neuro's:blog

Trouble In The Ranks

I am currently munching on a nectarine: one of nature's sly fruits. It seduces you with its sweet, juicy flesh and then BAM! it hits you with a hairy wooden rock the size of a baby's fist right in the smacker. The peach and the plum are similarly tricksy fruits, with seeded grapes coming a close third (although admittedly pleasure has been known to be found in the outdoor-spitting of grape seeds). The mango is a particularly wily one, it must be said; not only is it 98% stone, the skin is inedible too, being reminiscent of greenish shoe leather. Still, it’s a nice piece of fruit, this nectarine, solidly kicking the ass of the sad brownish banana currently getting warm in my lunch-bag which will only be eaten in the case of the 3 o'clock slump^TM (copyright Knorr 2003).

Those of you who frequent this blog frequently (ha!) may have noticed a new link to the right - The Vegan Lunch-Box - which I inadvertently discovered during a sweep of the internet for some kind of hippyish bullshit recipe (no doubt filled with chickpeas). Anyway, if you like food blogs (which I didn't know I did), you will love this. I read every single entry posted since its conception over two hundred years ago and have been inspired (truly) by the creative way the author feeds her son vegan food, which of course I had previously assumed was just cans of chickpeas eaten with a spoon. I became so inspired in fact that I broke my lifetime habit of buying lunches from the local delis near where I work and started bringing my own. Helloooo lentil burgers for lunch! It's been great, but there's been something amiss: a lack of an exciting lunch-box in which to place my lentil burgers. And so I have purchased myself the last four items I will ever need. My consumerism is officially over. Thanks to ebay, I've now got a dinky bento box, miniature saucepots for bringing my salad dressings to work, a MATCHING BAG for the lunch box (no more wasting paper and plastic bags for me, noooo sir) and a little thermos flask for soups and meatballs. I am so excited about having my own compartmentalised lunch box that I think I might be mentally ill. Either that, or my life in general has faded to such a murky shade of grey that the purchase of even the smallest of plastic goods manages to punctuate the equilibrium of my workaday existence to an alarming degree. What I am trying to get at is that having a nice new lunch box makes me happy. Possibly happier than I have ever been. Around about midday Monday to Friday now brings a euphoric hit similar to that of taking an E. A similar sensation hits when preparing my lunch the night before. And while I am of course subtly using satire here to demonstrate the temporary sense of fulfillment offered by consumer goods (hell, how did “retail therapy” become a viable phrase for fork's sake?) unfortunately even if you trim the hyperbole all of the above remains true. The moral of the story is that everybody needs a bento box. Maybe as much, if not more, than they need Jesus. I would particularly recommend one if you have no friends: you can whisper your secrets to it on the train on the way into work.

Speaking of friends, I am thinking of writing my philosophy research masters thesis on the topic of friendship. Friends: How Can I Get One? is one possible title. Adjusting Your Personality To Fit In With The Help of The Ancients is another. What Is Friendship and Does It Truly Exist is the third and final option. I don’t know much (or anything) about the subject but am looking forward to giving it a go. Also, I am really hoping that my supervisor will get in on the project with me – maybe we could go out for dinner together a couple of evenings a week to discuss it? Or they could come down to my country house on the weekends and we could read silently side by side in the garden, just comfortable to be around each other.

neuro-praxis -- Push It Uh Huh Uh Huh

Low Fat Title

Ever since that great Sony BRAVIA ad with that beautiful song by Jose Gonzales in the background started showing, I've had, at certain moments, a strong desire for a soundtrack of my very own. I could always learn to play the guitar and take it with me everywhere I go, like the handsome town troubador in the Gilmore Girls. I could narrate my own life. Yeah, that'd be good. I hadn't realised it, but I am probably thinking about narration thanks to the mighty Stranger Than Fiction movie which you should see unless you're stupid, in which case you won't like it. Yes that's right - I have made the declaration that your opinion on this film denotes your IQ. You'll get used to the idea.

