Category Archives: NaBloPoMo

72 posts. 5 pages. 36 categories. 189 tags.

Written on November 19th, 2009 and labelled Disheartened with Life, NaBloPoMo
2 Comments - Thoughts?

72 posts. 5 pages. 36 categories. 189 tags.

Sadly, the foremost of that list contains the fewest I am proud of.  I don’t feel like a real blogger.  For the majority of the time, I wonder whether the words I write are my own.  I find myself wondering about my identity.  Thoughts of who I am, what I write and why I write all seem to chase their tails, not really ever finding a way to catch what they want so much.

They want answers.  Answers which, unfortunately, I can’t give. Inadequacy creeps around the fringes of my emotional awareness and I ask myself again and again: “Who am I?”

In a very banal way, I find myself asking why it even matters. A nihilistic wave of doubt shudders over me. I wonder what the point of existence is. Just like my questions, I begin to chase my own tail.

They say that code is like poetry. Even so, I can’t help but feel that code holds the same attribution as maths: empty symbols creating value by sitting next to each other.  And in the same way, a part of me starts to softly believe that words hold the same value as my current emotion: uncertainty of worth.

Words are like tiny bullets.  And in the very same way, they take the right person to be able to use them properly. They take training. They take naturally to a certain character. Again, that wave washes over me. Doubt.

I’ll agree with you that I am my biggest critic. Still, I can’t help but feel that I’m filled with sloth over my writing. I write lists. Memes. Fanciful ways of showing I have nothing worth writing about. That the idea of writing a real post on my blog would be too much work. Laziness.

I am tired. Truly, tired. No doubt the time of year is causing an effect more than anything; I sense a storm beginning to blow around the edges of my awareness. It feels uncomfortable. Out of place.

I saw my new therapist on Monday. She told me she couldn’t help me. Her organization works short-term. I’m a long-term client. Another waiting list awaits my name.

Sorry that I couldn’t put a positive spin on this one.

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Memeing ’till the cows come home.

Written on November 17th, 2009 and labelled Just 'cuz, NaBloPoMo
2 Comments - Thoughts?

So Karen totally tagged me with this meme, and because I’m polite I thought I’d totally go with the flow and do it too.

Prepare to wish you’d never clicked onto my blog.  And, too, prepare to learn things about me which you really don’t care about.

1. Name someone with the same birthday as you.

No idea.  I think Sandra Bullock (whom I actually LIKE in films, fyi — Miss Congeniality FTW!) is on the same as mine.  Let’s google it, yeah?

Wow.  Apparently, my birthday holds the birth of a lot of C-List people.  Thankfully, the awesome Hilary Duff and I were born on the same day.

DUDE!  Frankie Jonas and I were born on the same day, too.   Claim to fame secured.

2. Where was your first kiss?

My bedroom. On my lips.  Honestly?  It sucked.

3. Have you ever seriously vandalized someone else’s property?

Well, not exactly.  When I was, hmm, 9(?) I wrote “I HATE YOU” on my neighbour’s gate, but that’s only because her two sons came around and intimidated me in my front garden.

4. Have you ever hit someone of the opposite sex?

Oui oui.  This girl and I were talking and this other girl came up behind me and pushed me right into her.  Like, the girl I was talking to’s glasses and my face totally didn’t make friends.  So I turned around and gave her stomach one punch.  She then said she was fine, then went and tattled on me, and then she never came to the meeting we were supposed to have to resolve it.  She seemed to reform quite a lot after that.  And she kinda deserved it — she was one of those endlessly annoying girls.  Endlessly.

5. Have you ever sung in front of a large number of people?

Not really.  I mean, in primary school we have to sing in shows and stuff, but I’ve never ever had to sing solo, so, uhm, no?

6. What’s the first thing you notice about your preferred sex?

Typically their face (go figure).  But, honestly?  Either their hair or their upper chest.  I like pecs.  Sue me.

