How A Videotape Improved My Maths Skills

Imagine, if you will, a warm afternoon in early June. Then imagine a stuffy room full of dusty boxes. Then, if you haven't already, read How A PlayStation Ruined My Life before you carry on with this any further.

As my childhood home was in the process of being sold, all of my earthly possessions since birth either lived in the attic or in plain sight in my bedroom. I'll spare you the monotonous details of packing boxes. Anyone who's ever had to transport several items across a significant distance - which is pretty much anyone - already understands this. Being a somewhat sentimental creature, I resorted to packing up virtually everything I had accumulated over the course of my existence and throwing away next to nothing. The fact that I'm stupidly indecisive about a lot of things also helped along with that.

Making a hasty exit from that house, I, along with a lot of material possessions, made it to the house I'm currently residing in. Whilst my opinion of the dwelling is that it's purely a university house, it's nevertheless served as my home for a good year and a half whilst my parents have made separate living arrangements for themselves. Through this, I pretty much got it into my 22-year-old head that I couldn't rely on them for storage space and that I needed to grow up - a sentiment I still hold to this day. As I approach the 24th anniversary of me being alive, I still feel the need to grow up, yet feel more grown up than I did some two years ago. I don't know how this happened exactly, I'm just glad it did. But it has meant that over the last week or so I've needed to confront my indecisive demons and force them to decide things. Mostly over what I should or shouldn't throw away.

My uni house, a.k.a. my current house, is a four-bedroomed piece of architecture shared by three people. The reasons for this are many, but essentially boil down to the fact that we were a group of three looking for anywhere to live independently. The four-bedrooms of the one place we looked at, a.k.a. my current house, a.k.a. my uni house, essentially boiled down to three decent sized bedrooms and a biscuit tin. That fourth room, whilst spare, was sort of adopted by me as an easy-access attic space. It was there that my boxes of an accumulated childhood stayed... and stayed... and accumulated filth. By "filth" I mean dust, by the way. I felt like I should clarify that considering that this house has been known to get filthy every once in a while (read "once in a while" as "day"). My old possessions gathered dust though, not filth. I feel like I could've just written that and saved us a whole explanation but oh well.

Anyway, recently that dust was wiped away and those boxes have been delved into for probably the first time since they were packed. Using a new method of deciding if I needed it or not, I began to throw virtually everything into several black bin bags. Such items have ranged from school, college and uni notes I don't need any more, board games with missing pieces I haven't thought about for years and a plethora of wires, cables and electrical plugs I've convinced myself will "probably come in handy one day". I have finally resorted to the fact that if one will "probably come in handy one day", I'll probably be able to fucking buy it somewhere.

In amongst all my crap, however, it seems that in the break-up with my old house, I got to keep the VHS tapes. As a young adult of the Digital Age, I prefer everything modern. See, you'd know this if you actually read all of How A PlayStation Ruined My Life like I told you to at the start of this thing. I've not had a need for VHS tapes for years and neither have my immediate family members. For the most part, in my infinite wisdom of deciding what is and isn't necessary, a large chunk of these tapes have been disposed of (or rather, will be disposed of once I find a big enough outlet). I have made sure to hang onto precious and indispensible memories; home videos of my sister and me as younglings and the like. The large chunk, however, consisted of the occasional rubbish movie, TV recordings of unsequenced Simpsons episodes and an oddly charming yet retrospectively disturbing manifestation of how a videotape improved my maths skills as a child. Thanks to the gods of YouTube, I don't need to rely on that dusty VHS any more since the whole thing exists virtually. If, by any chance, you have an hour to spare, I strongly recommend that you waste it on this, just to see how incredibly ridiculous, patronising and dated the whole thing is. WARNING: Contains Carol Vorderman.

Needless to say, being able to rap the two times table and only reciting multiples of ten whilst wearing sunglasses and ripped leggings are not skills that have stayed with me to this day. However, like a lot of those boxed away possessions, the mere sight of the tape allowed me to reminisce over a childhood gone by. High school photographs and yearbooks put me in mind of a time of bad handwriting and when having a buzz cut was cool. A box of Tri-ominos has reminded me of how I've never actually played Tri-ominos. Small black T-shirts and studded belts are soaked in the memories of an ill-fated attempt at a teenage emo phase. And what I once referred to as a "big fucking grey behemoth box" is nay but a gatherer of big fucking grey dust.

