12 décembre 2007

OK, here goes. I need a do-over on this thing. I miss the writing, and I have an inkling that this place is just "before", "now" should be something else.
In around a week, I should be living somewhere a little (a lot?) more permanent, which,
even though I hate the idea of leaving the area I'm in right now (but I guess that's what being a grown-up is all about, right? you do NOT in fact get to do what you want.) will change a few things in my mindset, I guess, so I'm hoping that it will all fall into place. Actually, I'm going to push and nudge (with love and care, of course) it all so it stays in place.
So here's the deal. I don't think I'm going to delete this place because I like it, but I'm thinking of starting maybe another site, and counting a little on your help here (there's three of you still reading, that should be quick and almost painfree) re the new page url and/or title...
Here are a few ideas, but please if you have other, better ones, give 'em up:
- My left hand is doing stuff my right hand doesn't want to know about
- George who?
- Where are the guns?
- Something 2 - this time, it's impersonal.
- I hate the A train
- So many bars, so little time
Ugh... Maybe i should just drop it altogether. No title, and http://beammeelsewhere.blogspot.com as url. Or... something.

14 octobre 2007

"Cheese-eating surrender monkeys"*

So we kind of made fools of ourselves. Was to be expected, really.
Funny to watch it in NYC, where we couldn't find a good place to be - one pub (Kinsale Tavern, and that's NO advertisement) wanted $20 a pop to get access to the big screen, and the other one, 40 blocks down, was packed to the gills. So we stood outside on the sidewalk, with loads of other people, among which two English guys (bugger) who, after quoting the title of this post (hence) decided to buy us drinks in a consolatory (?) fashion.
Needless to say, I'm rather hungover (which explains how there ever could be a post these days:
clearly, I'm simply not myself...) but politically, rather pleased that France got chucked out - it would take a while to explain, but Sarkozy must be mightily pissed off right about now, and that makes me feel a whole lot better about the whole thing.
Oh and also, what is it with the Scots cheering England on? Whatever happened to Bon Accord and all that?

* Seriously, peeps. A Wikipedia article. That's like, wow.

18 septembre 2007

You see, it's like this. I'll start writing something, look something up on the internet to avoid making a complete arse of meself, and thank gawd, 'cause then I'll realise the whole premise of that particular post was completely wrong wrong WRONG, and then that'll throw me off the writing track for, like, ever.
It seems I just can't be arsed these days. Also, it seems I love the word "arse". Arse arse arse arse. Obviously Blogger doesn't like it, 'cause it keeps flagging it as misspelled, but NO IT ISN'T. I'm just having a little British-spelling rebellious moment.
Also buggery.
I don't know. I feel like being rude in the Queen's English, or something vaguely approaching it.
Actually I blame one of my workmates: she's decided that the way I speak reminded her of the gecko in the Geico commercials - now, anyone who's heard me talk will know I sound nothing like a gecko, let alone a Cockney-sounding one.
No matter. Now I want to use "mate" every other word, and work on my glottal stop.

26 août 2007

Whaaaa's wroooongggg????

Something's just not right here. No idea what is is, but something is. And it's killiiiiiiing me. And yes, I'll keep writing just like thaaaat, because that is exactly how I want to be taaaaalking right now, except no one is around to listeeeeeeen.
The weekend was boozy. Very boozy. Good boozy. Maybe it's all related. Then again, maybe not. I guess we'll never know.
Anyway. I've been accused of taking a break. I am NOT. My mojo is. Not that it was ever there to begin with, but, you know. I managed -- with great effort, granted, but still -- to string a couple words along in a way that made remote sense, to me anyway.
These days, wow. I can't even string two words along in my head. Even the voices there have decided that I just wasn't interesting enough, and they're talking among themselves now. Also they're whispering, which means that a) I can't hear what they're saying and transcribe it here for the world to see, and b) they're probably saying nasty things about me.
I am not amused.

15 août 2007

Little bit of an update crisis

What, already? Yes. Deal.
It's a bit hectic at work, which is nice but got real old, real fast. Still, it's nice. But old. But ni... yeah, you get it.

