I feel like utter crap today. And it's funny because my Biorhythms say I should be on a high. Which goes to show. What do they know? Crying in the loo and staring out the window. Too hateful of myself to bear looking a/down or b/in the mirror. I keep thinking that maybe what I need is a really big cuddle but that's not something that's available from anyone right now.
I am so sick of hating myself, christ, I can't even look people in the eye. I think people hate me, can't be bothered to waste time talking to me. This is so egocentric! Nobody gives a shit what I look like, why should they? But still I keep saying hideous things to myself, then try to counteract that with something nice. I know the lines about being good to yourself to feel good, being kind to yourself, making yourself feel special. I know that, but the trouble is the real bit of my brain, the 'me' bit, (not the faker saying the kind things it is 'supposed' to) the real me bit knows that the faker's talking bollocks and that it, me, I, am right.
Uplook your very own biorhythms here.
Thursday, February 24, 2005
Tuesday, February 22, 2005
Maryland is for crabs.
It says here.
What a wicked gift! It's from my friend in America whom I've never met in person, but with whom I regularly correspond via the internet and parcelforce. Chocolate is the mainstay of such parcels but occasionally wonderfully weird things like this lighter also arrive. And I do love this parcel correspondence because there is never any discussion of it, things just come and get sent.
The lovely boy adores these sometime packages as much as me, especially when as a result of them he gets to eat Spongebob Squarepants sweets for pudding.
Anyway, I digress. What I wanted to say was, 'Maryland is for crabs' is the best tourist slogan I have ever come across and I couldn't begin to compete. The only thing I have which is even vaguely similar, is this:
For those of you unclear about the picture, it depicts 'zummerzet' locals drinking cider.
Oh, and now you nick my lighter at your peril. I defy anyone I know in the UK to own such a thing.
It says here.
What a wicked gift! It's from my friend in America whom I've never met in person, but with whom I regularly correspond via the internet and parcelforce. Chocolate is the mainstay of such parcels but occasionally wonderfully weird things like this lighter also arrive. And I do love this parcel correspondence because there is never any discussion of it, things just come and get sent.
The lovely boy adores these sometime packages as much as me, especially when as a result of them he gets to eat Spongebob Squarepants sweets for pudding.
Anyway, I digress. What I wanted to say was, 'Maryland is for crabs' is the best tourist slogan I have ever come across and I couldn't begin to compete. The only thing I have which is even vaguely similar, is this:
For those of you unclear about the picture, it depicts 'zummerzet' locals drinking cider.
Oh, and now you nick my lighter at your peril. I defy anyone I know in the UK to own such a thing.
Thursday, February 17, 2005
'Missing' Plutonium...
Apparently, Sellafield has 'lost' enough Plutonium to make seven Nuclear bombs. (They don't say what size bomb.)
But it's alright though because it's only a 'paper' loss. In other words their records say they should have it but in practice it's not there.
Hello?? Isn't that an actual loss? If the petty cash tally says you should have fifty quid in the box but inside there is only forty, surely the answer is that someone is nicking it?!
Apparently, Sellafield has 'lost' enough Plutonium to make seven Nuclear bombs. (They don't say what size bomb.)
But it's alright though because it's only a 'paper' loss. In other words their records say they should have it but in practice it's not there.
Hello?? Isn't that an actual loss? If the petty cash tally says you should have fifty quid in the box but inside there is only forty, surely the answer is that someone is nicking it?!
Repeat after me: Gotobedgotobedgotobed.
Failing that...
I've got a friend who is appalling at spelling. However he's one of the most articulate, intelligent, fascinatingly erudite people I know. His tutor at college (he's a mature student) told him he should be tested for Dyslexia but he's worried that if he gets tested and he's not Dyslexic, then that means he must be thick.
This is what I think.
If he gets tested and he is Dyslexic then surely that would be nice to know. Also it means he can hand in all his written work on Tape (Strike that, these days I mean CD) which is fairly bargainous to say the least. And if he isn't Dyslexic it just means that he didn't pay very much attention in English at school. That, however, doesn't make him any less intelligent. It just makes him once a child who was far more interested in Lego/Building den's/Star wars* than learning that 'I' comes before 'E' except after 'C'.
I mean, do you know when the Crimean War was? I'll tell you. It was 1853.
Do you know Florence Nightingale had a tortoise on her ward in hospital? That she kept an owl called Athena? That she died in 1910 aged 90?
No, neither did I, even though I was taught it in school. I know it as of yesterday purely because the boy had a homework project to find out about Florence so we had to look her up. You see, it's interesting now. Of course it is! Now I'm 32 and care about knowledge and learning and such like.
*Sigh.* I really think we should start school when we're about 25 and start to care. Before that we should be allowed an entire childhood of dicking about.
*Delete as appropriate.
