Showing posts with label Humour. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Humour. Show all posts

Saturday, June 24, 2017

American (F)arts

Can I complain about something? I know some people will think I'm mad. I don't particularly care. Also, I am going to be graphic, disgusting, and fixated on the Freudian anal stage. Be warned.

Have you ever had a friend who offered to get you on a date with someone they know? Naturally, you're reluctant, so they show you a photo of that person, and he or she is drop-dead gorgeous. And hey, from what your friend says, you have similar interests! So you give your consent and your friend arranges a date. The suspense is killing you, you count the days backwards, you are happy. Finally the day of your dream date comes, they arrive at the restaurant and they look just like their photo. You can't believe how lucky you are. You sit down, giddy with anticipation, and timidly engage in conversation. For the first few minutes it goes remarkably well. Then as you open the menu to order and glance at your dream date, you notice with pure horror that they are digging inside their nose. You stare because you can't believe you are seeing that. You are still staring while they pull out a ginormous booger, give it a perfunctory once-over and eat it.

I've just described my relationship with American Gods.

I read the book years ago. It's not my favourite from Gaiman's arsenal, but Gaiman is my favourite writer, so naturally I was very excited American Gods would become a TV series. I had also watched and loved two seasons of Hannibal, so Fuller seemed a good choice. Alas.

Before AG started, I made an attempt to watch the 3rd season of Hannibal. I managed to watch two episodes. They were painfully slow, boring, and pointlessly gross. Bodies forming out of blood, becoming blood, Will wandering around aimlessly while being up to his eyeballs on hard drugs, blah de blah. I may try to finish the season... or not.

Then American Gods started. And in the first minutes of the first episode I saw a chopped arm flying in the air. And I shuddered, because this is not Gaiman's style, and hoped I was wrong. 

But I was right.

To do the series justice, there are some brilliant scenes, and the actors are doing their best. But the rest of it is that dream date of yours eating boogers while you watch in fascinated horror.

"Artistic" slow mo with flies and candles, lots of sex, pointless mostly, bodies forming out of some liquid dark material and being re-absorbed... Wait, am I watching the 3rd season of Hannibal again? 
-No you dummy, that's American Gods. 
-Oh, silly me. But why is it so slow?
-They use slow mo to make every episode last for three hours, so that you think you got more time for the same money. It's a marketing trick. You wouldn't understand.
-You are right. I don't understand.

-Oh, these two guys are having sex... That's sweet. But why are they suddenly depicted in the desert and they change colour, as if they are the negatives of a photo?
-It's esthetics. You wouldn't understand.
-But...
-Stop asking questions. It's a Fuller/Gaiman show. That alone should have made you fall on your knees and pray. Why aren't you impressed?
-Because it doesn't make sense. It's like Galadriel turning black in LOTR... But she had the One Ring.
-Shut up and let me watch the show.
-Okay.

Let's talk about women... All the attractive female characters we've come across so far are unavailable virgins, neurotic wrecks, or man-devouring insane bitches who use everyone around them on a whim and destroy their lives. Poor, poor Laura Moon. In the book you are not the despicable, ego-centered bipolar bimbo of the series. It takes effort to make a female character so loathsome, but they spared no effort. And they succeeded spectacularly. If she was on fire, I'd douche her with gasoline to put her out. Of her misery, I mean.

The esthetics of the book are fucked six ways to Sunday. The book may be slow at parts, but it captures perfectly the atmosphere of a growing storm. It lets the reader steal momentary glimpses of those dangerous beings and situations looming at the edge of one's perception, at the edge of normal and every-day. Those glimpses come to slowly replace the normal until they are Shadow's every day. But it is subtle, smart, delicate. And then you have the series, which replaces the melancholy and restlessness with grunge, gore, dirt, filth, kitsch and blood. It sounds good... if we're talking about The Walking Dead. Or maybe the streets of a large medieval city where sheep, cows and beggars with leprosy are happily stepping on their own shit next to a marriage taking place. Everyone is fondling everyone else's tit and other parts of interest with fingers covered in sour wine and grease, someone is vomiting in their plate, and the rest are hailing the groom and the bride. But is this the book I read, even remotely? No fucking way. 