I had my first actual political talk with people of the American persuasion
today - I guess you can take the girl out of France, but you can't really take France out of the girl...
It ended up in me throwing my hands up in the air and abandoning all thoughts of debate for the more appealing fantasy of a very persuasive (or persuaded, at the very least) multiple slapping about the general face area in the hope that the brain would get switched on in the process. But that's what I never do when people disagree. Maybe I should try.
The good thing is I thought people didn't debate here - they do. And it was heated, even when I wasn't involved.

Oh, ooh, oooooh. Have I told you? No of course I haven't. There's a firehouse two blocks down from where I live. It's got firefighters in it and everything. I'm thinking of baking them a cake. Or... something.

That's all, folks. My brain, it has melted - blame it on some severe sun-slapping.

12 août 2007

How do you tell someone you're sorry?

Sure you can buy them a diamond necklace, but I like to think there's more than money involved between you and me. right?
Plus it wasn't really my fault anyway - there's just no internet cafe anywhere in this town. City? I think we should redefine the concept of city/town. Surely in this day and age, internet cafes are the new cathedral, right? So if you can't find an internet cafe within 5 weeks, then it's a town, right?
I have to stop saying "right".
And I could bore you to high heaven and back with stories of me and my technomoronicness, but you want to believe that I'm the clever, brilliant, and generally super fantastic person you've always thought I was, right?
Although, I have to say, that particular dream got shattered in a none-too-subtle fashion one day on the subway, when Earth Angel - should I pause for effect here? - got on and proceeded to tell us all about how he couldn't bear to look at guys because they are, and I quote, obsolete, and oh his eyes, his eyes... but if girls under 30 wanted to know eternal happiness, they should join him. Not over 30, mind, because by 30 it was too late, we were joining the obsolete ranks and oh his eyes his eyes again.
And all this time, it never once entered his mind that we might be going oh my eyes my eyes ourselves... Picture a middle-aged man with a dyed jet black crewcut-mullet, very likely a girdle underneath a tight black tee and long shorts. Trying to pick up nubile young things. Does it ever work?
So yeah,
now I'm a technomoron too old to ever know what true happiness is really like.
But there's a cocktail bar just a block down from where I live, so I guess there'll always be alcohol.
So that was my attempt at apologizing. And yes, people of Britain, I now use z instead of s - a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do to adapt. But rest assured: I still live in a flat, use the lift, and smoke ciggies. All isn't lost. Yet.

01 juin 2007

Whip... Whip... Whip...

That title here was for all the googlers who strangely land here looking for some sort of deviance.
As if.
Talking about titles, the previous one was a premonition of sorts, wasn't it. Almost two months. Wow. Which cunningly brings me to the current title, as it's all the apology you'll be getting, but believe me when I say it's heartfelt (seriously, though, thank you all for worrying. And I have the names of those who didn't).
Here's the drill: I've been at my parents' for the past six weeks. I'll let that settle a while. Six weeks. And no, it hasn't been quite so bad as it sounds.
The wait for the visa, now that's another kettle of fish... So after having it planned and organised so everything would go smoothly, it appears I'll be landing and going straight to work. Which, seriously, is hardly an exaggeration at all.
That is if I'm not rejected by the consulate, of course.

White rabbit white rabbit to all, albeit slightly late, but surely the moral of the story today is better late than never. Right?

05 avril 2007

Let's try and break a record

Let's see just how far I can go along the "sad and pathetic" scale - without even being prompted.

I have a tenant! Well, they haven't signed yet, but let's not stop at such paltry details. (and don't any of you dare warn me about crowing early or some sort.)
The stuff that I put on eBay got some bids before I had to withdraw it because said tenants wanted to keep it!
I feel validated.
People like me. And my stuff.
Take that, you stupid previous future potential tenant who didn't like my furniture and showed it!

There. Now you have a better idea.
Damn I'm tired.

01 avril 2007

What an obese woman wants...

Eddie Murphy grants.

There's no cellulite on those thighs, no siree!

