Thursday, December 23, 2010


So I knew when I decided to start a blog that there was no way in hell I'd be able to post daily so I didn't even try. I did, however, think that a weekly post was achievable but - turns out - that's a bit out of my reach also. It's all right though - I'm used to having unrealistic expectations of myself so whenever my tendency to procrastinate stops me from achieving my goals I just put it down to that. I'm so good at convincing myself that I was aiming too high to start with that I don't even bother stopping to consider whether it's actually true. I'm pretty much the perfect procrastinator and, frankly, I think I deserve some recognition for that.

A big part of the problem is that I've been pretty focused on some other stuff for the past couple of weeks so I haven't had a lot to write about. I actually had a dream last night that I was back at school (a common dream of mine that I have yet to categorise as fantasy or nightmare as it usually seems to be a combination of both) and was assigned the task of writing something about myself. That's easy, thought I, I already write a blog. I've got heaps to say. But then I went to start writing and I had nothing. At all. Which basically means that I am now having nightmares about blogging.

Oh sure, it's not so bad now. Not exactly the type of nightmare that has me waking up in a cold sweat afraid to go back to sleep in case I find myself right back in the jaws of whatever death I woke myself to escape from. Yet. But just wait. It won't be long before I have the same dream again. Only at the same time I realise that I have nothing to write about, I'll also realise that I'm not wearing any clothes. And I'm on the toilet. And there are spiders. And then suddenly I'll be running down the street from an army of dolphins that have learned how to walk on land and are all carrying machetes and yelling at me in their dolphin language that this wouldn't be happening if I could just find something to write about only I won't understand what they're saying because I don't speak dolphin and even if I did it wouldn't help me anyway since having to run away from machete-wielding dolphins is probably the worst source of inspiration ever as well as being the worst time to try to compose anything that isn't "oh god, somebody help me, I'm going to die!"

But it's Christmas in a couple of days, and then New Year's Eve, so there'll surely be something to keep the dolphins away. I hope.

Friday, December 10, 2010


I once went for a job where they wanted to know how many drinks I would have in a week and I answered three to four, which is a lie because three to four is just the number of drinks that I have on a Sunday when I go to my mum's for dinner.

Now I'm not embarrassed by how much I drink and I certainly don't consider myself to be a problem drinker, but saying that I have eight to fifteen drinks a week, or more if I have a "big night", kind of makes me sound like I'm an alcoholic. Which I'm not. Even though there was that one time that I tried to give up drinking for six weeks and only lasted two.

Actually I probably should have known that I was going to fail because it was only about a week after I'd spent the last few Saturday nights drunkenly informing everyone within earshot that I loved drinking so much that I considered it a hobby. This may also be why I drew a blank when I went for an interview for the aforementioned job and they asked me what my hobbies were.

Anyway, I'm thinking of putting the empty bottles into the rubbish because I think there's more in there to cushion them than there is in the recycling and at the moment every time I empty the indoor recycling bin into the outdoor recycling bin it sounds like we've had a party. Which would be fine if we ever had people over to the house. But we don't.

Actually, there have been a few times this year when I've had people over, but that resulted in even more bottles and having to make more than one trip out to the recycling bin so probably now they just think that all my friends are family are alcoholics as well.

So I guess what I'm saying is that the judgmental attitudes people hold towards alcohol are turning me into a liar. And they're also bad for the environment.

Or it could be that I'm worried I might drink too much.

But I'm pretty sure it's the first one.

Thursday, December 9, 2010


Yesterday I had the doctor check out my ganglion since I was there anyway and because I wasn't entirely certain that I'm not growing a second head on my hand. He asked me if it hurt or if it had hurt when I first noticed it and I said that it didn't and then he looked at me strangely as though I were some kind of lying freak who wouldn't admit that her ganglion hurt so I felt compelled to tell him that it did hurt when I first noticed it after I poked at it and pressed on it for about ten minutes. But that didn't seem to help.

Today I sent a Facebook message to my friends asking them to save the ring pulls from their cans for reasons I refused to reveal to them. But then I realised they would probably assume I wanted them for choking dolphins, so I did tell them and then my friend sent me this

which I thought was so hilarious that I had to share it.

Then I thought I should probably explain that neither of us would actually feed anything to a dolphin that would make it choke (even though I don't really like them because of that one time when I was swimming at dusk and I saw a dolphin in the waves, but I thought it was a shark) and that, in fact, she's actually a vegetarian so she wouldn't even kill a dolphin to eat it. I probably wouldn't either, but that's mostly because I don't like seafood.

They're practically the same

Also yesterday I shared this post by The Blogess on my Facebook page and ended up accidentally implying that the reason I don't have Christmas tree is that I hang babies from them and my cats eat them. Which is much more interesting than the real reason so I decided to go with it.

Tuesday, November 30, 2010


If, as a child, you ever said aloud that you wished someone would die (and I'm not saying that I did, just in case you didn't) you probably had some adult tell you not to say such things because you would feel really bad if they actually did die. That adult was an idiot.

