I can almost certainly say that if there were swivel chairs in biblical times, Jesus would have included them in the bible or the 10 commandments or in some form of holy scroll.
I standby that Jesus was a God loving adrenaline dude in robes and a halo, so I'm definitely sure he's scooting around heaven with an office chair dodging old people and small babies in cloud prams. I just know it. Gut feeling, trust me.
I hope heaven's nice and that God does let's me ride around on spinny office chairs all day, because quite frankly I don't do it enough on earth.
Spinny office chairs are the main perks of computer rooms, and mainly the only reason I didn't cry every time I walked into GCSE ICT everyday for 2 years. They are life savers. And ultimate fun. That's a bonus and a half. Dude.
The government should really consider giving them out freely to all humans of all shapes and sizes, spinny chairs probably cure AIDs and Typhoid. Probably. Not definitely, but I'm pretty sure they'd give it a good go. Gold star for effort.
Today/yesterday (it's 3am I don't know - don't judge me) I pushed a small friend of mine around on a office chair in the kitchen, I'm not going to lie, it brightened my day. It was like pac-man except clearly I'm not a weird purple ghost but she looked oddly like a yellow pizza with a slice missing. Odd.
It reminded me of when I dislocated my knee and got pushed around Ikea in a wheelchair. It was fun, I'd recommended it. Do it this weekend.
Wednesday, 30 November 2011
Monday, 28 November 2011
Rosette Winner
There are some jobs that I can completely rule out for my future. A teacher once told me that in order to work out what you want to do you have to work out what you don't want to do. I've been wondering lately what I want to, I'm narrowing it down.
I could never be a teacher. Children? Surely looking after small, messy, smelly, snotty children does not entice anyone? 6 hours a day being called, 'Miss' continuously would kill me. I'm not a massive fan of children anyway. I don't hate them, kids are great, but not with me. I dread to think what my child is going to turn out like. Ladies and gentlemen, lock your windows and doors.
I couldn't be a policeman. I have a lot of respect for coppers, but that is not me. Not at all. I'm the least scary, authoritative person in the world. I'm not a push over but I freak out and crumble under pressure, so arresting a big scary man or woman (women can commit crimes too you know) with the potential to kill me is not appealing. But I do love policemen and women, they deserve more credit than they get.
I couldn't be a horse trainer. I have a small issue with horses; they smell, they require exercise, they wear out your jeans, they don't generate much income unless you ride in ascot or what ever, and lastly I'm not really a fan of horses. Don't get me wrong, I think they are absolutely stunning and without a doubt beautiful but I'm certainly not in love with them. The last time I rode a horse I was 5 and I cried my eyes out because the the trainer wanted me to do a 'round the world' - it's not a euphemism it's what she told me to do - and I cried. But I did get a rosette thus showing crying is for winners. FACT.
I couldn't be a guard at Buckingham Palace, not that I want to be a disservice to the dear old queen but they stand there for hours on end without speaking to anyone, not being able to laugh and looking immaculate for hours and hours on end. It's commendable, don't get me wrong, it's commendable, but I can barely stand for 2 minutes without slouching and getting so incredibly bored I want to die. It's a start though.
The final job that i could never ever do is being a guide dog. There are some fundamental issues, such as; I don't know any blind people, I don't own a florescent jacket and I'm not a dog. I really would be a rubbish guide dog. I get distracted so easily it's embarrassing. The other day I was in the middle of a conversation with my Dad about some deep techy-political stuff that actually could matter to me when I spotted the street lights reflecting on the rain droplets on the window and it was really beautiful and reminded me of fireworks and sparklers and glitter and pretty things. see? poster child for distraction right here.
I could never be a teacher. Children? Surely looking after small, messy, smelly, snotty children does not entice anyone? 6 hours a day being called, 'Miss' continuously would kill me. I'm not a massive fan of children anyway. I don't hate them, kids are great, but not with me. I dread to think what my child is going to turn out like. Ladies and gentlemen, lock your windows and doors.
I couldn't be a policeman. I have a lot of respect for coppers, but that is not me. Not at all. I'm the least scary, authoritative person in the world. I'm not a push over but I freak out and crumble under pressure, so arresting a big scary man or woman (women can commit crimes too you know) with the potential to kill me is not appealing. But I do love policemen and women, they deserve more credit than they get.
