Job application to parties, via cat vomit. The ups and downs of my life are ridiculous.

Sooo…what news have I got to enthrall you all with this week?

First off: you remember that post I did on applying for a job? Well, clearly they thought there was some merit in my application, because they want me for an interview!

Hang on, that means I have to interact with a stranger.

Fuck.

Also, they want me to phone them back about scheduling the job interview, and I honestly cannot talk on the phone. I don’t know how people do it.

A typical phone conversation with me will involve the other person attempting to chat and me responding with “yeah…yeah…mm-hmm…yeah…oh look! Here’s Mum! You wanted to speak to her! Bye!”

I am a terrible human being.

In other news, the cat vomited grass onto my school folder.

I don’t think I need to say anything more about that.

Yesterday (Saturday) was a good day. I went to Royal Holloway on an Open Day in the morning, and loved it, which means I now have to actually get some grades to go there.

It was my friend’s 18th birthday party in the evening. It was held at a nice hotel, so it wasn’t like all the other 18th birthday parties I’ve been to and no one ended up vomiting on/in stuff they shouldn’t have. Bathroom…bedroom floor…bag full of someone’s ‘normal’ clothes for getting the train home from the ’60’s themed party because they didn’t want to get on a train wearing an orange DJ, brown suede trousers and a purple velvet bow tie.

On the other hand, I danced so much I had back ache this morning. I actually know my alcohol limits, and because not 18 for another four months, I couldn’t drink anyway. However, I do not know my dancing limits. The problem is not that I don’t know when I’m about to collapse from jumping around too much. The problem is that the DJ will play 5, 6, 7, 8 followed by the Macarena and then the Cha Cha Slide and then Reach and then he will follow it up with a million other catchy songs and the only way I can express my enthusiasm is if I dance maniacally while screeching the lyrics as loudly as possible (or my interpretation of the lyrics).

Also, my friends like to drag me out onto the dance floor to dance because we can’t have fun unless we’re the only ones on the dance floor in a room of about a hundred people.

I didn’t fall over though, which was an improvement on last time!

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This post starts out normal, but dissolves into a massive rant about 1/3 of the way through. You have been warned.

My house just tried to kill me.

Yep.

It tried to brain me with a lump of plaster and metal.

As you are reading this now, I obviously have not replaced my head with a lump of plaster and metal, and the reason I am not concussed at the moment is because of my cat-like reflexes. My secret nickname is Ninja .

In attempting to open the back door, I angered the sleeping Lintel God, and he decided to vent his frustrations by causing part of an iron strut to fall out of the doorway above where I was standing. Luckily, I stepped backwards in time and the lump of Lintel God Rage landed on my foot instead. Cue swearing.

Then half the rest of the iron strut fell out of the doorway, bent in half, and swung for a while until my dad fetched the metal cutters.

It was then that we noticed something interesting about the design of the doorway. It appears that the people who built the doorway had never been to Door School. They had obviously barely made it out of Door Maths, because the extent of their doorway-building skills went along the lines of:

Hole in Wall + Door Frame = Doorway

This may seem like a fairly sensible starting point, but they had neglected to add things such as ‘bolts’ and ‘screws’.

Yes, they built a doorway by propping a door frame in a hole in the wall and neglecting to put any features in to attach it to said hole. I can rock the entire door frame with no effort, and you can see through the gap between the top of the door frame and the ‘lintel’.

I have now typed the word ‘door’ enough times that it no longer looks normal to me. It doesn’t look like a word at all.

I think I’ll stop talking about doors now.

Arrgh! DOORS!

Moving swiftly on.

Race Week has started over here in Cheltenham. For those of you who have never heard of the Cheltenham Races, it is a phenomenon witnessed each year by the people of the West Country (OOAARRR) where herds of humans, displaying full mating plumage, make a ritualistic pilgrimage across the country to block roads, get drunk and gamble. They meet at specially designated areas and hold ceremonies of picnics and beer-can-rug-making.

Also, there are horse races.

