Tuesday, December 11, 2012

It's All In Your Head

Another day, another night filled with dreams that remind me exactly what a strange creature I am and that even on holidays I can find something to stress over. Maybe I should invest in a cute hobby or something- other than blogging and sort of obsessing over my weird feelings. Or finally learning to knit so I can make a jumper by the time next Winter rolls along so I can be adequately prepared. Since hibernating would probably be a mind-bending and altogether crazy experience for me in this worried state I have to do something other than smash a keyboard absent-mindedly. I sound just like the little characters from Animal Crossing when they want to choose a new hobby... Only I'll be obsessed and poor with clothes forever and trying to balance everything in my life poorly. My brother collected rocks and I'm going to major in geology or rock science if you like, so maybe that should be something to do. A pity I don't have a dog to walk and an excuse to roam the streets searching for treasure.

A lot of people indulge in alcohol as their "poison" i.e. the evil thing they take delight in that may eventually lead them on the path to ruin. My poison is best described as literature because I can feel it's heady potentness at times when the words are really well articulated and it is a stimulus so I choose good old books. I'm slowly savouring the flavours of 'The War of the Worlds" and Rookie Yearbook One came in the mail along with my monthly Vogue subscription so I'll be kept busy for a while. I also have to re-learn how to wear heels again because I have a party in just over a week and the brief said "semi-formal" and I would like to wear Jeffrey Campbell boots with cute gingham pink shorts and a hardcore band t-shirt. That's the plan, along with eating up all the delicious stories with cup-of-soup, mugs of green tea and some scone loaf that is undoubtedly crusty by now. Who needs expensive liquors when I can successfully have a party of one? Probably those who enjoy the limelight of cameras and flash photography. Whatever. I still have the iPad to take self-portraits on with messy hair and freshly painted nails.

I'm in a dumb-butt mood where not even an intense session of smooching can cheer me up. Green tea might help, reading might help, but this bad mood is hanging over me like a dark cloud which is fairly ironic given it's going to be a sunny Summer day. I don't mind getting mad and it's alright if your family or school or work stuff gets up your nose and is the biggest pain ever, but when you feel bad because you're the problem you can't physically escape it. That's omnipresence for you. I will take feuds with other people than myself any day of the week. I wish I just stubbed my toe, or missed my bus or discovered a page missing from a delicious book- something trivial you can shrug off at the end of the day. I'd give just about anything to run away with a bindle full of books and clothes, but it's a raving hot mad day as well and I also have to go to work today. All of this makes for a less than happy blogger.

Advice in Rookie Yearbook One concludes that when you're plagued by a mad mood you should destroy or destroy and create. Collages were recommended, but I won't rip up my New Scientist stash until I have read every dated article on the science field. That's pretty unlikely at the moment, but I have faith. I'm in half a mind to raid second hand stores of their vinyl record "treasures" or plunder them of cheesy Christmas tunes and destroy them for the good of the human race. If I'm going to do something absurd and stupid, I may as well wear the pretense of doing some good. While I'm at it I can make pretty displays and shapes to then maybe sell at markets or whatever because recycling vintage items and giving them a new lease on life is cool. Also earning more money is very cool because then I can afford to buy nice things and not marry a businessman. Take that society.

I've only ever looked after rabbits and one guinea pig so sometimes I dream of owning a cat. Not a straight-forward creature, but something odd that may or may not sit awkwardly in sinks and may strange gurgling noises. A lot of books I've read by Terry Prachett involved witches, and invariably their cats although to be fair one "witch" was a time-travelling bag lady. Potato, potahto. One is simply called You, as in, You get off the table and You stop that. The other has three and a half legs and only one good eye with a bite that makes rabies look like a petting zoo calamity. I want a restless soul that I will be unable to relate to and something I will resent but nonetheless live with like an unpleasant colleague at work- because we all have to start somewhere and cats can give brilliant life lessons.

I dreamt last night than when I put my mobile phone to my ear, it blew up next to my head and then I died I guess. That seems terribly unfair because I reconciled all my terror of the dark and night and monsters under my bed years ago and it's meant to be a comforting quiet part of my day. Instead I have a brick of a purple Nokia explode me awake and I sat glumly in bed scared stiff for a bit and then fell asleep again. Perhaps it is the cosmos way of telling me to get my iPhone already this week and just be done with this whole out-dated dinosaur mobile phone business. I like dinosaurs though, I might use them to decorate my new phone. It's just that not being able to send text messages and stuff is getting to be a grand and universal pain in the butt. Also, if I scoop up a good enough plan then maybe I can message other girls from around the world and make friends with zinesters and stuff. That would be pretty radical.

When I can no longer bear the clicking of keyboard keys, a pen is usually my next best friend and companion for artistic expression. You get sort of attached to things like that when all teachers and educators sort of impress the importance of plastic and ink upon you. So I can now safely blame them for being an old-fashioned girl for the rest of my life. Ho hum. Unlike a computer however, with a pen I can draw articulated figures of the girls I'd most like to be compared to, willow wisps of smoke and pretty clothing. Pens aren't usually the best candidate for adding colour, but I can overlook that minor fault. Waif faces and stringy limbs can be better etched by hand than I could ever manage in a program like MS Paint which I reserve for the tackiest of editing and presentation. Oh yes, I'm absolutely steeped and trapped within tradition.

I went through a big black velvet loving stage and went to the effort of applying black face paint to my lips- but I can't say I'm as an avid a lover of the trend at the moment. After Halloween seemed to sweep my country off it's feet more than usual there's just a big black hole left in its wake and it's not even the pleasant kind. I'm at a loss really- just wearing skirts and shorts have been fun at the moment with the occasional mushroom motif. That's probably more like an imitation of autumn though- what with the Northern influences seeping into my brain and muddling my sense of climate and all. Also I can't let the motif of carved Jack-o-lanterns go and their cute little rectangular teeth. I can justify all of this and make my mother happy at the same time if I just move to Canada and be done with the whole lack of cultural exchange in my young life.

It's said that talking to plants helps them grow better. A book I just finished reading mentioned this, but refined it to the point where the guy threatened his house plants and would exterminate the weakest performer. I think that's a bit harsh, but the character was a literal demon from hell so you can't say it was unexpected. Sometimes when I'm upset I like to scream out song lyrics and Zombie by the Cranberries seems to be whirling around in my head like a fly batting at a window along with other songs of comfort. A long stint of listening to depressing play lists and maybe lighting a candle will await me after another shift at work, but I haven't been this low on motivation for money in a long time. You can only drag your father down to Gardenworld so many times before he too grows sick of the experience; and banging his head on low-hanging pots.

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