28 mars 2007

"If certain British doctors hadn't asked "What is this fungus?", we wouldn't have penicillin today"

In the Muslim world, they have what's called the Hand of Fatima, supposed to keep the evil eye away - and you're never supposed to say that things are good, because that's bound to attract that bastard evil eye, envious bugger that it is.
I've had a Hamsa pendant for many years, but I haven't worn it very often. Lately, with everything going so well, I thought I should wear it again, considering I've been shouting my fantastic news from the rooftops, cyber and otherwise, for a while now. It just seemed like
a sensible precaution to prevent that bastard evil eye from taking a renewed interest in me. Except I kind of forgot about it.

A few years back, a friend and colleague got me a little present: a heart-shaped keyring, very pretty and shiny - a lovely little present, really, so I used it. After a while, things started to go downhill for me at an alarming rate. Of course I put two and two together and the keyring at the bottom of a box where I keep all my rarely-used keys and where I quickly forgot about it.
And things started looking slowly up.
Last weekend, when I started packing, I emptied the box and decided I'd give the keyring to someone. It's been a sitting on a shelf for the past three days.
Out in the open.
Apparently, I've released the antichrist.

Everything is falling apart! I'm never finding a tenant here, I'm never finding a flat over there, and I'm never getting rid of all the stuff I want rid off! And my visa is never going to be ready on time!

Call it overreaction, but I reckoned an exorcism was in order. So the keyring is now buried deep inside the trash, and the pendant tucked safely inside my tee.

"I cast you out!"

26 mars 2007


Time I finally went to sleep last night: around 3:00 a.m.
Time I woke up for good this morning: 7:30 a.m.
Number of times I woke up in-between: 500 zillion.
Number of expense-related phone calls I've made so far today: around 11
Number of flatshare ads I've replied to so far: 5,017
Number of flat viewings secured: 0
Number of hefty cheques I've signed so far today: 3
Number of boxes packed over the weekend: 10
Number of new pairs of glasses: 1
Total number of glasses: 4
Potential case of glasses-fetishism: 1
Visa-related news: 0
Number of times I felt like I was dealing with people who thought they were dealing with a moron: 1
Number of stuff* I have to get rid of in the next three weeks: enough for a yard sale

Conclusion: the ulcer is growing and the TV show has got it all sussed out: when there's that many numbers involved, someone is bound to die.

* I know.

19 mars 2007

What happens when you let go of your principles...?

You win completely undeserved money, is what.
So far, 2007 is proving to be one incredibly good year for me. This feels both long overdue and incredibly scary: I'm now waiting for the proverbial sword to fall right on my unsuspecting brow.
Although, considering I'm waiting for it, I guess my brow would have to be incredibly low to be unsuspecting, at this point. But I digress.
I'm still waiting for my visa to come through. If I haven't heard anything next week, I'll start worrying. But I'm sure you'll agree with me that it would be incredibly bad form of fate to have it all come together only for a little bit of paperwork to bring everything to a screeching halt. Especially as there is little in the world that I despise more than screeching, except when it's the result of my own vocal cords working their little stringy butts out, of course.
Anyway. A lovely couple viewed the flat today, and they seemed very interested. In fact, they were so interested that I felt guilty thinking that maybe the agency would veto them or that they would not find a guarantor. And they want the flat furnished, which is a huge thorn off of my side.
Too many miracles, I tell you.
Still. As of yet, I haven't found the perfect flat I was talking about before (after checking, it appears I'd already mentioned the en-suite bathroom. I wonder what that says about me...).
Which obviously raises the question: what on earth is fate doing right now, twiddling its thumbs like the job is all done?! Tsh. So hard to find good personnel these days.

12 mars 2007

Bad mother, bad!

Decisions have been made. Sacrifices even.
There are around 400 books in this flat, about 320 of which are going to have be left behind to make space for other, more "important" stuff so I don't have to sell a kidney before I leave to pay for their transport.
I feel like I'm abandoning my children.
No, I don't really, but did that feel dramatic enough?
To be completely honest (and am I ever anything but?), some of them I'm actually glad to be rid of. My personal hall-of-shame books: bad chick lit and Patricia Cornwells mostly. Still. They were my hall of shame. Now I'm probably going to have to give them away to friends. Hey, I bought them. The shame will
surely be a lot more tolerable if they don't even have to spend a farthing for them, won't it? They could even argue that they're doing it as a favour to me if that makes them feel better about it. You and I will always know better, though. Our little secret. Our leverage.
Or I could leave them at my parents', in boxes, with scores of other books that are already there, and where they will see no light for... ever, probably. And let me remind you that that sort of behaviour is usually frowned upon when applied to children. Just sayin'.
I guess there's always the bonfire solution, auto-da-fe style.
I'm torn.

