And that was.

My hands are cracked and bleeding. I’m always forgetting to put cream on them, something to make them soft and supple. They’re all harsh and cracked.

I lay in bed last night and shivered. I wasn’t cold. It was early and I didn’t want to be there. I know this is going to be a bad week; I already want it over, done and gone. It’ll drudge on and I will shiver in my bed.

I’m feeling quite unbalanced. Irritable without cause; this week is really no worse than last week but I feel less able to cope. Today I couldn’t cope with being treated badly. I wasn’t happy with it yesterday either. On Sunday it really got me down and in getting me down repeated itself until I drank myself ill and failed to feel better.
I feel insecure and unstable. I feel unbalanced. I feel like crying, weeping, giving in to it. I hate crying, weeping, giving in to it. It’s too ridiculous when you’re alone. It’s too ridiculous when there’s nothing really wrong.

I had all these things I meant to do but everything’s shifted for this week and I barely have the energy to be tired. I do not have the stamina for work. I am being petty and bitchy and a ridiculous gossip – everyone is more interesting than me, even when they’re not. I don’t want to think about all the things that are wrong but I’ve forgotten what the right is.

Fuck this. I don’t need it.

I think it’s time for Mile High and chocolate ice-cream. Real life be damned.

Drug rant.

Here’s a pet hate for you: the substitution of ‘drug’ for ‘dragged’ as in ‘I drug my ass off the couch’. (To me, and I would hope to most native English speakers, that phrase is a world of confusion involving what are quite probably illegal substances being misused by a poorly placed donkey and an oddly positioned ‘off’. Oddly enough, the phrase ‘I drug my arse off the couch’ makes more sense to me but only when stoned off my tits.) The past tense of drag is not drug. A drug queen is not yesterday’s drag queen. A drug is a medicine or a fucking good time, sometimes both. As a word it has no other meaning. And yes, I mean you North America – you’re the only people I’ve ever seen do this and though I understand the word in context, though I get what you mean, it pisses me off each and every time I see it.

The long and winding path

It could be said that when it comes to unexpected guests I fail to rise to the occasion with aplomb. It could even be that my instincts are, in fact, to run and hide within the comfy confines of my bed, tucking up my toes, and whispering ‘if I can’t see them, they can’t see me, if I can’t see them, I can’t see me, no, wait’. Lately, however, I’ve been inclined otherwise.

Today was an otherwise ordinary day. I raised myself from my bed before realising that it was hideously early and I really ought to nap a while longer – so I went back to bed and napped a while longer. I, most unfortunately, made it work on time. I, even more unfortunately, worked – though not to the best of my ability, I’m having end of week lag. Once that session of incredible boredom was over I hitched a ride home and hooked up my addiction to see what the rest of the world had done. Then there came a knock to the wall and I wandered over to see what the matter was. There were people perched upon the doorstop that was having delusions of wallness. The doorstop was the one having the delusions but the people seemed inclined to be part of it. I waved from my window (you didn’t think I’d open the door to such strangers, did you?) and exchanged a minor and nonsensical greeting with a slightly bruised young fellow. My instincts numbed by boredom and confronted with the ragtag and motley crew who together form Burgher Russell’s band of travelling troubadours (or is that tarts? I’m having some trouble with T words) I threw caution to the wind and opened the door. After that, it was all I could do to stutter a weak and poorly accented ‘Bonjour Messieurs & Mesdames’ and prop the poorly located door open. ‘Do come inside, it’s a pleasure to meet you.’
Opening the door before hosing down my, I’m sure, esteemed guests proved a mistake. It was clear that they had been travelling for some time and knowing, in my own small way, the perils of travel I offered up the most gentle of suggestions about the beauty of the facilities, one area in which the renovation has gone well, and the freshness of the towels. ‘Out the back,’ I cried. ‘No, the other back.’ And was once more alone and able to make my abode fit for company and/or general habitation.
It was a sweeter scented and overly giggly bunch who later trouped into my parlour. Where I used my weak and poorly accented English to offer them refreshment and, inadvertently, I’m sure, a place to call their own for as long as it was needed. (English, it turns out, is an awkward way of offering hospitality to strangers – one comes over all uptight and foolish and makes offers beyond what is really meant. It an also be awkward for just explaining things.) At that point, however, their little eyes engaged in a collective doze and they slumped rather rudely (I rather forgot to offer them fresh clothing and the poor dears were too polite to ask) about the room on any number of soft, squishy, and over-stuffed things. After removing myself from beneath one who had clearly mistaken me for a very modern sofa, I stoked the fire and left the room. Mayhap we will resume on the morrow...

