January 31, 2005

Lurching Forward

Hello, hello etc.; there are three pimples on my jawline.

I'm feeling rather floaty and disturbed, as the current cost of living (including super happy emergency surprise expense treats such as a broken car) has assaulted me with a crowbar, bang, right in the jaw. As if the zits weren't enough.

Back to college tomorrow; the land of mists and mellow fruitfulness. I shall don my cape and walking stick, and pipe in mouth, I shall stride across campus, shouting greetings in a posh British accent, despising all those who don't worship my eccentricity. Should any particularly uncouth GAA player get in my path, he'll feel the swift crack of my pikestaff upside of the head, and lo! what a jape it shall be to start the morning, nay - to start the new term! Off then to the common-room for tea and crumpets with the fellows: delightful.

...That got a bit out of control.

The gift giving continued. LIST SO FAR (because the word on the grapevine is that there is more to come):

1. Crocus plant
2. Tickets to see the band Cake in Vicar Street tonight (tonight being Monday January 31st)
3. A full length mirror
4. A set of twenty classic Penguin books (fabulous gift, fabulous)
5. Designer moisturising lotion (Lancôme maybe? I don't know)
6. Hand knitted scarf and matching hat
7. Camera phone (fluke gift: my sister in law got it for free and didn't want it)
8. Deliciously ethical fair trade handbag (purple)
9. Fabulously Bohemian bead necklace
10. Large bottle of bourbon from New York

Disgusting, isn't it. And all my professions of not being a materialist! I am destined to murder that crocus plant: everything I touch dies. Mostly not on purpose! So...I ate the cake today and they sang the song and I blew out the four (four?) candles and sighed over another year of bad decisions and inflicted traumas. All is well with the world, except in the majority of places where suffering overrides any possibility of small pleasures or normal daily living.

neuro-praxis -- Used To Be Working Class But Now In The Bottom Middle And Feeling The Guilt

January 30, 2005

And Unto Us A Child Is Born

On this date a few years back my mother pushed me out of her. GOE MA GOOD JOB. I was gooey but precious etc. Today is the day we all celebrate that.

Alright, party's over.

So I went for my date with Anonymous and we got regrettably drunk, much to the perplexion of a very sobre K who picked us up and had to contend with our painful unfunniness, while we, incidentally, considered ourselves at the time to be some class of a French and Saunders. Lord bless us and save us all.

I spent Friday night at a party with the delightful Discovery Gospel Choir, for whom I have no link, on Cathal Brugha Street. Much singing and consuming was achieved and I think I am going to join them. I don't have the time but boy do I have the enthusiasm!

Yes.

So today I was a tourist. I donned my baseball cap, checked pants and a conspicuous American accent and located some friends from Venezuela. K and I dragged them round some famous Irish "sights" (and what sights they were!) and fed them local delicacies. A delight, a delight. While exploring the fields around palladian mansion Castletown House, we discovered the base of a rainbow, where a small family of budding, pink leprechauns were nestled, gnawing on chunks (notably chunks and not coins) of pure gold. After some considered debate, we wrapped them in a cotton bag I had bought earlier in Aldi for 39cents, and gently drowned them in the river. It was sad, but we accepted that it was for the best. We could never have given those leprechauns the kind of life they deserved.

So, what with the singing and the walking and the senseless killing, it's been a busy and tiring weekend. Thankfully there are only 24 hours more of free time left to endure before the saving grace of the working week reaches up its cool hands, wrapping them round my throat and strangling me softly into a delirium of deadlines, lectures, presentations and essays.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY NEURO

neuro-praxis -- Sick In The Head And I Think We Can All Blame Religion

January 27, 2005

Matters of Les Femmes

This will not be about periods.

I'm not a girl, Not yet a woman

I'm not a girl
Not yet a woman

OH SHUT UP BRITNEY, YOU TROLLOP. If Britney Spears is neither a woman nor a girl, it begs the question what the hell kind of a freaky creature is she then?!

I am a woman, I know this because all of my personal documentation says so.

And my impending birthday proves it, too. Parcels arrived today, for me. In them were an odd assortment of gifts:

1. Interesting pop socks
2. Photgraphs of my nephew
3. Scratch cards (I WON A FREE CARD, WOOT)
4. A surprisingly crappy keyring
5. Something else

I feel so special! No, I do. Lovable rogue Anonymous is taking me out for dinner tonight. We're having an unlikely affair that will soon be the subject of a wacky sitcom, but nobody pays any attention.