I am plonked in front of good old TG4 at the moment, and I'm frankly bowled over by the standard of music television they offer. "Do you want your old lavey washed down?" they are singing, over and over, in lyrical Irish harmony. Google doesn't even know what the hell this is. Google is sad because I tried to find it. I need more of the words. That one line simply is not enough. It's like those free samples of sausages that they inexplicably give out at the supermarket. Hello would you like an eighth of an already very small sausage? Why yes I would, yum yum, what a nice small portion of free cooked sausage as I am buying my Tesco own-brand deodarant and a packet of binliners (eco friendly). Have you ever tasted anything so delicious and simultaneously so small and UNSATISFYING? Wait now, I've lost the run of myself. This TG4 music is more like a pox on my being, so it is not really much like an inhumanly mean but delicious sausage portion, it is more like a very small knob of poo as produced by a baby who has eaten a lot, and you're like, where's the rest of it? Then you're searching and it's in the babygro and nobody is happy. That's what TG4 is like at the moment.

I had a dream last night that I formed a strange bond with an unusual young girl named Ellen whom everyone had written off, but thanks to my amazing professional medical health skills, I immediately deduced that she was in fact mildly autistic, and I broke this news to her parents. That was about the extent of the dream. I was woken by the alarm clock at what I remember seemed like a crucial moment in the dream, which made me feel angry. That feeling has lasted for most of the day.

Enough!

neuro-praxis -- needs a bosom for a pillow

Shizzle My Mizzle Bizzle Dizzle

Results for: banger

bang‧er  /ˈbæŋər/

1. a person or thing that bangs.
2. British.
a. Informal. a sausage.
b. a firecracker.

Results for: firecracker

fire‧crack‧er  /ˈfaɪərˌkrækər/

a paper or cardboard cylinder filled with an explosive and having a fuse, for discharging to make a noise, as during a celebration.

So lads. What you are telling me is that bangers are small uncontrolled and dangerous explosions that make BANG noises. Back in my day, we were content with a sledgehammer and a few old blocks: all the noise, 28% less danger. This nation's fascination with fireworks is just ABSURD. We are a society of NITWITS and imbeciles.

So in the spirit of the Hallowed Eve pagan festivites, I carved my first pumpkin today! I wasn't expecting the inside to be so stringy. It is of course possible that my pumpkin was a miserable rotted specimen: not having done it before I wouldn't know. But my resulting Jack-O-Lantern was a glowy marvel to behold. I ran around the housing estate showing it to strangers and discussing its creation with all who would listen. I even brought my study notes with me. Everybody was so interested. One neighbour listened to me discuss the carving process for almost ninety minutes. Now we are best friends.

Now I abandon the children who have been a-knocking all evening (well, a-ringing would be more accurate, although there was the one child who screamed in the window, "I CAN'T REACH YOUR DOORBELL!!") and celebrate Hallowe'en in the traditional way by going to an Italian restaurant with my prayer square. We used to be a prayer triplet and then another one joined. I HATE THAT ONE.

neuro-praxis -- The Biggest Banger In Town

Calm Down Victor

It was only over a tasty dinner tonight with Zoomspouse that I realised that my attire during this morning's second (less stupid) interview with my potential employers actually consisted of some of their own merchandise. Oh yes, that's right. I did my interview in my jimjams.

I usually sleep in this particular company's tshirt because its delightful shade of blue matches my pyjama bottoms. I wonder, had I been wise enough to notice, would my interviewer have been amused to learn that I was promoting their company even while being interviewed. Hell, even while sleeping. This mysterious Unnamed Company now has at least six new virile men as customers solely because of my choice in bedclothes. They'd be absolute morons not to hire me. Actually I'm surprised they've gotten as far as they have without me. Losers. I don't know why I've bothered. Screw them, I'm sleeping naked tonight.

ANECDONTE

I forgot to tell you all (because I was painting the kitchen ALL THE TIME) that K and I were out driving on the N4 recently and when we stopped at the traffic lights, we noticed that the contents of the boot of the car in front of us were moving. That's because the contents were a dog, and a GOAT. Just, like, dogging and goating around, back there, in the boot, all like, together and shit. I was like whoah no way a dog and a goat that's like totally cool and K was like totally yeah and then he was like man I am so wasted and I was like me too let's get a burger and he was all oh no crap we've crashed and I was all like this sucks let's go home.

