Splinterville, night blogging, and a potato.

I sat on the edge of my bed and thought about what I should do with this information. The first thought was a Facebook status, then a poem, then a series of haikus, a vignette, a poem, a poem, no Jo fuck’s sake, not a poem, but Jo, no Jo, shush. Blog. There is a blog I have two entries in. Great, excellent. So, blog post.

Hi. I have a splinter in my thumb. (And a stick up my arse, some would add.) Well, I think I do. (The splinter, not the stick. I like to think I’d know if there was a stick up my arse.) Right, let’s take this back a bit.

A couple of weeks ago capitalism got the best of me and as I was wiping a little wooden stick from Starbucks (why I did that is beyond me) splinters got through two layers of skin to settle in a new home. Some tree somewhere in this world grew from a little leaf through years of rain and sun and hardships and various animals pissing on it only to be cut down and processed and processed again and created into a little flat device that helps you stir overpriced coffee for a total of twenty-two seconds and is discarded. Your sugar still won’t be melted and if you’re me – ouch.

Of course I didn’t do anything about it until much later; okay, until the next morning, when I woke up with a hangover and a throbbing thumb, ironically wanting a Starbucks latte. Bleary eyed and with shaking hands (hello, hangovers) I managed to squeeze the little fucker out from under my skin and I thought that would be the end of it.

Insert having a horrible time in Romania and wishing you could put the splinter back in because that would be more exciting and a lot less shit. Ah, the motherland feels are strong with this one at two in the morning. Fucking. Right. No one knows how to queue, okay? Fucking anarchy. You have to pay for something and you’re the third person in line? Panic. Panic now. Try to find ways to sidestep the others, to get in front, to get into a fight. Push me. Push me hard, man. Make me know who’s the boss of the queues. Yeah, man, I love it just like that, when you stand so close behind me I can feel your breath on the top of my head. So I pretend to lose my footing and step on your toes. Sorry, yeah.

I digress. It is now a couple of weeks later. Capitalism has returned to fuck me over yet again. I want this to be a heartfelt story of a single mum splinter who sacrificed herself to allow her baby splinter to live on in their new home. I want the baby splinter to grow strong and work hard and stay in the school I imagine is happening under my skin. I want it to start its quest for revenge layers deep and work its way out until it’s free to hopefully decompose. I don’t know what happened, to be perfectly honest. But sudden pain in my thumb; this on the same day when I caught the same two fingers in two different doors. After scraping my knuckle and cutting the inside of my other thumb with a butter knife while cooking fish at two in the morning. Oh, there it comes now; a bit of a bump that hints at the baby splinter. I should stop being patronizing, I imagine they don’t have a long life expectancy, what with being inanimate objects and all that shit. I wouldn’t want to upset the young adult baby splinter.

Stephen Lynch has this song about sticking a gerbil up his arse. While the thought occurred to me briefly, no, this is not the solution for the pain. Unless it’s emotional pain. Probably not then either. It’s difficult when your parents didn’t love you. Don’t stick a living animal up your arse. Don’t stick a dead one either. Okay, let’s try this again. Stephen Lynch has a song about sticking a gerbil up his arse. In the second part of that epic tale of wonder, he says “I tried crowbars, I tried wires / I almost had him with a pair of pliers”, and I feel I know that man’s pain now. Well, not living-soon-to-die-gerbil-in-arse, but close.

This naturally brings Google into the story because I am not going to call my mother at some insane time so she can pour homemade wisdom about homemade splinter removing techniques. Splinter with skin healed over it, of course. To make it interesting. I probably would have called my mother to ask her about that regardless of the time, but I just really don’t want to talk to her. To Google.

How to remove a splinter

DON’T APPLY PRESSURE! DON’T SQUEEZE! DON’T TRY TO USE YOUR NAILS!

Great, anything else I shouldn’t do that I’ve already done? Premarital sex? Shit, man, if only I’d known. But it’s cool, it’s not premarital if you never get married. Ah, shouldn’t APPLY PREASURE TO THE SPLINTER AFFECTED AREA OKAY THEN SORRY RANDOM HOW-TO PAGE I’M SORRY OKAY.

With that out of the way, here come the solutions. Needles, tweezers, nail clippers (???), baking soda, onions, some magnesium phosphate powder that could very well be drugs that I don’t have and kind of want. The powder. For the splinter. Not the drugs because some members of my family are reading this. (God, I love making myself laugh. And I love quoting myself: “I have to make myself laugh or I’ll die.” “You mean cry.” “No, die.”)

