Not crazy, just tired…

February 24, 2012

Something odd happened this morning, Internet.

I woke up with a familar fuzzy-headedness that could well have been the fault of the wine consumed last night with a certain shiny friend of mine (Hi, Shiny!). But I don’t think so. You see, as I went about my morning routine I became aware that I was thinking in rhyme. You know when you do a little mental commentary of your actions and talk to yourself in the second person? It mostly happens when you’re a bit drunk, like this:

‘Now the reason you’re feeling a little bit sick is more likely to be this bumpy bus-driver than the amount of heineken you have just consumed, so don’t beat yourself up because that won’t help with the nausea. The main thing to do is remember where you’ve put your keys so that you don’t have to look for them on the doorstep because a) that’s where the muggers hang out and b) you already need a wee and that’s only going to get worse.’

Etc Etc

I refuse to believe that this is not a universally experienced symptom of intoxication. Sometimes I even nod to myself in agreement. I’m doing it now.

Anyway, this morning a similar thing happened but my brain must have slept on itself funny and it woke up with a crick in its interior monologue synapse (or IMS as it’s known in the completely made up school of neurology in which I am valedictorian), and this resulted in a completely involuntary urge to rhyme my thoughts in the following manner:

‘Half a cup of coffee in a mug for me, cool enough to drink by the time I’ve had a wee’

‘Don’t give into pressure from hungry little cat, calorie reduction will prevent him getting fat’

‘Don’t get distracted, there’s just no time, it’s a little perturbing, this thinking in rhyme’

‘Today must be productive, a PhD bonanza, failure not an option, do-de-doo-de-do-rananza’

(When the spirit of improvisation failed me, I just made words up. It was a compulsion, I couldn’t help it)

Anyway, I have added this strange phenomenon to the list of side-effects that I am compiling in order to submit them to the company that makes ‘Sleep Well’ herbal sleep tablets. They have been reasonably effective in their improvement of my recent bout of insomnia, and in all fairness they do warn you not to consume alcohol with a dose, but still… I think it only fair that they include the following in the list of possible side-effects:

  • Compulsive Rhyming
  • Impulsive gherkin-eating
  • Repulsive night sweats
  • Propulsive vomiting

According to google, two of the above are possible symptoms of pregnancy, and two of them are possible symptoms of stress and anxiety. I am fairly sure that my total clusterfuck of a reproductive system makes the latter explanation far more likely than the former yet neither account for why I would wake up one morning to find I am thinking in rhyme. Answers on a postcard to:

‘Fuct int ‘ead’ PO BOX: At least I’m not Dead (yet).

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Chorus:

Bloody hell, bloody hell, what a costly day, (HEY!)

Banking scam, what a sham, stole my cash away, (HEY!)

No win no fee. Apparently. What a load of poo…

Can’t believe I fell for that- too good to be true.

Verse:

Gullible that’s me; I’m a moron obviously,

Oh what fun it is to spend a whole day, practically,

On the phone to knobs, who are ‘just doing their jobs’

By lying through their fucking little vulture beaks to me.

(Oooh…)

Chorus:

“Litigate! Litigate: “claim back your PPI” (CRY)

WTF, no such luck, it’s all a big fat lie. (CRY)

Don’t be like me, don’t pay their fee, you’ll regret it if you do.

Christmas cheer? Not this year. “No Santa Claus? ….I’ll sue!”

Sunday Night Observations

November 28, 2011

1. Sunday nights are cack. Why is it that however old I get, I still feel as though the weekend has slipped by and I suddenly realise that it’s Monday in the morning and I haven’t yet done my homework. Oh yeah, because I’m nearly 29, still have time management issues, and (whichever way you dress it up) I still have homework. Progression fail.

2. Search terms: “fucking littlewoods advert” I applaud you, whoever you are – you restore my faith in the general public. And mostly I hate the general public. Hate them. Go away, general public, leave me out of your generalness. I infinitely prefer people who are both specific and private (clearly I do not practise what I preach since I am blogging publicly and indiscriminately about random crap. Gah! I AM the general public! Please excuse me while I have a brief existential meltdown).