Now I'm not talking about those times when you were wishing a parent or a friend dead and you didn't really mean it but were just really angry with them at the time. Obviously if any of those people died you would feel bad. But you would feel bad whether you had just wished them dead or not, and even if you had wished them dead that still wouldn't make any of these less true.

1. You didn't kill them. That's retarded.

About five years ago I had a landlord that I, and all of the people I lived with, hated. Because he was an arsehole. Every single one of us wished him dead at least once. (It was definitely more than once.) Then, a few weeks ago, we found out he'd died earlier in the year. I was not struck down with guilt. Maybe it is possible that we all wished him dead and then five years later it finally happened as a result of those wishes, but- actually no. Just no. It's not.

I don't know how many wishes you've made in your life but unless they've all been incredibly realistic (in which case, what the hell is wrong with you? Don't you get this whole wishing thing at all?) then you've probably noticed a general trend towards them not coming true. If you have been making fairly unrealistic wishes and they have been coming true then we need to talk about why you've been wasting this power on wishing random people dead. Though really, if you're aware you have this power and you're still wishing random people dead I probably don't want to talk to you. And you're also probably in the wrong place since you obviously already don't feel bad about what you've been doing.

2. You probably weren't the only one.

I can only speak for myself here, but wishing someone dead is not the thing that comes immediately to mind when someone's behaving like an arsehole. Punching them in the face, roundhouse kicking them in the head and stabbing them in the eye with a pen (it's always a pen) are all things I visualise before wishing them dead ever crosses my mind. I should probably stress here that I only visualise these things - I would never actually do them. So if you're anything like me (sicko) then the person you're wishing dead has probably pretty consistently been an arsehole over a period of time before you start wishing for their immediate demise. If that's the case then you're most likely not the only one who's wished them dead. So even if you do believe that wishing it is enough to make it happen (it's not but hey, there are Scientologists - people will believe anything!) it might not have been your wish that did it!

3. Congratulations on making a wish that's guaranteed to come true!

I don't want to spoil the ending for those of you who have been living in a cave and have had absolutely no contact with another human being ever (welcome to the internet!) but everyone dies. Literally everyone. Seriously, no one gets out of this alive. Look it up. So if you wish someone dead you will, one day, get your wish. Remember my landlord - yeah, took awhile but it happened. Wishing someone dead is the only wish you can make where you never have to fear disappointment. Yeah, you may not live to see it, but you still know it will happen.

Friday, November 26, 2010

Spiders. I just don't like them.

I don't like spiders. I'm not as afraid of them as I used to be but I think it's safe to say I'll never be keeping one as a pet. In fact, I know it's safe to say. I will never keep a spider as a pet. There. It's in writing. I'm that confident. So here's a look at how last week started according to my Facebook statuses:

Monday at 10.14pm: "I will tolerate you, Mr. Spider, but I kindly request that you relocate from your current position above my computer chair. Your co-operation would be greatly appreciated."

(The spider did relocate from its position above my computer chair, which was nice, except that now I don't know where it is. It might be one of the other spiders I saw after that, or it might be A COMPLETELY FUCKING DIFFERENT ONE AND IT IS JUST MISSING INSTEAD OF GONE.)

Tuesday at 9.20am: "A spider is not faster than a cat."

(It may be the previous spider that was killed by my cat who heroically defended me when it came to murder me in my sleep, or it may have been a different spider that was coming to murder me in my sleep. Also, as it turns out, a dragonfly is not faster than a cat either, but I'm pretty sure the dragonfly wasn't out to murder anyone.)

Tuesday at 6.07pm: "I just fought a spider for my mail only to find it was nothing but election propaganda. Fuck you state government. Totally not worth it."

(I now approach my mailbox with my heart in my mouth, ready to drop the door in less than a second if necessary).

Tuesday at 10.35pm: "Another one? You've got to be fucking kidding me. Fine. I give up. You win, spiders. Have the house."

(There was some suggestion of burning the house down. I considered it).

Thursday at 8.45am: "Good news - no spiders yesterday. Bad news - I'm almost definitely dying."

So I didn't die, which is great I think, but I was hit with the horrifying realisation that just because I haven't seen the spiders lately does not mean that they're not there. It's nice to think that they just decided to move next door instead - possibly because they knew they were unwelcome in my house and were far too polite to stay somewhere they weren't wanted - but it's more likely they are simply hiding somewhere, probably waiting for the best possible moment to jump out and cling to my face like the facehuggers in Aliens except they'd be holding on with their fangs instead of with tentacles.

I might go buy some kerosene and matches.

Tuesday, November 16, 2010


Today I tore open the plastic wrapper on a new ream of paper. Then I looked up at my co-worker and said, in a mock-threatening voice. "This is a demonstration of my power." Then I had one of those moments - after a long, awkward silence - when I realise that I'm not quite like other people. I am, in fact, so not like other people that the level of my abnormality can still surprise someone that has worked with me for over six years.

