My brain has developed into some kind of quivering mess. It's not functional, it may as well not be there. I can barely string a sentence together without giggling, bursting into song, or yelling at someone. It's uncontrollable - I just yelled at an automated voice detection phone line, only to be told 'Sorry, I didn't quite catch that...' - I said FOR FUCK'S SAKE you fucking annoying computer generated woman...
Why are these things in place? I'm beginning to think that I attract things that make my blood boil - like men who burp openly, and loudly, in the office. And what is with the lack of post boxes in this city?? I walk to the other end of the city for a meeting, clutching the letter I had hoped to post, and do I see a single post box on this epic, 15 minute hike? NO. Not a single fucking post box. Why? WHY I ask you??
So yes, I'm damn pleased that I'm going on holiday next week, because I get the feeling that if I didn't then I might end up upsetting the majority of my colleagues with random bouts of yelling, and perhaps a tearey or two in the corner. And nobody wants to see a grown woman cry.
I think I might have to consume a worrying amount of alcohol on my holiday - I'm just far too sober at the moment. How I wish I had an alcohol problem... things would be so much cloudier...I'm not happy with the clarity...
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Monday, October 29, 2007
Towing & Ferals
An interesting evening on Saturday - quite pleasant, in fact. That is, until I discovered that my car had been TOWED away. Now, originally I laid full blame on my own stupidity for parking in a tow zone. But after the ordeal of getting him back, I realised that I was lucky to be alive, and any blame should be placed firmly on the head of the government...
After phoning around various tow companies, speaking to all manner of people from god knows what sections of society, I found little Jayden in a tow yard in Newstead. I made my way there to be greeted by a queue of ferals. The building was more like a tin shack, housing a grotty old sofa with sweat marks on the arm rests, and a small balding man behind what I can only assume was once the door to a prison asking people at the top of his lungs: "Are you a hoon tow, crash tow or parking tow?" I was the ONLY one who was a parking tow, and once this had been made public to the league of ferals sitting on the sofa, I was officially 'prey'.
After being told that I had to pay $300 to get my car out, I thought about complaining. The ferals, however, were eyeing my Gucci handbag greedily, so I paid up and made way for the pregnant woman standing behind me. She managed to spill half of her bottle of jack daniels on the counter before enquiring as to how long she had to find the money. Pleasant...
I was led through to the garage, and Jayden stood out like the jewel that he is, amongst the plethora of rust buckets and tin cans frequenting the tow yard. I inspected him for scratches and any excess dirt, and was about to complain about a dirty hand print on his boot, when the pregnant woman started screaming about the 'fucking pigs'. I thought it best to leave.
After a long hot shower and a cup of tea, I realised just how lucky I was to get out of there alive. Since coming in to work this morning, I have constructed exactly 2 emails of complaint and will be distributing these accordingly. I'm just musing the idea of claiming emotional trauma...
After phoning around various tow companies, speaking to all manner of people from god knows what sections of society, I found little Jayden in a tow yard in Newstead. I made my way there to be greeted by a queue of ferals. The building was more like a tin shack, housing a grotty old sofa with sweat marks on the arm rests, and a small balding man behind what I can only assume was once the door to a prison asking people at the top of his lungs: "Are you a hoon tow, crash tow or parking tow?" I was the ONLY one who was a parking tow, and once this had been made public to the league of ferals sitting on the sofa, I was officially 'prey'.
After being told that I had to pay $300 to get my car out, I thought about complaining. The ferals, however, were eyeing my Gucci handbag greedily, so I paid up and made way for the pregnant woman standing behind me. She managed to spill half of her bottle of jack daniels on the counter before enquiring as to how long she had to find the money. Pleasant...
I was led through to the garage, and Jayden stood out like the jewel that he is, amongst the plethora of rust buckets and tin cans frequenting the tow yard. I inspected him for scratches and any excess dirt, and was about to complain about a dirty hand print on his boot, when the pregnant woman started screaming about the 'fucking pigs'. I thought it best to leave.
After a long hot shower and a cup of tea, I realised just how lucky I was to get out of there alive. Since coming in to work this morning, I have constructed exactly 2 emails of complaint and will be distributing these accordingly. I'm just musing the idea of claiming emotional trauma...