The music of AG can be divided in two categories. The songs are incredibly bland. The creators of the show seemed to have picked the top 40 of pointless songs which cause mild irritation while they are being played, and get immediately erased from one's memory as soon as they stop. The rest of the soundtrack is a dream sonnet written by a renown proctologist. Every time something creepy/otherworldly happens, the music is literally from another world. Imagine three or four people with various wind instruments inserted in their anus. One has a saxophone, another a trumpet, one has a flute, and so on. Imagine whatever you like. These poor people are tied up and gagged and some psychos are torturing them. One of the psycho torturers repeatedly inserts a needle in the flesh of the guy with the saxophone in his butt. He can't scream, can't move or fight, hence those bleating, desperate little noises coming out of his other end. Something's gotta give. On the other side of the room, another psycho torturer is stepping on the gout of the person who has the trumpet in his butt, steadily increasing pressure. And so you get that deep, insistent, ominous wail that shudders, ululates and changes in tone. It really is a thing of beauty, if you have a poster with Tomás de Torquemada on your bedroom wall. And you masturbate to it morning and night.

Honestly, I know I am going to be part of the minority who hates the show, and I can understand why someone may be impressed by it. But I don't care. This show sucks. It sucks so much that it could easily have been the vacuum cleaner the Almighty used on the Sixth Day, to clean the mess before He rested. If you ask me, He's still asleep, and the creators of American Gods stole the bleeding thing and turned it into a TV show. That's how much it sucks.

Rant over. Watch the Handmaid's Tale. It's amazing. 
Off to bed.

PS: If anyone, absolutely anyone, dares say that the reason I don't like the series is that I can't take it, I'd like to inform them that horror is my favourite genre. Also, if they think I dislike it because I am a prude, I'll make them a part of that anal quartet I described above, and have demons gang-rape their mouths while I record the musical achievements of their butt for the next season of the show. I may even become rich, who knows? So don't even think about it.

Tuesday, May 23, 2017

Busy, broke, chubby and strangely pleased.

Chris and Seth, founding members of Septicflesh (and their cute as a button daemon-familiar).
I've been trying to tie loose ends for the past two weeks. There are countless little chores I've been avoiding like the devil avoids incense (as the Greek saying goes), but they need to be done. So lately I've been tackling them. They aren't important, but completing them offers me a strange sense of accomplishment. They are boring and unpleasant and necessary, so every single one that gets out of the way is one boring task less. I'm mightily impressed with myself.

On the good news' side, I plan to do an interview with the extreme metal band Septicflesh. They are Greek, they are awesome, and I've been a fan for many years. If you aren't familiar with them and you love symphonic death metal, check them out. They are excellent and constantly evolving. I hope they'll agree to an interview. My blog isn't music-related; it exists to document my obsessions so that my psychiatrist can have a better clinical picture er... so that I can write about my interests. Yes, of course. I have already started sacrificing pizzas and ice-creams to darker entities (it's plenty dark inside my stomach, believe me) to make sure I land that interview. If I don't, I'll just increase the number of sacrifices, fart despondently and wallow in disappointment.

Psst. Let me tell you a secret. I hate all those metal bands. Well, 'hate' might be too strong a word. Almost without exception, members of those bands have longer hair than mine and about 2.345 more tattoos than I do. I am jealous AF. That without referring to the fact men with long hair and tattoos accidentally press a special button inside my brain. I start secreting ginormous amounts of saliva while staring at them, one eye rapidly blinking, drool running down my chin, moonstruck smile splitting my face in two. I'm usually fantasising that I have then in my bed in full metalhead gear and I comb their hair. Oooh what pretty hair you have. Oooh let me comb it for you. Show me your tattoos. Oooh you bad boy you, all dressed in black and leather. And so on. Of course, any sane person that sees me during that phase is certain I am having a stroke combined with a psychotic episode, and slowly tiptoes out of my field of vision. I don't even realise, too busy combing imaginary hair. *Sigh* My chances of capturing one of those specimens to enact that bedroom scene are slim to none, especially bearing in mind two facts: 1) the unreasonable number of cats on my bed 2) my super audacious chubby tummy, blowing raspberry to possible suitors from under my (carefully selected) loose t-shirts. But one can dream, right?