An ad for Famous Stars has just made me realise what want to be when I grow up - I want to be a has-been!

Mark the manic monkey

The full moon pretty much always sets me up for weird dreams. Not just weird but dreams that are so intense and so busy that I wake exhausted. This has turned into some kind of new-age dream-journal fuckwit fest because I’m about to share a snippet of a dream with you.
Picture a tropical island. Nice, huh? Personally, I’m not a fan of anything tropical especially not if it’s a flavour. For some reason I’m on this tropical island (it’s one I know fairly well having spent numerous childhood holidays there and please don’t-think-that-it’s-really-a-whole-lot-lamer-than-you-think) and I’m looking for something. I probably don’t find it because all I ever have is a nebulous search-feeling rather than any real idea about what’s going on. Joining me on this quest is Mark who is acting agent provocateur presumably in the hope that I would murder him. It does not, therefore, surprise me when this tropical island is suddenly sporting a university, one that is creepily and unhappily like a university that I once dropped out of. I am even less surprised that this university is holding a conference where the norm seems to be that the speakers roam about nature like mad monks and lecture. Maybe Mark is trying to get me to murder because he leads me to a pontificating Glen who has some poor girl in tow who seems to be trying to seduce him whilst he lectures. I spend the rest of the dream attempting to escape everyone because, really, all I want is a nap. I climb rocks and run through mazes of trees and hideous dream buildings and listen to numerous lectures on things that I either don’t understand or have no interest in or simply don’t care about.
I awoke unable to recall any of the lectures and somewhat horrified that I had been dreaming about bloggers again. Again, you ask? I once had a dream that we, and who the we is I don’t know, had Scooby-doo unmasked Anonymous Lefty as a girl. I’m still not convinced in either direction on that one.
Is there a support group for this? Also, I do apologise if anyone is offended by my dream representations or exclusions. Forgive me, I know not what I dream (well, not until later and am frequently horrified). And yes, the complete lack of sex in either of these dreams offends me too though given the company, well, possibly a good thing. No offence, honestly.

On the next census I’m going to put my religion as Slartibartfastarian because by then Intelligent Design will be taught in schools and I want everyone to know which creator I ascribe Earth to.

Who here thinks that cunt-for-brains is a good insult? Think on it.

An oldie but a goodie

I went shopping today in hot pursuit of a diary, amongst other things. I really have the most dreadful handwriting and, in a diary of the handwritten variety, require two things – ruled pages and decent paper. Ruled for a pretence of neatness and good paper because, well, poor quality paper is so uninspiring to write on. I am not a particularly good diarist, tending to purchase pretty books and barely fill them in before moving on or simply forgetting about them, but I am presently quite inspired. It may be that I’ve watched Bridget Jones a few to many times lately (the proliferation of late night game shows will send me to an early grave or, perhaps, force me to do something other than watch tv) but I feel the need to write and think, or perhaps the reverse. My motivations, however, are not all that relevant to the post I was going to write before I got lost in why-I-need-a-special-diary. Let us take it as a given that having decided to diary I set forth to find the perfect book. Or, at least, a halfway reasonable one. I set forth today with good intentions and with an idea of how difficult it is to find a book that fulfils my criteria. I visited specialty shops whose prices and staff had me running for the exit. As it happens, I do not want to pay one hundred dollars for something that I am going to fill with the written equivalent of effluent. It seems a little wasteful. I also do not want to be treated like a (terribly fat and conspicuous) thief. Treating me like a thief will not encourage me to buy your over-priced and frequently ugly wares. In desperation, I eventually headed to Dymocks stationary shop where I know they don’t carry anything I really want – diarywise of course, otherwise – it’s stationary pant pant. And there I found the book that, if not entirely perfect, will certainly do really very well. A Moleskine, can you imagine? With a packet of black Kilometricos.

When swelling of the brain is a positive.