I couldn't be a horse trainer. I have a small issue with horses; they smell, they require exercise, they wear out your jeans, they don't generate much income unless you ride in ascot or what ever, and lastly I'm not really a fan of horses. Don't get me wrong, I think they are absolutely stunning and without a doubt beautiful but I'm certainly not in love with them. The last time I rode a horse I was 5 and I cried my eyes out because the the trainer wanted me to do a 'round the world' - it's not a euphemism it's what she told me to do - and I cried. But I did get a rosette thus showing crying is for winners. FACT.
I couldn't be a guard at Buckingham Palace, not that I want to be a disservice to the dear old queen but they stand there for hours on end without speaking to anyone, not being able to laugh and looking immaculate for hours and hours on end. It's commendable, don't get me wrong, it's commendable, but I can barely stand for 2 minutes without slouching and getting so incredibly bored I want to die. It's a start though.
The final job that i could never ever do is being a guide dog. There are some fundamental issues, such as; I don't know any blind people, I don't own a florescent jacket and I'm not a dog. I really would be a rubbish guide dog. I get distracted so easily it's embarrassing. The other day I was in the middle of a conversation with my Dad about some deep techy-political stuff that actually could matter to me when I spotted the street lights reflecting on the rain droplets on the window and it was really beautiful and reminded me of fireworks and sparklers and glitter and pretty things. see? poster child for distraction right here.
Sunday, 20 November 2011
Bribing Monkeys
Bribery. I don't know how I feel about it. In the spectrum of life's troubles I'd definitely give bribery a 6/10. Mainly for effort. For reference, i'd also give a 4/10 for what to wear to 6th form and a 1/10 for the colour I'm going to paint my nails (and by the way, it's gold). A mighty 10/10 would be appointed to deciding what call my autobiography with out sounding like a generic D-list celebrity.
I think of bribery as doing something you wouldn't usually do for some form of personal gain, like money. But bribery is fickle.
I've willing submitted to bribery, probably on a weekly basis. But I think in some situations bribery is one of the best methods to realize you're and absolute idiot.
I've been bribed for pride. That's pretty poor. Eating a whole A4 piece of paper in no way gives any form of pride. Not even bragging rights. Pathetic. But I still did it and here I am bragging about it.
I've been bribed for money that wasn't even given to me after I did it. In hindsight, licking walls for 20p spreads disease and is not worth it.
But on serious issues, such as 'if you jump off that bolder, possibly plummeting to your sorry death, I'll buy you a premium sea monkey set'. i'd advise you jump. Sea monkey's a are expensive but great. REALLY GREAT.
I'd like to point out that if your friend does ask you to this, whether your 7, 16 or 87 (or any age inbetween), buy your own Sea Monkeys. They are not worth potentially dying for, no matter how names you think up for each of them.
But going back to 'doing something you wouldn't usually do for some form of personal gain' would work be classed as bribery?
If you had the option to either file away 8683 files into a mediocre, rusting, grey filling cabinet or spend the day being massaged by tiny golden monkeys trained by monks to give you the ultimate back massage, which would you choose? Unless you have a serious issues with trained massage monkeys you are guaranteed to pick a spa day instead of filling. But it makes me sad that we only do things if money is involved and we're getting paid for it.
You are getting bribed to go to work. I don't want that. I never will hate going to work, paid or not. I hate that we are so dependent on money these days, that almost makes me sound old and wise, I can absolutely assure you that i am neither. But I wish people had more of an open mind to doing things out of the (cliché alert) goodness of their heart.
I realise I've gone a bit serious and less fun so I thought I'd tell you a fact about me:
Sometimes, just sometimes - and mainly in winter - I like to shower in the dark. Make of that what you will, judge me apon it if you must, but I'm telling you it's the best fun. Think of playing hide and seek but blind.
I think of bribery as doing something you wouldn't usually do for some form of personal gain, like money. But bribery is fickle.
I've willing submitted to bribery, probably on a weekly basis. But I think in some situations bribery is one of the best methods to realize you're and absolute idiot.
I've been bribed for pride. That's pretty poor. Eating a whole A4 piece of paper in no way gives any form of pride. Not even bragging rights. Pathetic. But I still did it and here I am bragging about it.