I saw that fellow George Whatshisname, the young Dublin lad with the vocal chords of a drunken fifty year old Irishman. He came second in You're A Sap or Euroshite or Irish Idolatry or something. He sings things like In The Rare Ould Times and what have you; a leprechaun in his pocket and a quart of whiskey in his belly! He was having an argument outside Fitzsimon's pub in Templebar last night, and was sporting a spiffing tracksuit and delightfully frosted highlights. This brush with fame was the breath of fresh air that my soul needed to survive another week in the arid wasteland of Neurolife^TM.

neuro-praxis -- Not A Sales Rep

A Little Older, A Little Wiser

WHAT DID YOU LEARN TODAY NEURO

That one cent pieces bounce well on the pavement but that two cent pieces bounce badly, and are best kept for throwing into the river and making wishes that will inevitably come true, causing the earth to internally combust semi-silently, like a terrible, terrible fart.

WHAT DID YOU DO TODAY NEURO

I spent most of today with Lydia, who does not read this blog. FINE LYDIA, FINE. She is my oldest friend (but not for much longer). Her brother (a wee fellow of 22) and his wife have just had a baby a few days ago and I flittered away my afternoon adoring him. I even wiped his bottom free of faeces. The baby's bottom, not Lydia's 22 year old brother's. You sick pervert. The baby is exceptionally beautiful but can neither tell jokes nor make a decent cup of tea, so I've definitely had better company.

OTHER STUFF

I ate good Mexican food but the best bit was the free eskimo mint at the end. Oh, it was so minty and crunchy. Mmm. And free, yeah.

I walked around a lot today. Now I'm tired. Car is good, *grunt*.

I listened to the Cocteau Twins cd some more: Adrian owns it. Man, it's no wonder you're depressed. They're some melancholic bastards. Good, though.

There's more but I can't get it out in a way that won't sear you with boredom. Dully-dull Dullpants here needs her beauty sleep. (Have you seen the state of me?) Badly.

neuro-praxis -- Not Into Budgeting

January 25, 2005

My Ideas For A Drama, Based On Last Night's Events

Time: Winter, night
Location: Wood Quay, Dublin, at neuro's parking space by the wall over the River Liffey
Characters: neuro-praxis, delightful housemate Mags, Debo, Some Random Bitch
Written by: Fate
Directed by: neuro-praxis

Scene opens to show the young women leaning over the wall, gazing into the glorious expanse of the murky waters of the Liffey

Debo:(Scrunching up face) What's that thing?

Mags: (Looking) What thing?

Debo: (Pointing) That big square thing floating there.

Mags: (Squinting) A cardboard box?

neuro-praxis: Maybe Spongebob Squarepants finally topped himself.

(Shocked silence)

Mags: Spongy bastard.

(Grunts of agreement. Suddenly, a woman who is pulling out from her parking space right by neuro's car, wallops the Ford Escort's bumper. neuro-praxis runs over, enraged.)

neuro-praxis: Hey! You just hit my car!

(The woman shrugs and drives off. Debo shouts out her registration number and Mags pads it into her mobile phone.)

THE END

I think the plot needs a little work, but overall I'm bery happy with it. Bery, bery happy. Happier than I've ever been. SHROOMS?

neuro-praxis -- Robot In Disguise

January 24, 2005

Wired

So, this morning I found some form of aircraft in my back garden. It was oval in shape, and chrome. I climbed inside, found that the controls were operated by a basic touchscreen system, and so I took off, hitting 120mph in less than a second. Setting the system to cruise-control, I kicked back, ate the flat, soft museli bar that was in my pocket, looked out the oval window and thought about the future.

I did not reach any conclusions about what I would like to be.

After an hour, I returned home, to the fanfare of a thousand trumpets. I went to the cinema and watched a movie that I had already seen, before eating some McDonalds with a broken hearted friend or two.

neuro-praxis -- Getting Less Fussy

A Rebel Without A Clue

My sea of agnostic, atheist and occasional Christian friends: if you've got nine minutes to spare, read this for a little thought-provoking theosophy on why a tsunami wave can kill almost a quarter of a million people and how this does not nullify the possibility of a god, and a good god at that.

My own personal philosophising is over for another term and now, it is the day of the sun: in other words, it is Sunday. In a mere sentence in this paragraph I have thus far provided you with two facts, one useless and inaccurate; the other something you already knew, unless of course you are in a different timezone, or have problems with ascertaining reality. Goe neuro. And your team of isolated and slightly mouldy brain cells.

So. The exams are over and I have been drinking to celebrate. Whisky, beer, Toilet Duck, you name it, I've downed it. The housemates are concerned but as far as I am concerned, they are the MAN, and they are KEEPING ME DOWN. I am having enough trouble keeping the Toilet Duck down as it is, thanks. (This is making no sense, but who am I to judge?) Toilet Duck has more than one use, you know. Today I used it for cleaning the bathroom. In fact, we gave the house a mighty overhaul today, and it feels good: meeting my approval on the zen-master scale. Everyone is so chilled out in the glow of fairy lights and no dust that they're practically comatose, which is useful for me, because I can empty their wallets.

