(Un)comfortably numb

This morning

-I’m just… bored, I blurt, looking at my shoes.
-I don’t believe in boredom, he says.
-Fine. I’m lazy, then.
-I don’t believe in laziness either.
-As it happens, I agree with you. But I’m being morose, and I need a word to explain that I’m not doing anything with my time. So if I call it laziness, at least I take full responsibility for my lethargy. I don’t want to blame anyone else for it.
-There’s no such thing as boredom. It’s only lack of stimulation. Where do you get yours from?
-Myself. Or at least I should. But I’m not. I don’t want to relinquish responsibility for my limbo. What if I traced my lack of stimulation to someone else, what shall I do then? Cry, have a tantrum, eat a cookie?
-Then maybe you could see it as a mechanism that you can undo; then use all the stored-up momentum that hasn’t been released because you didn’t get the stimulus.

Over the past two days, I’ve been sleeping a lot, and looking at the clock when awake, to check how long til I can go back to bed.
I don’t like getting people worried.
I’m lazy.

People of blogland, I'm bored, so are you, I'm boring, so is this, therefore this blog is dead, or at least hibernating. I'm thinking nothing, doing nothing, I have nothing to say. Bye.

L is for..

The pettiness!
Yesterday I tried to open an attachment sent by the school I’ll be attending in Spain. The firewall at work wouldn’t let me. It called it inappropriate. Just because it’s entitled ‘Oral self-assessment.’
Just.. please.
Oh, I don’t know.
This time of year for me is some kind of limbo. I have things to do, places to go but work keeps me tied for another month. I’m grumpy. Ask my special lady friend. Today especially has been a strange mixture of boredom and laziness; there will be mjitos later on, so things should improve. Do come over.

Emulsion

Blogpeople, I hope you had a good week end too and that you didn’t complain about the heat, not even once. Did you have a picnic? My Special Lady Friend and I did. Then we painted my bathroom and we almost ran out of paint. That wouldn’t have happened if she hadn’t insisted on painting her eyeball, but she has moments like that. Once we were done I suggested she put her signature in a corner – it was her baby too- but she didn’t need to- she’d left a footprint on the windowsill, something to always remember that moment by. I’m being grateful.

Silly socks

Last night my Special Lady Friend and I were sitting on the step outside. I was stretching my toes, just freed from the stupid girly shoes I wear for work. We’d just opened a bottle of Rioja; Pancho the cat was waging a trench* war against Sid the neighbour’s moggy (we call him Sid because he’s vicious), life was good. Yes. Then, seemingly out of the blue:

You have goose bumps! I exclaimed.
I do, she smiled.
How come?
Well.. football. The world cup is starting on Thursday.

I thought I was the one giving her goose bumps, but seemingly I have competition in a bunch of men wearing shorts and silly socks. The next five weeks are going to be interesting. I cannot abide football, you see. It’s not a point of contention between us as long as she doesn’t wear loud nylon shirts or display flags. Flags! They’re on my list of obsolete horrors right after army uniforms. I reckon they should do away with national teams anyway, and call them after animals. The Weasels against the Silver-haired rabbits. Or is that specie-ist? Specist? Or foodstuffs. The Crispy Waffles against the Broiled Cutlets. Although of course vegetarians would have little choice as to whom they’d support, so that’s silly. I’d rather watch Mexican Lucha Libre any day, mostly because they have fan-ta-stic costumes. Football. Can’t stand it. Possibly because as a child I had to spent too many of my Sunday afternoons on a football pitch – well, outside of it really- because my brother/dad/uncles/dad’s mates were playing. I can’t even pretend to care. I do hope England will lose, and soon, and spontaneous combustion of the French team would probably make me merry.
So, yes, competition.
Luckily, I have ways of competing, and of provoking lots of goose bumps.




*a hole was dug for two rosebushes that still haven’t arrived. It’s currently being used as a trench/toilet.

What does it mean # 483

1.I dreamt that this blog had been hijacked; it was now called www.communist.12. Why 12? No idea. It still looked like it does now, but instead of my ramblings were eulogies of dead communists. I was tracking down the hijacker and shouting: ‘ How could you do that? I’ll kick your ass; I have the tools and I have the people.’ Do I?..

