I have just moved house. Yes, yes, again, AGAIN. I've lived here for only 3 days and I just walked in on one of my MALE housemates in the bathroom. It wasn't quite the scene you are envisioning.
He was in PINK marigolds scrubbing the sink.
Wowzers. I've definately landed on my feet here. THERE IS A GOD! Mini mexican wave...
Thursday, 25 March 2010
Friday, 19 March 2010
CONFESSIONS OF AN OBSESSIVE COMPULSIVE - blog ten
There's a reason I haven't been blogging. I was seeing someone for a while. I was sent to interview a band and Alex was the lead singer. He was tall, he had tattoos which covered his arms and his neck, and some of them he'd done himself. He had piercings. He was eloquent, educated, he loved hip-hop, he was kind and he raised one eyebrow whenever he said something he was proud to say. It was an intense fortnight. He was sexy.
He smoked a lot but I could overlook that. He drank a lot but then drinking chills me out somewhat so it was probably a good thing. The once pristine white walls of his room were covered in haphazard graffiti scrawl, and I could oversee that. Half his room was lino and half was carpet and it distracted me and bugged me that the neat conservative pattern of the lino was interrupted without explanation, with not only an entirely different pattern but an entirely different material - carpet. I’d think about it for minutes on end, staring at the floor but I never asked. Had I have asked, I would’ve been in danger of revealing my secret…it would have no doubt unleashed a jibbering nervous wreck.
I pushed my urges to question the disorder and chaos of his life to the back of my mind. Alex was a good kisser and the raised eyebrow thing, hot as hell. I though he was a bit Larry Clarke’s Kids-esque. He though I was a bit “vanilla.”
I could overlook the musky smell of the duvet, and windows, which hadn’t been cleaned for so long they were starting to block out the sunlight. I could overlook the tiny sprinklings of tobacco on every surface, I could even overlook the 7 mugs of half drank coffee solidifying around the room (I counted. Twice.) But what drove me out of Alex’s arms was one thing and one thing only - the mountain of clothes in the left hand corner of his room.
It was absurd. The boy HAD a wardrobe but it remained empty. All his clothes existed in a huge, jumbled, nightmare of a pile. How could he ever find anything? How long had they been there? What if tiny creatures lived in there? If there were tiny creatures in the pile then they may spread to the bed! Bed bugs. My pores began to tickle with prickly heat as they exuded sweat. My god – I had to get out. I bolted up the road and never saw him again. I ignored his calls and eventually he stopped trying. It wasn’t love it was a two-week fling. Opposites attract? I think NOT.
NB: I have only ever been in love once. We were at university. It was the 5th November – Guy Fawkes night and Thomas had been out drinking and watching the fireworks with a group of our friends. I had a cold so stayed in bed. Later, he creeped into my room at 3am a bit merry (christ knows how he’d got in.)
He must have been making a bonfire because the next morning, on the spotless eggshell-white doorframe of my room was a black, clumsy, sooty handprint. I smiled. My eyebrows didn’t knot together in angst; I didn’t reach for the marigolds or the bleach. I just smiled. I didn’t clean it until I moved out of that house. It was like a little paw but cuter. Now THAT'S love.
He smoked a lot but I could overlook that. He drank a lot but then drinking chills me out somewhat so it was probably a good thing. The once pristine white walls of his room were covered in haphazard graffiti scrawl, and I could oversee that. Half his room was lino and half was carpet and it distracted me and bugged me that the neat conservative pattern of the lino was interrupted without explanation, with not only an entirely different pattern but an entirely different material - carpet. I’d think about it for minutes on end, staring at the floor but I never asked. Had I have asked, I would’ve been in danger of revealing my secret…it would have no doubt unleashed a jibbering nervous wreck.
I pushed my urges to question the disorder and chaos of his life to the back of my mind. Alex was a good kisser and the raised eyebrow thing, hot as hell. I though he was a bit Larry Clarke’s Kids-esque. He though I was a bit “vanilla.”
I could overlook the musky smell of the duvet, and windows, which hadn’t been cleaned for so long they were starting to block out the sunlight. I could overlook the tiny sprinklings of tobacco on every surface, I could even overlook the 7 mugs of half drank coffee solidifying around the room (I counted. Twice.) But what drove me out of Alex’s arms was one thing and one thing only - the mountain of clothes in the left hand corner of his room.