Race Week is a Big Deal. There are special radio stations devoted to information on the Races for the duration of the week. Police make statements along the lines of “We will do our best to keep all traffic moving during this time” and then they fail dismally and you end up sitting in 45 minute queues because the 300 cars in front of you have never been to Cheltenham and don’t understand how roundabouts work in Farmerland.

A fun game is to guess how many cars are heading for the racecourse. If there are more than three people in the car, it’s going to the Races. If someone is wearing a fascinator, they’re going to the Races. If it’s a news van, it’s going to the Races. If the car is really, really, really clean…it’s going to the races.

Actually, this isn’t a fun game at all. It’s only fun when you’ve been sat in traffic for an hour with a Land Rover attempting to climb inside your exhaust pipe every time you stop and you’re getting the first symptoms of Cabin Fever. Even then, it’s only marginally better than listening to the radio.

The radio in my car is possessed. It randomly mutes at odd moments. Using the brakes can disengage the left hand speaker, turn the volume up to Eurofighter or blank the display. Sometimes all of the above. Using the accelerator can do all of the above and cause the radio to make noises like Nicki Minaj having a seizure.

When the radio does work, the only thing there is to listen to in the morning is a radio station presented by the world’s most irritating man. (Side note, since Chris Moyles left Radio 1, the title of World’s Most Irritating Radio Presenter has two contenders). The presenting style is Catchphrases With A Hint Of Patronisi-Whoops, I Slipped, OK: Catchphrases Swimming In A Gravy Of Patronising.

GAH! Also, I’m fairly sure they prerecord the show, or at the very least the traffic updates, because I sit in the traffic every day. Guess what? Traffic levels vary. ‘A bit busy’ does not cover every eventuality, every single fucking day.

Also, I didn’t think it was possible for a radio station to make any money by having the same ‘funny’ piece of news repeated every day for a week. They even trail the content of tomorrow’s show the day after they talked about it first.

To use one of the catchphrases: It’s a little bit like this (seriously, when you’ve heard this twenty three times an hour every day, you’ll be sick of it too).

MONDAY MORNING

Presenter: This is the funniest thing ever. No seriously, a guy got fired and sent this email to the rest of the company…[reads email while hideous typewriter-noises play obnoxiously loudly in the background].

MONDAY AFTERNOON

Trailer guy: And you can find out what was in the email if you listen to Xxxxxx’s show tomorrow morning, from six!!!!!!!!!

TUESDAY MORNING

Presenter: This is the funniest thing ever. No seriously, a guy got fired and sent this email to the rest of the company…[reads email while hideous typewriter-noises play obnoxiously loudly in the background].

REPEAT AD INFINITUM/NAUSEUM

Also, they have a quiz every morning. Only yesterday morning, the quiz was one they played last week. Not only was it not picked up on immediately it wasn’t even mentioned. This just confirms my theory that the whole thing is robots, except for one person who pushes the ‘Go’ button, and he was on a tea break.

I’m going to go now, before this post dissolves completely into a nightmare rant.

On Britishness and Spiders

I am now convinced that there is no such thing as an ‘English Summer’. ‘English Spring’ is an even more elusive concept, and the only way this could be ‘God’s own country’ is if God wanted to live in a land of lies.

Once again, I am fulfilling every British stereotype by talking about the weather.

Guess what? We had the warmest day of the year last week! It reached a whopping 12°C before the clouds came back. Now, however, the weather has turned again. They predicted snow last week. What they didn’t predict was that the snow (although at this point I think it would be fair to call it ice spears of death) would be accompanied by freezing rain, freezing temperatures and freezing wind. Now, it may seem like I’m being a tad beyond stupid when I imply that it is unreasonable for the air temperature to be cold when it is snowing. However, it is unusual for it to be this cold. While the actual temperature is something like 0°C, the gusts mean that it feels like it’s -10°C. I know this because I looked it up on the Met Office website, because I’m British and therefore place far too much faith in the weather forecast.