3. M came over today and cleaned the flat. WIN. I am in the unusual Sunday night position of having a presentable flat. He didn’t come over specifically to clean the flat but that was a highly pleasing by-product of his visit. In the same way that chaos follows me, order and cleanliness follows him. He did however rebuke me for two cups of mould he found at the bottom of the pending pile of washing up. They weren’t always cups of mould. I think they used to be cups of coffee. Or possibly chamomile tea. I like it when M wears a hat because I can measure the frequency of his shock-disgust response by the number of times I can’t see his eyebrows. Without the hat, I have to guess.

By the way Internet, M is taking part in Movember which is now nearly over. I don’t usually use this blog to chug but it’s for men’s health, specifically prostate cancer and other cancers that affect men, and it’s a very good cause. If you feel you would be prepared to sponsor him (even a teeny weeny little bit) you would be doing a very good thing. You can see his moustache, and donate in its honour, here. Thank you x

Q: How many cups of tea…

November 14, 2011

does it take an ADHDer to write a PhD?

A: Not sure. Am on cup 5 and still counting.

Cup 1: Faff about.

Cup 2: Check blog stats. Notice that somebody searched for “restaurant bus” in russian. That’s автобус ресторан for anyone wondering.

Cup 3: Send some self-pitying texts about how much work I have to do. Modify plan.

Cup 4: Faff about. Check washing machine for napping cats. Put washing on. Realise once it’s too late that I forgot to add washing powder. I am reminded of the time I made biscuits and forgot to include the flour. But my childhood baking catastrophes are a tale that deserve a post of their own someday.

Cup 5: Open Word document upon which I have 800 of the 1500 words I need. Have some kind of minor brain melt and somehow accidentally disapperate and end up on WordPress relating the whole sorry tale.

Gahhh (or as oooshiny might say ‘shitpissfuckandbuggerybollocks’ – hi shiny!), I really need to sort myself out. Need to send work to Supervisor P by tonight latest. Need to get started now. Right this minute…

 

 

 

 

…I better just nip and pop the kettle on.

 

Warning: this post is so full of burning hatred and fury that it could spontaneously combust at any moment.

Internet, I am angry. Very, very angry.

Why? This advert.

What the fuckety-fuck is this? I get more irate about this every time I see or hear it. And it seems to be bliddy everywhere at the moment (as you know, I recently started a new job and my office-mate has the radio on all day (ADHD post on this very topic is currently under construction (in fact it was going to be today’s post until Littlewoods’ gangrenous little advert took over my brain and irritation started pumping round my body where my blood should be)))* so I have heard this advert in its radio form at ten minute intervals for two consecutive days. And because I’m new to that office and want to make a good impression I can neither ask her to turn it off or sit there with blu-tac in my ears in an attempt to block out the noise. Honestly though, I would rather listen to foxes fuck all night than sit through another 41 seconds of this shit.

I mean, surely you can see why I find it so odious? Well, let me count the ways (in reverse order of their offensiveness):

  • Obviously, it’s far too early for Christmas adverts etc etc etc blah blah blah. Even I’m bored about people complaining about this every year so I’m just going to mention it for the sake of comprehensive analysis of the situation and then leave it there.
  • The tune is annoying and therefore sticks in your head and you’re on the tube and it’s in your head, and you’re having a bath and it’s in your head, and you’re waiting at the bar and it’s still there —‘my lovely, lovely mother’ — in your head and GAH!!
  • The children are extremely annoying. It’s not their fault. Probably. But, nevertheless, whether they’re just acting or really are that annoying, their ‘cuteness’ annoys me. I have no time for cutsey kids. Ick.
  • It reinforces gender stereotypes in a multitude of ways, from the gender-specific presents and costumes, to the clear assumption that only mothers bother buying presents. Fuck off, Littlewoods.