It was absurd. The boy HAD a wardrobe but it remained empty. All his clothes existed in a huge, jumbled, nightmare of a pile. How could he ever find anything? How long had they been there? What if tiny creatures lived in there? If there were tiny creatures in the pile then they may spread to the bed! Bed bugs. My pores began to tickle with prickly heat as they exuded sweat. My god – I had to get out. I bolted up the road and never saw him again. I ignored his calls and eventually he stopped trying. It wasn’t love it was a two-week fling. Opposites attract? I think NOT.
NB: I have only ever been in love once. We were at university. It was the 5th November – Guy Fawkes night and Thomas had been out drinking and watching the fireworks with a group of our friends. I had a cold so stayed in bed. Later, he creeped into my room at 3am a bit merry (christ knows how he’d got in.)
He must have been making a bonfire because the next morning, on the spotless eggshell-white doorframe of my room was a black, clumsy, sooty handprint. I smiled. My eyebrows didn’t knot together in angst; I didn’t reach for the marigolds or the bleach. I just smiled. I didn’t clean it until I moved out of that house. It was like a little paw but cuter. Now THAT'S love.
Monday, 22 February 2010
CONFESSIONS OF AN OBSESSIVE COMPULSIVE - blog nine
I buy the Guardian every Saturday. Usually flicking through it (systematically, mind) with a cup of coffee and my weekly hit of T4 is quite pleasurable. I save the weekend magazine supplement until the end – a fun, glossy little read in a reliable and consistent format.
The front cover this week features a well-kept man with his palms on a desk and his office materials laid out so meticulously and at such perfect right angles that I actually feel slightly hot under the collar if I’m perfectly honest. He is a fellow obsessive compulsive. The strap-line reads: “Impossible, perfectionist, 27 seeks very very very tidy woman.” I know what you’re thinking – but when I start to read disgust quickly replaces excitement.
The man who has written this 3-page feature, Jon somebody or other, who from here on I shall refer to as horrid little man, not only places obsessive compulsiveness in a negative light but vows to change and compromise himself in order to find miss right. Apparently his last relationship ended in 2003. So? Cry me a river. Is this a reason to revise your whole belief system and throw your life values down the drain horrid little man?
Horrid little man even goes so far as to ask himself “Can I stop looking for miss right and just work on convincing myself that Miss Not Bad But Smells Funny is actually perfect?” Holy muffins! You don’t catch people chopping and changing their religion everyday do you? I feel ashamed to be affiliated with horrid little man (who, on second thoughts must be a phoney obsessive compulsive because you’d never catch a genuine one suddenly willing to alter their daily patterns.
You’d never catch me talking about my clean, tidy, (if a little scrupulous) habits in APOLOGETIC tones. Neither would I USE my state of mind to entertainment people by laughing at myself by using irony humour. Letting the side down or what horrid little man! I was very much put off my crumpets. Good luck finding Miss Right. Horrid little man with horrid little beard. (REAL Obsessive compulsives shave.)
NB: (Of course, my blog is used SIMPLY to log the noteworthy events that are peppered throughout daily life - it does NOT function as a means of entertainment….alright?)
The front cover this week features a well-kept man with his palms on a desk and his office materials laid out so meticulously and at such perfect right angles that I actually feel slightly hot under the collar if I’m perfectly honest. He is a fellow obsessive compulsive. The strap-line reads: “Impossible, perfectionist, 27 seeks very very very tidy woman.” I know what you’re thinking – but when I start to read disgust quickly replaces excitement.
The man who has written this 3-page feature, Jon somebody or other, who from here on I shall refer to as horrid little man, not only places obsessive compulsiveness in a negative light but vows to change and compromise himself in order to find miss right. Apparently his last relationship ended in 2003. So? Cry me a river. Is this a reason to revise your whole belief system and throw your life values down the drain horrid little man?
Horrid little man even goes so far as to ask himself “Can I stop looking for miss right and just work on convincing myself that Miss Not Bad But Smells Funny is actually perfect?” Holy muffins! You don’t catch people chopping and changing their religion everyday do you? I feel ashamed to be affiliated with horrid little man (who, on second thoughts must be a phoney obsessive compulsive because you’d never catch a genuine one suddenly willing to alter their daily patterns.