On top of the freezing everything and the weather warnings and the Do Not Go Outside winds and cold, it is also sunny. There are large stretches of clear blue sky, the sun has been shining for most of the day…and it’s snowing heavily. It is one of the weirder things I have seen with regards to the English weather. Add in the mini-cyclones made up of leaves and the only conclusion I can draw from this is that Mother Nature is premenstrual.

In other news, I went to work yesterday in soaking wet trousers because they had just come out of the wash and I’m an idiot.

In other, other news…I was reading an article on Cracked.com and I wasn’t too bothered about the 6 inch spider until I remembered that 6 inches is the size of a small ruler and then I flipped out and vowed never to eat another banana again. I keep seeing spiders wearing banana skins interspersed with this:

I think I'm done with Oreo's...

And now I’ve just remembered that we’re back into spider season.

Fuck.

WARNING: Do Not Read If You Are Upset By Teenage Angst

My parents take a ‘good cop/bad cop’ approach to lecturing me. My mother tells me how lazy I am and how frustrating it is watching me coast along doing nothing and how I’ll get nothing in return. My father tells me that it’s OK and I don’t have to go to university straight away, I can spend a few years in a dead-end job before deciding I want to get somewhere.

In some ways, I suppose it’s less ‘good cop/bad cop’ and more ‘here, have a dose of self-loathing and misery/is this supposed to make me feel better?’

I get these lectures whenever Results Days roll around, and for those of you who don’t keep up with the British education system, today was a Results Day, hence why I just had a lecture.

I have been having these lectures for as long as I have been getting results. What my parents don’t seem to have grasped is that none of these lecture have fucking worked.

All they do is make me feel defensive, and my response to feeling defensive is to curl up in a ball and refuse to cooperate.

The theme for most of the recent ones has been ‘Motivation’. As in: “Why are you so unmotivated?” “What is it going to take to make you work?” “Are you even grasping just how down-the-plughole your life is heading?”

Unfortunately, due to my curl-up-in-a-ball-and-be-silent response technique (I actually do this whenever they start talking to me), I am unable to say that I am horrendously self-aware and I completely understand the implications of what I am doing (or not doing) and that if I knew how to motivate myself, I would have done it years ago.

This is probably the main reason these lectures don’t go particularly well. As a family, we don’t go in for heart-to-heart chats, so as soon as we all sit down to discuss things everyone stops talking and either stares at someone else (what my parents do) or stare at whatever the dog has decided to spit onto your leg to tell you she’d like you to throw it (what I do). We average around three words every five minutes, I normally end up in tears and my parents normally end up with absolutely no clue why I’m not responding.

In case you hadn’t noticed, my results weren’t great. They weren’t great by my standards, which means they were end-of-the-world-catastrophic by the standards of my parents.

My parents aren’t pushy people. They are proponents of the ‘let children figure out what they want by themselves’ school of parenting. However, they are still human, and therefore still have issues when I can’t figure out what I want.

What I want is to be a research scientist.

What I’m likely to get is a job at MacDonald’s.

OK, that’s a bit OTT; I will more likely end up with a job I hate, which won’t lead me to be any more motivated, which is exactly the problem I’m suffering right now.

Typically, my only A’s were in General Studies. What were the questions on? Scientific Research and Music. What does that say about my performance when I’m motivated by what I’m writing?

Most of the time, I just wish my parents would stop haranguing me and instead just sit me down and try to help me. Yes, I’m seventeen years old and probably require some supervision to knuckle down to work. But inside, I don’t feel seventeen. Inside, I still feel like I’m eleven. Eleven was the age when the Panic Disorder started, and my counsellor remarked that, in terms of certain parts of my emotional maturity, I had gone right back to toddler stages. That’s not to say I lay on the floor and screamed a lot. I could still function perfectly well in certain environments. In others, however, I required a lot of support to help me through. Unfortunately, my parents believe in Manning the Fuck Up and basically told me to grow out of it. I don’t blame them; they had never had to deal with this before; they didn’t understand how I could have gone from a happy, independent, normal child to a nervous, clingy wreck in the space of a few short months.

