Friends and photographs

Two days ago Alexandra, my BFF, wrote a wonderful post about me on her infinitely more interesting blog. Today, I will not be returning the favour. Not yet, as there are too many feelings and memories, all sorts of kooky-crazy-funny-sometimes-sad emotions to sort through before I can even begin to start. But her post, and an unexpected phone call, meeting and sort-of reconciling with a friend did stir things up, and here’s a glimpse of what filtered through.

I’m not entirely sure I deserve the credit she gives me as a “best of friends“. In general. For starters, I have a sneaking suspicion I’m a lousy listener. Just count the times I say “I“. I’m simply “not there” as often as I should be, or even as often as I’d like to be. I don’t empathise enough. And no matter what I do or how much I actually try at times, I feel like I never truly know or understand my friends, through no fault of their own.

And sometimes I let them go. Let them slip through the many cracks in my life and leave them behind. With or without looking back. Just like old and new photos that simply do not suit me. Inside neatly stacked envelopes that yellow with time. Some of them are revisited now and then, some will pile up the dust until I’m gone and so are they. I’m pretty sure this is not my metaphor, that I’ve heard or read it somewhere else. And I love and loathe that comparison because while it has some poetry to it, you don’t need me to tell you that people should not be treated with the same disregard as photographs that one thinks do not catch them at the best possible angle.

This may not seem like much, or particularly conflicting, but I am struggling to put everything into words. I’ve written many more than what can be read here, but I also hit the sarcasm button one too many times, and I’m not sure it belongs here, in this post. I’m also trying to work towards full disclosure, so to speak, but it is hard. Even though Alex is the only one who knows me outside this poor excuse for therapy, I can’t do it. Not now. Again, not today. I’m just not there yet.

Later edit: Can someone please take pity on me and give me some “for dummies” instructions on how to post pictures? At least a profile one? Thank you so very very much.

This used to be so much easier…

Oh, wow, I must have broken some kind of record with this one. Three lazy, half-assed posts in, and I’m already out of ideas. Wtf? You won’t find any proof here, but I promise you I used to be decent to good with a fleeting glimmer of brilliant at this whole writing mission, quest, thing. Pinkie swear. But this, right here, right now, feels worse than a college application essay. What I plan to do with my life in 3000 words or less. Umm, I dunno, live it? With the utmost respect for myself ( you know, that whole my body is a temple school of thought, to which I am so committed that I only hit Mickey D’s once a week ) and others, i.e. if I don’t kill the a-hole who almost tripped me over and then told me to watch where I’m going, I think I’m set in the afterlife, right? I mean, surely they’ll be laying the red carpet all up to the Gates of Heaven for that kind gesture alone.

What can I bore you with? Let’s see… Uuu, I know, I can always whine about how it’s been two weeks since the latest Harry Potter film has been released in my country and I still haven’t seen it. Damn these kids today, they’d rather watch Transformers than genuine entertainment. Don’t get me wrong, I secretly love Transformers. Hey, kiss my not-so-lily-anymore-because-I’ve-been-to-the-beach-bitches ass, I loved the cartoons and I so want one of my very own ( Optimus Prime, but I’ll settle for Bumblebee or Megatron ). However, you can’t beat Harry Potter, the BIG SPOILER AHOY rightful owner of the Deathly Hallows. Well, not in my book anyway. And man, do I love those books, and films.

With maybe the exception of Michael Gambon as Dumbledore. Why did Richard Harris have to die? And because apparently he did, why couldn’t they replace him with Ian McKellen? He’s British too, you know? So what if he’d already played Gandalf, you’d think that would have been the best argument for not against going with him?