04 mars 2007

Whoa... So many changes, so little time

Right. First things first. Honestly, I like old. And I don't like being bullied. And it does feel like I've just been bullied into updating to the new Blogger version. Which, by the by, looks ugly.
I didn't want to change to the new Blogger. I'm annoyed.

OK, now that's out of the way and, possibly, my system... I've just booked (not paid yet: baby steps...) a one-way ticket to the city that never sleeps. One bloody way. That's a bit scary. But strangely cheaper than getting a return
sometime in 2008 (seriously, do people pay €2,000 for planes tickets??).
That visa had better come through now.

It would also be nice if I found a tenant for my flat. And a fantastic, furnished place,
with en-suite bathroom, in a very trendy area within easy commute from work, for very cheap (utilities, cable and wireless internet included, of course).
Although - come to think of it - I'm not exactly looking forward to walking around the flat in my underwear in exchange for free rent. But I guess we'll cross that bridge if we come to it.
OK, let's not kid ourselves here. We'll burn that bridge right now, before we ever get to it.

How does one start a new life with only 46kg-luggage?
Hmmm. Underwear, uh...

28 février 2007

Books - or how to admit your shame in oh so many ways

Got this from Jen (and she didn't even tag me, how weird am I?), who got it from Krissa, who got it from... funny, uh, memes start much the same way as epidemics. Hmmm.

Right. Here it goes.

Italicized = books you want to read
Bold = books you've read
Strike = books you wouldn't touch with a ten foot pole or wish you hadn't
* = never heard of it
+ = on your shelf

