Testing

Testing, 123

I JUST CANNAE DO IT CAPTAIN

Well, apparently I can't even do a Scottish accent in text. Never mind. I only lived there for four years.

I know I don't blog very often, and if I thought I had any level of readership then maybe I would apologise for my digital neglect - but I have no such delusions, so I really don't think an apology is necessary. I have been busy, and/or lazy, so I didn't post anything, and that is just how it goes.

Incidentally, that attitude (busy and/or lazy) is how I frequently get myself into the following situation: it is Thursday night, and I like to have the flat nice and tidy for Chris when he gets home from a week away, but I come home from whatever I was doing... and there it is: the washing up. It has hit critical mass, again. There is nothing left that does not need washing up. For three days, I have been drinking hard-water orange squash out of a ceramic noodle cup, and eating toast because it doesn't require a plate. And now the time has come, and it has to be done. I get close to the sink, and move a few plates. The smell begins to rise. Opening the window seems like a great idea until I am reminded, by the sight of a naked elderly man, that my kitchen window faces directly onto the bathroom window of the flat facing mine.
Is there a worse way to commence your least favourite household chore? I doubt it, somehow.

But I got it done! (I should note here that now, every time I say or hear any phrase relating to something getting done, I have to resist the urge to say "Git'r done!" because I watch far too much South Park.) And now my hands feel like sandpaper and my kitchen smells like crap. Having the window open does not make much difference; I will have to put some laundry on before I leave for work tomorrow. I love the smell of fresh laundry. How domestic of me! Never fear, though, I have not quite reached Housewife City just yet: I still occasionally get so drunk that I throw up, and then continue drinking. I am still in touch with my inner seventeen year old. What can I say - I don't think anybody's stomach reacts well to a combination of red wine, vodka, kahlua, amaretto and milk, when they have only eaten a bag of cheesy Doritos all day.

I can't believe I am blogging about doing the washing up and puking like an underage delinquent. I know it's 1am and I have been so sleep-deprived this week that my right eye has developed a sort of manic murderer twitch, but this blog entry is really taking the piss.

I am going to sign off before I start talking about my boobs.

Over and out.

January 20, 2009

In a hotel room in Egypt as night fell outside, I sat on the edge of the bed next to the man I will marry. We were quiet, watching the screen.
The scenes unfolding before us may have no real impact on the way we live our lives; but they will have an impact on the world we live them in, and for this reason I felt compelled to watch. Although we had no say in the election of this man, thousands and thousands of others did - and replacing a feeling of animosity and scorn for a whole nation, there comes a feeling of pride.
It is sometimes hard to believe that people can still make the right choice when called upon to do so.
Now all that remains is to hope that this man can live up to his promises, and the expectations of the world.

"... and if you call it my 'wee-wee' again I shall kneecap you."

I have discovered something that makes me incredibly uncomfortable:

Medical professionals using slang or layman's anatomical terms.

You know, I don't actually find it reassuring talking to you about 'weeing'. You have been to med school and I am fairly sure you are aware that the correct term is 'urinating', and considering I have in fact used the word in conversation in the last two minutes, presumably you are also aware that I'm not too retarded to know what it means. Just because I am in here because I am worried about my health does not mean I wish to be comforted by you talking to me as if I am a toddler who is a bit sore after a particularly big poop, but thanks for making the effort to soothe me, I suppose.

No laughter! I am serious! I am so glad I'm not in here to talk to you about my reproductive system because god only knows how you would choose to refer to my vagina. 'Lady pocket'? 'Special place'? In fact I am tempted to come in again and fake a vagina-related problem just so I can find out.

Also, whilst I am relieved that I am not in fact displaying symptoms of imminent death by ravenous cancer, I still don't appreciate you laughing at your own diagnosis. "Oh yes, you have a nice wee infection! Hahaha!" Yeah, your laughter is encouraging. Don't worry, I didn't genuinely spend the entirety of my Saturday thinking I was dying. Seriously. Thanks. How about instead of £7.10 for those antibiotics, I just punch you in the bladder and we see if it hurts next time you 'go for a wee'.

