesk needs to keep these basic rules in mind and change his disloyal ways. As we're populating the most popular pod in the office, a replacement member won't be hard to come by.

Consider this your first warning.