I am increasingly feeling that it is just me writing and reading this blog. I feel as though, instead of vomiting onto a few close friends as is fitting, I am vomiting into the vast expanse of the internet and this puke echoes. I do of course mean brain-vomit, which is kind of nice to think about, because it personifies my brain, as though it were a small entity living inside my skull. If it can vomit, then it must have a mouth, oesaphagus, stomach, etc. And it must eat. Presumably lots of gone off things, as it is always hurling. Not playing hurling the sport now, but hurling up puke. I am sure you understood that but I am a sucker for clarity. Understand me! I cry. And maybe that little brain person has a name, and is mad at me for how I use it to do even the smallest of things, like taking a breath, and I never acknowledge it on National Secretaries Day. I am a bad brain-owner. Would you look at me! Claiming ownership of a brain I don't even know.

Perhaps it is a problem that I think it is nice that a creature lives in my head.

I watched some American Idol pap on television yesterday, and found my personal hero. Perhaps you saw her too? She was blonde, wearing pink, singing atrociously, and was schizophrenic. She told the judges that the voices in her head were telling her that despite what they thought, she was going to be the next American Idol. The footage after her slating outside was even more psychotic: I think it was the eyes. They were beadier than mine. She was devastated. I guess she'd been relying on those voices and they'd been telling her lies. Men, eh! Hmph! Let's just hope Paula Abdul doesn't end up in that young lady's freezer.

It is worth noting that by the time this journal entry was finished, the day had soared onwards into Monday, but we all know how I feel about that.

neuro-praxis -- The Dancing Queen, Young And Sweet, Only Seventeen

January 21, 2005

Corroborate Me

The weather was so fantastically bad that we overturned our jazz club notion and instead K, I and Les 'Ousemates Extraordinaire went to the local greasy spoon for burgers and then to O'Keeffe's for a pint, booya.

I am now decompressing, alone, just me and my laptop, while the rest of the losers in this house infect their souls with such television junk as The West Wing and...whatever else is on.

The last exam went mediocrely. I want the results now. I request that one of you contact my university and make this happen. Stat.

I cannot entertain you because there is nothing left inside me. I am a dishrag of small proportions. Grey in colour, and possibly in need of a wash. I want to listen to lugubrious piano songs and stare at the ceiling. I'm not exactly sure why, but I'm sure it will cheer me up.

I have a very full weekend ahead but the part I am most looking forward to is the Scottish night hosted by my Scottish friend, who is going to tie us down and force-feed us haggis through tubes up our noses, as is the custom where he's from. Or so he says. And we will all be wearing kilts. Leather kilts; very short. In fact, he sent a long letter detailing how we are to dress and what we are to bring. The list included a bottle of hard liquor, two clothespegs and a whip. Team-building exercises perhaps? Wearing only your underclothes and using just two clothespegs and a whip, work together to build a tower that represents "unity"!!

Here's hoping.

The upshot of this spout of very windy weather is that the next door neighbours' new fence fell down again. Ha ha. They recently put up a very ugly, very tall wooden fence that blocks our view of the rest of the street and casts a shadow on our lawn. The Irish weather detests it, however, and it collapses repeatedly. Whenever it falls, Mags and I whoop with joy and send then anonymous "YOU'LL GET WHAT'S COMING TO YOU" notes made from letters cut out of Woman's Way magazines. They don't know who they're from but it makes them edgy.

K is back, and he is kicking his new fair trade football around the bedroom, so I had better go and sedate him.

neuro-praxis -- Is Not Your Mother

January 20, 2005

Am I Allowed To Be Serious For A Moment?

Goodnight Saigon

by Billy Joel

We met as soul mates on Parris Island
We left as inmates from an asylum
And we were sharp, as sharp as knives
And we were so gung ho to lay down our lives

We came in spastic like tameless horses
We left in plastic as numbered corpses
And we learned fast to travel light
Our arms were heavy but our bellies were tight

We had no home front, we had no soft soap
They sent us Playboy, they gave us Bob Hope
We dug in deep and shot on sight
And prayed to Jesus Christ with all our might

We had no cameras to shoot the landscape
We passed the hash pipe and played our Doors tapes
And it was dark, so dark at night
And we held on to each other
Like brother to brother
We promised our mothers we'd write

And we would all go down together
We said we'd all go down together
Yes we would all go down together

Remember Charlie, remember Baker?
They left their childhood on every acre
And who was wrong? And who was right?
It didn't matter in the thick of the fight

We held the day in the palm of our hand
They ruled the night, and the night
Seemed to last as long as six weeks...

...On Parris Island
We held the coastline, they held the highlands
And they were sharp, as sharp as knives
They heard the hum of our motors
They counted the rotors
And waited for us to arrive

And we would all go down together
We said we'd all go down together
Yes we would all go down together

...This song made me cry tonight.

neuro-praxis - Feeling Wiped And Not Wanting Your Comment

January 19, 2005

Uptight? Me? Really?

