Thursday, 29 December 2011

Where the doors are moaning all day long, where the stairs are leaning from dusk 'till dawn, where the windows are breathing in the light...

...where the rooms are a collection of our lives...

In my two decades of life I don't recall feeling so much significance at the outro of a year. It seems an odd quirk of humanity to attach significance to a resetting of the 365-day count down to...the resetting of another 365-day countdown.

'Obviously' - you're thinking in exasperation - 'it's not just a countdown, not just resetting time. It's resetting you. It's that indefinable new lease on life which forgives you a year of self-inflicted disappointment.
It tares your lost chances and strike outs. It's hope and a fervent amalgam of good intentions built around apprehensive clasped hands and fierce whispers of 'it'll be better this year'.

And it's beautiful.

In its inherent dichotomous frailty and strength. Perfect in its ability to strip every shape, colour and creed down to a single hushed plea for it to be better, things to be different.


Happy new year everyone.

Saturday, 10 December 2011

I'm a methamphetamine addict - better drink my own piss

Holy shit on a stick.

This was not my first thought when I opened the door to my AWOL ex-flatmate's room with a purpose rivaled only by America's free-the-shit-out-of-you-and-the-poor-oil-held-hostage agenda.

Nor did it mark the prelude to my fun-sized freak out when we unscrewed the first 2L bottle of month-old urine (of 20).

In fact I was so depressingly, sarcastically clinical about finding - in the general vicinity of every fucking thing - post-meth-cooking sludge, (what I need to believe was) facial hair, pierced lithium batteries, blackened spoons, hash bags and a delightful pink plastic bong all marinating in micturate that I would have not been surprised to find a dead vertebrate of respectable size haunting the grime-stained bedding. I was delighted that he had managed to find a use for the spare cutlery and tableware we had in one of our kitchen cupboards.

Were I to roughly time my descent into madness I would say it fell cleanly between the moment I finally talked about it (post shower, burning and exfoliating enough I could have scalded skin syndrome-d my way through A&E) to the moment I called FRANK to understand what the fuck.

Or more precisely when the fuck. I mean I knew what had just happened and when it started - judging by the colour of the urine and the rough estimation of time it would have taken to grow that much biofilm - I had no problem explaining in frankly arsehole-ish detail to my woefully innocent doctor mother what everything was, how it came into being and why urine is the beverage of choice for the tweaker's tweaker.

No, what bothered me was when the fuck he might come back. Mostly because he still has the house keys. Oh that and the small inconvenience of his owing £1000 rent money.

So in about 9 hours, the locks on the doors will all be changed and I'll be calling to get rid of the pigpen that once was a bed.

I only feel sympathy when removed from the horror of tipping open cans of urine with a huge aerobic biofilm growth down the toilet. When I allow to fade the gag reflex I managed to pummel into submission. When I force myself to see it clinically.

But it's hard.

Because this didn't happen in a hospital. I wasn't handling the 'would you like some urine with that drug' of some stranger who could be a future patient should medical school feature in the afterlife.

This happened in my house, my home. Above my bedroom. Where I eat and sleep, study, entertain and live.

Through the hatred and disgust, I might file a missing person's report after looking up where we stand legally.

Might.



Wednesday, 10 August 2011

Oh GOD.

I'm awake...it's 6 in the morning and I've been awake since 11AM yesterday.

Curse you, internet. Curse your appeal to my fickle attention-span, frank boredom and lack of cognizance to attempt logging into the UKCAT question bank.

UGH.

Sunday, 10 July 2011

Just explain to me WHY you need to sit down?

TDIL I'm an abuser of technology. I know full well that my laptop is overheating but I plow on regardless. I can feel the waves of agonising heat searing the serial number into my thighs and I just jiggle it around in the vain hope the momentary relief from contact with my person will calm it down. Of course this is most commonly succeeded by my laptop beeping what I can only assume is 'sod you' in laptopese and switching itself off.
By this point I sigh and wait for it to cool down like a patient lover.

But not this time.

This time he crossed the line.

I was creating a Sim.

A SIM, DAMN IT. I had spent a good half hour or so messing around with the shape and the clothes - I had freaking graduated to giving it a personality, was just about to click save aaaaaaaand - 'SCREW YOU' - goes the screen.

You cannot imagine the trauma. One minute I was staring lovingly at my Sim-self and the next I was looking at a monochrome equivalent of The Scream. Never mind if this has you completely at a loss as to how it ties in with the title - it doesn't. I just felt the need to share my trauma.

Now. To the main body of this excursion into my myriad rants.
Travelling on the underground is not always the most pleasant of experiences. This is news to no one. However, over time you get over your absolute terror at the swathes of people deigning to conform your body to their elbow/bag/pregnancy and begin to take note that there are some serious assholes that you must share this public service with.

Recently I took note of one particular type - the people who sit down despite the fact they have only one stop to reach their destination. Apparently they could not maintain a centre of gravity and prevent their backside from dragging them down to the floor under the sheer weight of it in the time it takes to get from Warren Street to Goodge Street (2 minutes). So, hey, ignoring the people carrying most of their house on their shoulders, they proceed to settle their self-indulgent behinds on the most inconvenient seats available. For those of you who do not understand a London tube carriage layout let me paint a mental picture.