I keep having these dreams where I have several overdue pieces of assessment that I know will never be completed and that prevent me from obtaining my degree. This is, as it happens, a fairly accurate representation of my over-drawn university career except that I’ve got the degree, framed, and sitting on my bookshelf. That particular hurdle, though long and stressful, what with the inability to hand in work, is well in the past. So why, I have to ask, the dreams? And why are they so real? I have woken and been momentarily tense with the worry of all the work I have to do. Then I remember. Nothing is due, all I have to do is make it to work on time and perform my monkey job with my customary over-caution. All things considered, I work a little too hard for my money – except when there’s nothing to do. I am, as a colleague says, half-annoyed, very thorough. It is, in all, a rubbish job, a job, one that can be left at the end of the day without a thought. One where the next day is, more or less, a fresh start. So why am I constantly feeling that something’s been forgotten? It’s not work – there is no ‘due’ and once I’ve left there’s nothing – no on-going projects, nothing for tomorrow, really nothing that needs me. And still this feeling. It could be the bills, of course; I wouldn’t put unnecessary worrying about bills past my psyche for playing tricks on me. However, I don’t think it’s anything so trivial. I’m starting to think that even my brain is worried about my stasis. Life, not merely movement. Nothing has happened; I’ve allowed nothing to happen in quite some time. I am in the same position, in almost every single way, that I was in this time last year. Not a thing has changed. There’s something really very unnatural about that. It’s not even a very good position. I’m in a silly, boring, routine job for which I am grossly over-educated, my personal life is the same in every way except, perhaps, that I now see even less of people than I used to. I look the same, feel the same, act the same, I probably think the same. I have taken ennui to previously un-experienced levels. I am bored and boring - and the déjà vu that I’m presently experiencing suggests that I’ve commented on this before. Oh the horrible horrible sameness. And what I feel is trapped and afraid. I don’t know, not even a little, what it is I want now. I want escape but I do not, I cannot. I certainly would not leave everything behind, not entirely. Would I? I’m always told that I have potential, that I’m wasting it. ‘Potential,’ they always say and then nothing, no explanation. It’s just a word that doesn’t really mean anything. It’s waiting to be told. Maybe it describes me aptly. I am not really anything; I am waiting to be told. Only, of course, if I was told I wouldn’t listen. We all have our measures of perversity. Oh how I moan. I am the hypocrite, aren’t I? I condemn others for whinging and turn about and do it myself. Stupidly, forgetfully, and entirely upon the subject of my vanity.
It’s time for the trivial, no?
I missed the bus today and so stood about the QVB sipping coffee and hiding from the rain. I was also indulging in eye-candy, being on the level to see the passing parade. I caught the eye of one, who’d been accosted by an umbrella and then giggled at by its owner, just as I was smirking at his predicament. The umbrella’s owner was giggling because he was a really quite lovely young man whose eye she’d nearly poked out and was quite embarrassed. I was merely amused at her embarrassment. I had another stop to ask me for directions. I’d been staring in a quite inappropriate manner at this young man as he’s walked past me. Shortly thereafter he stopped, turned and came and asked me for directions. I couldn’t even help him with the directions as I never note street names. He eventually wandered off with a map. I do have a knack for getting rid of men. Usually I just use my deadened gaze but with this one I just made the both of us feel foolish, quite unintentionally too. That déjà vu is back.
I must go attend to something now.

I know. I know. I know.

I'm pretty shit at this and now it's late and I'm going cross-eyed and simply can't be arsed.

The green is pretty filthy, isn't it? I swear I'll change it when I find a better colour and can figure out just where to shove it.

I’ve been clumsy for days. Standing up and half falling over as my spastic feet forget their spastic selves. Standing and dropping back in one un-graceful movement. Taking a step and tripping over. Fumbling with buttons and catches and all little things. Even my hair has been uncooperative and slip-slidey in a most aggravating way. Before I could leave the house today I pinned on and then dropped a broach twice, I nearly fell over my feet in the kitchen; I dropped the keys at the door and fumbled with the locks. I think I managed to bathe and breakfast but my mind was otherwise occupied. I woke up thinking of the economic structure of the Wombles. Yes, those Wombles. I was very concerned about one in particular as he seemed a bit of a dope-smoking slacker and then I became altogether too concerned about rubbish and keeping Wimbledon common in order. I don’t even like Wombles. They’re puppets, you see, I’ve never been very keen on believing the actions of something that’s clearly lacking a brain. That might explain some of my antipathy towards George Dubya.
Speaking of antipathy, the little man holds out for another term – I’m sure I’ll raise a finger in salute. Or perhaps I’ll raise a hand to the lord ‘oh why hast thou forsaken us? oh yes, that’s right, the unending stream of cock-ups’. I ponder atheism and suddenly see the light; I really ought to pay the electric before it goes out and while I’m still allowed it. And I wonder where I’ll go and what I’ll be when I’m no longer welcome here for it is surely only a matter of time. A joke once, of idealistic internment, of being sent back to the place of one’s birth – how I lose out there. Isn’t it awful when you know you ought to fight but the flight instinct is greater. There’s nothing more you can do here, play your mind tricks on me and see how eager I am to bite to believe to do whatever and see how much I’m lying and how long I can go on lying. Maybe for a day it’ll be okay. The expected news still feels like a slap in the face. How’s that for self delusion? I’m in the atheists bind – I can pray to no-one for an early release. Even my words are clumsy now.