So, we had a painting party! Fifteen friends came over armed with brushes and rollers and chirpy attitudes and we lashed into the hall, stairs and landing, the front spare bedroom (one of the nine spare rooms) and the kitchen. We also spruced up the front of this kip with a coat on the hall door and on the windowsills. The kitchen has now been styled to look like the bridge on Star Trek: The Next Generation. I'm very, very embarassed about it. I don't know how how it happened. You start sticking buttons, foam and pipecleaners on the sideboard and BOOM you're in space with a bald dude and a bunch of jumpsuits. What's worse than the Star Trek themed kitchen is the hand painted portrait of Buffy the Vampire Slayer that we were given as a gift. She's dressed as the virgin Mary in it. The guy who painted it is a pervert. Yes. So we are his only friends. We ate a lot of pizza and we drank a lot of paint. I mean Coke and beer. We listened to rubbish music and we sang along in a range of different keys. It was hard work and it was a lot of fun. A fat thank you to all who helped. And to all who didn't, well drink up now because there's no water where your soul's headed.

Neuro out. Bed beckons. In a creepy voice. Must obey.

neuro-praxis -- Making Awkward Sexual Advances, Not War

Firework Display Of A Toy Advert

My favourite piece of non-meat spam this week:

From: Gilbert Calderon
Date: Wed, 17 May 2006 15:44:26 -0060
Subject: {THE_SUBJECT}
To: neuropraxis@gmail.com

bla bla bla
eee
e

Thanks for that Gilbert, you big fat freaking genius you. At least send me a goddamn virus or something.

So yes. Onto the facts and the juicy gossip. Of which there are none. There are fourteen days left until I walk away from my job, into the sunset, with a big stick over my shoulder with my paltry belongings tied up on the end of it in an oversized red and white polkadot handkerchief. Hang on. Handkerchief, is that a real word or did I just make it up?

n. pl. hand·ker·chiefs, also hand·ker·chieves (-chvz, -chvz)

Only once in Authorized Version (Acts 19:12). The Greek word (sudarion) so
rendered means properly "a sweat-cloth." It is rendered "napkin" in John 11:44;
20:7; Luke 19:20.

Everything comes back to religion in the end, innit? And who says you learn nothing on this website? Yes and who says I am an illiterate fool? It's you wots the fool that says that about me, in all in anyway.

So I have signed up as a volunteer with the Samaritans. Go to the website and donate them some money, because I will need it in order for to have me wages paid unto me. Ha ha! Not for that reason: for the reason of the depresseds getting some quality loving down through the telephone. Not dirty loving! Good clean care, like a big bottle of Cif. Which used to be called Jif, by the way. I used to be very good friends with an American boy when I was a teenager, and we would hang out in his house and eat American food. We ate a lot of Jif. Jif is a delicious American peanut butter. Perhaps that is why Jif the cleaning fluid became Cif. But nothing will ever explain why Immac hair removal cream became Veet (Veet?) but more pressing: WHY MARATHON BARS BECAME SNICKERS. Why did they do that? It's a confusing memory from my childhood that haunts me.

Speaking of hauntings, a local dog who is unimaginably adorable is shitting all over my garden and I am having to clean it up because it is owned by "bad types" who might smash the windows if I complain. Or they might pick it up. You never can tell with "bad types"; they're unpredictable. Maybe I could pre-empt the situation by smashing their windows! I'll consult with my pastor before I make any final decisions. Thinking is sore!!

Anyway, now I have a place to be at wot there's stuff to be a-doing.

neuro-praxis -- All I Want Is Another Shot

Heralding, nay: TRUMPETING

I am pleased to announce the return, after a long year's absence, of the fabulously articulate blog of Ian Paisley. Go on over there and offer him your political and moral support. He is, after all, the King of Northern Ireland. Deep down he's just a simple feller who likes a good game of Connect Four and a curry.

How Tremendously Well I Did

What's this then? Yeah yeah yeah. I've not been writing because:

1. I've been "busy"
2. I'm boring
3. White bread gives me diarrhoea
4. Dot's dog got knocked down in Eastenders
5. Nobody bought me an easter egg, although my pastor did give me a Cadbury's Creme egg (little un) because I played a blinder on the drums Easter Sunday. He might have given it me if I hadn't played well though.