I tried all of the tool-relying ones. None of them worked, as expected. I have no baking soda, no one in my flat does. Okay then. I have some baby potatoes. Cut a bit of potato and put it on the affected area and leave until the splinter is removed. A year at least. No, I bullshit. Overnight ideally, but generally however long needed.

Which brings us to the reason for writing this. Other than having deadlines soon, obviously. I brought a baby potato in my room and stood there awkwardly looking at it. My thumb was throbbing with some dull pain. I didn’t bring a knife. I absolutely cannot walk the six feet to get one. Conundrum. Jesus take the wheel. Bring a knife instead.

So I cut a potato in half and then in smaller bits with the blade of a pair of scissors, on my desk, found some tape and painfully slow in my moves, I stuck it to my nail, went over the bit of raw potato, failed miserably and started again, eventually managed to tape it in place, all the while a Bobby Vinton playlist in the background.

I typed all of this with a bit of potato sticking out timidly from under the tape. I don’t know if this will work, but I fear this tape is here to stay on my finger. A part of me is sad to let go of the splinter if this works. Another part of me is in pain because of this splinter and hates it to fuck and back.

Lonely, man. I’m Mr. Lonely.

About bridges and whatnot

People are petty. Mindless, horrible, vicious, little failures. Examples in reasons for the publishing history of so many books articulating just that. It couldn’t have been coincidence. No, people are petty. Pathetic, really. Do I know I’m referring to myself as well? Yes, of course. It’s one of the reasons I drink as much as I do. Do I think that’s the coward’s way out? Naturally. It could also be brave of me, I can’t tell.

People are petty, mate. They build, slowly and precisely at times, rabidly and hurried at others, brick by brick – they put together their misery and insecurities, hide it all under a high-maintenance facade of greatness and self-confidence. It ends up a monstrous sticks-out-like-a-thumb glass and steel building in a sea of coquettish little individual houses. It is essentially a horde of crazed elephants all shoved in a room, starved, and taunted. All hidden with a bit of make-up, a bit of greatly failing sarcasm, a lack of filter and whatnot.

This is a crass generalisation. My lecturer always said something or the other about generalisation, the exact words fail to come to mind right now, but the main idea is that it’s bad; I should not generalise, and I won’t. But I will. This is not meant to serve academic purposes, or even any major purpose. This is my venting, my way of not walking down the street and slapping a bitch because I can see through the masks. This may very well be considered passive aggressive, and while I am normally “about that life”, it is by no means written with that tone in mind. I’m not trying to send a message. I want to rant. So I am. On my own website. That I neglect. But it’s mine. It’s an achievement of sorts. It’s proof that I can do something – well or not, that’s beyond the point.

There is a subspecies of people that is particularly petty. It’s not the ones who are mean because they don’t know any better. It’s not a defence mechanism in so much as a choice. It’s knowing you are absolute shit and trying to get others to be shittier than you are, so that you can thrive on that. It isn’t uncommon, and if there is anyone who says they haven’t at least entertained a thought about it, not to mention actually having done it, I call bullshit. It’s a natural response to things, yes, I know. It’s in our nature to dislike some others and to choose to fuck them over, for whatever reasons we can come up with. People are petty, hello.

But going so far as to have not only two faces, but about thirty-seven is a whole new level of pettiness. It’s validating yourself by fucking someone over. It’s validating yourself by fucking someone over because you were overlooked. It’s doing something shitty to someone and then building yourself a statue in marble and the tears of your “enemies”. It’s taking that statue and placing it in a highly circulated area, and then taking pride in dogs preferring to piss on your statue more than on the random streetlight and similar structures. It goes past banter or trying to prove a point. It’s hating yourself so much, hating your family situation, the way you were brought up, the lack of money or love or both or everything, it’s being hungry when you were six and taking it out on people in your twenties, because fuck logic that’s why. It’s despising yourself so much you create and feed this lying beast, kidding yourself that you can tame and use it. You can’t. You’re nothing but a pathetic little person with so few accomplishments, with a “holier than thou” smile, and a genuine fear of intimacy. And it’s sad.