+1. The Da Vinci Code (Dan Brown)
+2. Pride and Prejudice (Jane Austen)
+3. To Kill A Mockingbird (Harper Lee)
4. Gone With The Wind (Margaret Mitchell)
5. The Lord of the Rings: Return of the King (Tolkien)
+6. The Lord of the Rings: Fellowship of the Ring (Tolkien)
7. The Lord of the Rings: Two Towers (Tolkien)
8. Anne of Green Gables (L.M. Montgomery)
*9. Outlander (Diana Gabaldon)
*10. A Fine Balance (Rohinton Mistry)
+11. Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire (Rowling)
12. Angels and Demons (Dan Brown)
+13. Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix (Rowling)
14. A Prayer for Owen Meany (John Irving)
15. Memoirs of a Geisha (Arthur Golden)
+16. Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone (Rowling)
*17. Fall on Your Knees (Ann-Marie MacDonald)
+18. The Stand (Stephen King)
+19. Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban(Rowling)
+20. Jane Eyre (Charlotte Bronte)
+21. The Hobbit (Tolkien)
+22. The Catcher in the Rye (J.D. Salinger)
23. Little Women (Louisa May Alcott)
+24. The Lovely Bones (Alice Sebold)
25. Life of Pi (Yann Martel)
26. The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy (Douglas Adams)
+27. Wuthering Heights (Emily Bronte)
28. The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe (C. S. Lewis)
29. East of Eden (John Steinbeck)
30. Tuesdays with Morrie (Mitch Albom)
31. Dune (Frank Herbert)
32. The Notebook (Nicholas Sparks)
33. Atlas Shrugged (Ayn Rand)
34. 1984 (Orwell) [- I know.]
35. The Mists of Avalon (Marion Zimmer Bradley)
36. The Pillars of the Earth (Ken Follett)
*37. The Power of One (Bryce Courtenay)
38. I Know This Much is True (Wally Lamb)
*39. The Red Tent (Anita Diamant)
40. The Alchemist (Paulo Coelho)
*41. The Clan of the Cave Bear (Jean M. Auel)
*42. The Kite Runner (Khaled Hosseini)
43. Confessions of a Shopaholic (Sophie Kinsella)
+44. The Five People You Meet In Heaven (Mitch Albom) (yeah...)
+45. Bible
46. Anna Karenina (Tolstoy)
47. The Count of Monte Cristo (Alexandre Dumas)
+48. Angela’s Ashes (Frank McCourt)
49. The Grapes of Wrath (John Steinbeck)
*50. She’s Come Undone (Wally Lamb)
*51. The Poisonwood Bible (Barbara Kingsolver)
52. A Tale of Two Cities (Dickens)
*53. Ender’s Game (Orson Scott Card)
+54. Great Expectations (Dickens)
+55. The Great Gatsby (Fitzgerald)
*56. The Stone Angel (Margaret Laurence)
+57. Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets (Rowling)
58. The Thorn Birds (Colleen McCullough)
59. The Handmaid’s Tale (Margaret Atwood)
+60. The Time Traveller’s Wife (Audrew Niffenegger)
61. Crime and Punishment (Fyodor Dostoyevsky)
62. The Fountainhead (Ayn Rand)
63. War and Peace (Tolstoy)
64. Interview With The Vampire (Anne Rice)
*65. Fifth Business (Robertson Davis)
66. One Hundred Years Of Solitude (Gabriel Garcia Marquez)
*67. The Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants (Ann Brashares)
+68. Catch-22 (Joseph Heller)
69. Les Miserables (Hugo)
+70. The Little Prince (Antoine de Saint-Exupery)
+71. Bridget Jones’ Diary (Fielding)
72. Love in the Time of Cholera (Marquez)
73. Shogun (James Clavell)
74. The English Patient (Michael Ondaatje)
*75. The Secret Garden (Frances Hodgson Burnett)
*76. The Summer Tree (Guy Gavriel Kay)
*77. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn (Betty Smith)
78. The World According To Garp (John Irving)
*79. The Diviners (Margaret Laurence)
80. Charlotte’s Web (E.B. White)
*81. Not Wanted On The Voyage (Timothy Findley)
82. Of Mice And Men (Steinbeck)
83. Rebecca (Daphne DuMaurier)
*84. Wizard’s First Rule (Terry Goodkind)
85. Emma (Jane Austen)
86. Watership Down (Richard Adams)
87. Brave New World (Aldous Huxley)
*88. The Stone Diaries (Carol Shields)
*89. Blindness (Jose Saramago)
90. Kane and Abel (Jeffrey Archer)
91. In The Skin Of A Lion (Ondaatje)
+92. Lord of the Flies (Golding)
93. The Good Earth (Pearl S. Buck)
*94. The Secret Life of Bees (Sue Monk Kidd)
95. The Bourne Identity (Robert Ludlum)
96. The Outsiders (S.E. Hinton)
97. White Oleander (Janet Fitch)
98. A Woman of Substance (Barbara Taylor Bradford)
99. The Celestine Prophecy (James Redfield)
100. Ulysses (James Joyce)

Obviously I'm not going to tag anyone, but let me know if you're playing, because I love to rub my face in it.

Oh, and lest we forget... White rabbit, white rabbit, white rabbit.

