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 |   A place where everybody can feel easily offended - my head! |
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I'm gathering quite a collection of blogs. "Invalid Item"  is a bit-of-a-rant. I've got a big gob, and it would be a shame not to use it. "Invalid Item" is just that. It's the product of the bits of me mentioned above  filtered through my subconscious."Invalid Item" dealing with all things to do with battling sexes, especially exes.Want to know something trivial or obscure? Not really bothered about whether it's right or wrong, as long as it's believable? ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** WELCOME TO THE HUMAN GOOGLE!  I may never have mastered the art of tying shoelaces, but I win every time I play Trivial Persuit. Friends place bets on how many people I can, unintentionally, upset on a night out. I am the place where boundless enthusiasm meets embarrassing arrogance. Important Information - Please Read I realise some folk do not get Satire. I love a little baffoonery and believe, rather like the jesters of old, you can say quite a lot more than kings when people think you are an idiot. If you are literal minded, best not read on. If you can tell your arse from your elbow, and recognise when an attack isn't an attack then please read:
Heck, even if you can't tell your appendages from one another, read it anyway: who am I to tell you what you can do and what to take from my writing?  The XGC rating is due to the unknown content of many minds - it may be fluffy bunnies or....not! YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED Welcome to my world! Acme  ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** http://twitter.com/acmetweet Skype me at acmetoo template thing-a-ma-bob: {c:green}Write{/c}: {c:green}Edit{/c}: {c:green}Kids{/c}: {c:green}Relationships{/c}: {c:green}Physical{/c}: {c:green}FFF{/c}: |
| Right, so today is the last day that I will have internet access for a week, unless there's a miracle. I'm off to Corsica with the Acme family and will be back 20th. I panicked a little bit about trying to catch up with all the FtL entries that would take place without me, but I needn't have worried. I looked at the evidence: Of all the people to follow me, there are only a few regular bloggers. Out of the 8 days I'll have to catch up, here's the lowdown on what all current available evidence suggests will occur: 8 Problematic Content  has not blogged since the middle of August. They have not followed a single FtL entry in this round. It is unlikely that they will participate. (8 7)7 Susannah Deschain has not blogged since the end of August. They have not followed a single FtL entry in this round. It is unlikely that they will participate. (7 6)6 katwoman45  is an amazing blogger. She doesn't miss a beat, and there's so much meat on the bones of her following entries that I can't wait for the banquet of words she'll serve up for her lead. (6 6)6 Erika is a wild card. She participated by offering a response to the first lead entry, but no others... so far. She's a limbo leader. Who knows what side the penny will fall? Not me, that's for sure. I do hope she pops a lead entry in, though, because I like her style and her words always seem to prompt a good response from me. I'll go for the half chance. (6 5.5)5.5 Chewie Kittie Good FtLer. I'm looking forward to their lead (5.5 5.5)5.5 Kay The lovely Kay is a little hit and miss sometimes. She responded to a number of leads, but not all of them. She might be in a 'catch-up' FtL state of blog, too. I reckon she's another half chance (5.5 5)5 spidey  is also a little hit and miss. She is a regular blogger though, so may well do her catch-ups as quick as a blink. Will I have a lead entry waiting for my return? mmm, not sure. I'll add her to the halves. (5 4.5)4.5 Lynn McKenzie Oh, yeah. Save the chances of her being invited to Abby Road to listen to previously undiscovered Beatles recordings, I'd say she'd be blogging with knobs on. (4.5 4.5)4.5 {suser:Guest Visitor} I can't help but wonder who this was (I have a terrible memory). Either way, there's a lead entry that I won't have waiting for my return. (4.5 3.5) Right. So, by my scientifically sound musings, I reckon I'll only have to play 'catch-up' with 3 and a half FtL entries. See you when I get back  |
| The weight of today's date is not lost on me. Initially, I groaned when I saw my blog's title sat next to it on the FtL calendar, because I did not want to 'muck it up'. It is a date that cannot be taken lightly, and I do not intend to do so. For one moment of writing sobriety, I would like to voice my opinions on freedom and its cost. Freedom to support democratically elected governments sometimes means that people choose the wrong one. Often this means little more than arguing over social reforms, the budget, and the impact of import/exports, until the next elections come around and someone else can be voted in. But sometimes it's darker, and can herald something akin to democratic cancer. On the Thursday 4 June 2009, the UK's 72 Members of European Parliament (MEPs) were chosen. These newly-elected MEPs took their seats in the new Parliament on Tuesday 14 July 2009. Among the newly elected officials, the world watched Andrew Brons (elected to one of six seats available from the Yorkshire and Humber electoral region of England), and Nick Griffin, (representing one of the eight seats in the North West of England), join their peers in Strasbourg. Both men are members of the British National Party (BNP), which is an extreme nationalist party that have been trying to legitimise their policies in mainstream politics, here in the UK, for many years. I took a look at the European Parliament's website1 and found this soundbite from Tim Stone, Public Affairs Officer for the Salvation Army, on the homepage: "There is increasing recognition that the EU shapes the UK and ultimately affects all of our lives. It is our responsibility as citizens to ensure all society’s interests are represented and responded to. Failure to participate entails failure to achieve." His reasoning is sound. So what do the British National Party hope to achieve? Whose interests do they represent? Not mine, but, as Andrew Brons and Nick Griffin are democratically elected officials, the responsibility for their ascension to power must be placed in the hands of the British public who voted for them. William Rees-Mogg, journalist for one of the UKs broadsheet newspapers, The Times, made a very good point when his said, "Fascism feeds on a sense of personal injustice."2 It was, after all, at the tail end of the 1930s when the Great Depression had a huge impact on the rise of Hitler, and the spread of fascism in Germany and Italy. There seem to be striking similarities between modern events in British politics and the historical ones in Germany: a downturn in economics, loss of confidence in policy, scandal and failings in the current political regime, all leading to a rise in fascist ideals. Nervous, paranoid, Xenophobia rears its head in the hearts of some of the populous, and it becomes easier to assert an 'us' and 'them' attitude, blaming all our economic and social woes on immigrant workers. Sure enough, the bubble of discontent, misinformation, and lack of communication and understanding, leads to wide-spread racism and intolerance, providing a platform for the hate agenda of the BNP3. A new immigration and asylum policy will be voted on by Members of European Parliament (MEPs) this autumn. I was horrified to watch a BBC interview with Nick Griffin. He said, "I say boats should be sunk, they can throw [African immigrants] a life raft and they can go back to Libya [...] Europe has sooner or later to close its borders or its simply going to be swamped by the Third World." As pointed out by the BBC, "human rights groups have raised concerns about Italy sending migrants back to Libya without first screening them for asylum claims or to discover whether they are sick, injured, unaccompanied children or victims of human trafficking. Libya has no functioning asylum system and is not a party to the 1951 UN convention relating to the status of refugees."4 But is polite, reasoned arguing enough to stop the rise of the extreme right in its tracks? 