STRESS:
affliction, agony, alarm, albatross, anxiety, apprehensiveness, burden, clutch, crunch, disquiet, disquietude, distention, draw, dread, expectancy, extension, fear, fearfulness, ferment, flutter, force, hardship, hassle, heat, impatience, intensity, misgiving, mistrust, nervous tension, nervousness, oppression, overextension, passion, protraction, pull, restlessness, spring, strain, stretch, tautness, tenseness, tension, tensity, tightness, traction, trauma, trepidation, trial, urgency, worry.

Since the launch of my poem Ode to the Creme Egg, people have been buying me endless heaps of creme eggs and while I am grateful, I don't want any more because I now hate them. In fact, I retract my ode. All creme eggs can burn in blood and pus-spewing hell, which is not a nice joint from what I gather. Anyone who buys me another creme egg will be forced to eat it themselves without being allowed to lick their lips, or some similar form of torture. Keep your eggs, you generous fools.

Final exam of the semester (Aquinas - YAWN) is tomorrow and afterwards I will be partaking in some suitably rowdy behaviour at a jazz club with a number of moronic friends. Hi morons. We all know you're reading. I intend to get so drunk that I create an embarassing scene in the bar and cause great discomfort for all friends with me, and I might even puke in the car on the way home.

Stop judging me! We all make mistakes.

Everyone seems to be having eppos* about the launch of a new airplane. Apparently it's really big or something. What are we, Americans? Do we need everything to be enormous?

I only flew for the first time when I was 20 (my family are poor, yes we lived in a caravan, yes I wore black bags to school, yes I had potatoes and buttermilk for dinner every day) and it was one of the greatest disappointments of my life. WHERE IS THE THRILL? It is not in the airplane. I thought I would actually be able to feel us flying, but it's smoother than a cup of Vanilla Häagen-Dazs. Since then, I've been on a few turbulent flights which were more interesting, but the downside of those is the people around you spewing into their paper bags, and the ensuing stench. Oh well, you win some, you lose some.**

More when I feel sane again.

neuro-praxis -- Choking On Her Gut

*epileptic fits
**generic wisdom

Unless You Are Blind, You Will Have Noticed Some Changes

Yes.

The site has had a drastic makeover, courtesy of one to whom I shall link copiously once her page is ready.

It is the colour of revenge, sin and blood: red. To quote a nameless young Brit I saw on RTE once, "I'm just an ordinary bloke who happens to be a vampire".

A lot of things aren't ready yet: you'll notice that individual blog entries of old don't look so handsome right now - we're working through some consistency issues.

But hey, I have no need to jusify myself to you BASTARDS.

Now to sleep. SLEEP FOREVER AND EVER.

neuro-praxis -- Is The Undead

January 18, 2005

Changing History With Paint

Oh lá lá!

I turned on the television this morning and the first thing that I saw was (look above) Trevor (the traction engine, of cult classic children's tv show Thomas the Tank Engine) backing into his sleep tunnel or whatever the devil it is called, and Ringo Starr saying,

'Trevor closed his eyes and whispered happily, "Oh I do like children."'

Do you indeed Trevor! Well best not be mentioning that on television!

Just look at his creepy little face.

Speaking of children, I gave birth to one and forgot to mention it, and here's me, hugging it or something.

DIRTY BABY

I spent a fascinated hour watching Doctor Phil on his REVOLUTIONARY RELATIONSHIP RETREAT this morning with five pathetic couples who were trying to make it work. (The couples were on the tv show; I wasn't sitting watching it with them.) I now love Doctor Phil and his great big shiny head, and if my marriage is ever failing, I will ring him in a demanding fashion and get him to fix us by announcing COLD HARD FACTS and so on. Yay! I'm tempted to have an affair just so I can meet him. I believe that I am sufficiently screwed up in la tete to qualify for an episode. That's French for "the head"; I didn't want to say it in English in case I was accused of repeating myself in this paragraph. And if I am not sufficiently screwed up, I am sure that there is a series of acts that I can commit that will suggest otherwise.

When I woke up today the ground was covered with snow. GRAND SOFT DAY THANK GOD. What does that MEAN?!

SONG ABOUT LUNCH

(sing it to the tune of Oh When the Saints Go Marching In)

Oh when it's time
To eat the lunch
Oh when it's time to eat the lunch
I want to be
The one who eats it
When it's briefly after brunch

Oh when it's time
To eat the lunch
Oh when it's time to eat the lunch
I want to be
The one who eats it
When it's briefly after brunch

--Tomorrow, a song about the injustice of the housemates having eaten the can of spaghetti, and the bloodshed that ensued.

neuro-praxis -- Has Not a Jot Of Intention Of Getting Dressed Today

January 17, 2005

We Left The External Examiner Gagged and Bound in the Corner

And he liked it.

Well now.

I have completed five of my six exams, GOLD STAR FOR ME PLEASE. Well actually, I should probably be collecting my silver star right now, and get the gold one when I have completed the sixth.

