Entry tags:
Writer's Block: Mind reader
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Oh squiggle.
Oh squiggle.
Entry tags:
Writer's Block: A real state of independents
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"Lie back and think of England" wank?
"Lie back and think of England" wank?
extreme rant about work, society, etc
grrr
been posting on Guardian comment pages as am spending time in bed being a bit poorly for a rest:
http://www.guardian.co.uk/politics/2010/may/27/iain-duncan-smith-welfare-dependency?showallcomments=true#end-of-comments
I be "berries."
But I assume none of you will want to read all that, so suffice it to say that for once most of the comments are pretty decent and most people on it are sticking up for people on benefits. I have argued with a dickfaced poo who claimed that £25000 a year is piffling and that it goes in taxes to the "workshy," only to have it turn out he or she has no maths ability whatsoever: I pointed out that £25000 a year leaves £368 a week after taxes, and he/she replied that the £368 a week is halved by taxes to pay for the "workshy." So clearly most confused.
To be honest, I wouldn't get out of bed at shittyclocky in the morning for a paltry £368 a week, but that's because I value life and time over money. The things that would make my life better would be unattainable for an extra £130 odd a week, and prevented altogether by the fact that my entire waking life would be spent enduring hell to earn that piddling amount. Obviously if I were someone who were not in intense emotional pain every waking moment, suffering depression and despair, someone who had friends and family and happiness to make the work worthwhile, someone who had the energy and drive to cope with debilitating amounts of work and stress, or someone who was too thick and petty to care anyway...well, that would be different.
It isn't the money, it's the need to have a basic bearability of life. If I could work in a nature reserve outdoors watching birds all day, I'd be ok with £10000 a year, as it would be just enough to scrape by on (well, not living here as it would not pay rent and bills! but living in the country it might be enough to live on) and my life would be enhanced by nature, fresh air, exercise, peace and quiet, and so forth.
Another rant in me is that I am SICK OF BEING MADE TO FEEL I SHOULD FEEL INDEBTED TO SOCIETY FOR ALLOWING ME TO LIVE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Perhaps if someone were born disabled, or had a freak accident such as being struck by lightning leaving them unable to move limbs, then ok, they could be expected to think phew what a relief I live in a society prepared to pay to keep me alive rather than leave me to die on an exposed mountain (or in the Thames, or wherever the London equivalent of an exposed mountain is. Hampstead Heath. Fuck knows.) Personally I think it should be considered society's duty, not something to feel grateful for.
But in my case, for fuck's sake: I would not be in this situation of "society" had not fucking well put me here!!!!!!!!!!!!!
No, I do not have "clinical depression" or any other illness or disability. I have Being Freaked Out Terrified Horrified and in Despair because of the way society has treated me.
I live in a society that demands protection by law for parents who wish to hurt their children.
I live in a society in which teachers thought it acceptable to tell me I was lying or only had myself to blame if I was unhappy at home.
I live in a society in which university is an elitist clique-ridden careerist networking binge rather than a place of reflection and contemplation and serious enquiry.
I live in a society where men have spat at me in the street because they did not find me sexually attractive.
I live in a society where appearance and glib self-marketing technique counts above willingness or integrity in competition for jobs.
I live in a society where, most importantly, the most common reaction to bereavement is "move on" "get a life" "stop trying to get attention" "don't try those tears on me!"
A society in which life is deemed so utterly unimportant that the individual is reduced to his or her economic worth so that immediately after my brother's death I was told by almost everyone I knew that I was a pathetic disgrace because I was not looking for a job.
If it were not for these extreme flaws in society I would be the happy, motivated, passionate young girl there were glimpses of in my childhood before (by the age of about 12) I was too run down with despair to manage much more.
So for fuck's sake. Next time someone tells me I should feel grateful that I am extremely bedgrudgingly allowed to live by this fucked up, sick and twisted society...well, I wouldn't have the words to explain it to them, so I will just spit in their faces.
