The Voice of Obligation meets Mumbles

The other day I woke up at 5:30 am. I don’t know why. If you ask me, there’s no good reason for anyone to have practical knowledge of 5:30 am unless your house is on fire. Really, I would have been quite content just knowing that it existed out there somewhere between 5 and 6.

What annoyed me the most about my very rude awakening, was that I had to get up half an hour later to get ready for class, and that I’d only really fallen asleep around two. I briefly considered skipping my class. I have been ignoring that particular class for a whole month, and lightning still hasn’t struck me yet. But my sense of obligation (which I like to refer to as temporary insanity) insisted that I would have to turn up at least once.

So I did. And as soon as the professor walked into the room, that nagging little feeling that I made a mistake started to pick at the back of my brain. He has long, splintered hair, a gigantic sweater, slimpants (SLIMPANTS!!!) and walked with tiny little steps, like those of a little girl, while he stared at something in the middle of the room that only he could see.

He then proceeded to sit on a chair, all the way in the corner, with his hands cluthing his knees and his eyelid pinched shut. He looked like he was in pain. Over the next couple of hours I learned that the I’m-giving-birth-to-an-alien-rectally-look was, in fact, his thinking look and not some evidence of great physical torment. His words all travelled in pairs. He spoke (no, mumbled) two of them, and then had a long pause where the alien seemed to bother him before letting out another two.

I realized that three hours of sleep wasn’t enough for me to keep awake during this ordeal. I looked out of the window and wished that I could tear my head off and throw it out into the parking lot, so that I would no longer have to be in the room. At that moment, Mumbles said “…The one thing you cannot amputate, of course, is your head”. I don’t know what the context was.

In the end, I managed to suffer through two hours, but then I absolutely had to go. I wasn’t the only one. My voice of obligation and my lazybones all agreed that I was never to return to that class ever again.

Don't make me boil your bunny, mister!

A friend of mine has recently decided to take the big step and move in with her boyfriend. He is also a friend of mine, whose apartment I’ve seen on several occasions. I would like to take this moment to say that I admire her guts tremendously. Last week he told someone that he didn’t have any pets, and I thought to myself that I wouldn’t be so sure of that if I was him. But I digress.

My point is that my good friend is now walking (or skipping) along wearing the pink goggles of luuuve. That’s not all, though. She wants us all to put on the pink goggles of luuuve, even me, and in order to help me do this, she bought me a very pink book (almost as pink as the goggles) called Pocket Superflirt (no, not in a dirty way).

The books introduction guarantees that if you would only slip pocket Superflirt in your handag next time you go out, you’ll never have to go home alone again… Because that wouldn’t come off as just a tiny little bit desperate. No, of course not.

I can just picture the tremendous success I’m destined to have when I try to pick up the stud at the bar while consulting my little, pink book with the words SUPERFLIRT written on it in capital letters, almost as big as the book itself. Sure he’ll want to be my boyfriend. He’d be to scared to turn me down, in case I’d start stalking him and boil his pets.

Pic 1 by Bulldog1 for www.Flickr.com

Pic 2 by Today is a good day for www.Flickr.com

The toilet mafia

Last night, I decided to be a very good girl. Or at least a very good student. Lately my study ethics has been lower than most known and unknown bottom-dwellers, but now the decision to learn was made. So I found my hideously yellow compendium and stuck my nose in it with great enthusiasm.

Over the next couple of hours, said enthusiasm plummeted back down to bottom-dweller level. By the beginning of the third hour, my eyelids were starting to sag.

All of a sudden, I was standing in a very long, very grey and very narrow hallway. The walls were lined with stalls containing toilets in various states of disrepair, which was hard to ignore despite of the attempt to distract the users from this fact by hanging pretty pictures in gold frames inside the stalls.

Next to me, was my friend Anne. She hopped up and down and clearly needed to pee. However, she was sceptical of using one of the stalls, because it was a well known fact that they were operated by the mafia, even though there didn’t seem to be any goons around at that particular moment. But when you have to, you have to, and that’s all there is to say on the subject.

So she went…

And then something bad happened… Something really bad… Anne broke one of the picture frames. Next thing I know, we’re running down the endless hallways of stalls, chased by angry members of the mob, while we were throwing the corpse of the frame back and forth between us, saying stuff like:

“You take it”
“I don’t want it”
“Well, you broke it”

Then I woke up with magic marker all over my face. But at least I can pee now without being chased by the mafia.

