Bitch on the Blog

September 20, 2017

Restraining order

Thanks to  all of you who took the trouble contributing to my last post, not least Looney who I hope won’t cause himself lasting damage.

I am happy to report that my attempt at saying nothing when I have nothing nice to say is paying off. It’s grand. I feel like a violin which has lost its varnish. Soon I’ll be the vision I have always dreamed of, an elegiac Miss Havisham dressed in white and brittle lace, surrounded by hard icing on a cake never cut, cobwebs merrily reproducing, a general sense of decay and, naturally, the vital ingredient, namely silence. Which in my case is not golden. It drips with benign acid.

U

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September 9, 2017

Subterfuge

One of the more painful lessons, to me, as life marches on: Learning to bite my tongue.

I don’t think I have ever been needlessly tactless (well, two occasions come to mind – I blush to this day at how thoughtless I was); however I am outspoken. No more. I shall bite my tongue till it’s bled dry. Let my wasteland be your desert.

The beauty of thought that in the privacy of your skull you may think what you like. No one knows. Brilliant. Except that, as the social beings we are, we’d like to give a thought a voice. Yes, sad day, when you start weighing expenditure of energy against gain. Just nod. And say, “Yes, yes, of course”. Yes, yes, yes, yes … Or stay silent. Do not cast a shadow of even the slightest doubt over someone’s assertion. People don’t like it. I could tell you why they don’t like it. However, do remember, see above, I am learning to bite my tongue.

Of course, and that is why my self imposed curse of biting my tongue will last no more than this post, it’s no way to live. The most basic law of physics dictates that that there needs to be friction (think thunder and lightning) for there to be a spark.

U

August 28, 2017

Nuance

Sweethearts, dearest Sweethearts. I am in danger. Of losing the plot. Let’s rephrase that: I am in danger of writing a plot no one will be able to follow.

Never mind. It’ll keep for another nightmare.

In the meantime I wrote earlier today, in answer to and occasion of an article claiming that queuing (in England) isn’t what it used to be. Thank the Lord.

“I am not British though have lived most my adult life in England.

As a nation, you take queuing too far and thus engender true unpleasantness. One of many occasions sticking out when I wasn’t even sure whether I wanted to buy fish. To be inspired I peered over the shoulders of many a person in the queue at the fish counter only to be met with a sharp, and hostile, pointer towards “the end of the queue”. Come again? What’s with being so anxious to lose “your” place? All I was doing was looking, not endangering your place in the hierarchy. As if one would.

For all their reputation of being relaxed and polite – the English most certainly are not the former, and not always the latter.”

So far none of the other commentators has told me to go home. What Brexiteers miss is that England IS my home. Well, I suppose depends how you define home. Home for me could be a hovel, a castle, the gutter in any old place (Mars, Siberia, Outer Mongolia), any country. Doesn’t matter. Home is where I am. All I need is a roof, a candle and a matchstick. No, not to burn the place down. To see where I am and what I am doing.

Yes, queues, I am all for organized chaos. Take the motherland. Go to the butchers, preferably when everyone else is going (say eleven in the morning, Blutwurst and all), go to the bakers (say between half past seven and eight in the morning when everyone wants fresh rolls). No one “queues”. Everyone knows when it’s their turn. Fine difference, don’t you think?

U

August 25, 2017

The ducking stool

Main thing in life?

Be honest. At least to yourself. Bullshitters will spend many an unhappy moment scraping off shit they inadvertently managed to stand in. No, let’s rephrase that: Bullshitters will spend many an unhappy moment sniffing shit they deliberately threw at someone else. It’s why I never touch a boomerang. You’ll have it coming.

In the spirit of which I am in awe of one of my “categories” I slammed on WordPress ages ago, namely, “Pretentious Shit”. To my chagrin, not many of my posts warrant to be categorized as pretentious shit. Never fear. Where there is muck there is bull, and where I lack – others will fill me in.

Once upon a time, someone asked me a rather strange question. That she was American is immaterial not least because she was ill disposed towards me: “Who talks like you?” Excellent question. Who talks like me? I do. Even if deemed pompous, pretentious shit. At least it’s mine rather than regurgitated other people’s shit.

Yes, so, in quest for advice I earned myself a lecture yesterday. From the Angel. I wish someone had brought me up like I did the Angel. That guy is so switched on. The error of my ways in blogland obvious and glaring. Which, considering that I should have worn sunglasses before it was too late, is glaring indeed. I will not intone as to what he had to say about social media and other crimes to humanity in general, and my particular engagement with blogging.

Hugs, hisses and kisses,

U

 

 

August 13, 2017

Pressure cooker

I am torn. Not for the first time, for the umpteenth time.