You’d never catch me talking about my clean, tidy, (if a little scrupulous) habits in APOLOGETIC tones. Neither would I USE my state of mind to entertainment people by laughing at myself by using irony humour. Letting the side down or what horrid little man! I was very much put off my crumpets. Good luck finding Miss Right. Horrid little man with horrid little beard. (REAL Obsessive compulsives shave.)
NB: (Of course, my blog is used SIMPLY to log the noteworthy events that are peppered throughout daily life - it does NOT function as a means of entertainment….alright?)
Sunday, 7 February 2010
CONFESSIONS OF AN OBSESSIVE COMPULSIVE - blog eight
I'm defeated.
How do you efficiantly (and efficiantly being the opperative word) wash a sieve? It is harder than it sounds. Try it - i'm serious. The perforated beast of a kitchen implement! I'm sweating because I feel out of control.
There are still 'bits' in the holes however hard I scrub and I need to go and scream into a pillow.
How do you efficiantly (and efficiantly being the opperative word) wash a sieve? It is harder than it sounds. Try it - i'm serious. The perforated beast of a kitchen implement! I'm sweating because I feel out of control.
There are still 'bits' in the holes however hard I scrub and I need to go and scream into a pillow.
Sunday, 31 January 2010
CONFESSIONS OF AN OBSESSIVE COMPULSIVE - blog seven
Facebook is not a safe arena for the highly-strung.
It's a world that welcomes people like my good self in open arms, and nurtures them in the breast of its warm and friendly environment, until BAM! You’ve developed a full-blown facebook-addiction, which, like some unshakable fungus, you have no choice but to live with.
Stalking ex boyfriends. It’s a thriving online pastime these days but, like a ‘fight club’ for females nobody talks about it. Shhhh. We all do it. Scouring his facebook page for any delectable nugget of information that would indicate he’s still safely singlesville. Or, god forbid, recoiling in horror if a member of the opposite sex has left her mark on his ‘wall,’ but we all check our ex boyfriends Facebook accounts now and again…
I remember finding a cutesy little post from a girl called Selina once. I was most upset. It read “Monday’s lecture is in seminar room B not seminar room K this week. Selina.” I was fucking livid. That skanky bitch . What kind of “lecture” was she talking about? The one where you do all kinds of rude and filthy things to MY ex boyfriend eh you cow? Hmmm. Convincing code-talk Selina, convincing code-talk.
Then there’s the photos - a whole different entity. I spent a good hour and a half debating whether or not the mysterious arm in my ex’s profile picture did or did not belong to another female. The frame had cut it off you see.
I couldn’t click off and log off until I was sufficiently satisfied that the elusive arm just belonged to one of the other rugby lads, in which case I would have nothing to angst about. It took a lot of analysing before I could pop the laptop away and retire to bed. My housemate told me this was time wasted but I whole-heartedly disagreed.
NB: I resent the term ‘bunny boiler.’ Since when did protecting one of my loved ones from SKANKS LIKE SELINA imply I was going to cook up one of their pets? This term is most offensive to obsessive-compulsive animal lovers.
It's a world that welcomes people like my good self in open arms, and nurtures them in the breast of its warm and friendly environment, until BAM! You’ve developed a full-blown facebook-addiction, which, like some unshakable fungus, you have no choice but to live with.
Stalking ex boyfriends. It’s a thriving online pastime these days but, like a ‘fight club’ for females nobody talks about it. Shhhh. We all do it. Scouring his facebook page for any delectable nugget of information that would indicate he’s still safely singlesville. Or, god forbid, recoiling in horror if a member of the opposite sex has left her mark on his ‘wall,’ but we all check our ex boyfriends Facebook accounts now and again…
I remember finding a cutesy little post from a girl called Selina once. I was most upset. It read “Monday’s lecture is in seminar room B not seminar room K this week. Selina.” I was fucking livid. That skanky bitch . What kind of “lecture” was she talking about? The one where you do all kinds of rude and filthy things to MY ex boyfriend eh you cow? Hmmm. Convincing code-talk Selina, convincing code-talk.