Anyway, I did, and I’ve mostly grown out of it now. I still panic sometimes, I still have times when I feel suffocated by everything, but I’m getting there.

On the other hand, life still scares me. And as the only response to life that I learned throughout my formative years was that curling up and ignoring everything was the only way I could deal with all of the issues my brain threw at me, I’m still stuck in that mindset. And it doesn’t look like I’m going to be able to break out of it any time soon, unless someone helps me out a bit.

 

If you actually read all of that, well done. I apologise for using this blog as a venting ground for such a whiny and non-humorous post, but sometime’s it’s just got to go somewhere.

In other news, because I still like to help other things, even if I can’t always help myself, I am probably going to be involved in the rescue of five starved Arabian horses on Saturday, and I could potentially get to take one home with me for life!

My dog possesses superpowers

Very occasionally, my pets like to think they can do things they shouldn’t. One of my cats, when he isn’t pretending to be Linda Blair, likes to perform tricks. So far, I’ve taught him ‘sit’, ‘lie down’ and ‘up’ and we’e working on ‘high-five’ (he hasn’t entirely grasped the concept of lifting his paw off the ground without assistance). On a side note, the expression on his face whenever he does a trick is priceless. It’s sort of ‘OMG DID YOU SEE WHAT I DID?!?!’ combined with pure, feline happiness and a dash of smugness.

My dog, on the other hand, thinks that simple tricks like ‘sit’, ‘high-five’ and ‘Duck-Duck-Goose’ are for babies. She will perform them quite happily, but she saves up her best tricks for when no one’s around.

I’m semi-convinced that she’s a shapeshifter posing as a dog, because she shouldn’t be able to rearrange the house without opposable thumbs. The last time we left her home alone, she put into action her plan to rectify the tragic issue of the distance between the cat food and her bed. [CONTEXT: If not all of the cats are in for supper, I will leave some of the bowls on the side, covered with a larger bowl.] When we went out, there were three full bowls of cat food onthe side. When we got home, the large bowl was in her bed and three empty bowls were in the living room. She didn’t just tip them onto the floor and eat the food. No, she carried them through three rooms without spilling a drop. They were all the right way up, and not damaged in any way. I’m fairly certain she brought the big bowl just for the lulz.

Her supercanine abilities don’t end there. She has eaten an entire chocolate cake with chocolate icing and not thrown up. She has eaten fruit cake. SHe has eaten clingfilm.

She has dragged an unopened 4kg sack of sugar (a paper sack) from the utility room into the lounge and opened it on the rug, without spilling any en route. She ate the paper sack and left the sugar for me to have fun hoovering up (actually, a very satisfying job (why can’t all floors be covered in sugar mountains (maybe then I’d do some chores))).

Anyway, enough of the escapades of my pets; I have a new internet addiction! Klout calculates my social networking power! My score is pretty pathetic at the moment and keeps dropping. On the other hand, I was sneaky and asked an open question on Facebook so people would interact with me. HA! Take that, Klout!

Clearly, I am pathetic.

Also, in an extra note; I looked at what searches are leading people to this blog (it takes work to maintain high standards of Pathetic) and it turns out that the majority of them are searching somewhere along the lines of ‘alarm cock* porn’.

Really? I’m not even sure what they wanted to see in the first place.

Alarmingly large penises?

Penises with smoke detectors?

Porn where every participant looks permanently startled?

Anyway, I have now run out of things to say, and I’m completely exhausted because, since getting my laptop back, I have had no self control and have been getting six hours sleep a night and I can’t function without at least eight and a half. This is why this post is rambling and unfunny (only joking – I’m always rambling and unfunny). Also, I can’t think of a way to end this post. Maybe I’m doomed to sit here and type forever because I can’t finish the post. That would be horrible. I’d end up falling asleep on the keyboard and the rest of the post would be random strings of gibberish, which would probably be better than what I’m writing now, so I’m going to stop here.

Goodnight.

*Not actually a typo