Yes, I need to write a letter (an official one). I wish I had two options but I don’t. Option Number One to tell them exactly what I think and where to fuck off. No doubt it would add hilarity to their otherwise dull day yet land me in shit big time. My aim being to come out of a hairy situation smelling like roses.

The world is full of Hypo Crazy. Sometimes I wish I’d gone into being a stylist (ref. photography).

So, in order to NOT land me in shit big time, I have to duff my cap and toe the line.

You know what the worst of writing an official letter is? You can’t employ sarcasm. No, not because it’d be wasted on the officials in question. The opposite. They’ll see it exactly for what it is. Taking the mickey. Which, privately, they may enjoy, officially they have to condemn it to the sin bin with the power of making you pay.

Thanks for listening. Am now bracing myself for keeping it all under a lid whilst simmering.

U

 

 

August 10, 2017

Best foot forward

Forget all your joys and all your problems. Imagine you were a centipede, frozen trying to remember which leg to move first.

U

August 1, 2017

Miaou

I have taken to wearing scarves. No, not Grace Kelly style. Isadora Duncan more like it. Long and floating. You’ll never know when next occasion arises you may wish to hang yourself whilst out and about. Better prepared than wanting, I say.

Why do people look in the mirror the moment before they set foot out of the house? I did earlier, and what I saw resembled an Afghan. The dog. My over the shoulder long hair accentuated by a scarf round my neck (similar colour to my hair) made me look not so much hangdog as, well, an Afghan. What dog do you resemble on a bad hair day? Not, of course, that I am not able to answer the question on your behalf. But then people do see themselves differently to how they are perceived by others. Ask Iris.

U

 

July 31, 2017

Punctured

Who’d have thunk it? My blogging tyre is flat. Not because I can’t think of anything to say. Quite the opposite. I always fire on all cylinders – yet, the desire to press “publish” momentarily eludes me. “Delete” does me fine.

The joy has gone.

Why? Most certainly not on account of bloggers who cheerfully “follow” me even if they don’t comment. Most certainly not on account of those who comment here – with unfailing wit, perception, occasional mockery, always thoughtful.

However, and I don’t like admitting to what I perceive a weakness, there have been forces out in the blogging world which have achieved the unthinkable – namely, my, the unsinkable’s, reluctance to put myself into the public arena any further.

Looking back over my life, I have never been bullied. I am not the type. Yet there is one blogger, ably supported by a weak cast, who has shown me the vile side of life on the playground which constitutes blogging.

I am torn. I could name him and shame him. But then I’d be playing HIS game. Makes you think, doesn’t it, how someone else’s maliciousness tempts you to repay in kind. It is to my utter, total, most heartfelt regret that I have decided not to fall for that ruse – as much pleasure as it would give me to tear the guy and his accomplices apart. He hasn’t got a leg, or any other appendage, to stand on. Still, I’d rather not be a facilitator.

Yes, so my joy communicating on the page has momentarily been stifled. Please don’t send chocolate or other sweet condolences. A lime will suffice.

U

July 15, 2017

To one who is unlikely to recognize it’s addressed to him

Filed under: Accuracy,Communication,Formalities,Observations — bitchontheblog @ 21:17
Tags: , , , ,

Some people are lovable piss heads; piss heads one will forgive transgressions. There is veritas in vino – and some who imbibe several too many most charming and insightful with it.

Others? Others, the angry, vindictive, twisted and bitter brigade, amount to little more than the proverbial [pub bore] once their glass is so empty they barely see the bottom of it. Rude, ill mannered, self pitying, grandiose. Well, mate (the one this post is addressed to), I will clear up your sick. Don’t expect me to take you seriously. If you can’t hold your drink stick to candy. Or keep shtum.

U

July 12, 2017

Expansive

One of the fairies at my cradle made sure that I’d never be bored.

Her intention was good. In practice it brings problems. None of which can’t be solved; but problems nevertheless. The main one being that I waste (how does one define “waste”?) on wastes of space. I do I do I do. Because I never give up. And if there is one adage I cling to like a calf following her mother’s udder it’s that only the boring are bored. That way you dig your own bore.

Be still, my beating heart.

In the motherland there is a saying, and I have no idea what it means but it sounds good: Den inneren Schweinehund ueberwinden. Roughly translated: To overcome your inner swine (where the dog comes into it I do not know). It’s taking me forever (the present continuous wisely chosen) to overcome my swine’s dog – but, I am getting there. With regret, I shall concede that some in blogland (no, not ye, my faithfuls) will bore. Even me. Actually, that’s not true at all. The more boring the more amusing and interesting they are. In a sort of forensic research type of way.

Hugs and hisses,

U

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