Anyhoodle, to lull my sorrow until I can manage to verbally terrorise someone into going with me ( by doing what I do best, which is not shutting up, ever ) I watched Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix a few days ago. For the 9^th time. Approximately. And besides once again finding it a bit crammed I realised Harry’s not quite realistic as a teenager. And I’m not talking about the “ I can do magic “ part. That’s real. In that universe, I’m not that far gone, mind you, though I wouldn’t mind visiting every once in a blue moon. Nope, I’m talking about the anger / angst issues which he fears will end up with him turning into a Voldemort Mini-Me. At which point I had to pause the movie for an excuse-the-shit-outta-me moment. Really? Are you that much of a goody-two-shoes or just emotionally retarded? Yes, I said it, and about HP, and you must have gathered by now that I love the crap out of this story. But come on, his parents died when he was a baby, their killer is free and well, his “family” bullied and terrorised him, his friends are starting to die around him, for the most part of the book / film the magic world either fears, doubts or at the very best dismisses him as someone with a hero complex, his protector is driven out of Hogwards, and he doesn’t know it yet but he’s about to lose even more family and friends in the battles to come. And he’s worried that a little screaming and anxiety make him evil? Please, darling, I think you’ve pretty much secured at least a dozen free passes, for all of the above, and I’ll even slide you another one on account of having to go through puberty at the same damn time. Go ahead, it’s on the house. Damn these pesky kids. What? Hagrid’s Fang is obviously related to Scooby-Doo. You can find them cowering on the chicken-out branch of the family tree. Thank you, and good bye, but do come back soon, I’ll be here all week. Then again, quite possibly, not.

Oh, snap!

Whoopty-freaking-doo, I think I somehow managed to upset someone I spend most of my days with. No, not my boyf, one of my work colleagues. A bunch of us were trying to figure out what movie to go see tomorrow, there is non-work related personnel involved, we were hoping for a smaller crowd ( well, to be fair, for the most part, I was ) and we were having a hard time deciding, mostly because the selection is sparse and shit. Plus, someone else was on the phone with the people not connected to our merry bunch through work, and the poor girl was back-and-forth-ing between us like the last Mayan interpreter on a Mel Gibson film set. And around minute 2 of said conversation, another co-worker, who would not stop interrupting, really got loud, voicing his dislike for a particular film I suggested and which he has not seen.

Well, colour me an absolute viper, but I snapped back with the classic and ever dependable, though highly unimaginative,  “Nobody asked you.” And then proceeded to make the arrangements for our escapade. After we finished hammering out the details of who’s getting the tickets, who’s driving whom and most importantly, who’s throwing a not-so-surprise pyjama party afterwards, we decided we were going to invite some more people after all, and I took it upon me to invite said cubicle-mate. To which I got a very chill “No thanks, but since I wasn’t asked I think I’ll pass.” Well, boo-freaking-hoo, cry me a river, why don’t you?

Don’t get me wrong, he’s right. And I was rude. And he did use my angry line as sort of a comeback. And I do feel somewhat sorry by how it turned out. But not sorry enough to be upset over the fact that we are, after all, going to be a smaller and more intimate gathering. And I swear I’m not PMS-ing. That I know of. Flat jokes aside, though I may or may not have used it myself as an excuse for losing my temper, I’m starting to tire of blaming everything on menstruation. Yes, bleeding, pain and nausea does make one cranky, but (un)fortunately, last time I checked, it wasn’t accepted as viable defence in murder trials, so I guess that’s out. Instead, I’ll just go for the shock value of a heartfelt confession, aka, the truth: sometimes, I’m a real bitch. And some other times, that doesn’t bother me that much. Like today.

P.S. I’m sure karma will catch up with me, and I’m perfectly fine with it so doing. Something about accepting the consequences of one’s actions and all that…

Fears

I was thinking of doing something based on all the days of the week, and once again borrowing shamelessly from TNR, however, that won’t do, because, firstly, I hate plagiarism, secondly, I might get sued, and thirdly, it’s all about me, damn it! So then I thought I’d steal a little from The Cure and play with my posts by way of their lovely song “Friday I’m in love”. Gimme a break, I woke up late, it’s a bleak day, I’m cranky and uninspired. Way to go as a first ever post, don’t you think? Remember I said I hate plagiarism? Well, I guess I lied. Sort of. I tend to do that a lot. Sort of.