Now that leaves us with a whole bundle of reasons that it’s annoying, all of which would probably fit nice and snugly under a generalised heading such as: Objection to the Commercialisation of Christmas. But it’s not even just that. It’s a more complex repulsion than that, and if it were only that then it would be just as predictable an objection as point number one and I probably wouldn’t mention this either.  Christmas is commercial, it just is. I’m not saying it should be but it just is. And we’re used to it. We’re used to the adverts selling us products by carefully gift-wrapping them in sentimentality and festive nostalgia.

BUT, and I think this is what really gets me about this. There’s no pretence! None! Littlewoods do not even have enough shame to PRETEND that they’re not trying to boost sales in the midst of financial crisis by preying on the Christmas spirit of families who are already financing their whole lives on credit and probably ‘spreading the cost, interest free’ for everything wherever possible; buy now, pay later for life, not just for Christmas. This lack of shame is evidenced by the way they break the golden rule of Christmas advertising (where children are featured, all gifts usually come from Santa. (You could argue that at least Littlewoods are finally giving parents the credit for those Xboxes and Fidgets (what the fuck is a fidget anyway?) rather than Santa being falsely attributed  for his generosity every year but I am not feeling kindly towards Littlewoods right now so no, I will not grant them any defence at all.)  Littlewoods are just cutting Santa out of the equation completely).** You see, Littlewoods have no need for Santa. Santa is for adverts that don’t have a very clear message. And the message for all the mums out there is this: YOUR CHILDREN WILL LOVE YOU MORE IF YOU BUY THEM EXPENSIVE PRESENTS. YOU CAN AND SHOULD BUY THEIR LOVE. IF YOU DON’T BUY AN XBOX FOR YOUR FIVE YEAR OLD, THEN YOU ARE A SHIT MOTHER AND YOU WILL NOT RECEIVE ANY TACKY LITTLEWOODS JEWELLERY IN PENANCE FOR YOUR SHITNESS. AND CHILDREN? IF YOU CELEBRATE AND MIMIC YOUR MOTHER’S MATERIALISTIC ATTITUDE SHE WILL LOOK UPON YOU WITH PRIDE. gaahhhhh!

Apart from anything else, I feel angered beyond belief that Littlewoods think the general public is so stupid that they will find this acceptable. NO. Glancing at the comments left under the YouTube video, I am pleased to see that apart from a few ‘Awww, how cute’ morons, most people share my view that this is an odious, offensive shitfest of fuckwittery.

But what am I going to do about it, apart from pour out my scorn and repulsion to you, dear Internet? Well, if this is Christmas then I want no part of it. I would just boycott Littlewoods but, honestly, who shops there anyway? Nope, my anger at this advert goes way beyond Littlewank.com. I am boycotting Christmas full stop unless a) my anger abates significantly (which will only happen if I can successfully eradicate any possibility of accidentally being subjected to this advert in the next seven weeks) or b) ….nope, can’t think of another way out. That’s it then. I am going to have to raid the stationary cupboard for a shed-load of blu-tac.

I am going to leave the final word to the bloody wonderful Tom Lehrer who, even after over fifty years, still captures the ‘true spirit’ of Christmas in a delightfully amusing song which I would like to propose as an antidote to anybody who, like me, is suffering from injuries inflicted by Littlewoods this year…

* I just had to close three sets of brackets there, Internet. Three! I really need to work on my brackets compulsion. Nobody should have this many parenthetical remarks. In fact, if remarks are so tangential that they warrant being embedded three brackets deep then they probably need culling at the draft stage.

** That there, Internet, was another three sets of brackets? What is wrong with me? It’s like the part of my brain responsible for punctuation is on speed.

November 2, 2011

Bah ha ha ha.

Sometimes I like to amuse myself procrastinate by looking back at some of the search terms people used to find this blog. Some of them are funny, some are completely nonsensical and some of them are downright disturbing ( I am talking about YOU here, person who searched for ” the voices in my head are telling me to kill you “)

Anyway, I thought I’d share some of them with you because, clearly, I have nothing else I’m supposed to be doing (ahemm), and although I’m almost certain that you probably do have something better to do, you’re obviously procrastinating too because you’re here. So it’s a win-win situation for us both.

