Taking 5 minutes off Facebook to post my drivel in a slightly longer format.

I thought I would pre-empt the usual “Blog every day this year!” 1st of January post by ushering in the age of the short-lived but well-intentioned “Blog every day for the rest of 2014!” 30th December post. How well it catches on remains to be seen.

I’m not a consistent blogger. To be honest, I’m not a consistent *anything*, and sometimes that bothers me. And other times it doesn’t… because I can’t even be consistent about that. But I do like to write and I kick myself that I don’t do it more.. so this year, for the cazguillionth year running, I shall be attempting to make the effort to be creative every day. In theory this should be easy. I work in a creative field, and when I’m not working I have plenty of time. However, the small snappy chihuahua of mental instability is forever nipping at my ass, and I suspect the fact my ass is gravitating forever south isn’t helping any.

In a nutshell, I write this blog in an attempt to maybe just raise a smile or two, with varying degrees of success. My problem is that some days I can’t raise a smile myself. Some days I struggle to breathe under the weight of it all and it’s just not funny. And I don’t want to heap that up on your mailbox when all you want to do is just get on with your personal crapola without listening to mine.

So, I’m pondering this… and would value your opinion.

Considering I haven’t posted in over a year,( and haven’t consistently posted in closer to 2 ), it’s astounding that I still have a pretty hefty number of subscribers. I can only assume that I am largely forgotten and that folk are relatively lax on the “unsubscribing from lazy-ass bloggers who can’t be bothered to make an effort” front. It’s nice, and I would like to do my best not to upset those people who are mostly here for the lolz and bizarro chicken posts.

I’m thinking about either starting up a new blog which will probably head in a different direction ( less zombie chickens and lesbian-schoolgirl-seeking traffic ) and of a more serious nature, probably fiction … or I can split this one with tags but run the risk of people who like the general silliness not liking the new slightly-less-silliness and un-subscribing and taking their business elsewhere. Which would make me sad.
Of course there’s always the possibility that the old folk will like the new stuff… I just don’t know. It probably won’t be very good, I haven’t written fiction since I used to get around a table with my dinosaur chums on a Saturday night and brainstorm ideas about exciting new concept of fire, but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t give it a go.

So, if you happen to read this I would appreciate a vote. My expectations aren’t high though, it’s been a while.

And as a thank you please feel free to enjoy what is most definitely the most unflattering picture of me EVER. Cos you just can’t have too many shots of the inside of my nostrils.

I know, I'm sexy.

I know, I’m sexy.

NaNoWriMo : Writing Novel Make Brain Hurt.

I’m pretty sure that anyone who has ever put pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard, and written anything has at some point had someone say to them “Wow… you should totally write a book!” and if you like writing it’s a pretty good bet that you’ve given it some thought. Sure, why not? After all, you’ve read some ropey old novels in your time, surely you can do better than that…. So you sit down and you start.
Then you make some coffee.
Then you think about it a bit.
And finally you give up the idea and go get a “proper” job, because who’d have thought it… flowing narrative makes your brain hurt.
Every now and then the prospect nudges you again, and you entertain it, but much like an uncomfortable visit by your Aunty Edna and 2 unlikable cousins, you usher it out of the door at the end of the night and go to bed, leaving a random scattering of dry roasted peanuts on the sofa and 87 dirty mugs containing dribbles of tea in the sink.
Writing is hard for most people ( except in Finland, according to the BBC, who tell us that 1 in 10 people have a published novel there. What the…?! Finnish tv must be appalling. )and unless you’re channelling the spirit of Tolkien it’s something that’s going to take a lot of chocolate to get through.

I’m going to write a novel this month.
Well, maybe a novella.
Entirely more likely, a long-ish pamphlet.
Certainly more than a paragraph.

Great idea, huh?
All I need is a plot. And a genre. And inspiration. Stamina. Tea.

