Another day, another tag

But this one’s got an award in it, so it greases up my ego in a very pleasant way. I’ve always thought that a freshly greased ego is a very important thing to have. I will now name five blogs that I like, thereby greasing said blogger’s egos. My reason for naming every single one of them is that they make me laugh. Sometimes I laugh with them. Other times I laugh at them. But there’s no point in splitting hairs, is there? Of course not.

The rules of the meme are as follows:1. Post with links to 5 blogs that make you think.2. Link to original source blog (which would be The Thinking Blog, I guess) 3. If you don’t choose to do either then please display your thinking blogger logo as shown on this posting.

And these are the lucky people, in no particular order:

O mighty crisis

Useless writing

To do:1, get hobby 2. Floss

My brain hates me, but I hate it even more

Alchemy anyone?”

The swedish chef

Busy, busy, busy. Here, watch this:

Welcome to Stalkers R Us. How may I help you?

Last time I discreetly touched on the topic that I had en exam yesterday. It is now today, and yesterday went bye-bye. So have the exams. It wasn’t completely horrible. As a matter of fact, it rarely is, although I’m always quite convinced that it will be beforehand. I came, I wrote, I went home and watched The Singing Detective.
In between I tried to find a replacement for the jeans I tore when I was climbing a fence, and the fact that nothing fit me properly and the hostile light in the clothing booth made me feel fat for a couple of hours. Then I got over it, ‘cause I’m not fat, dammit. When I got home, I ate cookies out of spite. I briefly thought about staking out the store, just to see if those tiny-size-people actually exist, but that would have been boring, because such a person would obviously be twelve years old. You can get in trouble if you stalk someone who’s twelve. I’ve seen that on the news. Of course, you can get into trouble by stalking anyone, really. But some people might like it. I think some of the elderly that I worked with last summer would have enjoyed being stalked.

Hey, maybe I could set up an agency? Stalkers R Us. It would be like an escort service, only completely different. In stead of conversation, the chance to impress your friends with Mr. (really good at pretending to be) Perfect and possibly the opportunity for some form of sweaty activity, we’d offer phone calls featuring heavy breathing and groaning, lots of reasons for your friends and family to show their love and concern through worrying about you and the thrill of having your underwear go missing.

How’s that for brilliant?

Huge, mean, evil exams.

On Wednesday I have a huge, mean, if not just plain evil, exam. I don’t like exams. They freak me right the hell out. I’m studying like a real hero (wearing shiny, colourful pantyhose), until Bergerac (my brain) feels all soupy and strange.

My head is currently trying to figure out whether it should spin around of just go for some sort of explosion. Its inability to decide makes it sit on my shoulders in a very normal fashion, though.

All my thoughts are very slow today. I wonder if that’ll interfere with my hero-studying. Sometimes there are periods where I don’t think I thought anything at all. And then there are periods when I think sounds. Usually something along the lines of “grumpf”. A long, slow grumpf, of course.

As usual, I have all sorts of plans for what I want to do when I’ve survived my exams and I have time on my hands again. Not to mention in my shoes, behind the cups in the cupboard and in my right pocket of my favourite jeans (which I tore the other day when I was climbing a fence). I want to watch tons of movies, read books that have no -isms in them, stalk Jensen Ackles and so on and so forth. And as usual, I’ll probably just have the energy to vegetate in front of the TV and go to bed early.

Do you find me odd?

You Are 24% Abnormal

You are at medium risk for being a psychopath. It is somewhat likely that you have no soul. You are at low risk for having a borderline personality. It is unlikely that you are a chaotic mess. You are at medium risk for having a narcissistic personality. It is somewhat likely that you are in love with your own reflection. You are at low risk for having a social phobia. It is unlikely that you feel most comfortable in your mom's basement. You are at low risk for obsessive compulsive disorder. It is unlikely that you are addicted to hand sanitizer.

How Abnormal Are You?

Well, I'm pretty sure I'm not a psychopath, but I'll buy the no-soul thing. Especially after my last post. And I DEFINITLY don't have obsessive compulsive disorder. I'm completely random and unorganized.

Entertaining acts of desperation

Over the past week or so, we’ve had a charming mix of rain, snow and sunshine. Charming in the way that Sylvester finds that yellow canary charming. By now, it looks as if King Winter has been violently ill all over my yard. On the other hand, I don’t really mind watching spring kill winter off. Hellhole is actually on the pretty side in spring.

There are a whole lot of Jehovah’s witnesses in Hellhole. I don’t know if I ever mentioned that? They have this theory that only 200000 or so people will be allowed into the party in heaven after they die, so therefore they have to do a whole lot of missionary work in order to earn their seats. I guess it’s filling up fast, because lately there’s been a certain air of frantic desperation over the local witnesses. They may be all smiles and friendly greeting when they creep up on you in the streets, but there’s something in their eyes that I can’t quite put my finger on. Besides, if I tried, they’d probably just make a scene about me poking them, anyways.

Before the weekend, for example, I was on my way to the salon, and I saw one of them standing by the crossroads with a pile of pamphlets. She tried to give me one, but I threw up my arms and ran away as quickly as I could, although not until I noticed the impressive size of her aforementioned pile. It must have been at least 200 pamphlets in there. At a spot where maybe ten people pass through every hour. And she hadn’t even pitched a tent. Now, that’s the kind of dedication that only springs from deep-seated desperation and extreme anxiety.

