Once upon a time there was a lamp that smelled of sheit

Because I have expensive habits that I refuse to give up, such as eating and accumulating belongings, I have taken a job in a shop by the town square. I sell lamps. Big lamps, small lamps, round lamps, square lamps, tall lamps, short lamps… I sell them all, I’m not half bad at it, if I must say so myself.

And you know I must.

However, I’ve been handed a bit of a challenge. It’s a perversion of a lamp. Sure, it looked pretty enough when it was still inside the box. On the picture it looked great. All tall and elegant and whatnot.

So we started putting the pieces together. It’s a big, fancy lamp with swirly-looking bits on it. It was a job for two people. But it didn’t take long before realisation struck that what we were building wasn’t quiiite the same thing as in the picture on the box. For one thing, OUR lamp was crooked. Actually, that’s an understatement worthy of a government cover-up. The more we built on it, the more crooked it became.

It was worse than the annual ‘is the christmas tree straight’ dialogue. Only there was no earthly way to straighten this particular Christmas tree.

There was also another odd thing about the lamp. It smelled bad. To be blunt, it smelled like…well…like something that came out of someone’s colon. That’s right, it smelled like shit. And after we’d touched it, WE smelled like shit. Not only that but after we then touched the counter, IT smelled like shit.

It had to be scrubbed down. The counter, that is. The lamp was beyond help.

Every once in a while, a customer will ask us if we have any merchandise other then what is displayed in the store. This has always struck me as a very silly question. As if we’d have a secret lamp-room hidden away in the back, the way that some bars have secret rooms for high-stake poker games. At times I have played with the idea of asking “do you know the secret handshake?” when someone offered that particular question.

Now we have the Sheit Lamp. The frightening monstrosity of glass and warped metal, hidden away in the darkest corner of the storage room. So the next time someone asks me for secret merchandise, I’ll show them that. No doubt their screams will be heard all the way across the town square.

Trials, tribulations and Santa Claus

And so the madness begins… How the content of a red nose can make you doubt your own sanity:

Yesterday I had two hours free before work, so I decided to run some errands. When I say errands, I of course mean ‘mad shopping frenzy’. It started off as a perfectly respectable errand, though. I was simply going to do some Christmas shopping. But then I remembered that I could do with a pair of slippers and the snowball started rolling. Snowballs’ll do that. It’s snowball nature.

Amongst the things I bought, were a pair of very silly slippers, made to look like Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer. Aren’t they purdy?

After work I sat down and made a playlist of sugary sweet Christmas songs, all while wearing my new slippers. I was right in the middle of a scary Christmas-spirit attack. They usually start around 1/3^rd into December. At that point, I will turn into the Franz Mesmer of Xmas spirit.

There I was, slipping into a Bing Crosby induced holiday-trance, when something happened. I heard a voice. It was male and robotic and I was pretty sure it wasn’t coming from inside my head. “Ho, ho, ho! Merry Christmas!” The Voice said.

I sat straight in my chair, eyes wide, convinced that it had finally happened – at long last I had lost my grasp on reality.

Then my friend suddenly said “maybe it’s the shoes.”

“Nah,” I said. “They’re not that advanced.” Still, I did a quick examination of the Rudolph’s noses and surely enough, inside one of them, I found a hard knob. I gave it a little squease and it shouted “Ho, ho, ho! Meeeerry Christmas!”

It was quite a relief, let me tell you. I honestly thought I’d gone bonkers there, for a second. I was all ready to run straight to the local hospital and have them stick my head in the MRI machine. But now I can just stay in. Yay me.

Yeah, I should be too good for this. But I'm not.

So have a horribly inappropriate joke:

So I'm at work yesterday and the mailclerk starts handing out letters from upper management. At this point, I'm thinking "Oh crap, how am I gonna tell my family I got laid off?" Fortunately, I'm only 30 years old. You'll understand when you read the letter.

Due to the current financial situation caused by the slowdown of economy,Management has decided to implement a scheme to put workers of 40 years of age and above on early retirement. This scheme will be known as RAPE (Retire Aged People Early).

Persons selected to be RAPED can apply to management to be eligible for theSHAFT scheme (Special Help After Forced Termination). Persons who have been RAPED and SHAFTED will be reviewed under the SCREW programme (Scheme Covering Retired Early Workers). A person may be RAPED once, SHAFTED twice and SCREWED as many times as Management deems appropriate.