I gave my genre a lot of thought, and got absolutely nowhere. I knew very well what I couldn’t do… anything historically accurate, for starters, and asking friends for their input yielded a range of suggestions, most of which were extremely well-intentioned and moderately useless. This exercise taught me 3 things… 1) most people either don’t read, or don’t know the difference between “plot” and “genre”, 2) Everyone in the universe seems to have a plot floating around their head… except me. And 3) People will suggest EVERYTHING under the sun. Except porn. They’ll read it, no matter how dire it is, but they won’t suggest it.

So what’s a girl to do?

Try it all, that’s what. Hopefully at the end I’ll have written, if not a novel, maybe a novel lite. Or just a rough outline… that would work too. Day by day, word by word, inching my way across the narrow ledge of literacy, clinging to the rusting drain pipe of inspiration, hoping not to nose-dive to a squishy death of crapness. It’s a plan.

Day 1 – Sci-Fi.

“Of course, it wasn’t the first time I’d killed my husband. In fact, it’s not even the first time this week, and I really wouldn’t put it past myself to off him again a few times next month, depending on how plain annoying he gets.” is how I’d start my epic of modest proportions. I like the idea of being able to mercilessly beat about the head an annoying spouse on a regular basis without repercussions, and with an extensive array of blunt instruments. Anyone who’s ever been married for any length of time and has had a heavy frying pan in one hand knows what I’m talking about. Except those goodie goodie “nice people”. I’d fryin’ pan them too.
Then… they come back to life, good as new. Hurrah! No harm done! See, I’m not a kitchen utensil-weilding psychopath! Do I call them zombies or something more PC, like The Un-Expired? I like the ring of The Unperishables, but it does tend to make them sound like something you pop in the donation basket during harvest festival.
“We love the macaroni, 5 tins of beans and the packet of pork casserole mix, but we’re going to have to say ‘no’ to the re-animated corpse of your next door neighbour…sorry.”
And then there’s the issue of how did it all start? “Zombie Apocalypse” is such an over-used phrase and I’m more inclined to start small. There wouldn’t be any global nuclear catastrophe that brought back the recently expired, no genetically engineered virus that escapes a laboratory by hitching a ride on a accommodating monkey.
No… my global pandemic would stem from a dodgy burger from a unsanitary kebab van in Uxbridge. Never underestimate the shocking ramifications of expired mayonnaise.

The first few days after the initial infection would be modest and largely ignored, presenting as it did as “a bit of a nasty cold”. “Nasty” in this case would be largely relative, with the women mostly shrugging it off and going about their business, and the men retiring to the sofa with a wet flannel on their foreheads and sporadically whimpering. Nobody is any the wiser until one of the infected falls under a bus on the way to Boots for some Night Nurse, gets pureed, and who’s head sits on the curb complaining about how the hell it’s supposed to hold it’s beer now. Cue screaming, arm-waving in the air, and possibly some over-the-top military involvement because the military seem to do “over-the-top” so well.
Eventually these sort of shenanigans become commonplace, and death becomes something that now comes with a multitude of temporary options. Life just goes on as normal( except for the inexplicable rise in sales of frying pans amongst women with anger issues ), and the most grievous inconvenience of the whole situation is having to learn how to correctly spell “apocalypse”.

Unsurprisingly there are several pros and cons to the recurrently undead situation. For example, those providing funeral services got very grumpy at the slump in sales, however the air freshener guys were over the moon… It turns out that those clinging to existence by the thinnest of threads aren’t always minty fresh. In other respects though, the infected and resurrected aren’t that much different from anyone else. Sure, there will be a few hundred that’ll swear blind that they’re Jesus, but that randomly happens anyway. People are peculiar. The comedic value of several bearded non-corpses in sandals scrapping it out in a supermarket is an opportunity that can’t be missed. A narrative about Jesus 1 beating Jesus 2 about the head with a sliced Hovis is just too tempting, and has the possibility of potentially upsetting some overly sensitive Christians. A smattering of controversy never hurt anyone’s novel, though admittedly it did put a damper on Salman Rushdie’s picnics in the park for a while.