WHO SAYS 'WEE INFECTION'?! HOW IS THAT PROFESSIONAL?!?!

Then again, who blogs about a bladder infection? Takes all kinds, I guess.

20

So. Twenty years old and not impressed. I miss being a teenager! I think I'll just keep telling people I'm nineteen... to be fair, I still get ID'd, and I got away with being 15 the other day, so I'm sure it'll work out fine.

I think I have a bit of a Peter Pan complex.

A short lesson.

Dear world:

This is something I think you should know. It may shock you. It may surprise you. You may cry like a little sissy girl. But I think you need to hear it, because really, it's been long enough now and it's getting a little bit fucking ridiculous.

PRINCESS DIANA IS DEAD.

Now I know you weren't expecting this, but it is true, and has in fact been true for the last TEN FUCKING YEARS, despite what the tabloids and the High Court would like you to believe. I am fed up of hearing the following on the news:

"Today at Princess Diana's court hearing it emerged that..."

You know what? Today at Princess Diana's court hearing, it emerged that SHE FUCKING DIED! TEN FUCKING YEARS AGO!

Can we have some real news now, PLEASE.

That is all.

________________

P.S. Dear God, whatever you want me to do to get that IT job, I'll do it. I swear. On your mum's life. Whatever that's worth.

Seriously.

YOU FAIL AT BADGERS!

So. I got smoked out of Waterstones by the hotdog man outside to the church next door playing the same fucking "Lord of Creation" song over and over again for fifteen minutes. As loud as he could. I could even hear it when I ran downstairs to hide out in the foreign languages section and try to make my way through the first page of Madame Bovary in the original French. I don't see why religion should drive me out of my quiet reading time. Does God think it's stealing if I stand there and read a whole book without paying for it? I really think he has bigger fish to fry, don't you? LEAVE ME ALONE!

My ears... they bleed.

In other news. Nothing.

Holy Fucktards, Batman!

Wow.

Have I been Dooced?!

Well well.

Well, 2008, I suppose I should probably thank you for waiting a record 23 days before you fucked me over. It's an improvement on 2007, certainly, but then I suppose all that started in 2006 and just sort of carried on.

I am starting to feel like a piece of toilet roll, frankly. Wipe your arse with me and throw me away. I don't mind! I'm biodegradable! There should be adverts for me on TV with some little puppy dragging me around and talking in a disturbingly un-cute voice.

Anyway, as I have said many times before (although it's sort of like bolting the stable door...) I know it's bad form to air all this on a public forum. So please be grateful that I'm not doing that life-casting thing because there would have been a lot of swearing and violence before the watershed and god forbid the kiddies see all the horrible things life is going to do to them once you stop protecting them.

This is all probably making me sound horribly bitter and jaded, isn't it? Funny that. I was in such a good mood. What with having to find another job. With no notice. Again.

I almost (note: ALMOST - I haven't completely lost the will to live yet) wish that they'd done it when I got back from Christmas, just before the letting agency decided to fuck up and then tell us that, due to something THEY had done wrong, we were going to get served our notice the next day. Because then I could have said, right, you know what, fuck it, and just buggered off home for a while. And it's depressing to think that two years ago, I would have given everything - DID give everything, in fact - to be here. And I've been through all this shit, just to stay here. And every time I think it's working out, every time I think it's going ok, something knocks me back - but for some reason I keep going. I find somewhere else, I move, I accommodate all these things that keep smacking me in the face, just taking it and taking it and taking it, just so I can stay put. I feel like a salmon leaping up a waterfall. And also I feel a bit like a pile of crap. I suppose this is what you called 'mixed feelings'.

In other news: I will have this fucking novel finished by the tenth of March if it is the last thing I do.

Which, going by current trends, it probably will be.

Joy!

Review: 2007

So, I think it is time I reviewed my year, objectively and without self-pity or wallowing.

