The year of funny urges

Sometime after I moved here, aliens abducted me and implanted a personality-altering probe into my brain. Ever since I've been having these insane urges, and that's the only logical explanation I can think of.

I used to have a very high tolerance for dust bunnies and clutter. Not that I was a dirty slob, or anything. I just enjoyed the lived-in look. These days... not such a big fan. Boy actually made me promise that I would tidy up LESS, because it was messing up his system of things he was supposed to remember and such. That's the first time anyone has ever said that to me. Ever.

Afterwards I went into the bathroom, stood in front of the mirror, put my nose up against the glass and stared into my own eyes. Then I said: "mother?"

Today I woke up with the urge to weed. My brain (which consists of the logical part, bergerac, and the irrational bit, tootie) was just coming to life and Tootie was already wide awake and screaming "weeeeeeeeeeding-time!" at the top of it's lungs. That part of my brain has wonderful lung capacity.

But fate intervened:

See that dark bit in the upper left corner? That's a UFO. Okay, so it's my finger. Never claimed to be a photographer, did I?

Have a song:

Eggbert and The Styrostinkers!

A week ago the unthinkable happened: I turned on my computer to find that the screen was black as pitch. Then a little, blue square appeared and in it were the words “no signal detected!” With an exclamation mark, as if this failure to detect a signal was very especially panic-inducing. I tried turning the machine off and then on again. And off and on. And off and on. Off. On.

“No signal detected!”

Something was very wrong, so I made a decision. I would call customer service. Even though that meant making a long-distance phone call with my cell phone, something which most students on a budget tighter than Boy George’s pants in the 80s, would be reluctant to do.

Two minutes later, there I was, sitting on the kitchen chair, staring at my blackened monitor and listening to Shakira sing how fortunate it is that her boobs are tiny so that they’re not mistaken for mountains, occasionally interrupted by a man’s voice saying: “thank you for holding. You will be serviced soon.”

I had a friend once who claimed to have dumped her boyfriend for saying that.

While we waited, Bergerac (my brain) and I started to conjure up images of me pushing setting Shakira’s hair on fire, and just as we were getting really good at creating scenarios, we were interrupted by Bob.

“Hello, this is Bob. How may I help you?”

I explained my problem to Bob and pictured him sitting in his office chair behind a desk with his headset, while nodding solemnly as he listened to me speak.

“I see,” he said after I was done. “Is the computer plugged in?”

The idea that the computer would, in fact, not be plugged in, was so far from my mind, that Bergerac needed some time to mull the question over before I could say yes.

“Are you sure?” asked Bob. I noticed that the tone of his voice never changed. Again I pictured him sitting there, behind his desk, but this time he was Data from Star Trek. And I was standing behind him, arms raised above my head, ready to beat him to death with a mallet.

“No, I’m a dribbling idiot. Of course it’s plugged in,” I said.

“Very well. Please turn the computer off and on and blah, blah, blah.” Said Bob in his ever-unchanging tone of voice.

He didn’t actually say that last bit, but that was what I heard. After much back and forth and blah, blah, blah, it was agreed upon that the computer would go to the computer hospital in Big City.


This immediately brought about another problem: Eggbert (my computer) needed something to travel in. Since I’d thrown out the packaging that the computer originally came in, I needed new stuff. I hadn’t thought that would be too much of a problem, but I completely forgot that everything is a bit complicated when you’re living in Big Hellhole, Hickville. After three hours of wandering the streets, hitting one store after another, I had to admit that it was a lost cause. I would have had an easier time striking gold.

Bob, of course, had secretly scurried down here and abducted all the cardboard boxes and Styrofoam, at the same time erasing people’s memories of them ever being there to begin with. He was being a very naughty little android.

What’s that? Ridiculous? It most certainly is not. However, the idea of living in a town where there is no cardboard or Styrofoam truly is. Now what? Paranoid? How dare you?!?

Moving right along…

Just as I was about to give up, I did manage to get a hold a sack of little marbles-like balls made of Styrofoam, each about the size of 1/2 ping-pong ball. They were crunchy with old age and smelled funny, kinda like Pooch smells when she’s tired. Pooch has smells for everything. But I digress.

I wrapped the ailing Eggbert up in generous amounts of bubble wrap and put him in a cardboard box that I found in the back of my closet. Then I filled it up with ping-pong stink-balls. Finally I closed the lid.