I've been bribed for money that wasn't even given to me after I did it. In hindsight, licking walls for 20p spreads disease and is not worth it.
But on serious issues, such as 'if you jump off that bolder, possibly plummeting to your sorry death, I'll buy you a premium sea monkey set'. i'd advise you jump. Sea monkey's a are expensive but great. REALLY GREAT.
I'd like to point out that if your friend does ask you to this, whether your 7, 16 or 87 (or any age inbetween), buy your own Sea Monkeys. They are not worth potentially dying for, no matter how names you think up for each of them.
But going back to 'doing something you wouldn't usually do for some form of personal gain' would work be classed as bribery?
If you had the option to either file away 8683 files into a mediocre, rusting, grey filling cabinet or spend the day being massaged by tiny golden monkeys trained by monks to give you the ultimate back massage, which would you choose? Unless you have a serious issues with trained massage monkeys you are guaranteed to pick a spa day instead of filling. But it makes me sad that we only do things if money is involved and we're getting paid for it.
You are getting bribed to go to work. I don't want that. I never will hate going to work, paid or not. I hate that we are so dependent on money these days, that almost makes me sound old and wise, I can absolutely assure you that i am neither. But I wish people had more of an open mind to doing things out of the (cliché alert) goodness of their heart.
I realise I've gone a bit serious and less fun so I thought I'd tell you a fact about me:
Sometimes, just sometimes - and mainly in winter - I like to shower in the dark. Make of that what you will, judge me apon it if you must, but I'm telling you it's the best fun. Think of playing hide and seek but blind.
Thursday, 17 November 2011
Forgetful Techno
I am so forgetful it's embarrassing. I went to my friends house and my phone slyly slid down the side of the sofa in a wicked attempt to escape my pocket and I left without it. This is a simple mistake I know and anyone could have done it. But I left her house at 2 o'clock in the afternoon and only after a Facebook wall post had I noticed that I was missing my dear old phone. This was at 9 in the evening. That's pretty bad.
I guess I'm not too hot on technology, I want to be. It's not like I have an old Nokia which plays snake. I have one better; It slides to use the camera. It's got the Internet. It's got the blog. It's got fishing games. It's a brick - not a literal clay brick, but you know what i mean. I love it. My dad calls it vintage, probably because I've had it for 5 years. That's right, all you 'upgrade after one year'-ers, 5, almost 6 years of the same phone. I've never lost it. It's never let me down.
Ok, once in October when it wiped ALL my contacts. Thanks phone. I thought we were friends.
But otherwise, I can't imagine myself without it. We have memories. I lost it's original back at a Basement Jaxx concert where I accidentally flung it into the crowd. I've had conversations on that phone that I can never get back. I've taken countless photographs of Mexicans that I won't be able to transfer. The list goes on.
Don't get me wrong, maybe I should upgrade, see what the fuss is all about. But at the end of the day I know that that shiny flash phone with the 545164651684654894645 mega pixel camera will fail on me.
It probably doesn't help that I'm the clumsiest person ever.
I put a spoon in the microwave once and it sparked like bonfire night. I stuck a knife in the toaster and the electricity went down in the whole house. The last time I cooked pasta I set fire to a tea towel.
Who in their right mind would willingly give me a phone knowing that?!
I guess I'm not too hot on technology, I want to be. It's not like I have an old Nokia which plays snake. I have one better; It slides to use the camera. It's got the Internet. It's got the blog. It's got fishing games. It's a brick - not a literal clay brick, but you know what i mean. I love it. My dad calls it vintage, probably because I've had it for 5 years. That's right, all you 'upgrade after one year'-ers, 5, almost 6 years of the same phone. I've never lost it. It's never let me down.
Ok, once in October when it wiped ALL my contacts. Thanks phone. I thought we were friends.
But otherwise, I can't imagine myself without it. We have memories. I lost it's original back at a Basement Jaxx concert where I accidentally flung it into the crowd. I've had conversations on that phone that I can never get back. I've taken countless photographs of Mexicans that I won't be able to transfer. The list goes on.
Don't get me wrong, maybe I should upgrade, see what the fuss is all about. But at the end of the day I know that that shiny flash phone with the 545164651684654894645 mega pixel camera will fail on me.
It probably doesn't help that I'm the clumsiest person ever.