'Hope Not Hate'5 was an initiative set up here in the North West before the European elections took place. Led by faith groups, community organisations, the political parties and individuals it gave a sober reminder to people of what the BNP stood for, and what voting for them could mean to communities. It also clearly demonstrated what the financial gift of having an MEP in power could do for the Party itself, "An MEP would give the BNP £250,000 a year for five years in wages for staff and office support. Racism would be legitimised [...] The BNP is dedicated to imposing apartheid-style rule in Britain, where black and Asian people would become second-class citizens under the law. [The BNP] do not believe non-white people, even if they were born here, can ever really be British. This view, along with total opposition to any integration or mixing of races, is enshrined in their constitution." And here is their constitution ... well, part of it. Their constitution (9th) edition is currently available for download, but I do not want to have to explain to my family what it is doing on my computer. Here is one excerpt: The British National Party stands for the preservation of the national and ethnic character of the British people and is wholly opposed to any form of racial integration between British and non-European peoples. It is therefore committed to stemming and reversing the tide of non-white immigration … This hard right, extreme ethnic nationalism was a general feature of early 20th century Europe, too: "...it [Nazi philosophy] by no means believes in an equality of races, but along with their difference it recognizes their higher or lesser value and feels itself obligated to promote the victory of the better and stronger, and demand the subordination of the inferior and weaker in accordance with the eternal will that dominates this universe." - Hitler Mein Kampf. Of course, Nick Griffin denies the holocaust ever happened, but can the same be said for the British voters who gave him and Andrew Baron access to a world stage in Europe? I do want, so very much, to believe that those two seats were the result of 'protest voting' against the current regime, rather than people advocating Nazi ideology. For years, the argument against the UK having a Bill of Rights has been, 'If it isn't written down, then how can anyone tear it up? Freedom and democracy are too fragile a thing to be left to lawyers.' September the eleventh means many different things to many different people, but today, to me, it is a reminder of how fragile, yet strong, delicate, yet solid, democracy is. The people who died in the 9-11 atrocity were innocents in a war not of their making. Those people, whose families and nation mourn afresh today, were not politicians, not world leaders, not in pursuit of power, but ordinary, free-born people going about their business in the 'pursuit of happiness'. It is a right worth fighting for--a right worth dying for--but I doubt anyone ever thought a day would come to claim it. My heart aches for all those affected when terrorism comes to call. My own sister was caught up in the Manchester Bombing by the IRA, so I know how it smarts. My heart aches in a different way, but almost more so, when fascism announces its presence in my country. It beats in an agony that's louder than bombs. In Germany they first came for the Communists, and I didn't speak up because I wasn't a Communist. Then they came for the Jews, and I didn't speak up because I wasn't a Jew. Then they came for the trade unionists, and I didn't speak up because I wasn't a trade unionist. Then they came for the Catholics, and I didn't speak up because I was a Protestant. Then they came for me — and by that time no one was left to speak up. ~ German anti-Nazi activist, Pastor Martin Niemöller Footnotes |
| CT finds it hard to think of the universe being made up of people who aren't her. So, rather than 'does that mean there's no such thing as truth?', the alternative question must be 'does that mean that there's no such thing as other people?' Yes, there's no such thing as other people. Other people are a story invented by your parents to stop you going too far into danger. That's why obese ladies in cars can pick their nose--no one of any importance to their universe can see them. CT also asked if a tree falls in a forest and no one can hear it, does it make a sound? She said, 'yes'. I say, 'not if any other trees didn't care about it.' We're all our own little empire; the sun in the heaven of our lives. If we weren't, we'd go mad. The day people stop picking their noses and start being enraptured with my every move is the day I'll become a tree. It doesn't mean that I can't have a dalliance and become interested in other people, but usually this ache for love/friendship/peer recognition only comes from finding qualities in others that I want to cultivate, emulate or avoid in myself. While that kind of 'pay-off' all comes back to me, that's not to say that my dalliances are made of the hot air which comes so naturally to my personality; if I love you, I LOVE you, if I respect you, I RESPECT you, if I avoid you, I AVOID you. But like everything else in the universe, it all comes back to me. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| School systems are different the world over, but one constant remains the same: people are the bottom line. Jenn's entry reminded me of quick fixes the world over: what worked yesterday, may not work tomorrow. Money, work, careers, education, relationships, mortgages--whatever the institution, and no matter how badly it functions, it is its people, not relative success, which is the driving force that could make bad working practice better working practice. I feel my jaw clench when that is forgotten. One of the responses to the article Jenn wrote about gave quite a forceful opinion that forgot that, too. Here's a shocking confession: I'm not perfect  But, when I come across crappy attitudes, sweeping stereotypes and bigoted people, I do try to see where they might be coming from. In this person's case, to say so much on a subject, and to be blinkered to the people on other side of argument, is either very brave, or very silly. One thing's for sure, it isn't very caring, and doesn't give me much hope that the author of the comment might be receptive to the challenges of finding a mutually beneficial way forward.I'm many things to many people: wife, mother, business woman, writer, biscuit eater, and, my favourite, a part-time voluntary cleaner. Oh, the joy this role gives me! It's only two hours a week, but it sure gives me a great perspective on how some folk treat the little cogs in big wheels. I've been in business meeting in my 'real' working life, where I'm sat across from people whose status is the same as mine, only to come across them, outside of those circumstances, demeaning and belittling those in the role I perform as a volunteer. I wonder how they might feel if they were in my shoes? is a common thought. My father told me that the only thing that separated a CEO from a girl with bottle of detergent in her hand was time, not money--time spent taking a different personal journey through life. So, one decided to spend time on advancing a career, instead of, for example, spending time with family, loved ones, and friends. No one has any right to demand how another person chooses to invest their time. Whether minimum wage or a nice slice of the profits, money is not what is spent, time is--people's time. "I find the harder I work, the more luck I