neuro's:blog

Mass Hysteria

I confess to almighty God, and to you, my brothers and sisters, that I have purchased another two bento boxes (one of Snoopy design and one of Nightmare Before Christmas design) through my own fault, in my thoughts and in my words and on my credit card, in what I have done by buying them and what I have failed to do by not having a good reason; and I ask blessed Mary, ever virgin,all the angels and saints, and you, my brothers and sisters, to pray for me to the Lord our God, and also to buy me more bento boxes God forgive me for saying that.

neuro-praxis -- In the name of obsession, no sun and a thermos purchased, amen.

Are you there God? It’s me, neuro.

Everyone I know is acting weird or way too cool
They hang out by the pool
So I just read a lot and ride my bike around the school
Because I’m bailing this town,
or tearing it down,
or probably more like, hanging around.
All that I need now is someone with a brain,
with some know-how, to tell me what I want anyhow.

I’m listening to Aimee Mann (and thinking about Judy Bloom. Woman-centric Tuesday!). She is one of those artists about whom I have the deluded sense that if we knew each other, we’d be good friends. It’s a nice fantasy. When I listen to her sharp insights I feel like we have a connection. I would say it is this falsity that sells more records and makes them the ones that you listen to over and over and over rather than any kind of marketing or hip image associated with any particular music genre. I kind of feel the same way when I listen to August and Everything After by the Counting Crows. Ok, maybe the songs don’t make a lot of sense, but there is something about that entire album that encapsulates a poignant and perfect time in my teenage development, and when I listen it creates almost a kind of yearning in me. For what though? The stalker in me says FOR THEIR PHONE NUMBER. Although, as I sadly learnt through my obsessive episode with Ronan Keating, phone numbers can be easily changed now. (Ronan, if you are reading, I’m really sorry about what I did to your wife. But she was an obstacle?) But what is that sense of yearning? In part it is the juvenile desire to be best mates with the artist – not for their fame or good looks or general all-round apparent awesomeness, but so that we can like, talk, and stuff, and you know, have beers and go deep. I think that ultimately it brings up that old nutcracker of simply wanting to be known really, really well, and projecting that onto the author of a magic song means I can avoid the whole messy fucked-upness that comes with relationships where you go real deep.

Can you tell that neuro is in a reflective mode?

I have not been "myself" whatever the hell that means (and yet it means something, doesn’t it?) for the last nine months or so. It wasn’t really supposed to work out that I would be in my mid-twenties and working three days a week as a civil servant (or was it?). There is something amiss here – but what? I have a better quality of life than a lot of people – I work flexible hours in a very enjoyable job and my leisure time way outweighs my work-time. And although I don’t usually spend my days off watching soap-repeats (thanks to a wide circle of good friends) I still I feel at odds with myself and with the world. I don’t know what I’m talking about. It is probably the middle-class malaise, best solved by spending loads of cash on a collection of guitars I rarely play, or by getting coked up at my monthly swingers party, or of course by the most common option of having a baby. Ahhh, what a rich culture we enjoy. Sadly I don’t enjoy drugs or extra-marital affairs (dry-shite), and squeezing out a few puppies would probably be a bit irresponsible and, well, inconvenient right now, so I guess that leaves me with an unmentioned option for the whole pursuit of fulfilment. Maybe charity? (I would go to Africa to feed the poor only that somebody I am annoyed at is there and I don’t want to bump into her right now.) And what about God? I have been having a good root around to find Him but recently I think I am being left in the desert-place to fend for myself for a wee while. I can’t object (well, I can and I do and I have been for a long time now) seeing as I am Property of Yahweh ^TM but I am really quite thirsty by now, and haven’t found the sweet honey in the rock as I ought to have (baffled? That’s because you’re a HEATHEN).

What’s my problem? What’s your problem? I’ve got a kick-ass husband (abusive), good job, interesting study ambitions (partially fulfilled), a long list of friends ready to whatever, and yet I feel like an alien. I went on a retreat for two days recently – packed my bags and travelled to a valley in Wicklow where I walked around amongst the lakes and tried to be at one with God and nature and myself and all that crap. I might as well have gone to Mars (did you know that the US government is covering up reports about evidence of fossilised water molecules, i.e., life, on Mars? I saw it on the West Wing). I might as well have stayed home and eaten a packet of Mars bars in homage to Adrian Mole for all the good it did. That’ll teach me to run away from my problems.