So without further ado, dear Internet, let me present to you….

The Fucked Up Search Terms Awards 2011

There are several awards I would like to make here. I have divided them in to categories. Because that also seemed like a good way to spend an afternoon. First up…

1. Nominees for most fucked up cat search…. (clearly it is the case that 99.9% of the Internet is about cats, or produced by cats. There are feckin hundreds of these but the shortlist is presented below)

how to tell if your cat is plotting to kill you

sneering cat

cat boxing

laughing cat

yoga cats

sneaky cats

cats in cups

marmite and cat

smug cat

clumsy cat

exhausted cat

no shit sherlock cat

cats in clothes

half naked cats

keyboard cat       (yay!!! If you’re not familiar with keyboard cat yet then go look – go on)

cats computer

cat exercise

devouring cat sex

my cat pants

strangling cat     (wtf? Srsly Internet, sort it out)

sex cats

fucky cats

And the winner is……Devouring Cat Sex!!!  This was a difficult decision but I found that the ambiguity appealed to me. Is the searcher looking for footage of cat sex which s/he can avidly devour? Or is s/he looking for cat sex in which the participants devour each other? No idea but it’s a winner.

Ok, next up….

2) Nominees for search terms that this blog Is Definitely NOT able to help you with:

de-cluttering chaos in your home     (ha ha ha, sorry anonymous searcher, can’t help you there)

adult adhd i am fucking lost somebody help

small flat tits    (move along, move along, nothing to see here *cough*)

thing to do inorder to forget scary things   (Who asks the Internet this? Really?)

chip van with two fit girls (wtf..this is very specific. A real shot in the dark that, surely?)

terminal procrastination   (Love this. Both the description itself and the irony inherent in the search itself)

my tea’s gone cold and i’m wondering why? (hahahahahhaha)

messy advice     (I can’t advise you on this. It just comes naturally. Unless you’re looking for a cure? lemme know when you find it)

reminders to bathe (erm…..)

And the winner is……… my tea’s gone cold and i’m wondering why?!!!! Well, it just had to be really, didn’t it?

…Finally, I want to make a Special Epic Search Term award to what has to be the longest search term ever, threatening to bring down the whole of the Internet under the weight of its effort to be SO VERY EXTREMELY THOROUGH:

” emotional flu blog ignoring your feelings pretending something hasn’t happened overeating excessive drinking of alcohol exercising compulsively any type of compulsive disorder always keeping busy so you don’t have the time to think about anything even closely related to ‘emotions’ keeping conversations superficial burying angry emotions or masking them blogspot ”

Yes, people, that is one search term. And although I can’t help this searcher, I would like to put my mirth aside for a second and say that actually, my heart breaks a little bit at the desperation enclosed within those speech marks. I am so sorry you feel that way. I hope you found some better advice than I can offer, somewhere in some dusty corner of google, and that things start to look up for you. If not, google “fucky cats” instead. Everyone else is. Apparently.

Good morning, Internet.

It’s a chilly autumnal morning here in Wonderland. I have had an uncharacteristic (and entirely involuntary) early start to the day, having been woken up by the postman who delivered my Halloween costume. I forgot to take off my make-up last night and had been in a very deep sleep so the poor guy could be forgiven for his barely concealed surprise when his knock was answered by a creature for whom the donning of a scary Halloween costume could only represent an improvement. A creature who resembled this chap:

Anyway, I digress. After a shaky start, I am determined to remain on-topic today without hesitation, repetition or deviation. I need to talk to you about my decision to go back on the Ritalin before the rapidly loosening ball of wool that is my life unravels completely. I’m feeling completely incapable of getting things done and it’s always the PhD and my blood pressure that suffers most.

For example: I have so much to do today, and I am desperately trying not to panic. I am having people over to the flat tonight for a halloween gathering. Ideally, my itinary for the day would go something like this:

1) Blog about my ADHD meds (or lack thereof).
2) Despite lack of said meds, nevertheless, produce 3 or 4 hours of quality writing towards my PhD, thus sedating the little monster of PhD anxiety so that he has a good long nap.