So without further ado, I give you, Blue Mondays

And here’s a good one to kick off with:

Fears

One of the stand up comics that I greatly enjoy is a French “humoriste et acteur”, Tomer Sisley. In his 2006 show, “Stand Up!”, he had a bit about couples and how more often than not, though both partners are talking about one thing, and call it by the same name, it may not always be the same one thing. So when the guy asks the girl what her fears are over a couple of drinks, she answers with: “Well, I’m afraid you’ll stop loving me and leave me, and break my heart. What are you afraid of?” To which he replies: “Umm, sharks?!?”

I hope you’ve realised by now that this isn’t going to be about those deep set emotional fears of growing old and bitter all alone, or not taking the world by storm and achieving fame and fortune, though I’m not exactly sure that fame-whoring and selling out qualify as emotional turmoil, but, hey, whatever makes you tick. And I mean “you” as in “no one here, really, we’re just lovable dorks, not soul-sucking-empty-eyed-brain-dead train wrecks”. Yeah, I’m big on hyphenates.

If you’re still with me, let’s talk a bit about equally deep set fears that one births as a child and cannot bring themselves to abandon on the nearest church steps even as an adult. Like spiders. Or clowns. Or really long words. Hmmm, I guess you call them phobias, huh? Though, if you do, it means that you kinda sorta have an actual problem. Who, me? Nuh-uh, I don’t have such issues, no siree bob, not me, hey, is that a bug, with, HOLYFREAKINGCOW, that thing has a gazillion legs, what if it’s a centipede, and poisonous, and it’ll bite me and they’ll only discover my body after the smell has made them break down the door, get it off me, eek, eek, eek, help, help, HEEEEEEELP!!!! Erm, right. Yeah, bugs. They scare the shit out of me. I once got a friend up a 3 AM and made him come over from the other side of town to kill a bug that was minding its little buggy business, only it just happened to be doing so on my ceiling, in my room, in a spot that was placed with sniper precision directly above my pillow. The nerve of that little creep! I’m saving that story for another time, but in case you’re wondering, that friend and I are finally talking again. 

Other things that go bump in the night? Or not necessarily only by the night? Zombies. Not so high heights. How do the latter go bump? Well, they don’t, but when I climb a chair and start feeling queasy, my head just might, on acquainting itself with the floor or nearest windowsill. Because of course if I do fall off a chair I happen to climb on, not sit on, there’s gonna be a windowsill nearby for my head to smack against. And then, what do you know, instant retrograde amnesia. Hey, that might be kinda … after all … I’ll be right back!

What was I saying? And who are you? And who am I, for that matter? You go ahead and slap me a comment if you will, while I go learn how to tie my shoes again and try not to drool on the keyboard quite so much. I’ll tag you back, if I remember that I have a blog that is. Tootles!

Hello, Dollies!

Ok, so I’m not exactly twee, though at 5’4” I wouldn’t exactly call me Bigfoot either. Not if I were you, anyway. See what I did here? No? Go watch something on MTV, it’ll come to you. And it will be hi-larious, comparatively. What was I saying? Erm, right, I’m not exactly twee. Well, I’m not bubbly all the damn time neither. Yes, most of the grammar and whatnot mistakes are on purpose. Don’t get on my toes about it, I might stab you with a six inch stiletto. And make you like it. Oops, getting my kink on ahead of myself. My bad.

For those of you who don’t know me, and I pray to God, that’s the case, for your sake and mine, I usually start talking ( or writing, for that matter ) about one thing, take a backpack trip around the world and then completely forget what I was yapping about, therefore circle forever what I believe to be the 10th circle of Hell, all the while dragging your cute asses with me. All this to conclude that, though I may not always be bubbly, and am not twee, I am beyond a shadow of a doubt a complete klutz. And I would have also added scatterbrain, but  you’ve probably already figured that out on your own. Now, don’t you feel good about all the money you spent on higher education? If you’re at your job, so out-of-your-skull bored that you’re still reading this, and – gasp – chuckling, then newsflash, my friend – you got Punk’d! Kutcher on steroids style, with a bonus wedgie. How’s that working for ya’?

I’m just kidding, I love you Internets!!! I totally stole that from The Naked Redhead.

So, forward, march, klutzy MeMyselfandI on to this bloggy-thingy sphere that I was somehow roped into annoying with my whiny rants.

You’re welcome!