I saw the movie Amazing Grace with about twenty others from my church last night, which no doubt Zoomie will be blogging about at (incisive) length shortly (ha, grammar is so amusing) so I won’t ruin your fun and say too much. It’s a bit hammy, and a bit cheesy, a bit of a croque monsieur if you will. It is a period piece of course, as Zoomtard reminded me in a whisper during a cringeworthy moment, to which I replied that yes, it was rather like having a period. But it does have some powerful scenes and the power of repentance and transformation resonated with me - as a filthy sinner what’s gawn and bin saved. Where’s your soul at, brutha? (Sing it!) Ok, enough preaching. Fear not readers; I am addressing myself.

neuro-praxis – All that I need now…

Walk It Off Baby

Another taskless day has thrust itself upon me and demanded my full attention. So! You want to occupy me with a long list of nothings to do! In the beginning I came into this place and reorganised the filing system when my services were not required. But that’s done now. I can’t even tidy the place up a bit as we have pretty decent cleaners in here every evening. The best days in this office are the days when my boss gets really flustered as work trickles in in a steady flow….she mutters “Oh my God!” and “What a day!” every fifteen minutes. And as she packs up her bags at 4pm after a gruelling day with a 10 o’clock start, her 90 minute lunch and her two 30 minute coffee breaks, she declares her need of a glass of wine and a long bath after this. Don’t get me wrong though – I find this genuinely amusing – she is a terrific boss. She spent the first thirty minutes of this morning regaling me with the tales of the ball she went to on Friday night. She just doesn’t do stress. I thought I was the kind of person that couldn’t do stress. In my previous job I have been known to lock the door, put the phone on the hook and have a good cry. But there is no stress here – none whatever (unless you count the person in my office who is a mouth breather. Noisy, phlegmy breathing at all times, which I can even hear through my earphones. It is quite remarkable.) This place is a bit of a dream for a person like myself, who enjoys efficiency and so is not afraid when blurry undemanding deadlines are set for small tasks…ah, it’s the little things in life innit?

A friend of mine, a minister, got “installed” into a church on Friday night. Installed? Who decided to call it that? She is being elected pastor of a flock – not fitted into a corner and hammered in with nails and plywood. It was one of the most boring and joyless events I have ever attended – apart from a heart-warming speech towards the end from one of the church members expressing a really beautiful welcome to her. (I had a little weep then.) The rest of it was irrelevant archaic hymns and prayers by rote – so different to the church I attend, which feels like going home. It’s warm and vibrant and very ordinary, and despite our distinct lack of mystery or grandness I don’t think the sense of reverence is lost. It’s a nice place. I felt lonely sitting in that pew on Friday night, with all these Masonic figures round me with stern faces and highly starched navy suits. Pah. What’s it all about? Afterwards they fed us an unbelievably huge amount of sandwiches and cakes (classic Presbyterian behaviour) and having not had any dinner, I gravitated towards the sausage rolls, which sadly tasted like dehydrated onion and left the stench and taste of such in my mouth for many hours. (Isn’t my husband a lucky man?) The other things were nice, if oniony from thereon. Also, the hall where we were eating and drinking smelt distinctly of wee.

So I used my slow-cooker for the first time on Saturday and the entire village declared the results an unmitigated success. (I actually don’t know what unmitigated means, but I think it fits with what I’ve written.) I got up early on Saturday morning and fried up some beef, garlic and chillies, drained off the fat, and then popped it into the slow-cooker with a lot of tomatoes, beans and spices, and by 7pm, the most delicious chilli had been achieved. The guests ate and drank and played Articulate! whereupon I was royally thrashed. I blame the red wine, I’m not used to it. Being common as muck, I enjoy a nice sweet white wine, with an ethic of the cheaper the wine the better. I am getting used to red wine, but I strongly dislike the mouth-staining that comes with it, and find myself with an urge part-way through glass 1 to brush my teeth, which of course is not very conducive to wine appreciation. I find drinking red wine somewhat like drinking a liquid fabric. White wine is so crisp and refreshing with that nice warmth down your throat – while red is sort of furry or something. I have had the odd glass of a light summery red which I liked, but unfortunately I never pay attention to anything on the labels of wine other than the price. Popping a couple of bottles into the trolley at Tesco sadly raises the grocery bill to dizzying heights. But I must stop complaining about the prices of things – I am starting to sound like a German.