3) Clean flat from top to bottom without breaking off at any point to explore the Internet or check that the dietary needs of chinchillas have not changed since the last time I conducted this research. Pay particular attention to the removal of cat fur from surfaces that guests are likely to want to sit on.

3.i) Decorate flat with cheap Halloween tat purchased from poundshop.

3.ii) Do so without sustaining injury from climbing on furniture.

3.iii) Dispose of all packaging and rubbish associated with cheap tat. Do not
leave on living room floor.

4) Go to Sainsburys and purchase food, alcohol and suitably proportioned pumpkin.

5) Carve pumpkin (may require sudden and spontaneous increase of artistic ability)

5.i) Do so without sustaining injury from big sharp knife.

5.ii) Should injury occur, at least have presence of mind to collect blood into
suitable container for incorpration into Halloween costume.

6) Shower, apply scary make-up to face, put on scary costume and wig.

7) Admit guests to flat without any indication of preparation hell. Probs attempt smile if poss but if not, pass lack of smile off as costume-appropriate expression.

8)  Drink Halloween punch until I pass out and care not that my flat enjoyed approx 1 hr of tidiness before being littered with the debris of celebration and intoxication, debris that I will inevitably be too hungover to dispose of.

Oh crap. How is that the time?? Despite the carefully delineated 8 point plan above, I am going to have to jettison Step 1 and postpone my post on ADHD meds. Again. FFS.

Good day to you, Internet.

Today is the penultimate day of my current contract at work.  I then have nearly two weeks to make some significant progress on the PhD, undistracted (HA!), before I return to the same place (but a different department) in order to begin a new contract. In honour of my last day in this office, tomorrow I am going to make a concerted effort to arrive on time less than an hour late. I am making this promise here and now, in writing. Because, clearly, if I tell the Internet something that makes it true.

I am so fed up of having to call in to work at 9.05 and explain, in my sleep-hoarse voice that I have overslept (again), and then make a promise to be in by 9.30 even though I know that it takes at least 30mins to get ready and at least 20 minutes to actually make it from my flat to my place of employment. Add at least 15 minutes to account for ADHD, and it is clear to anyone with only a rudimentary grasp of mathematics, that it will be AT LEAST 10am before I make it to work, overheated, overstressed, and dangerously under-caffeinated. Why do I do this??! Why is being late for work once not enough? Why engineer the situation so that I am compounding the original lateness, by further tardiness so that I have to feel humiliated by my own inadequacies not just once but twice?

The thing is, they’re kind of used to it here. It’s not that the chronic lateness goes unnoticed but it’s tolerated. It helps that I seem to have accidentally cultivated this image of myself as a sort of lovable scatter-brain.  I think it might be an ADHD survival strategy that enables one to get through life being a bit crap but without incurring the same penalties as other people might. I think I’ve inherited it from my father who is anything but lazy but whose working days were a scramble of missed meetings, forgotten deadlines, and lost paperwork. Strangely, he was always well-liked despite these short-comings, and I am fairly sure that he retained the affection of his colleagues by the same means as I do now: 1) Apologise profusely, even when things aren’t your fault. 2) Be more cross at yourself than your colleague is – this results in their irritation metamorphosing into sympathy before your very eyes. 3)  Seem a little bit helpless. Instead of wanting to kick you in the face, they want to help you.  4) Cultivate an attitude of self-deprecation which encourages others to laugh affectionately at your difficulties and roll their eyes with a smile instead of a final written warning.