It didn’t fit. Eggbert was too tall, causing an odd looking bump on top of the package. But I didn’t have another box and waiting for Eggbert to shrink or the box to grow seemed like a futile idea. I also noticed that the box itself wasn’t in the very best of shape. It was time for lots and lots of tape. Soon I was whizzing around the box, Styrofoam stinkies flying everywhere and the tape making swooshing noises. When I was somewhat satisfied that the computer would stay put and the box wouldn’t fall apart, the package consisted mostly of tape. I used the whole roll.

Only then did it occur to me that there was no way in hell anyone would be able to get it open again without using some sort of saw. After which they’d be attacked by stinkies loaded full of statical electricity and a merciless taste for technical engineers. But it was too late to turn back now, so I got on my cellphone again and called a cab to take me down to the post office.

There I put Eggbert on the rattling conveyor belt and as he slowly floated down past the black plastic curtains, I hoped that he would be okay and that he’d be home soon to distract me from school work and household chores. Until then I’ll be working on my thesis and picking styrostinkers out of my hair.

So long, suckers!

I am going on VACATI-ON! Yes, I know that's not how to spell it, but I don't care. It's my blog and I'm claiming creative licence, or whatever.

What will I do, you ask? It's only natural that you would wonder, seeing how my life is oh so glamorous and exciting, and all. Am I going on one of those space trips with the millionaires, perhaps? Swimming in the French riviera? Shopping in Hollywood? Or maybe I'll finnaly get around to stalking Jensen Ackles?

Well, you're almost right.

I'm going to my mum's cottage. There is a river, or a lake or a fjord, or some sort of body of water, anyways, so there will probably be swimming involved. Aaand there is a small grocery store somewhere around there, so there will also be shopping. Mostly for hotdogs and chips and such, but as long as there is an exchange of items and money, it still qualifies. Although not in the exciting euphoric kinda way that shopping for things that you don't need to survive brings about. And should I happen upon Jensen Ackles throughout my holiday, then by God, I intend to follow him around like a horny puppy-dog. That doesn't make any sense, does it? Oh, to hell with it. My brain, Bergerac, has left ahead of me. I'll be following it on Monday. Horray.

Let the Pooch soar!

I took Pooch with me to the woods the other day. Pooch likes the woods. It’s very high up on her lists of favourite things, along with tin foil, mice and the colour blue. At one point, she decided to climb onto a pile of wood and soar like an eagle down to the forest floor. As it turns out, Pooch is big on the falling, not so much on the soaring.

After her crash landing, which was promptly followed by the
running around like a maniac, I wasn’t very surprised to discover that she’d
managed to tear parts of a claw off. On our way home, she became increasingly
whiny, so I decided to distract her by slipping on the ice and smashing the back
of my head on the concrete. Then I stumbled around like a drunk. It worked like
a charm. Pooch forgot all about her toe. It was brilliant. Afterwards I felt
pretty damn dizzy, but true genius has always been described as rather dizzying,
so I suppose that was just to be expected.

In further news, my body and my head are having an ongoing debate about olives. The body tries to convince Bergerac (my mind) that olives are good, but Bergerac won’t hear of it. Since Bergerac is the one in charge of the mouth, Body needs to be sneaky in getting its point across. Body has the advantage of controlling the arms and hands, and those are always ready to stick olives into the mouth whenever Bergerac isn’t paying proper attention. Nothing has been settled yet, so I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.

Stinky munchkins of doom

Every so often, I put on my new boots and totter off to the grocery store to purchase all those things that keep me from starving to death. I say totter, not because I in any way resemble an infant in the way I walk, but because it is hard to move like a graceful adult on roads which consist mainly of ice.

When I woke up on this morning, stomach growling and Bergerac (my mind) telling me that there was nothing particularly tempting in the fridge, I knew it was tottering-time once more, so off I went.

I like walking to the store – not that I, in my drivers-licence-free state, have any choice – because then I get to philosophise over what sort of foodstuff I would like to buy. It’s strange how much of the time is spent thinking about cookies. Things such as carrots and beats never come up. Go figure.

Very pleased with having made it to the mall without getting my luvely footwear wet, I pulled one of those little blue plastic baskets out of its stack with a graceful swish. Rather, it would have been graceful if I hadn’t almost knocked over a display of Christmassy nuts.

I quickly pulled out my shopping list from my coat pocket, pretending that the Christmas-display- murder-by-plastic-basket had never taken place. I always write a list. If I don’t, I always forget something and end up buying soap in stead. The process of how that happens is a mystery probably best not dwelt upon. Let’s just say that if you’re ever out of soap, I’m your gal.