I've not used the Sony PlayStation for a good number of years to be totally honest; any old game I own that is actually worth playing over and over has the ability to be used on a PS2. As sad as it sounds, my newfound decisive attitude told me that the era was over and that, after fourteen-and-a-half years in my possession, the PlayStation had to go. On the other hand, I know the mindset of a geek and what it means to be "retro". I couldn't just throw this piece of late 20th century machinery away willy-nilly; I needed to find it a home, like a puppy I can no longer afford to feed. Modern technology came to the rescue, like the good friend it is to me now. Apple-brand iPad takes digital photo, digital photo gets uploaded to Facebook, Facebook shows everyone I've probably ever met (and maybe one or two I haven't) that I want to offer my PlayStation-shaped puppy to a good home. I want to know that my puppy will be well kept, played with on a regular basis and generally not mistreated. Enter the buyer.

The thing with Facebook is that even if you've met a person once for a total of three minutes and had some form of verbal exchange with them, chances are you'll be connected for life on that social platform. Oftentimes, you'll generally never speak to them ever again, becoming increasingly infuriated by their frequent status updates because you figure that if you don't care, nobody else does. Occasionally, they'll float in and out of your life for moments at a time, making those odd moments fairly entertaining, but not too much that you curl up into a ball and cry hysterically once they've gone. And sometimes, just sometimes, they'll be the kind of people who you come to realise your life would just be totally incomplete without and that if not for one fleeting moment in time, you might never have known this person at all and you feel extremely lucky that you happened to be in the right place at just the right time. My buyer actually belongs the second group.

Meeting a friend of a friend is often awkward in the beginning; you're never quite sure what to expect. I mean, sure, if your friend thinks they're great then they must be great, but there's always a little nagging sensation in the back of the brain that wonders "actually... what if they're not?" Fortunately, after spending several minutes with this guy I figured "eh, you know what, he's not so bad" and during our fleeting real-life encounters we've managed to share deep meaningful conversations about cake icing and discuss at length a dance move known as "The Handlebars". These are just two of (I'm sure) several topics of discussion which my dust-filled brain can't think of right now. But the fact that, while my contact with him may be rare, I know can trust him with looking after my puppy and I know he'll get a lot of joy from playing with my puppy and now I just feel very disturbed by the unintentional beastialic innuendo I just made.

Go, my young old games console. Go and live a new life away from me and my neglectful ways... for now I understand the true value of such retro gaming machinery, which, quite frankly, is one thing that Carol Vorderman never taught me in a video.

Crap

I'm moving out of this house in less than three weeks. I own a lot of crap. I have a roll of black bin bags, dismantled cardboard boxes that need to be re-mantled and a mild hangover.

You're On Your Own, Kid

As a teenager, I used to act very young for my age. So much so that by the time I was 18 I felt like most 16-year-olds do. I carried this with me to the age of 21 when I started Uni, like most 18-year-olds do. Right now, I'm staring 24 in the face and often congregate with peers who are, naturally, younger than I am. But the difference there is only a fact of chronology. Inside, I feel 21 and that "life begins now" and other such uplifting ideologies of the young-adult.

During my time of living, I've come across people from all walks of life, including those who understand the concept of egotism without understanding the concept of subtlety, and those so timid and insecure in their own beings that they make 16-year-old me look like that twonk from One Direction who sleeps around with old people. Nevertheless, I embrace these humans with personalities of all shapes and forms. Then I apparently smear them on the internet, but I digress. Growing up is kind of an art form. Some manage to do it earlier than others but when it does happen, it's almost like taking that first leap into the unknown. Actually, forget the "almost"; it's exactly like taking a first leap into the unknown.