Persons who have been RAPED can only get AIDS (Additional Income for Dependants & Spouse) or HERPES (Half Earnings for Retired Personnel Early Severance).
Obviously persons who have AIDS or HERPES will not be SHAFTED or SCREWED any further by Management.

Persons who are not RAPED and are staying on will receive as much SHIT (Special High Intensity Training) as possible. Management has always prided itself on the amount of SHIT it gives employees. Should you feel that you do not receive enough SHIT, please bring to the attention of your Manager. They have been trained to give you all the SHIT you can get.

Great, as if I didn't get enough shit already....

And last, but not least, here's my new favorite song (although it's likely been replaced by something else by the time you get here):

I can't brain today, I have the dumb!

We all have our weaknesses, right? Superman got all distracted around kryptonite, Tony Stark got a wee bit diverted in the presence of booze and there are certain members of the church that seem to have a hard time focusing around altar boys. I get sidetracked by the world in general. It really doesn’t take much, especially when I’m supposed to be doing something grown up and responsible.

I know that I theoretically have the ability to concentrate. I never seem to lose track of my facebook applications; the potatoes growing on that little farm never spoils, that little restaurant is doing splendidly. The sims 3 can hold my attention for hours on end. I can sit through an episode of Judge Judy just fine. Actually, the latter is a strange sort of an exception. You see, I’ll plop down in front of the television and then suddenly it’s an hour later and I can’t really remember what the judge was going on about. Then again, I can’t really remember anything else that may or may not have happened around me either, so I’m assuming that I was very concentrated on the show and then became the victim of sudden amnesia, or something.

I was going to be all responsible and do some proof reading today, but I was completely unable to direct my attention onto that little Microsoft Word document. Things had to change. I immediately googled “how to concentrate”. Out of the 31 100 000 results, my favourite one was the one that stated that any mental achievement had to be preceded by total relaxation. You need to unwind before going into battle, it said.

So I decided to play the sims.

There is a certain chance that I need a new attack plan for my next battle.


pretty picture: The confused by Kylamay for deviantart. http://kylamay.deviantart.com/art/The-Confused-24558778

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…

Science and such

On Friday I have a meeting with my thesis advisor to wrap up my big, fascinating research project. Now, it may not have been the most thrilling project on earth. It’s not going to fuel a Hollywood blockbuster anytime soon. The world would have to go through some fairly extreme changes for that to happen.

Then again, there are weirder science projects out there.

Like, for example, the one conducted at Wayne state- and Auburn university in 1992 which examined the effect of country music on suicide. That was odd.

Not quite as strange as “Love and sex with robots” by D. Levy at the university of Maastricht in 2007. He predicted that around 2050, the state of Massachusetts will be the first jurisdiction to legalize marriage with robots. “At first, sex with robots might be considered geeky, but once you have a story like ‘I had sex with a robot and it was great!’ appear someplace like Cosmo magazine, I’d expect many people to jump on the bandwagon,” Levy said.

Personally, there a few people I’d rather jump on than a damn robot.

Granted, that project is very odd. But there are even stranger ones out there. Like the “rectal foreign bodies: case reports and a comprehensive review of the world’s literature” by Busch and Starling in 1986. The citations include reports of, among other items: seven light bulbs; a knife sharpener; two flashlights; a wire spring; a snuff box; an oil can with potato stopper; eleven different forms of fruits, vegatables and other foodstuffs; a jeweler’s saw; a frozen pig’s tail; a tin cup; a beer glass; and one patient’s remarkable ensemble collection consisting of spectacles, a suitcase key, a tobacco pouch and a magazine.

The world has literature on rectal foreign bodies. Who knew?

Then there’s the “safe and painless manipulation of penile zipper entrapment.” I swear I’m not making any of these things up. Most of them are online, even. Then there’s “pressures produced when penguins poo – calculations on avian defecation” by Breno Meyer-Rochow and J. Gal at the international university of Bremen and Lorand Eotvos University of Hungary in 2005.

Last but not least, there’s “Farting as a defence against unspeakable dread” by Dr. M. Sidoli in Washington DC, 1998. According to it's author, "this paper describes some features of the behaviour of a severely disturbed adopted latency boy. Peter was born premature, suffered several early hospitalizations and surgical operations, and at 2 months of age was removed from his mother's care by Social Services for neglect and abandonment. When feeling endangered, Peter had developed a defensive olfactive container using his bodily smell and farts to envelop himself in a protective cloud of familiarity against the dread of falling apart, and to hold his personality together."