Quiz: cats on my bed. How many can you count? Plus foot porn.
In other news, I am broke as FCUK. Therefore I have started selling things I don't need. Right now I have three stamp albums listed on Ebay, official products, sold out years ago and completely impossible to find under normal circumstances. If you want, please take a look. They are very reasonably priced and I'd love to re-home them and use the money to buy more urgent things.

Items I sell on Ebay are here.

I'll keep you updated on the interview. Now go out and be as naughty and impudent as my round tummy.

Sunday, December 11, 2016

Two cats on one lap

"What do you mean you want to check your Facebook? Surely you can fit us both on your lap while typing on the keyboard!"


Of course, they are not happy that they are BOTH on me, because each would rather have exclusive use of my lap/ boobs. So they are giving each other dirty looks.


  Aaaand there is another one on my bed waiting for her turn.


Life isn't boring around here, not ever. 

 (Those two gray bumps are my boobs.)

Thursday, October 13, 2016

The end of times is nigh!

I am dating. It's probably a sign of the end of the world. Take cover, keep your nuclear bunker stocked, wear clean underwear and don't talk to strangers with more than two eyes. If it starts raining frogs and the such, you'll be ahead of the game. :-P

Thursday, September 01, 2016

Insomnia conspirators

Things that can and will keep me awake at night, usually occurring in a row, and just as I am about to fall asleep.

Outside factors:
  • Crying baby
  • Mosquito(es)
  • Cat fight
  • Dog barking
  • Car alarm
  • Passing drunks screaming their heads off/ singing
  • Motorbikes screeching
  • Loud noises due to wind
  • A gig at the square close to my house
  • My cats throwing down a mountain of metallic objects like pots and pans
  •  Idiotic companies calling early in the morning/ SMSing in the middle of the night 
  • Cat in the room scratching on the door to be let out
  • Sheet wrinkle at exactly the wrong place (strategically placed for maximum discomfort)
  • An exceptional book (but that kind of wakefulness is voluntary)
Factors related to me
  • Coughing because of my dust allergy 
  • Needing to pee (usually five times in a row)
  • Foot twitching violently (for some reason I don't understand, my foot has dance aspirations, especially in the a.m.)
  • Being horny
  • Sudden stomachache
  • Stress over having to wake up early/ run errands
  • Just because 
Possible solutions that take care of all the factors, except for book reading: BOMB THE PLANET AND SLEEP FOREVER AND EVER IN PERFECT PEACE...

Friday, July 08, 2016

Acquire superpowers! Discover amazing music! Get your balls busted with useless advice!


There is only one superpower in this world, and it is not what you think. It is not flying, reading minds or knowing which stocks to buy. It's something simple: the ability to change. I've said that countless times in the past (my friends are probably sick of hearing it), and I'm saying it again now. If you can change, then you've got a superpower few others possess. People don't change; only falling in love and expecting to die can make them behave differently. If you can change without the help of these two situations, then you've got a near-magical ability. There is nothing you can't do, nothing you can't achieve.

I'm tired and dispirited. I don't want to get off the chair. My butt is conveniently grafted on it, and the inside of my head feels full of pickled seaweed. This is why I'll get off the chair, go upstairs to the rooftop and exercise. I need to change my priorities if I want to see a positive result and no-one else can do it for me. I can't become the living impersonation of the protagonist of Assassin't Creed, but I can certainly make my episcopal tummy diminish. By "episcopal" I mean the kind of tummy that rosy-cheeked fat heads of church use it to rest their entwined fingers while they give advice. Well, here's my advice. Change your priorities. Put yourself and your own well-being first. If you can do that... you're well on your way, and you have my deepest respect. If not, well, give it a try just to see what happens. Or not. I am not here to change you.