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Almost upon us...
A sudden realisation has come to me. I was busy planning Bazza Festivus, (the month immediately surrounding the 8th of January), and I thought, ok so Bazza Festivus ends on the 22nd January. Great.
No - NOT great. The 22nd of January is exactly 22 days away from the worst day of the calendar year - Feb 14th. Yes, you know what I'm talking about - it's V Day.
Some of you share my dread for this day, and my most avid readers will remember the unprecedented event on Feb 14th 2007 where I received a V Day card. But this doesn't change my views on this 'holiday'. It's still a day of hell - a day where single office workers are loathe to leave their buildings for fear of stumbling across a fallen rose on the footpath, or a joyfully weeping teenager crying into the arms of her 'loved one'; a day where all mention of flowers, cards and chocolate should be kept within the social circles of those who are attached.
I was originally (on Feb 15th this year) going to take a different stance on the holiday to end all happiness, but, alas, nothing has changed this year. The mystery card sender of 2007 has fallen off the radar and hasn't owned up, so all hope of receiving anything in 2008 has been washed away. I shall sit here, and mope, and will be sure to express my inner most sadness and anger at happiness on my blog. Looking forward to it :)
No - NOT great. The 22nd of January is exactly 22 days away from the worst day of the calendar year - Feb 14th. Yes, you know what I'm talking about - it's V Day.
Some of you share my dread for this day, and my most avid readers will remember the unprecedented event on Feb 14th 2007 where I received a V Day card. But this doesn't change my views on this 'holiday'. It's still a day of hell - a day where single office workers are loathe to leave their buildings for fear of stumbling across a fallen rose on the footpath, or a joyfully weeping teenager crying into the arms of her 'loved one'; a day where all mention of flowers, cards and chocolate should be kept within the social circles of those who are attached.
I was originally (on Feb 15th this year) going to take a different stance on the holiday to end all happiness, but, alas, nothing has changed this year. The mystery card sender of 2007 has fallen off the radar and hasn't owned up, so all hope of receiving anything in 2008 has been washed away. I shall sit here, and mope, and will be sure to express my inner most sadness and anger at happiness on my blog. Looking forward to it :)
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Investigatory Exposure.
Once again, my sleep has been disturbed by the ever present yobs that reside in my corner of Brisbane. This morning, at exactly 02:41, I was woken up by the sound of a 'boy-racer' vehicle slowing down from a very speedy trip down my street, right outside my house. This was shortly followed by an extremely loud THUD from above me.
Yes, something had been thrown onto my roof, and the culprits had escaped. After a short period of being frozen with fear, I exited my room, checked on Colin (he was a little frightened), and recovered my trusty friend the butchers knife from the kitchen. Me and the knife went outside to wield ourselves threateningly in the street, before realising that I had no underwear on and was in fact exposing myself.
Knife and I went back inside, and tried to fall asleep. But due to the excitement of not only having a large something sitting on top of my house, but also the fact that I'd just flashed my wears to the neighbourhood, I found it hard getting back to sleep. When I had just started to drift off, at exactly 03:57 the thing on top of my house woke up from it's apparent impact-induced coma, and preceded to scratch around for half an hour directly above me.
By the time I'd started to drift off again, my alarm went off and it was time to investigate the mystery in daylight... with underwear ON. And of course, there was no evidence to be found. I now sit here, having had 4 hours sleep, and I wonder... why does this kind of thing happen to me?? Is it my house? Or is it the fact that I have a tendency to expose myself to my neighbours?
Yes, something had been thrown onto my roof, and the culprits had escaped. After a short period of being frozen with fear, I exited my room, checked on Colin (he was a little frightened), and recovered my trusty friend the butchers knife from the kitchen. Me and the knife went outside to wield ourselves threateningly in the street, before realising that I had no underwear on and was in fact exposing myself.
Knife and I went back inside, and tried to fall asleep. But due to the excitement of not only having a large something sitting on top of my house, but also the fact that I'd just flashed my wears to the neighbourhood, I found it hard getting back to sleep. When I had just started to drift off, at exactly 03:57 the thing on top of my house woke up from it's apparent impact-induced coma, and preceded to scratch around for half an hour directly above me.