I missed my stand-up comedy class last night. I spent the afternoon frantically typing up gags and had an argument with the printer when it wouldn’t concur immediately with my printing wishes. When I eventually ran out the door, sweating, to get the bus, I saw it pass me by nonchalantly while I stood on the opposite side of the road, cursing heaven and hell. The traffic was so bad that I spent a good five minutes trying to cross, by which time the bus was well on its way, filled I can only presume with smug and happy passengers. But I am determined! I have grit! So I picked up my heels and ran to the train station. Gasping at the ticket desk, with the train in view on platform 2, I asked the train-staff-person, “Will I have time to catch that train?” Without looking at me, he took my money and gave me a single ticket (supposing I had wanted a return?) and replied, “Platform 2.” I repeated, “Will I make it?” which received a nod in response. I ran across the bridge over the railway lines and as I did so, the bastarding train pulled away. I actually stamped my foot. I stormed back to Mister Ticket Man and enjoyed an altercation which resulted in his informing me that I had been late for the train. I demanded a refund and rather than face any more of my red-faced frustration he complied, whereupon I stomped homeward and angrily ordered a Chinese take-away and watched the soaps. All in all, one of my more successful attempts at overcoming my agoraphobia.

But then again, when you’ve been reading The Diving-Bell and the Butterfly, even the biggest failures end up looking like victories.

neuro-praxis – Can he do this?

This Blog Is Dead

Goodbye.

I Am Re-Reading Harry Potter Books For Comfort

Wot's this a neuroback? Yeah well. Let's not get too hopeful. Where have you all been? I go to London or something and there's no entries for weeks. We're going to have to put a stop to this nonsense.

My excuse is the best one I've ever had - no net access. Sure, Mister I'm Great Zoomtard managed to get net access when he was in the arse end of nowhere, but hey, what am I, some kind of superhero? (That new Superman movie is not such hot shit, by the way. With the exception of caterpillar eyebrows!)

We moved! The new house is a cavernous ridiculosity. Big, ugly, odorous (rotted things), lacking furniture. Zoomspouse couldn't be happier but then, he is a man of few standards. Insert crack about him marrying me. All laugh. Two second pause. Normal entry resume. Everything here is grotty. It needs a lot of work. I started painting and have already made a right pig's ear of everything. I have never sweated so much in my life - nerves crossed with humidity does not a fragrant neuro make.

I am, as of today, unemployed once more. I have spent a few weeks teaching singing to inner city kids on the SVP summer project. I won't bore you with the details but suffice to say there was a slight swelling in the chestal region and a wetness in the eye when they sang the songs I'd taught them at their concert today. They did it - the harmonies, the rounds, the rude hand gestures. I like kids. Not so much that I adopt Baby-Voice^TM whenever addressing them, though. I'll leave that one to the experts. I did occasionally shout at them, not really in anger, more to be heard, during the more hyper classes. On Monday I was informing one of the younger groups sternly that they needed to get this song darned well RIGHT because they would be performing it for their parents and guardians. To which Shannon, shaking her little red head sadly, piped up, "My Ma will never come. She never does." That sure made my dancing feet feel sad. What are you gonna say? Right in the middle of the class? I said, not really believing myself, "Maybe she will make it someday." Shannon simply shook that head resolutely again and I had to move on.

On a serious note, I had some prejudices blasted away with these kids. The vast majority of them are bright and sweet and well cared for. They may have pronounced accents and poor literacy and a little attitude but they are not tough or rough or anything else that they might be labeled. Sometimes I think about taking up teaching, on those days when I don't know where to go with my life, and I've decided now that if I ever do go down that route, these are the kinds of kids I want to work with. A friend of mine works in an international private (read: exclusive) boarding school in the UK that is filled with kind, intelligent teenagers who want to learn what Julie's got to teach. She loves it. But that wouldn't dissuade me. Those kids will succeed whether or not they have good, dedicated teachers. The SVP crew might not.

On that whole issue of Jobs and Unemployment and Bewilderment About Neuropurpose, I am in the probably long, slow process of interviews with a well known multinational for a (hopefully) challenging and interesting job. It's gone well in the short distance I have travelled with them so far, so if it's your way, say a little prayer for me. Or you could post a positive vibe, etc. Address: Dirty Cardboard Mansion, Somewhere in the Approximate West Dublin Region, Ireland.

So yes, Betamaxnomates and I did the London thing and it was good. Too hot, and the hostel was a kip, but good. Let's make that doubleplusgood. We did the whole London-Eye-Harrods-Bus-Tour-Boat-Tour-Aquarium-Theatre-Restaurants-Soho-Bars-Stuff. And the tube is magnificent, truly. We bolted around sweatily on it. The whole city seemed to swell and quiver with heat. If I ever return for a similar holiday, I will go in September. And I certainly won't bring that loser with me again. "Oh, let me pay for this!" What a wanker. We wore a lot of sunglasses and drank the piss that is known as bitter. We talked to a lonely man from Holland late at night who hated London with all the sorrow his little Dutch heart could muster. We talked the hostel staff into giving us a fan. Yes that's right, they stood at our bedsides at night with magazines, flapping rapidly until we awoke, refreshed and angry. Memories.