(I have done this to someone before and it is immense fun because they're so shocked they don't retaliate - I'd recommend it to anyone who has a bad temper too!) (Although beware: it only works on middle class people, who are easily shocked because of their petty, cusioned lives (most of them, not all of course). If you tried it on a lower class person you would probably end up dead, unless they had a sexist thing about not hitting women, in which case you might be ok.) (Unless you're a man.)
been posting on Guardian comment pages as am spending time in bed being a bit poorly for a rest:
http://www.guardian.co.uk/politics/2010/may/27/iain-duncan-smith-welfare-dependency?showallcomments=true#end-of-comments
I be "berries."
But I assume none of you will want to read all that, so suffice it to say that for once most of the comments are pretty decent and most people on it are sticking up for people on benefits. I have argued with a dickfaced poo who claimed that £25000 a year is piffling and that it goes in taxes to the "workshy," only to have it turn out he or she has no maths ability whatsoever: I pointed out that £25000 a year leaves £368 a week after taxes, and he/she replied that the £368 a week is halved by taxes to pay for the "workshy." So clearly most confused.
To be honest, I wouldn't get out of bed at shittyclocky in the morning for a paltry £368 a week, but that's because I value life and time over money. The things that would make my life better would be unattainable for an extra £130 odd a week, and prevented altogether by the fact that my entire waking life would be spent enduring hell to earn that piddling amount. Obviously if I were someone who were not in intense emotional pain every waking moment, suffering depression and despair, someone who had friends and family and happiness to make the work worthwhile, someone who had the energy and drive to cope with debilitating amounts of work and stress, or someone who was too thick and petty to care anyway...well, that would be different.
It isn't the money, it's the need to have a basic bearability of life. If I could work in a nature reserve outdoors watching birds all day, I'd be ok with £10000 a year, as it would be just enough to scrape by on (well, not living here as it would not pay rent and bills! but living in the country it might be enough to live on) and my life would be enhanced by nature, fresh air, exercise, peace and quiet, and so forth.
Another rant in me is that I am SICK OF BEING MADE TO FEEL I SHOULD FEEL INDEBTED TO SOCIETY FOR ALLOWING ME TO LIVE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Perhaps if someone were born disabled, or had a freak accident such as being struck by lightning leaving them unable to move limbs, then ok, they could be expected to think phew what a relief I live in a society prepared to pay to keep me alive rather than leave me to die on an exposed mountain (or in the Thames, or wherever the London equivalent of an exposed mountain is. Hampstead Heath. Fuck knows.) Personally I think it should be considered society's duty, not something to feel grateful for.
But in my case, for fuck's sake: I would not be in this situation of "society" had not fucking well put me here!!!!!!!!!!!!!
No, I do not have "clinical depression" or any other illness or disability. I have Being Freaked Out Terrified Horrified and in Despair because of the way society has treated me.
I live in a society that demands protection by law for parents who wish to hurt their children.
I live in a society in which teachers thought it acceptable to tell me I was lying or only had myself to blame if I was unhappy at home.
I live in a society in which university is an elitist clique-ridden careerist networking binge rather than a place of reflection and contemplation and serious enquiry.
I live in a society where men have spat at me in the street because they did not find me sexually attractive.
I live in a society where appearance and glib self-marketing technique counts above willingness or integrity in competition for jobs.
I live in a society where, most importantly, the most common reaction to bereavement is "move on" "get a life" "stop trying to get attention" "don't try those tears on me!"
A society in which life is deemed so utterly unimportant that the individual is reduced to his or her economic worth so that immediately after my brother's death I was told by almost everyone I knew that I was a pathetic disgrace because I was not looking for a job.
If it were not for these extreme flaws in society I would be the happy, motivated, passionate young girl there were glimpses of in my childhood before (by the age of about 12) I was too run down with despair to manage much more.
So for fuck's sake. Next time someone tells me I should feel grateful that I am extremely bedgrudgingly allowed to live by this fucked up, sick and twisted society...well, I wouldn't have the words to explain it to them, so I will just spit in their faces.