My Un-deadies wouldn’t be those shambling rag-wearing grey-hued mumblers, and neither would they be rabid red-eyed jet-fueled brain-munchers, they would be just like you and I. They’d face discrimination, losing out their employment to those with a pulse. Mothers would yank their dribbling offspring away from those whose only real difference is a slight greyness of skin tone and modest amount of visible necrosis. And there would be pathos… because who has never felt themselves to be an outsider, to be unwanted. Of course, not everyone will come back because not everyone will have been infected. There will be those who are desperate for what they see as a ticket to eternal life and will do whatever they can to infect themselves ( Zombie : “Will you QUIT licking me ?!?” ) and those who are really ticked off at having come back , who turn to insane sports as a means to fill their long days. #ExtremeDeading becomes a trend on Twitter and Instagram becomes flooded with rainbow-hued photos of the recurrently deceased hurling themselves off skyscrapers. Accordingly, iPhone release the iPlummet, the first phone guaranteed to survive high velocity impact.

Alas, the story draws to an end, as does the infection. Eventually everyone who has ever been contaminated in any way has finally passed, and the world returns to normal. There will be attempts to replicate the cause, because there will always be those for whom enough is never enough, but largely the earth’s population is left with a renewed feeling of “Carpe Diem” that hasn’t been experienced on such a scale since “Dead Poet’s Society” was released on DVD.

The End.

Of course, it needs to be fleshed out, but it’s a starting point. And as everyone knows, starting is the hardest part. Except for the middle. And the end.
If you want to buy this fabulous concept and turn it into a film I’m open to offers. In fact, at this stage I’d probably even be willing to sell all rights for a nice sandwich because it’s lunchtime and being a writer makes you extra hungry. I’m very glad I kept that in mind and, knowing I was going to do this, bought 2 pairs of trousers with a larger waistline yesterday. See, I did my prep work! I’m halfway there already….

I’m not here, ignore me.

I haven’t been around for quite a while. In fact, I haven’t been around since my single annual post that usually consists of the phrase “I haven’t been around for quite a while”. This has been occurring with enough regularity to have the phrase engraved on my tombstone ( which is moderately amusing when I think about it ). There are reasons. Madness. Facebook. Plushie brains. The usual. But none of which are interesting enough to share, let alone write about.

A month ago I decided to wipe this blog. You probably didn’t notice, but don’t beat yourself up about it… you were busy. The reasons for this were twofold.
1) People told me I was a good writer and should write a book or something. This, naturally, terrified me. Suddenly I became incapable of stringing sentences together in any coherent fashion whatsoever. Success..? What the heck was I supposed to do with that?? I instantly sought other avenues where failure was a sure thing. And you know what?? There’s LOADS of them. I was potentially guaranteed to be bloody useless at a new something for a very long time indeed. Ahhh… there was my comfort zone. Rather annoyingly I became moderately successful at a few of those things too, but I nipped those in the bud before anyone else noticed. *phew*
2) I got an email from my ex where, amongst other things, he mentioned one of my blog entries. Which coincidentally was about something he did that was rather silly that made him look like a bit of a lemon. Suddenly it dawned on me. This blog isn’t under my name, it’s under my professional online name.
What sort of moron has a private blog under the same name that they earn a living under?
(I’ll leave you to imagine me sheepishly raising my right hand at this point.)
Yup.
It’s through sheer good luck rather than any semblance of intelligence that I’ve never bitched about the industry I work in or the folk that inhabit the same particular swamp. But I could have. And if my ex can find me, anyone else can.
So I toyed with starting up a new blog, but my muse was nowhere to be found. He’s probably in Switzerland or something, living an entirely new identity under the witness protection program… so I just settled for deleting all my content.
“Hold on one sec, you loon,” I hear you say “But I can see what you’ve written. It’s right there…look.”
Well yes, I changed my mind this morning and re-imported the whole damn thing.
Why?
Rarasaur, that’s why. Or more accurately *this post*. Rara seems to be struggling a bit with the same issue. However, she’s more “get up and go” than me, and I usually have to resort to some serious industrial grade self-bribery to get anything done. For instance, for writing this I am rewarding myself with a KitKat Chunky. I introduced this reward system as a feeble attempt at self-encouragement, which has worked up to a point. The point being that my chocolate consumption has shot up 600%, which equates to a 20% increase of bodily mass. To put it bluntly, in return for being a good and focussed girl I rewarded myself with a 15% bigger arse. Considering the fact there’s already plenty of junk in this trunk this side effect hasn’t turned out to be terribly motivating. Yesterday I bought myself a huge bunch of fresh carrots with the intention of rewarding myself with crunchy carrot sticks and healthy dip. Last night I moved them to the end of the kitchen and ate the entire dip with half a family-size bag of Doritos.
Nevertheless, here I am, and I’m hoping to get back into the Daily Prompt.
I will, however, continue to ignore their handy tips on better blogging and building a healthy following because that’s a little too much like achieving something for my liking… and success? That’s something I shall be avoiding like carrots.

