Sometimes when I should be working I play solitaire instead on my desk computer. A while ago I decided to go a little crazy and start playing the Vegas version. That’s where you pay fifty two bucks up front for the game and you try to win it back, plus some, preferably. Now the average human being could probably play five games in a row before getting bored, but not me. What with the thrill of winning virtual money I can play up to twenty games in a row.
Yesterday, during one of my solitaire marathons, I decided to add a new dimension. I continued playing the oh-so-risky Vegas version, but this time added cumulative scores. At first it was like a challenge, absorbing the debts of the previous game and trying to overcome them with the help of that finicky character, Chance. After about my tenth game I began to get palpitations. I was by now hundreds of dollars in debt and with each game I became steadily more convinced that the next game would prove to be the big winner that cleared the debts and made me rich.
It never happened and by the end I was anxious, sweaty and a thousand dollars down. Let this be a lesson to you all.
I don’t usually do blog lists but I am feeling bitter and deeply unoriginal today (as usual).
THINGS NEURO HATES
I have become everything I detest. It’s the human condition innit? Praise Jesus it is Friday. I suggest that tonight we all eat steak and drink champagne in preparation for not getting up tomorrow. And let’s watch dvds too! You will notice that “the weekend” is not in the category of things I cannot bear.
neuro-praxis – Laughs When You Call Her A Saturday In May
The rather famously read Potato gave me editing rights to his blog.
Well, with Valentine's Ghey almost upon us, I suppose we need to start making our rosemantic plans. Here are some of the themes K has dreamt up over the years to replace the retch inducing holiday (and the gifts that ensued):
This year, we will be spending the "occasion" with 2 medium sized children and a Sally from England. K's big smouldering brain is working hard to come up with a new theme, which I will hopefully embody the essence of in a large cake of some kind. Forbidden aspects of this day include:
If the children engage in any of the above activities, we will force them to stay up all night drinking beer and then make them go to school in the morning anyway, allowing them only a box full of Butlers liquers for lunch.
Speaking of nice things, one of my clients today sheepishly gave me a box of chocolates to say thank you for a small bit of help I gave him with some of his designs. Although embarassed, I felt (and still feel) quite touched. Not in an inappropriate way. Everybody say "Aww". Except you. YOU SHUT UP!
I work for a (super) woman, but her husband is co-director of the company. He is as equally lovely as his wife. They're both close friends of mine: in fact it is their medium sized children that I will be punishing for a few days over the Valentine's holiday. Anyway, Mr. Boss came in this morning and read some correspondence I had sent to a client without letting him edit it first. (He always reads my work, says, "This is brilliant. Excellent. I just have a few suggestions for you." Then he completely rewrites it and I type it up. Then he re-edits it thoroughly again, and I re-type it. Then he re-reads it and says, "Excellent. You really do have a way with words neuro.")
Anyway, he was reading away, and then he asked me, "Did you write this?" and when I replied, "yes" he actually yelled, "YOU'RE FIRED, BITCH!" We both almost vomited laughing. He was just in a precocious mood. It made my day.*
Now while I should be preparing the liturgical worship for my church for the next month I am drinking beer and writing on the internet. God must be so proud. I am such a disciplined daughter of his. I make that workhound Margaret Thatcher look like Pete Doherty when he's got puke on his shirt. Although I think I have earned a little break. I spent my weekend as volunteer staff at a Christian student conference in Wicklow as the pastoral care person. This was great, so close to the area I really want to work in...but so draining. There are so many hurt people around. Thankfully I had a lot of good advice to offer. GOE TEAM NEUROFIXIT!
I am afraid that there may be a portion of potato wedges that need their life's purpose fulfilled now and I just may have to be the one to assist them in doing it. Man, I am practically Mother Theresa. I can hardly contain my self-admiration! It's coming out of my pockets! It's brown.
neuro-praxis -- No tomorrow, no tomorrow
*true story, unlike much of the neurodramaticsTM
My sister-in-law came over tonight and we ate Indian food. I cooked it myself from scratch, including crushing my own spices, and it wasn't a disgusting pile of inedible slop, so I was happy. So happy that I rang for an Indian takeaway to celebrate. Then we drank two bottles of Russian vodka (K bought them for a mere euro each) and now I am so drunk I am almost blind. This entry will be short as I keep getting sick on the keyboard. It's slippy now.
Today I was rooting through an old box of possessions. It was a box that I keep hidden under the sink. This is because it is too important to throw away and yet not important enough to be incorporated into my daily life. I am reconsidering my life's ethics in relation to the preservation of unusable and uninteresting personal items from the pasht, as they say in Sligo. Anyway, I came across an interesting little plastic thing. It looked familiar, but I couldn't quite place its function in my memory. Small, fairly flat, with two holes in the centre. It was filled with some kind of ribbon, and clattered when dropped. Next to the plastic thing, I found some kind of electronic device, with a cavity that fitted the little plastic thing. So I placed one inside the other, plugged it in and pressed buttons. My reward was the crooning of Sheryl Crow's first musical release. What a reward it was! Life is just one big jigsaw, innit? as they say in Sligo.
Meh, I am too lazy for all this. And did you see I was nominated for blogging awards? What tard did that? I'm not going to no fancy gig in no fancy hotel with a bunch of geeks. No way. What's this nonsense all about then eh?
neuro-praxis -- Effective For Cleaning Most Burnt On Grime
They won't eat you, silly, you eat them.
I wrote about whores. It was inevitable really.
I turned twenty three this week and celebrated with burgers in Eddie Rockets and eight friends. It was good. I received an unholy amount of presents, the most original of which had to be from the delightful Hot Anorak who bought me a COWBELL - yes that's right - A COWBELL - to attach to my drumkit and hit to make nice noises. I haven't worked out how to attach it to the drums but when I do, the neighbours will never sleep again. Maybe the cowbell will finally provide me with some common ground with the cows in the field behind my house (that's right! we have cows! and we are 30 mins drive from Dublin city! ha! it's ridiculous!). Me and those cows have never gotten close. This is probably the glue that will bind us together forever now. I thought this day would never come. Hallelujah! Moo!
I did a brave thing and faced potential rejection by applying to UCD for a masters degree in library and information studies, which will qualify me as a sexy librarian who will seductively remove her glasses from time to time to stun the nerds. I have decided to reject the place awaiting my presence in NUIM in bioethics. If I have learned anything from my current job, it is that I do not enjoy working alone, and an MLitt and PhD in bioethics is a very much alone thing. So no. NO. I want to do something where I talk to people, albeit in whispers. I will keep you posted on my imminent failures.
I did something bizarre in my masters application that nobody could understand without context. I included in the envelope a poem that I wrote last summer. It was a risk and it will either prove to be the clincher or the nail in my large coffin. Either way, I am glad I sent it. I have my damn reasons, you goddamn judgers.
OG is moaning on about being hit on by a guy who helped her out in an awkward situation. Why moan OG? WHY? I think that's a delightful way to meet a potential fertilising machine. Be glad, I say, be glad!
I have been dreaming quite a bit recently about my cousins, none of whom I have seen in many years despite their nearness geographically. Is my subconscious speaking to me? Or are my dreams just meandering poo like everybody else's? Dream analysis my arse. I would rather eat two bags of uncooked frozen peas in Tesco than study dream analysis. PIH. That's me spitting on the subject.
I have spent the whole evening writing. It was a good way to spend the evening. My brain is slightly stretched; a bit shapeless. Off I go now.
neuro-praxis -- Makes The People Come Together