(I have done this to someone before and it is immense fun because they're so shocked they don't retaliate - I'd recommend it to anyone who has a bad temper too!) (Although beware: it only works on middle class people, who are easily shocked because of their petty, cusioned lives (most of them, not all of course). If you tried it on a lower class person you would probably end up dead, unless they had a sexist thing about not hitting women, in which case you might be ok.) (Unless you're a man.)
(no subject)
I had a dream about the Scent of Forgetfulness. Evil elves were lurking outside a suburban semi watching a wee ten year old girl wash her hair in the sink and waiting for a chance to slink in and steal away with the glittering, scented air-flow under the spiral staircase. The girl's mother called the police, and the policeman's brother snooped around upstairs while the policeman told the mother he could tell she was new to the neighbourhood because she had hung a bright red towel outside with her washing, and what would the neighbours think of her with such a flagrant symbol hanging outside? He nudged her and she truthfully replied that she had no idea what he meant. Then the policemen whiffed the air by the stairs, forgot what they were there for and left. An evil elf sneaked in through the closing door and snatched the stream of air and vanished on the spot. Then the young girl stood under the stairs and sniffed the scent of the remaining few glitters that were twirling gold flakes, said it smelled of lavender, then forgot all about it and the dream ended. When I awoke I knew it was a precious scent of forgetfulness from an underground air flow and that the suburban semi had been built on top. I know the elves were evil because there was a hint that they might murder to get the scent, and they had flashing green pointy eyes.
biometric ID cards - cool article
http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2007/nov/24/idcards.homeaffairs
I like this writer. He does the "Bad Science" column in the Guardian.
I like this writer. He does the "Bad Science" column in the Guardian.
Entry tags:
Writer's Block: Time Travel
If you could travel back in time to spend a day with someone, who would it be and why?
That is difficult. I think it would be a Greek minor deity, but I'm not sure which one. One of the people who annoys me would be good as I could go back to when they were a baby and kill them, but then I might feel guilty. There are people I admire/worship, such as Dostoyevsky, but they might be annoyed at me turning up for a day. Frida Kahlo would be cool. Possily the poet Sappho, but there would be language difficulties. Ideally it would be someone beautiful for a day of sex.
That is difficult. I think it would be a Greek minor deity, but I'm not sure which one. One of the people who annoys me would be good as I could go back to when they were a baby and kill them, but then I might feel guilty. There are people I admire/worship, such as Dostoyevsky, but they might be annoyed at me turning up for a day. Frida Kahlo would be cool. Possily the poet Sappho, but there would be language difficulties. Ideally it would be someone beautiful for a day of sex.
Happy New Year
Well, since last posts I did some things I intended. I fled the country to Japan for a month, which was amazing. My friend Grace made me cycle, do high-temperature yoga (frequently), and have no cigarettes or drink. I became a slim and enthusiastic person! Tokyo is lovely, but only if you spend it in the sento - baths - lying in jacuzzis and steamed surrounded by slim, naked girls. If not in a public bath, you can get hot, milky tea from a vending machine and wander around a shrine talking to nature gods who sprout trees where they land on the earth.
Since coming back I have been neverendingly busy, now doing three whole voluntary jobs whilst trying (without much success) to write four essays. And doing the food courses I wanted to do. Well, I missed one due to hangovers, but overall I have hardly been drinking at all, and only been stoned when Christine came to stay and we had lovely times. Been trying to be a sensible person but it takes time and effort.
Since coming back I have been neverendingly busy, now doing three whole voluntary jobs whilst trying (without much success) to write four essays. And doing the food courses I wanted to do. Well, I missed one due to hangovers, but overall I have hardly been drinking at all, and only been stoned when Christine came to stay and we had lovely times. Been trying to be a sensible person but it takes time and effort.
(no subject)
I have just discovered that if I click on my current location, the sofa, in the previous post, a map appears with places in some foreign country labelled on it. But I only meant my sofa in the sitting room.