By the time I'd started to drift off again, my alarm went off and it was time to investigate the mystery in daylight... with underwear ON. And of course, there was no evidence to be found. I now sit here, having had 4 hours sleep, and I wonder... why does this kind of thing happen to me?? Is it my house? Or is it the fact that I have a tendency to expose myself to my neighbours?
Monday, October 22, 2007
Is blogging dead?
A colleague has raised an issue; is my blog dead? I have expanded this to represent less of a personal attack, to; is blogging dead?
The lack of anonymity, despite the pseudonym put in place, is starting to fuck me off. When you find yourself not able to talk about things, because someone you know knows who you are etc etc, and because you've stupidly linked your blog to a social networking site, you know that things aren't how they were originally meant to be.
That is, this blog was originally an outlet for my inherent nature to complain endlessly about all manner of banal and mundane things. It rapidly became popular, of course, amongst colleagues and friends, and now I find myself unable to mention ANYTHING that's slightly controversial or likely to implicate the anonymity of another person.
So what's the point of this blog, if I can't express my true feelings, or indeed, complain about things that I encounter? Should I be considering hanging up my blogging hat? Or should this particular blog move on, and morph into another blog?
The problem with that is this; I love to be loved. I want people to read my blog, and to personally praise me for the excellent post, my outstanding wit, and my ability to succinctly express my inner feelings. So if I were to start a new blog, with complete anonymity in mind, who would praise me? What satisfaction would I gain from writing? None.
I conclude with a question: Is a blog considered dead when the content is necessarily censored?
The lack of anonymity, despite the pseudonym put in place, is starting to fuck me off. When you find yourself not able to talk about things, because someone you know knows who you are etc etc, and because you've stupidly linked your blog to a social networking site, you know that things aren't how they were originally meant to be.
That is, this blog was originally an outlet for my inherent nature to complain endlessly about all manner of banal and mundane things. It rapidly became popular, of course, amongst colleagues and friends, and now I find myself unable to mention ANYTHING that's slightly controversial or likely to implicate the anonymity of another person.
So what's the point of this blog, if I can't express my true feelings, or indeed, complain about things that I encounter? Should I be considering hanging up my blogging hat? Or should this particular blog move on, and morph into another blog?
The problem with that is this; I love to be loved. I want people to read my blog, and to personally praise me for the excellent post, my outstanding wit, and my ability to succinctly express my inner feelings. So if I were to start a new blog, with complete anonymity in mind, who would praise me? What satisfaction would I gain from writing? None.
I conclude with a question: Is a blog considered dead when the content is necessarily censored?
Friday, October 19, 2007
Wanted: Catsitter
As I'm going on holiday, I will be leaving my poor little Colin at home for 3 nights consecutively. I am therefore advertising for a Catsitter to love, honour and obey my little treasure, for the period of time aforementioned.
There will be no lawful contract in place for the above services - except the contract of trust between me and the Catsitter in question. Your duties involve waking up, at his request, at precisely 05:15am every morning, playing for half an hour, feeding him his breakfast of cat milk and biscuits, then more play and a cuddle. Colin likes to spend some time alone during the day, at which point he may choose to use your handbag/shoes as a chew toy. This is permissible, as he's currently trying to lose his baby teeth and needs something pliable to help with the process.
Later in the afternoon, more play is required, as well as a degree of praise and love directed at Colin for at least 30 minutes. After the session of 'verbal love', he likes to eat his dinner. This consists of a Whiskas pouch, of the beef, chicken or chicken/tuna variety. (I find that on cloudy days he prefers the beef.) After dinner, Colin will amuse himself until you sit down to eat (please provide your own food and beverages) and at this time he may choose to sample your food. Again, this is permissible, as he's a growing boy and needs a variety of food to fuel his growing taste buds.
Then, a long cuddle session in front of the TV is required. He likes to suckle on any exposed area of skin, so either wear a long sleeved jumper, or prepare to be needed like a pin cushion and dribbled on. Again - permissible.
And they are your duties. As you can see, he's not a very needy cat. He's just got special requirements because he's a very special little boy. Applications for the position of Catsitter can be sent to me via email before COB on Friday 2nd November.
P.S. The toilet seat needs to be left in the 'down' position, as Colin is quite fond of snorkeling in the bottom of the toilet.