Still no word from UCD on my future. As I type, I am supposed to be cleaning up the torrid filth in my house while K is at an interview, being responsible, and planning large for our future. I watch soaps, drink tea and mourn my own inactivity. I did have a driving lesson in the Phoenix Park today and I banged the car into a grass bank, but the bank didn't cry. I'll tell you who cried. Not me!

Everybody seems to be getting married and I have been to some hen parties. At one of them we went Go-Karting and ate a bit of hoummus. Hoummus bought in the shop is like, HALF oil, did you know that? There's about a hundred thousand calories in oil, did you know that? I know that because I don't eat calories anymore, only lettuce and such. Apart from the bleeding gums it's all going brill.

So there is another hen weekend approaching, in the land of Galway, where everybody is drunk and wearing plastic tits. Can't wait! It will be just the neuro cup of tea. Also everybody will be wearing new clothes fresh from Sasha while I slump around, grimy and malodorous, in my jeans and that jumper my dad lent me. Even my fabulous new hair won't be looking shiny and glam, as I broke the hairdryer, by using it. Tip: never use your hairdryer - not unless you want to it to break. Ha ha ha!

Meanwhile K goes to Jenny Lewis concerts and hangs out with people who aren't wearing traffic cones for hats. Lucky him. Speaking of K, he just rang! He got the job! Thank goodness, because I am a frightening LEECH! A drain on resources! And he is a fabulous smoochable hunk of a man with a great new job that makes him happy. Good times. If you check in here in an hour, we will both be blinding drunk, possibly drunk enough to catch STDs off strangers! Only messing. It's only Fair City giving me mad ideas. I'm like a sponge at the moment. Or perhaps a large empty vessell. But clanging, I assure thee! P.S. I know one of the girls in the sexy new Magnum ad. She's the one with the Magnum stick as a moustache. Her name is Barbara. What do you think of that? I am a regular celebrity hob-nobber. By hob-nobbing, I do mean "met once and chatted briefly with in the pub" after a show that Betamaxnomates was starring in. By the way Betamaxlotsofmates, I am saddened by your demise. You should write more, not because you want to, but because I say so. And that's the end of that.

And while we are on the subject of Fair City, did you know, I used to date the cousin of one of the actresses, whatsherface blondie girl? When I say "used to date" what I mean of course is that we "went together" for a few weeks when I was fifteen. It was one of those Romeo/Juliet things, doomed from the start. He stabbed himself with a poison knife! No, that part is untrue.

The black man is sad because his daddy got burnt up. And angry! But this does not improve his acting. It is time I turned off the television. K is coming home to a pile of dirty dishes and a shameful neuro. I need to get Wife Lessons. How To Be A Decent Spouse 101. If you know anyone giving grinds in it, it's neuropraxis@gmail.com. I'll pay upwards of half a jaffa cake and a whatever small change is in my pocket.

neuro-praxis -- tHe HoOvEr Is In ThE cOrNeR, yEaH?

Now With Less Talk

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

1. The Sugababes. Especially that song “Ugly”. It’s a little semi-autobiographical faux-wisdom slash cheap fairground dance track. I actually feel angry when I hear it on the radio. I wish death upon them. I know I will get my wish. I just hope that I am still alive to relish the earth without their grammatically incorrect presence. Also in this musical category, every version of that damn “You Raise Me Up” tripe. SHUT UP. Why does everyone do a cover version of it? WHY? There are other songs!
   
2. The girls in the bakery across the road from me. They never, ever, ever give me exactly what I ask for. Each and every one of them should be fired and the establishment should be torched by a slightly off-kilter office manager with an addiction to pretend gambling.
   
3. Ironing. It is my opinion that clothes ought to exit the tumble dryer in a ready-to-wear state. There are certain things I detest about being a grown up and sort of taking care of my own laundry is one of them. (I say sort of, because K does most of it.) Also in this category should fall the phenomenon I suffer from whereby I believe that I have absolutely nothing to wear, in spite of the fact that I have a huge amount of things to wear. They’re all just crumpled. This phenomenon results in me running around in my knickers feeling frantic and irritable just before leaving for work. In my mind, it all becomes K’s fault. He’s the guy I live with, why can’t he sort out these trivialities?!
   
