freaks

If one more person in my office uses the word cunt, because they think they are so cool and they can use it to describe anything from a sandwich to the car they dislike, I will kick the moron where it hurts the hardest.

The reason I say this is because it is the guys who use it.

No, it is not funny. Not funny at all when you’re in a room with a bunch of guys, and it is supposed to be serious meeting, and you are the only woman around, and the guy who's leading the show starts to say, “ Let's go get those cunts”

First time it happened, I didn’t react. Thinking I’ll seem so prissy. But now it’s like the worst sort of contagious disease going around.

And one that I’m not sure how to handle. I don’t feel like laughing because honestly, I don’t find it funny that you’re calling the canteen guy a cunt. I don’t find it cool because at some level the guys who’re saying it seem so pathetic with their desperate need to be noticed.

I just find it very offensive. It’s like those crappy sexual jokes that guys make around you. And these are guys who are not even your friends. They are just some idiots who work with you. They obviously think they can get away with it, because if you complain you’ll just seem like such a dork who’s so not with it.

Also I’ve noticed when very junior guys say stuff like this, everyone looks at them disapprovingly. But if the guys with the fat pay packet and even fatter designations say cunt all the time, nervous giggles are soon replaced with everyone calling everything cunt.

Hypocrites.

That’s the problem with so called liberated work places. People will do anything to seem cool.

now that i have vented, i shall leave you with someone who was really really cool. ibrahim ferrer. a introduced me to buena vista social club some years back, and i was hooked.

this is probably how i'd like to lead my life. sitting in the shallow waters of palolem, thinking of nothing and listening to ibrahim ferrer.

in theory i was already doomed

Theory 1: cold kills cold

So I had a cold. And I put 5 ice cubes in my rum and coke. Drank only super chilled thums up in office. And ate frozen gelatos two days running.

And yesterday I woke up, barely able to breathe or speak.

Theory 2: If you rest through the day, you’ll be able to party at night.

So I thought why bother going in to work, considering we were all meeting up and feasting at night. Let me dose on the antibiotics, and I’ll be fine by evening.

Theory 3: Goofing around never killed anyone.

Then I thought, “ gosh, let me watch some entourage, now that I’m full up on antibiotics. But before that let me bug the dog.”

So, get this, I stick my face right next to my mild mannered dog, who by the way is fast asleep and probably dreaming of some hot bitch, and suddenly yell, “ Miloooooooo” right into his ear.

Theory 4: Ha. Ha. Who’s scared of some blood?

It’s fucking sprouting like a fountain. Red, dark red and like thick fat drops falling all around me. And I’m like a zombie, running from one end of the house to the other. Suddenly I can’t remember how to work the phone or turn on the tap. Should I put ice, should I stick my nose under the tap, should I climb into the freezer?

Theory 5: Be nice to the patient.

I’m the subject of many amused looks and yells. Bed 6, dog bite on nose! A can’t stop laughing, z insists they’re going to graft the skin off my bum on to my nose. This is not looking good at all.

Theory 6: When you’re stressed you can’t sleep.

IV’s, rabies injections, doctor visits, test injections. I nod off. Hospital beds are most comfortable. And with the nice blanket, I feel like I’m in a hotel room.

Theory 7: Doctors don’t have a sense of humour.

Finally I’m in the OT. Waiting for them to numb me, and start stitching my nose up. The young doctor assistant who’s been acting very cool and staring down my chest while they strap the ECG thing is chatting on his phone as he cleans my gaping wound. The plastic surgeon arrives and asks me to open my eyes.

The assistant has got solution in my eyes, I try opening them, blinking frantically. And suddenly I see the surgeon’s hand reach out and slap the assistant hard.

I almost faint, the doctors are hitting each other. Dude, get me out of here.

Anyway assistant sort of whimpers and shuts his cell. The doctor boss has words with him. And then I’m all stitched up.

So finally there is only one theory that the world rests on. Everything else is shit.

Let sleeping dogs lie.

picture@treehugger.com

at the risk of pissing off the stylist and living my life under a hat

A clarification:

This is for all those who think i am rich or too fucking stoooopid.
I have not had the 3000 buck haircut.

It is a different matter that I look like something the yeti brought home. And that my experiments with cutting my own fringe have resulted in shorter eyelashes. But like a lot of you out there I refuse to pay 3000 bucks.