And if you are a Zoomtard reader then you will be awareof his conspicuous absence from my life for most of July. He is now, thankfully, back, skinnier and with a darker farmer tan than ever before. Equilibrium has been restored. I can now let go of responsibilities such as remembering to take a key with me when I go out. This is why I love him. Also because he ate a jar of chutney for lunch while I was gone.

And on love, Gav and Ange (you don't know them, they're good ones though) tie the knot tomorrow. Gav is staying with us tonight. He is a jolly Welsh man who wrote a phd about stars. These are just two reasons why I approve of him. We are dining and gigging but getting him to his leaba at a reasonable hour. The ceremony is not til 3pm so the pressure is not too high. Zoomy is a groomsman, I am doing the music. I don't know how else to put it other than doing. I got soaked in the rain twice today and I really need to shower before we go out. I sure hope the rain holds off tonight.

My very last piece of exciting news is that I lost my wallet on Saturday night. Photos! Credit cards! Multiple bank cards! Phone numbers! Receipts! DEAD 'N' GAWN. I should write a country and western song about it. Are you going to stop me? It will probably lack a certain (as Stig would say) as the French would say I Don't Know What if it's just me whining along as I play drums, which is the only instrument I can play, bar the recorder, and four chords on the guitar. You'd be amazed how many Beatles songs you can play with four chords! Ok that's enough rubbish for you all to be coping with, sure isn't it enough that your lives are in tatters without me rabbiting on with semi-surreal nonsense all the live long day. I shall have a beer for all of you tonight.

neuro-praxis -- Buttering You Up, One Ounce At A Time

Knees To Chest, It's Said It's Best

Well ladies, you'll be pleased to hear that after all this time away I am constipated. That's right, not a stool in sight. The internet says I should drink citrus juices, and after choking down the juice of two limes and a lemon all mixed up in a big jug of fortified wine, there is no joy, whereby joy is a word interchangable with poo. This proves, conclusively I believe, that the internet is a cad. Aaaand an oaf.

The end date for my prison-esque office job loomed but alas, my replacement had a death in her family and this has delayed matters somewhat. I finish on June 30th. Oh rapture! Oh poo! I can't wait. Then I go work with skanger kids, teaching them to sing rousing and jolly songs when they'd rather be off smoking heroin or whatever it is inner city eight year-olds get up to. In the midst of these teaching duties, I escape to London with betamaxnomates for a week, where we will eat deep fried Mars bars and talk to the locals in fake antagonising Brit accents. At all times. During this July period, K will be in Ukraine, selling pots with bottoms in them to local impoverisheds. Also, L will be moving in with me, thus providing relief from her wacko parents and company for me. Wahey! I do hate to cook just for one. After the skangers and the London, the future is wide open. We are moving house soon and K is changing jobs. Meanwhile I get depressed about my lack of tangible skills and K gets frustrated at my lack of tangible cop on. I will be scouring job sites in the hope of finding my vocation. It seems about as hopeful as roaming Copper Faced Jacks on a Monday night in search of a decent husband.

Speaking of all things husband, I was at a wedding yesterday. In the north. Where they don't get to have a smooch in the church! Odd indeed. The marrieds are extremely good friends and many a tear was shed. I sang Rutter's A Clare Benediction for them in the service, which is basically a blessing, and I hardly got a decent note out for all the emotion. Tsk. But more is to come, weddingly! K's sister hitches next Saturday, and then Ange and Gav are following suit at the end of July. Yowzers. And I am singing at them all, which is nice, but a touch stressful. Let's hope I get a poo out by then. I am reminded of those hideous Senokot ads where a stupid woman pours plate after plate of food into her handbag. WHY YOU DOIN THAT MARY? Seems like a half solution to constipation if ever I saw one. But back to the weddings. In a swoop of economic genius, I have purchased one outfit to last me through them all. I always was a resourceful child. There was the time my cousin and I had a tea-party in the bathroom, and in the absence of cakes, we ate soap and drank bathwater.

Anyway after all my singing, dancing and drinking free wine, I need to sleep. I will start updating more frequently*, I promise.

neuro-praxis -- Won't Date You Cos She's Your Boss

*not a guarantee

Sunday Bloody Sunday

Maybe I shouldn't use that title. Maybe it devalues the nine hideous days that it refers to. I only use it cos I'm cold and want Haribo jellies and it is also Sunday. Bloody Sunday!

Sunday is not half the man that Saturday is. I don't know why. Maybe it is the looming large of Monday that appalls me. DON'T MAKE ME WORK FOR MY MONEY! Just let me develop a small injury, win a modest lawsuit and live out my days in a cocoon of prescription drugs, Chinese takeaways and weekly social welfare cheques. Is that really so much to ask? I'd be quiet about it! I'd let you lick the curry tray! You could come over once a month and do my laundry!

