Monthly Archives: September 2009

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It’s not
        the strongest
of the species that survives
                           nor
     the most intelligent
that survives. It is the one that is
most adaptable to change.
~Charles Darwin

Please let me know!

>If you get a weird pop-up asking for your Twitter log in information, let me know and I’ll kill the feed in the sidebar. I want to make it easier for people to read my blog, not harder.

EDIT!

At least one person gets an error when posting a comment. If you are getting that as well, let me know.

Monkey Business

>I’m messing with the blog template because I don’t like the one(s) I’ve had. There will be some upsets for awhile (i.e.: I’ve already messed up my Google Analytics) while I get this sorted.

Why did I decide to do this on my own?

Calling Dr. Freud

I rarely sleep well on Sunday nights.

I think it may be a throw-back to being a kid… you run around like an idiot all weekend and on Sunday night you didn’t want to go to sleep because you were staring down the long, dark tunnel of another school week. And I liked school.

I’ve always resisted going to bed. There’s a line in a song by Arcade Fire that sums it up for me: ‘Sleeping is giving in, no matter what the time is.’ It’s as though I’m worried I’ll miss something fun if I go to sleep. I felt that way when I was five, I feel that way now.

So I trick myself into go to bed. I know you are supposed to have a bedtime routine, but if I do that I end up throwing a tantrum and asking for glass after glass of water and yet another story so I don’t have to go to sleep (meaning that happens now, my moms wouldn’t let that happen when I was five). Instead, I very quickly turn off the lights, dump all my clothes on the floor and jump into bed before I even know what happened.

Yah, I fall for that. That I’m anywhere near intelligent is mostly a myth. I have to trick myself into going to bed by pretending I’m not going to bed until I’m in it. And it works most of the time. Freaking genius, I am.

So it was last night, but I at least had the good sense of doing my non-routine at about 10:00pm so I’d get a decent sleep. Or at least, that was the plan.

For some reason my sleep last night was plagued by horrible nightmares. And not just nightmares… it was like I was awake (I wasn’t, I was dreaming that I was awake) and thinking about these horrible things and getting progressively more upset with myself because I wasn’t sleeping. Even though I was.

But that’s not why the call for Dr. Freud to analyse my dreams last night. Most of them I don’t even remember this morning, despite being certain that I would last night. But there was one image that persisted – one that actually made me shudder this morning when I recalled it.

Not saying that dreams come true… but I do think what we dream about sometimes expose how we are feeling or what we can’t let go of subconsciously in a metaphorical or symbolic way. Like if you dream that you are being chased by Frankenstein but can’t move your legs, it may mean that you feel paralysed in your job and your boss communicates by grunting (or something like that).

So the most disturbing part of my dream last night? I had a lot (no, a LOT) of nails, needles, pins and other small, sharp things embedded in my skin all over my body. Or I assume they were all over – they were definitely in my arms, legs and face. I was pulling them out of my arms. And although it didn’t hurt to have them in there, it stung to pull them out. It was also kind of satisfying to pull them out (even though it was all stingy) – they came out easily but left small bumps where they had been.

So, that was my night. Dreams that I was awake and thinking about stuff like the above. Dreaming that I was awake and thinking these horrible thoughts and chiding myself for not being asleep. Asleep and dreaming that I was awake and reminding myself that I would be tired the next day because I wasn’t asleep.

Well, Freud? What the hell does that mean?

Nearly… blogged… resisted…. (FAIL)

>So, I read a Wired article about how we are essentially choosing to kill ourselves and it very nearly caused me to write a blog entry about it. Something witty and engaging. You know, my usual kind of stuff. Or junk. Or whatever.

But I resisted. I realised I had nothing really to say about it, even though it is an interesting idea. I couldn’t add to it. I couldn’t make you want to head over to Wired and read about how 55% of the premature deaths of 15 – 64 year old people are caused by personal decisions. Or how that number was just 5% 100 years ago. There, that’s what I have to say about that. Now put on a condom and a seat belt and live longer, idiot.

Either I’m getting stupider or Twitter is slowly killing my blog.

Some of the ideas that I used to puff up into something resembling a blog post I now pack down into 140 characters of snarky hilarity (or banality). So, I’m low on ideas of things to write about.

True, I’ve got the story ideas from The Challenge still to do. I’ve got most of the next one written. I just have to polish it and publish it. But what about when I’m done that?

Really, it isn’t so much that I have nothing to say (I mean, I always have something to say… that’s the burden of being an Authority on Everything) it is just that I don’t have the energy to say it. Oh sure, I’ll sweat and fight to get an idea to fit the 140 character restrains of Twitter, but I don’t feel like actually thinking about anything longer than that. Much how I think it’s fun to write a haiku every once in awhile, but that doesn’t mean I want to write a fucking sonnet, you know?