PET HATE

The way that people from the north pronounce "sixth" as SICKTH. Wtf? Sickth? I'll sickth you in a minute, you sickth bathtard.

I'm giddy. I did two exams today and am running on a few moments of sleep snatched between them. Hey, who needs to sleep during the night? That scarf I'm knitting is getting quite long.

Ah, who am I kidding? That scarf is probably eight inches long right now. You can knit and you can knit, all through the night, while your husband interrupts your knitting with incoherent mumblings (yes, he's a night talker), but damnit, that scarf just doesn't get long fast enough.

We are pondering the possibility of a date tonight. I am desperately in need of some decompression. To quote the god of teenage boys, I am so tight that if you stuck a piece of coal up my arse in a week you'd have a diamond.

Of course, he said "ass" and not "arse", because a four letter word was too expensive for such a small budget movie.

Also he wasn't talking about me. He was talking about Cameron, his best friend. But that's not what's important. What's important is that my diamond manufacturing business is finally underway. Soon I will be rich, rich enough to afford sixteen letter words in my movies.

neuro-praxis -- Will Be Back Hopefully With Quality

January 16, 2005

The Grass Is Always Greener

Twelve Things That Is Definitively Better Than Incessant Studying As What Is According To Me:

1. Forcing down platefuls of unbuttered cold mashed potato, which you will then in desperation discreetly spoon into the coal bucket by the fireplace.
2. Stepping in dog shit just before that crucial job interview, wafting you in the ever-impressive eau de la poo.
3. Spending three hours watching repeats of Julian Simmons on UTV doing his weather routine and saluting five year olds on their birthdays.
4. Accidentally ramming a pin up under your fingernail. In we go - a good half inch!
5. Going on a particularly fast ride at Funderland operated by the dude whose brother is his father, and finding when it stops that there is a large gully of phlegm in your hand. And it ain't yours.
6. Chewing tinfoil and/or sucking on cotton wool.
7. Instead of being taken to Disneyworld by your parents, being taken to a burnt out warehouse, and then them saying, "Oh, I guess Disneyworld burnt down".
8. Your best friend having a tattoo of a spider web done on your face while you sleep.
9. Your creepy next door neighbour taping you from behind his curtains while in the throes of passion, and then posting copies of the video to your parents, grandparents and friends with a signed note from you about how you want to let them into every aspect of your life from now on.
10. Being accused of murder.
11. Having heaps of plastic surgery done only to find out that the surgeon was a quack and now you're designed to look like Pikachu. And he's skipped off to Mexico with your 30,000 big ones.
12. Incontinence.

Yup.

January 15, 2005

Schtuddy Brake

I have a caramel brain. Everything inside my head is gloopy and sticky and potentially delicious, but I am not getting any work done.

One the upside I ate some frickadellen for lunch which were very delicious. I also signed the important petition that will change all of our lives.

January 13, 2005

Ode To The Creme Egg

Ode To The Creme Egg

by neuro-praxis

Your skin glows like the Malteser,
blossoms delicious as the Riesen in the purest hope of spring.
My heart follows your chocolate-flute voice
and leaps like a chicken at the whisper of your name.
The evening floats in on a great hen wing.
I am comforted by your gown that I carry into the twilight
of cadbury's creme eggbeams and hold next to my torso.
I am filled with hope that I may dry your tears of fondant.
As my arm falls from my silk pyjamas,
it reminds me of your chocolate.
In the quiet, I listen for the last swish of the day.
My heated hand leaps to my glove.
I wait in the moonlight for your secret
creaminess so that we may eat as one,
hand to hand, in search of the magnificient
brown and mystical confectionary of love.

*click click click*

January 12, 2005

What A Shitty Day

Although, it did have its moments.

While my my housemate and husband were washing up after dinner:

I was busy taking photographs of them. I am justified in doing this however, as I am Resident Chef™. I cook up such delicacies as Last Week's Chilli of the Bleeding Eyes, and tonight's Garlic and Marmalade Chicken.

No really. I pan fried some chicken breasts and then left them simmering in a sauce made from orange juice, marmalade, garlic and mustard. It was delicious. We ate it with a rice salad and a bowl of cucumber in a yoghurt dressing. By yoghurt dressing I do of course mean, I just mixed with yoghurt. And by yoghurt I do of course mean Muller Delight (the one with chocolate cornflakes in it).

Point being: I can can take damn photographs and skip the damn washing up if I damn well feel like it. Damn. My family's damn well fed.

So, there I was, dishing up the last spoonful of cucumber goo, when a little of the yoghurt plopped onto the table, and it was then that I realised, that we are in fact, HAUNTED. "Where is the evidence?" you cry, "thrill me!"

Well, it's right here, you Hatin' Doubter.

If that doesn't look like a ghost to you, then I don't know what does. Look, it even has eyes and a mouth. Just like a dead human!