So, at the moment I am sucking up big time to my stylist (notice from hair dresser and barber, I've gone on to saying stylist), in the hope of a free haircut.

And second, I am now catching unsuspecting women on the street and saying, “Nice haircut, where did you get it.”

Needless to say, if you are a guy do not attempt this.

And if you are a girl, you will realize no woman wants to part with a good hairdresser’s number.

So I’m stuck with being the thing the yeti brought home.


And on the music scene, because SwB made my day with his comment, we have Bad Moon Rising playing on my sorry excuse for a computer. I'm not even sure if the link will take you there, because my office people have given me the shittiest computer for the rest of my notice period. It doesn’t even support Chrome, or Firefox or anything apart from MS Word.

Don't go 'round tonight

it's bound and take your life,

there's a bad moon on the rise.

I hear hurricanes a-blowing,

I know the end is coming soon.

I fear rivers over flowing.

I hear the voice of rage and ruin.

Ooh, brilliant. Dire predictions of doom, in that voice - totally gets me.

stabbed

My parents got it all wrong.

They insisted i fucking study and do something with my life.

Now, I work like a slave, make nowhere near what i should be making and listen to snotty fucking MBA’s as they rave and rant and use works like brand osmosis and cultural denial while discussing some shit soap that i wouldn’t even touch with a dirty undie.

And all this, while my hair dresser which is just a fancy word for barber, jacks her price to three thousand bucks.

Ya, three thousand bucks to take a scissor and a comb and cut my hair to make it look like I have just-out-of-bed hair

Really, what is she charging so much for? The three thousand bucks does not even include a free shampoo.

All it includes is loud music and some skinny women who’re all munching gum and wearing horribly hip clothes.

My parents were so clearly out of it.

And I’m so clearly paying through my bleeding nose to look cool.

Image credit: http://image.spreadshirt.net

The perks of being on notice period is that i seem to be drowning in music. It’s on the pod, the laptop and blaring out of the speakers at work.

So today is Suzie Q by CCR. I love CCR, especially John Fogerty. Drool drool. And I love songs that have a honky tonk lament. If there is a song that sets the mood, it is Suzie Q. Enjoy.

sometimes i have clarity, most times i have rum

So the other day a friend tells me, “ Women, they’re just obsessed with getting married. And once they hit thirty they behave like they have a ticking time bomb strapped to their backs.”

I of course deny this.

I know some chicks like that. But most of my women friends are pretty cool about being thirty. And I don’t think they’re obsessed with marriage either.

But what I don’t tell the friend is this. I think most guys turn out to be the ones who want marriage. Ya, men are closet marriage wanters.

Case in point. All the guys I went out with spoke of marriage, even before I ever did. Including a (heh heh, the cat is out of the bag!)

Even now I see some of my guy friends, and in their weak moments I can see they are dreaming of settling down. Anyway I didn’t say all this to the friend because he’s a guy. And they’re very touchy when you turn the tables on them.

In fact I remembered something. I used to have this recurring dream. That I’m getting married to my previous boyfriend, and I’m struck with terror, and I’m feeling so doomed that I just want to run away. And I’d wake up drenched in sweat and realise I’m lying next to a. And sort of sigh weakly in relief, and go back to sleep.

So, last night I have a dream. And it is just as scary. Orlando Bloom (go figure Freud) is hanging out at a friend’s place. And suddenly he turns to me and says that he wants to marry me.

I’m extremely polite in my dreams. So I don’t laugh my head off. And instead I say, “Great idea, let me just come from the loo.” I shut the living room door on my way out to the loo, and scoot. I bolt out of the house as fast as my legs can carry me, race down the stairs and am out of the building like a shot.

Weird dream.

Think it means I’m not a big fan of Orlando Bloom.

Or rum and coke does not suit me.

boy meets girl - a romance

1.

she waited for his call

she collected his sms’s

she ran every conversation they had in her head a million times

he ordered Chinese take away

and watched the man u game a third time

2.

she thought he liked her

she changed her outfit

he thought she liked him

then why bother to change

where is the horse tranquilizer when you need it?

I’m going to hunt down the person who wrote the whisper line “have a happy period”. Then I’m going to take his/her spine and yank it off their back, vertebrae by vertebrae.

After which I will dance on the said person's head and tear out clumps of their hair with my bare hands.

Happy period my ass.

picture @ http://media.giantbomb.com/