For the musical part, I am honoured to know personally Cally, the exceptional singer of both videos. She has a voice than can only be characterised as haunting. If you like them (and only being deaf can be a justifiable reason you don't!) then go and like their Facebook page, subscribe to their Channel, and share their videos. If you don't do that, I shall call upon my episcopal tummy to smother you. It will not be pretty. 



Sunday, February 14, 2016

Valentine special: Ikea cupboards and Greek extreme metal bands


As a general observation, I avoid Greek art like the plague. I am not referring to ancient Greek art or the kick-ass Greek poets we were lucky to have. I avoid reading modern Greek writers, watching Greek films and listening to Greek music. Then again, there is a Greek band called Septicflesh that I love to bits. If you enjoy the darker aesthetic and symphonic death metal, check this awesome video. It's directed by Jon Simvonis, a friend of mine. If you like your visual treats a little fucked up and still wiggling/ crawling 'fresh', you'll find this right up your alley. If not, don't watch it. It will most likely put you off your food, and maybe your grandparents as well.

(If you enjoyed the video, you can see more of my friend's work at his site here, or subscribe to his youtube channel, and you can be real darlings and like his Facebook page.)

Other than that, it's Valentine's day tomorrow. I am busy at work. Have you noticed there are days someone leaves the doors of the asylums open and the inmates are left to their own devices, to roam the earth and make the rest of the population tear their hair? I got several escapees already. They came disguised as customers. One in particular was so weird and hopelessly idiotic I wanted to ask her if she found her boyfriend before or after the lobotomy. Being a polite seller, I kept my mouth shut and my opinions to myself. Blogging doesn't count. 

Besides that, I want to refer to the fact lately I've entered a weird phase and keep ogling men like Chris Hemsworth (Thor), Chris Evans (Captain America) and Benedict Cumberbatch (in his role as Khan). Men who seem to belong to an Ikea catalogue, cupboard section. If you ask me why, I have no plausible explanation. I can only attribute it to my present age. My ovaries are probably singing the Lament of Unfertilised Eggs, and lust after man meat (=good genes for possible children, that by the way, I don't want to have). Well I never. Ever since I remember myself, I liked my men feminine. Now I stare at buffed up studs with backs like trees and thunder thighs of doom and grin absentmindedly, in an idiotic manner. Slightly disturbing, but to hell with it. I have bigger problems than my changed taste in men. Besides, the possibility of me finding such a guy is only marginally bigger than me having a relationship with the protagonist from Assassin's Creed: Unity, so I let my ovaries lament. Hey, I'm not even sure I do want such a guy as a possible suitor, OK? So I ignore this new information. Never mind the fact I lose the plot and walk into doors when a big guy near me flexes his biceps. It's under control, I swear.

Saturday, January 16, 2016

Job silliness



I have a calculator at my job. It has a button that reads 'MU'. I have no idea what that means or what it does, so my imagination rushed in, trying to offer me possible explanations.

1) The lost continent of Mu. That's where it's been hiding all this time. If I keep looking, I'll probably discover Atlantis's hiding place too.
2) As soon as you press it, it sprinkles you with milk. Hopefully cow milk.
3) If you press it, someone in your environment says "haha" because that's what follows "mu". Especially if you are a cartoon villain.
4) Mulan. She appears and kicks your ass. For no reason. She just does.
5) M(ind) U(nhinged). You press it, you go mad. If you were mad to begin with, you are teleported against your will to the aforesaid continent of Mu. You know. Meet and greet the cows. Exciting stuff. Or worse, you come back to your senses while stranded on this planet. Poor motherfucker. I hope you go mad soon, it will be a relief. :P
6) You become a cow. If you already were one (and I don't mean bovine) you get polka dots everywhere. I like polka dots. Good luck getting laid.
7) I am not working right now. I ought to be sleeping, and I'm writing blog entries instead. So tomorrow I will press that button and see what happens. If I stop updating this blog, please send help. If I upload only cow photos, don't be alarmed, they are selfies and I am looking for a boyfriend.