As I write the above, I realise that this sounds very manipulative and a little exploitative, as though I purposely deploy these tactics of defence. This is absolutely not the case. It is a defence mechanism in the same way that a squid releases ink in response to attack. It’s the ADHD equivalent. In the face of attack by completely normal, everyday challenges, it’s me rolling myself up into a little ball with my arms wrapped protectively over my head, shrieking ‘I’m not very good at this, it shouldn’t be this difficult, but rather than you take my shortcomings too seriously, I’d rather you just took me less seriously. I am therefore prepared to relinquish some of my pride and dignity in return for your forgiveness and tolerance’.  I don’t want to be seen like this. I would quite like to feel that people took me seriously. I would quite like to feel that people looked at me and thought, ‘there goes a capable twenty-something woman who is going places’ rather than ‘ Awww, how typical – Rose has fucked up again, bless her. How *does* she make it through each day without close supervision?’  Sometimes I feel like I am a joke of my own devising.

But when I move departments, I would really like to try to minimize the extent to which my crapness is immediately obvious to my colleagues. I want to start a clean sheet, a new leaf, and other paper-related metaphors for a fresh start. And this brings me to the thing that I was actually going to blog about today but which might need to wait until tomorrow now because I am running out of working hours in which to do some actual, y’know, work etc: Namely, I have decided that coming off the Ritalin was probs the worst decision I never actually made (I lost my repeat prescription and was too embarrassed to admit to it.  And as an(other) aside, by the way, the staff at the GP surgery are definitely not as susceptible to the whole lovable scatterbrain thing as my employers seemingly are). So that whole post is now going to have to wait until tomorrow. Tomorrow, when hopefully I will be able to report that my punctuality has (at least temporarily) improved.

Until then, Internet, I bid thee farewell.

 

 

 

Funny how one day can make so much difference to my mood. Yesterday, I sat here, at my nice warm desk with the mid-morning sun shining in through the window and I felt happy and positive.

Today I sit in exactly the same place, complete with sunshine and coffee, and I feel like crap. Here are some reasons for this rapid deterioration:

1) High Hopes – not worth it.

Yesterday I wrote that I was feeling very positive about the PhD, and looking forward to spending the day really getting into it and making some progress on this last chapter. I really thought so too, which just goes to prove (even at 28) how little I actually know myself, and just how much I have the ability to deceive myself. Of course, despite my high hopes, I proceeded to piss away the day like a drunk pissing her money down the pub toilet (oh wait, I did that too – spot the other reason I’m cross at myself). I can tell you exactly why this happened. A simple household job needed to be completed, and i didn’t know how long it would take so I wanted to do it before settling down to work. But this simple household job was very boring, and I wasn’t entirely sure how to go about it. So from 11.30am until 3pm I drank coffee, tweeted some people, and must have done some other things I suppose but I’m now really having difficulty accounting for what I actually did for three and a half hours.

Anyway, I finally got round to said household job about 3.15pm. It took 20 minutes. 20 fucking minutes that’s all! Except by the time I’d got round to it, it had actually taken twenty fucking minutes plus the three and a half hours I’d already wasted trying to motivate myself. By which time I had half an hour before I had to leave to go to a lecture. Outcome – no PhD words written. Fail.

But the lecture went on until 7pm so I still had several hours after that of which I could make good and productive use, right? Nope! By that time, I was so full of self-loathing and recriminations that I went to the pub instead. Just to make sure that I would really really fucking hate myself by the time I woke up this morning.

Fail fail fail fail fail

Actually, I’m not going to give any further reasons why I feel crap this morning because that one up there ^ is the biggie. I am just hoping that writing this out, typing violently with angry fingers of self-recrimination, will be enough to prevent me from doing the same thing again today. Frankly, it has to be. Because this work is due in on Monday night and I have a friend staying from tomorrow morning until Sunday evening and then I’m working all day on Monday. So I have today. That’s it. And as my alcoholism will, as sure as eggs is eggs, drive me into the pub by 5pm, the diagnosis of the situation is clear:

1) Stop fucking about.
2) Get a move on.

Upon which note, dear Internet, I will conclude my lecture of self-hatred, and hope that today I do not fall foul of the demon procrastination and end up, at 1.30 a.m. tonight, a sad empty shell of a woman, dressed in the tatters of my self-worth and vomiting the last alcohol soaked dregs of the day’s potential into the toilet bowl.

Internet….wish me luck!