I put a spoon in the microwave once and it sparked like bonfire night. I stuck a knife in the toaster and the electricity went down in the whole house. The last time I cooked pasta I set fire to a tea towel.
Who in their right mind would willingly give me a phone knowing that?!
Monday, 14 November 2011
The Fear of Garlic
I scare myself sometimes, not in a massive way but enough for me to question everything. Today I crossed the road without realising it. I crossed a road and had no recollection of how or when I did it. I think I must have been distracted. I'm often distracted, sometimes by clouds, sometimes by questions like 'what are Mini Cheddars?'. That is a valid question right? Are they crisps? Biscuits? Crackers? I just don't know.
In other news, I think phobias are really funny. not in a horrendous sadistic way but I find them so interesting. There are people out there that have a fear of garlic. I can understand not liking it, but a fear? Hardcore garlic hatred. My favourite phobias are (I kid you not, these are all real phobias); the fear of peanut butter sticking to the roof of the mouth, the fear of ugliness, the fear of chopsticks, hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia - the fear of long words, the fear of bald people. I mean, I'd love all of those. Although It would kill my quality of life to go without peanut butter and chop sticks, but i can deal with it.
There is one thing I am seriously petrified of though, no it's not spiders, or the dark or the ghost of Michael Jackson. I have a fear of wrists. How ridiculous. Of all things in the whole entire world of doom, gloom and horror the thing that tears me apart are wrists. I can't do pull ups because it makes my wrists look funny, the same goes with arm wrestles. I can walk through the woods in the dead of night, spend a night in a haunted house, and shake the lavender bush to see if any bees chase me and yet someone showing me their wrist almost kills me.
Well, at least I don't have a fear of trees, beards or poetry. That last sentence does not in any way represent my life or hobbies, it was taken randomly from a list. I promise.
In other news, I think phobias are really funny. not in a horrendous sadistic way but I find them so interesting. There are people out there that have a fear of garlic. I can understand not liking it, but a fear? Hardcore garlic hatred. My favourite phobias are (I kid you not, these are all real phobias); the fear of peanut butter sticking to the roof of the mouth, the fear of ugliness, the fear of chopsticks, hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia - the fear of long words, the fear of bald people. I mean, I'd love all of those. Although It would kill my quality of life to go without peanut butter and chop sticks, but i can deal with it.
There is one thing I am seriously petrified of though, no it's not spiders, or the dark or the ghost of Michael Jackson. I have a fear of wrists. How ridiculous. Of all things in the whole entire world of doom, gloom and horror the thing that tears me apart are wrists. I can't do pull ups because it makes my wrists look funny, the same goes with arm wrestles. I can walk through the woods in the dead of night, spend a night in a haunted house, and shake the lavender bush to see if any bees chase me and yet someone showing me their wrist almost kills me.
Well, at least I don't have a fear of trees, beards or poetry. That last sentence does not in any way represent my life or hobbies, it was taken randomly from a list. I promise.
Sunday, 13 November 2011
The Nigel Awards
There are many things in life I want to achieve, such as: own a few alpacas, dress as a wookie for a whole week, ride around Mexico with a mule whilst eating a burrito and wearing a sombrero. You know the drill. But there is something else I have added to this list of many great tasks.
I will give awards out for silly and simple things. I was thinking, if you have a great name like Nigel then you'd get a gold star or a small chocolate coin. There's a small budget, don't judge me. But if you, Nigel, also did something extraordinary such as grow a sea monkey aquarium and name all 56 of your teeny tiny sea monkeys, you would also receive a vegetable shaped like an averagely know celebrity like a turnip shaped like Jackie Chan. Good deal right?
I'd also give out veg celebs to people who had perfected their Swedish accent and were by far the best swede. Ironically I'd give you, the swede impersonator, a swede (the root vegetable not a randomer that I've kidnapped from Stockholm) shaped like all 4 members of ABBA. It will be magical.
I'd give some form of knighthood to the man, woman or beast who plays knock down ginger on Buckingham Palace or 10 Downing Street. Or failing a knighthood, a packet of haribbos and bragging rights for all eternity. ETERNITY. That is a long time, probably longer than you and I will ever live. But then again, you never know the technology these days.