4. Working. I hate it. Why can’t I just be given a pension to live off? I’ve paid my taxes! I’ve given my due to society! (Not to be confused with giving your Jew to society, that’s called “anti-semitism”.)
   
5. Ads. It is a rare thing that an ad doesn’t make me upset. My pet hates at the moment include all and every ad on the tv or radio for the Bagel Factory and the ads for Deirdre O’Kane’s upcoming comedy show (YOU’RE NOT FUNNY DEIRDRE, EVEN LESS SO WHEN THE ADS REPEAT THE SAME THREE JOKES AGAIN AND AGAIN).
   
6. Bored people dropping into my office in work to “say hello”. Not friends, just people I vaguely know, passing by, they come in and lean on my desk and force me to make small talk. GO AWAY, I AM PLAYING SOLITAIRE.
   
7. Small talk. Oh God I cannot bear it. Let’s just not talk, ok? Would you mind? I am just not in the mood. I actually like silence. It’s a welcome break from the Deirdre O’Kane ads.
   
8. Lists on blogs. THEY’RE JUST SO CLICHED! ALSO: rants! They’re so 2001.

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

Curry Flavour Favour

The influenza is spreading filthy germs throughout the breathing spaces of my surroundings and I am its medium. I didn't sign up for this! I have tried self-medicating with episodes of Judge Judy and a box of raisins and so far there is no healing miracle. But I can wait. Furthermore, there is a big plasticy paracetamol capsule lodged somewhere in my esophagus. At least I can't taste it. Paracetamol probably goes lower in the taste ranks than poo and tiramisu. And I can't stop sneezing. Loud, loose sneezes. Sneezes that share. They're so vigorous I feel rather exercised.

I was just watching the Angelus on RTE 1 there and I realised I know one of the people in the current Angelus footage. He graduated from college on the same day as me. In his shot, with soulful tenderness, he puts down his tinwhistle to listen to the bells. It's so touching.

K has been away with work since the beginning of the month, only stopping home periodically to shout at me and demand clean clothes. Because of his ongoing conspicuous absence, I had some friends staying with me this week, the lovely H and her lovely two babies, one of which is a mere six weeks old. Babies are loud, smelly, demanding and loud. Also smelly and demanding, and they like to be awake at funny hours of the night to have a little cry. A little cry that goes ON AND ON. Then they went home again. It was all a blur. A chocolatey, nappified blur.

Man, I need a shower. And somebody to cook me dinner! Any volunteers?

neuro-praxis -- The Biggest Clearance Sale Ever

Showing The Hidden Icons

Well I awoke, freezing but happy, and reached for my nose lotion for a good old scab-rubbing and lymph-clearing, the morning activity that lends my day, by itself, a great sense of personal satisfaction. But - treachery was afoot!

My delightfully jewelled nose had lost its ring and had begun to seal up. NOOOO! I scrabbled around the sheets until I spotted it and tried to get it back in. No joy! It was with disproportionate disappointment that I threw on my office clothes and drove out into the morning fog, my nose now as plain as the nose on my face.

After work I returned to my piercer, Elaine (my piercer, aren't I so hip? aren't I so terribly haute couture? No? Ok.), who kindly butchered it back in. She had to check first if it could squeeze in, which I painfully learned it most certainly could not. It would seem that the ring itself was not sharp enough to pierce the flesh. So she took her giant needle and repierced the cartilage, and I can honestly say that it was the most painful 12 - 15 seconds of my entire life. When I opened my eyes, a sea of involuntary tears poured down my face, and with them numerous boats of hungry immigrants. Elaine refused to charge me, saying that she could not take money from someone to whom she had just caused so much pain. What a woman.

However, now the jewel is back in its home, as am I, STILL freezing my nips off, having only just managed to get home through the frighteningly thick fog. K drove, and Stig and I shivered and trusted in his superior navigating-as-though-blind ways. Truly: the fog was so thick that we drove at 20 miles per hour and could see no further than 1-2 feet in front of the car. It was the scene of a horror movie. We prepared ourselves for all inevitable catastrophies: knocking down a pedestrian, being seen by a witness, and then getting hacked to death by the witness a few months later...getting eaten by werewolves...ending up in a carcrash that gets used in an ad for safe driving. "It was the one without the seatbelt that did it," the sensitive and psychic policeman said sadly.

