Death and Meaning.

Last night, I’d given up work and plopped into bed with a sigh, and started to drift off to sleep.

Suddenly, I was wide awake, thinking “I’m going to die. One day, unavoidably, I’ll be living my final moment. The seconds before nothingness will tick away, and then I’ll die. I might be peaceful, I might be senile, I might be in pain… It could be tomorrow or fifty years from now… but there is no getting out of it. ”
All I could feel was blind panic.

Bit morbid for a Sunday night, if I do say so myself. Is that what a panic attack feels like? Does this happen to other people?

Thanks, brain!

Anyway, it passed in about 15 minutes, and I recovered with an episode of Modern Family and a liter of milky sweet tea.

There are lots of things I want to do before those last few seconds: Continue my education, travel (Europe! Africa! Australia! America!!) , fall in love again (as impossible as that seems), start a family…. to name some of the grander, long term goals.

The above is all lovely to imagine… but, then, I’ll still die. Which, at the moment, seems like a nice idea – it sounds restful. Unfortunately that’s just my imagination, because the cessation of existence can’t be anything at all.

There isn’t much point on dwelling on the idea of death, once it’s stopped being a cause of random late-night panic, especially if it’s inevitable.
Rather, I need to pull myself towards myself, and get the fuck on with living. Because when your religion is reality and logic, the only greater meaning in life is what you create for yourself, and I don’t have much right now.

TMTA… So that I can do the same thing I do every Easter.

Every Easter I pack up shop and head down to the coast for a holiday. Or at least, I try to.

I have friends down here, and it’s been lovely to sit and enjoy delicious wine, indulgent food and forget about all the crazy I’ve left at home. And then create new crazy, because there is SOMETHING about the low altitude that is giving me some bastard hangovers!

As we all know, having a mean hangover is an excellent excuse to freely consume whatever will ease your suffering the fastest, even if it’s weird. I know this is a real thing, because the Bridget Jones books told me so, and thus this morning I have eaten (for breakfast):

– Some grapes
– Two hot-crossed buns (Easter food!)
– Chocolate eggs (Easter food, again!)
– A plain slice of toast
– Ten thousand cups of tea
– A spoonful of interesting looking cough-syrup (it was mulberry flavour!)
– Custard

All of this was eaten very furtively, because I’m a guest in someone’s house, and can’t act like the fucking locust I usually am.

I’m assuming that once I achieve my bald-eagle-freedom-dream, I’ll head to American wine country, in California. I’ve heard that it’s not the best wine (compared to the Mediterranean, New Zealand or Cape Town).
Psshh, I don’t believe the snobby hearsay.
Plus, I’ve watched James May drunkenly stagger all over that place, and it looked amazing!
Come to think of it, so did James May… mmmm. Don’t ask.

 

I love you, Drunk Uncle!

I love you, Drunk Uncle!

TMTA… Because Ikea.

Where I live, for some ungodly reason, furnishing your home is illogically expensive.

The cheapest, most synthetic and breakable items will cost the equivalent of many hundreds of dollars, and will likely be ugly as all hell. I do not know why, probably something to do with shipping costs, corruption and global warming. And racism, because you know, that affects everything here.

The other day, I was trying to locate a carpet. You know, carpets? The thing that EVERY-fucking-ONE uses to cover cold, uninviting tiles until they can move into a fancy suburban home with beautiful wooden floors?
I was being assisted by a snarky twink who slapped me in the face with this sentence:
“Nobody buys non-persian carpets these days. I don’t know WHERE you got the IDEA that you could just FIND one at RANDOM. HA. HA. HA. HA.”
Maybe his erratic emphasis on certain words was a red flag for mental illness, but I slouched out of the store like the bread-line peasant I am and decided it was a better idea to go back home, lie on my hideous, exposed terracotta tiles and cut myself until I black out.

Things like couches, office chairs with wheels and wooden work desks are distant dreams, unless one of your friends or relatives suddenly expires and you are quick enough on your feet to break into their homes and steal shit before their assets are distributed fairly.

To my (maybe ignorant) mind, Ikea offers the chance to purchase affordable products, bite down on a leather strap while constructing them yourself, and then bask in the glory of a furnished home that hasn’t put you on welfare.

I… just…
…it makes me emotional.

Ikea AB Launch The Uppleva Television Set

 

Midnight and it’s effing wunderbar.

I work from home.

I haven’t always worked from home, and I didn’t plan on it. Reason why? I absolutely suck at self-regulation. Sure, I maintain a non-fatal diet and a reasonable exercise regimen, but that doesn’t count as work because they are also governed by crippling insecurities (win!). I need that mean boss giving me the side-eye from across the room, or else I’ll never get anything done.

My work-from-home-work is also boring, and about humans. Did I mention I like science? The branchces of science that make me tingle inside are also those that make people sick and lead to creative acts of terrorism (Incidentally, my most favouritest science – it’s epidemiology by the way – provided the story-line to a movie where Gwyneth Paltrow dies. Ha! Suck it, you overpriced-tray-selling-husk!).

I am qualified in science, and in business. Not HR. Not humanitarian law. Definitely not politics, because if there was one thing I wish I cared about but just physically cannot, it’s politics. There is no hugging, or psychoanalysis, or social investment involved in my university degree. Nada! (I mean, all of that stuff is wonderful. It just can’t be done by me because I would ruin it.)