I didn't get any study done today. And I have nothing to say here.

I feel bad.

January 11, 2005

This Wine Goes Great With The Jolly Rancher I'm Sucking

Yes, I am a classy woman. K-K-kLaSsIe!!!1

In other news, one third of my exams have been completed. By me, whoo. 2 down, and I'll allow you to do the maths to see how many are left to go. (Hint: 4)

Modernism went well. Metaphysics went badly. I don't want to talk about it.

To make myself feel better, I decided to indulge in a little luxury, so I had a bidet installed in my house. Actually it's just a step ladder by the kitchen sink but it's almost as good.

My husband is asleep. He is always asleep. He has the immune system of a lab rat, what with his gastroenterwhatdoyoucallits and influenza. And the energy of...(think of analogy...think...think...) a...slug. I am going to have to wake him now, we're going out in a moment. We're going shopping for a new Fabergé egg; the old ones are dusty.

neuro-praxis -- As Lazy And Unimaginitive As Yeah Yeah Whatever

January 10, 2005

Death Becomes Her

According to the clock and the calendar, I have an exam today, but according to my brain, it is not until tomorrow.

I can remember the period when I was a child when I first heard that the next day begins, not in the morning as I had presumed, but at midnight. A pretentious little girl who lived on my street informed me. Her mother had apparently recently filled her in on this little factoid. I completely and utterly did not believe her. She was the kind of precocious seven year old who spent too much time with grown-ups, and was full of adult phrases such as "oh for pete's sake" and "meet me at 12 o'clock sharp". She also called her mother "Phil" instead of Mammy. Like...piss off. I only hang around with you because you have a climbing frame, swings and a slide in your back garden. And your mother gives us Smarties based on our age. (Yes, she actually gave you four Smarties if your were four, and twelve if you were twelve. Being the youngest child on our street, the injustice of this was unbearable for me.)

I was far too sensible to believe that the new day began in the middle of the night. God, how dumb could you get? Middle of the night indeed. The new day begins in the morning.

I stand by that.

I belatedly saw Fahrenheit 9/11 last night and it was so bad that I shall not give you a link to read about it because I do not wish for you to be poisoned by manipulative tripe. Mister Mickey Moore is so biased that he makes you feel compassion for that fundamentalist victory thief. The best part of the movie was when I drank the beers. The worst part was when it was not over.

I have recently gotten back in contact with an old web friend (no, not Spiderman) but John, an all-kicking all-punching bag of computer science frenzy. Check out his blog, particularly his links to "beautiful people". There are some fantastic blogs listed there for your perusal and enjoyment. Be there or be triangular. (It is no longer hip to be square.)

Speaking of hips, and while we are roaming the streets of my litter-filled past, allow me inform you of a tasty truth: I have had surgery on my right hip twice. As a result, it aches whenever bad weather is coming. It is aching right now. Oh wise oracle hip, so you reckon it is going to rain? WELL NO SHIT SHERLOCK. Bad weather is coming?? Thanks for that. Because it's not like bad weather plonked itself down on the proverbial Irish living room sofa this season and has been farting and spitting profusely for quite a while now or anything. Where was my hip's jibber-jabber pre the Asia disaster? Probably off warming itself by the radiator in a nice pair of corduroy trousers under the desk where I study. Stupid hip *mutter mutter*.

There is something in my life right now that is causing me and my housemates a great deal of discomfort. Since approximately the end of October this year, I have ceased to sleep at night. Or during the day. The short of it: I'm not sleeping. I have not yet reached zombie status. I have not yet formed for myself an alter ego that makes soap out of the fat of rich ladies' asses. I have not begun a club that meets in basements around the city where businessmen "furdle one another with thumps" (thanks embee) and "lamp" each other rotten (thanks Dave) with bared fists and midriffs exposed for all and sundry to gawp at. No, I am not there yet. But perhaps I am in a worse place, for I have taken up...knitting. Yes, it is true, and I refuse to be as ashamed of this as I ought to be. I have begun a project: a wide and long blue scarf which I will cheaply thrust upon an unlucky friend come next birthday.

I knit, clicking my needles loudly at ungodly hours of the night (when even the Lord Himself has hit the sack). I also listen to Spin FM's delightful through the night dance music, and that is where my housemates' discomfort comes in. WELL POOR THEM. Boo hoo, look at me, I can sleep ten hours a night no problem, turn off your radio you bitch, boo hoo. Etc. etc. Their giving out would drive you demented.

If you are the praying type, pray for me tomorrow between 15.30 and 16.30 while I battle through an obscure Modernism examination. If I fail, I will know that it is because of your lack of faith, you disappointing children. If you are not the praying type, please post me a tenner.

neuro-praxis -- Lolloping To Bed With An Ache In Her Head

January 07, 2005

The Overrated Nature of a Crusty Sore

Clearly, I have been fiddling with the look of this page.

