Excuse For Not Posting #308

This time it really wasn't my fault.

When trying to post to my blog, several months ago, the furious typing from the fountain of inspiration caused the keyboard to overheat.

In fact it overheated to the point where my fingertips suffered 1st degree burns and had to be bandaged for several weeks. Knowing that nothing was more important than writing in my blog, I then proceeded to try and type with my nose, but in doing so accidently managed to hack into, and forward, documents held within US Goverment Security Servers to a man whose email address was, randomly, j_assange@wikileaks.com.

I'm pretty sure nothing came of it.

Anyway, after months of feeling guilty about the blog I am desperately trying to resurrect it, for my sanity if nothing else.

A little light dusting of the rubbish that I've managed to accumulate in my brain. Aren't you lucky?

MB

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Staggering Out From The Black Hole...

So I was going to post a lot earlier, about how I procrastinate about posting, but then I put it off for another day.

The universe, faced with such a closed loop of irony, swallowed me into a black hole, which is where I have been residing for the last few months.

And so that's why I haven't written in a while.

... as excuses go it probably needs some work, but at least it's original.

Anyhoo - when I started this blog, I sort-of promised to myself that I would never use it as a diary, so much as a respository for the slightly/moderately/oh-very-much-so insane musings cluttering up my mind. But unfortunately, I think I'm going to have to break this sort-of rule today.

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I got some bad news earlier this week. It wasn't terrible news. It wasn't tragic.

There's something I've observed about tragedy - with what luckily little contact I've had with it - and that is that sometimes things are SO tragic, so horrific, so awful that your brain can't react. Instead some sort of safety fuse blows, and instead of your brain exploding, as it so logically should, it gets distant, protected by this strange, invisible, yet protective bubble.

Is it a protective mechanism? Or is it what occurs when we reach the boundaries of our brain, where it does not even know how to react?

Does the calculator of our mind - which adds and divides the hand dealt to us - refuse now to answer when '=' is pressed because it does not know the answer, or to stop itself exploding on realising the true nature of everything that is happening to us?

Ugh, my stomach is objecting to so many metaphors attempts.
I agree, Stomach - I will never use the phrase 'the calculator of our mind' again, unless I'm planning to make someone else a bit sick too.

Anyway, I ponder on this because the bad news I had was only that: bad news. Not tragic. Not horrific.
And it has made me so unhappy, and frustrated, and angry...
I wonder if it's because it's not that terrible. - it's simply disappointing.
And my brain - instead of finding the safety fuse - is simply too tired, and yells WHY ME???!!!!??

I am angry. I am really angry.
I think, in many respects, I have had all the trouble and pain I can take, and I think this news is really, really unfair.
I am angry, but not adult, flustery, pretending-to-be-reasonable anger.
I am toddler angry - the kind of anger not tempered by rhyme and reason.
I want to throw a tantrum. I want to throw all my toys out of the pram, and hit God in the eye.
I want someone else to hurt, but since no one else is there to blame, it looks like it's you, God.
Sorry.
Omniscence can't be all fun.

So... what does this all mean, this rambling nonsense?

I don't know.

I just know that something has happened in my life. Not tragic. Not terrible. But for the life of me I can't reason or analyse my way out of it. I don't know how to make it better. I don't know who to talk to, or what to buy myself, or what to tell myself. I suppose time will have to do, which is pretty deflating.

And I suppose, after all of that... that's life.
That's the most profound thing I can come up with.
It's pretty rubbish, so Descartes's in no immediate trouble.

I've got bad news. I'm upset.
It's bad now. But it will get better.
Be thankful it's not worse and be patient for the day when you not only think it, but believe it too.

And I suppose, most importantly, there's no such thing as a 'normal life'. They're all slightly extraordinary.

I don't know if it's true, but it sounds good, which, when you get to it, is a pretty good substitute for the truth.

Leave ugly women alone... Their lives are hard enough already

Pretty women 'anger more easily' says an article over at BBC News.
And therefore are more successful in conflict.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/health/8464990.stm

Well, duh - ugly women have learned to deal with disappointment at a much younger age.

But just wait until our 70s... when everyone's ugly by default.

That's when us ugly women will get to shine...






MBx

P.S. it's interesting to note that this story is filed under 'Health'. I'm not sure how this information will make us more healthy, except in using this knowledge to build an army of super-cute fighting warriors; otherwise I'm not sure of its purpose in making life better.

Apart from making pretty people feel good, and ugly people worse.

Maybe that's evolution being helpfully pushed along.

My guaranteed-successful magazine cover template

Cat News Stories

There is a disproportionate number of news stories on cats.

It's a fact.

Even a venerable institution such as BBC News still publishes a story every few months that describes how a cat travelled - for example - to an old home after being moved miles away, or hundreds of miles after accidentally wandering onto a vehicle; how a cat has learned to take a bus, how a cat gets a lift home every day... Seriously, I get lifts all the time, but do I get a news story? No. I get called lazy.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/8176971.stm

I like cats. I really do.
But please no more news stories when one travels any kind of distance from one place to another, using any kind of mode of transport AND THAT'S IT...

short of piloting a biplane itself across the Atlantic wearing goggles.

That is the only acceptable exception.

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Step one: Turn over your brain and SHAKE!

Maria Bamford, an exceptional comedian, has a joke in which she describes her secret desire that one day one of those 'Changing Rooms/Queer Eye/How Clean Is Your House-type shows' would come along and clear out her brain for her.

They snark about how the place is stuck in the 80s, and pick through her things asking - 'Maria, why do you have a paralysing fear of helium balloons in here? Shall we get rid of that?'
'No, I need that,' she replies.

I love Maria Bamford.

Anyway, after years of thinking very hard about everything - rather curiously - I don't feel like I can think about anything, my brain is so clogged with inane thoughts.

So, here's my plan. Let's flush away the clogged up rubbish. Let's give the ol' brain a good scrub inside and out -
and where will that junk go?

Onto you, of course! On to the wasteland of the internet...


What a silly question.

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