27 février 2007


There it was - the ultimate proof that life had obviously chosen her as its personal scapegoat, the butt of all its practical jokes, its own life-size (no pun intended of course) punching bag.
For years Natalie had wondered what exactly her purpose was in this world. Fall guy, it seemed. And no Lee Majors around, either.
She'd thought the whole vicious cycle was over when she'd met Sean. Everything seemed to fall into place at that point. Truth be told, she'd been apprehensive at first - was she going to handle it? Would she not ruin it somehow? Would someone ruin it for her? When would lightning strike?
Then she'd loosened up and rushed into it. And it turned out, that whole couple thing, my, what bliss that was. Two months into it, and Natalie couldn't take a decision on her own anymore.
That wasn't even a slight exaggeration - working out the weekly shopping was a hair-splitting affair involving lengthy discussions over what kind of meal Sean would maybe like to eat three evenings from now, her friends hadn't seen her alone in ages, and her father, a terse, humorless man who would have made a pretty convincing case for the addition of coldness among child abuse practices, dearly missed his up-until-then weekly telephone guiltrip.
Oblivion being what it is, spring had been truly fantastic.
Summer was now here, and Natalie was really looking forward to their planned holiday. She'd be having none of her traditional pilgrimage up North this year, oh no. Sardinia it was, as a couple, per favore.
It really shouldn't have surprised her when she stumbled upon the foil packet in Sean's trouser pockets. She wasn't looking through his stuff, by the way, just packing their things for the trip.
She just stopped folding the pants, looking confused at first. She was vaguely aware that something was not right with the presence of a rubber among her lover's stuff, especially after they'd both tested for HIV and decided to have a go at it, but strangely, her thought process seemed to have been thrown completely out of whack.
When the enormity of what that meant hit her, she did the only thing she could do without having to think. She ran out of the flat to her best friend's place. That was what best friends were for, wasn't it? Comforting you in times of need, and saying horrible things about the cheating bastard you'd been dating for half a year, while plying you with tissues, alcohol and chocolate.
Natalie got there at the same time as a pizza delivery guy. She just stood there while he rang the bell, and when the door opened, Natalie's brain froze for the second time that day. What was Sean doing here with only a towel wrapped around him? Surely she hadn't packed all of his stuff yet?
The way his jaw dropped when he saw her helped her put two and two together. She turned around to go, paused, grabbed the pizza box and walked slowly down the stairs, while the delivery boy looked from her back to his towel.
Sean hadn't said a word.
- That'll be 10.95, mate. Sorry.

21 février 2007

I can make George Clooney out in the distance.

Or, I think I'm gonna make out with George Clooney in the not-too-distant future - not sure.

It's so typical - read so unbelievably annoying, yet so very flattering, while at the same time very unsettling, especially if you, like me, are utterly disorganized - judge for yourselves.
So I have the job. They'll be starting the visa process now.

See, I have been trying to escape France's legendary tax pressure, social benefits and mad politics for about 18 months now, and this, right now, is exactly the time when a test I'd taken in January for a job in a much less distant country, over the sea but accessible by train, decides to show positive results, which means I'll be sitting a phone interview today at noon. Well, not so much sitting as pacing the flat, raising my eyes, going for a cigarette and remembering that the puffing will be heard...

Considering both places and jobs (even though I don't technically have the second one...) are very alluring, for different reasons, if I do get an offer on that one too, it's going to be one tough choice.

Which is why I hope that George, in his infinite wisdom, will come to my rescue and propose.
On the condition that we stay in Paris, of course.

And just so you know, I will say yes.

14 février 2007

Happy... *choke* *splutter* *die*

Yeah. I really wanted to write something about Valentine's Day.
Mostly because I'd hate people to think that I'm
cynical and bitter without even giving them any proof of this.
And then I got up -- quite late, but I don't really mind that these days, considering I supposedly have a job lined up -- thought "funny, my prospective employers still haven't rung me back about my feeble attempt at negotiating, does that mean that by talking to the entire world about this, I've managed to jinx it yet again?" and money worries, compounded by a pervasive sense of doom, replaced all thought of love.
Or, you know, lack thereof. Love. And money really.
Oh my, what a bleak prospect I'm now beholding. It's Valentine's Day and I'm
unloved, single, penniless, jobless*, while all around me people, oblivious of the incredibly shitty weather, walk hand in hand with a spring in their step, and rub salt in my wounds, which I'm left to lick alone.
But I wouldn't want my own unhappiness, fears, maybe even depression, to get in the way of your love fest. Have a wonderfully romantic day, people.**

*Well, one can be in a couple and unloved, or single and stalked, one can be employed and poor, or unemployed and rich. It just so happens that I've scored the perfect four.
** Oh dear. I hope I haven't just ruined it for you, even if it is just a little...