Favouritism.

Y’know what’s really great?

WordPress bring back their daily prompt and it *totally* gives you a “Get Out Of Shame Free Card” where you can start posting again and pretend that the 10 month gap since the last post was completely intended, and that you were in fact too busy in some sort of Bohemian whirl writing the next War and Peace ( except a lot shorter and actually read by people instead of just pretend-read by people ).

So consider me flouncing back all kinda arty and we’ll just exchange nods and just leave it at that, shall we? Marvellous.

So… today’s prompt was :
“You have three hundred words to justify the existence of your favourite person, place, or thing. Failure to convince will result in it vanishing without a trace. Go!”

Firstly, I don’t like being told to Go! , especially after a 10 month absence. It makes me feel like I’ve crashed a party ( which I’ve done before, but only so my best friend could mash lips with some guy she’d had an eye on for a few months. It didn’t end well. Turned out it was a guys-only party and they were all sitting watching porno in the living room when we walked in. Apparently group porno sessions for guys is ok… but with 2 girls in the room who aren’t professional lesbians it becomes kinda embarrassing. Who’da thought it? )

Secondly, the words “Failure to convince will result in it vanishing without a trace” only served to highlight the particularly wide Machiavellian streak I have. I read it as “Don’t mention a ton of stuff and it’s going to suddenly disappear…” which is a whole lot more interesting. Like a lot of folk, I have a big ugly rucksack full of baggage I could happily not mention, followed by happily not grieving at it’s sudden disappearance…and eventually happily not porno-ing at the celebratory party. In fact, so great is my hope that this is a genuine Divine offer that I’m not even going to mention it in this rambling unfocused pre-post bit.
But I do have a devious streak. Have I ever mentioned how I usually win at Monopoly? I work out exactly who needs what, bide my time…. and then pit all the other players against each other.
Me : I’d like that card please. I’ll pay the going rate for it.
Sucker : Haha! No… You give me the card I need and then I’ll give you this one.
Me : No. You give me the card I want now, or I give the card you want to Sucker #2 who is also trying to collect that row and then you’re buggered.
Sucker : You’re a horrible person. You know that don’t you?
Me : Yup. Cough up the card already.

Nobody will play Monopoly with me anymore.

Thirdly, ” justify the existence of your favorite person, place, or thing.”
Ooh, that’s harsh. It’s like saying “You can mention a KFC Bargain Bucket, but it means you’ll never have another doughnut again”. I just can’t make that sort of sacrifice. And suddenly I’m wishing I’d skipped this prompt and come back tomorrow when hopefully they’re not going to hit us with something else of “Sophie’s Choice” ramifications. And favourites ? I don’t really do favourites. Favourites imply the ability to make a decision, and I’m not sure I’m up to that much pressure.

