Thursday, 1 October 2009

sexual inadequacy

With skills like that I should write headlines for the Hun.

Here's the thing. I don't think of sex as real. I can't think of any other way to describe it. I get the impression that people imagine themselves having sex with others on a fairy regular basis. I don't. I don't have a visual imagination at all, which makes it interesting. I also don't picture others having sex. So the idea of people I know having sex seems... well, absurd. Because I haven't seen it.

I know, this is crazy, but earlier this evening people were talking about sex and it weirded me out. They're friends of mine and my friends don't have sex (solipsism-much?). It freaked me out a bit. It was weird.

It's not that I have a problem with sex, nor am I embarrassed by sex... I just... don't think about it and so can't discuss it. And the idea of people I know even having sex organs is foreign to me.

And yes, I know intellectually they have sex organs and sex and for a couple I know precisely their level of depravity... but that's not the same as emotionally knowing they have sex. There's a disconnect. Because all the sex they have is... it's fake, to my mind. In the same way Africa is fake because I've never been there - because I haven't had sex with them it's fake. (Actually, my own sexual experiences tend to take on a surreal nature in memory, so perhaps this is some deep-seated psychological issue).

Anyway, point is I can't talk about sex because it's fake and that makes me feel inadequate.

Also I have a floppy penis. (For clarity: that is a joke)

Sunday, 27 September 2009

fascinating

I haven't read over my post of fourteen hours ago but I was thinking about deleting it. Of course, I don't do that.

That was the worst of it though. I vented. I watched weeds and read slashdot until 6am. I slept until 2pm. And now... well, now I'm happy again. Seven hours behind schedule in terms of work, but I can handle that. I'm happy :).

sad times

Hi, people who still remember this exists. I think I can count that number on one finger, zero-indexed. Or perhaps using Byzantine counting - they would use the thumb to indicate one of three positions on each other finger, thus counting to twelve on each hand.

It's five past fucking three in the morning and that's the best I've got. Grand final day today. I didn't even know who was playing until I overheard a discussion Thursday night. I only know who won because #afl was a trending topic on twitter. I was invited to a grand final party and even was marked as "attending" on facebook -- but I had work to do. Behold, the fruits of my labour: http://rosabercrombie.com. For a wordpress theme and some uploads it sure as shit took long enough. I got the brief in May. Final copy in July. It's now the end of September, four weeks after "just a couple of tweaks" were sent through. I tried to outsource, twice, but other people are smarter than me and know how to say know. You know that's even on my fucking performance review? "Michael needs to learn how to say NO!" - literally. Direct quote. Capitals and exclamation mark and everything. My boss thinks I'm fucking five. It's kind of a problem I'm used to though. "And Michael because you're young, just in age..." We call that institutionalised discrimination. But I've given up caring.

You know what I like about twitter? The anonymity. People like @mspiratesocks who I started following after we agreed about something #qanda related and now she gets excited about me crushing on work crush. What's sad is how much I have to embellish life even for twitter. But the anonymity is nice. Knowing my mum and colleagues and the vast majority of my friends will never read my 140 character comments about life. It's great technology but it hurts my attention span.

So, 3.13 and I still haven't gotten around to why I'm anxty enough to write a blog. Well, I'm off my meds. Let's rewind a bit. I've been off meds for a while. Then my father died and shit got well fucked up and our family doctor refused to see us because of the controversy surrounding that and I missed four days of work for sick leave without a doctors certificate so I went to the doctor just down the road from me and got meds. Which were great at improving my mood but fucking suck otherwise. I didn't think negatively at all. But I could hardly think. My mind would work at a third its usual speed; I couldn't wake up in the morning; I had no motivation; I didn't CARE about anything; I couldn't even write a single line of code (hence delays in websites). So after six? weeks I made the executive decision to take myself off my medication (fuck the doctor who said I had to be on it at least six months; fuck him and the office where they won't give me an appointment in the week I call; fuck them and their policy of not issuing retrospective doctors certificates even when the illness is on file but when I didn't see them that day. Let me get this straight: I have to wait a week to see them; I have an illness which manifests in not leaving my bed for days at a time with an irrational fear of communicating with people -- but they can't possibly certify that unless they see me on the day. Well, walk up the fucking hill and say hi then, hey?)