So the moral of the story is: wear a plaster on your nose at night or face being eaten by monsters...or at least enjoy a similarly gruesome fate.

neuro-praxis -- Got Bored Near The End And Gave Up

I SUPPOSE I OWE YOU ALL AN UPDATE

Yup.

I sure do.

There's no getting away from that.

Coming right up...

neuro-praxis -- Pretending It's Real Meat

More

Take Your Medicine

I know, I know. The increasing length in delays between entries has been reported to be causing bowel cancer in my readers. Thank you all for your emails, and my sincerest apologies for the life threatening diseases. I have been away for the last few days on a Women's Weekend^TM and, if you'll pardon my French, it was rather fab. And here we all are, wet, exhausted and cheerful after our canoeing. That's me, first on the far left.

No, not really. Those are some random chicks I found on the internet. Unfortunately there are no photographs of me personally in existence, as in pictures, I appear as a standing lamp (unlit). This is simply one of life's little mysteries.

For example, here is me on my eighteenth birthday in my parents' living room.

It's an unfortunate but fascinating fact. Another unfortunate but fascinating fact is that the "movie" Dodgeball which I am currently viewing, is an acclaimed "comedy". Pah. It's about as funny as a bowl of lukewarm pea soup with a boiled egg in the middle.

neuro-praxis -- Coasting On Noice Pitchers But Will Try Harder Soon

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

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.

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

It Is A Time For Success

Last night, I made one of the greatest mix tapes of all time. To psyche myself up, I watched High Fidelity and ate chalk or something. The tape is for my sister-in-law, who travels from Dublin to Limerick every Sunday night and back again on Fridays. I named the compilation, rather imaginatively, "N_____'s Dublin to Limerick Tape". Boy, it's a good one. Honed to her exact personal tastes. She's my "Kristkindle" in my husband's family. That might well be spelt wrong, but I can't google right now to check the correct spelling as housemate C is playing CounterStrike and I'd cause his game to lag, ha ha. I also bought N some rather fabulous clothes but was worried that it didn't look like much of a gift, so I compensated with "the personal touch". Thankfully the personal touch is good for a deficit of at least ten euros in any given gift. Take note.

More winning:

Remember that TS Eliot essay I bitched significantly about in previous entries? I waited in line to get my paper back and get my criticism from the tutor today, sweating like begorrah in fear of the result. Thoughts of "God, I hope I pass" were racing through my skull. This is worth eight per cent of my degree. I veritably danced and broke into a celebratory rap when she told me I'd gotten an A. An A! In Honours English! It's almost as though I robbed an essay from a person who can write and submitted it as my own work. Cough.

No, I didn't. I must clear my name as well as my throat. I worked my hiney off on that bugger. Ooh the puns and innuendo are rife!

Speaking of innudendo, tonight, the Rev. Dr. Trevor Morrow (a legend of a man) is giving a talk in the Maynooth Christian Union entitled "The Four Step Guide to Sexual Ecstasy". I should probably be there, and in a lazy way I wish I was, but there is just so much to DO. Which is clearly why I am writing this journal entry.

I have a craving for chocolate that is reaching painful levels. Am I pregnant? I hope not. I spent yesterday at Blanchardstown hospital having my back checked out after that nasty tumble down the stairs (guh, I falled over) and my chat with the doctor went like this.

Doc: Ok, you look ok, but I think I'll send you down for an x-ray.
Me: Grand.
Doc: Are you pregnant?
Me: Nope.
Doc: Any chance you could be pregnant?
Me: There is always a chance I suppose, but I sincerely doubt it.
Doc: Hrm, those x-rays give the old ovaries a good frying. Are you trying for a babby?
Me: Ha, no.
Doc: Ah why not?
Me: Give me ten years.
Doc: Ah, babbies are great!
Me: Mmm, fried babbies.
Doc: I think we'll skip that x-ray. You haven't broken anything. If the pain doesn't go away in the next few weeks, come back, but I think it will.
Me: Ok, grand.
Doc: Go home now and make a baby.
Me: If I do, you can keep it.

