Oh dear god are you up there why do you do this to us it's like you've put a giant orange in my head and filled it with bees. I drank three bottles of wine last night and then some vodka. Needless to say I feel like arse. But I will say it anyway:
ARSE.
Things. This post wont be majorly coherant.
Went to picton. It was good. Told some Germans they drank vodka. Took a spa bath at 3am naked. Quit smoking because 5 years earlier I had told myself that if I went back to piction I would have met my goals including no smoking and pick up the badge that I left at anikiwa. Long story. Short story: five years after outward bound I hadn't yet met the goals I set for myself and not smoking again seemed like the easiest option at that time. It has been easy. Don't buy cigs= Can't smoke cigs. It's not calculus.
Last night had a flat warming. Very few people showed up. Spasm von Terros and his squeeze who I don't think I have a psudenom for and Uma Icnoyotl showed up for a time. I spent most of the night slurring drunkenly at Uma, who goes to t.col with me, about books which was nice. I do enjoy talking to fellow bibliophiles. When she left I get a little hazy, but apparently I took of my pants, drank some vodka, ate my flatmates beans. Hurrah.
Obviously there will be a more interesting and comical version of events later on, but right now I just feel like poop.
In other news.
Friday, February 29, 2008
Friday, February 22, 2008
Poo on everything
So much to do so much to see so whats wrong with taking the back streets? Well, Smashmouth, it has something to do with the insane drunken people who have only just managed to cohabitate in said back streets, alleys and byways and get rather testy about you just barging into their living room.
I am depressed. Why? Oh, because I woke up and it was a fantastic day and I don't have anything much to do today, a bit of writing, some washing perhaps, I could just sit and do my card system for my books or read a book (wouldn't that be a novelty?) cook, play guitar, go for a walk, find a sharp knife and a rocking chair and spend the day whittling away the hours in the sun. But I have awoken to find that I have about as much motivation to do anything as a turnip. A turnip which has been modified with sloth genes to make sure it doesn't try to run away from the cooks knife.
I call these kind of days "dead days" - they are days in which nothing seems worthwhile, it can take literally hours to perform the most menial and basic of tasks and my emotional capabilities are severely compromised. You know how I can barely care about things much anyway? Well, today, talking to me will be like talking to the wall of an upper-middle class garden shed.
It's a day in which I fail courses or take to the bottle at 10am.
5 years! After 5 years you would think I'd have been able to drive this demon out, don't you? But no. Still hanging around my shoulder blades, gnawing on my spine. Sometimes I feel like the demon is now a part of me, and that desicion I made years ago to get off the fluox and let my mind be my mind whatever that whould turn out to be just left a little hole for which he could burrow into, put down roots, jack in, ect. He's kind of a part of me. Life would certainly be different if... and thats where we stop. Don't second guess it. Don't rewind the spring and hear the same old jerky melody of unknowable futures.
In other news that doesn't concern my mental state: Tommorow I am going to Picton. On sunday I come back from Picton. I do like the ferry and am happy to have a weekend where I won't be working. Isn't it sad that my enjoyment of such an event will be hampered by the fact that at the back of my mind I will be thinking of the small menial tasks I could be doing at home or the fact that I could simply be hanging out with my flatmate who I managed to see today only because I decided to sleep on the couch so's I could see him. We had a brief discussion before he went to work. Doing some calculations, I can tell you that a good nights rest for both of us will be 8 hours total.
I have to write two assignmants today. God I cannot be arsed. Everything should go take care of itse;f, just for an hour.
I am depressed. Why? Oh, because I woke up and it was a fantastic day and I don't have anything much to do today, a bit of writing, some washing perhaps, I could just sit and do my card system for my books or read a book (wouldn't that be a novelty?) cook, play guitar, go for a walk, find a sharp knife and a rocking chair and spend the day whittling away the hours in the sun. But I have awoken to find that I have about as much motivation to do anything as a turnip. A turnip which has been modified with sloth genes to make sure it doesn't try to run away from the cooks knife.
I call these kind of days "dead days" - they are days in which nothing seems worthwhile, it can take literally hours to perform the most menial and basic of tasks and my emotional capabilities are severely compromised. You know how I can barely care about things much anyway? Well, today, talking to me will be like talking to the wall of an upper-middle class garden shed.