The point I'm struggling to make here is that, yes it's scary and yes it's terrifying and yes you don't want to do it alone, but unfortunately that's how it's done. The problem with life is that it doesn't come with an instruction manual. As a result, things just have to be "picked up", learned by experience and put into practice by oneself who must, somehow, learn the art of discipline in which to do it. For the first time in today's ramble o' crap, I turn to author Dean Koontz and his bestselling novel Odd Thomas:

Keep busy [...] because idleness will get you in worse trouble

Doing nothing leads to nothing. Doing something leads to something. Life's mad like that. Sorry if this seems like I'm simply stating the obvious, I haven't just happened upon this philosophy like some grand awakening or owt. I'm saying this because I've known several people in my life, and probably will come into contact with more in the future, who don't realise this. The harshness of life is that everyone is alone.

Completely.

Alone.

And I'm not just saying that because I'm perpetually single. I have friends. My friends have friends. Some friends have boyfriends or girlfriends, and some friends have friends who aren't really friends but still clog up space on your Facebook feed because you met them that one time, remember? And they said that thing about the thing that you laughed at, remember? And now they just spend their existence posting maudlin song lyrics and cat videos every seven-and-a-half minutes, right?

But the thing is, friend or lover, superman or cat-lady, not one of these other people you know in your life can live yours for you. Your life is yours alone and what you choose to do with it is your choice alone. If you want to climb a skyscraper using only toilet plungers for grip, go and do it! If you want to stay inside all day and watch the same DVD boxset you've watched every day for the last three months, go and do it! But if you lose your hold on those plungers and plummet to the ground, you're on your own, kid. And if that DVD gets jammed and you can't progress to Disc 4 to resolve the cliffhanger you already know the ending to, you're on your own, kid.

Selfishness is an art. I know I said earlier that growing up was an art, but selfishness is a part of that and contributes a great deal to the artisticness of life and that. But especially for those who don't want to tread on any toes, make any enemies or cause upset to someone, selfishness is an art, and a tricky one to get right at that. Once again, I refer you to the novel I just finished reading two days ago:

Being polite is not only the right way to respond to people but also the easiest. Life is so filled with unavoidable conflict that I see no reason to promote more confrontations

I hate confrontation at the best of times and, quite frankly, I find the idea of provoking conflict moronic and somewhat suicidal. Politeness is good. Conflict is bad. I learned that in fucking school. But unfortunately, selfishness, one of the staples of life, is a big contributor to the progression of arguments. One person has a problem and expresses it, the other person has no problem and doesn't understand why the first person does, mutual disagreement happens, CONFLICT!

Because I view myself as such a "nice" person, I find it difficult to point out flaws in others, or points at which I may disagree with them. I notice all of these things, sure, but articulating them in such a way that doesn't create some kind of verbal explosion between the involved parties worries me. So I hold my tongue, let things build up inside me, make myself feel bitter and mumble and grumble at myself about how such-and-such-a-person needs to take notice of themselves and grow up and et cetera and all that.

And I store it up to the point of breaking, where I eventually snap and hammer away at a keyboard to make my brain-thoughts known to the entire world (read "nobody at all", unless they happen to be actively seeking this out which, given the number of people occupying the planet, is more unlikely than likely) and go about my day silently cursing everyone I walk past because they're not me. Because, obviously, I'm right and I've got this whole existentialism stuff cracked and nobody else has at all. Well, maybe a few others have, but a fair few haven't and that makes me angry at their stupidity.

I promised I wouldn't write bad things about people on the internet because, obviously, that's where the future lives. But I guess rules are made to be broken. And if this all comes back to bite me in the ass, I've only got myself to blame. Nobody else. Just me. Alone. Call it life experience.

Ginger Vampires

My face is terribly red. I suppose you might be wondering what embarrassing feat could've gotten my physical appearance to such a state. The simple answer to that is more embarrassing than embarrassment itself. Instead, I have to confess that I've spent time outdoors, basking in sunlight.

Normally, I'm not this bad. Normally, I can last in the warmth of the outdoors in spring for hours without any sign of passive injury. I'm suddenly overcome with fear nowadays, though. Simply being outside on a sunny day for two hours now has the same effect that two weeks in Mexico had on me in 2005. As one with ginger hair, I can naturally blame my lack of skin pigment, but I'm becoming more inclined to blame the climate and global warming and all that.