Overcompensation

Being sick sucks. I was fairly optimistic about my health this year, actually. And although everyone around me were regularly forced to stop what they were doing in order to have coughing fits which left their faces a shiny kinda purplish colour and their eyes bulging, my denial remained strong – this would not happen to me.

But then it did.

I’ve spent my whole weekend being all pathetic, and I now have a tremendous need to compensate for it. However, I’m still sick and, on top of everything, it’s Monday.

Have you ever noticed that tiny little germs have looong names. They’ll come up to you and say stuff like “Hello, my name is Varicellovirus Alphaherpesvirinae Herpesviridae. How are you? Wonderful. That’s about to change, buddy.” They’re obviously trying to compensate for something, but I can’t for the life of me figure out what that would be. A tiny, little germ can can do plenty.

Ambition and complicated hats

Just before new years, I met this psychic woman. She claimed that I had once been a princess in a past life. This mainly tells me two things:

1) I obviously could have been more ambitious.

This woman said that I was a princess in a time when royalty saw common people as little more than animals (yes, you are all far, far below me). Wasn’t it kinda normal for the children of kings and queens to murder their family and take the throne back when they had such modern attitudes? I mean, what kinda lily livered, yellow, dumbass princess was I, anyway? How hard is it to put a dash of poison into a goblet? They did it all the time in those Shakespeare plays. Back then, the usage of poison was seemingly as common as the use of multivitamins are today. Although the results may differ somewhat.

Obviously I was one of those scrawny, pale things with black circles underneath the eyes who coughed a lot and died young (insert eyeroll here).

2) I will now start wearing large, complicated hats and refer to myself as "we".

Ship Ohoy!

Today I am going to make seaman stew. That’s right; I’m doing the cooking thing again. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but at least my belly is nice and full.

I don’t know exactly what a seaman stew is, but I’m guessing that it might be something that you make either out of seamen or while acting like a seaman. One quick glance down at the pier on my way to get the groceries, pretty much ruled out that first option.

So I’ve made plans to eat my stew while pretending to be a pirate. I’ll sit in my chair with my steaming bowl saying things like “Arrrrrr” and “the decks need swabbering, matey”. And my parrot (of course, I don’t have a parrot, so the dog will have to do) will agree with me and say things like “Captain Choochoo is a mean, ol’ pirate” (but since it’s actually the dog, and not a parrot, it’ll probably come out as more of an “arf wuff arfarf”).

And afterwards I’ll walk the plank, just for added effect. Right out of the livingroom window.

I have commited cookery

Yes, I have. This weekend I made dinner, all by myself, actually. I know that I have previously claimed to be the least domestic person in the whole wide world, and if anyone would like to challenge me for the title, then good luck to them – they’ll need it. Still, I do like cooking, though. It’s just that I hate the cleaning up bit so much more than I like the putting food together bit, and therefore I don’t do it very often.

I had a very brief career as a kitchen assistant once upon a time. Then I got paid for cleaning up, so that was okay. I don’t suppose anyone of you would want to pay me for doing my dishes, would you? No? Cheap bastards.

Once we made this particular dish that I’ve heard lots about, but never seen. It’s name would imply that it had something to do with birds, but it didn’t. In fact, it looked suspiciously like dog poops… I remember the chefs used to chase their assistants down and make them taste stuff (I gained close to ten pounds during that period, which made me even easier to chase down, so it’s probably a good thing I quit when I did.).

I can’t say that the dog poop food tasted like dog poop, however, because that would imply something about myself that simply isn’t true.

Thinking in bed

Today is Friday, just in case you hadn’t noticed. It’s also my fourth day of being bored and grumpy. All due to the many joys of womanhood, or at least that one.

I was going to do productive things today. Last night, I made grandiose plans to do the dishes and vacuum and… well, I even thought of dusting. I even wrote a list, with little boxes where I could cross things out as I did them. The first challenges to my wondrous plan reared their ugly heads (big ones, with bad skin) early this morning, when I realised that I’m still un-domestic and a little bit lazy. I was kinda hoping that I’d sleep it off. But I didn’t.