seem to have." ~ Thomas Jefferson. No-one can ever discount the power of the people; one man's terrorist is another man's general; one man's spiritual guide is another's oppressor; and just one little loose cog can bring the whole machine grinding to a halt. If people do not want their time to be spent as others dictate, of course they should do something about it. Ten-to-one, if it is a just and righteous cause, they will find themselves surrounded by like-minded allies. I love freedom of speech, freedom of expression, freedom to bear placards and go on strike etc. In other words, I love the freedom to whinge. People often take a lot of crap before they complain about it. From what Jenn's blog hints at, these professors have helped to provide a quick fix to a system that is fundamentally flawed: like offering pain-meds to an injured person. The cause hasn't gone away, only a painful and obvious symptoms. People are outraged that the professors no longer want to continue acting as a band-aid on a wound that needs surgery. They are demanding their time back--it's theirs; they have a right to it--and I hope situation is resolved as amicably and as swiftly as possible, before it has too much of a detrimental impact on other people's time. |
| Internet as entertainment was bound to happen. Since satellite TV Radio The Novel The Bible tribal stories--heck, since dreaming, we humans are imaginative creatures who, if you're anything like me, nod until our eyes roll over in gurgling delight when Russel Crow demands no answer to his rhetorical "Are you not entertained?" Of course we are! We love being entertained  It can come in a myriad of ways and depths: cerebral = history, political = presidential debates, sexually = porn (or a modern romance novel, if you're deluding yourself), blue collar = stand up, etc, etc. The thing is, the internet, just like the multitude of genres on bookshelves and channels on the telly, allows you to be the surfer you want to be at the time.At the moment, I'm loving a bit of random violent gaming: Mafia Wars on Facebook is hilarious. I meet serious players who don't take kindly to me sucker-punching them on the nose, and robbers, and thieves, and oooh, all sorts of 'normal' people who play according to the mood they are in for their entertainment. The beautiful Holmes, whose last blog entry was along the lines of "I'm not on WDC much--come and find me on FB, if you want me", is having a blast over there. Is it all fun and games? No, you betchya it isn't; some vindictive bitch is killing her in a game for their version of fun, but is she entertained? Damn right she is  And by the same process, I'm entertained too. Why? Well, because I buy into her outrage, rally at her call to arms, and go in with make-believe fists a-flying against an opponent who is bigger, stronger, better than me. My entertainment then comes from seeing these uber-gamers take my puny efforts seriously. They become enraged at my daring to take 'em on. Feck, it's only a game. Not to them, it's not! I get my jollies, laughing in the face of fake death. They get their jollies by holding me at arms length while my avatar's punch-reach never connects with their pretend flesh. All is good. We are all entertained.I don't know why you started to write, but I did it to entertain myself. Sure, if anyone else happens to be entertained along the way, all is well and good, but I see the same kinds of writer as I do gamer. Writers whose reason for writing is to be the best. Why? What's so wrong with being entertaining? Ahh, Acme, she writes comedy. I'm a serious writer. I discount her opinions as a bit-of-a-laugh, and so will others. I wouldn't dream of cracking a smile, when I want to be taken seriously. I feel sorry for writers made of fine bone-china; it is as if they don't remember school. Which teachers lessons made you greedy for more? For me, it was the ones who engaged with me as a human first, student second--the ones who entertained me. They brought the subject to life. It's the same with writers. Look at the comedy in Shakespeare, the silliness of Dave Grohl (coming from Kurt's band, who'd have seen that coming, eh?), the wit and playfulness of Thomas Jefferson, (for all his anti-English blustering, he's still one of my favouritest ever people), and all the way through literature to the thoughtful, silly, purposeful, social satire and humour of Terry Pratchett (I love his Discworld author blurb that states 'Occasionally he gets accused of literature.') Nothing in literature is sacred. Often it is the pointing finger of a boy saying "The King's naked!" that shows the Emperor to be wearing no clothes. Lighten up. Laugh at everything. You can bet your bottom dollar that everything is laughing at you. Here we are now. Entertain us. [Embed For Use By Upgraded+] And if you like your Chaucer (oh, those were the days--what a rum one he was)... [Embed For Use By Upgraded+] Are you not entertained? ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| The twin wants to go shopping in New York for our next landmark birthday. I ask you, do I look like a shopper? I wanted to hire a small Scottish Island retreat instead, and have ourselves a Shooting Party. A little hunting, fishing, and a haunted manse--what could be more perfect? Apparently, I would be going on my own. No one in the family likes my idea. Not for the first time, I'm surprised that I actually miss my father. He's not naturally missable: he's a short, curly-haired, arrogant, hobbit of a man, whose motives are usually hedonistic, boorish, and incredibly self-centred. Yes, I take after him. No one likes looking in a mirror very much, so we've spent a lifetime trying to avoid each other. Not true. I had an absolutely wonderful Enid Blighton childhood that was amazing to live. We lived on the west coast of Scotland, in a fishing village next to Faslane Naval Base. Our house sat in a hillside overlooking Garelochead, with the water in front of us, and woods backing onto our land at the rear. I used to love watching the submarines come in and out of base. You can see my old stomping ground in The Spy Who Loved Me, when Commander Bond is on one of those subs, passing pretty villages. I got my first catapult, and used it against all the Disney creatures I came across in the woods. I built dens and traps, and when I wasn't Trapper Acme, I was Beachcomber Acme. I went down to The Spit and built campfires, brought massive crabs home to boil up for supper and got my first nickname: Stig... as in Stig of the Dump. I was such an outdoorsy scruff-bag. Loved it. When we moved to England we moved to the bottom of the Yorkshire moors (again, this landscape can be seen in film: the opening scenes of American Werewolf In London). A beautiful place, to be sure, but with a serious lack of trees and water. I thought I would die for want of a place for my imagination to play. Dad took up clay pigeon shooting. I joined in. Like Staunaway, I'm left-eyed and right-handed, but found it easy to learn to shoot left-handed, rather than squint and blink a lot. My biggest memory of learning is the bruising. I recall a concerned school friend, in the gym changing rooms, eying the bruises to my shoulder with great suspicion. I loved them. Again, a little of the 'no pain, no gain' mentality, but also a lot of machismo: I'd just read Tank Girl and I was now the twelve-year-old version of Tank Girl... without screwing kangaroos, of course. It was actually at this time in my life when puberty came along and made me look ridiculous. Stupid boobs. I wanted to look like Linda Hamilton in Terminator, not Linda Carter in Wonder Woman. To this day, I'll never understand why I was destined to look like a dark-haired Amazonian princess/Valkyrie, instead of a feisty, lithe-limbed, apple-breasted, ninja. *Sigh* Them's the breaks, I guess. Someone, I can't remember who, said it would not be a good idea to continue shooting. The delicate, developing tissue around my breasts should not be pounded by the butt of a shotgun with a kick like a mule. I dutifully gave it up, and chalked up another reason to hate my changing body. Once my boobs got to be the gargantuan orbs they eventually ballooned to, I wasn't too bothered about taking up shooting again. After all, I knew how to shoot, as well as how to clean a gun, how to reassemble one, and how to weigh the shot when my dad made his own ammo. I could join in Staunaway's apocalypse tomorrow, but I might need to bagsy Xena's bra. Oh, and for the record, I think handguns look stupid. Yes, even when Clint's holding one. It just doesn't look like a gun to me. How on earth would you be able to shoot a rising Teal effectively? ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| I don't have to buy sleep, but I do have to bribe sleep. You see, I'm a lie-iner. I don't care how many hours actual sleep I manage to squeeze in, but I do believe in cheating the alarm clock. Rob me of a lie-in and you'll get into my bad books. I've been known to pop scheduled lie-ins on the family calendar. "I'm having a lie-in tomorrow," I announce. "I've popped it on the calendar." This somehow makes it a commandment. The Acme family roll their eyes, often. Grim wrote about that ability that brains have to recall sleepy conversations in half-dreams that would set the world on fire if they could be captured as they happened. Disturbing my lie-in deprives me, and therefore the universe, of this most excellent internal correspondence. For instance, two days ago, hubby woke me up with a dose of the 'mmm!'s, to which I pillow-snapped, "Rrrraaaarrrrggghhh! It's not real--it's just a waking salute. Lemme get back to the marquee." "What marquee? And it is real." "Rrrraaaarrrggghhh! You've left me, you bastard, but this chap and I are having a conversation a romance novelist would turn plagiarist in a heartbeat for. Go and have a big wee and let me have my lie-in. I'm losing the colours." "I haven't left you. I'm right here, and I don't want you having conversations in tents with strange chaps. I wanna snuggle... What colours?" "The voices and--oh, for flip's sake! Look at me! I'm awake! Damn you. Damn you, your dream-cheating ways, and your morning glory. Rrrraaaarrrrrrgggghhhh!" "I don't know why you have to be such an arsehole in the mornings. Please don't take out what Dream Hubby did on Real Hubby. I only want to love you." "Well, feck off and love me later." "But you're up now." "I do not want to be." "You're going to be in a shit mood all day, aren't you?" "[growl]" "I'll make us some coffee, and see you downstairs." "That's it, you selfish twit--carry on being nice to me, just to make me feel guilty. You're a real bastard when you do the 'I'm so nice' thing, when I'm being mean. I hate you. I hate you and your niceness. If I do get up, it will be for the coffee, not for you. Damn you, you're such a sleep Nazi." Several minutes later, I hear the children waking up. Hubby's whispers are loud, "Ssshh, mum's having a lie-in. She's a little bit grumpy, so let her have some sleep, eh?" "I am NOT grumpy," my voice carries through closed doors and corridors, "I was having a smashing dream, and then that dream-thieving, gumphead of a father of yours, woke me up. RRRAAAAARRRRRGGGGHHHH!" BA giggles. Junior tuts. Hubby sighs. Two minutes later a little voice shouts up the stairs. It's BA. "Muuuuuuuuum! You're a bad girl! You didn't put it on the calendar, so you have to come down and make us pancakes!" So, from happy sleep to sleep-deprived reality, I turn into Basil Fawlty, rushing downstairs with a, "Right! Right! So, it has to be on the calendar, does it?" I tip the pen tin's contents all over the kitchen worktop and find a thick sharpie. I head over to the calendar and write across the whole month of September, MUM LIE-IN. BA and Junior are giggling. "Can we have pancakes, now, mum?" I give in. "Maple, or Golden syrup?" the defeat in my countenance is apparent. "But I'm warning you now--I'm burning your father's." "Is that because he's a Nazi, mum?" Junior pipes up. "Yes. Yes, it is." "Good. They were horrible to the Jews during WWII." I look beyond her to my beautiful, gentle, artist and husband. He looks sad. I feel a bit bad, but there's still a little nee-naw voice in the back of my head telling me he deserves it; after all, I'm the lowest maintenance wife he's ever had. All I've ever asked for is "Five more minutes..." ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| Aah, food memories... This could be a very short entry if I told the truth: "I've never met a food I didn't like." There... but not quite in the spirit of FtL, so let me tell you a story about spam... I've always liked meat. Real meat, that is. You know, thumb thick rare steak that you can dip your chips into its blood? I was vegan for a 5 years, veggie for 10, and I would dream of the stuff. Needless to say, when I made the conscious decision to start eating animals again, I was under no illusion as to how they got on my plate. The final mental push for me to re-eat meat was a question I posed for myself: "Acme, could you hunt this beast, look it in the eye, knife it in the throat, listen to its wheezing death lament as its blood oozed over your hands, turning cool and sticky as it did so? Could you go further? Could you hang it, split its centre and let its innards slop all over your shoes (insert image of Star Wars ice warmer here), strip its hide, look at its face--into its dead eyeballs and lolling tongue--as you chowed down on a piece of its arse?" "Yes." So I bought a bloody steak and nommed it. Yum. Thrift was a big thing in my nan's house. We always had strange delicacies with lying names that told you nothing about their reality: Brawn = boiled pig brain Tripe = pungent intestinal fun Sausages = eyeballs and assholes Tongue = yes, I know the clue should have been in the word itself, but my little brain refused to acknowledge this, in much the same way as Queen Victoria refused to believe that women could be lesbians and so they were excluded from the parliamentary acts against homosexuality. Spam = made from manna: a heavenly food source of the gods, and therefore completely vegetarian I love spam. I loved spam so much that on 'Spam Day' at school I would flick my removable orthodontic brace into my mushy peas and mashed potato, before making a big fuss about how gross it was. I would then lick it, exaggeratedly, making much mess, moaning, and mouth-spit as possible. The other kids on my table would suddenly lose their appetite and push their plates toward me. More spam. Happy Acme I tried to put my brace in the cat once, but it wouldn't go  I still love spam, but I do share it these days: I buy a tin for me, and a tin for the rest of the family to share. I'm all about giving. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