Anyway, also noticed my entry from 31st January and realised that i have the man I wanted, but alas alas it is too stressful and too distressing. A bit of a monkey's paw of a wish granted. But he is beautiful and sexy and manly and strong and perfect and passionate in bed. Oh sigh.
I am watching the Masque of the Red Death but am too tired to watch much more. Vincent Price is very funny.
Anyway, also noticed my entry from 31st January and realised that i have the man I wanted, but alas alas it is too stressful and too distressing. A bit of a monkey's paw of a wish granted. But he is beautiful and sexy and manly and strong and perfect and passionate in bed. Oh sigh.
I am watching the Masque of the Red Death but am too tired to watch much more. Vincent Price is very funny.
(no subject)
What am I going to do?
I have fallen into a relationship with a paranoid schizophrenic who sometimes thinks I am his ex girlfriend, who can't remember anything I tell him about myself (including, frequently, my name), who mistook my friend's sister for a "cop," me for a "hooker" (that was a funny one), thinks the traffic is talking to him, the birds irritating him with their chatter, his flat littered with hidden cameras and bugs. Phew. Two weeks and I am exhausted, shattered, needing constant sleep and growing darker lines upon my brow.
I am in love but beset with anxiety. I am worried it is a physical passion only, though only is a silly word as physical passion whew he is amazing. But I can't cope with the pain and suffering and fear and confusion of his condition. It is too huge and too frightening.
And I am getting really tired of hearing all about his ex girlfriend over and over again. I keep crying imagining what she went through.
On the other hand he is immensely sweet and caring and funny and kind.
But I know it is wrong to let it continue because I should be responsible and grown up because I am relatively sane, in that I don't hear voices and mistake people for other people.
But I keep telling him it is no good and I don't want a relationship but he won't listen. And he is so devoted. And so so sexy.
Oh dear. Ok looks like I'll have to be grown up and responsible and do something about this. Stop being in love somehow. Flee the country. Become a squirrel.
I have fallen into a relationship with a paranoid schizophrenic who sometimes thinks I am his ex girlfriend, who can't remember anything I tell him about myself (including, frequently, my name), who mistook my friend's sister for a "cop," me for a "hooker" (that was a funny one), thinks the traffic is talking to him, the birds irritating him with their chatter, his flat littered with hidden cameras and bugs. Phew. Two weeks and I am exhausted, shattered, needing constant sleep and growing darker lines upon my brow.
I am in love but beset with anxiety. I am worried it is a physical passion only, though only is a silly word as physical passion whew he is amazing. But I can't cope with the pain and suffering and fear and confusion of his condition. It is too huge and too frightening.
And I am getting really tired of hearing all about his ex girlfriend over and over again. I keep crying imagining what she went through.
On the other hand he is immensely sweet and caring and funny and kind.
But I know it is wrong to let it continue because I should be responsible and grown up because I am relatively sane, in that I don't hear voices and mistake people for other people.
But I keep telling him it is no good and I don't want a relationship but he won't listen. And he is so devoted. And so so sexy.
Oh dear. Ok looks like I'll have to be grown up and responsible and do something about this. Stop being in love somehow. Flee the country. Become a squirrel.
(no subject)
Questions for those who want to become citizens of London Town (inspired by ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
realcdaae's look at the British citizenship test).
Where can you get a drink after 11ish in central London?
What are the three nicest toilets you can use without buying anything in central London?
Where do you most want to kill people?
Where are most people killed?
Why the different answers for the last two questions?
What do you think of the congestion charge?
Where do you get the best bagels?
What is the point of the tube when it costs too much for the ordinary Londoner to use?
Where are the largest concentrations of irritating suburban visitors to be found?
Which are the best graveyards?
Why do people have to fucking spit everywhere?
Do you buy the Big Issue?
realcdaae's look at the British citizenship test).Where can you get a drink after 11ish in central London?
What are the three nicest toilets you can use without buying anything in central London?
Where do you most want to kill people?
Where are most people killed?
Why the different answers for the last two questions?