Then there’s the photos - a whole different entity. I spent a good hour and a half debating whether or not the mysterious arm in my ex’s profile picture did or did not belong to another female. The frame had cut it off you see.
I couldn’t click off and log off until I was sufficiently satisfied that the elusive arm just belonged to one of the other rugby lads, in which case I would have nothing to angst about. It took a lot of analysing before I could pop the laptop away and retire to bed. My housemate told me this was time wasted but I whole-heartedly disagreed.
NB: I resent the term ‘bunny boiler.’ Since when did protecting one of my loved ones from SKANKS LIKE SELINA imply I was going to cook up one of their pets? This term is most offensive to obsessive-compulsive animal lovers.
Thursday, 10 December 2009
CONFESSIONS OF AN OBSESSIVE COMPULSIVE - blog six
Polka dots. Originally, I thought the background design for my blog was a wise choice. Simple, clean and modest wallpaper; it’s not too distracting from the copy of the main blog and the absence of garish colours is refreshing.
Until I notice the sporadic spacing of the dots themselves. At first glance it would appear that the green polka dots, set against the cream backdrop, run in sets of three. Do you see?
I feel my eyebrows knot into one another as my concentration rises and my eyes bore into the computer screen. THERE IS NO CORRELATION IN THE WAY THE GREEN POLKA DOTS ARE POSITIONED ON THE WALLPAPER. The designer has just sprinkled them willy nilly. This is worsened by cruel trickery – because some of the dots are clustered in an ordered fashion, you are given a false sense of security that the wallpaper indeed, has a logical pattern. It is only on further inspection that you notice the sheer sloppiness of the design.
Pfft. I don't feel like blogging now, wretched thing. Why can’t they all run in sets of three??
Until I notice the sporadic spacing of the dots themselves. At first glance it would appear that the green polka dots, set against the cream backdrop, run in sets of three. Do you see?
I feel my eyebrows knot into one another as my concentration rises and my eyes bore into the computer screen. THERE IS NO CORRELATION IN THE WAY THE GREEN POLKA DOTS ARE POSITIONED ON THE WALLPAPER. The designer has just sprinkled them willy nilly. This is worsened by cruel trickery – because some of the dots are clustered in an ordered fashion, you are given a false sense of security that the wallpaper indeed, has a logical pattern. It is only on further inspection that you notice the sheer sloppiness of the design.
Pfft. I don't feel like blogging now, wretched thing. Why can’t they all run in sets of three??
Saturday, 5 December 2009
CONFESSIONS OF AN OBSESSIVE COMPULSIVE - blog five
Everyone has idiosyncratic behaviours of course. I think I just have 90% more than the average person. You could be so laid back you’re horizon but I bet you they’ll be something that’ll make you tick. I couldn’t possibly cite the reasons behind the habits, niggles, irritations and compulsions.
I could lie to conceal the fact I’m actually mental, but it’d be tricky to justify why all the labels of my cosmetics have to be facing to the left... and probably make me sound more nuts.
My housemate thinks it’s a self-indulgent disorder, perpetuated by my reluctance to temper it. The world is unlikely to end if the kitchen floor is not mopped, apparently, but I’m not willing to take the risk. Besides, I need my sleep.
Unfortunately OCD doesn’t permeate into the pocket of my life where it would thrive and benefit most - academia. Providing the books on my desk are piled in size order (large to small) and at an angle I find acceptable I can break off my work mid-sentence. But vacuuming only half of a room would be unimaginable. These are not priorities I can control.
I could lie to conceal the fact I’m actually mental, but it’d be tricky to justify why all the labels of my cosmetics have to be facing to the left... and probably make me sound more nuts.
My housemate thinks it’s a self-indulgent disorder, perpetuated by my reluctance to temper it. The world is unlikely to end if the kitchen floor is not mopped, apparently, but I’m not willing to take the risk. Besides, I need my sleep.
Unfortunately OCD doesn’t permeate into the pocket of my life where it would thrive and benefit most - academia. Providing the books on my desk are piled in size order (large to small) and at an angle I find acceptable I can break off my work mid-sentence. But vacuuming only half of a room would be unimaginable. These are not priorities I can control.
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