Tootie the Zombie Brain

First off, I would like you all to know that I am typing all of this with an Irish accent. It’s just one of those days.

The other day was another one of those days. Of the zombie brain variety, not the Irish accent kind. These are the days when the sane, logical part of my brain (Bergerac) goes off somewhere, leaving the not so sane, completely illogical part of my brain (Tootie) behind the wheel, which in turn brings on the condition I call Zombie Brain.

For the most part, my chromosomes have combined beautifully (hey, if I don’t toot my own horn, who’s gonna do it for me, eh?), but Zombie Brain will be the end of me one day.

There I was, in the kitchen, fixing myself a cup of coffee. At least that’s what I would have done, had I had enough brain activity in my head to put coffee in the machine. I was watching the clear liquid fill in the pot, all the while feeling like something was a bit off. I poured it into my cup. I added sweetener, cream and stirred it with a little teaspoon. I didn’t notice my mistake until after I’d taken the first sip…

I then decided to get some work done on my nemesis: The Thesis. I turned my computer on and then Tootie decided to just switch all the systems off. It was the mother of all space-outs. Suddenly an hour had passed and I swear I had done nothing but stare into space.

Maybe I should try wearing an ice bag on my head while I work, or something.

Why I may set myself on fire just for the hell of it

Those of you who have been paying attention know that I am in the final stages of mumbling obscenities at my thesis. Or as some people call it; finishing it.

Oh, I do expect you all to pay attention, by the way. There will be a pop quiz eventually.

Aanyways…

I’m working on my very last (and millionth) draft. At this point I’m so sick of the damn thing the idea of working on it makes me want to set myself on fire and run around screaming like a banshee. I blame IT for me being completely hooked on every ridiculous facebook application there is. Clearly I have to take some steps to maximise my work efficiency. So I decided to clean up my desk. As you can see from the picture below, it’s going SWIMMINGLY.

Notice that evil glow eminating from my computer screen? That, ladies and gentlemen, is The Thesis. See what I mean?

The flailing of the cellphone

I have a new cellphone. It’s white and red and oh so purdy. It’s my firstest ever walkman phone. I remember my first walkman. It was pink and not a phone at all. I listened to Alice Cooper on it. The other kids liked Bonnie Tyler and A-ha. They thought I was weird, even though I listened to A-ah too. I even had a George Michael poster from his funky-sunglasses-and-leather-jacket period on my wall and every now and then I would give it a little kiss. That was before my gaydar kicked in. Then again, who had proper gaydar in the 80s, anyways?

But I digress.

There is a certain chance that I may have been weird for other reasons, of course. I suppose I might still be slightly tinged with weirdness. But normalcy is so…boring. Who notices normal people, really?

What was I talking about?

Oh, right. My new phone. I had to stuff it full of music right away, of course, and test it. There’s a little, shiny button on the side of it and music starts playing when you push it. Then, if I hold the shiny in and move the phone upwards through the air, the volume gets louder. If I move it downwards, it gets lower. If I move it to the right, it plays the next track and if I move it to the left, it plays the previous track.

How’s that for fancy-pants?

The downside is that it doesn’t really respond well to subtle movements. These days, for instance, I can be seen waiting for the bus while flailing my phone like a madwoman. But like I said: nobody notices normal people.

Have a little something from my pink walkman days:

30 going on 13

Those of you who have been paying attention, may have discovered that I recently moved in with my mums (lesbians) since I’m wrapping up the last parts of my thesis (gaaah!) and have yet to find a job (moneymoneymoney).

Tonight I watched “13 going on 30,” which is a rather silly movie about a 13 year old girl who suddenly wakes up one morning to find that she’s been turned into a 30 year old woman. I’m doing that in reverse. One day I’m living the grown-up life in my own place, the next day I wake up here and it’s like I’ve reverted back to my teens. Cause your parents will never, ever stop parenting you, see. It doesn’t matter if you’re 80 and they’re 110, bedridden and can’t speak – they’ll still use handsignals to tell you that you’re not eating enough and that you should put on a jacket if you’re going outside.