What do you think of the congestion charge?
Where do you get the best bagels?
What is the point of the tube when it costs too much for the ordinary Londoner to use?
Where are the largest concentrations of irritating suburban visitors to be found?
Which are the best graveyards?
Why do people have to fucking spit everywhere?
Do you buy the Big Issue?
Divine injustice
Well, wiggly woggly wombat is just about all I have to say on the matter. Today I was told, "look at you! you're a grown woman but you come across like a little girl!"
Well bloody hell, give me time to catch up on myself for Christ's sake!
I don't feel like a little girl or a grown woman, more like a cross between a tree fairy who's eaten too much chocolate and a cowboy in a Western resting by a cactus. Hence the apparent discrepancy between my age and my looks.
It's all very well telling one what one comes across as, but really I don't want to know, have enough to worry about, and if truly how I come across is at the root of my problems with people's cruel perceptions of me surely there needs be a law against looking at me, and a copywrite protection on my persona? Maybe they should just have their eyes plucked out, twats. Brains mushed and legs squished and hair twirled into silly shapes.
It's not my fault I look younger than my years - it's all that silicon in all that lager I drank. And as for how I act, well what's more annoying than people who ponce about acting all grown up as if they know what's what in the world? Fishfinger cunts.
Anyway, of course one comes across as a little girl on one's first encounter with a new therapist. D'uh.
Only it turns out this therapy is about being grown up and taking responsibility - ugh. Not something I'm a stranger to at all, simply something I'm on stike from for the moment.
More to the point, I went because I have a problem with people's perceptions of me, more precisely with people's bad and cruel comments. Which may very well quite likely indeed be a result of how I come across to people, but as different people react differently to different ways of coming across, and I'm tired and just want a quick fix so refuse to work out different personas for different people, balls to that.
I refuse to allow therapy to overrule moral rectitude, defined as the fact that I am right and that people shouldn't say bad and cruel things no matter what. So there.
Now this was meant to bring me to the topic of divine justice, but I'm really tired now so it will have to wait. Bye bye x x.
Well bloody hell, give me time to catch up on myself for Christ's sake!
I don't feel like a little girl or a grown woman, more like a cross between a tree fairy who's eaten too much chocolate and a cowboy in a Western resting by a cactus. Hence the apparent discrepancy between my age and my looks.
It's all very well telling one what one comes across as, but really I don't want to know, have enough to worry about, and if truly how I come across is at the root of my problems with people's cruel perceptions of me surely there needs be a law against looking at me, and a copywrite protection on my persona? Maybe they should just have their eyes plucked out, twats. Brains mushed and legs squished and hair twirled into silly shapes.
It's not my fault I look younger than my years - it's all that silicon in all that lager I drank. And as for how I act, well what's more annoying than people who ponce about acting all grown up as if they know what's what in the world? Fishfinger cunts.
Anyway, of course one comes across as a little girl on one's first encounter with a new therapist. D'uh.
Only it turns out this therapy is about being grown up and taking responsibility - ugh. Not something I'm a stranger to at all, simply something I'm on stike from for the moment.
More to the point, I went because I have a problem with people's perceptions of me, more precisely with people's bad and cruel comments. Which may very well quite likely indeed be a result of how I come across to people, but as different people react differently to different ways of coming across, and I'm tired and just want a quick fix so refuse to work out different personas for different people, balls to that.
I refuse to allow therapy to overrule moral rectitude, defined as the fact that I am right and that people shouldn't say bad and cruel things no matter what. So there.
Now this was meant to bring me to the topic of divine justice, but I'm really tired now so it will have to wait. Bye bye x x.
Entry tags:
Food diary
Hello there!
I am well boggled. We listened to Pressed Rat and Warthog. Turns out they closed down their shop.