aaaarrrrrgggggghhhhh! When did FtL jump out of the woodwork and bite my procrastinating arse!  I'm all for a whingefest, just not normally at the expense of others and their choices, so I'll do it my way: self-deprecating whingefest!  I annoy myself with my permanent state of wrinkled brow. This comes from thinking about the hundred and one million things I should be doing, instead of doing the hundred and one million things I should be doing. For instance, right now, today, I should be: Updating the books and getting my Tax return in Washing the kids' school uniforms Writing a script with a deadline of tomorrow Typing up the minutes of a meeting, before I forget what my own handwriting says Playing with hubby and kids Interviewing and researching for an anthology deadlineI can't help being me. I'm practically perfect in every way, so it's only natural I need some personality affliction to off-set my brilliance and leave me a well-balanced individual. I think I know how this happened... God "Right. I've made an Acme. It's turned out rather well, actually, even if I do say so myself. I've made it in my image, so it's as hot as Luci's place, has a heart as big as a whale, an irrepressible buoyancy of groundless optimism, a bit-of-a-temper when pushed, and an absurd sense of affection for its fellow man." S. Anthony of Lost Things "It's great--I particularly like the 'fro. 'erm, what about a couple of neuroses? You know, to round it out a bit?" God "Oh, alright. We'll give it some boobs. Never having the ability to cross your arms effectively after puberty always leads to neuroses of some sort... oooh! And let's try out that new human software programing COD." S. Anthony of Lost Things "OCD?" God "Sort of, only this one is Contemplative Obsessive Disorder." S. Anthony of Lost Things "I don't think I have any of those in the stores..." God "You have now, my son--I've just invented it in your inventory." S. Anthony of Lost Things "Ah-ha! Here it is. An inbuilt 'List of Things to Do' that never makes it off the page. Nice..." God "Yes, it will teach her patience, tolerance, and how to apologise profusely to others for never being organised. Happy, Tony?" S. Anthony "Y-e-e-e-s..." God "But?" S. Anthony "But I found a whole warehouse full of neurological disorders last Wednesday. I could do with shifting them to make room for the new 'mean-streaks' and 'self-absorbed' personality types that the Volition Department are developing." God "Go on then. Give her a mild dose of synesthesia and the observational skills of a gnat--it will make dinner time fun." |
| ...but I'm gonna tell you anyway. Right. Bear with me. I have to start at the start or I'll get lost. I am lucky enough to suffer--no, that's not right--to be afflicted gifted with mild synesthesia (I figure most folks are, because, hey! I'm normal*). This usually doesn't pose a problem, as most folk think I'm turning into Lloyd Grossman if I describe my dinner as 'pointy'. Put simply, synesthesia tends to only affect me in few and subtle ways: When the band Cure released 'The Cure in Orange' I agreed, but thought it more khaki coloured during a few songs, even to the point of having a few purple pulsating spots dotted about. ~ * normal because how else did the 'blues' get to be that colour? I--like I have to believe everyone else does--can taste the smell of food, and I can judge cooking time by it (yes, that includes the age-old tradition of the smell of smoke meaning that it's well-done.) ~ * normal because of the obvious: wine-tasters use the bouquet as part of the tasting experience; air over the moist taste-buds combines (Waltz will probably know more about this *hic*), and if you hold your nose when tasting mystery food with your eyes closed, it doesn't really taste of anything, does it? Go on, try it... Hubby can touch me with such music... ...anyway, that's not the point. And I'm not going to go into all the little ways I experience my universe; we'd be here all day. No, the point is that there are some connections in my head that do not rely on my brain processing certain information the way that other people do. The last explanation is that synesthesia is a form of metaphor. “C-sharp is red just like a certain cheese is described as tasting ‘sharp,”’ Dr. Ramachandran explained. “The problem with this explanation is that you can’t use one mystery in science to explain another mystery. Saying that synesthesia is just metaphor doesn’t explain anything because we have no idea how metaphors are represented in the brain,” he said.6 - oh, yes, this is bound to end up as an exercise in "Invalid Item" One thing I'll say for this, is it sometimes back-fires. Big time. My visual observational skills are pants. I've joked with MaryLou about it before. She's Holmes to my Moriarty, and with good reason: I'm a bloody brilliant eeevel genius, but without an ounce of common sense or the ability to tie their own shoelaces. She, on the other hand, has one of the most perceptive minds I've ever met and picks up on subtle nuances with her fantastic powers of deduction and observation. I wish she'd been here while I was making lunch. Caterpillars do not taste nice. They taste ~[^^^[ I should get Mother of the Year award. Here's what happened (look away now if you are of a tender disposition). I cooked a healthy, hearty, northern English fave: Hotpot. (lamb, onion, carrot, peas, thick juicy gravy and potatoes). Ooh, I've got broccoli to use up, thought thrifty I. I washed it. I washed it good. If we were on a water meter, the thing would have been spinning pennies. I didn't wash it good enough. Either that, or the clutch of caterpillars living in it had good suction pads on their heads (or however nature designed them to grip. I saw no claws. You may have guessed, I'm not a biologist.). Baby Acme is six. This gives her a natural internal conflict: 1. She's extremely trusting, especially of me (damn fool) 2. She's a faddy eater I boiled up the broccoli and served it on the same plate as her hotpot. I served myself a good whack of it, too. Nom, nom, nomity-nom. There are a lot of elbows when I eat. I got brought up in a house where, if you weren't quick, someone else would nab it off your plate. Hubby's upbringing was similar. His family nicknamed him Ringo--on account that the speed he ate was similar to watching a drum solo. My poor children will never be fit for polite society. I digress. Something cold slapped against my chin. I used a napkin (surprised it wasn't the back of my hand? How rude!) to wipe it away. A fat, greeny-white boiled caterpillar corpsed like a bad-actor and then fell onto my dinner.  Now, I had a split-second decision to make: Should I leap up, scream like a girl, and stab it repeatedly with my fork until I cracked the china? Or should I try to scoop it off my dinner without it being seen, because BA was tucking into her vegetables (a rare thing indeed)? Mother of the Year award  I played it cool and pushed the rest of my dinner around my plate--not that I was going to continue eating.Mother of the Year award X I watched her pierce a caterpillar on her own plate, along with a 'little tree' and shove it in her gob. I just sat there. She chewed. I still sat there. She swallowed. I couldn't help but sit there. She gave me a big gin. "I like broccoli, mum. It's meaty." "Really? I always thought it curvy with a bit of a squiggle. I'm so proud you ate it, but you don't want to over-do it on your first time: the vitamins inside are quite strong, and you'll end up hyperactive." "Like cola?" "Yeah, like healthy cola. Why don't we have some icecream now, instead?" "Okay." Mother of the Year award Hubby and Junior were out at art galleries and such. I've wrapped up their dinner. I picked off the caterpillar corpses. Waste not, want not. Wife of the Year X Footnotes |
| Okay, so gigs used to mean seedy dives, elbows in the stomach, and feet stuck to the glue on the dance-floor. I miss that. I miss splitting my money between different pockets, in case of pickpockets. I miss watching my drink all night, in case it got pinched (minesweepers), or doped (mindsweepers). I miss wondering if my ears were bleeding because I'd stood too near the speakers. I miss making new best friends in shared dance euphoria, the over-priced drinks, smuggling my own in, missing the last bus, buying a dodgy kebab, and tunelessly singing songs from the evening on the long walk home. Aah, memories. Last night wasn't quite a recreation of those heady days of musical hedonism, but it was ace! I was so proud of my 12 year-old. She is way cooler than I ever was. The Hypnotic Brass Ensemble were phenomenal. They had us hollering back to them on stage, partaying as they wrapped us up in their raps, mix of brass and hip-hop. Jr out-danced me. Sure, she was a little worried that I would embarrass her with 'mum moves', but was left with a grudging respect: I can cut some rug  It probably helped that I also singled-out the most atrocious dancer on the floor and boogied on down next to them; it's an old trick I learned at school swimming lessons: find the fattest chick and stand next to her--you'll look like a goddess. In this case the girl I danced next to was a fan of the 'waggley-arm-dance'. You know the one. You probably did when you were 3. You relax your arms until they're really flappy and then energetically swivel to your left and right so quickly that they get flung up your back and then your belly. Nice. Yeah, I rocked. Hypnotic Brass Ensemble rocked. Acme Jnr rocked. It was smashing night, even without the kebab. |