One freakish fact of science or physics, or whatever, is that women who live together adopt the same cycle. If you’re sitting there, wondering what I just said, you should have paid more attention in health class, you lazy bum. Anyways, my mum had a hysterectomy ages ago, so she’s out of the running, but my step-mum turned to me the other day and said: “are we having our period soon?”

I want a job.

Now listen to the pretty song:

http://www.stumbleaudio.com/share/mevmusic/12

The day digression got the better of me

As I have mentioned countless times, Pooch has a squeaky toy named Pigface and it is the love of her life. That and tinfoil. And me, of course, but Pooch’s feelings towards me go more towards total awe, really. “Oooh, you make food appear out of the kitchen wall! You are a GOD!”

In fact, Pooch’s number one purpose in life is to follow me around in the hope that I’ll make food appear out of something-or-other.

But I digress.

Unfortunately Pigface went into a box somewhere during the moving process and hasn’t been seen since. Fortunately this doesn’t seem to bring Pooch’s mood down as much as I had feared. She now loves Burger.

Actually, its called Urger. I discovered that if I asked her to fetch Burger, all I could get out was “B..” and she’d be off searching for her ball. Pooch is one of those gals who get by on her looks.

Uhm...

I have a confession to make.

I have completely forgotten where I was going with this post. Here, watch this (and notice how the singy dude keeps poking himself in the privates):

Hell, yeah!

Actually, I don't like wine. Trying to get me to drink wine, would probably just piss me off more. So yeah, you're all screwed.

The great divide

All my life I have believed strongly in that line between exercise and masochism that should not be crossed by yours truly, under any circumstances. Despite this belief, I have a dark past as an exercise nut. At my worst, I would work out two hours a day, every day, seven days a week and I spent more time contemplating protein sources than I care to think about.

But I got better. Or maybe I just got lazy. Yeah, I think that’s probably it. Hiking with Pooch doesn’t count as exercise. I don’t know why, but it doesn’t.

So then the step-mum suggests that we start going to the gym together. Circuit training. It started regularly enough, with work-outs a couple of times a week followed by ice cream. So far so good.

I suppose I should also mention that this gym is…odd. They periodically like to play insane music like YMCA and Bee Gees. There are different categories of people in my gym.

First, there are the rich, fat people. They will come in with their friends, STAND on the treadmill and chatter for a bit before they say “oh, my legs are so tired” and move on to the next thing, and so on and so forth. After an hour of this, they will grab their MOSS water bottles, jump into their sports cars and no doubt feel very good about themselves for having spent a whole hour working out.

Second, there are the regular people. The sane ones that go 2-3 times a week and put in a moderate effort and then go out and buy an ice cream afterwards, or something.

The third type is the gym bunny. They’re the slim, perfectly toned people who look like they’ve never eaten a snack in their lifes, and they are always there, no matter what time of the day you decide to stop by. Most likely, they were all built in secret, underground laboratories. Some of them are models, all of them are annoying.

The gym bunnies never speak to anyone other than other gym bunnies. The other two categories are just slightly smelly air to them. Personally, I’ve been planted firmly in the regular people group. Then about three weeks ago, I started to notice a…shift. Slowly but surely I began to enjoy the process of using the gym equipment to inflict pain upon myself. I suffered and I liked it. And like any drug, you eventually need to move on to bigger doses and then even bigger ones.

So there I was the other day, buring through the exercise machines at breakneck speeds. Then a gym bunny enters, looks around with empty gym bunny eyes at all the free machines, before getting on the one right next to me. At first I thought that perhaps she simply didn’t notice me there, seeing how I’m a category two dose of slightly smelly air. The thought had no sooner formed in my brain, before the gym bunny made eye contact, smiled and said “hello” and drifted into whatever thought-dimension gym bunnies go to while they’re working out.

Mommy, I’m scared…