2.Blogfolks, it’s true that this blog deserves to be hijacked; it’s not like I’ve been writing much of late. Too much has been happening in real life, you see. Forgive my mysteriousness. Is that a word? I don’t know.

3.I have been, in no particular order: getting used to my mother’s new face; painting the bathroom walls; realising to what extent decent medical care in the UK is for rich people; reading Spanish crime novels; trying to figure out how to wean myself off therapy; eating olive and almond paste on toast; counting the days til I’m off to Granada; wanting to buy green shoes but not finding any; feeling incredibly lucky that I have a few fantastic people who really love me. Yes.

That’s all. That’s a lot.

Pebbles

1.One day my Special lady Friend will write in her diary: "And that’s when I started to hate her", and she won’t be referring to my cooking but to the fact that I forced her to walk all the way to Brighton town centre from the marina along the wind-swept beach.

2.She’ll also add "she wouldn’t even let me take the little kiddie train, the cow". I sadistically ignored the yearning in her eyes. We walked. And walked.

3.We browsed shops full of long, flowing garments but bought nothing since none of us want to start out own religion. So we had pie and mash instead and went home on the train.

4.My mother is coming over tonight for a week, and I can’t even start telling you what it means, people of blogland. Perhaps I’ll try, next time. Until then, be well.

I'll go, if only for the L word action figure

NEW YORK CITY, NY - In an attempt to generate revenue for the struggling New York non-profit organizations, the Lesbian Herstory Archives and Gay Men’s Health Crisis today announced that they have joined forces to open a fast food chain in select cities across the nation.
Natalie Barney’s Beanery© will serve “convenience food with a conscience” and attempt to educate diners about gay and lesbian culture and history in the process.

Breakfast and lunch menu selections include:
• Francis Bacon and Egg combo
• Pancakes with Robert Mapplethorpe syrup
• The Leslie Feinburger
• Vegetarian Phrancfurters
• All-Beef Jumbo Barney Frankfurters
• The Harvey Milk-shake
• Sugar cookies with Annie Sprinkles

The Beanery will offer a special Empowerment Meal for kids, which includes hormone-free milk, a junior Feinburger, and an L Word action figure.

read the rest on fakegaynews.com.. you know you want to.

I got mail, or Just bear with me for two minutes

1. My grandmother’s spelling was never good, because she left school at 12. I suspect she takes her vitamins before writing me a card. When I moved to England she asked for a set of pre-written labels; she wasn’t sure she would be able to replicate my address. It had too many funny words in it, like ‘street’ and ‘London’. Today I received a card and like every time that happens I cried a little. She writes, in substance: "I think of you often. I hope you’re finding the strength to accept life as it is."
I think of her often.

2. My father usually forgets or ignores birthdays, because they call for a display of affection. I got one email, though, one day, three years ago tomorrow. It says something like this:
“On May 21st 19blah, outside the bedroom window I planted something. When your mother and I divorced, I took a cutting with me. I can see it now in my garden, it’s a tree and it’s done really well.”
Every time I think about it, I cry. I can’t help it, people.

3. People of blogland, I’m dehydrated; also I better go wash my face. I put fake tan Sunkissed Skin on this morning and if I don’t wash it off I’ll be all streaky. I can’t be streaky and older.

4. Tomorrow will also be my Special Lady Friend’s birthday, as well as Jeffrey Dahmer’s. I believe that this was the chat-up line I used on her when we first met, and she wasn’t even put off. Happy birthday to all of us! especially to those of us who don’t make a habit of keeping our lovers’ head in the fridge.

Paging Dr Freud

I wonder what it means.
See, blogpeople, it’s like this: my Special Lady Friend reads a lot, and I happen to have a large book collection, which I’m more than happy to share. When she’s done with one book, she brings it back and leaves it on the little table by the sofa.

I wonder why, since she got it from the bookshelf herself. It’s not like my bookshelves are so tidy that one dares not put a book back or anything.

Is there an implicit message?
Does she wish to engage me in some in-depth literary conversation?
Is it an attempt at eliciting approval of some kind?
And what is the best way to respond?

How I enjoy creating small pseudo-psychological enigmas for myself!