Unrequited Lust of the Pointless Kind.

I fancy the lovely Daniel from Big Brother. This is seriously depressing.

I hate fancying gay men. It's worse than lusting after film stars. At least when you lust after, say, Johnny Depp, there remains the highly unlikely and very tiny but still real possibility that one day you might bump into him in the street and he'll fall deeply in love with you, take you home and shag you senseless.

Lusting after gay men is completely pointless and deeply unsatisfying. You can't even fantasize about them and they're certainly never going to bump into you on the street, fall deeply in love and take you home and shag you. Or even not fall in love and still shag you anyway.

Why does my limbic brain not know this? Why has it ignored the rational part of my brain which says "He's gay so he likes men, and you're a woman so that means he won't like you."

Surely, if we were better designed, as soon as the rational part of my brain knew he was gay it should have switched off the lusting after bit. You'd think, wouldn't you?

Honestly. Can nobody create anything that works properly these days?

Tut.

I think Halle Berry was specifically created to make all women everywhere feel bad about themselves.

I want to look like her but it is impossible for me to ever look like her regardless of how many sit ups I do (today 35, yesterday 30) since a/she is impossibly beautiful and b/we have completely different skin colours.

She has to be specifically created for that purpose, or else how does it work? How else is it that Halle Berry was born looking like she does, and I was born looking the way I do?

That's not genetics.

That's just a miserable trick.

This is my wall:



What do you see when you look up from your computer?

The Mysterious And Shocking Tale Of Harsh Reality As Defined By The Vanish Oxy Action Incident.

So we're in Sainsbury's and I am perusing the shelves and shelves of washing powder when Harry says to me, "Mummy, are you looking for something to get your whites whiter than white?"

I look at him and I see his completely serious, so I say, "Sort of. I'm looking for something to get the grass marks and mud stains out of your once-white-now-gray school shirts."

"Well, what you need is this then," he says, and he confidently hands me a bottle of Vanish Oxy Action In-Wash. "It gets the stains out of everything."

"Does it now." I say to him. "Well then we'd better get it hadn't we?"

So we buy it, and we go home and I measure out my 100ml to add to the wash, and I rub the neat liquid into the stubborn stains and leave it for 10 minutes before I start the wash as well, exactly like it tells me to on the bottle.

And I do the wash.

Later on I'm talking to my Mum and I say to her, as I unload the washing, "Look at this. They're still as bad as ever and I washed everything on 60 degrees. Bollocks to Vanish Oxy Action."

And I hear Harry careering in from the other room. "Pardon?" He says.
"What do you mean?" I say.
"What did you just tell Grandma? He says.
"You mean I said Bollocks?" I say.
"Nooo", he says, "you told Grandma that the Vanish Oxy Action didn't work."

And he looks at me like I've just told the biggest lie in the world.

"But it didn't, Harry," I say. "Look." And I show him the still-stained school shirts.

And he looks at them, and he looks at me, and he is flabbergasted. Utterly lost for words.

"What's the matter?" I say.

He takes a shirt from the washing and looks at it, and then he shakes his head and says, "On the telly they said it did work, but it hasn't worked in our house."

"No." I say.

And he stands there for a minute trying to formulate his thoughts and then he finally says, "So that means that, that means that the telly advert people, well the telly advert people were just all telling really big lies!

Good evening. You are tuned to Radio Olulabelle, coming live to you from the South West of glorious England. You are listening in stereo.

Thank you for tuning in tonight, song of the evening is Mr Brightside, by The Killers.

We hope you enjoy this station.


****

I can't sing because my throat is really sore, and I hate that. Not that it matters if I sing badly since there's only me and the dog here to listen and the dog thinks I rock however badly I sing, but still.

Tout fatigue,
Tout casse,
Tout passe.

Oh. Spoke too soon.

Back to the original form I was in...

Blogger has redesigned it's site. It's heaps easier to use, but all my old comments have gone.

It's like being reborn.

A great, big, beautiful may bug flies into my window with a huge 'thunk', bangs it's head, falls onto it's back on the windowsill, wriggles around waving it's legs looking like it feels useless, and eventually wiggles itself off the windowsill and onto the ground.

I wait. It's a may bug after all, they're not known for their brains.

It then proceeds to complete the whole process again.

"Excellent." I think. Silly, noisy maybugs have arrived. Summer is obviously nearly here."

Later I look in my book to make sure it is a may bug, even though I know it is. This is what it says:

The cockchafer (may bug) is one of the more familiar of the beetles, thanks to its habit of flying noisily about on warm early summer evenings and crashing into windows.

Ha!

Fucking horrible bastard tree-stealing arses.

You know that picture I posted of my Magnolia flower?

Well, today whilst I was out, someone came and stole my Magnolia tree from right outside my house. I live in a dead end village in the middle of nowhere, there's hardly any 'through' traffic. The tree was about five feet tall, it was in a big pot about a metre wide and about half a metre deep, and it would have taken at least two people to carry it. They would have needed a van to take it away.

This means that it wasn't just opportunist crime, but totally premeditated. Some fucker drove past my house and thought, 'What a lovely tree in a lovely pot, I think I'll come back with a mate and a van and steal that."

Either that or they thought they'd get a few quid for it in a car boot sale.

Bastards.

My Mum bought it for me when it was just tiny and I've lavished care and attention on it for three years. It had eight flowers on it this year. That's really good for a Magnolia tree that age.

I am so upset, and so angry! What kind of horrible, low-life git steals a fucking tree?