Right on top of my list, scribbled with a bright red pen, was the word “Milk”, and so I started the exciting journey towards the dairy isle. After having picked out a fine looking carton specimen, I reached out my hand to grab it. At that very moment someone shouted something which sounded like “Gerfuch vivong!” The next thing I knew, two tiny women hopped past me, placed themselves in between myself and my chosen carton of milk, and then proceeded to ravage the poor dairy isle. Yoghurt, milk and butter was literally thrown from their comfortable homes and into the tiny women’s cart. Any objections on my account were effectively muffled by the thick fog of cheap perfume which hung around them, leaving poor Bergerac unable to function properly.

Then they disappeared as soon as they had appeared. Somewhat disoriented, I placed the milk carton into my basket and moved towards the second item on my list: bread.

Once again, I carefully considered my options before I selected a plump looking bread, reached out my little arm towards it, and…. “Yoshyou schepflunk!”

Then there were little, blonde heads in front of me for a second time, accompanied by groceries flying through the air and the overwhelming haze of Eau De Brothel.

I eventually escaped the store with all my groceries and my life intact, but I’m not entirely sure whether or not the clown that I saw on my way home was real, or some hallucination brought on by perfume poisoning.



Photo by Ryker Beck for www.Flickr.com

Emerging from the plastic wrap: I'm a frikkin butterfly.

Guess what, folks! The plastic wrap around in front of all my windows is almost gone. The landlord covered them with plastic a while back in order to spray paint the house. At first it was just foggy, then the painting started, and it got pretty damn dark. Combined with the fumes it could have easily put me into a paranoid state where I’d convince myself that I was being buried alive. That would have given us all something to laugh about later.

I have a final exam on Friday, so I’m hoping that my brain - also known as Bergerac – will return from its trip soon. It went away pretty much the moment the plastic came up. I need Bergerac in order to do my pre-exam hibernation routine. That’s when I lock myself up in my apartment and studystudystudy until those little grey cells start to seep out of my ears and nostrils just to get away from it all. I’d leave a light on in the window for it if I didn’t think that would set the blinds on fire.

Bergerac isn't home

There is plastic in front of all my windows. This must be what it feels like to live inside a soapbubble. The house is about to be spraypainted, so I’d imagine that it’ll smell anything but soapy. Where I used to live, back before I moved to Hellhole, farmers used to spray pee from unsuspecting cattle on their fields. That didn’t smell soapy either.

And I’m off to a wonderful start.

The thing is, I have absolutely nothing to say.

My brain, otherwise known as Bergerac, has gone away for a couple of days. It felt that it had earned a break after I put it through and intensive lab course all last week and an exam on Friday, not to mention loads of analysis I had to finish over the weekend. Analysis… Analysisis… See? Bergerac isn’t here.

Meet Mr. Green!

For those of you who have been paying attention, you might recall that last year I mentioned that my lawn mower was the devil. Whenever you turned it on, thick clouds of smoke would well from it, oil would spatter everywhere and it would make a sound like a hundred mice being slowly squeezed to death. For this reason, I was now ready to mow my lawn for the first time this season with a brand new, hopefully non-demonic, and very orange mower, which I decided to name Mr. Green.

So there I was, in the middle of my garden with Mr. Green, surrounded by far too tall grass. I pulled the starter-thingy and the engine roared to life. Or…well…“roared” might be an overstatement, it was more like an enthusiastic fart. Still, it was a nice change from the usual 20min battle it had been with the old devil spawn.

Thus far everything was terrific, but there was one itty, bitty little detail for which I was completely unprepared – the back wheels that moved all by themselves.

So the engine came to life with a loud fart and all of a sudden, Mr. Green blasted forwards, clumps of grass flying in all directions. I hung on for dear life, while the little voice in my head (Toots) yelled “GHOST! It’s a GHOST!”

Luckily the rational part of my brain, which is called Bergerac, decided to join us. “Perhaps you should let go of the handle,” it suggested. I did, and the mower's enraged attack of the garden seized immediately.

Now I have a freshly mowed lawn, although it is a bit funny looking, seeing how I haven’t quite worked out the aim just yet.


In further news, I had an exam on Friday. There are two things in this world that make me incredibly grumpy, if not straight out malevolent, and those two things are 1) gardening and 2) exams. This means that this past weekend I was so grouchy, I just wanted to rip someone’s head off and then make my way through town and beat people to death with it.

I didn’t, though… I wasn’t me, and you can’t prove it.