I'd hate to live forever, always getting older. I have nothing against aging, in fact I can't wait to be old. Not that i'd be a particulary great and amazing old lady, but I would be able to go to Bingo Wednesdays without being questioned. The old have got it good; subsidised travel, kidnappers aren't interested in them, and no one expects them to run a marathon. Surely we should all be buying pro-ageing creams? L'Oreal have got it all wrong.
I will give awards out for silly and simple things. I was thinking, if you have a great name like Nigel then you'd get a gold star or a small chocolate coin. There's a small budget, don't judge me. But if you, Nigel, also did something extraordinary such as grow a sea monkey aquarium and name all 56 of your teeny tiny sea monkeys, you would also receive a vegetable shaped like an averagely know celebrity like a turnip shaped like Jackie Chan. Good deal right?
I'd also give out veg celebs to people who had perfected their Swedish accent and were by far the best swede. Ironically I'd give you, the swede impersonator, a swede (the root vegetable not a randomer that I've kidnapped from Stockholm) shaped like all 4 members of ABBA. It will be magical.
I'd give some form of knighthood to the man, woman or beast who plays knock down ginger on Buckingham Palace or 10 Downing Street. Or failing a knighthood, a packet of haribbos and bragging rights for all eternity. ETERNITY. That is a long time, probably longer than you and I will ever live. But then again, you never know the technology these days.
I'd hate to live forever, always getting older. I have nothing against aging, in fact I can't wait to be old. Not that i'd be a particulary great and amazing old lady, but I would be able to go to Bingo Wednesdays without being questioned. The old have got it good; subsidised travel, kidnappers aren't interested in them, and no one expects them to run a marathon. Surely we should all be buying pro-ageing creams? L'Oreal have got it all wrong.
Saturday, 12 November 2011
Brain Hoover
I should stop thinking out loud. It's got to the point where I have considered wiring up my brain to a machine which tells me whether the thing that I am thinking about is what I actually want to say and not sound too special. And not the glittery kind either.
Today I got asked what I think about Twitter, my natural response was, 'if twitter was a person I'd hug it, and we'd probably be friends but I'd make the effort in the relationship because my friend twitter would always be occupied with Justin Beiber and One Direction'.
I need help. I can't keep comparing things in my life to 'if it was a person...' I do this with my Government and Politics folder and right now we are not even on talking terms. I think that that relationship is beyond repair. I trusted that folder to get me though the year hand in hand. But no, it let me down. again. I can't take it any more. So long Gov and Pol, you will not be getting a Christmas card.
I don't think I'm friends with the hoover. It tends to try and eat my scarves but it does clean up after itself, I'm debating the friendship. It could turn on me. The hoover can be fickle, it has mood swings. Sometimes it flips over in the middle of the living room floor for a tantrum. On some days it will unplug itself from the wall. Not cool hoover. Not cool.
My motto is, if your hoover isn't called Henry then it's not worth being friends with.
I have got a new love though, I think they'll be staying with me for a while too. Glittery shoes. Now, they are special in a great way.
Today I got asked what I think about Twitter, my natural response was, 'if twitter was a person I'd hug it, and we'd probably be friends but I'd make the effort in the relationship because my friend twitter would always be occupied with Justin Beiber and One Direction'.
I need help. I can't keep comparing things in my life to 'if it was a person...' I do this with my Government and Politics folder and right now we are not even on talking terms. I think that that relationship is beyond repair. I trusted that folder to get me though the year hand in hand. But no, it let me down. again. I can't take it any more. So long Gov and Pol, you will not be getting a Christmas card.
I don't think I'm friends with the hoover. It tends to try and eat my scarves but it does clean up after itself, I'm debating the friendship. It could turn on me. The hoover can be fickle, it has mood swings. Sometimes it flips over in the middle of the living room floor for a tantrum. On some days it will unplug itself from the wall. Not cool hoover. Not cool.
My motto is, if your hoover isn't called Henry then it's not worth being friends with.
I have got a new love though, I think they'll be staying with me for a while too. Glittery shoes. Now, they are special in a great way.
Friday, 11 November 2011
Horse Moustashe
A quote straight from the horses mouth (by horse I mean brother, I do not in any way shape or form have a horse in my house - RSPCA I'm telling you), we were eating dinner, the usual small talk came about. My Dad asked my Brother, 'what have you been doing whilst we've been out?' he replied so casually, 'running around in circles in the garden' - with leg weights.