So anyway, I know it's a bad idea from a Michael-not-feeling-sad perspective but I've given up on that. It's been much, much better from a Michael-doing-shit-that-needs-to-get-done perspective. I'm still behind but I'm much closer to catching up.

Of course the flip side is it's 3.21 and I'm crying for no apparent reason. That's not true. There is a clear reason, I'm just too embarrassed even for this forum. I'm twenty two years old and need to get the fuck over myself. The whole "nobody understands me (except possibly morrisey)" thing was ALWAYS a joke and is meant to be a joke about emo ironic seventeen year olds. It's not meant to be my lament at twenty two (TWENTY FUCKING TWO) years old.

You know Nikky is engaged. She's engaged and I haven't had sex in (censored). How the fuck did she get the better half of that deal. It's her birthday today. Happy birthday Nikky. I don't hate you, I'm just bitter and jealous. I can think of no better present; you always wanted me to be bitter.

So, grand final day, apparently a big deal. I missed it, as expected, and I don't mind. I did get one message telling me I should be at the party I piked on, and I appreciate that at least. But this evening I came home and watched shit on TV (well, actually, there was a rather nice French film with Audrey Tautou in a different role to the one she normally plays but it really pissed me off because life isn't like that. Life is like the first bit of the movie, where she gets fired for being compassionate and has to leave her house early because her room-mate has a date and her mother doesn't really want her home for the weekend and there are weirdos on the train and it's shit and you fall in the rain and break your nose and have to go to hospital... life is like that. Life isn't that it's all been leading up to meeting your one true love because it's the full moon and venus is ascending [I'm pretty sure astrologers doon't even give a shit about the phase of the moon but what the fuck do I know about astrology]. There was a nice scene with a taxi driver actually, telling three stories from his life. One about the broken clothes peg that made his underwear fall off the line and onto the balcony of a neighboring apartment, in which he met his future wife. One about the time he ate a kiwi fruit, had an allergic reaction so couldn't go out to the motorcross race with his son the next day. His son was killed in an accident, his wife maimed. His wife left him after that and he gave up. So he took a huge cocktail of painkillers and anti-depressants which he knew would kill him. With all these pills in his mouth he went to the sink -- and due to a broken gasket they'd turned off the water. He struggled to find SOMETHING and all that there was was a bottle of cooking oil. So he drank that, washed down the pills and threw up the whole lot. So now he drives a taxi.)

I think I got distracted. The point was I only got contacted twice this evening: once because Lily wanted her hard drive back and once because Tess couldn't figure out how to use her TV. She figured it out before I could send instructions. And then twitter's trending topics go to #iamsinglebecause. Fuck you twitter, fuck you.

I'm angry and alone and anxty and terribly, terribly depressed. Not in a don't-want-to-get-out-of-bed way, more in an anxty and alone and angry and sad way. Just so much is so sad. I refuse to even think about things that really are sad. I don't know what I could do about them. I think I'll go for a walk. Sure it's three in the morning in sandy bay and it's raining and there's nowhere conceivable for me to go and I've been putting off getting a glass of water for the last hour because it's too far away... but you never know, I might. I'm not going for a walk, who am I kidding. I'm getting a glass of water then I'm coming back to bed to sleep.

Sorry Clara. I know this isn't what you were hoping would pop up in your feed,

Monday, 15 June 2009

I want to watch more movies. 80s movies. Juno. Sweeny Todd. Whatever. I want also to be liked. Mostly I just want to be left alone for about a week, maybe two. No responsibilities, nothing to do, nothing to worry about. Just to be for a little while. A holiday, I think they call that.


Yes, really. Still.



I know, I should blog, but the things on my mind aren't things I can write about. Work: I have a fiduciary duty not to bitch about certain things. Other work: I'm meant to be doing that, not bitching about how I lost my fucking usb with the perfect database design on it. (Talk about fucking annoying. There is no way I can come up with the same quality again. Ok there is, but I don't want to ... I've already done it twice). And then there's the elephant: my dad. That I definitely can't talk about for a whole host of reasons.



I'm sorry I can't provide the entertainment I used to. You never know, that day might return.

Tuesday, 9 June 2009

undefunctification

This blog is apparently defunct. In order to undefunctify it, I present the first in my at-least-one part series: Guest Blogs. This evening's blog was written by one of the Watergate burglars. Or maybe that gay librarian from QC. You decide.