K and I are warming our frozen kneecaps with our laptops, listening to the gentle hum of the washing machine and watching Stig's borrowed Simpsons multi dvd. His prices are so low, you'll think he's suffered brain damage! K has been away all week in in Russia, working with animals and wearing a big hat. Apparently it was good. He brought home a lot of the remaining vodka...not that there was much left of it after feeding it to the elephant. He also brung Russian sausages, toilet roll, soap and chocolate. One word: MING. Not that K is ming. He's more bling, what with being covered in gold Monday to Friday (he's a Grafton Street mime).

I suffered, as usual, with his absence, but was entertained by a number of my favourite crabs, among them our very own Betamaxnomates and the aforementioned Stig. Betamaxnomates (pathological liar) took me to a restaurant where he ate crocodile. They slapped that baby onto the table and we pummelled it with our fists until it stopped squirming and then we dug in. No cutlery necessary with our zeal! It tasted fishy. I was conventional and ate cow. Stig, on the other hand, came to my house and rummaged through all of the cupboards, selecting anything he might have wanted to eat, which included three quarters of a bag of self raising flour and at least two tins of kidney beans. The mess.

My flu has gone, and I became an inventor. I was inspired by someone who tried out for American Idol and created a coaster that wobbles and could potentially spill your drink. Brilliant. Anyway, below are the blueprints for *my* genius idea!

Its main use is respraying upholstry to a colour of your choice but at a compact one meter wide doubles as a quirky table. (Look! It's wearing shoes!) It functions through a mix of solar power and magic. I'm not finished it yet, so don't be hasty in your judgements. You'll be laughing on the other side of your face when I'm sitting on a freshly dried sofa in lime green while you wither on your mother's brown couch.

neuro-praxis -- Not Just For Lepers Anymore

Has Been

It is Christmas eve and my house is a total disaster area and my husband has a trapped nerve in his right shoulder. Also, my mother hates me! This is not how Christmas is on the tv! Where is my dog and the open fire and stuff? And why did the stupid company not deliver the present I ordered months ago for my sister in law?

Also, when are those angels going to shut their filthy little mouths and quit that singing outside my window? PISS OFF ANGEL SHITS.

On the upside, William Shatner is here and I have eaten one third of a box of After Eights. It was an accident.

neuro-praxis -- Not A Polaroid

Exclamation!

HELLO! I am going to Franceland! Soon! I am not packed! I also have a many things to do before leaving! It is very late at night and I am as crumbly as a mushed meringue! I am excited! Maybe a bit beered up and hysterical from exhaustion! HA HA HA HA HA!

Do not click this link.

SCHEDULE FOR TOMORRER

1. Leading worship at church
2. Having delicious lunch with church peoples
3. Winning award of some kind (maybe Nobel for literature? I fancy that)
4. Cleaning house
5. Ironing and packing
6. Developing effective cure for advanced cancer
7. Robbing food from in-laws
8. Sleeping like a baby that's been knocked unconscious
9. Eating dried apricots, hundreds of them, in under 30 seconds
10. Getting into air bullet ZOOOOOOOOOOOOM
11. Landing in Cheeseandwineland
12. Resting, at top speed, non-stop, for many days

Phew!

In other news, I continue to love my husband very much, who is so smart it gives me jaundice. ALSO, I am reading We Need To Talk About Kevin by Lionel Shriver, and it OWNS ME. Read it. At once! Before all the paper in the world rots!

Fact: I bought nine pairs of knickers today! Of all kinds and colours. The thrill was quite unparallelled. I also purchased a sack, for wearing. I also failed in a mission to buy new boots. My old ones are full of gashes. They cry when I wear them; I cry when I wear them; it's a destructive relationship. One of us has got to go. The bad news is, those boots were made for walking. And that's just what they'll do. One of these days those boots will go in the wheelie bin.

neuro-praxis -- Giving Up Altogether

HAPPY WORLD pi DAY

Yes. It is March 14th again, that special day of the year...14/3...the day when nerdy mathematicians shit their cacks in excitement about numbers "doing" certain things (as though a number were an active thing and not a suicide inducing mind-bender of a concept).

All would be well in Neuroland^TM if I hadn't just heard Damien Rice's weedy old lungs belching out the backing vocals to a song on the new Tori Amos album. I can only hope upon hope that he forgets she's touring here and doesn't make it to the gig (what with the buses from Celbridge being so infrequent and all that). The fact that he is now dating Renée Zellweger is scary; he used to sit next to me occasionally on the bus into town, his hair frighteningly askew in that asymmetrical way that only just got cool recently. It makes all men look gay. Renée was spotted a while back, racing through Celbridge after a dog.