Our winters are harsher now, and our summers sunnier. The idea of setting foot outside in the colder months is nothing but laughable to me; the only reason that's made me want to go outside is the idea that I've needed to attend certain classes to keep up with this degree what it is I'm, like, studying for, innit? Being a hermit all this time leads me to believe - in a totally non-scientific way - that I'm not used to any natural sunlight at all. Therefore, cometh the days of sunshine, warmth and social merriment, the surface of my very body sizzles and smokes in a way akin to the portrayal of vampires in Buffy.

As a result of, you know, being outside/getting fresh air/existing like what normal people do, I now find it painful to raise my eyebrows - thus crinkling my forehead - or honk myself on the nose as I occasionally like to do from time to time. On the plus side, I have a very honkable nose in a "stereotypical circus clown slash Rudolph" kind of way. Actually touching it and making a sound actually hurts a lot, though. Well, the making a sound bit doesn't really hurt, just the touching my nose bit.

The whole affair puts me in a rather sympathetic mind towards ginger vampires. After all, it's awful being out in strong sunlight for gingers; even worse for vampires. Ginger vampires probably explode upon impact with "the outside". But then again, fuck 'em. Vampires aren't real. Besides, have you ever seen a ginger one in a film or cult TV show? No, because they're all moody and dark haired in an attempt to be more appealing to lonely women and 13-year-olds. In real life, I've never seen a bloke with black hair and stupidly pale skin. Pale skin belongs to gingers and albinos. (I have no idea how I've managed to wriggle people with albinism into this blog for the second post running. I'm not doing it for a bet, I promise.) Anyway, I was slagging off vampires. Where was I? Yeah, you never see a ginger vampire. At least not a male one. Who'd want to fantasise about that. A female ginger vampire, sure, but a male?

So yeah, fuck vampires. Not just hypothetical ginger ones, but all of them in general. It's alright for people watching or reading fantasy stories to see a vampire burn when he or she stays outdoors for more than five seconds. The real-world equivalent of that is ginger people. People who carry umbrellas around on dry days and slather on Factor 50 like it's a rain mac. People who sizzle as soon as the sun's rays hit them. People with enough skin-speck to look like they've got uncontrollable acne that can tan better than they themselves. Do you still want to fantasise now?

Forgive me my ramblings. I'm very lonely and burnt.

Squinting On Sunny Days

There's something oddly unsettling about people wearing sunglasses. It is commonly spoken that one's eyes are the windows to the soul, and I quite like looking someone in the windows when I speak to them. But in the summertime when the weather is high, and you can stretch right up and touch the sky, the barriers of tinted lenses show up and adorn the faces of millions. The only problem with the content of that paragraph is that this isn't summer, just a very sunny spring.

Harsh cold weather lasts longer than it's supposed to now, meaning that any nanosecond where the sun shines is an excuse to crack out the deck chairs and disposable barbecues. Personally, I find that slapping on some Factor 50 and listening to Spanish folk-pop is a much more appropriate way to celebrate the advent of warmth, provided I can also include deck chairs and disposable barbecues. For the many, however, sunglasses are donned as well, which I find not so much scary as I find it bizarre.

As I mentioned earlier and am lazily trying to connect back to here, it's natural to look a person in the eyes when engaged in one-on-one chatter whilst the rest of the face is relegated to peripheral vision. However, when the eyes are covered up by your conversational adversary (purely out of selfishness, like their viewing receptacles need to be protected from the harsh light rays or whatever), you're suddenly locked in communication with two large, dark brown squares, rectangles or ovals depending on their preferred style of frame. Oh crap, that was really long. Basically, what I'm saying is "you can't see the eyes anymore". Instead, that rest-of-the-face bit that was once just an additional part of them is now all you have to go on.

Ever heard the phrase "their eyes were smiling"? Well as far as I know, eyes aren't crescent-shaped, nor do they have the ability to grow mouths of their own to use for the purposes of displaying amusement or happiness. It's difficult to describe, but there's a certain look in the eyes that just tells us when somebody is happy, sad, thinking, relaxed or albino. If the rest of the face was to be completely covered, as opposed to being simply peripheral, we'd instantly be able to determine if a person was smiling or not. Bringing shades into the equation just reverses the functions or the variables or whatever and I start misusing mathematical terminology. Suddenly, the eyes become static sheets of (usually) plastic and the rest of the face's features twist and contort into various shapes to denote how amused or bemused or angry or bangry a person is. Unless, of course, they're albino, in which case they wouldn't be out in strong sunlight in the first place.