Later in the day, when I was sitting in my living-room with my hair looking no less than fabulous, feeling a bit miffed over the fact that nobody was there do admire it. The Pooch had hardly seemed to notice my new cut at all, although she had a short interest in the smell of the dye. I like that smell too, actually. Sometimes I turn my head really quickly, so that I can inhale the head-air, until I get dizzy and flowery scents no longer appeal to me as much.

And then I saw her.

It was the same woman that I’d met at the crossroads. She was making her way towards my house. She’d come over the river, across the bridge (well, duuh) to the outskirts of town in order to go door to door. They never used to cross the bridge before, because there are hardly any doors to go to here, but lately things have been changing. It’s like something out of Lord of the Rings.

For a brief moment I considered whether or not I was eager enough to have my new hairdo admired to listen to the “joyful message” and quickly decided that I wasn’t. In stead, I ran upstairs and amused myself by watching the woman struggle with the gate which cannot be opened because it’s half-buried in the snow (the one on the other end of the fence works just fine, but no visitors ever think to try that). Then, after she’d climbed the gate, she fought to make it up my wet, unshovelled (it’s going to melt in the end anyways, so what’s the point?) driveway in order to ring my doorbell.

I pretended not to be home, and then I watched her go through the whole process again, backwards.

I’m guessing that I’m not going to be one of those lucky 200000 to get a golden invite into the garden party upstairs.

Canary picture from Wikipedia.org

Garden party picture from Wikipedia.org

Bridge picture by Pooterjon for www.sxu.hu

Toots thinks about snow

As you may or may not have known, depending on whether or not you’re stalking me, I just had my second of three mid-terms the other day. My brain, which I have decided to name Bergerac, focused freakishly much during the whole thing and by the time I made it back to the station, where I wait for the bus to take me back to Hellhole, it had pretty much decided to take a well-deserved nap.

The ground below my feet was thick with snow and big, fat raindrops were bombarding it from above. I had my little, red umbrella in my handbag and decided that it made good sense to use it. On my way to the station, however, I noticed that I was the only one who had come to that decision. There wasn’t another umbrella in sight. People were wandering around in the pouring rain, looking like drowned rats, but pretending it wasn’t there. I have observed the same phenomena before, and have come to the conclusion that when there’s snow on the ground, people around here rarely use umbrellas, even if it’s really pouring down.

This, to me makes very little sense. I would think that the rain alone, not to mention the slushy cold soup that it reduces the snow to, would justify the use of some sort of body-covering condom-thing. Or at the very least, a little umbrella.

Eventually I got out of the rain and was sitting on a bench beneath the big, round station clock, where a lonely guy named Harold had written a message to ask if other lonely men would meet him in the bathroom on Thursday night.

That’s when Toots showed up. There are two little voices living inside my head. The first, which I simply call The Voice, is the one that pops up whenever and wherever to convince me to stay in bed when I should be going to class, buy chocolates when I’m shopping for cereal and that sort of thing. And then there’s Toots. Toots only turns up when Bergerac is napping thoroughly, otherwise it doesn’t get through the door.

I had just found out the hard way that there was a crack in the sole of my shoe. “Fungus likes to grow places that are dark, wet and body temperature,” said Toots, sounding pensive. Toots always sounds pensive, even though it clearly never is.

I looked up at the clock. The bus wouldn’t be there for another hour. I shook Bergerac a little, to try to wake it up. That didn’t work. So for the next 60 minutes, I got to listen to Toots babbling on and on about all of the things that are of interest to it.

I think that Toots might be one of the things that I dislike the most about having exams…

Cat by Jezz for www.Flickr.com

Head by o2ma for www.Flickr.com

Look at me, I'm a staaaar

Look, I'm FAMOUS!

http://mrjoeblogs.blogspot.com/2007/03/joe-blogs-interview-96-welcome-to.html

Now that I'm a superstar, I'm going to start doing all of those things that stars do. Let's see... Maybe I should climb around the mountaintops in Tibet in search of monasteries where the munks will train me in all sorts of mystical arts. However, those munks tend to shave off their eyebrows, and I think that I'd be much too distracted by the shiny patch of flesh above their eyes to absorb much of their wisdom.

I could join scientology. Then again, I wouldn't want to be known as the woman who strangled Tom Cruise with his own corset.

I'll give it some thought while I'm in rehab and get back to you later.

Naked people and me taking over the universe

The other day there was a story in the news about how a butt nekked activist, one of those I’d-rather-be-naked-than-wear-fur-people, had jumped up on stage during a fashion show in protest. I wish there was a cause, or something, that I cared enough about to go stand naked next to a supermodel, but I’m pretty sure that would never, ever happen.

All in all, I’m fairly self-absorbed, really. Also, once I become mistress of both the known and unknown universe, everyone else will be forced to become me-absorbed, as well. I’ll be kinda like Captain Picard, only with hair and a title. Oh, that and a mean streak, of course.

I look forwards to having all the people I don’t like herded up and put in cages so that I can poke them with sharp sticks. Starting with the bastards who decided that I have to have my midterms tomorrow.