As mentioned many a time I am not a particularly competitive person.
Which is not to say that I don’t like winning. It’s just, and it is pathetic, that winning doesn’t mean much to me. Never has. I do something. So I do it. If someone else does it better good for them. If I do better [than you] please don’t throw a tantrum. It’s hardly my fault, is it? It’s no one’s fault.
Dear Readers, please do expand on the above. In your own ways. Without scrambling over each other. We’ll all get there in the end.
By way of comforting you I wish I could say that we won’t get there [in the end]. I can’t. As guarantees go this one is pretty much cast iron. No refunds given. Conclusion? Don’t give up. Neither do kill yourself in the process.
I can bore with the rest of you:
Have discovered peculiar phenomenon. There is a corridor in this place linking all rooms as corridors do. About a year ago I deposited some storage boxes, nicely covered up in the most wonderful yellow cloth, narrowing the passage way. Frankly, it was a nuisance. But like with all nuisances I do get used to them. A few days ago the Angel dropped a hint. So I moved the boxes out of that particular way. It’s fascinating: The passage is clear yet when I walk it in the dark I still do that little swagger with my hips when squeezing past where boxes once were but are no more.
Have turned myself into a lab rat. Will report back as to how long it takes for brain to compute that there are NO boxes to negotiate any longer.
Hamster greetings from the wheel,
I could google this but, frankly, I want an answer: Why do men’s bikes have a crossbar high up? What is its actual purpose? Other than giving men an excuse to execute that elegant Ballet manoeuvre of swinging their leg over in a half circle- particularly when dismounting. I don’t get it.
I once had a friend – he was the adopted son of an Opera singer. Not that his mother’s occupation contributes anything to this story. Other than that she hit a high note. As did I one day when visiting them for the weekend. Thomas brought out his bike and let me ride it. We were twelve. Oh, dear. Never ever have I been hit so hard between my legs as when having to brake hard, no time to dismount in an organized fashion. Eye watering. The type of pain when tears spill out involuntarily, your eyes wide and astonished at what the world has in store for you. Yes. So that was an education.
So, guys (and guyesses), particularly the engineers among you, please do enlighten me what purpose that bar serves. Thank you.
Dear dog in heaven. As some of you know I don’t do drugs. Any. Mainly because they have the opposite of the desired effect. Give me a sleeping pill and I will be awake all night. I used to roll a mean joint. But never ask me to smoke it myself. A – I hate it. B – joint and I don’t get along. Mind you, grass is one up on the sleeping pill. Sending me straight to sleep. Wasted. That’s what. How my friends tolerated me I do not know. Still, there is always one who needs to wipe brows, clean up sick and generally give feed back to a poor sod on a bad trip. Yes, that’s me. Matron. Try not to throw yourself off the roof.
However, as I confided in you before: Morphine is my drug of choice. If I had access to it I wouldn’t wish to guarantee for myself. Two years ago when they tried to reset my arm OH MY GOD they gave up and gave me morphine instead. Bliss. Bliss. Bliss. Bliss. And Bliss.
This minute, and thanks for the above diversion, I am in grip of backache I didn’t think possible. I can’t believe it. I never ever have backache. Like I never ever have headaches. Yet, there is no denying it. My back aches. Brilliant. I know I have a body. Why does my back take it upon itself to remind me?
Funny how some people click, some run together idle on neutral, and a few are positively irritating. I know someone is irritating (to me) when a strong urge to punch them comes over me. Luckily, whilst impulsive, I do have self control. And all the people I want to punch are in cyber space. There but not here.
For some time there has been a blog person who so irritates the hell out of me I latch onto her rarely – other than when I need to scratch my irritability itch. If she weren’t so delicate she’d definitely qualify for a good punch. Most interesting that whilst she is a wilting flower she is as hard as nails. Rarely have I known a person I dislike more. And no, it’s not you. It’s you.
Yes, chemistry. I slept through most my chemistry (and physics) lessons with the dismal results to be expected: Swotting like crazy, and through the night, before an exam. Unfortunately my chemistry teacher was also my Maths teacher and when I joined the school, mid lesson, he hated me at first sight. If there is one man in my life who ruined aspects of it it’s him. He is dead now. Serves him right.
What’s there to mind about a dwarf with a glass eye and a passion for math? Nothing. I could have lived with him (in the classroom) perfectly well. Yet, to him I was that glug of oil that wouldn’t mix with his water. Interesting, very. Ponder.
Anyway, I have now devised the perfect way of how to teach tired teenagers chemistry. Forget about your Bunsenbrenner. No, I will not tell you a system so perfect I wish I were headmistress and could run my school’s own labs. I can guarantee you one thing: If that system were in place you’d graduate with an A*. All of you. And me.
And by the way: PB (Plumbum), lead, was my favourite element.
Being curious my boredom threshold is as high as my pain threshold. Olympian.
However, when exhausted you couldn’t sink much lower. Give me morphine instead.
Since I am full of myself and self sufficient I rarely quote other people. However, I will make an exception for Martin Luther King. The man had passion.
“If you can’t fly, then run; if you can’t run, then walk; if you can’t walk, then crawl. But whatever you do keep moving forward.”
What if you are a crab? Moving sidewards.
Since penning the above and before given a chance to press ‘publish’ I was made aware of new research on pubic hair. One of the few areas of my life I have never given much thought to. I shall not blame my new friend, the one and only Gorilla complete with Banana, whose musings on hair (mainly facial) left me pensive. It appears that there is a reason for pubic hair. Not least for crabs to have something to cling to.
If you want to know why pubic hair is wiry, curly, usually the same colour as the beard you shouldn’t grow (unless you are Dali or Zappa) or what the dire consequences should you decide to shave it all off please ask. Few things will unsettle a Northern European.
I can’t say I particularly like sponges. For reasons irrelevant this minute.
However, the brain, my brain, apart from looking like a sponge, is a sponge. Absorbent. Very. Till it drips. Where the sponge has one over the brain is that you can wring it – unlike your brain.
Alternatively I wish I could hoover my brain’s recesses. Or order everything stored up there alphabetically, to locate when needed.
I ask myself many questions. Questions are like rabbits. They beget themselves at a rate one can barely keep up with. If I pelleted you with every question raising its amusing head in my overloaded mind you’d never visit this blog again. My loss, your gain.
What was the question? Forgotten. That’s how ephemeral, how expendable my questions are.
Will get back to you.