He was a great doctor, if I ever fall down the stairs again I'm heading straight back to him. It'd be worth a tumble just for the banter. Apparently I'm to keep it moving (my bruised back, that is)...swimming, walking etc., and pump myself full of painkillers. You know something about those painkillers though, they don't heal the SEARING INNER PAIN, no matter how many you take. Although I wouldn't know, I don't believe in the use of drugs, I'm into caffeine enemas to cure cancer and so on, roots and zinc and what have you. Oat bars and soya flour, that kind of thing.

I have to mash together some kind of outline for my philosophy chocolate thesis so I shall say goodnight to you, my fellow chocolates. I wish you all a chocolatey chocolate-chocolate. Good chocolate/

I Am A Disgrace

I had to write this now...it's almost six in the morning and I haven't gone to sleep yet. Why? Because I am some manner of a crazy party animal, that's why.

Tonight I partook in the activity known as "knacker drinking". I believe it may been in order to make up for all that precious lost time during my teens when I stayed at home playing computer games or watching videos when I should have been in a field drinking Dutch Gold like all the other local yobos.

In the absence of a husband and a wholesome evening in, myself and Anonymous (and, just for the movie, a third friend who happens to be my namesake) toddled along to see The Grudge (second time for me), followed by a fish and chips supper and a rather ridiculous drinking session where we tried to get plastered and failed miserably. Namesake abandoned us for pursuits of academic excellence early in the evening. Some would say she was wise. Others would say, fortunate.

After half a bottle of vodka each and a sufficient number of conversations about God, the universe and the structure of entity, Anonymous and I decided it was time to go out. We wrapped up and embarked into the moonlit glow of Celbridge on a Friday night at 3am. Did I mention we were armed with a bottle of champagne?

In typical teenage fashion, we set off for Castletown House (local palatial mansion) for our debaucherous drinking binge. The highlight was smashing our bottle (naturally in a place where nobody would see or be affected by the glass) and listening to it shatter. HOW HEDONISTIC.

We returned disappointingly sober (damn you fresh air!) and exhausted, and then rummaged around old furniture for small change to make up my taxi fare home (my friend is dropping her baby over tomorrow for me to look after so I probably should be here...). I'm making this sound like it wasn't much fun but it was actually a riot. To quote Anonymous: Hey, I laughed so hard I threw up a little in my mouth. Nice.

That's a text message I'll be keeping. For a day or two.

Me need sleep bed bye bye.

I Was Thinking Of Having My Ears Pierced

And I'm an all or nothing kinda girl.

Something Notable is Happening

And it is this: my husband is cooking me dinner and it's not, I reiterate, NOT going to be A BOILED EGG ON TOAST (staple husband food). Boiled egg on toast has its eggy toasty merits, but not meritous enough to be eaten as main meal every day.

This is my second entry in one day, although I have slept at least eight hours and had a whole day's living since the last entry. Very confusing indeed.

K (the husband, or as Anonymous calls him, my Man-missus) is a feminist who wants to cook but sadly cannot. Tonight in a faithfully ambitious gesture I spent five minutes writing instructions on how to make a chilli and now he is diligently battling with mince and seasonings and soured cream and the like. The noises emerging from the kitchen are frightening, and yet, filled with promise.

The only other night he ever cooked me a proper meal was the night he proposed: unfortunately I wasn't expecting it (nor was I expecting him to be in my house) as I tumbled in tipsy and exhausted after a night of salsa dancing. The meal was spoiled and cold - but it was plain to see that had I consumed it within its prime, it would have been delicious. : ) It seemed to have involved green peppers and feta cheese - two of my favourite things.

I, now, meanwhile am enjoying the benefits of our newly acquired wireless network and OH MY HOW THE PATRIARCHAL TABLES HAVE TURNED. I hope that this will not accelerate the growth of facial hair in me, or breasts in K. That would detract from the sweetness of our new arrangement.

Did I mention that he already does the vast majority of the other housework...and if he takes cooking away from me, what then will I be good for? Nothing. GOOD FOR NOTHING as my old mother used to say. Ah, those were the days.