7. What really turns you off?

People who don’t keep themselves hygienic.  I mean, sweat is fine.  I have no real problem with that — especially during sexual stuff.  But, like, if you don’t wash a part of yourself?  You don’t brush your teeth?  You don’t shower on a regular basis?

Also, I’m REALLY not fond of people who don’t, like, ‘own’ themselves.

8. What do you order at Starbucks?

I don’t ever ever ever go to Starbucks.  I don’t like it.  Huge corporations make me quite angry.

9. What is your biggest mistake?

Not listening to my goshdarn intuition.  Again and again and again.

10. Have you ever hurt yourself on purpose?

A few times, but that was a long time ago and I was stupid.  And also?  Hurting thyself is PAINFUL DUDES.  Totally not worth the emotional outlet.

11. Say something totally random about yourself.

I absolutely cannot stand coldness EXCEPT when I’m warm in bed.  Or warm in bed snuggling with MommyMelee’s husband a lovely male.  :]

12. Has anyone ever said you looked like a celebrity?

Indeed they have!  Someone once said — wait no, I actually STILL get this — that I look a bit like Eric McCormack.  You know?  From Will & Grace?  It’s when I have my big hair on.  I don’t really agree.

Also?  Worryingly, I used to have a mega crush on him.

13. Do you still watch kiddie movies or TV shows?

Well, I watch multi-purpose kiddie movies like Up and Wall-E, but, like, not UBER kiddie movies.  And never children’s TV shows.

14. Did you have braces?

Nope!  My dentist told me that my teeth would form naturally into a straight position.  He was right.  Woot.

15. Are you comfortable with your height?

Meh.  Give me 1.5″ to bring me just over 6 foot and I’ll be able to say yes to this question.  Though, well, I am COMFORTABLE with my height.  I just want to be a little bit taller.  So, uhm, yeah.

16. What is the most romantic thing someone of the preferred sex has done for you?

Totally wrote me a letter about how he felt about me and was going to post it to me a few days before my stressful day and so I’d get it on the day when I was UBER stressed.  Luckily, I found it and ruined his plans.  Why is that good?  Because I wanted to break up with him.  Snarf.

17. When do you know its love?

When the other person recognizes (and almost likes) the fact that I’m going to ENDLESSLY angst over the question having “its” instead of “it’s”.

18. Do you speak any other languages?

Sure do!  I can splurge tiny bits of German, French, Japanese, Mandarin and Portuguese at you.  I can also make a pretty good job with Spanish — thankfully, too, as I’ve been learning it for over 5 years now.

19. Have you ever been to a tanning salon?

I’m happy with my current state of pale, thank you very much.

20. What magazines do you read?

Uhm, when I’m in a resilient mood, the Amnesty International magazine.  And sometimes Eureka!  A lot of the time, though, I just read all of the hilarious junk that comes with the newspapers these days.  A lot of it is so poorly constructed (from a copywriter’s POV) that it’s just one giggletron after another.

21. Have you ever ridden in a limo?

Nope.  And I’m not all that keen to, either.

22. Has anyone you were really close to passed away?

I assume this question is to do with people, so very thankfully, I can say no.  Though the two funerals I’ve been to, heh, weren’t all that delicious.

23. Do you watch MTV?

Hell.  No.

24. What’s something that really annoys you?

People that act curt and affronted when the person who they’re dealing with have done nothing to cause such a response.  It’s rude.

Also, 1and1 internet.  Be warned.

25. What’s something you really like?

Music.  Grapes.  Money.  Idealism.  The idyllic future that Star Trek paints.  The idea that there’s something more.  Hope.  Space (and Space Travel).  Talking.  Laughter.

26. Do you like Michael Jackson?

Meh.  Not really.  I didn’t really have that specific an opinion before his death, and I don’t have one now.  Though I think it’s endlessly wrong to joke upon another person when they’re dead.

27. Can you dance?

No.  Though I can pull off a mean speedwalk, if it’s any help.