Today for dinner I made:
Soup that was really more stew or maybe ratatouille with many beans, tomatoes, onion, a big clove of pink garlic bought from the Frenchman with the bicycle outside the farmers' market, and a sprig of rosemary picked direct from the community garden;
Boiled organic potatoes with butter and wholegrain mustard;
Slices of aubergine sprayed with olive oil then grilled in George Foreman's Lean Mean Fat-Reducing Grilling Machine and topped with crumbled organic and vegetarian feta.
For pudding I didn't have because I forgot was a plum crumble with crystallised ginger, almond flakes and cinammon.
Now I am boggled so I had better go to bed.
I am well boggled. We listened to Pressed Rat and Warthog. Turns out they closed down their shop.
Today for dinner I made:
Soup that was really more stew or maybe ratatouille with many beans, tomatoes, onion, a big clove of pink garlic bought from the Frenchman with the bicycle outside the farmers' market, and a sprig of rosemary picked direct from the community garden;
Boiled organic potatoes with butter and wholegrain mustard;
Slices of aubergine sprayed with olive oil then grilled in George Foreman's Lean Mean Fat-Reducing Grilling Machine and topped with crumbled organic and vegetarian feta.
For pudding I didn't have because I forgot was a plum crumble with crystallised ginger, almond flakes and cinammon.
Now I am boggled so I had better go to bed.
Entry tags:
(no subject)
Today I am so tired my vision has been wobbling. I have a very large radish and Christine and I have agreed to dissect it, rub salt in its wounds and eat it tomorrow evening, having taken photographs for that Melvin's perusal.
Today I had to be up by nine, despite being after bong, and awake enough for gas fire fixing man, but he did not come till one, and then he spent two hours putting in a new gas fire, which turned out to be broken. Broken, moreover, in the same spot as the previous gas fire, which was otherwise healthy though dusty and a close friend of many years. Though I turned the new one on just now and it worked. Very confusing. Anyway, this wobbled my day the wrong way and I have been tired ever since.
I walked into two supermarkets but could not bring myself to buy their broccolli when I thought about the way they mess about the farmers and the high numbers of farmers committing suicide as a result. Not that I particularly like farmers, but I think there should be more respect for broccolli and those who grow it, and vegetarian farmers are nice usually. Now I have broccolli from Alara, necessarily expensive and limp, but adequate for my tomato and broccolli bake tomorrow, hopefully to be combined with cheese sauce, or possibly feta if I can purchase vegetarian yet authentic feta between King's Cross and Kensington for less than three pounds tomorrow.
Any other nice ingredient ideas much appreciated.
Love from me.
Today I had to be up by nine, despite being after bong, and awake enough for gas fire fixing man, but he did not come till one, and then he spent two hours putting in a new gas fire, which turned out to be broken. Broken, moreover, in the same spot as the previous gas fire, which was otherwise healthy though dusty and a close friend of many years. Though I turned the new one on just now and it worked. Very confusing. Anyway, this wobbled my day the wrong way and I have been tired ever since.
I walked into two supermarkets but could not bring myself to buy their broccolli when I thought about the way they mess about the farmers and the high numbers of farmers committing suicide as a result. Not that I particularly like farmers, but I think there should be more respect for broccolli and those who grow it, and vegetarian farmers are nice usually. Now I have broccolli from Alara, necessarily expensive and limp, but adequate for my tomato and broccolli bake tomorrow, hopefully to be combined with cheese sauce, or possibly feta if I can purchase vegetarian yet authentic feta between King's Cross and Kensington for less than three pounds tomorrow.
Any other nice ingredient ideas much appreciated.
Love from me.
(no subject)
Hello! I am still pofflewomp, and this is still my journal.
NOTHING HAS HAPPENED!
Actually, many things have happened, but I'm not going to tell you all about them. Who the heck are you anyway? Do you have any sheep for sale? Why is your cat wearing a hat?
NOTHING HAS HAPPENED!
Actually, many things have happened, but I'm not going to tell you all about them. Who the heck are you anyway? Do you have any sheep for sale? Why is your cat wearing a hat?
Hello!
Hello, I am pofflewomp. I am a large poggle. I live in a village with my friends, some of whom are woggles.