Which is why I end up avoiding my face-melting work assignments until midnight and I am off my face on coffee, ritalin and maybe some of the Chardonnay that I left by the sink yesterday.

I like to think that some of my best work is done at this point, where hallucinations, creativity and productivity all merge into one big work-storm and voila! genius is born. Like Sherlock Holmes, or Dr House!

But then, I take a step back and look at what I am actually doing. A snapshot, if you will.

1. I am looking at pictures of Australian Shepherd puppies. Imagining getting a second puppy is my crack, at the moment. Along with browsing MLS listings in Maine.

2. I am stoically making my way through a bag of very, very dry pretzels. Christ, why are they so fucking DRY.

3. I am reading various blog posts on various blogs, trying to find ones about husbands or boyfriends, because I’m masochistic in that way.

4. I am sending emails and texts to people who are probably all asleep, or angry at me because they were asleep. I don’t know why, but around this time of night I develop an insatiable need for attention. Probably because I’m so tired that I start to think I’m legitimately funny.

5. I am perusing Facebook (read: stalking people). It’s making me feel old. I should be partying it up and instagramming pictures of vintage sunglasses, not crouched on my bed alone, trying to fake my way through making a pie-chart out of the worst kind of non-numeric data because my boss thinks pie-charts are “easy to look at”.  I want to crawl back into the safe poor-people place that is academia, and get another degree.

6. I am listening to the sweet sound of nothing, because music is making me feel anxious these days. I’m overly sensitive to sounds, so if my iTunes is accidentally put on shuffle, and plays an angry or sad song, I occasionally immediately respond by becoming angry or sad. Or nervous. Or horny. Whatever.

I don’t know what any of that is, but it sure as hell doesn’t sound like genius. It could, however,  be genius in it’s larval form (!), just biding it’s time while it matures fully.
Then again, now I’ve started looking up images of larvae on Google, and it’s making me feel like an extremely nauseated, impulsive non-genius.

Beetle larvae - I really, really hate finding these in dug-up soil.

Beetle larvae – I really, really hate finding these in dug-up soil.

TMTA… So that I can meet my new BFF, unless I can convince her to adopt me, in which case, my new mom.

Brittany, Herself  is one of the funniest dag gum blogs I have come across in ages.

She’s accomplished some amazing business-ey things, including giving a very inspirational TED Talk on beauty and body image.

I am afraid to say though, that I’ve been focusing more on the hilarity. What can I say, I’m a shallow person with the mind of a child.

Hearing that another person in the universe is routinely afraid of being burgled and seeing dead people, has one weird boob-hair, and the habit of sending persistent, manic emails to almost everyone…. well, it all made me very manic, and I spent a good long while rolling myself up in my bed linen like a burrito, hysterical-cry-laughing and eating these vile salted nuts that I bought because they were cheap.

What does a nut taste like once it’s gone off? Is it bitter? Do nuts ever go bad? I will be Googling this.

This woman is ME, all grown up, with a huz-band and family, because she is obviously much, much better at not scaring off really nice men.
She also has stunning hair, and significantly larger and sexier boobs than I do, but let’snotdwellonthenegative.

At least, I hope this is what I might turn out to be like.
Currently, I’m all set to die from over exposure to fermented-nut toxins, and be eaten by whatever animal manages to claw its way into my apartment first. The bright side, though, is that this eventuality – if well-timed –  might make my ex-boyfriend sad, and that makes me smug.
(remember: mind of child).

TMTA (Take Me To America)… So that I can shank Gwyneth Paltrow.

I’m a dork.

I read Science News, XKCD comics, and several blogs. I don’t follow celebrities.

HOWEVER, as a result of some severe sunburn inducing a spell of heat-madness (that’s a thing! It involves hot, delirious naps, eating with anxious abandon, and lots of sweaty internet-browsing), I spent the afternoon on Celebitchy.com.

God, who knew celebrities were actual humans?

My heat-madness has since passed, but one thing has stuck with me…

What the fuck is wrong with Gwyneth Paltrow? I’ve seen her in Iron Man, and other things where she was too wispy and nondescript to warrant remembering the movie titles…. She seemed sweet. I also know she’s hitched to the guy from Coldplay. Basically, I thought she was a taller, paler and duller version of Jennifer Aniston.

NEGATIVE. She is completely insane.

Diets, snobbery, weird mothering advice… I spent about an hour clicking through articles on this woman, and by the end of it she was making me angrier than Anne Hathaway does.

That is something, because Hathaway is a big toothy, singing sack of awful that makes me want to run into the street and start punching other people’s children and shoplifting pharmacies.

Cray.

Cray.

What?

I’m 23.

Right now, I feel aimless, confused, lonely and despondent. Which is why I’m starting up another verkakte blog.

I have an unsatisfying work-from-home job, and I dream of epidemiology.

I’m a LADY (which is to say, I’m a girl who desperately wants to cultivate a classy demeanor. Eventually.)

I have a decent bouquet of mental problems, combined with an uptight British upbringing (fun!).

I have the best dog in the world. He is an Australian Shepherd named Calvin, and is scared of the rubbish bin.

I desperately want to go to America.

I love America.

Take me to America?