What the hell is going on with the world?

I am too tired to keep writing: I spent the day as an assistant at a science camp in NUI Maynooth and boy, are school kids noiser than college students. I had to have several of them put down.

neuro-praxis -- Generally Your Friend But Not The Love Of Your Life

Theology Buffs!

This is my new cartoon series. It's about the WACKY misadventures of our two favourite ZANY Christians, neuro-praxis and Zoomtard; the married couple from hell. You'll find their KRAY-ZEE KAPERS on both my site and Zoomy's.

Hurrah.

P.S. Don't expect much. The series is entitled "Theology Buffs!" after all, and I've never tried cartoons before...or anything creative for that matter. The overload of Super-Square Nerdiness^TM is almost more than I can bear, and I was born to be a saddo. You normies may be bewildered or worse still, stoney faced.

Still, I am sure there's still a way that we can continue to get along without unnecessary bloodshed**.

1

2

SO WHAT ELSE THEN

Well I have been drumming away to my heart's content. That's not a euphemism for anything: the drumkit is now in the kitchen. Inconveniently for me, we have been exploring issues of civic justice and civic duty in my political philosophy class. I believe there may be a pricking of something in the back of my noggin elsewhere referred to as a conscience making its presence felt.

Really though, I am being quite considerate; brushes only, thick sound-muffling pads, arms taped to body so only limited use of head is what's possible.

AND

A young man in my class hanged himself with his belt this week, and a friend of mine has been diagnosed (for the second time) with cancer. This time though, it has spread to her bones. Also, a person close to me is rationalising the domestic abuse that they've recently suffered.

I am shocked by these developments.

I never know whether these are things I should be sharing in this blog. They're not private facts, but I don't particularly want to discuss them here. I feel however that at least some of the crap I talk (considering it is mostly friends who read this) should at least have a nugget of authenticity in it. I am not a robot but neither am I a sentimental fool who wants people to offer their sympathy and best wishes during difficult times.

This is the fine line. Or perhaps the line is two metres wide.

I know a young man who lost his father and wrote no account of the incident in his regular journal. I completely understand why. I went through several months of dark depression which I failed to mention in my ever-cheerful journal, thus proving that on the internet you can be anyone you like, even when people know your actual identity.

It's difficult to think about several occurrences or "issues" (that word must be removed from the english language please) constantly but only discuss in your journal contrived nonsense. I fear it makes me look like a moron. The reality is that I am far more interested in the kinds of things that Zoomtard writes and researches than I am in light-hearted wit, although there is room for that.

Somebody smart said that we really only write for the four or five people that we respect most in the world. That's true but it's not the last word. Some of the people I respect most read my rubbishy personal site, but some of the people to whom I go directly in a tough dilemma do not read it, because I have not offered them the url, and they have not yet encountered it online. I am happy with this arrangement, because the shallowness of my dribble is frankly for a limited audience who don't mind reading me mentally barf out my half-musings and third-rate jokes.

Still, I don't want to switch and make this a hive of intellectual activity or somewhere I post the articles and essays I research and write for my literature classes.

Where the hell did all this come from? I had better click publish before it all gets erased or before my laptop uses its extensive AI to build a flux capacitor, go back in time and take over the world, forcing us to be formed in a lab rather than born, a la Huxley's Brave New World (crazy sci-fi tome).

Edited to Add: Oh, and I have been offered a pretty good job pending the end of my exams. Which I am considering.

neuro-praxis -- I Thought It Was A Bird But It Was Just A Paper Bag

**Please note that I said unnecessary bloodshed. I have never claimed to a pacifist.

Over The Cuckoo's Nest

I returned to college this week only to discover that each and every one of my classmates had developed wings. This is both

1. very surprising and
   
2. rather upsetting

as it seems that I am the only one who cannot fly, and am beginning to feel rather insecure about it. I went home on Tuesday evening and sat down with a heap of cardboard from the recycling bin, lots of tape and a bed sheet, and set about constructing a pair of wings for myself, but as expected, they don't work. My only option now to regain the respect of my peers is to purchase some RyanAir flights to Prague and wave them in their faces. (They can't fly for more than a few minutes at a time.)

neuro-praxis -- Walking On Hair

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

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.

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

It Is Time For A Little Promotion

Yes. A little promotion, or a little plugging. (We have already discussed in past journal entries the shocking sexual connotations of the word plugging, so there is no need to repeat ourselves.)

I am writing this journal entry to inform those of you who are too dimwitted to have noticed my list of rather excellent links on the left hand side of the page. Yes, I know; I am rather hard on you all. It is because I love you. If I don't push you, you'll end up a failure.

JUST LIKE YOUR FATHER.