And finally, 300 words. 300. That’ll involve counting, I’m guessing. And whilst I’ve probably waffled on way past that count already, the fact I’ll be actively having to count. every. single. word. will just bug me. It’s bugging me now and I haven’t even started.

Curse you DailyPrompt and your forced literary arithmetic!!! *shakes fist*

Anyhoo… I figure I have up to 300 words, right? It doesn’t *have* to be exact, and if you’ve made your point then it’s all well and good to just stop there and cut the excess blathering. And besides, you might be facing a particularly stressful and hectic day and a few less words to read through might be exactly what you need… so less than 300 would be more of a blessing really. A gift. Maybe not a Ferrari kinda gift, but possibly better than socks.

So here it is. Brace yourself.

After a long period of thought I have decided that the thing that I am going to  justify the existence of that I would like to avoid vanishing without a trace is, in fact, panties.

It’s coming up to winter here and I don’t like chapped lips.

[ 47 words. You’re welcome. ]

Day 2. Dust, my old nemesis.

Day 2. Pretty damn impressive, eh?

So… I’m lying in bed doing my pre-sleep writing thing last night when it occurred to me that yet again I’ve said I’ll do something that will most definitely clash with my core personality trait of “Person who doesn’t do stuff with any semblance of regularity.”
I like to think that it’s not that I’m lazy ( though in all fairness I would really, wouldn’t I? ) I just can’t seem to do actions consistently.

Take, for example, dusting. People in houses generate dust, this I know. More people, more dust. Excess dust makes me wheezy, so to stop my respiratory system shutting down for giggles I’m aware that regular removal of dust is pretty much what I should be aiming for.

Do I?
Pfft.

Often I can spend weeks wondering why the tv signal isn’t as crisp anymore, or come close to a skin-flake avalanche nearly claiming one of the smaller children before I realise “Hold on… it’s a bit dusty in here, isn’t it?” ( The standard retort to which is “No shit, Sherlock” in this household. )
I just don’t see it. Well, obviously I *see* it, but the response of “Hmm, you really ought to do something about that, you don’t look terribly attractive when your lips turn blue, you wet yourself in an asphixia-induced panic and keel over…” just doesn’t kick in.

Luckily, my other half is very understanding and will often go fill a bucket of water and go do the cleaning himself. This invariably kick-starts the Housewife Failure Guilt Spiral, which would be devastating to my sense of self-worth if I had any sort of functioning memory. In actuality I just end up feeling monumentally bad during the dusting process itself but have completely forgotten about it the next day. Except for maybe glancing around now and then and wondering why everything looks so much nicer, whilst being unable to put my finger on exactly why.

Incidentally, I’ve tried Googling for handy housekeeping planners and reminders but the most popular ones seem to involve such delusions as “Only 10 minutes per room per day!”, which I’m gonna have to call BS on. You can NOT clean a room in 10 minutes, hell …it can take me 10 minutes just to get a day’s worth of debris out from underneath the dinner table. At absolute very best you’re wiping crap from one place to another. Wiping does not equate to cleanliness. I wipe my arse on average once a day but that doesn’t mean it’s sparkly clean and ready for you to eat your dinner off it. Not that you’d want to. An arse-sized plate, who could possibly eat that much ??

Anyway, I digress. I thought for tomorrow I would attempt a book review. Of a book I haven’t read yet, ’cause that would hopefully be slightly more interesting than a rough outline that anyone who’s actually read it could spit out.
Plus, it seems that this blog has a bit of a running theme of general avoidance goin’ on, so it makes more sense to write about a book I’m avoiding despite forking out real actual cash for it.

I’ll go rummage around the bookcase-shaped living room dust and see what I can come up with 🙂

 

 

You’re searching for WHAT ?!?

I love my stats page, and when I’m actively blogging I watch it like a hawk.

However, it came to my attention pretty quickly that a certain type of audience often frequented my blog, and I can’t decide whether that says more about them or my choice of writing topics. I shall let you decide.