Fiddling is probably the most specialised word that a moron non-techie person such as myself can safely use. You will probably log in occasionally to see that the text has become all jumbled and the colours are even worse than the canary yellow that currently assaults you, but fear not: it is simply neuro with a spanner and a filthy smudge on her cheek working on the main index and the style sheets of the site, like the common grease monkey that she is. I won't apologise though. neuroland is MY zone and here you will lie prostrate as I shout my opinions from lofty grandeur.

I often bore you all with tales of my trials while studying. Well clam up your ears boys, and slap some mud over those eyes, because here I go again. This shall have three parts: the imbalanced rant, the fear and the resignation. Watch out.

OH MY GOD I'M SO DEAD I HAVE SIX EXAMS THE FIRST IS IN THREE DAYS AND I KNOW NOTHING. I'm tense. And when I'm tense I'm shifty and suspicious.

Just look at my beady little eyes!

DISGUSTING.

But not as disgusting as the heaping great pile of revision about modernism and metaphysics and medieval literature and pope philosophy that I've got to shred, mix with turpentine and stuff into my facial cavaties to get it closer to my brain. I am prickling with stress. Believe me when I say I have procrastinated to new and dizzying heights this time. I have knitted myself a new pair of pyjamas, for goodness' sake! My postcounts on boards.ie and mikado have tripled in one week! We have twelve loaves of soda bread! There are too many exclamation marks here - how do I ever expect to get into the canon with this tripe?! My room has changed colour! My blog is ever-rupturing! I am always on the phone!

But oh how I quiver in my boots. I wish to insert sad little faces composed of colons and left brackets (to be found over the 9 on your keyboard) but I know that the blog monitors would disapprove. I believe a hearty WOE IS ME is in order. WHAT IF I FAIL, ANSWER ME THAT. Humiliation and so on. I'm not into that. That's not my bag. Well, not being on the receiving end, anyway. In a non-sexual way.

It is time to kill my personality and do some work. I shall knife myself in that spot between the two halves of the brain where they say the personality is stored. But not right now. Right now I fulfil my duties to the public. I write things. Goodly things of a virtuous nature. I know that there is a trip to the pub on the horizon tonight and that is what will KEEP ME GOING.

Alcohol - the fuel for life!!

neuro-praxis -- Chewing On The USB Cable And Finding Relief

January 06, 2005

Swallowing Misery In Just Two Chews

I found out today how much chilli is too much chilli. I made a paste for a stir fry by blending several cloves of garlic, an onion, a nugget of ginger and four red chillis. With some orange juice. And now my husband is dead. But before he died his eyes bled.

All that happened to me was my sinuses cleared up. Score.

Speaking of clear sinuses, if you suffer from the kinds of nasal blockages that I do, taking a hasty glance at the website of my good pal Philip should clear them up nicely for you. Make sure to explore all links. It's a thing of rare beauty. It certainly brought a tear to mine eye.

On the topic of talented web designers, I had a brief chat with Dave earlier. Dave's main ambition is to make all vegetarians turn omnivore again. He'll achieve this by saying that if they don't eat a burger, he'll kill a puppy.

[Dave] I had an idea for a song about "Joey".

[neuro_praxis] Joey who?

[Dave] "Joey", the new hit TV sensation starring Matt LeBlanc!

[neuro_praxis] Oh.
[neuro_praxis] I didn't see the first episode.

[Dave] Well, I hate to spoil it for you, but the joke is that Joey is stupid.

[neuro_praxis] AH HA HA HA.
[neuro_praxis] yeu surrprized meh!!

[Dave] There is a man, he lives in my TV
[Dave] His name is Joey
[Dave] He is really dumb
[Dave] That is the joke
[Dave] El O El.
[Dave] That's the first verse.

[neuro_praxis] Brilliant.
[neuro_praxis] Keep going.

[Dave] I think the chorus will be "El O El" repeated a couple of times.
[Dave] There is a woman, she lives in my TV
[Dave] The sister of Joey
[Dave] She too is dumb
[Dave] Again, the joke
[Dave] El O El

[neuro_praxis]...
[neuro_praxis] The tune better be good.

[Dave] BURN.
[Dave] You're mean.

[neuro_praxis] No.
[neuro_praxis] I'm tactless.
[neuro_praxis] On purpose.
[neuro_praxis] Oh.
[neuro_praxis] I guess you're right.
[neuro_praxis] Savour the moment.

neuro-praxis -- Collecting Her Widow's Pension With Gusto

I Can Win Board Games If I Want To

DOES THAT FISH REALLY NEED THAT BICYCLE

The question is , does that fish have absolutely no other other way of getting to its destination? Surely it can take a taxi, or, if its "legs" are capable of cycling, can't they manage a toddle? This is why I have problems with bastard fish.