After my spout of argument and debate over the last few days, I am feeling very contrite and mellow. If I find that arrogant young man from my lecture any time soon, I have resolved to apologise for how I spoke to him. I still stand by my point but...well, it's like this. I admonished him basically because he was behaving in a bullying way, but in retrospect I think I just returned his bullying with my own version of self righteous bullying. Note to self: be a better person.

The chilli smells are becoming delicious, by the way. I'll leave you to your life-duties, I must now return to mine...ARGH GODDAMN IT TO HELL I'M SICK OF ARSE FART STUDYING!

Quite. : (

An entry not from today, in fact, but from Monday October 11th. Hey, I'm slow at getting started here. Get off my back!

I am back in college, working my butt off for the first time in my life. I am discovering what it is to apply myself. I have managed to get through college with the method I like to call "arsecramming". No, I have not been cramming my behind with various objects.

ANYBODY WANT TO COME TO AN ARSE PARTY?

...What on earth is an arse party?

IT'S A PARTY WHERE WE CRAM HAMMERS UP EACH OTHER'S ARSES! (Or carrots.)

I once heard the above conversation.

Arsecramming is the somewhat delicate art of managing to arse about for the entire year, coasting on your good looks and ability to smile at your tutors, followed by three nights of HARDKORE cramming just before the exams, and then passing with a reasonably impressive grade. I arsecrammed alone. I arsecrammed with friends. It was a thing we did. It was unsatisfying and, sometimes, humiliating. It was expensive. This year, I arsecram no more.

This is my last chance or I'm out. As many of you will know, I was ill on a persistent low level last year which prevented me from any possible LURNING. I am now well once more, and am attending lectures and doing my assignments. There is a certain dignity in this new way of life I have found, although it is eating rather nastily into my blogging time, not to mention my social life. Although, admittedly, the social life is not exactly illuminated with the glow of white knickers in a UV-lighted toilet cubicle, because my friends have all graduated. I don't know many people in my classes at all. And this brings me to my

STORY OF THE DAY

Today as I sat munching my sub-par O'Brien's sandwich in a "resource area" in college (does anyone else feel a little sick after a sandwich in O'Brien's?), a young woman from my class asked if she could join me at my table. I of course said yes. I had noticed her previously because she looks nuts. She seems to have cut her own hair with a Crayola scissors. You know how some people just look, well, escaped?

Anyway, she then launched into an excruciating hour of talking all about her prophetic dreams. I occasionally interrupted her stories of dreaming of a screensaver with a cat in it and then WALKING INTO AN OFFICE WITH A SCREENSAVER OF A CAT ON THE MONITOR ON THE COMPUTER!!!!! to ask her a personal detail, such as her name, or where she came from. Allow me to demonstrate for you the dynamic of our chat.

Nuttygirl: And I walked right in and was like "OH MY GOD I DON'T BELIEVE IT LIKE JESUS CHRIST" and then I--"

Me: So...tell me where you're from.

Nuttygirl: Cork and it was the EXACT SAME AS MY DREAM. Not only that...

And so went my peaceful lunch hour. During our conversation, she managed to smear chocolate on her forehead and knock over the very chair she was sat upon. She looked me right in the eye while she talked (impressive, most people don't do that), and was obviously very intelligent (she had a remarkable vocabulary), but seemed plain old MAD. In a way I envy mad people. In another way that last sentence is an outright lie.

People are amusing.

I had dinner with L tonight, where she told me all the gory details of her trip to Israel. I positively drooled with jealousy. A kindly waiter mopped up my drool, though, and served us some pretty darned delicious food. However I have realised just how fat food can make you. MUST EAT LESS FOOD. This is an ambition.

L has a list of things she wishes to do before her next birthday, which is speedily approaching. I do not understand this kind of GOAL SETTING. It is the kind of thing my husband does. (MY HUSBAND. I JUST SAID "MY HUSBAND".) Goals are frightening to me. If I can get through that self-pitying feeling I get when I wake at seven thirty, then that's a big enough achievement for me. OH YOU MOCK BUT IT'S TRUE.

I haven't seen K all day and he has just walked in the door so BLOGGO LOSES AND HUSBAND WINS. Get used to taking second place from now on, bastard readers.

My very deepest love to you all. :)