I'm going to start by saying, I am so fucking glad this is the last day of this year. I cannot wait to see the back of it.

Several events this year were, I thought, more than a little un-called for, including my four months of homelessness, several periods of unemployment including once being let go with no notice while I was on holiday, the death of one of my best friends, and the robbery of my laptop the week after I moved into my new house.

Now. Looking at these events, as I said, objectively and without self-pity: THEY SUCKED MONKEY BALLS. Seriously. If next year doesn't improve on this track record? Heads are going to ROLL, and I am not even joking.

Now, to the good points of this year: I have had several extremely enjoyable holidays, made some new friends, written 60,000 words of my first two novels, discovered House MD, and now live with one of my best friends. I have finally found a job I like, and I am a regular at a good chip shop, a good Chinese takeaway, and an amazing wine shop. I have blogged spectacularly; I have dressed up as a fictional character and pranced around like a twat; I have danced until I could not stand on several occasions. I have lived my life, within the boundaries of reason, to the extreme; and it ruled.

In conclusion: fuck you, 2007. You tried, but you didn't break me. But you know, I am grateful for all the things you taught me I can live through, so thanks for that I guess.
Now pack your things, and FUCK OFF.

Bring on 2008! YEEEEAAAHHHHH!

Ho ho blargh.

Wow, I haven't blogged once in December! Can't let that happen...

"Tinsel is Satan's pubic hair."

"What's the deal with God and Santa? You know? Religious people tell their kids about Santa too. Are they like... brothers? What?"

See? I'm in the Christmas spirit.

Baileys hurts. My mother made me do it.

Touché, Mr Shand...

Clearly, there are a few points I am going to have to clarify from my last blog...

While clearly, on some shallow but basically human level, EVERYBODY would be more pleased to have an attractive person check them out than an unattractive person, that wasn't what I was getting at.

I don't care if you're Brad Pitt (which is probably a bad example because I don't think he's attractive), if you're giving me that look when I'm not asking for it, I'm not happy with you.
The look I was referring to is a particular kind of look. There are appraising looks, and there are friendly looks, and shy looks, and coy looks. This is none of those. This is that look that is distinctly lecherous, distinctly dirty, designed to let you know that, in their mind's eye, you are not wearing any clothes and you're probably on your knees doing something that would make your mother vomit just to think about it. If a fat balding old man wants to smile at me, or give me an appraising look, you know what? That's fine. I'm actually perfectly happy with the fact that I'm attractive and that, now and then, people are going to notice. And if a fat balding old man - or any other variety of typically unattractive person, for that matter! - wants to 'check me out' casually while I'm on the dancefloor strutting my stuff (what a stupid expression), that is also fine. It's the particular attitude with which it is sometimes done - and I stress again, EVEN BY ATTRACTIVE PEOPLE - that gets to me, and this may not be something that men understand, because it may be that it isn't done with any different kind of attitude at all. I don't pretend to know everything about men. Perhaps that guy giving me the slitty eyed smirking look from the dark corner with his hand deep in his pocket is really a total sweetheart, thinking "she looks lovely, like she bakes a really nice sponge cake." You know? Who can know for sure. But it certainly doesn't feel like it so I'm guessing that's not the case.

On the other hand. If I am wearing something revealing, or tight-fitting, or otherwise sexy, I expect (well, not EXPECT, but you know) a lot of male attention; but I am not offended if not everybody giving it to me is up to my standards of attractiveness, because as Jase pointed out, that would just be unrealistic, shallow, and stupid. And I'm certainly not saying as long as you're easy on the eyes you have every right to treat me however you like. I won't put up with being looked at like I'm wearing a price tag by anyone; I wouldn't find it any less offensive coming from an attractive young man of my own age than I do coming from a much older and less conventionally attractive specimen.