Yup, that’s right. I’m really big with the Penis crowd.

A confession.

Usually when I’m blogging I write it all down longhand, review, spellcheck, review again, type it out, review, post, review and then spend the next 2 hours looking at my site stats ( yes, I *am* that neurotic ).

This post is not going to be like that. In fact, this post is going to be unlike any other post before or to come, and I hope that after having read it it won’t put too many people off reading any further garbage I may throw at you 😉

I have a problem. I can’t post.

It’s not like I have writer’s block, or I lack inspiration. I have loads of ideas and a little notebook full of scribbled bits waiting for internet immortality.

What I do have is *deep breath* Borderline Personality Disorder.

I’ll spare you the details of why I have it, it’s not really important, and I will stress that I have “multiple traits” as opposed to all-out BPD. Only someone who’s lived with someone with BPD will appreciate the distinction. I think it would be fair to say that BPD sufferers are hard to live with, I’m only hard to live with when I’m triggered. Otherwise I’m a bundle of light and joy 😀

Being Borderline has meant that I’m BIG on starting stuff. Insanely, passionately, obsessively keen on starting. But once it becomes a commitment we hit a brick wall. And it really is like slamming face-first into concrete. You can’t go around it, you can’t climb over it.  I have so much in my head that I want to do, my house is full of craft stuff stored away for when I can face actually using it, but I can’t. And I do mean that.. I can’t, rather than I won’t. It becomes a huge battle and I end up doing nothing, or worst still, I end up doing stuff I don’t want to do purely because it’s not a commitment.

I’m hoping with this post I can somehow keep this blog going, cos it’s becoming hard, but I really don’t want to drop it like I have so many other blogs before. It’s important to me that I do this, to see if I can. To show that I can. So some posts might be a lot smaller, but I hope you’ll bear with me cos knowing there are some people who actually subscribe to this nonsense is pretty important. Incredibly scary for someone with Borderline, but very important.

Thank you.

Michelle x

Pre-emptive Strike : “I don’t care, anything but flip-flops”

I seem to be struggling a bit with the suggested topics lately. It’s not that they’re unsuitable ( though every time a new one is posted I wince for those with intensely specific blogs. “Epithelial Cell Daily” might, for example, struggle with the topic “What colour shoes do you prefer, and why?” ).
It’s not that I can’t think of a suitable reply, I just can’t seem to get anything down in print.
Usually I take a notebook to bed with me once the kids are asleep, write my entry out longhand ( snuggly warm under-duvet feet and more conducive to creative expression I’ve found ), and once I’m done I jump out, type it up, then go back to bed.
Lately I’ve been getting into bed with my notebook, getting comfy, and then waking up at 3am to the sound of at least one of my cats attempting to chew through my pen of choice for the evening. This is making me grumpy, not least because my stationery supplies are being eaten.
It’s driving me nuts 😦

Hold on a sec…. it’s driving me nuts !!!!

Talk about pure luck….

Absolute proof I have *not* lost my marbles.

‘Cos look… here they are !

I think I briefly touched on the fact I was going to fry some marbles last post, and I was so chuffed with the outcome that when the Post-A-Day prompt posted a poll I instantly decided to post a pic for today’s post and abandon the Free Writing suggestion ( which I’d jumped on an hour previously. Unfortunately all that had happened was that I’d sat with a blank piece of paper for an hour going “….erm…” whilst achieving an almost zen-like total lack of brain activity. If zen was coupled with a rat-gnawing-at-the-back-of-your-head level of frustration, that is.)

So there you have it. Fried marbles in all their shiny glory. Luvvverly.

P.S. Updated my “Me & Other Stuff” page up there ^^ with a few piccies for those of you who have previously taken a look only to be devastated by the lack of anything of interest to look at. Now at least there’s something, and you only have to be devastated by the lack of quality.

Back tomorrow with more waffle 🙂

New pollage.