| Well, come on, it's hardly a shocking self-diagnosis, is it? I have new addictions to add to my coffee and fags: FB applications. Primarily I would pop the secondary blame firmly at zwisis's feet. It was her blog entry, "Invalid Entry" , that set my imagination on fire. I wanted to farm. I wanted juicy grape harvests all of my own. I dusted off an old FB account that my sister had told me to set up. I never used it. I'd rather she phoned me, if she was organising a night out, or something. She got the hint and started re-using the telephone. Imagine her surprise to find my first ever post: "I came here to farm." Sure, she tried to communicate non-farming events to me, but I couldn't be arsed with it. She reverted to the telephone. "Why don't you bother to click messages, invites, fun stuff, huh?" she asked one day. "Do they have anything to do with virtual farming?" "No, but some of the people trying to contact you are old friends who want to get back in touch." "Do they farm?" "'erm, no, but they have lives that might interest you?" "Real lives?" "Yes, real lives. Don't you want to know how they're getting on and what they're doing now?" "No." "No! Why not?" "Because if they meant that much to me, or vice versa, they wouldn't have let me slip out of their lives. Everything has a time. School was several decades ago. Now, do you want a coconut tree for your farm?" "Acme, you are rude, self-absorbed, and short-sighted." Turned out she was right. To me, a friend on Facebook doesn't necessarily mean the same thing as a friend away from Facebook. How can I justify such rudeness to a clutch of non-gaming 'friend' confirmation requests, when I ignore those that come from brief associations made years ago? Well, here's one example: [Friend invite received (along with personal message)] "Hi Acme! It has been too long since I saw you. How is your sister? I used to spend a lot of time with her. Do you remember me? I'd love to add you to my 'class reunion' group thing [erm, another social networking application that I can't remember, because it involves admiring how successful/laughable people, you barely remember, lives are now.] "Hi Person! No, I don't remember you, but it sounds like you knew my sister really well. Yes, she's doing fine. Sure, I'll be your friend and add to your list on your game/group. Do me a favour and join Robin Hood so I can pretend to bash people's head in as I make merry in Sherwood. Cheers. Acme." I never heard from her after I added her, but she was quick off the block to send me her application invites. So, I resent mine, without accepting hers. Hubby reckoned she got her nose out of joint because I didn't remember her, but honestly, if she knew me at all, she'd have known what a mental case I was back then (my memory's always been pants for names and faces). Hubby said that most FBers go there for Social Networking, and the fact that I go there to play games is odd. Bull. Don't get me wrong, there are people on that site that I love to bits; people on my wall I like to have a giggle with, but you can bet your bottom dollar that if they're important to me, I can contact them personally away from FB if I want to. Look at my beautiful WDCers: they're mates I chat to in private emails, via skype, or face-to-face, but I draw the line at ex-school people, who weren't my friends at all, and a tonne of ex-boyfriends who are ex's for damn good reason. It boils down to this: Writing.Com = a place to write, read, and find people who share common interests. People, who I WANT to know, hang-out with, and become more than simple associates. I have made some wonderful friends here. Friends who mean more to me than some chic whose only shared common interest was my twin. FaceBook = a place to play, as well as see what friends get up to (like my lovely Chirdy, who spends half his time in other countries) via pictures and snippets of conversation. So, now I have a simple FB friend request protocol system: If you're WDCer, or a real life mate, or a gamer, you're a shoe-in. If you're an ex, you stay that way. If you're an old friend of my sister's who I can't remember and you don't want to be part of my merry men, mob squad, or salty pirate crew, bugger off.Like hubby says, I'm very good at being an anti-social networker. |
| I love all of God's creatures ... well, except moths, and that doesn't count, on account of them not being made by Him, but by tiny eveeel pixies that live somewhere in My Little Pony land. Hubby hates cats. He does horrid things to them. I usually threaten to get the RSPCA (who have a very good rate of criminal convictions for animal cruelty, these days), but apparently, throwing water at them and calling them names doesn't count as animal cruelty. Today, I'm not entirely sure that I should have been on their side. There are a number of cats who use our garden as a giant mating ground/litter box. I leave 'em to it, but today when I went out for a smoko, I heard a moaning like I'd never heard before. When the moans turned into the unmistakable sound of assault, I went to investigate over our neighbour's wall. Two prim and proper white coated house cats were killing (no, I'm not exaggerating. It was ghastly) an old tortoise-shell that I nickname "The Cancer Cat". The Cancer Cat got her name because she's had a hard life. She looks old. She moves with determined deliberation and a painful gait. Her stomach is flacid skin to her knees--no doubt from the litters of kittens that have stretched her beyond repair--and her body is covered in lumpy tumors of varying size. She is, in every essence of the animal kingdom, a dead cat walking. My shouting at the attackers made them pause. She stood up warily from the first salvo. As she did, I noticed that most of the fur from her throat was missing. It revealed her throat to be open, glistening with dark reds and pink wobbly bits that I instinctively knew should have been on the inside of her skin. I gasped. The other cats must have considered whether or not I was an immediate threat to their sport and found me lacking. They attacked again, chasing The Cancer Cat to the top of the drive and spilling out onto the street in a ball of fur, claws, teeth and blood. I ran into the street like a mad woman, but the attackers were so frenzied there was nothing I could do to part them from their prey, nor did it seem like they even noticed me any more. These house-cat-cushion-warmers were feral beasts and completely wild. I guess it turned me wild, too. I stamped into them, roaring and flailing my arms, in a scream that may have used the words 'Get off it!' or have still been a wordless roar of outrage. Whatever it was, they heard it with more than ears and ran off. So did The Cancer Cat, in a different direction. The street kids had all assembled at the sound of an 'event' in the street, and they and I looked for The Cancer Cat for a while, but with no result. I told them to give up and get on with their games, but the scene of the blood and fur has captured their darling macabre imaginations, and I can still hear them ch-sh-ch-ing in the street as I type. Cats are mean. |