Pep talks aside:

Seriously. Check out Zoomtard. Why? Because I am married to him and he writes a damn good blog, albeit rare. Try to ignore the abundance of spam commentary he gets...honest, he's not trying to get you to look at midget pornography.

Also, for more exciting facts relating to ME (as we all know, I am the centre of the very universe), take a peek at the mental meanderings of my dear housemate M, also known as Captain Democracy. She's the one who saved us all from the evils of electronic voting this year. YOU CAN LEARN FROM HER, STUPID.

FURTHERMORE: see Adrian's account of a life on anti-depressants. Brand new, but bursting with drug fuelled-potential.

Moreover: check out Boards.ie's very own super nerd Mr. Angry for accounts of life in the imaginary fairyland of "Dundalk". I can't find no "Dundalk" on the internet, thank you very much.

The others, well, I've linked to them frequently before. But may I encourage you: STOP THE TUNNEL VISION AND BE A PART OF THE COMMUNITY. Look to the left and take a peek at all the wonderful entertainment just waiting to happen. Waiting frustratedly.

Frolic with child-hating embee, laugh gaily with Big Bunny, comment wryly on this bitter, bitter world with Anonymous, be frightened by Dave, and be intimidated by (and jealous of your husband's admiration for) the Queen of Blogs, Mimi Smartipants.

There's more, but I refuse to feed you life by coffeespoons: it's for the good of your SANITY.

After my shameful drink-fest, I am dehydrated and heart-burning like begorrah, so I believe it is time for a night of neuro-pampering. The ritual is as follows:

1) Clean bedroom to zen-master status. Super calm, candle-lit, no clutter. This includes changing the bed sheets. SMOOTH BED SHEETS OWN ME.

2) Have a long shower that is detrimental to the environment, involving lots of chemical beauty products and far too much water.

3) Slather self in all kinds of moisturisers and face masks.

4) Clamber into clean, ironed pyjamas. THEY SMELLS LIKE FLOWERS.

5) Hop into bed with tea and good book. Sleep like a baby.

Actually, screw sleeping like a baby. I minded a nine month old today for D and he wakes up every bloody fifteen minutes.

Sleep like I'm on strong sleeping tablets.

6) Dream of the return of K. 24 hours to go, whoo! And apparently he bought me boots in Newcastle - yay!

7) Awake early in the morning and lie to all of my friends at church about how I spent my Friday night at home doing crochet and cross-stitch (not drinking in a field by a palatial mansion with a strange man) because that is, after all, what all the other Christians were doing.

: )

Goodnight.

I Am Entranced

What a suspicious sentence.

I have been twirling around my room for the last half hour to the fabulous almost-retro beats of Set You Free by the ambitious and unattractive yet lovable N-Trance. It never stops being a great song. Skangertastic. I have ignored the complaints of "noise" (noise?!? It's nineties dance music!!!) from my resting housemates with great determination and vigour. I WILL NOT BE CENSORED.

Oh o-oh yeah,
oh o-oh yeah.

Now, for a little Ghostbusters theme action. Something strange in the neighbourhood indeed. ME.

I had a very interesting evening. I spent it with my new-found friend D at one of her Macra na Feirme (young rural people) meetings. It was in her house, after a distinctly Irish dinner of pork chops, cabbage agus spuds.

Well. Oh dear. Oh dear. Oh dear.

They do such things as participate in welding competitions, make cakes and do "variety shows". I have now found a group of people with a subculture more obscure than my own (evangelical Christianity - unknown to those who ain't in the midst of it).

D is the secretary of the Kilcock/Maynooth branch. She enjoys a love/hate relationship with Macra, and her reasons for involvement unfortnately are mostly to do with blackmail from her over-enthusiastic and forceful older sister. Darn utilitarians!

One of the Macra members I met tonight was Joe. Good old Joe. He's 38. Nice young fella.

They tried to rope me into their fifteen minute slot in the regional Christmas variety show competition, but I didn't feel like paying the €35 "affiliation" fee, or dressing up as a nun and singing "Heaven is a Place on Earth" by Belinda Carlisle. I also didn't want to risk paying the €60 fine should I not be able to turn up at the last moment. I ain't joking, ladies and gents.

As punishment to D for taking me tonight, I am taking her to church on Sunday. HA HA HA.

K is not having fun in Luton. After his training conference he will take the train to visit a friend of ours for le weekend who's studying over there in dirty Sasana, which will be a welcome relief from the OPPRESSION OF THE BRITS. Then he shall return for two days of joyous birthday celebration, involving much Mexican food, cheap wine and first rate presents from excellent and committed wives. Score.

In the meantime, I shall continue my candlelight vigils until his return...I'm not a big fan of them planes.