It's a day in which I fail courses or take to the bottle at 10am.
5 years! After 5 years you would think I'd have been able to drive this demon out, don't you? But no. Still hanging around my shoulder blades, gnawing on my spine. Sometimes I feel like the demon is now a part of me, and that desicion I made years ago to get off the fluox and let my mind be my mind whatever that whould turn out to be just left a little hole for which he could burrow into, put down roots, jack in, ect. He's kind of a part of me. Life would certainly be different if... and thats where we stop. Don't second guess it. Don't rewind the spring and hear the same old jerky melody of unknowable futures.
In other news that doesn't concern my mental state: Tommorow I am going to Picton. On sunday I come back from Picton. I do like the ferry and am happy to have a weekend where I won't be working. Isn't it sad that my enjoyment of such an event will be hampered by the fact that at the back of my mind I will be thinking of the small menial tasks I could be doing at home or the fact that I could simply be hanging out with my flatmate who I managed to see today only because I decided to sleep on the couch so's I could see him. We had a brief discussion before he went to work. Doing some calculations, I can tell you that a good nights rest for both of us will be 8 hours total.
I have to write two assignmants today. God I cannot be arsed. Everything should go take care of itse;f, just for an hour.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Do you ever have the dream when...
...you are standing over yourself when you sleep? And when you are watching yourself stand over yourself your eyelids have become translucent so you can see yourself watching yourself and you toss and turn a bit and you get one of those images not unlike standing between two mirrors?
I think it is slightly scarier imagining yourself watching you while yourself when you sleep than imagining someone else watch you while you sleep, because although some complete stranger may be wathing you for strange perverted reasons or waiting for you to roll over so as to apply the poison via the ear in the traditional manner, just think about what what would happen if you woke up and found yourself? Universe implosion is a definate possibility, but having a conversation might be scarier:
"Yawn... oh, I had a dream about this, I though it might happen."
"Why did I make me so crazy?"
At this point I might start choking myself or something
"WHY AM I SO CRAZY! WHY DOES THIS GO ON INSIDE MY HEAD!"
Insert noises of me trying to answer while being unable to breathe. I, meanwhile, start hitting myself in the head.
"Stop hitting myself! ARGRAH"
I will then crawl into the fetal position while simutaneiously making myself a coffee and reading the buisness section of the dom post (its like its written in another language!). I have to go to school, but I hope that I will find time from my heavy schedule of bannging my head softly against a wall and mumbling to myself to do some laundry. It's going to be a nice day.
So, although the world would be a better place if it were populated by me, without the wars and stuff, there is still no gaurantee that the washing will ever get done. I did a load on sunday, but I haven't had the time to put it on the drying rack yet.
And so ends a long, rambly way to tell you about the status of my washing.
Anyway hoo:
People have been asking about my new flat. Yes, I have found one, and, with the approval of my shiny new credit card, the only person I shall soon owe money to will be the bank. But the whole stress of the situation has been gigantic. Teaching? Not as stressful as finding a flat. Peeling a particularly stubborn orange? Not as bad as waking up in the moning and having to contemplate the very real possibility that you may soon have to live out of a storage shed. Waking up in a newtown gutter without your pants? Not as bad as walking up the hill that is wellington and be charged $150 (+gst) for the pleasure. Letting fees. No, you didn't find me this flat. I found it. I found it by getting up at the crack of dawn for the last four weeks a trailing the streets, newspaper and trademe for a democile that didn't require me to sell my soul to satan to be able to afford.
Quirky Fact of the Day: Satan uses the souls sold to him as bath towels, or, on occasion, to wipe the mould from his skirting boards. Lord of Evil and constant Nemisis of Mankind he may be, but he just cannot stand the fact that he may not one day possess the full set of Soul Coloured Bathroom Accesories.
But the flat is nice. my room is of course the smallest one in the flat, but it at least gets some sun. And we have a LARGE living room. I don't need a large room when my work and play space is occupiing a quarter of our lounge where two of my friends who I have known for 8yrs also work and play. Hard. Many an evening has been spent blissfully, drink easy in hand, playing crib and 500, looking over the pretty substancial view of wellington, listening to music. Good time have been had and good times will be had in such a flat me thinks. Oh, and part of our kitchen bench can be moved around. We moved it into the middle as an island slash bar after we got D to move his damn matress out of it.