I think he has the better genes, but even I'm doubting myself here. I mean honestly, who actually runs around in circles with leg weights?!
My Dad's doing Movember, his face amazes me. Not in an odd way, but in the space of about 10 days he now looks like a wolf man. A gingery blonde wolf man. I didn't think this was physically possible of my always clean-shaven Dad, but there we go.
In the beginning (that sounded like a new bible entry) he proclaimed that he'd go for a Hitler-esque 'tash, I had to stop him there. No. I've gone my whole life without being bullied and it wasn't about to start now. Not now. Not ever. He's opted to a mexican/el guapo/drug dealer moustache. I quite like it.
If I were a man I'd definitely grow a moustache. Not just for November either, I'd go all year round. And it wouldn't be any of this pre-teen top lip shit. Oh no. I'd do the full shebang: moustache brush, styling scissors, I'd have all the books for ease of reference so i can change it for special occasions. You name it. The lot.
Why aren't moustaches cool? I will never understand. They should be and always will be in my heart - I'd like to point out that I don't have actual moustaches in my heart, other wise I should probably get that checked out.
I think he has the better genes, but even I'm doubting myself here. I mean honestly, who actually runs around in circles with leg weights?!
My Dad's doing Movember, his face amazes me. Not in an odd way, but in the space of about 10 days he now looks like a wolf man. A gingery blonde wolf man. I didn't think this was physically possible of my always clean-shaven Dad, but there we go.
In the beginning (that sounded like a new bible entry) he proclaimed that he'd go for a Hitler-esque 'tash, I had to stop him there. No. I've gone my whole life without being bullied and it wasn't about to start now. Not now. Not ever. He's opted to a mexican/el guapo/drug dealer moustache. I quite like it.
If I were a man I'd definitely grow a moustache. Not just for November either, I'd go all year round. And it wouldn't be any of this pre-teen top lip shit. Oh no. I'd do the full shebang: moustache brush, styling scissors, I'd have all the books for ease of reference so i can change it for special occasions. You name it. The lot.
Why aren't moustaches cool? I will never understand. They should be and always will be in my heart - I'd like to point out that I don't have actual moustaches in my heart, other wise I should probably get that checked out.
Thursday, 10 November 2011
Feral Oranges
Lets face it, 2 free lessons in my school day are not going to be filled with hard core revision. It's gospel truth that I have faced more many years and I've come to terms with. I'm lazy, there's no way around it.
But in times of pure laziness and a fruit bowl at your disposal, greatness can be concieved.
Unintentionally inspired by 'Miranda' and her fruit friends, I managed to create a colony of feral oranges. I know, feral oranges. They had faces and everything. I count that as feral.
It's a fact of life that if something has a face then it will go on a rampage at some point in it life, like wasps. They're deceptive. You can't see their face, but their heartless reign of terror is inevitable when you least expect it. For example in a pub garden, I'll set the scene: It was a sunny day in mid summer, the birds are twittering away and we meet up with the grandparents, so a pub lunch is guaranteed. We sit down on a picnic table in the field and order the drinks. A wasp (i want to say 'bee-lined' but i can't bring myself to do it) dived like a bomber into my nan's neck. HEARTLESS BASTARD. An elderly woman?! I mean seriously, these wasps have no morals what so ever. Someone should really sort that shit out.
But in times of pure laziness and a fruit bowl at your disposal, greatness can be concieved.
Unintentionally inspired by 'Miranda' and her fruit friends, I managed to create a colony of feral oranges. I know, feral oranges. They had faces and everything. I count that as feral.
It's a fact of life that if something has a face then it will go on a rampage at some point in it life, like wasps. They're deceptive. You can't see their face, but their heartless reign of terror is inevitable when you least expect it. For example in a pub garden, I'll set the scene: It was a sunny day in mid summer, the birds are twittering away and we meet up with the grandparents, so a pub lunch is guaranteed. We sit down on a picnic table in the field and order the drinks. A wasp (i want to say 'bee-lined' but i can't bring myself to do it) dived like a bomber into my nan's neck. HEARTLESS BASTARD. An elderly woman?! I mean seriously, these wasps have no morals what so ever. Someone should really sort that shit out.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)