And, as only one wise person picked up on when commenting on Jason's blog - it had a lot to do with the fact that I was standing in the rain after a hard day at work being stared down by some prick in a BMW. I mean, if you want to be viciously ogled by someone sitting in a warm expensive car while you stand in a puddle getting soaked to the skin and wondering whether to have a plate of plain pasta or a plate of plain noodles for your dinner, you be my guest.

In conclusion: if you think I'm pretty, I'm flattered. If you want to smile at me, I will smile back at you, regardless of your appearance.
But if you give me that look like you're imagining me gagged and blindfolded and tied to a dirty bed in some stinking basement somewhere... well. I'll blog about you and it'll be replied to by a Scottish radio presenter.
So, you know.

You have been warned.

Grr.

There is a particular look that men in cars like to give young girls standing by the side of the road while they are idling at traffic lights or waiting to go round corners, and it is a look I am fairly sick of - and not only because it is typically employed by men who are fat, old, and bald, and look like their job is to eat glazed doughnuts and drink coffee (ironically, with sweetners instead of sugar - as if it makes any difference) and have hideously inappropriate thoughts about their young secretary.

It is a look that says, "I don't necessarily think that you ARE a prostitute, but I am blatantly considering whether I would stop the car if you were."

Now. I am not a prude, and I am aware that I have boobies, and that this can be considered attractive. There are certain situations in which I would not find this look offensive; for example, if I was, in fact, a piece of steak in a butcher's shop.
However. As some of you may have noticed... I am not a piece of steak in a butcher's shop.

What I am getting at here, is DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT LOOKING AT ME LIKE YOU THINK THERE'S EVEN THE REMOTEST CHANCE THAT I'D SLEEP WITH YOU IF YOU PAID ME TO.

What gets to me more than that - because I know that men can't actually help looking at attractive women - is that, if caught in their leching, they give you this cheesy smile, as if you are going to find it funny. Well guess what.
NOT LAUGHING.

Seriously, let's think about this. There's you; an overweight suit with male pattern baldness leering at me out of the window of a shiny silver Beemer while I stand on the side of the road, in the pouring rain, with an embarassingly hot-pink umbrella, after another day being the lowest rung on the office ladder, with the fax machine malfunctioning and this somehow being perceived as my fault, and people on the phone who don't even have the common courtesy to spend two seconds of their precious, precious lives listening to me say "Good morning Blah Blah Blah Accountants, Jenny speaking, how may I help you?"
Where, exactly, is the factor in all of that that you think makes me sympathetic to your leering? You have a big shiny car. I am standing in the rain, wanting nothing more than for you to MOVE YOUR FUCKING BEEMER so I can cross the road to go home and get into my pyjamas and watch Akira in ten minute segments on YouTube. Your shiny expensive car does NOT make me feel any better about the fact that you are staring at me like a piece of meat carved into the shape of Angelina Jolie.

Also? When are you going to realise that when you 'go out with the lads' on Saturday night, you are, and always will be, the old pervs in the corner. I don't care what trendy slop you're drinking, I don't care if you bought your shirt at River Island, and I don't care if you're wearing those stupid fucking pointy leather shoes (and FYI, brown shoes and black trousers looks so fucking stupid I could choke). It's pathetic. Next week, please stay in. I like to dance with my girlfriends or my boyfriend without feeling like I'm part of some seedy 2am webcam show, thanks. Also, I can stretch to buying my own drinks, but it's nice to know you see me as some kind of charity case - or at least I hope that's what you see me as, because I'd hate to think that you honestly believe buying me an Archers and lemonade (single, to boot) is going to get you anywhere.

In conclusion, if you're looking for cheap prostitutes, I suggest next time you cruise the other end of town. They probably won't blog about you.

Or maybe they will, and it'll end up as some shitty TV program starring Billie Piper.
Ho hum.

Oh dear.

Well that was a fairly depressing way to mark my 100th blog post... but oh well. To be fair most of them have been pretty much completely irrelevant and or stupid. But hilarious! Or so I like to think.

So, still feeling crappy, but I have chocolate milk, and today I wrote a scene in which an innocent old man gets shot.
Not really. He totally deserved it.