MY project is nothing like either one of those.

How to write a paper in college

Okay, so yesterday I just sent my thesis in to my thesis advisor again, for yet another look-over, or something. Writing a college paper of any kind, is nothing like in the movies. If I was a character in a movie, I'd sit at my little desk, with my hair in a very smart ponytail with calculated fly-aways, working like a little ant. This is how it really works:

1. Sit in a straight, comfortable chair in a well lit place in front of your computer.

2. Log onto MSN and ICQ (be sure to go on away!). Check your email.

3. Read over the assignment carefully, to make certain you understand it.

4. Walk down to the vending machines and buy some chocolate to help you concentrate.

5. Check your email.

6. Call up a friend and ask if he/she wants to go to grab a coffee. Just to get settled down and ready to work.

7. When you get back to your room, sit in a straight, comfortable chair in a clean, well lit place.

8. Read over the assignment again to make absolutely certain you understand it.

9. Check your email.

10. You know, you haven't written to that kid you met at camp since fourth grade. You'd better write that letter now and get it out of the way so you can concentrate.

11. Look at your teeth in the bathroom mirror.

12. Grab some mp3z off of kazaa.

13. Check your email. ANY OF THIS SOUND FAMILIAR YET?!

14. MSN chat with one of your friends about the future. (ie summer plans).

15. Check your email.

16. Listen to your new mp3z and download some more.

17. Phone your friend on the other floor and ask if she's started writing yet. Exchange derogatory emarks about your prof, the
course, the college, the world at large.

18. Walk to the store and buy a pack of gum. You've probably run out.

19. While you've got the gum you may as well buy a magazine and read it.

20. Check your email.

21. Check the newspaper listings to make sure you aren't missing something truly worthwhile on TV.

22. Play some solitare (or age of legends!).

23. Check out bored.com.

24. Wash your hands.

25. Call up a friend to see how much they have done, probably haven't started either.

26. Look through your housemate's book of pictures from home. Ask who everyone is.

27. Sit down and do some serious thinking about your plans for the future.

28. Check to see if bored.com has been updated yet.

29. Check your email and listen to your new mp3z.

30. You should be rebooting by now, assuming that windows is crashing on schedule.

31. Read over the assignment one more time, just for heck of it.

32. Scoot your chair across the room to the window and watch the sunrise.

33. Lie face down on the floor and moan.

34. Punch the wall and break something.

35. Check your email.

36. Mumble obscenities.

37. Midnight - start hacking on the paper without stopping. 6am -paper is finished.

38. Complain to everyone that you didn't get any sleep because you had to write that stupid paper.

39. Go to class, hand in paper, and leave right away so you can take a nap.

Just how effed up do things have to get?

I have a friend named Pete. Actually, his name isn’t Pete at all. It’s Albert. But I’ve decided to call him Pete in order to protect his identity. It’ll be a bit like Superman’s glasses. We all like those. Glasses make people look smarter. That’s why I wear mine. Not bumping into things is just the icing on the cake.

Aaanyways…

Pete has a dog named Little. That’s his actual name. There’s no point in trying to protect Little’s identity, because dogs don’t wear glasses. Little is an English mastiff of about 250 pounds. He does not live up to his name. There are three things that Little love most in this world; his daddy (Pete), pillow stuffing and visitors. When his beloved master leaves the house to go to work as a nightshift security guard at Really Big Company, the little darling aims all his attention towards the sofa cushions and their soft, snowy white innards.

Because of this, Clever Dogowner Pete set up a camera in his living room, so that he could keep an eye on the baby from his laptop computer. So now, although he wasn’t able to stop his Little Pumpkin from tearing the Super Recliner Sofa to pieces, he could at least witness the murder. Sure enough, when the time came go about his security guard business, Sweetie-Pie was digging in with great zest.

When he returned to his laptop 20 minutes later, the sofa looked like Einstein’s head. But what truly caught Pete’s attention, was the unkempt young man sitting in it, holding his television set in his lap. Seems that during his away-time, the house had been burgled. Little had thought “Yay! Visitors!” and it wasn’t until the fella tried to leave through the window where he entered, that the doggie smelled a rat, thus planting said visitor in what was left of the sofa and keeping him there. Being a fairly bright young man, Pete naturally called our equivalent of 911.