There will be no lawful contract in place for the above services - except the contract of trust between me and the Catsitter in question. Your duties involve waking up, at his request, at precisely 05:15am every morning, playing for half an hour, feeding him his breakfast of cat milk and biscuits, then more play and a cuddle. Colin likes to spend some time alone during the day, at which point he may choose to use your handbag/shoes as a chew toy. This is permissible, as he's currently trying to lose his baby teeth and needs something pliable to help with the process.
Later in the afternoon, more play is required, as well as a degree of praise and love directed at Colin for at least 30 minutes. After the session of 'verbal love', he likes to eat his dinner. This consists of a Whiskas pouch, of the beef, chicken or chicken/tuna variety. (I find that on cloudy days he prefers the beef.) After dinner, Colin will amuse himself until you sit down to eat (please provide your own food and beverages) and at this time he may choose to sample your food. Again, this is permissible, as he's a growing boy and needs a variety of food to fuel his growing taste buds.
Then, a long cuddle session in front of the TV is required. He likes to suckle on any exposed area of skin, so either wear a long sleeved jumper, or prepare to be needed like a pin cushion and dribbled on. Again - permissible.
And they are your duties. As you can see, he's not a very needy cat. He's just got special requirements because he's a very special little boy. Applications for the position of Catsitter can be sent to me via email before COB on Friday 2nd November.
P.S. The toilet seat needs to be left in the 'down' position, as Colin is quite fond of snorkeling in the bottom of the toilet.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
In Preparation...
How does one prepare for a holiday? It's been so long since I had one, I've forgotten what I need to do. I have a vague idea that at some point I should turn on my out of office... but it stops there.
In case any of you aren't aware (not very likely), I will be "On Holiday" from the 4th November, through to the 19th. (Note the use of 'th' on the end of those little numbers there...) My good friend is coming to the land of sunshine from the land of doom and gloom (England) for a whole two weeks of fun. For the purposes of anonymity, I shall call him 'Long Man'. He is, after all, very long.
I now realise that this sounds slightly perverse... he's tall - long - in the height sense of the word - I have no idea about anything else that might be long... I'm digging a hole...
So, back to the topic at hand. How do I prepare? I was reading Marie Claire last night, and spotted numerous things that I think are needed; bikini, suncream, waterproof mascara, midori. So, I guess I'll start by purchasing these things and then see where I'm at.
It's all very concerning - what happens if I don't prepare adequately? Or if Marie Claire is wrong? I've got a sneaking suspicion that a holiday needs a hell of a lot more than the above items, and that personally, I need to have a good old think about what it is that I will need, and perhaps not rely solely on Marie Claire. Especially as I don't even like Midori...
I think a spreadsheet is in order. It's the only possible way that I can organise the thoughts and products flying around in my head. In times of need, Excel will provide.
In case any of you aren't aware (not very likely), I will be "On Holiday" from the 4th November, through to the 19th. (Note the use of 'th' on the end of those little numbers there...) My good friend is coming to the land of sunshine from the land of doom and gloom (England) for a whole two weeks of fun. For the purposes of anonymity, I shall call him 'Long Man'. He is, after all, very long.
I now realise that this sounds slightly perverse... he's tall - long - in the height sense of the word - I have no idea about anything else that might be long... I'm digging a hole...
So, back to the topic at hand. How do I prepare? I was reading Marie Claire last night, and spotted numerous things that I think are needed; bikini, suncream, waterproof mascara, midori. So, I guess I'll start by purchasing these things and then see where I'm at.
It's all very concerning - what happens if I don't prepare adequately? Or if Marie Claire is wrong? I've got a sneaking suspicion that a holiday needs a hell of a lot more than the above items, and that personally, I need to have a good old think about what it is that I will need, and perhaps not rely solely on Marie Claire. Especially as I don't even like Midori...
I think a spreadsheet is in order. It's the only possible way that I can organise the thoughts and products flying around in my head. In times of need, Excel will provide.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
What's the Point?
I have a few issues today - one in particular which is centered around my all too inclusive office environment.
We have a new member of the team. His name, for my intents and purposes, is Pointless Equipment Man. Let me paint a picture: He's gay, he's chirpy, he seems to have a relatively important job which involves walking around the office talking on a headset which is attached to some kind of portable telecommunications device.
