“It’s curtains for you, Dr. Horrible. Lacy, gently wafting curtains.”
If there is something I dread whenever I pick up the pen-monkey and shake its obnoxious simian face over the equally obnoxious blank page it’s when I reach the atrociously difficult, mind boggling middle part. If you’ve ever read/written a book, hell; even a pamphlet for dyslexics, I think you know what I mean. Perhaps. It’s the in-between part. The distance between A and B. The train derailment between stops. The anesthetic after the shaving of the under-regions and before the surgery (for those two extra inches SHUTUPIT’SACONDITION!).
I’m not proficient with metaphors. Continue reading
Some dudes. Living in Ireland. It’s Irish Adventures! Pip pip!
*theme song goes here*
So we wanted to vacuum the apartment with the supplied vacuum cleaner. The previous apartment dwellers had obviously, at some time during their debauchedly lifetime, also had the same notion.
First impression, that led to the discovery of something that needs to be purged a’la lobotomy, was that there was no suction. Strange, says our naive minds, heedless of the terrors beyond the veil. Fuck Cthulhu; this shit is real.
So we opened the poor machine. It turns out the previous dwellers – now forever by the name of “Miss and Mr Bag-of-Dicks” – had not managed to process and act upon the simple act of not being great floating bags of dicks (see previously mentioned names) of the greatest calibre. In that they hadn’t used a bag for the cleaner. And never cleaned it. So the accumulated filth (underlined, bold and coloured for precision targeting) of an indescribable amount of time had collected inside the machine.
Dog ends in the hundreds, all the dirt on the moon, ash from six forest fires and a sort of a nightmarish… goo… mixed in. It actually got hard to breathe in the room when we emptied it. It felt like being stuck in a 1 square meter asbestos-walled discotheque where the DJ is called DJ AssBetos and play only the most popping of the asbestos songs (like “Knocking on Asbestos Wall” and “Good God That’s Filthy”).
And that’s that story told. I’m selling the scrip for the price one bundle of new vacuum bags.
Pi-pi-pi-ip-ip Irish Adventures pip pip!
So, I finally got a job. In Ireland, for HP. It might only be a temporary position; but still. Freaking work!
In ten days I’ll be flying – a rather short flight, Sweden and Ireland isn’t that far apart – over to the land of the Harp and Guinness and start supporting customer like a boss over the phone. I’m not that nervous yet for some reason; I might have got most of the nervousness out off my system when I had the phone interview.
The first interview he had ever done. Bastard.
I’m sure my aloofness will pass. I will most likely get as nervous as a elderly bear flying out from a lazerspaceship wearing makeup and holding a stick of butter in front of an army of hostile Intergalactic Space Cows when I’m standing by the door to the airport. Oh well.
Another day, another five hundred words, another rejected job search.
Did you know that if you have spent, basically, your whole (short) life studying and achieving only mediocre stats, as it were, then you aren’t high on the list for hot prospects in the general vicinity of the job market? I had. No. Freaking. Idea. Really.
Wait. Does sarcasm count as a disability? The more important question, I guess, is: Can I get money for it? Please? It’s very severe.
I’m sounding so bitter for some reason. I’m going to sit down with Dwarf Fortress while Miracle of Sound, and a sprinkle of The World Is Saved, is playing in the background. Dr. Doctor did recommend a remedy of tantrum-raging, booze driven dwarves this evening.
The worst thing about stomach flu is mostly… well, every symptom that comes with the illness, really. Contracting it on your birthday just adds another layer of insult to the onion soup, spruced with garlic and parsley.
But if there’s any light in the tunnel, as it were, then this is it; Getting all the A Song of Fire And Ice books (or more accurately; doorstoppers) from George R. R. Martin as a birthday gift.
Now the almost eternal bed laying, throbbing headache, inability to keep any food inside the sweet confines of the gastronomical tracts and the general crapstacular mood that comes with the illness seems slightly less off putting.
Mmm, fantasy doorstoppers.