Oh yes, if you can remember that post of all the psudenoms of my friends, I am living with Calvin Shine and D. Or is his name Prometheis? I'm going to have to look that one up.
In other news: Not lots. Monday and tuesday are 18hr days for me, quite full on and not leaving much room for the simple pleasures. On wednesday the crazy ride again at the valve, and thursday is pretty much a solid block of classes from 8:30 to 5:30. but friday-sunday I only have work, and is as close to a weekend as I get. I plan to cook food and to wash my souls... I mean towels.
Hooray, its another day.
I think it is slightly scarier imagining yourself watching you while yourself when you sleep than imagining someone else watch you while you sleep, because although some complete stranger may be wathing you for strange perverted reasons or waiting for you to roll over so as to apply the poison via the ear in the traditional manner, just think about what what would happen if you woke up and found yourself? Universe implosion is a definate possibility, but having a conversation might be scarier:
"Yawn... oh, I had a dream about this, I though it might happen."
"Why did I make me so crazy?"
At this point I might start choking myself or something
"WHY AM I SO CRAZY! WHY DOES THIS GO ON INSIDE MY HEAD!"
Insert noises of me trying to answer while being unable to breathe. I, meanwhile, start hitting myself in the head.
"Stop hitting myself! ARGRAH"
I will then crawl into the fetal position while simutaneiously making myself a coffee and reading the buisness section of the dom post (its like its written in another language!). I have to go to school, but I hope that I will find time from my heavy schedule of bannging my head softly against a wall and mumbling to myself to do some laundry. It's going to be a nice day.
So, although the world would be a better place if it were populated by me, without the wars and stuff, there is still no gaurantee that the washing will ever get done. I did a load on sunday, but I haven't had the time to put it on the drying rack yet.
And so ends a long, rambly way to tell you about the status of my washing.
Anyway hoo:
People have been asking about my new flat. Yes, I have found one, and, with the approval of my shiny new credit card, the only person I shall soon owe money to will be the bank. But the whole stress of the situation has been gigantic. Teaching? Not as stressful as finding a flat. Peeling a particularly stubborn orange? Not as bad as waking up in the moning and having to contemplate the very real possibility that you may soon have to live out of a storage shed. Waking up in a newtown gutter without your pants? Not as bad as walking up the hill that is wellington and be charged $150 (+gst) for the pleasure. Letting fees. No, you didn't find me this flat. I found it. I found it by getting up at the crack of dawn for the last four weeks a trailing the streets, newspaper and trademe for a democile that didn't require me to sell my soul to satan to be able to afford.
Quirky Fact of the Day: Satan uses the souls sold to him as bath towels, or, on occasion, to wipe the mould from his skirting boards. Lord of Evil and constant Nemisis of Mankind he may be, but he just cannot stand the fact that he may not one day possess the full set of Soul Coloured Bathroom Accesories.
But the flat is nice. my room is of course the smallest one in the flat, but it at least gets some sun. And we have a LARGE living room. I don't need a large room when my work and play space is occupiing a quarter of our lounge where two of my friends who I have known for 8yrs also work and play. Hard. Many an evening has been spent blissfully, drink easy in hand, playing crib and 500, looking over the pretty substancial view of wellington, listening to music. Good time have been had and good times will be had in such a flat me thinks. Oh, and part of our kitchen bench can be moved around. We moved it into the middle as an island slash bar after we got D to move his damn matress out of it.
Oh yes, if you can remember that post of all the psudenoms of my friends, I am living with Calvin Shine and D. Or is his name Prometheis? I'm going to have to look that one up.
In other news: Not lots. Monday and tuesday are 18hr days for me, quite full on and not leaving much room for the simple pleasures. On wednesday the crazy ride again at the valve, and thursday is pretty much a solid block of classes from 8:30 to 5:30. but friday-sunday I only have work, and is as close to a weekend as I get. I plan to cook food and to wash my souls... I mean towels.
Hooray, its another day.
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