Does he have a desk? Yes. Then what, pray tell, is his excuse for being so mobile? Why does he need to walk around the office talking on his phone? Does he have a phone on his desk? Yes. Is it in good working order? Yes. Does he have a comfortable chair? Yes, I checked it myself. So, I can only conclude that Pointless Equipment Man and his portable communications devices are completely FUCKING POINTLESS in our office space, given the bounty of office equipment and furniture that our employer provides all employees.
Now, this kind of person isn't completely unique to my office. They exist elsewhere, and it's my duty to inform you all of the existence of this species. Here, for your reference, is a link to an image of the Pointless Equipment Man Breed.
We have a new member of the team. His name, for my intents and purposes, is Pointless Equipment Man. Let me paint a picture: He's gay, he's chirpy, he seems to have a relatively important job which involves walking around the office talking on a headset which is attached to some kind of portable telecommunications device.
Does he have a desk? Yes. Then what, pray tell, is his excuse for being so mobile? Why does he need to walk around the office talking on his phone? Does he have a phone on his desk? Yes. Is it in good working order? Yes. Does he have a comfortable chair? Yes, I checked it myself. So, I can only conclude that Pointless Equipment Man and his portable communications devices are completely FUCKING POINTLESS in our office space, given the bounty of office equipment and furniture that our employer provides all employees.
Now, this kind of person isn't completely unique to my office. They exist elsewhere, and it's my duty to inform you all of the existence of this species. Here, for your reference, is a link to an image of the Pointless Equipment Man Breed.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Triumph
Various triumphs on the agenda today... it's all about me, and my ability to blow my own trumpet. Yay!
I hosted a dinner party last night, and prepared an Italian feast; antipasto, meatballs, Italian roasted chicken, panzanella salad, and all wound up with a tiramisu. The menu was comprised with the assistance of my good friend Nigella (hey chick! gold star for the salad recipe!) and it turned out to be one of the most balanced meals I've ever had. More often than not, a 3 course meal is too much to cope with - too heavy, too rich, too lots of stuff. But this was perfect... I am a domestic goddess.
And as if the perfect meal wasn't enough to cement my triumph, I woke up with no sign of a hangover, and I managed to clean the entire house before 9am, at which point I hauled my arse to the gym and did 1.5 hrs of cardio. I now sit back and relax and muse the perfectness of my personal scheduling, and wonder if this skill can be marketed in some way in order to provide me with a secondary revenue stream...
The final triumph of this weekend, (unless something super happens this afternoon), is the weigh in for the 12 week challenge. Turns out that my body composition has started to really change. I've put on 0.5kg of PURE MUSCLE and my body fat percentage has dropped some more. So, for the first time in my life, a weight gain is a good thing!
In conclusion, my various triumphs officially make me a super organised wonderfully muscular domestic goddess. Sweet...
I hosted a dinner party last night, and prepared an Italian feast; antipasto, meatballs, Italian roasted chicken, panzanella salad, and all wound up with a tiramisu. The menu was comprised with the assistance of my good friend Nigella (hey chick! gold star for the salad recipe!) and it turned out to be one of the most balanced meals I've ever had. More often than not, a 3 course meal is too much to cope with - too heavy, too rich, too lots of stuff. But this was perfect... I am a domestic goddess.
And as if the perfect meal wasn't enough to cement my triumph, I woke up with no sign of a hangover, and I managed to clean the entire house before 9am, at which point I hauled my arse to the gym and did 1.5 hrs of cardio. I now sit back and relax and muse the perfectness of my personal scheduling, and wonder if this skill can be marketed in some way in order to provide me with a secondary revenue stream...
The final triumph of this weekend, (unless something super happens this afternoon), is the weigh in for the 12 week challenge. Turns out that my body composition has started to really change. I've put on 0.5kg of PURE MUSCLE and my body fat percentage has dropped some more. So, for the first time in my life, a weight gain is a good thing!
In conclusion, my various triumphs officially make me a super organised wonderfully muscular domestic goddess. Sweet...
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Is it bad...?
Is it bad that I am thinking about leaving work at 3pm because I've got to do some shopping and can't possibly leave it until after 5pm even though the shops are open til 9pm tonight?