| Hurrah for people who know what they're doing. Seriously. I've had some smashing news from the woman I asked to run the Writing Cafe. She's approached the role professionally and enthusiastically since she agreed to become Co-ordinator. Amongst other things, she got us to organise ourselves well and become a registered and constituted community group. Well, I'm so glad she did, because she also put a couple of bids together, in the hopes of attracting some funding so that we could take on projects. We asked the writers what they wanted above all else, and they said to be published and read (I guess some things are pretty universal). One project we all thought would be good (and gives us a reasonable shot at finding a willing readership), was to write an anthology of fictional stories based on local history (events/buildings/people etc.) There should be a good chance of local libraries and interest centres carrying the book for us, as well as some of the local book stores. Well, as of today, we have the funding to publish, so need only collate the research and write the stories! The funding is not massive, but not only should it allow us to do that, but it will also pay some expenses for us to start inviting authors in for author talks, as well as other industry members. Oh, and there should be a little left over to run some more workshops. Hurrah for everyone! Hurrah for hairdressers, too! I've been for my yearly trim, and now look like a normal person, instead of a hairy hobbit. I celebrated with a leg shaving and an eyebrow plucking, so I'm practically bald in comparison to the hobbit version of Cousin It that I was yesterday. I'll tell you something, though, I'm a bit nippy now when the wind blows. Whoopsies. I forgot a couple of pluggy things I wanted to get in. Here they are: NaNoer's might like a little bit of a muse kick, and there's an info sharing and latest news in & out:
Spook-tators are signing up now, too:
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| ...if the cat in question happened to be a deaf albino with a broken paw, gin in its milk, and was pushed, blindfold, off gangplank. Yes, I've been told before that I'm as nimble-witted as I am footed, and today has proved that still to hold truth. Why am I being so hard on the delightful perfection that is me? Simple. I've been humbled. Humbling is a shocking verb to suffer when I have a tendency to wander around in a wibble-de-wobble-de world where I am the centre of the universe. It never fails to amaze me how bloody brilliant my friends are. Of course, the bigger part of me--the better part of me--celebrates their fabulousnessness, but the other, meaner, self-absorbed, part of me whines things like, Why can't I be that brilliant? Oh, don't panic: I never pout for long, but I can't help my honest-to-goodness jealousy of their talent. Mavis Moog has been an inspiration since I tried--erm, and failed (quite rightly when I read the winning entries)--to win her "Great Short Stories" contest. She probably doesn't know this, but she was the first person to give me a review when I joined the site (damn nice about it too, especially seeing as though I hadn't discovered the spell check button at that time. (I'd apologise, too, for my shocking comma abuse, but let's face it, that's something that's unlikely to change any time soon). I remember trying to follow the site code of returning the reviewing favour, picked a few items at random and thought, Blimey! What on earth can I say after reading that for free? My mini-fandom of her writing lived on from that moment, with particular reference to her poetry. She, like Alfred Booth, are two poets that amaze me, and, through an unintended, horrible side-effect, make me feel like a child scribbling whenever I attempt to write anything resembling poetry. Just when I think I've captured the essence of a moment, there they are to remind me that I'm only playing at poetry.Well, I was delighted to receive Mavis Moog's Chapbook of poetry through the post today. It reacquainted me with some old faves, as well as introducing me to some new ones. Some of those poems are in her portfolio of writing on WDC, so if you do want to read good quality poetry, I can't recommend her port enough  Talking of brilliant writers who've made an impact on my appreciation of writing, a friend (and equally fab writer, NickiD89  ), reminded me of a lost love on WDC. MetaphorSquared first came into my port wearing boxing gloves on her costumicon and the handle of 'challenge me' -- it scared the pants off me. It needn't. I fell head over heels in love the woman, as a writer and a friend. I miss her like mad. The one item that is left in her port is worth a read, just to see the craftsmanship she possess. I do hope that she remembers that we made plans to meet up in Rio for Fat Tuesday 2013. If anyone else is going, I'll be wearing a lime-green frock with feathered headdress. And, yes, I will be reenacting the James Bond/Jaws chase scene to the best of my ability Another big, bad, sad loss to my reading enjoyment is the amazing SendintheClown who wrote Bad Buck & Me tales that made me long for the Georgia swamps. I was so enamoured of the written world those boys lived in that I actually remember asking hubby if he fancied running away to America with me, just so we could find 'usuns' of our own. The last time I checked her port, the boys were gone , but every now and then I write my own pale, incredibly British, version of their possible stories. She, and a few other WDC names you might recall from the class of 2007 feature heavily in the parody stories of my World Domination Guide. If you ever fancy reading them (they're still my guilty pleasure and are the favourite items in my port), just click the World domination piccie above.The thing is, people leaving WDC, or writing off-line and such, remind me to appreciate the writers that are here and allow me to read, and comment for free. Here are a list of folk who never fail to entertain me (oh, and don't worry if your name's not here, I'm saving you as my own special selfish treat... I'll share your wealth later) People a restless reader should visit today: Lauriemariepea for horror brilliance to make you shudder.zwisis for a journal full of fabulous journalism: her essays and articles are among the best I have read anywhere. RufusTFirefly for dour, sarcastic, caustic, satirical humour that will make you laugh right before you go on to tell yourself off for laughing.Lynn McKenzie a style all of her own. Fragments of her stories come back to haunt me at regular intervals, not least her winning entry in Troublesome Musings, which is a story of our time...** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
It's been a very odd weekend. The following story is slightly true:
Like I said, it's been a very odd weekend... ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| It's official: I am the jammiest bastard alive I haven't been to a gig for ages, and have missed out on all the major summer festivals this year, so I was due a bit of a musical fix. Hurrah for the north of England! Our love of brass bands means that even the most unassuming gig fixture can lead to big things. The Hypnotic Brass Ensemble were originally from Detroit, and seven of the eight members are brothers. They're ace, and I bought tickets for Jnr and I to go and see them a week on Saturday. [Embed For Use By Upgraded+] We live in rather an odd place: not quite Yorkshire, not quite Greater Manchester. It means there are all sorts of odd traditions in these parts. One of my favourites is 'Beating the Bounds'. This was the wonderful tradition of teaching those young teens, who were coming of age, what they ought to know about the parish and/or borough boundaries. All would be led along the boundary route, and walloped soundly at key places so they wouldn't forget them. Not sure if that beat sense into them, or out of them, but the local ramblers association still tread the route (even though thrashing teens is not allowed these days). Odd continues next week. It is the Saddleworth Rushcart. A man is popped ontop of a giant stack of rushes (yes, it's all very Wicker Man, isn't it?) while much