Monday, December 15, 2014

Learning Excel online

Perfect example of an elven king tailor-made for the purpose I describe below: Thranduil from the Hobbit.
It mostly hurts after a while. It feels like someone is repeatedly rubbing half onions on my back. I want to do something else than clicking on boxes, calculating sums and dragging ranges. Like a good girl, I suck it up and sigh. And dream of elven kings with long blond hair, who are so snobbish even dust avoids settling on them, fearing their disapproval. As a way to blow off steam, I dream that I am chasing the aforesaid king on horseback. In a field full of brambles. And he is terrified, on foot and wearing absolutely nothing. And I am holding a flogging stick and hit him for extra encouragement. There's probably a hapless human in there too, and I am sure he or she is the creator of Excel. They are an easy target; sooner or later they will collapse inside a bramble bush, and I'll leave them to find the way out on their own. So the elven king runs for dear life, his testicles dangling about like a meaty pendulum, his penis making a flapping sound against his thighs, his wide back golden pink in colour and full of crisscrossing red welts, his legs covered in scratches, his firm, muscular butt poetry in motion, and I yell like a banshee from the back of my horse. Run, motherfucker, run! Run because when I catch you I'll have a distinguished elven aristocrat for supper and guess what, you'll be the main course! 

If I keep going, I am pretty certain eventually he will stumble and fall. I hope he lands face first on a pile of horse or bear shit. And rest assured I'll jump off the horse and step on his head to make it sink deeper in it.
(What do you mean this is just too cruel? It's a mating ritual. You wouldn't understand. The way these fuckers pose and their behaviour manages to tickle all the wrong anatomical bits of me, unfortunately together with the right ones.) 

The reason my basic hero in that other story (/book/ trilogy/ saga) is a dark elf, is that they usually are stronger, faster, and more vicious than any pure-blooded, arrogant, belonging to a superior race and blessed by the gods elf. And they have absolutely no qualms about punching those arrogant dickbags in the face and bloodying their perfect noses. In fact there's nothing they, or their maker, would enjoy more than that. So I cackle with glee and go back to learning Excel. Maybe one day I'll write that story. Maybe not. Let me finish with what I'm halfway through first, and we'll see about that.

Here is the site I am using to learn Excel, if you feel like torturing yourselves:
And here are some more Thranduil photos in case you want to have a better look. ;)







Tuesday, December 09, 2014

A sincere cover letter



I am trying to write a cover letter to include with my CV. It's one of the most boring activities someone can engage in, with advanced accounting and being whipped to build an Egyptian pyramid being marginally worse. I am tempted to write a sincere cover letter praising all my unique and amazing abilities, like being able to discover all the petting spots that turn cats into goo, writing good porn with just about any gender and species involved, regularly producing farts of outstanding potency and duration, and being able to make successful divination with a thesaurus. The more I struggle with inane templates of cover letters and all the pompous statements they contain, the more facial ticks I develop. So here is a cover letter guaranteed to land you the dream job you were always looking for, or a place in jail and one hell of a reputation.

Dear Sir/ Madam,

I am writing to apply for the position of Exalted Asslicker in your prestigious company of nitwits and attention whores.

I am a unique and highly resourceful individual, managing to stay out of jail although I can't pay any of my bills due to the current political situation. I am a fast learner, competent in bullshitting or threatening to have it my way, and adaptable to any situation, including zombie apocalypse. In my last job we were adequately trained in shooting the delivery boy and one of the accountants if they were late. I can cope with a vast range of administrative tasks while balancing a waffle with ice-cream on my left ear and juggling with living piranha. I am fully capable of prioritizing my workload, putting porn and masturbation on top and leaving office work for the clerk I am blackmailing with photos of his current affair. I am motivated by cocaine and fueled by speed, have a gangster attitude and love learning new skills, like ritualistic sacrifice, taxidermy and shibari (Japanese bondage). My communication skills are excellent; everyone does as I say or find themselves swimming in the nearest large body of water wearing cement shoes. I can fulfill a variety of roles due to my numerous interpersonal skills. I prefer Dominatrix, but I also double as a bodyguard and negotiations expert, because my plasma cannon is way bigger than yours.

I believe that every problem is unique and needs to be handled as such, applying both past experience and new ideas to tackle it successfully. I am in constant contact with hit men of different nationalities and most mafia organizations. I am also discreet with personal information and can handle a range of possible situations, from blackmail to murder.