And then there’s the rather unsightly human examples of the grapes story. If people ever diss fables, they should be tied down and forced to hear all of them. Because they are quite possibly the most facile way to educate yourself into not being an absolute fucking shit person. But no, that would be too easy. It would make sense. No. Bring on the vindictive side. A metaphorical make your bed and wank in it before blaming IKEA for not coming with a free wanking device. Because your expectation was such, and since the nature of things dictates against it, you must surely find a target for all that frustration. The progression of things cannot be blamed, because surely it is all monitored and influenced by some half-arsed designer who put three planks of wood together and called it a bed; and dared to not give a fuck about the tendency to wank yourself to tears, thinking no one will ever love you. See, I’m being petty and vicious now. I know. I’m drinking about it.

This rant is not even gender based. It’s not about women being vicious (they are), or men being bitter (they are). It’s about people; it’s about humans I have met in this ridiculously little time I’ve spent alive. It’s about someone who’s lived a third of their life (or more if I keep drinking the way I do) and cannot comprehend the entire extend of malice and bad intention. It’s not about that girl who judged my thighs, or that guy who hated me for not doing him. It’s not about spreading rumours like a rather nasty STD. It’s about being an absolute cunt. For no reason.

It’s almost funny. Almost; I’m not convinced to laugh just yet. Because it is so easy for me to care for people. Yes, I know I have shit ways of showing it, and I’d apologise if I gave a fuck. I really do care for a lot of people, and I love easily, and I love with all my heart, and I trust people most of the time. Because I’m an idiot, and because I can’t help it. Because the people I grew up with were caring and honest and it has become a rather unfortunate habit to expect it of people. I already said it: idiot.

They expect it to hurt me. And it does sometimes. And I care a tad more than I should about this tripe. And I in turn resent that, because there are so many beautiful people who pull me over and ask me to smile more often because of this and that. And they tell me that it’s okay, I’ll do better than next time. And that it’s not my fault, or that it is, and that I should come up and accept that. Maybe atone, if need be. And my focus should be on those beautiful individuals.

But it irks me, you see. Because I’ve never wronged someone and not apologised for it. If it was a real thing, not a figment of their rather desperately lacking imagination. I’ve asked for forgiveness for things that were not my fault. I’ve put my head down and called it “my bad” even when I knew that was not the case. Because I cared enough. But I will not bow my head for someone’s vindictive nature. I will not stand and “turn the other cheek” when the first cheek did not deserve it. Maybe it’s flowing through my veins, this absolute need for fairness. For clarification. Maybe it’s my mother’s lifetime of being wronged. Maybe it’s my father’s honesty. Maybe it’s just me. I don’t know. It’s not really important.

I’m waiting for people to stop fighting their battles with still prepubescent anxiety that they proudly call depression in public. I’m waiting for people to grow balls, or a vagina, or whatever phrasing works for you, and have a mature conversation about their issues. I’m waiting for people to stop being so childish as to plunge into gossip and name-calling. I’m waiting for people to stop calling me a cunt-something, or whatever the word of the day is. I’m waiting for people to burn their bridges. Or cross them. Or walk halfway through and jump in icy cold water quoting Kate Winslet. I’m waiting for people to stop having bridges and choose to have a rational mature reaction to them, not to piss all over them, roll around in it, and walk on with little droplets delicately staining the pavement.

I’m waiting for people to grow up, and I make sure that when they do, I will have moved on. I will acknowledge it with a little smile, because it’s an achievement – your first, hurrah! – but I will not be there to care more than that. I don’t like surrounding myself with imbeciles, and sadly, the progression of life entails a shitload of them. Which is why I drink. Again, a coward move or not, I can stand by it. Can you stand by the shameful vindictive pettiness? And if you can, will you like it when you fall face-first in a puddle of maturity and you have to splutter the muddy consequences of your actions? Next, on “I hate myself enough to fuck people over for a brief tingle down to my you-know-what”…

1. Written with no faces in mind, but should you feel this is in any way about you, you might want to reconsider your life choices. Or fuck off, whatever works better. I don’t care. Any issues with this can be taken up with me; I reserve the right to ignore you endlessly, because I don’t tolerate tantrums. I also reserve the right to potentially punch you in the face. Because sometimes I’m petty as well. I’d disclaim this further, but I’m bordering on apologetic, and as mentioned, I don’t have any reason to be.

2. Any errors in this are mine and mine alone. And they have been overlooked because I can’t be arsed. Not tonight, and not at two in the fucking morning.