28. What’s the latest you have ever stayed up?

This one time we were going from Canada back to the UK and we set off in the afternoon and got to England at about the afternoon, and I got NO sleep WHATSOEVER on the plane.  The two days LITERALLY felt like one.  As if only moments ago we’d stopped at a Canadian rest stop and yet moments later we were pulling into a petrol station in the UK.  It was WEIRD.  But yeah.  A long time.

29. Have you ever been rushed by an ambulance into the emergency room?

Yeah.  And everyone was giving my mom attention when I was the one coming out of her vagina.  Seriously.  Not cool, doctors.

30. Do you actually read these when other people fill them out?

Most of the time — even if it’s just to get a feel for the person.  They’re endlessly helpful to help build up profiles on people.  Not that I, uhm, do that to anyone.  Ever.

31. Tag 5 people!

No, YOU tag five people.  But fine.  I tag…

Nic - from My Bottle’s Up.

Maria - from MommyMelee (c’mon gurl!  I want information!)

MommyGeek - from MommyGeekology (name not provided for special reasons)

Diane - from Mrs Dashoff.

Chibi- from Chibi Struggles.

See?  Wasn’t so bad, was it?

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CommentLuv, I Don’t Understand Your Needs!

Written on November 8th, 2009 and labelled NaBloPoMo, The Hosters are out to get me.
5 Comments - Thoughts?

Let’s be real.  The chance of you being signed up to my feed?  No doubt, quite low.  But there’s a reason, folks!

Why?

Well.

For some unknown reason, this theme, or my blog in general, or the gods of feed syndication just don’t like my feed.  There’s something wrong with it.  I couldn’t tell you what it is.  If you know, please tell me.

Please, PLEASE tell me.  Because every time I go to post a comment?

“Oh noes!  CommentLuv has died on your comment and you need to check your broken feed because your blog sucks so bad that I can’t even find a feed for it so please check your blog and delete it all and start again otherwise you’ll forever be trapped in feed hell!”, says CommentLuv.

It sucks.

And even, let’s say, that you are subscribed to my feed.  What happens when you go to your reader and are all like “I WANT TO READ ABOUT MATT’S TOMFOOLERY NOW*”?

You have to spend 30 minutes trying to work out which of the feeds is mine, only to realise it’s the one called

‘Title Unknown’ or

‘Title Missing’ or

‘This blog sucks so bad the hosters have denied permission to give it a name for the feed’.

Yeah.

Exactly.

They’re out to get me, those damn hosters.

So what do I do?  I eat HUGE amounts of hummus and then get a teensy bit high I flail, of course!  Only kidding.  I actually do end up eating an endless amount of hummus when I’m stressed.  This is why you should buy me an exercise bike.


.

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That is all.

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Well actually, no, it’s not.  I need to know why my blog is totally broken and you have to tell me why it is.  Tell me!  NOW!  Scroll down and leave a comment of technical knowledge explaining why my hoster hates me so is denying me permission for everything my feed and this blog is just mental and needs crucifying.

And as a special bonus, if you comment I’m totes gonna reply back to your comment with “I love your…” and put the … as an interesting piece of anatomy which you wouldn’t have heard on Grey’s Anatomy.

Deal?

Deal.


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*Diane, I’m sorry, but I’m in love with the word tomfoolery.  It’s your fault.

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Asking.

Written on November 7th, 2009 and labelled Authentic, NaBloPoMo, Reflections
2 Comments - Thoughts?

I don’t like asking for help.

It’s because of vulnerability.

About a year and a half ago I was sat in a room in my school on some comfy chairs whilst a slender, female psychotherapist gently gazed at me.  Her name was Becky. She was very kind and her eyes would refuse to focus on anything but me.  It was white-hot concentration.  It was weird.

I remember that, with Becky, I had my first ever ‘Johari’ moment.  A moment when everything suddenly falls into perfect place and your awareness of your mind becomes forever shifted. My first ever moment, with her, was about control.

Control.