A Haiku about Blogging

Got nothing to say
But I’ll say it anyway
Turbotastical!

I’m beginning to suspect my blog is one day going to show up on a blog about how not to blog. I deserve that. There’s probably an unwritten rule written in a blog somewhere (because nothing is unwritten now that any idiot – yours truly gleefully included – can start and maintain a blog with the same ease that a 3 year-old can create art with a box of Crayolas and a colouring book) that you shouldn’t constantly apologise for being shite at blogging. Which is what I mostly blog about, really.

Things may improve though.

After next week, I have a new commute. Instead of the Late Bus of Evilness, I will be shuffled off to work in a subterranean city intestine; just one of the many (read: 4 million+) Londoners transported like cattle in a noisy tube with no WiFi, 3G or even Edge connections. This means that although there are things to look forward to in the new commute (read: no Late Bus of Evilness) there are bad things too… namely the Tube turns my snot black and I won’t be able to Twitter.

What I may do, however, is carry my laptop with me and draft blog posts while being held at a red signal outside of Earl’s fuck Court for the next millennium in the stink and dark of a carriage full of suits.

::SIDE NOTE::

How many times have you heard “We are being held at a red signal and should be moving shortly” whilst on the District Line just outside of Earl’s Court and wanted to scream, “FUCK YOU, YOU LYING BITCH!” back at the voice? Or is that just me?

::END SIDE NOTE::

So, maybe there’s some bloggin’ a’coming. I’m feeling all inspired by the fact that Careybatgirl has started a blog for me to read (I’m sure that’s not her only reason for doing it). I’ve said it before, and there’s a 94.6% chance I’ll say it again: Watch this space. I may still have some blog in me yet.

Exercise(n): Self-inflicted torture

>If you read through my blog (go on… I’ll wait for you to get back) you’ll notice a trend whereby every once in a while I make mention of my complete and utter disdain of all physical activity (except drinking, eating and sex).

Sure, sure… every now and then I’ll flirt dangerously close to something that vaguely resembles exercise, but I’m always quick to scurry away from it again, lest it becomes some sort of grotesque habit that I bore people in the pub chatting about.

::SIDE NOTE::

The very idea that I might talk to people in the pub about exercising already goes to show that I’ll ever get freakishly attached to doing it.

::END SIDE NOTE::

It isn’t that I don’t want the benefits that exercise can bring; I do. I want more energy. I want to sleep better. I want to wear a pair of jeans that doesn’t contain so much material that it could be used as a tarpaulin shelter for a nomadic family of twelve. But I want those benefits without earning them. I want them to just magically happen for me.

Somehow I don’t think I’m going to win this one.

So, I’ve been playing with my Wii now and then and calling it ‘exercise’. But after the crotch agony of a week and a half ago, I’ve been terrified of doing anything other than the little balancing games that I know won’t cause me grievous bodily harm.

I’ve toyed with the idea of actually exercising after I get home from work. But the 45 minute bus ride actually zaps my will to live and leaves me with little energy to do anything more physical than lay on the couch with a beer and contemplate life until my flatmate finishes making dinner.

::SIDE NOTE::

Can you even imagine how wonderful it is to go from living with people who manage to get poop on the wall to someone who cooks me freaking dinner?

::END SIDE NOTE::

So after work is out of the equation. And I didn’t even think about exercising before work… I get up early enough as it is. So what’s a girl to do?

Well, I’ve started doing yoga at work on Wednesdays. It is free and I thought it would help me get some of my flexibility back. Which it might. Once I can walk away from a session not bent over from agony and exhaustion, it might. Nah, it’s good. The class is small and the instructor is rad. She’s willing to push us and I’m willing to be pushed. My back and legs are sore but in a good way (although I still plan on complaining about it).

The other thing I’ve started doing is far more mental and even I can’t believe I thought this was a good idea. Because I’m too tired after riding the bus home to do any exercise… I’ve decided to forgo the bus home.

I’ve started walking (with a wee bit of running) home. What’s kinda daunting about it is the distance – 6.7 miles. Yikes. Yikes on a bun.

But I do get to run (walk) through Richmond Park, which is gorgeous. And full of deer. It is vaguely surreal to look past a dozen deer in a grassy field and see the Millennium Eye, The Gherkin and Canary Wharf.

Tonight is the third night I’m gonna do it, and at the moment I’m pretty stinking proud of myself. I’m still tired when I get home, and I probably look like a dork, trying to run (usually in the rain) after having not done so in 100 years and with my wee backpack on. But I guess the good thing is that I’m doing it.

I’ll let you know how long this one lasts. Right now I’m focusing on closing out the week.