Is it bad that I weighed myself this morning and I've lost another 0.5kg so I've treated myself with a chicken twister from KFC and I don't care?
Is it bad that I'm slightly obsessed with a girl in my office, who've I've nicknamed "Inappropriate Colleague", and her inability to realise that cheap hair extensions are not cool and that very short dresses should not be worn by people with tankles?
Is it bad that when driving, I have a slight problem seeing, and therefore stopping for, pedestrians and motorcycles, and seem to be creating a few 'safety issues' on the roads of Brisbane?
Is it bad that I know I'm an appalling human being, have no values, no morals and no real regard for other members of the human race; that I make no attempt to change, and that I actually applaud my decision to be like that?
Hmmm... No, to all of the above.
Is it bad that I weighed myself this morning and I've lost another 0.5kg so I've treated myself with a chicken twister from KFC and I don't care?
Is it bad that I'm slightly obsessed with a girl in my office, who've I've nicknamed "Inappropriate Colleague", and her inability to realise that cheap hair extensions are not cool and that very short dresses should not be worn by people with tankles?
Is it bad that when driving, I have a slight problem seeing, and therefore stopping for, pedestrians and motorcycles, and seem to be creating a few 'safety issues' on the roads of Brisbane?
Is it bad that I know I'm an appalling human being, have no values, no morals and no real regard for other members of the human race; that I make no attempt to change, and that I actually applaud my decision to be like that?
Hmmm... No, to all of the above.
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
RESTRICTED
I have recently found the presence of the Internet, and social networking sites (I shan't name you, facebook) a real hindrance on my ability to complain at will. I've got a shit load of stuff that I would LOVE to rant about - but I can't because this blog is now linked to everywhere, every person and every thing I know. At the risk of losing money for my company and myself, I can no longer speak at will.
I have been restricted by my own willingness to extend my e-hand of friendship.
I... feel like... I can't say anything anymore... my tongue has been tied up by veritable ropes of restriction and my mouth is closed tight at the hands of modern-socialism.
Modern-socialism, for those of you who don't know, is the discipline relating to the effects of being social. For example, Paris Hilton is a modern-socialist and a Hermit is an anti-modern-socialist. I previously felt I was somewhere in the middle. But now - just slap me aside and call me a hermit. Being social is clearly far too restrictive for someone with so little control over what comes out of their mouth.
From now on, if you suddenly find that you can't 'poke' me at will, or access my blog, it's because I've needed to complain about YOU. So shut up and deal with it and be thankful for the time you've had with me.
I have been restricted by my own willingness to extend my e-hand of friendship.
I... feel like... I can't say anything anymore... my tongue has been tied up by veritable ropes of restriction and my mouth is closed tight at the hands of modern-socialism.
Modern-socialism, for those of you who don't know, is the discipline relating to the effects of being social. For example, Paris Hilton is a modern-socialist and a Hermit is an anti-modern-socialist. I previously felt I was somewhere in the middle. But now - just slap me aside and call me a hermit. Being social is clearly far too restrictive for someone with so little control over what comes out of their mouth.
From now on, if you suddenly find that you can't 'poke' me at will, or access my blog, it's because I've needed to complain about YOU. So shut up and deal with it and be thankful for the time you've had with me.
Friday, October 5, 2007
Death of a Salesman
I've decided that my job is wholly intellectually barren. As an effect of this lack of brain food, my brain is in the first stages of death. The Stages of Brain Death are outlined below, for your reference:
I'm currently at stage 3. So it's now or never. Am I going to continue the endless tirade of personal abuse and suicide that being a salesman necessarily prescribes? No - please, god, no....
- Stage 1 - Boredom: This stage can be flagged by a general, seemingly unending, bout of boredom. No stimulation from your usual sources provides any relief for this boredom. It seems as though the world is now made of dullness.
- Stage 2 - Anger / Frustration: The boredom has finally reached a stage where it angers you. In fact, everything angers you. Your anger is, in effect, non-discriminatory; it has no boundaries, it knows no limits.
- Stage 3 - Passion: In a last ditched attempt to find something to think about and feed your slowly dehydrating brain, you grab onto everything and make it your ally. The smallest issue gains more importance than anything you've ever known. You rally for a cause, you protest all issues, you express your undying passion for life's trivialities.