I Appear to Have Misplaced My Mojo

Perhaps it is in the bathroom? I never check the bathroom but it is inevitably where I encounter lost keys, glasses, books and cooking utensils.

K is in Luton, doing work-related things. I am in Kilcock, doing tv-related things. Actually I almost never watch tv. I simply sit at the window with my binoculars, like some kind of pervert.

Now I embark on the arduous task of locating for K a birthday gift. Stop one: the town dump.

FARTS

The cold hard facts. DEAL.

A selection of my favourite questions from my new favourite site, fartyfart-fartsgalore.com, to whom I am eternally grateful.

What makes farts stink?
The odor of farts comes from small amounts of hydrogen sulfide gas and mercaptans in the mixture. These compounds contain sulfur. Nitrogen-rich compounds such as skatole and indole also add to the stench of farts. The more sulfur-rich your diet, the more sulfides and mercaptans will be produced by the bacteria in your guts, and the more your farts will stink. Foods such as cauliflower, eggs and meat are notorious for producing smelly farts, whereas beans produce large amounts of not particularly stinky farts.

Why do farts make noise?
The sounds are produced by vibrations of the anal opening. Sounds depend on the velocity of expulsion of the gas and the tightness of the sphincter muscles of the anus. Contrary to a popular misconception, fart noise is not generated by the flapping of the butt cheeks.

Why are stinky farts generally warmer and quieter than regular farts?
Most fart gas comes from swallowed air and consists largely of nitrogen and carbon dioxide, the oxygen having been absorbed by the time it reaches the anal opening. These gases are odorless, although they often pick up other (and more odiferous) components on the way through the bowel. They emerge from the anus in fairly large bubbles at body temperature. A person can often achieve a good sound with these voluminous farts, but they are commonly (but not always!) mundane with respect to odor, and don't feel particularly warm.

Another major source of fart gas is bacterial action. Bacterial fermentation and digestion processes produce heat as a byproduct as well as various pungent gases. The resulting bubbles of gas tend to be small, hot, and concentrated with stinky bacterial metabolic products. These emerge as the notorious, warm, SBD (Silent-But-Deadly), often in amounts too small to produce a good sound, but excelling in stench.

Is it harmful to hold in farts?
There are differences in opinion on this one. Certainly, people have believed for centuries that retaining flatus is bad for the health. Emperor Claudius even passed a law legalizing farting at banquets out of concern for people's health. There was a widespread belief that a person could be poisoned or catch a disease by retaining farts.

Doctors I have spoken to recently have told me that there is no particular harm in holding in farts. Farts will not poison you; they are a natural component of your intestinal contents. The worst thing that can happen is that you may get a stomach ache from the gas pressure. But one doctor suggested that pathological distention of the bowel could result if a person holds in farts too much. And Dr. P. said that the effort involved in retaining flatus can cause hemorrhoids.

How long would it be possible to not fart?
As I understand it, a captive fart can escape as soon as the person relaxes. This means that a lot of people who assiduously refrain from farting during the day do so at great length as soon as they fall asleep. Having been on a great many overnight field trips, long bus trips, and trans-Pacific flights, I can personally vouch for the fact that lots of people do fart voluminously as they doze off. So the answer to the question would be, you can refrain from farting as long as you can stay awake!

*AND THE ALL IMPORTANT ONE:*

How can one cover up a fart?

There is a company called Fartypants that sells underwear designed to absorb the odor of farts. If you should be caught without your Fartypants, another ploy is to blame the dog or cat, if one should be present, or complain about how the wind must be blowing from the direction of the paper mill.

As for the sound... if you are in a large group of people, act oblivious and innocent, or glance quickly at the person next to you, as if you think he/she did it. Other strategies include coughing or suddenly moving your chair so that people think that they misheard the fart. If you are with one other person, you can act as if nothing happened, and the other person may believe he was mistaken in thinking he heard a fart.

CJT addresses the problem of farting loudly in a public restroom as follows: "My solution: use a handful of loose toilet paper, cover your butt hole and it will muffle the farting; my friends and I call it the 'Buff Muff'!"

Depending upon the company, another strategy is not to cover it up, but to proudly proclaim the fart as your own grand accomplishment and to issue a challenge to the others to outdo that one if they think they can.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It is when I find a site filled with information such as the above that I wonder how on earth could anybody, in a world filled with such amusement, commit suicide?

(HINT: DON'T ANSWER ME. RHETORIC PEOPLE, RHETORIC.)

The Fajitas Are Repeating On Me

I went out for dinner tonight.

Mexican.

I made some fairly comprehensive notes during the day to help me with my journal entry.

...but I'm too tired.