I've not worn sunglasses for years, despite owning a prescription pair. That probably can't be good for me. I have no working knowledge of how corrective lenses actually function, other than the fact that without them I can't see nearly as well as I can when I do wear them. In any situation, I'd proclaim they function correctly based on nothing but pure magic. But in actuality, my ignorant mind thinks that there's got to be some kind of "magnifying glass"-like aspects going on there. This essentially means that when I wear normal glasses in strong sunlight, the light is magnified in my eyes, burning out my corneas and - slowly but surely - blinding me, and no amount of squinting on sunny days is ever going to stop that. Essentially, I should really wear the tinted pair that I own. But like I said, it's been years since I've worn sunglasses. My natural eyesight is much worse these days, possibly because of too much sunlight, too much squinting or not enough magic. My sunglasses were made according to a previous prescription some years ago, meaning that when I put them over my eyes, not only does everything go darker than I'm used too, but also slightly blurrier than I'm used to.

Is there really a point to all this? Well, no, really. Other than the observation that people sort of look alien-like when wearing shades (especially ladies who wear those giant ones that look like dinner plates on the eyes that wrap around the sides of the face and forces them to do pouty lips, I mean what the hell, humanity? Come on, you're better than this). To be honest, I suppose I could've just written that last line and not bothered with the rest of the babble prior to it. But screw you, I want to feel like I've done something worthy and lengthy and that before I go outside and squint the day away.

March Memories And April Adventures

Well Hallelujah and all that shite. Not only am I finally posting something here again, but I've given this place a complete overvamp/rehaul. Furthermore, I'm mixing up prepositions that belong in already established words. Oh dear, it's been a while. My ability to sense make bordering on Yoda-like is.

With the blog completely untouched for two months, I've clearly got some March memories and April adventures to elaborate on. I will do this in the shortest and least informative way possible. Now.

Some time ago in a Subway (the sandwich dispensing conglomerate, not the underground railroad labyrinth), a friend and I mused the idea of vegetarianism; possibly because we were bored, possibly because the Chicken Tikka filling I was gorging on smelled and tasted far too much like Angostura. This put my in the student-dilemma of not wanting to waste food but also not wanting to eat it out of sheer non-enjoyment. We pondered whether we'd really have it in us to actually shun meat as a source of sustenance. Further pondering led to the idea of giving up meat, or turning veggie (whichever way you want to look at it), for an entire month. The alliterative prospect of No-Meat March floated about a little bit. Do bear in mind this was around late January or so.

Let's fast-forward to the beginning of March. I sent the following text message, verbatim, to my dining associate:

I dunno if you remember a while ago talking about potentially doing a "no-meat March"... but yeah I just failed. On the upside, this bacon cheeseburger is so worth it

Following this, May was suggested as a potential month to go without meat, because having all those "M"s in a stint at vegetarianism is just the kind of irony we need when we won't be greeting every meal with a satisfied "mmm". However, I'm wholly reluctant to use the month of May as a framework for this culinary challange since I plan on ordering a lot of greasy and questionable takeaway food whilst watching the Eurovision Song Contest, because that's just what I do with my life. Sorry cows, pigs and so many horses, but at least there's next March.

After essentially doing nothing of interest in the month of March - or at least nothing of interest to put here - the heavy load of assignments passed in sheer agony and the Easter break arrived in sheer monotony, thus leading us gracefully into April. And with April came just the latest of ventures this year where I took to the road and ended up miles from home. After a total of sixteen hours or so travelling on a mixture of coach and ferry, I arrived in Amsterdam for quite possibly the most fleeting and pointless time I've ever spent in a foreign country. And that includes the one afternoon I spent in northern Switzerland.

I had originally planned to present here a four-part account of my four-day trip, but upon my return back to the UK, real-life took over and I was thrust back into working towards my degree and seeing family members I don't see very often. By the time I got around to being able to update this thing with praise for one of the most beautiful cities I've ever seen, May happened. I'd like to present my account of Amsterdam here at some point, but unfortunately feel that with the experience already a month in the past, my recollection of the time is but a slushy haze. Further, my four-day trip to Amsterdam largely consisted of a full day travelling there and a full day travelling back. Having just two days in the city, one of which already designated for sporting activities and the main focus of the trip, didn't leave much time for sightseeing. As I said, whatever I can remember at a later point will be presented here if I can actually be bothered.

