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?
18 November, 2007
15 November, 2007
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!
"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!
08 November, 2007
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 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.
07 November, 2007
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.
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.
06 November, 2007
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.
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.
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.
A dubious tactic.
So, in lieu of actually writing my own blog today, I am posting a link to someone else's. They are far funnier and more awesome than me.
Mike's entry about AVP and the penguin therein.
But if I was going to write a blog today, it would be about how you know you've had a great night when you come home smelling of gunpowder and burnt pumpkins.
Mike's entry about AVP and the penguin therein.
But if I was going to write a blog today, it would be about how you know you've had a great night when you come home smelling of gunpowder and burnt pumpkins.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