revelry and merry making is to be had. Basically, this is the kind of event that you'd feel out of place of, if you were a fella without a flowery hat, jingle jangle shin pads, and didn't know your 'hey, nonny-nonnies' from a 'Hey, ninny!' Personally, I love to chortle at grown men Morris Dancing, drinking gallons of ale, and wrestling over whose turn it is to play the accordion. Priceless. [Embed For Use By Upgraded+] ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| I'm back on the dreaded weed. Trust me, it's best for everyone. I've been a right royal arse. It only took one car crash, two emotionally damaged children, and a husband questioning the nature of being married to his third wife, to send me over the edge... Well, that and three glasses of 'free' red wine. Why free? Ooh, I'm so glad you're interested to know: Hubby had his opening night for his art exhibition thing-a-ma-jig. Communal nibbles (yes, even in the face of Swine Flu) and a host of fantastic artistists (including hubby, of course). I can get an original Hubmaster painting anytime, so I tend to take him for granted a bit, but tonight was all about him, and I basked in the second hand fame that surrounded him tonight. Made me fancy him like mad, so it did. Aside from his fab works, I was incredibly impressed with some 'paper' art that another artist had on display. Hubby and I have discussed our very different tastes in art before; he is a romantic impressionist and likes blurry thing that hint at what they should look like; I was brought up with comics and graphic novels, so I tend to like hard lines and blocks of colour. Suffice to say, it was no surprise that, if I'd happened to have a couple of hundred quid spare, I would have snapped up two fantastic pieces that used the hard cut edges of paper built art. The first was a picture of Heath Leger as the Joker, in long portrait. The next was a Japanese style woodcut out of paper of a bird on a cherry blossom branch. Fantastic. No, I can't remember the fella's name. Idiot. Right. I'm off to find a pack of chili nuts. |
| The cigarettes dance before me in my imagination. I think I'm much better behaved today, though. I haven't roared as much, and I haven't crashed the car ... wait ... no, that's not true: I reversed into a massive grass verge that jumped out at me No apparent damage to the car, but a few wild grass fronds were snapped. My apologies to the planet. The cooking has slowed too... well, if you don't count fresh made pancakes for the kids, and a batch of ginger biscuits for Nana Lena's social club. So, yeah. Doing much better today. Got a smashing review from Spidey for "Invalid Item" , but I'm under no illusions: Mara and Adriana are probably going to go head to head for another month's vie for the prize. Not to forget that there are some other phenomenal writers, too (Nicki, I'm looking at you). When I enter the site contest and don't cut the mustard, I like to think that I was a close 4th. Of course, I could be last, but I'm not a 'glass half empty' chick, so obviously, if I lose it was by a whisker. The thing is, the site's monthly contest (quotation or shots) is the one thing that motivates me to write and compete. Competition is healthy for a writer to improve, whether its against themselves or against their peers. Saying that, I'm absolutely stumped by the Quotation Inspiration prompt for non-fiction:You have enemies? Good. That means you've stood up for something, sometime in your life. ~Winston Churchill Sure, I have enemies. At least, I like to think I have enemies: it makes for a well-rounded character. It's just the last part that I have a problem with. Yes, I stand up for many things, and often quite vocally, but they don't usually earn me enemies... unless my lack of subtlety refuses to register hostile stares and the relative trajectory of thrown projectiles. I've got a thin, silver scar at the very top of my beautiful cherubic nose. Richard Hadley (4th year) smashed his fist so hard, into the fleshy bottom of the Botticelli button, that the taut skin split at the top. In return, I swung my Harrods bag and walloped him across the head with the weight of its contents--the Oxford Award Winning Illustrated Dictionary. Once the blood pooled in my eyes, I couldn't find him to hit him some more, so I toddled off to get some stitches. Why did these events happen? He pushed my delicate-flower of a sister out of the way of the school doors a little too roughly for my liking, and I voiced a strong (read: inventive expletive-riddled) objection to his doing so. Does that count as an enemy? No. Sadly not. Some years latter, our paths were thrown together on a part-time college course. In my usual polite way, I asked him if he was still a bastarding violent woman beater. He was horrified, once reminded of his youth, and apologised to the point of me feeling terribly apologetic for remembering it. I guess that school kid violence should not be assigned any more depth than a spur of the moment hormonal transgression. So, in an attempt to find something to write about for the contest, I'm off to make enemies. Hurrah! ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| Ooh, my nerves are shot. I'm not sure I can continue the non-smoking thing much longer. I'm cracking up. I've roared like a wounded animal today, taking innocent bystanders out with the practiced ease of consciousness that only comes from being completely off my head on oxygen. Damn it. I read somewhere (or was it watched? ) that some people are not right without drugs; their normal mental make-up is sur-par, and, in order to experience the typical version of 'normal' enjoyed by many, they have to consume drugs. Maybe that's me. Maybe, my brain's flow of neurons and whatnots are too fast anyway, and the cigarettes have been cutting off the oxygen supply to leave me in a state of typical normality, relatively speaking. Only, now that there is so much oxygen getting through the synapses, my brain is freaking out and teetering on overload. I haven't felt this hyper since they changed the Smarities recipe, and I found strong Italian coffee that I could buy over the counter.Hope it slows. I can't seem to stop writing, cooking, snapping at innocents, driving like a complete bovine (Can you imagine the observational skills of one of those behind the wheel? Look at where their eyes are, for a start. Talk about blind spots.), and generally being too full of information. I could have throttled Acme Jnr when she started filling my noggin with yet more random facts. Did you know: A viking hid in a toilet and impaled Edmund II up the arse with his spear back in 1016?Actually, yes, I did, but what got my mind going about that was Jnr's response to the crime: "I feel awfully sorry for the murderer; it must have stunk down there, and then to look your enemy in the shitter? Poor, poor, assassin." Crap. She's becoming her mother. I do hope that non-British readers don't think that all that British folk do all day is go around making humourous and odd observations about historical events. We watch soccer, too, yer know. If you're British, and have spent the night out at your local history society's meeting, you may want to look away now, as I'm about to reveal a bit of a spoiler for the Holland v England game: DRAW or, THERE WAS NO POINT IN WATCHING IT, BECAUSE TECHNICALLY NO ONE WON AND NO ONE LOST. *sigh* Going to grab a shower and head to bed (nearly midnight here). I used to check underneath the toilet seat for Jaws, and then black widow spiders. Tonight I shall be checking for reincarnated recidivist Vikings out to get my posterior. I do hope my head stops wallowing in this sea of daft thoughts, and that my paranoid delusions give way to less surreal side-effects. I do hope that Vikings aren't out to get me. http://www.royal.gov.uk/HistoryoftheMonarchy/KingsandQueensofEngland/TheAnglo-Sa... |
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