I am well versed in the use of the written word in a variety of subjects and occasions, from ransom notes to political manifestos. I am fully capable of adapting to given guidelines and improvising according to circumstance and need, moderately good at wording contract loopholes and fully proficient in forging. I am also highly skilled in planning, customer communication, and handling all the different tasks and challenges of a busy office environment, such as hidden landmines, possessed managers and drug addicted presidents. I am keen on meeting with new challenges and expanding my professional horizons with a reputable company like yours. I believe that I will prove myself to be a valuable asset to your team, or I will make sure there isn't a hole deep enough to save yourselves from my wrath if you don't hire me. 

In my free time I am an astrophysicist and a neurosurgeon. I love recreational drugs and occasionally run the gatherings of the local Freemasonry organisation, including minute taking of their plans to take over the world with the assistance of Pinky and the Brain. 

I’m looking forward to learning more about this position and what it entails. I would greatly appreciate the opportunity of speaking with you at your earliest convenience, via e-mail or phone. Thank you for your time and consideration. And psssst, nudge nudge. If you hire me, the girls for stress alleviation and the office cleaners are on me.

Sincerely and/or not bothering much,

Elizabeth Armpit.


Thursday, April 24, 2014

Burning down the Heavens




Life is degrees of hard and absurd. Maybe it’s the planets. I can rephrase a famous poet’s last words and say I had a lover’s quarrel with God, not the world. 

These aren’t good days. These are days to stay indoors and avoid all electrical appliances. Psst. Wear a helmet too, just to be sure.

Life is also degrees of unfair, and the only actual source of solace and comfort are friends. You can pray all you want, light all the candles that you want, but there will be no answer. Or maybe I am persona non-grata, and the rest of you are fine with the Almighty Asshole, so don’t listen to me. Pray on. See if He gives a fuck.

I scratch my head as I am considering ways of burning down the heavens. So far I’ve disregarded three plans and I am looking for possible flaws in a fourth.

I am also considering having more tattoos and blowing my brains out, but those are just silly thoughts, the exasperation of the slave that has been a punching bag, a toilet girl, and ashtray and a mule for her entire life. Oh, did I mention free therapist/ healer as well? Write that down under everything else. Now look at the title, it has my name, my photo, and the 'mysterious' inscription ‘idiot-sucker-moron’ next to it. In impressive big red letters. With the additional information/clarification “desperate to please” noted just under that. What a CV.

I valiantly offer my middle finger and piss on the shadow of every power hungry pantheon of the planet. I am so sick of you, you fucking pushers, pimps and bullies of human despair. I shit on you. I defy you. I deny you. I’ll make you pay, Spider Jerusalem style. I swear I will, even if it takes away everything I have. I haven’t got much left to begin with, since you took it all away. Sanity isn’t compatible with the kind of life I am left with.

I refuse to live here. I want to pack my stuff and leave, go away to some plane that isn’t governed by deities with a small dick and a big opinion on themselves and their equally small-minded Renfield-like followers. Those sad idiots do the dirty work for free, they are so narrow-minded and easy to control that they create a living hell in a place that was supposed to be neutral ground aspiring to heaven. And I see these humans everywhere. Everywhere. They are the threshold keepers, always knowing better and deciding whether you are to be allowed in the ‘elite’ or not. They are the priests, or the defenders of normality in various positions, telling you what is normal and what isn’t natural and God looks down upon you and will burn you for it. They are politicians, licking the asses of each other and the asses of multinational corporations and banks and stepping on the backs of everyone else. They are even the rude person who steals your place in a queue, the neighbour that minds your business instead of theirs, the parent who raised you to be unhappy for the rest of your life.

By the curses of my grandmother, I fart in their weddings and shit on their properly mowed grass. They can go suck my fuck.

I want an exploding vagina. I want big fucking guns and ammunition. I want lethal boobs. I want to rid humanity of a few dozen deities who drink the blood of the innocents and revel in our pain and entrapment. I want to squash these bloated leeches who are feasting on our dreams, our happiness and our good fortune. I want to stomp and dance on their corpses. I want to find a way to bring down the veil and release the planet of this tyranny. First and foremost I want to release myself from their tyranny. 