Friendly reminder of why I love London

I wanted to live here most of my life. I wanted to live here, or somewhere in Scotland or in Ireland, because I was a confused girl. I still want to live everywhere and see everything and fall in love with places and buildings and various methods of dealing weed.

But a week ago, I was reminded why I love London so much. Life has a funny way of working that way. You see, I was on the verge of questioning everything and everyone and damning it all to Hell. I have this innate attitude to just run away from things when I no longer like them. Kind of like why I don’t date. I get annoyed, or bored, or scared, and I just want to leave it all and fuck off.

Last Wednesday, when I realised it was too late to do my assignment, and I was too restless to do it, anyway, Emerald had the beautiful idea to go buy pants. It is what it is. So, Westfield. In rush hour. Changing at Canning Town. Fuck me, right?

In the sea of people, all mindless, tired, equally as annoyed as I was, we dragged our feet with the sole purpose of getting the fuck on a Jubilee line train and “come on already, damn it all to fuck!”

The actual conversation went along the lines of:

“Emerald, why the fuck did you decide to go Westfield in the middle of fucking rush hour? You know I fucking hate people.”

This man, possibly in his fifties (maybe attractive), chuckled and I turned to look at him, smiling in recognition. It was one of those bonding moments when you just agree with a random stranger. The kind of bond you make when you’re waiting in Costa and some rude little bitch cuts you off and screams she wanted skimmed crap whatever, climbs on top of you and possibly lets her dick bob on your forehead on the way to a fight. And you look at the stranger next to you, whose jaw is locked and whose eyes are rolling. And you know. That strangers know. You’re on the same wavelenght. (Celestial or not, whee Supernatural reference!)

I digress.

Emerald was a step lower than I was (and still fucking taller than the fucking Shard, it’s ridiculous really), and she sighed, annoyed with me, the people, the world, men, dicks and everything really. So she tried. She really did. She actually got halfway through saying, “I’m all out of fucks to give.” But I let her get four words out before starting to sing-yell (syell?), in a particularly non flattering voice:

“I’M ALL OUT OF LOVE”

And then something amazing happened. Something that made my day, and the following day, and every moment I feel down or miserable.

The man from earlier, the one I shared a profound and very spiritual rush hour related bond with, starting singing as well. Just like that. He led me lead, bless him, probably because of my youth, or my passion. He was my second voice for the entirety of four lines we belted out together. I turned to look at him as we walked down the stairs, and he was smiling. I was smiling. Emerald was laughing, and if nothing else, it made me happier than I’d been in a long time.

It definitely made me blush for the first time in probably more than four years.

It made me laugh and feel bubbly inside because a complete stranger bonded with me and sang with me and I don’t want punctuation to hinder this sentence at all.

It might look childish. It could very well be, but I don’t give a fuck. I spent the next couple of hours just grinning like an idiot because someone was kind, and also because I made someone smile. I have this naive idea that he went home to his wife or husband or mistress or children or dog or whatever, and told them this random girl in Canning Town sang Air Supply and he joined in. And that he was happy.

I fucking love London, even if just because a man sang “All out of love” with me.

 

(Also, dicks.)

B’estfest 2013

So this happened. I had honestly been waiting for this for a long time, especially since Katy bought us tickets ages ago, when they were still cheaper and apart from Greece, this is all we’ve been waiting for. As opposed to previous years, I actually manned up and went for all three evenings, because I missed concerts and the great feeling I get whenever I attend this kind of events. With the major turn off that kids on drugs kind of killing my mood, I will focus on the good parts.

Texas. Texas was a major thing. The biggest thing. I grew up listening to that band; I honestly don’t know who listened to Texas in my family, or how I managed to grow up knowing their songs, but the second I reached that first row and held on for dear life to the metal bar, I was happy. Not to mention how fucking brilliant it was to have Spiteri casually say her guitar was fucked. I breathed and lived through that concert. She mentioned how she had too much whiskey at one point before writing a song and I swear you could hear my happy yell all the way to fucking Hell. Because whiskey and fuck you, that’s why. I screamed “In Demand” louder than anybody else (or so it seemed) because that song means so much to me and even more because Alan Rickman is brilliant in it (as he always is). And I swear none of the members of Texas expected to have such a large fan base in Romania. Not to mention the ages of those people, whom I felt close to for the simple reason that they all screamed their lungs out.

Long story short, this was a success. Minus the 12 year old kids on drugs. That sucked.

 

P.S. I fucking love concerts.