My infant nephew became my godchild less than a week after my Netherlands experience and I celebrated by more-or-less finishing off a catering tray full of pork pie slices after the after-Christening-do. Well, considering my dad had paid for the catering and about a third of the buffet was left over and I'm a student who hates to see food go to waste, I would've been a fool not to. Plus pork pies are awesome. We pondered this just a few days ago.

Who's "we"? Well, it's several people, but it includes the friend who proposed a meatless month. After reading this, I've probably reminded him about potentially going veggie for May and further reminded him that he'd have to give up on pork pies. Also, since it's May already, he's probably failed the forgotten challenge after chowing down on horse nuggets whilst reading this.

But then again, what do I know? I'm not him. Maybe he's not reading this whilst chowing down on a salad. I don't know. All I know is me, and as far as I'm concerned, I'm determined to keep adding to this thing every week; especially now that it's had a bit of a facelift.

Plans

For Liz.

Advice kids: Never make plans. Plans are for idiots. Incidentally, I wrote a thing about idiots on Monday which I was saving to put up here today. See, in my head, I'm amazing and have several thousand followers interested in whatever the hell it is I do. Case in point: this. So I decided a while ago that I'd update this blog every Wednesday, on the Wednesday, in order to keep my habits as a writer somewhat constant. After a while, I figured I was running out of things to write about, which is lazy speak for "I was becoming more and more lazy". Over time, I allowed myself "off-weeks" where I'd skip a Wednesday whenever I saw fit. In 2013, this suddenly became every fucking Wednesday.

I've been kidding myself that, with the final term of the final year of my degree looming, I needed to spend my time focussing on important work. Side projects like this would, therefore have to take a hit. Incidentally, that's the same logic I applied to putting off a serious conversation some weeks back. See, in reality, I'm an idiot. The very kind of idiot I complained about in a rambly thing I typed up two days ago. The kind of idiot who makes plans for the future because they don't realise that present is all that actually matters. All of a sudden, now, I realise I'm contradicting myself. I'm arguing with me. And I hate that. Why can't I just get along?

So, what's all this then? This is my last-minute replacement post, hastily cobbled together with cold fingers, perpetually perspiring underarms and the realisation that I am an idiot. In the two day period since writing my now-hypocritical analysis of other people, a close friend received a spot of bad news. Actually, scratch that. The worst news. The fact that this post contains a dedication at the top means I don't really have to go into detail. Unless you're an idiot.

I read through my idiocy post this morning, ready and raring because I finally had a weekly update for this blog. The only problem was that I actually read it. I don't normally read these things back until after they're in the virtual ether. But I read the pre-planned one and oh, my God, it's absolutely awful. To be frank, I was in a bit of a dark place when I hammered it out; I was in one of those I'm-angry-at-the-world-and-it's-the-world's-fault kind of moods where basically everyone on the face of the Earth, bar me, would have to fall into a pit of despair laced with parasites to satisfy me. But situations change and I feel it would've been wholly inappropriate to spew such vitriol onto the world knowing what I know now.

Some months ago, I fell into that old tangled web of personal feelings. With only my own meandering existence to draw from, that old situation never ends well for anyone. But still, the heart wants what it wants and the brain tries to rationalise it by being an idiot; by keeping quiet at whatever rare opportunity arises to speak up. Technically, I suppose that's the mouth's fault. Or the throat. Either way, I'd planned ahead to get kicked repeatedly in the chest. The actual assault occurred far sooner than I'd anticipated, thus leaving me feeling a) an idiot for planning ahead, and b) kicked in the chest.

So yeah, fuck plans. Plans only exist to remind people that fixed future events exist. Except they don't. Everything's hypothetical. The only thing that matters at any given moment is that very given moment. At the risk of sounding philosophical or awe inspiring, the past is what's fixed, the future is hypothetical. It's what you do with the moments you live in that you can possibly have any control over. Okay? This is not a chastising lecture to either the living or the deceased. This is pure fucking common sense. Most don't realise this, and I know that because I didn't fucking realise it until pretty much just now, when I wrote this paragraph.