You have double doors separating each seating group in the middle of the carriage. Between the doors are 4-6 parallel seats. One person leads an entourage of sweaty business personae into the carriage and sits down in seat 4.Fair enough.
But then comes person 2 and they decide to sit in seat number 1, effectively forcing anyone else who wants to sit down behind them to hurdle over their inconsiderate backside to get to the next available seat - by which time some spry prig carrying nothing but a minipurse or their plans for dinner beat exhausted person 3 to the seats. Person 3 (and possibly the rest of the remorsefully sober conga line) are left to hang on for dear life for a respectable number of stops. Spry prig meanwhile, manages to plan their selfish bastard exit between Bermondsey and Canary Wharf. Before even reaching Canary Wharf, spry prig has gotten up halfway through the Canada Water exit, forcing the exhausted persons to make way for their highness, and has managed to piss off most of the carriage by insisting on parting the Red Sea to make way for their exit.
My most recent experience of this was with a disgustingly self-important American woman who all but announced to the carriage that someone died and made her Queen and 'would you all get out of the way, she can't miss her stop' - never mind there were five freaking people infront of
her who also needed to get off at the same stop and that they had had the presence of mind not to sit the fuck down when the trip was barely 4 minutes in total.

Just, just - HUFF! Get up you bastards! I just did a 6 hour shift at the hospital with no breakfast or lunch, I have a three-leg, hour-long journey, I'm carrying most of my revision material on my shoulder and I STILL HAVE TO GO SHOP FOR FOOD WHICH, FYI, I HAVE TO THEN COOK! MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOVE!!










Sunday, 6 March 2011

A Break from Oxidative Phosphorylation...

I've been doing 'The Thing'. The annoying thing that almost every blogger does at some point in their blogging career, and, even if they don't do it, even if they don't quite hit 'publish post', they write it out and then decide at the last minute that it's probably for the best you save yourself imagined eye-rolls and sneers and hold down Ctrl-A, delete.

'The Thing' is not unpardonable but it tends to be attempted by little girls in fraying clothing of dubious pricing, midlife-crisising their way through high school.

Introspection and reflection.

Commonly confused with self-gratifying ranting, rambling and bitching, this little state of mind has been abused and used and pounded like a bloated carcass in a Francis Bacon, framed and called 'self-expression' (now synonymous with the once respected term, 'Art'). I'm pretty much about to churn out another grotesque imitation but hopefully with bigger words and less guest appreances of the following: like, OMG, LOL, GTFO and whatever.

So I've been lamenting the sarcastic put-downs and cynicisms that seem to define the proverbial prison society raises you in...and yet unabashedly prefacing my entire derision of it with bucketloads of what David Wallace termed 'hip cynicism...a hatred that winks and nudges you and pretends it's just kidding'. I'm not just kidding, I'm pandering to people who would read this and laugh, jerking up a mocking corner of lips and expelling sardonic plosives. I'm self-deprecating and disguising honest concern and sadness for the state of a society which is beyond caring. And it's disgusting. And you know what, I'm nothing different from the apathetic masses...except today.

I've made an observation. Or, I should say, I've re-written what countless people far cleverer and far more eloquent have discovered before me.
We are contrary, dichotomous, hypocritical and at war with ourselves. Unfortunately we're so mired in our own minds we can barely scratch the surface of how deeply unstructured and incomplete we are as individuals and as a species. So instead we have vague anxieties, inexplicable habits and self-destructive patterns raging against one another, ourselves and what it means to be 'human' (undefined as of yet but seemingly full of negative connotations of the 'you are so messed up but c'mere you little rascal' variety).

One probelm is our obsession with individuality, our carefully cultivated layers of 'me' and our absolute fear of being found out to be nothing more than magpie nests of other people. We don't seem to know how to be original; it has become increasingly difficult to find appreciation and laudation.

Our self-damnation into the ineptitude of ‘humanity’ is but a product of a subconscious hierarchy. When viewed from below, everything and everyone towers like a God. We hate the niche yet burrow ourselves deeper into it, pulled by subconscious doubt and conscious contempt for it – a species with deeper fathoms than oceans drilled daily that they are nothing but a functional unit in their niche, an in-out machine of tangible and intangible resources with one aim in their statistically calculated existence - productivity. And the sad thing is, so many people know this but no one has any idea how to do anything about it.

I have such hatred for this cynicism, where we quash creativity, inspiration and curiosity. We boil and boil young minds until they fritter away or harden to be replaced by an absolute value, a use, a purpose. We order them into line and teach them the only way is forward, up is kinda really hard and down is just dying to meet you.

And that is all so subjective.

Education and the cultivation of minds has become a huge concern which hardly anyone is spending enough time thinking about. So long as we are blindly standardising our children and forcing walls and unwanted barricades into their minds, we risk brain-draining our societies.

However, the discrepancies in education and thought are so great as to make you wonder what, exactly, we prioritise when it comes to raising the future.


I suppose I have no conclusion and this is probably the most depressing post thus far. But really, I've posted enough frivolity - can't have you thinking I'm a total ray of sunshine...