The operator was sad to inform Pete that nobody would be able to come by his house until later that morning, since he was the only officer working at the station that night, and he most certainly coulnd’t deal with the situation alone, because it might be dangerous. Naturally, Pete was slightly ticked off, seeing how he was supposed to go home in less than an hour and the situation might just happen to be a little dangerous for him, as well. Not to mention for Doggie-Woggie, but he didn’t say that. Finally, the policeman called a couple of off-duty officers and they took the burglar away.

Apparently, Little wasn’t all that keen to let them into the house. But I digress…

The burglar was placed in a jail cell where he gave a full confession of that night’s events. Right down to how he had taken a leak in someone’s birdbath... Eight hours later, he was released due to lack of evidence.

Insane as it sounds, this is not even an unusual story. I know two more people just in my own social circle that has experienced pretty much the same things, with a few variations to the plot here and there. Granted, we’ve just had the most serious financial crisis since the great depression, but still… Our particular corner of the world has only been slightly affected by this. It’s also one of the few bits on the globe that actually makes money – a lot of money – rather than sustaining themselves on loans. You’d think we could stick enough cops in the station to answer a 911 call. I also can’t help thinking that it must be frustrating to become a police officer and find that you’re not able to do your job. Maybe that’s why the flight of cops from the police force to private security companies, is now considered to be one of the major national problems that politicians get off on talking about. Not that sitting around in a tv studio, chatting about it while wondering if the cameras are capturing you from your good side, is helping the situation all that much.

It’s a helluva creepy though that our 911 should work a bit in the same way that Pete’s camera did. “No, we can’t really help you, but we’d be more than willing to witness you being minced up by the psychotic axe murderer, ma’am.”

Mad As Hell! Kinetic Typography from Aaron Leming on Vimeo.

A cunning plan!

In the not all that remote future I will be out there, looking for employment. I've decided on a very clever course of action, should someone be foolish enough to not be dazzled by my considerable charm and decide to actually reject me:

Dear ......,

Thank you for your letter rejecting my application for employment with your firm.

I have received rejections from an unusually large number of well qualified organizations. With such a varied and promising spectrum of rejections from which to select, it is impossible for me to consider them all. After careful deliberation, then, and because a number of firms have found me more unsuitable, I regret to inform you that I am unable to accept your rejection.

Despite your company’s outstanding qualifications and previous experience in rejecting applicants, I find that your rejection does not meet with my requirements at this time. As a result, I will be starting employment with your firm on the first of the month.

Circumstances change and one can never know when new demands for rejection arise. Accordingly, I will keep your letter on file in case my requirements for rejection change.

Please do not regard this letter as a criticism of your qualifications in attempting to refuse me employment. I wish you the best of luck in rejecting future candidates.

Sincerely,

Choochoo

All you need to know

Me, myself and I.

Tomorrow is my birthday. I’m going to leave the exciting world of the 20-something and become a 30. I know that this is supposed to be either a big deal or something that depresses the hell out of you, but I can’t say I’ve had many feelings directed towards it. It’s going to be a regular sort of family-thing, nothing that I need to think deep thoughts about. That is, until mention of a potential birthday activity came up.

Stripaerobics.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m all for exercise and family togetherness. I have no problem with stripaerobics. I understand it's all the rage. However, if I’m going to watch the mums and the step-sibling wiggle around, burlesque style I will have to develop a second personality call Joe and become a homosexual trucker in Alaska.

So… tomorrow is my birthday. Wish me luck.

Writing in water

When former astronaut Neil Armstrong returned from space, he said that “It suddenly struck me that that tiny pea, pretty and blue, was the Earth. I put up my thumb and shut one eye, and my thumb blotted out the planet Earth. I didn't feel like a giant. I felt very, very small.”

There are moments in life when we realize that something leaves us, most likely to never return. We’ll never again be able to restore some day or period of our life. Memories only stay in the confines of our minds, where they’re inevitable altered into something they never were or maybe fade away altogether. That particular epiphany can make you feel a bit like you’re staring at Earth from outer space.

So I have come to two conclusions, as a result of this philosophising:

1) Living is a bit like writing in water.