Speaking of fish, I love that there is a non-sexual product called the Orgasmatron. I first noticed its existence in the infamous Argos catalogue, and was sorry to see this year that it is no longer being advertised. Perhaps its naughty name was to blame? (I believe I may have the genesis of an emotional poem there.) They now advertise the updated version, with an equally snazzy but less erotic name: the Heebeejeebee Head Massager. Also available in Argos. Thank God.

K has had hiccups for the last two hours, and not even a surprise leap from the usually very calm and dependable Mags made them go away. We are resigning ourselves to the possibility of a lifetime with hiccups. (I believe I may have the genesis of an idea for a touching sitcom there.) Mags is looking up cures online, so K is busy munching spoonfuls of sugar, drinking cups of mustard, eating slices of dry bread and pushing facial pressure points for thirty seconds, at her whim.

Actually, she's probably just having a little fun with him.

QUOTE 1 OF THE DAY

"Either that kid's got a lightbulb up his butt or his colon got a really good idea."

QUOTE 2 OF THE DAY

"The courageous story of one woman who performs a perfect hula with just one leg!"

There's been a board game extravaganza in my household recently (due to the influx of Christmas presents) and I wish to confirm that there will be no unconfirmation of the information relating to whether I did or did not perform to a poor or high standard in said extravaganza...I would like to it be not known that I was not not losing but I have nothing to hide and so there are the facts: plain and simple.

Now I go. I apologise for briefness. I need to bash the straw before 3am at least one night this week. Oiche mhaith.

neuro-praxis -- So Popular And Very Busy It Might Make You Nauseous

January 02, 2005

Dirty, Dirty Man.

The poor husband has repulsed me with his disturbing and anti-social illness so I'm busy playing nurse...boiling the 7up, wearing the short uniform and what not. He is existing soley on a diet of weak-tasting liquids, the occasional glass sweet and lots of neuro-care. NEURO-CARE. That sounds like some class of brain surgery. Or perhaps the post-op treatment of the the wounded brain.

Ok. Allow me to remove from my bonnet a fat, infertile bee for you. I take issue with things not being called what it is they are. Allow me to take some COMMON EXAMPLES (common like my cousins in Cabra) from everyday life to examine my gripe.

• 1. GLASS SWEETS
  Now, if these little bastards existed, our mouths would be in a right old state. OH MY, THIS LITTLE PIECE OF ATTRACTIVE CONFECTIONARY MIGHT BE RATHER TASTY ALLOW ME TO SAMPLE IT AAAARGH OH NOE MY TONGUE IS CUT UP I CAN'T SPEAK NO ONE SHALL EVER LOVE ME NOW. See? The risks are innumerable.

• 2. THINGS LABELED "INFLAMMABLE"
  This, too, is a great one. Inlfammable eh? I'LL SEE ABOUT THAT says Mister Duh. Fetch me some petrol and a novelty lighter - sounds like a challenge to me!

  Sharply followed by pricey skin grafts for all.

• 3. THE BIG MAC
  Picture the scene. neuro is having a little wander up Grafton Street in search of a new frame for that shrine, when all of a sudden it begins to lash. RAINING HAMSTERS AND GUINEA PIGS. Now desperately in need of shelter (and a hug), neuro ducks into the local McDonalds, briefly assaults the security guard and sees a "BIG MAC" on sale for a low low price. Upon request of said savioural item, neuro is presented with a burger. A DURTY BIG BORGER. The shock is atrocious.

• 4. BOBBY PINS
  Well, you've no idea what they might be at all, and then you google for pictures find out that they're just hair clips. Bloody hell. What's the point.

My life is one trial after another.

January 01, 2005

This Little Beauty Needs A Title

We ended up having the new year's countdown in the car en route to the party in Clontarf, so in the absence of two dozen people to hug and kiss I stuck my head out the window and yelled "HAPPY NEW YEAR!" and threw rocks at all the drunken street celebrators. THEY THINK THEY CAN HAVE FUN WITH NO CONSEQUENCES.

We tumbled into the sack at 5am, laying the foundations for inevitaby missing our 9am breakfast date with Ange. Well done us: loyal friends extraordinaire.

To my misfortune, I am spending this stormy, dark January 1st watching premiership fotball with my husband. I could cry for Everton. The poor bastards are being thrashed 5-1 by the evil and oddly named Tottenham Hotspur. That'll be a self esteem booster! We can look forward to a ream of C-list celebrity mid-winter suicides in the coming weeks. Let's keep those statistics up, boys!

James McFadden just scored a goal for Everton - GOE YOU HAPLESS SCOT.

Here's a little ditty to keep you entertained for a moment or two. Also this might provide a brief relief from the hell that is your life. You poor orphan. Nobody loves you, do they? No. Nobody. And with your luck, no-one ever will, you ugly bastard.

I want tapioca and nobody is going to stop me from getting some.

neuro-praxis -- Gone A Bit Cuckoo, What With The New Disease