Failing that...
I've got a friend who is appalling at spelling. However he's one of the most articulate, intelligent, fascinatingly erudite people I know. His tutor at college (he's a mature student) told him he should be tested for Dyslexia but he's worried that if he gets tested and he's not Dyslexic, then that means he must be thick.
This is what I think.
If he gets tested and he is Dyslexic then surely that would be nice to know. Also it means he can hand in all his written work on Tape (Strike that, these days I mean CD) which is fairly bargainous to say the least. And if he isn't Dyslexic it just means that he didn't pay very much attention in English at school. That, however, doesn't make him any less intelligent. It just makes him once a child who was far more interested in Lego/Building den's/Star wars* than learning that 'I' comes before 'E' except after 'C'.
I mean, do you know when the Crimean War was? I'll tell you. It was 1853.
Do you know Florence Nightingale had a tortoise on her ward in hospital? That she kept an owl called Athena? That she died in 1910 aged 90?
No, neither did I, even though I was taught it in school. I know it as of yesterday purely because the boy had a homework project to find out about Florence so we had to look her up. You see, it's interesting now. Of course it is! Now I'm 32 and care about knowledge and learning and such like.
*Sigh.* I really think we should start school when we're about 25 and start to care. Before that we should be allowed an entire childhood of dicking about.
*Delete as appropriate.
Wednesday, February 16, 2005
Tick, Tock, Ticky-Tick-Tock.
Where does the time go?
I don't have any time any more.
I can't sleep, I don't dream, and my days are spent writing documents about rare snails and light pollution. I get home, I feed the lovely boy, I feed me (too much) I drink (too much) and I watch crap television. Television is crap. Why do I waste my time watching it?
Where has the sun gone? Where does the day go? I drive two hours a day to get to work and I leave in the dark and get home in the dark.
This is not life.
Where has this evening gone? It's one o'clock in the morning. I should be in bed, to not sleep, to not dream, to get up in the morning, bleary eyed and have to switch all the lights on in the house.
It's halfway through February already.
Give me back the sun, the warm evenings. Let me have the time to paint, to write, to learn the guitar. Let me learn how to silversmith, to make soap, to dream.
Give me back the loveliness of laziness. The laziness of love.
To dream.
This is not life.
Where does the time go?
I don't have any time any more.
I can't sleep, I don't dream, and my days are spent writing documents about rare snails and light pollution. I get home, I feed the lovely boy, I feed me (too much) I drink (too much) and I watch crap television. Television is crap. Why do I waste my time watching it?
Where has the sun gone? Where does the day go? I drive two hours a day to get to work and I leave in the dark and get home in the dark.
This is not life.
Where has this evening gone? It's one o'clock in the morning. I should be in bed, to not sleep, to not dream, to get up in the morning, bleary eyed and have to switch all the lights on in the house.
It's halfway through February already.
Give me back the sun, the warm evenings. Let me have the time to paint, to write, to learn the guitar. Let me learn how to silversmith, to make soap, to dream.
Give me back the loveliness of laziness. The laziness of love.
To dream.
This is not life.
Friday, February 11, 2005
The UK has finally turned into an everlasting episode of The Day Today.
First, there was the new IKEA superstore riot in London as people crushed each other (actually crushed each other) in order to get their very own fitted washable covered sofabed for a knock-down price.
This in itself is dowright strange because it means as a nation we appear to be completely apathetic about, say, participating in a war, but are prepared to stage a full riot in order to refurnish our houses.
But then I heard Newsnight reading an email sent to them by Alistair Campbell in response to the infamous alleged Jew bashing adverts, which finished with (and I kid you not) "Now fuck off and do some work, you twats."
Alistair Campbell.
Sent that to Newsnight.
...
First, there was the new IKEA superstore riot in London as people crushed each other (actually crushed each other) in order to get their very own fitted washable covered sofabed for a knock-down price.
This in itself is dowright strange because it means as a nation we appear to be completely apathetic about, say, participating in a war, but are prepared to stage a full riot in order to refurnish our houses.
But then I heard Newsnight reading an email sent to them by Alistair Campbell in response to the infamous alleged Jew bashing adverts, which finished with (and I kid you not) "Now fuck off and do some work, you twats."
Alistair Campbell.
Sent that to Newsnight.
...
Wednesday, February 02, 2005
Not-so-free information
So whilst at where I work we are killing ourselves trawling through ancient and dusty stacks of old files, picking out the relevant bits in order to comply with the new legislation, the government, it appears, can't really be arsed...
Not-so-free information.
So whilst at where I work we are killing ourselves trawling through ancient and dusty stacks of old files, picking out the relevant bits in order to comply with the new legislation, the government, it appears, can't really be arsed...
Not-so-free information.
Tuesday, February 01, 2005
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