People, they really, really suck sometimes.

Fractal theory in the proverbial nutshell.

Blimey. You know when you get something in your head but there's no way you could explain it to anyone? I hope I've got this right! It's taken me ages to make it make some sort of sense.

So OK, do this:


Cut a piece of paper, about 2.5cm wide and about 12cm long.

Holding it in both hands, move your right hand towards your left to fold it in half.

Hold the halved paper, and repeat the right to left movement.

Do this two more times. This means your paper should be folded four times, all of those using a right to left movement. You should have a strip of paper folded a lot and looking very uninteresting.

Unfold it, making sure to crease each fold as you do, so you can clearly see where they are. Turn it on it's thin edge and move it around until it looks like this:



The easy way to find the correct layout of it is to look for the 'square'.

This is called the first iteration.

Now, if you folded it all up and continued to fold it again for the same amount of times, what you would get is this:



This is called the second iteration.

If you kept on doing it and kept on doing it, what you would eventually get is this:



This would be the fifitieth iteration.


See? That's basically how fractals work. It's easy!

If you want to go further and look at it in a tabular way, for this particular fractal sequence you should imagine that your folded paper is a road. The first turn you make is a 'right' one.



This is always the same and always in the centre of your table.

R

On the second fold, if you fold your paper out you can see that initially you've done the same thing as before; made a right turn. But then you turn right again, and then left.



So your table reads as so:

RRL

On fold three the fractal rules start to come into play.



Because each iteration always starts out with the previous iteration, all the entries to the left of the centre table (R) are the entries of the iteration (or table if it's simpler) before.

RRLR

And the entries to the right of the table are the opposite of the ones on the left.

RRLL

So table three actually looks like this:

RRLRRLL

You see? It's kind of like opposite reflections. Sort of like symmetry, but cooler.

The rule is, the last entry into the right hand side of the table should be the opposite of the first entry on the left.

So if you look at your folded paper, and you make your fourth fold, and then you fold it out, it should look like this:



To tabulate that you need to start with your centre 'right' R.

And then to the left of that all the code you have already established, the whole of the previous third iteration:

RRLRRLL

RRLRRLLR

And to the right of it, the whole of the previous iteration but reversed RRLLRLL from centre outward.

Remember, each letter is the opposite of the one on the left of the centre R.

RRRLLRLL

So the final tabulated iteration is RRLRRLLRRRLLRLL  



Isn't it beautiful?



Three rules for this fractal:

1/Start with a Right in the centre.
2/All the iterations to the left of the centre are the same as the table before.
3/All the iterations to the right of the centre are the opposite as the corresponding ones on the left.


*****


You might think this is dull, but for me it's just lovely.


So, Ha. Go forth and multiply!

Bluebells again.

I know I keep going on about it and I should shut up because it's getting very dull, but LOOK.



That picture is taken with my phone. It's low res and pretty rubbish. And yet still.

I mean, really, how can I shut up about it?

Parallels.

Gardening and sex are about equal in my book.

They both require care. Sometimes you need to be tender and gentle, sometimes harsh and forceful. They both make you smile and they both make you feel blissful. Often you find yourself in an unusual position, giving it your undivided attention, but equally as often you find yourself doing the same enjoyable easy things repeatedly, and without really thinking about it.

Sometimes they're spontaneous, sometimes you plan exactly what you are going to do. They both have a deep rooted and many levelled purpose in life, but are equally as enjoyable when just done for fun.

They both make you sweaty, and if you do either of them for a long period of time you end up aching, and tired, yet satiated.

They both make your hands dirty if you're really doing them properly.

They're very easy, they're accessible to anyone, and you don't really need to know much in order to be good at it but paying attention to any information you're given can only help.

And, of course, they're both at their most wonderful when done with someone you love.

So yeah. I'm tired. But there's also someone up on Barbelith whom I like talking to.

We appear to live in different timezones, although we live in the same country. But when I get up in the morning at least I get to trawl through previously held conversations.

Hmmmm. You know, trawl isn't the word I need. The word I need means to diligently read past conversations, but only, really, in order to see a particular name.

That word. That word is what I do.

Scroll, scroll, scroll, read... go back and read everything else if relevant.

Scroll, scroll, scroll, read... go back and read everything else if relevant.

Sometimes I wish I lived in that timezone too, lots of the people I like are night-owls. Lots.

And given the choice, I am too. Given the choice I would get up midday, maybe later, and stay up till 4am, 5am because I find I am at my most creative then. But if you stay up till 5am and then you have to get up for school at 7.30am, all you do when you've driven to school and back is go back to bed.

Which isn't ideal. Really.

And if I had a job, (like who's going to hire me? Me: I need to leave by 4.30pm at the latest in order to collect my son. Them: FUCK OFF.) then I really couldn't do the night-owl thing anyway, no matter how much I leaned that way.

Still.

There's someone up on Barbelith whom I like talking to.

And yeah.

I'm tired.

But like I say, there's someone up on Barbelith whom I like.

Oh, it's so simple when you know how.

The mystery of the funny A symbol is solved.

From Blogger: Your template was missing the tag that causes your page to appear with the correct character encoding. I added this to the head section of your HTML:
meta http-equiv="Content-Type"content="text/html;charset=<$BlogEncoding$"

(Obviously I have removed the open and close tags to reproduce it here.)

I tell you this just in case you were fretting about it. You see.

But you know what the mildly frustrating part is? Now they've fixed this for me, none of my previous posts make any sense at all.