Just goes to show, you never can tell.
I just filled in a dyslexia questionnaire for work (got to trial these things on ourselves before we can let them loose on the clients) and if you get 9 or more ‘yes’ responses, it “suggests a dyslexia type problem”.
I got 15 *
Could be worse, but it sure explains an awful lot.
* Though I challenge one of the questions – hell, YOU try saying the months of the year backward. It’s not easy!
I’m not sure how to start to the Roast this week. After last weeks fun and lesbian frolics, let’s face it, anything is going to be a bit dull. Plus, I’m having an off week and I can’t seem to locate my trademark sarcasm and wit. If you do find my trademark sarcasm and wit, could you please return it to me please? I miss it 🙁
What is becoming something of a fixture (I blame Moose for constantly asking me if I’ve seen this or that trailer), here are the movie trailers that have caught my eye for whatever reason this week.
Penelope – your standard boy-meets-pig/girl story. With James McEvoy.
Tortilla Heaven – one of those movies I probably shouldn’t want to watch, and that you just KNOW is going to turn out as corny as all get-out, but… I admit, something about the trailer got me.
Paprika – now THIS I want to see, though I will undoubtedly have to wait for the DVD release.
Peaceful Warrior – another of those corny, feel good, up-by-the-boot-straps kinda movies. I’m a sucker, I just can’t get enough of a happy ending.
Black Sheep – mutant evil sheep. In New Zealand. How could life get any better?
Apparently, they’ve found the tomb of Jesus. And his family. And his children. And no, this isn’t from the pages of the Da Vinci Code. Really, archaeology has been perverted from some seriously weird things in its time, but this has to take the biscuit. And how the hell are they going to prove it’s Jesus through DNA testing?!
As mentioned at the top of the post, I’m currently desperately seeking mojo – but it turns out I still have reasons to write. 11 of them. Thanks Liz!
Are you a writer? I know I am, if only like, because Liz, I simply must write. It’s what I do.
Should soaps be more political? Will it engage more people? I have my doubts. I don’t think that engagement is something that can be inspired by watching your favourite TV characters engage. It’s something deeper and more systemic and relates to the political parties themselves. I got into a conversation earlier this week with two clients from work – they were very vocal in their political views. Both were vehemently anti-Labour (though background-wise they should be dyed-in-the-wool Labour supporters). One came out as Conservative, the other as BNP. Both said they supported the party in their area, to the point that they help with leafleting and such. But neither of them voted. “There’s just no point – what difference will it make to my life?” And that’s a direct quote.
Edible Chess Moulds. I want. I want now.
BBC has struck a deal with YouTube to show clips etc online. I was initially all ‘yay!’, then I read a bit more about it and started to have second thoughts. Though I’m still on the side of opening up content, I’m not convinced YouTube was the best choice…
And you thought the Swiss were all peace-loving.
And finally, just look what you can do with CSS. Quite makes me want to weep in envy.
You know that antsy feeling where you just kinda drift around the flat, waiting for something happen? You know you want to do something but you just can’t for the life of you think what?
So you end up sitting on the sofa watching three disks of Angel season 3, eating half a box of Cadbury’s Rose’s, and generally feeling fat and sorry for yourself.
Stage two, following inevitably as it does a day-long hung-over binge on Joss Whedon creations, normally involves sitting at the desk, staring at the view, and self-analysing as opposed to actually DOING.
Or perhaps you aren’t familiar with these feelings. Lucky you is all I can say.
I’m sitting here, listening to The Sweet (don’t ask), occasionally getting up and pacing, waiting for life to give me a swift kick in the pants to get me going. Or for me to give life a swift kick to get it going. There should be kicking going on somewhere down the line, of that at least I’m sure. I’ve got all these plans you see. I can tell you exactly what needs to be done yet… I’m not doing it.
Have I rejoined the gym?
No.
Even though I really need to get fit again?
Still no.
Even with the prospect of meeting new people in a few months and wanting to look good?
Um, check previous answer.