- Stage 4 - Brain Death: It's all over. You should have got out at stage 3 with any remnants of your brain you could grab. You are now a lemming, a sheep, an empty shell. The words change, learning and excitement are removed from your vocabulary and you wilt away.
I'm currently at stage 3. So it's now or never. Am I going to continue the endless tirade of personal abuse and suicide that being a salesman necessarily prescribes? No - please, god, no....
Thursday, October 4, 2007
Weird
Do you ever have days where everything just seems a little odd? Mine started last night - I drove out to get petrol and a chocolate freddo, and everything seemed strange. The sky was strange, the air, the smell of everything, and even my car was driving funny. I put it down to the onset of summer, and a general seasonal change in the air - but then this morning, it was the same thing. I went to the gym at 5:25am, and it was much lighter than usual, and the roads seemed calmer, and other drivers were being weird, and I felt odd.
I still feel funny - the coffee woman filled my coffee up too far, and whereas usually I'd have taken it back and thrown a tanty at her, I didn't, and it hasn't made me very angry at all. Also, the air is weird again... and everything's just a little bit off centre. Ya know? Ya get me?
Am I on drugs? Has somebody spiked my muesli...? Is the day going to continue being weird or will things get normal again? I don't like it :(
Oh - see!! I NEVER use smiley faces on my blog! And look what I just did...!! I'm telling you - there's something odd going on; whether it's the actual world being weird, or just me, I can't say. Hopefully things will be clearer soon... and in the meantime, I'm going to hide behind my computer screen and glance suspiciously at everything...
I still feel funny - the coffee woman filled my coffee up too far, and whereas usually I'd have taken it back and thrown a tanty at her, I didn't, and it hasn't made me very angry at all. Also, the air is weird again... and everything's just a little bit off centre. Ya know? Ya get me?
Am I on drugs? Has somebody spiked my muesli...? Is the day going to continue being weird or will things get normal again? I don't like it :(
Oh - see!! I NEVER use smiley faces on my blog! And look what I just did...!! I'm telling you - there's something odd going on; whether it's the actual world being weird, or just me, I can't say. Hopefully things will be clearer soon... and in the meantime, I'm going to hide behind my computer screen and glance suspiciously at everything...
Monday, October 1, 2007
Critically Comforting
Being critical of something can provoke a deeper level of comfort than previously known. I dislike my job, because it doesn't appear to be leading anywhere in my grand scheme of things, and it holds little to no importance in my emotional, or mental, life. The only real bearing it has, is on my fiscal life. My wallet.
When I start to criticise things, my brain automatically tries to defend the object. So, I start to think, what's good about my job? Surely I can't have landed myself in a position that is so undeniably atrocious that I can't think of anything I like about it? No no - there are some things that are good about it:
The people. Most days this is the ONLY thing I like about the place.
The wicket. Yep, I'm on a good one and there's potential in the future for it to be an even more fiscally satisfying job.
The comfort. It's cozy, I know my way around, I'm comfortable with the facilities and I now know where to find the key to the store room.
So, when a highly attractive job turns up, out of the blue, that seems to appeal to EVERY other aspect of my life - my ambitions, my dreams, my happiness - I should look at the niceties of what I'm criticising. Perhaps a move would be a mistake. Perhaps I should look at my current situation and be grateful. Perhaps I should apply for the job anyway, and see what happens...
When I start to criticise things, my brain automatically tries to defend the object. So, I start to think, what's good about my job? Surely I can't have landed myself in a position that is so undeniably atrocious that I can't think of anything I like about it? No no - there are some things that are good about it:
The people. Most days this is the ONLY thing I like about the place.
The wicket. Yep, I'm on a good one and there's potential in the future for it to be an even more fiscally satisfying job.
The comfort. It's cozy, I know my way around, I'm comfortable with the facilities and I now know where to find the key to the store room.
So, when a highly attractive job turns up, out of the blue, that seems to appeal to EVERY other aspect of my life - my ambitions, my dreams, my happiness - I should look at the niceties of what I'm criticising. Perhaps a move would be a mistake. Perhaps I should look at my current situation and be grateful. Perhaps I should apply for the job anyway, and see what happens...
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