About a hundred years ago, or something along those lines, someone invented a bed that would wake you up in the morning by turning 45 degrees. That way, your feet would hit the floor without any actual bodily effort whatsoever, and you could just go about your business. Maybe I should get one of those? The only problem is that my dog sneaks into my bed in the wee hours of the morning, and that whole tipping-thing might be a bit much for her. She’s a nice pooch, but she’s got mighty big teeth.

It might turn out like that time mum slugged dad in the middle of the night, because she dreamt that he was trying to shove me into the stove.

Off with their heads!

I’m incredibly bored. Yes, I am. Not only that, I’m fed up, sick and tired, exasperated, annoyed, cheesed off, hacked off and browned off. I’m also disgruntled, displeased and discontented.

Back in the good, old days, if people felt disgruntled, they’d go cut the kings head off, and everyone would feel much better right away. Now they have surveillance cameras.

I guess that leave me with… well… blogging.

People in between and the coat that haunts me

I like watching people at the railway station. People are easier to observe while they’re waiting for busses or trains, while they’re in between. Don't get me wrong - if I had anything better to do with the time between when my classes ended and my bus arrived, I'd do it. But I don't.

Inside the station, I always like to sit underneath the clock, so that, other than watching people, I can also watch the minutes tick by. Once there, I place all of my things on the little, round table next to my seat and (pretend to) read my book while secretly spying on people. Multitasking baby. Yeah!

I’m reading A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius. That’s the title. Although I’m not in any way trying to diminish the content by pointing that out. It’s one of those debut novels that end up selling like hotcakes, cause the author was so obviously Born To Be, if you know what I mean.

Sooner or later, a dingy old bus will make a quick stop, on its way to somewhere or other, and a small flock of passengers will tumble out, eager to inhale a cigarette before it starts to move again. They stand on the platform, an arms width apart, blowing smoke and staring at nothing in particular, ignoring each other. If one of them leaves his place, it’ll cause a ripple effect through the line. Positions will shift, circling might occur, a couple of the smoke-blowers might swap places, still seemingly unaware of each other’s existence.

My bus turned up late, as it usually does, and as I made my way towards the platform, I saw The Girl. I have no idea who The Girl is, but she wears the exact same kind of coat that I do. I ordered it from a catalogue last year. She probably did, as well.

I contemplated a couple of amusing ways in which I could kill and torture her (not necessarily in that order), and thought things like: “This town isn’t big enough for the both of us…” I never got to finish my train of thought, because there, in the front of the bus, sat a woman who was also wearing my coat.

I want a new coat…

Pic by Crispulo1976 for www.Flickr.com

Bah, humbug

I'm having a get-away-from-me-day which blends nicely with my look-at-me-and-I'll-bludgeon-you-to-death-with-my-teacup-mood.

Now, if you'll all excuse me, I'm going to go find something to scowl at.

Pic by bokeh for www.flickr.com
( http://www.flickr.com/photos/bokeh/10185417/ )

Beware of the killer bunny!

Today I went grocery shopping, which – when you’re living in Hellhole – is pretty much the most interesting thing that’ll happen to me all day long. It was even raining. With all this excitement, I’m going to need a small nap later, or I’ll get cranky and difficult to be around.

After I got home, a friend stopped by to borrow something. She watched me quietly as I unloaded my recently purchased foodstuff from its yellow plastic bags, before she slowly picked up a packet of chicken filets, looked at it, looked at me, looked back at it and then at me again, before asking: “so you eat nothing but rabbit food then, huh?”

I think she sees rabbits pretty much the same way that Monty Python do...

I'm a year old!

I have officially survived Christmas. I walked away from it with, among other things, money, painting supplies, earrings with tiny little diamonds in them, and an A for effort. I also survived all of my attempts of eating myself to death. Well, obviously. If I hadn’t, I would, as you all know, have been haunting that castle on the cliff that I once mentioned. I’ll try again next year and let you know how I do then. Or not, depending on the outcome.

New years were a pain in the soft, fleshy area. The Pooch is, as I’ve also mentioned before, petrified of fireworks. I tried to calm her down by putting her, and bits of our turkey, in her cage, covering it with blankets so that she couldn’t see anything. That’s how you calm down parrots, anyway (well, I suppose the bits of turkey wouldn’t really be a good idea if you’re trying to relax a parrot…). The Pooch then successfully proved that she’s not a parrot.


In further news, it’s my anniversary today. I’m a year old. The blog is, anyway. Yay me!