Then there’s the whole “going out, having fun” thing. So sure, I went round the Divine M’s last night and had an absolute blast. (Which might, or might not, be something to do with attractive men plying me with me wine for the better part of the evening). But tonight I’ve reverted to full hermit-mode and stood up illyna for a night of dancing – I love dancing!
It seems I get so far and then skedadle back to my little cave waiting for my knight to come rescue me. Because I think that’s the problem here. I want rescuing. I don’t want to have to rescue myself, because rescuing myself is just too much like hard work. I’ve got comfortable in my little routine and it’s a big, scary world out there. I’m not sure I want to challenge the status quo because then…
Eek. Something might actually happen.
Don’t get me wrong: I adore my life right now. My job, whilst it sounds boring, is actually enjoyable (mostly), challenging and involves me making a genuine difference to people’s lives. Plus it pays enough that I have a little extra each month to treat myself – not a lot, but enough. I can’t complain. I have as much of my health as I ever am going to have. Plus I have people around me who I adore and who seem rather fond of me in return. I am honestly, truly, hand-on-my-heart happy with where I am. So why am I antsy? Why, deep down is there a little thought squiwrling away saying “you’re never going to have that happy ever after…”
Why following that is there still the voice that goes “and you don’t deserve it either…”
Crap. I shouldn’t be sitting here waiting for my life to happen, I should be out their living it. I want to go for lunch with my friends and tell them the stories of my nefarious deeds, as opposed to just listening in awe to theirs. Vicarious thrills are all well and good, but something tells me that to personally experience said thrills would be more, well, thrilling.
Just, well, I think I need someone to come give me a kick. Or a kiss. This frog thinks it’s time she turned into a princess.
(And yes I am aware that I seem to be pinning all my hopes for improving my life on getting a man. I know, I know. I really am as self-sufficient as the next girl – just so long as the next girl is some gooey soppy romantic at heart who just wants to be loved. Grrr. Damn my self-esteem for actually existing now and making me think I deserve someone more than just ordinary. It would be so much easier if I was willing to just settle for the first guy who could string a sentence together.)
She lay on her side in bed, the covers pulled up, hugged against her despite the warmth of the evening. One arm was free of the covers and she gently touched the picture stuck to the wall beside her head. She could look direct into his eyes without shifting her head on the pillow. Over and over she gently brushed her fingers over his photographic lips, touched his reproduced nose, and stroked his picture perfect hair. She didn’t want to turn out the light, for to do so would mean she could no longer see the picture. Not that she needed it; his every feature was indelibly drawn in her brain. And she wanted to sleep. But she couldn’t bring herself to turn out the light. With the light on she had that tentative link with him, she could look into his smiling eyes. When the light went out, she would be alone with her thoughts and no longer able to fool herself that she wasn’t with him.
The same urge that kept music playing constantly, kept the light burning, and her pen scribbling long after she should be at rest. Every moment, music was playing, or the radio was on, anything to fill the silence she was once so happy in. Once, silence meant time to think, time to dream, time to write. Now it still meant all those things. But now the silence had a name. His name. She ached to touch him, to hear his voice. But when the music stopped, or when she stopped moving, she could no longer fool herself.
There were times, when she wasn’t paying attention, that she could forget him for a moment. Concentrating on a particular problem, or talking to her friends. But then she would remember and bend almost double in pain. It physically hurt, like a punch to the stomach, and there was nothing she could do. So she kept the music playing. And the lights on. And pen and paper always to hand, or the computer on.
She flicked the media player on and, even though she couldn’t see the screen without her glasses, the mouse invariably found the correct file. Open. Play. And his voice filled the room. As the tears started rolling, his voice wrapped round her like a blanket. Soft, honey rich, full of love and life… And she hit play over and over. Five, ten, twenty times. His voice played over and over. Thirty precious seconds. She lived for those seconds.
In the darkness now, she plays the clip once more and closes her eyes against the pain. She holds her hand back from the mouse, ordering herself not to click “Play” again. 20 times tonight. 19 tomorrow.