So often, people that enter the warm embrace of psychotherapy are told that we can’t ‘control’ everything.  That we have to learn to let go and let what’s going to happen, happen.  That there are certain things that, regardless of our efforts, will happen without our input.  We’re told to sit back and worry about what we can control.

With me, it goes deeper. Much, much deeper. I remember sitting on one of those grey, soft chairs with Becky, facing her but at a slight angle, and suddenly everything having a common link.  My muddy-brown mind suddenly becoming transparent.

Control is something I have a problem with every single day.  I long to be in control.  Of myself.  Of situations.  Of the minutia of every footstep I take into the future.

Being in control.  Being able to run away if I have to.  Being able to grasp tightly to my freedom.  That is my control.

Sometimes it’s hard to talk to people who haven’t had therapy.  Not because they haven’t had to deal with the intense, riveting emotions that ‘we’ have, but because often they look down into their minds and see nothing but murky waters.  Murky waters filled with suppressed grief and past pains which were never dealt with.  It’s hard to be aware when you’ve never looked below the quiet surface of the water.

And so when I tell people that I don’t like asking for help, my defences form answers to distract them from my reality.  “I enjoy the challenge”, I churp back at them in a rehearsed fashion, “asking for help is like giving up.”

A lie.

I wear a mask a lot of the time.  A mask so big that it covers who I am, and more.  It allows others to see me as the person they want, not as the person I am.  They see what they want to see, and that’s okay.

Because I do not choose to lie to them.  I choose to let them understand a side of who I am.  Because without the mask, they see nothing but chaos.  They see a cavern of darkness dimly lit by the shining jewels of my realisations.

And so I do not ask for help from people very often.  Instead, I hold my tongue and battern down the hatches, waiting for the storm to pass. And when it does, I open everything back up again to see what is left of my existence.

It’s all about vulnerability.

I don’t like asking for help.

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Cat, not now.

Written on November 6th, 2009 and labelled Fun, NaBloPoMo
0 Comments - Thoughts?

So, if you actually pay attention to Twitter, you should realise that my last tweet was about my body not being able to work almond essence through properly.

And because of this, every time I eat almond essence (so I realised a few moments ago), it causes me lots of tummy and kidney pain.  *Lots*.

This pain, I might add, is still shrilling through my body like a bitch.  So I’m sorry if this post ends up making absolutely no sense.

Anyway.  As you may or may not know, I have two cats.  Willow (after Willow in Buffy the Vampire Slayer, even though our Willow is a boy), and Tiger (who I found at the back door of our house in mid November several years ago).  Together, they are quite mental.

And by mental, I mean OHMYGOD SO FUSSY.

For example, let’s talk sleeping habits for a few seconds.

Willow?  He must always, always sleep on something.  He must always be in a place of vantage so he can jump on something if it gets close.  And, lest I forget, he must always be sleeping above his ‘brother’, Tiger.

Tiger’s sleeping habits?  FAR simpler:  He must always be sleeping near me, or near where I have been previously.

Now, I love them both to pieces. They are like my little surrogate children and I’d protect them no matter what.  But sometimes?  Tiger really pisses me off.

Take right now, for instance.  This moment at present is just one of the many times a day he insists on me feeding him.  And when I refuse to?

He bites my ankles.

He bites my calves.

He attempts to corner me and then runs at me and bats me.

He jumps on tables and sits in front of me.

He hides behind things and meows.  Loudly.

But worst of all?  He NEVER. GIVES. UP.

Now, I’m sure if Tiger were a human he’d be the most well-built, richest man on the earth because of his undying persistence.

But quite frankly?  With the pain in my body right now (which, by this point, is thankfully dying (Ha! A pun!)), all I want to say to little Mr. Tiger, who never stops meowing for food, is “Cat, Not Now!”

Though, in fairness, when he’s not wailing for food, he is a fairly lovely cat.  Even if he does discharge ass-smelling liquids randomly when he sits down on my bed.

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