09 février 2007

Note to self*

Do not, ever, ask when the good news will stop. It is bound to come to a screeching halt against (into?) a tree by the side of the road.
Things are still looking good (I think...) re my upcoming Mary Tyler Moore impersonation (we shall call it that from now on - let's all thank Alan), but everything else, oh. my. god.
That metro car squat I was mentioning the other day? It's looking increasingly likely. I'll also probably have to smuggle myself across in the trunk of a plane, by the look of it. Yes, I know it's not called a trunk, but to be perfectly honest with you, I can't be arsed looking it up.**
And oh yes, I know I've been telling people to try self-assertiveness seminars. Wow. Shouldn't I be attending one myself... That whole "everything is negotiable" gimmick? Unless by negotiable you mean "acceptable even though you don't really want to accept it but are too much of a WUSS to say no to", well, it clearly doesn't apply to me.
Also. Don't ever believe it when two out of three people in three different offices tell you that your move overseas may be sponsored by some unemployment subsidies. Unless you're moving somewhere within the European Union, it's not gonna happen. So yeah, not only do you feel bitterly rejected by the European Union because they never accepted one of your applications, but you also get your hopes of saving a not insignificant amount of money squashed up and trampled on by heartless, indifferent public servants who probably hung up the phone and cackled for a good ten minutes before dutifully reporting the good news to their boss, the DEVIL.

* I have been messing with "I" and "you" in this entry. It sounds pretty clear to me though. If, however, you have trouble understanding the perspective, put yourself in my brain. And then commiserate.
**Baggage hold. There. And you didn't even have to tower over me and growl threateningly "Look it up. Now." Wuss, I tell you.

06 février 2007

Oh look!

I'm two! Today!
And that makes two posts in two days!
Will the good news ever stop?!

04 février 2007

How long does it take for a stomach to regrow itself?

It's currently being eaten alive by a giant ulcer from out of space. Yeah, OK, not really. But that's certainly what it feels like anyway (like you didn't know that complaining about things blown completely out of proportion was my thing...)
Here's the news - and I'm going to just go and throw caution to the wind here. Apparently, one of my numerous applications has finally been accepted, and I'll be rowing my way across the ocean some time at the beginning of May to make a brand new start of it where Rachel and Monica amazingly never met Carrie, Samantha or Mac Taylor. Man, that's a cross-over I would have paid a lot to watch.
Of course, there's a lot to do till then - not least of all negotiate a contract that will enable me to live there (and not just, you know, work and crash in a abandoned metro car somewhere), trying very hard not to scare my still prospective employers away in the process, but I said I was throwing caution to the wind.
So yeah, be warned: I cannot vouch for user experience on these pages for the next three months. Any advice on herbal try-not-to-eat-your-innards-from-the-inside remedies will be much, much appreciated in the interval.

24 janvier 2007

Not so much funny ha ha as not funny at all

Things may be about to change around here. And by "here" I mean my life - the template of the blog has held so far despite the extreme neglect, I'm sure it'll last a while longer.
Not sure how happy that makes me either. Not the fact that I'm keeping the blog template, you understand, the fact that the times, they are a-changing.
Funny how one can get used to being stuck in a rut, and when things may be looking ever so slightly up, get shit-scared. Fear of The Great Unknown, fear of going where one has never gone before...
I know, I know: that never stopped Tango and Cash, did it...? I know. But they did have Teri Hatcher (who, remember, went on to be Lois Lane, now if that doesn't say something... what does?) while I most certainly don't have Kurt Russell.
In any case, let it be known that even if all my wildest dreams were about to come true (and rest assured that they are most certainly not, as said wildest dreams include marrying George Clooney with a very favourable pre-nup and a non-exclusive relationship), I wouldn't stop complaining, because that's the kind of person I am. Rotten to the core.

16 janvier 2007

She's alive! Alive!

Hey there. Yeah, just like Lazarus (also the Creature, but moving on).
OK, first things first. May 2007 be as fan-fucking-tastic to you as my health has been incredibly rotten to me lately. And I mean that with every altruistic fiber in my rapidly decomposing body.
Just in case the previous sentences don't mean squat, as I strongly suspect they do ('nt?) - and also because I really want, nay need, people to feel sorry for me - let me give you a hint as to what's been plaguing me these past four weeks (and it does go some way
(only a short leg if I must start the year on some semblance of a healthy basis and be honest) towards explaining why I've been even more sparse (than usual) around here): so first there was the (see below) crick in my neck, then there was a stomach flu, then there was an eyelid infection, then there was the (proper) flu, then there was a horrendously painful and horrendously long muscle contraction in my right arm, which in fact hasn't completely gone, and now I feel a cold sneaking up.
There. Feeling sorry yet?
Oh come on.