2) Blogging is a bit like farting in space.

Today I bring you.. english mysteries

Why is it that when we transport something by car, it's called a shipment, but when we transport something by ship, it's called cargo?

Why are people who ride motorcycles called bikers and people who ride bikes called cyclists?

In what other language do thay call the third hand on the clock the second hand?

In what other language do people drive in a parkway and park in a driveway?

Why does night fall but never break and day break but never fall?

Why is it called a TV set when you get only one?

Why - in this crazy language - can your nose run and your feet smell?

Sometimes you have to believe that all English speakers should be committed to an asylum for the verbally insane:

If a vegetarian eats vegetables, what does a humanitarian consume?

A writer is someone who writes, and a stinger is something that stings.

But fingers don't fing and grocers don't groce.

If the plural of tooth is teeth, shouldn't the plural of booth be beeth?

If the teacher taught, why isn't it also true that the preacher praught?

If harmless actions are the opposite of harmful actions, why are shameless and shameful behavior the same?

English is a language in which you can turn a light on and you can turn a light off and you can turn a light out, but you can't turn a light in

In which the sun comes up and goes down, but prices go up and come down.

In which your nose can simultaneously burn up and burn down and your car can slow up and slow down, in which you can fill in a form by filling out a form and in which your alarm clock goes off by going on.

English is a crazy language. What is it that when the sun or the moon or the stars are out, they are visible, but when the lights are out, they are invisible?; and why when I wind up my watch, I start it, but when I wind up this essay, I shall end it?

Eagles may soar, but weasels don't get sucked into jet-engines

My thesis was officially finished and handed in for evaluation by my thesis advisor a few days ago and I am one step closer to being a real, live grown-up with a real, live masters degree. One small step for man-kind, one giant leap for Choochoo.

On second thought, I’m so surrounded (buried) in boxes, I probably can’t even manage a small skip right now, let alone a leap, giant or otherwise.

In a few short weeks I’ll officially be a molecular biologist. Who’d have thunk it. No, seriously. I nearly flunked science in high school. I think the only reason why I didn’t was because my teacher felt sorry for me.

But I digress. Not that digressing isn’t something that happens a lot around here, and you should all be well used to this by now.

But I digress again.

When I was a kid, I was ambitious on the verge of insanity. For my sixth birthday, the only thing I really wanted was a briefcase. I was bottle-fed episodes of LA Law, I dreamt of becoming a lawyer, just like the ones on TV, and I kept that idea right up until the time came for me to start applying for colleges. That was when it finally occurred to me that an urge to wear power suits and carry a briefcase probably wasn’t the best basis for a career choice.

I then focused on the second thing on my list of obsession: forensic psychology. I’ve always had a weird fascination with the criminally insane. Not so much that I’d want to get together and drink cosmopolitans with them on a Saturday night, but I wouldn’t be opposed to prodding around inside their minds under less intimate circumstances.

The following year I went to university on a scholarship, determined to become the world’s greatest forensic psychologist. Determined right up until the point where the professor walked in on our very first lecture and said: “You will not become good psychologists if you study here.” He then continued to explain that we wouldn’t be given the option to specialize unless we chose to complete our full educations abroad and even if we wanted to become general psychologists (which I didn’t) we would still have to graduate with honors and then wait for as much as five years before we would be allowed past the first year of the study. Needless to say that was a bit of a motivation-killer. Perhaps the system has changed since then, but that was the way it was at the time.

There’s a part of me that still wants to be a criminal profiler, but I do think that viruses and such can be every bit as cool as a serial killer, in their own special way.

Oh dear, I’ve digressed again, haven’t I? I meant for this to be a post on growing up and living up to your ambitions. My point was that, although I might have fancied myself an eagle when I was a child and although I am still very much a career girl at heart, I would rather not be sucked into a jet engine.

I've learned

I've learned that you cannot make someone love you. All you can do is be someone who can be loved. The rest is up to them.
I've learned that no matter how much I care, some people just don't care back.
I've learned that it takes years to build up trust and only seconds to destroy it.
I've learned that it's not what you have in your life, but who you have in your life that counts.
I've learned that you can get by on charm for about fifteen minutes, after that, you'd better know something.