On the other hand, writing is slowing down a little, as the big exciting scenes grow thin on the ground because... well, because I've got over-excited and written them all, leaving myself with only the piffling little filler scenes to write.
This depresses me for two reasons:

1: There should not BE any filler. If it's not important, it shouldn't be in there. That's what good writing is.

2: In my quest to write big exciting scenes, I am just coming up with more and more random plot points to facilitate said big exciting scenes. The story therefore deviates quite significantly from my original idea, and I've completely lost track of what genre - if any - it fits into.

Oh well. I wrote a scene where an old man gets shot. And a scene where people have sex in a little shed thing at Southampton Docks.

That's got to count for something, right?

Yeah I bet my parents are proud.

Blah blah shitting blah.

So who knew some rain and a bit of a chill could make you feel like you were completely pointless and hanging around in completely the wrong place, eh?

Apparently libraries and art galleries on your own aren't good for you either.

I just feel crappy.

I just want to be a writer. I want to live in a warm room that has space for all my stuff and I want an endless supply of chocolate milk and I want to be bothered to cook a decent meal for myself every day and I want to not have to wish I was at the other end of the country no matter which end of the country I'm at and I want to not bite my nails any more and I want to be a writer.

Also I wish I could play the guitar.

Is that so much to ask?

So...

"So what've you been up to?"
"Not much. You know, work... oh! Me and Amelia went to an anime convention."
"You sad fuckers."
"Fuck off!"
"You didn't get dressed up, did you?"
"... Hi I'm Jenny, have we met?"

You know what's really, really awesome? A hot shower - I mean really hot, so hot it would usually be too hot - on a really cold night. Getting out of the shower, and being FREEZING cold, but knowing that in a minute you'll be sitting nice and warm in front of an electric heater, wearing pyjamas and fluffy slippers. And knowing that your word count went UP today, instead of DOWN. (Oh yeah. I rule.)

Incidentally, my word count is currently 32,337 words, and rising. I'm going to have this finished - completely - by the end of December. The power of positive thinking.

LET'S KICK THIS PIG!

End of the Line.

Dear Internal Lady Parts.

I was hoping it wasn't going to come to this, but I think it's time we had a little talk.

I understand that maybe sometimes I'm kind of mean to you. I understand that you really are trying to kick out those hormones and make me a little bit more girly, and I know I kind of reject that and try to suppress you. But I don't mean it like that. I don't mean to belittle your ability to create midgets. I think it's a little nasty the way you've devised to extricate them from me once you've created them, but we all have our quirks, I suppose. I understand that you are just doing your job.

But that doesn't change the fact, that I have had enough.

First, your mood swings are a pain in the ass. One minute you're fine, next minute you're achy. I DON'T WANT TO KNOW WHEN I'M OVULATING. Being able to feel the moment when I release another egg disturbs me more than you could possibly comprehend. Please keep it to yourself next time. It's fucking gross, and I don't need to know. Talk about a TMI moment. Sheesh.

Second, I do not appreciate the way you bloat a week before you start doing your thing, and take until several days after you're done to go down again. I eat well, and make sure to do at least a little exercise, and frankly I shouldn't have to put up with you just blowing me up like a fucking balloon for no readily apparent reason.

Third, I have had ENOUGH of that fucking mess you make. You make no contribution to the costs of cleaning it up, you are incredibly inconvenient about the timing, and you show NO regard for my property. Frankly you are inconsiderate and a fucking slob. STOP IT. NOW.

In light of all these grievances I'd just like to say, I'm sorry, but I don't think it's working out. You know, I know we have our disagreements, but I really did think maybe we'd grow old together, you know, and maybe one day you'd get to produce that little midget you've always dreamed of, and we'd sit back and laugh about the days when I told you that the day you squeezed a midget out of me would be the day a pig flew out of my fucking ears, but now I'm not so sure.