Use the time you get properly to get what you want done. Don't assume you get more. For the love of whoever's up there/out there/somewhere, never make plans. Here endeth the lesson, idiot.

Regular January

I seem to hate Januarys. Two years ago, I completely shunned the month on this blogspace for reasons pertaining to, oh I dunno, I just couldn't be arsed probably. Last year, I posted about death and how we're all mortal and eventually gonna kick it one day. This year, I spent thirty-one days ignoring this pathetic excuse for a writing space in order to... well... you tell me! Actually, fuck that. I'll tell you. Now.

I read a fair bit. I wrote a fair bit. I stressed a fair bit. I drank a hell of a lot. Well, there we go, that pretty much sums it up. I wish I could be a bit more specific on some of those points, but I have deadlines looming and my way of dealing with them generally seems to be to ignore them like your regular January. My points of stress mainly revolve around a combination of such deadlines, certain individuals whom I'll not name and talk smack about in a public space such as this because (a) that would just make me sound bitter, and (b) I still see certain individuals on a regular basis and don't think I could cope with the face-to-face "why iz yoo talkin shitz boutz mee'z on da intanetz?" without physically assaulting them and then me. Instead, I let it fester inside, all the while telling myself I don't care and it doesn't actually bother me, even though I turned the light off at midnight and it's now 4am and I evidently do care.

On top of the mundane and the mediocre stresses of work and people who need to find out what a chainsaw tastes like^†, I would also like to present to you the bizarre stress caused by the back gate of this rented property I'm currently residing in. Basically, for weeks - hell, for a whole January really - every time I've gone into the garden for any reason (taking the bins out, getting some fresh air, cleaning the chainsaw, etc.) I've noticed the back gate is always wide open. This disturbs me. This disturbs me so much because every time I'm out there, I close it by using the hooked latch and the deadbolt which slots into a hole in the middle of a brick wall. Every time, I close it. Yet every time, it's open again. This has led me to two possible explanations. Both are as fucking absurd as each other.

Absurd thing one: People are breaking in. You're probably really thinking there's nothing very absurd about that. People break in places all the time. In fact, the bent-inwards-ness of the wooden planks that essentially form the entire door-like thing on the back wall suggests that some kind of brute force has been exerted onto the gate meaning that a forced entry seems likely. The only problem with this scenario, however, seems to be that no other damage is actually done anywhere. Heck, if half the garden was trashed or an attempt was made at getting in the house or there seemed to be some kind of attempted theft or violence I'd naturally assume we were having frequent univited visitors. But no. The garden and the house - all of the property being rented - remains exactly the way I last saw it... apart from the gate. Logically, if people are actually forcing an entry into my garden, they don't seem to have any other plan byond that, other than to say: "Right then, we showed that gate. Let's go break a branch off a tree. FUCK YOU, SOCIETY!"

Absurd thing the other one: The wind is sentient. The forces of nature often unhook poorly constructed gate latches and blow hinged planks of wood around like nobody's business. However, I've never met a mild breeze capable of lifting the handle of a deadbolt halfway up so it aligns with the locking mechanism to pull it out of a wall. Maybe I'm just being crazy. Maybe I'm not, and the wind and rain is capable of more than I had previously expected. It forms itself into the shape of some kind of being able to interact with the physical world. Or actually, it could be ghosts, or an unruly ferret, or inexplicably floating geometric shapes. In the case of the latter, I imagine them to be parallelograms. Why, exactly? FUCK YOU, THAT'S WHY!

For many people, "I hate Mondays" is some kind of life motto. Personally, I hate Januarys. And really, if you think about it, January is just like one big, giant Monday. The mother of all Mondays. Der über-Montag. Screw the depressing beginning of the week. January is the head-scratching, chainsaw-wielding, alcohol-consuming start to the entire bloody year and I, for one, am glad it's over.

As I said, I've been drinking a lot.


^†This line about learning what chainsaws taste like was stolen from the blurb of This Book Is Full Of Spiders by David Wong. Told you I've been reading.

(I don't actually own a chainsaw.)