They say if you want something, really want something, you might get it. I won’t leave this to chance. I'll work towards it. We’ll see. You’ll see. You have been warned.

Tuesday, July 23, 2013

It's amazing.



If my life was a comic, there would be no background in the panels. Every single frame would be filled to the brim with brain flotsam and jetsam and random whatnots. That's what I do. I manage to squeeze in humble everyday life insane amounts of tasks in order to avoid thinking. Thinking makes me depressed and depressed is not good. 


I think it's time to start threatening deities again. I am good at it. The deities can testify it. If something happens to me you should all know that the usual suspects are Jehova, Raphael and some asslicks of similar magnitude. Now that I said "asslicks", I just remembered popular Supernatural (the series) swearwords. Bobby uses "eejits" but the medal goes to angel Castiel for his ingenious "assbutt". A man after my heart, Castiel. I love you for managing to fit the word ass twice in one swearword. Four ass-cheeks in one go. And there's always Alistair, a demon, referring to angels as, "you righteous dicks!" Oh indeed. With exceptions, of course.


I got my short stories back, corrected by an editor. I opened one of them, saw countless red lines. Closed the document again and went away to clip my nails. The next day I opened another. Another red sea there. I closed it and went to feed the geese. (I have no geese but I am sure you know what I mean.) It was the same with essays in my university years. I would go home, clean everything, re-arrange furniture, fold all my clothes in the closets (because if your closet is in disarray, you obviously cannot write an essay. It's self-explanatory. Closets are vital to essay writing) and then I'd go grocery shopping. In the supermarket, I would put goods back on their right place on the shelves, making exasperated remarks on the irresponsibility of people. When I went back home, I'd spend copious amounts of time re-arranging everything on my desk. Doing the laundry. Taking a shower. Anything to delay writing the damn essay. I'd enlist for an astronaut if it was possible. Same with the short stories now. I only started going through them after a month and a half. And now, instead of checking them I write in my blog. Procrastinating? No way!



I go now. I need to feed the bears. The polar bears. :) See you later.

Monday, April 22, 2013

Lower back not functioning = hours of fun

Which is exactly what's happening right now. My lower back gave up on me. Funny thing being, I did nothing to provoke it. But since I have a medical history of damage and pain there I just shrugged and accepted my fate. It's not like I can get hold of the pain and scribble on the envelope 'Unknown receiver. Return to sender', then put it back in the post box and get rid of it. 

Unless this has happened to you personally, you cannot imagine what it's  like to have it. From a functioning human you are transformed to a person with special needs. You cannot move your legs normally. You cannot use the bathroom because lowering yourself on the toilet is a very long and delicate process. You can't even get up from bed. You have to try and find a combination of using your arms, legs and body in a way that doesn't hurt.

I have spent the entire day alternatively giggling and crying out. I have a very good relationship with insects and animals, so I feel like a tortoise or a beetle that found itself flat on its back and cannot turn around. I smell that intense odour of ointments and patches, something like camphor and menthol and something else. Unsurprisingly, all that comes to mind concerning my present sexual appeal is a combination of a cupboard and an invalid. I have three patches on my lower back one after the other in parade. I am thinking about arranging them in a triangle next time, to imitate the Bermuda triangle and hopefully make the pain vanish. I wear a special medical belt, walk with a limp and giggle non-stop as I remember Igor from Frankenstein Junior saying "walk this way". I can easily be confused with someone who was fucked to her near death last night. Yes, I could be the poster girl for intense sexual activity at advanced age. Picking up or carrying weight is a joke, like trying to pick up a safe using chopsticks. Weight increases pain without warning and I drop things on the floor. Picking them up is another joke.

Generally speaking, I wait patiently for the pain to subside and go away. I can't do much about it. I wish I could  be in bed right now, but it's impossible. So I cringe my teeth, work and giggle. Don't try this at home kids. Really, don't. I pity all those people who have this as a chronic condition. :(