In fact, I'm going to have to just say this straight out; I want you gone. I want you to pack up all your tubes and whatever the fuck else it is you keep in there, and I want you to fuck right the fuck off. Seriously. You have one week and you'd better be out, and you CLEAN UP before you leave or I'll sue you, you see if I don't.

Regards,

Jenny.

I thought of a funny title on the loo earlier. But now it is gone.

I have that feeling. Biscuit feeling in my soul.

No, seriously, I mean it. I went to the Range this weekend just past, to make with the mad awesome and get some stuff to make my house look less like a crack den. I'm not sure quite how well a tablecloth and a bathmat fulfil this criteria. But who knows. Maybe it did just the trick. It's a pretty nice bathmat. So big and white and fluffy.
Anyhoo.
What I was trying to get to was that, while there, I bought this gigantic box of biscuits. You know the type. Those slightly retarded biscuits that get sold for cheap in bulk because they aren't as pretty as the other biscuits. But still taste exactly the fucking same. Yeah those. So. I bought some. And they have taken over my life.
And also I ate all the good ones first, so over the last three days, my biscuity time has been going steadily downhill and now I am left with the dark chocolate KitKat-esque things, which get a bit overbearing after a while, and the weird things with some kind of supersweet gross toffee stuff between some substandard chocolate and an oddly squidgy biscuit. Blergh.
In conclusion: I need to eat some fucking real food. I bought some Chinese sauce for chicken on my way home from work. Then realised I finished the chicken at lunch time. And can't be fucked to buy any more. I have realised it is pointless. You might as well eat something completely tasteless (and cheap), because ten minutes later it won't matter worth one shit whether it tasted good or not.

In other news:

Today I realised that what sets me apart from other receptionists is that most receptionists would offer a visitor a beverage and then settle back at their computers to do busy work. Whereas I offer them a beverage and then somehow end up having a highly amusing conversation with them about whether Scripture specifices if Jesus had a beard or not.
This was brought on by Georgie's discovery that the internet, in all its infinite glory, has offered up another gem: Bible fanfiction.
I shit you not.
I like to imagine it has all the same weird traits and tendencies as other fanfiction. Slash. M-preg. All those scary things that make me go, as the internet nerds would say, O.o .
I also like to imagine that it contains sentences like "Jesus thought about this, and stroked his manly beard thoughtfully whilst deep in thought."
I also also like to imagine that Jesus looks alarmingly like Chuck Norris.

We can all see where this is going.

Oh.. oh God.

You ever want to feel like you're the only person on the planet who doesn't deserve to be shot in the face? Go read the 'discussion' pages on the Sun Online. Seriously. Where do you FIND these people?! Probably sitting in their parents basements surrounded by Wotsits packets masturbating furiously to the more scantily clad players on WoW whilst at the same time spouting zealous religious bullshit at people who are patiently, and futilely, trying to point out all the many and varied ways in which they are OH SO VERY WRONG.

Actually, what amuses me most about this is that there are people on the Sun Online discussion boards trying to act rational and pretend they are normal - even intelligent! - human beings.
Let me reiterate the important bit for those of you who aren't laughing yet.
ON THE SUN ONLINE.
INTELLIGENT HUMAN BEINGS.

YA GEDDIT?

Oy.

Huh.

Wikipedia informs me that having an ovary-ectomy (actually called an oophorectomy but would ANY of you have known what that was if I said it without the retarded explanation?) reduces your risk of ovarian cancer.

Man I wish I was as smart as these fucking people.

This gives me almost the same pained expression as that BBC news report last week about how bacon and booze basically riddle you with cancer and make you die. The report which was prefaced with the sentence "a study of cancer sufferers found that..."
Found that what? That they suffer from cancer? And that most of them have eaten bacon or ingested alcohol at some point in their cancery lives? WOW THANKS. I FEEL LIKE A TOTAL DOUCHEBAG FOR NOT HAVING FIGURED THAT ONE OUT.

Excuse me while I go and stuff the empty space in my head where my brain should be with acorns for the winter.