I've learned that you shouldn't compare yourself to the best others can do, but to the best you can do.
I've learned that it's not what happens to people, it's what they do about it.
I've learned that no matter how thin you slice it, there are always two sides.
I've learned that you should always leave loved ones with loving words. It may be the last time you'll see them.
I've learned that you can keep going long after you think you can't.

I've learned that heroes are the people who do what has to be done when it needs to be done, regardless of the consequences.
I've learned that there are people, who love you dearly, but just don't know how to show it.
I've learned that sometimes when I'm angry I have the right to be angry but that doesn't give me the right to be cruel.
I've learned that true friendship continues to grow even over the longest distance same goes for true love.
I've learned that just because someone doesn't love you the way you want them to doesn't mean they don't love you with all they have.

I've learned that no matter how good a friend is, they're going to hurt you every once in a while and you must forgive them for that.
I've learned that it isn't always enough to be forgive by others, sometimes you have to learn to forgive yourself.
I've learned that no matter how bad your heart is broken, the world doesn't stop for your grief.
I've learned that our background and circumstances may have influenced who we are, but we are responsible for who we become.
I've learned that just because two people argue, it doesn't mean they don't love each other and just because they don't argue, it doesn't mean they do.

I've learned that sometimes you have to put the individual ahead of their actions.
I've learned that two people can look at the exact same thing and see something totally different.
I've learned that no matter the consequences, those who are honest with themselves get farther in life.
I've learned that your life can be changed in a matter of hours by people who don't even know you.
I've learned that even when you think you have no more to give, when a friend cries out to you, you will find the strength to help.

I've learned that writing, as well as talking, can ease emotional pains.
I've learned that the people you care most about in life are taken from you too soon.
I've learned that it's hard to determine where to draw the line between being nice and not hurting people's feelings and standing up for what you believe.
I've learned to love and be loved.
I've learned.

For Zan and Sanneh

I've spent most of the day going through sad goodbye sorta songs to do this post. But then I settled on this. If it wasn't for this song, none of us would have met in the first place.

I'm moving to Mars next week, so if you have any boxes...

Ever since I was a kid, I wanted to live on a hill with grassy fields and trees and stuff. This was a big deal to me. Hills always looked sunnier and warmer than anywhere else, even in the dead of winter when everything was dark and frigid. For the past year, I have lived on a hill. I have learned something: hills are overrated.

Nobody ever builds anything of any real importance on top of a hill. Then everyone who doesn’t live on the hill would have to climb it in order to get to whatever-it-is. Let’s face it – sivil wars have started over less than that.

I also noticed something else odd… Ever since I moved up the hill, my food budget has swelled out of all proportion and no matter how much time I spent pondering this mystery, it remained just that; a mystery. Until this morning, when I suddenly experienced a brainflash.

It’s the hill.

See, whenever I need to do anything outside the house, the something that I need to do is always below the hill. So I need to go down the hill to get there, then drag my carcass back up to get here. Clearly I need more fuel in order to pull this off. Actually, things like grocery shopping makes it worse. First I need to buy food in order to eat food so that I can make it up and down the hill, but the more weight I carry, the more fuel I’m gonna need, so then I have to buy more groceries, which leads to more weight being carried and so on and so forth. It’s an evil circle, really.

Good thing I’m moving now, before I’m faced with financial ruin…

Today's theme song:

An aaalmost serious moment!

It’s been a good day, for the most part. Which feels odd. It’s been a ¤&?=#” bitch of a past few months. Hard to tell, as charming and witty as I am, I know. Hehe. One day things begin to sort themselves out – often not how you’d though. I haven’t had much headspace left over for blogging. Hopefully that’ll turn around, as well, now.

Aaanyways, brace yourself, people cause Choochoo’s back, baby!

Actually, I’m not so much back as I am hidden behind boxes. Once again, I’m moving. Now that I’m all edumacated and stuff (well, nearly) it’s time to get the hell out of Hellhole and go join civilization and search for a grown-up job. I know, it’s the end of an era, ain’t it? Just imagine all the absurdity I can spot and blog if I’m living in the city. Oooh. Once again I’m faced with the great mystery of packing: why is it, that no matter how much crap you stuff into boxes, the crap that surrounds you doesn’t seem to lessen one little bit? I think all my things come to life and sneak back into place while I’m sleeping.

I heard a song today that pretty much says it all. I thought I’d pull an Ally McBeal and make that my themesong for today while I’m packing up my stuff.