As an aside, I'd like to just mention how pleased I am to be a Publisher. There is a certain power in it, a kind of sense of responsibility to journalistic integrity coupled with a knowledge of the power to make false attributions. To influence thought by promulgating the thoughts of others. It's exciting. -ed.


I have been considering various topics of bloggage since mjec so graciously extended the offer. I thought I should write about sex. Why not take the opportunity to drastically and embarrassingly over share, right? Surely the polite thing to do. I had various headings in mind "Can you enjoy doggy style and still be a feminist?" was an early contender. I wasn't really sure about what to say apart from YES! And that seemed just a little brief, and I hate the phrase "doggy style". I think someone just needs to re-brand the position with a more appealing name really... [hitting it with a lower case h? -ed.] Anyway, I'm sure that I must be the first person in their early twenties to decide that sex is really quite fun.[1]

It is though isn't it? These days I find myself remembering this at the oddest moments, on public transport I suddenly remember that horribly/deliciously dirty (in a kind of clich├ęd way) thing you said when you had your fingers THERE and just THAT look on your face and your voice was hoarse and... oh. Much more concerning is the thought at the family dinner table, just after my mother passed me the potatoes.[2] I think of the way sex used to make you sweat, raking my fingers through your slightly damp head of hair as your fingers grabbed at the sheets. My mother must have some kind of psychic abilities, because just then she asks about you, or something that refers to you. But if you want to read about that kind of stuff you can read Fear of Flying which is much better written.

I fleetingly considered writing about the horrible disillusion that comes from realizing that I am fast reaching the age of being a grown up. Terrifying. I refuse to be responsible. I have options - apparently education can't stretch on forever into the distance. On a tangentially related topic, whatever happened to us? You know, you and me. Sitting on the back seat of the bus telling each other everything. Writing lists of the people we like in our class, swapping food - my muesli bar for your roll up. And what about you? We used to talk late into the night, I liked you so much I almost forgot amongst the strange joy of being the first to know all those secrets. You were sweet and clever.[3] What about you? Who actually physically held me together when I cried my homesickness out, you read French novels in our sun soaked apartment and developed a liking for vegemite. I used to borrow your clothes.

The answers are disturbingly simple of course. You and I no longer live on the same bus route. You like the ones with the strange piercings and I like the ones with the glasses. Perhaps you weren't so clever or so sweet. And now neither of us really have the time to stay up late talking about pointless shit. Maybe all we have in common are 4 months under the sun, learning how to eat noodle soup with chopsticks and the proportions of rice wine to coke which make it almost bearable. Don’t worry, at least we still have Facebook.[4]

The same goes for the other, I never remember feeling comfortable being a teenager (perhaps just before my 20th birthday). This doesn't bode well for my poor, possible-future children (will I EVER adjust to that?).

You know in the interests of keeping this under nanowrimo length I should probably stop here. Except to say: go out and fuck someone hot tonight. [I'm not sure I will ever do this and that makes me sad -ed.] If this isn't an option/desirable I would suggest downloading Page France - We Remain as Two, drinking a few glasses of wine and really obsessing over past loves and kindred spirits. You'll regret it but it'll be nice and poetic.

[1] Although apparently some disagree... why?
[2] Ok, major telepathic play list moment. Just as I was tying this the song Dirty Girl by the Eels started playing (the opening lines are "I love a girl with a dirty mouth" - don’t we all? [Yes. Yes we do. -ed.]).
[3] http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7B7bVD_DkM4&feature=related
[4] Look, this is a good final line. I’m not as cynical as it implies though. I am glad we still have Facebook.

Monday, 6 April 2009

10h 5m 31s

It's been a while since I've put anything up here. More than a year, in fact. I have been reading over my old stuff and it's good. I'm glad I have it. I'm also glad of my black books. I'm not so glad of my book Principles of Corporations Law.

That's a lie. I love having the book. I love the ability to know. I hate the essay. The problem is that I know this essay won't be any good. It can't be. I don't have time to make it good. It's due in 10h 3m 43s. I can't research and write an essay in that time - which is what I'd need to do. Of course, while my preference is never to hand in anything less than my best work (ha!) if I don't get something in by the due time I'll get zero. That will cause me to fail law.

Welcome back.