I'm actually pretty sure this is a big part of the reason why we've been working together for six years and why I can't get a different job that I am in all other ways qualified for. Though in fairness, it's probably more likely to be my less than perfect portrayal of the character 'normal person' that I play when I don't know people very well. In my defence though - if I really knew how to act like a normal person I probably wouldn't tear open a plastic wrapper and declare it a demonstration of my power.

Then I started thinking about all those people who say "Just be yourself". Yeah, great advice, thanks. Because clearly that's working out so well for me. Then I wondered whether anyone who really knew me had ever actually said that to me because, you know, maybe it's just that it's not general advice but advice that is only meant for people who can have a conversation without veering off onto some strange and often unintelligible tangent that frequently consists of odd voices and bizarre facial expressions. But when I really thought about it I realised that they had. Which forced me to wonder whether they were just being nice or if they actually hate me and sit in a corner rubbing their hands together and cackling whenever they see me fail. (Yeah OK, so I guess they probably DON'T do that).

Anyway, I wondered if maybe there was something I could do with that. Like maybe I could be the poster child for conformity or something. There could be a series of ad campaigns consisting of me just talking to people and being myself, maybe with some kind of lead in or voiceover explaining that this is what not to do and ending with a warning to only be yourself if you're reasonably certain that you're normal. I think it could work.

Tuesday, November 9, 2010


Being me in a crowded space is a lot like being a clumsy person in a minefield. Except not really because on a scale of one to ten where ten is probable death and one is possible bruising then minefields are probably closer to ten and crowded spaces could be anywhere in between. Also, the probable death waiting in a minefield doesn't really have a lot to do with being clumsy so much as it does the arsehole nature of the person that put them there. So it's more like being a clumsy person in a crowded space. I'm clumsy is what I'm saying, and being in a crowded space is, for me, like being in a minefield if minefields were less deadly.

I went to a wedding earlier in the year and about a minute after a friend commented on the women having trouble with their stilettos on the uneven ground and how I should be fine because my heels were thicker, I managed to step into a clearly visible hole and only managed to not fall over because I do that kind of thing a lot and consequently I'm always subconsciously prepared to catch myself.
Not that I always do. Recently I fell over at work because the soles of my boots were slippery and the floor is concrete and because, you know, the clumsy thing. I skinned my knee and elbow and ended up resembling an overgrown five year old.

There is a particular door at my work that I sometimes struggle to open because not only am I clumsy but I also, for some reason known to no one, often try to open it by placing the handle between my first and second fingers as though someone has cut off my thumb and left only a holographic image in its place. It still looks like it's there, but clearly it can't actually grab anything since it's just an image of a thumb and not an actual thumb.

Anyway, this is a representation of the room where I do the filing (I was originally going to take an actual photo but posting that without first securing the agreement of my boss seemed a less than brilliant idea).

Now I don't want to make assumptions about your observational skills but you can probably see how that might be a problem for someone as clumsy as me. Still probably less dangerous than a minefield though.

Monday, October 25, 2010


I'm an incurable optimist. I hide it well since it almost invariably leads to disappointment and I think it would be hard for my friends to see me disappointed all the time.

I try not to be an optimist. I tell myself not to get my hopes up and not to fantasise about how well everything is going to work out and how much better my life will be when it does, but inevitably the sneaky little bitch optimist inside me will do it anyway, whispering all the while about how it doesn't really hurt to fantasise and it's not like I really believe things will work out the way I imagine they will.

Yeah, I totally believe it. And the thing is that no matter what it is I'm trying, all the fantasies turn out the same - I end up being totally awesome at whatever it is, which naturally leads to glory and riches. For example, before I started this blog I had this conversation with myself:

Me: I think I'll start a blog
Sneaky Bitch Optimist (SBO): I'm going to start a blog and it will be so awesome and popular that I'll end up writing a column for someone who will actually pay me and then I'll be asked to be a guest on some television show and then I'll get my own show and then...blah blah blah...glory and riches!!! GLORY AND RICHES!!!
Me: That won't happen. No one will read it and if they do they won't even like it anyway.
SBO: GLORY AND RICHES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Sometimes it also leads to me ruling the world but I'm at least ninety seven per cent certain that that won't actually happen. Glory and riches though - I'm so certain of that one that I can't actually make myself believe that it might not happen. In fact, the older I get, the more surprised I am that it hasn't happened already.

Keep in mind that realistically, I know how ridiculous this is. I just can't make myself actually not believe it.

But a constantly thwarted expectation of glory and riches isn't the only way my incurable optimism makes my life miserable. She makes me buy clothes that are too small so that they'll fit when I lose weight and then they sit in my drawer as a constant reminder of yet another goal that I haven't yet managed to achieve. When I haven't been swimming in five weeks, and despite the fact that I was not a good swimmer to start with, she aims to improve on where I was when I last made it to the pool so that I'm hopelessly discouraged when I not only fail to achieve that goal but am also unable to match what I managed five weeks earlier. SBO leads me into disappointments that I should not have to experience by overcoming every ounce of realism and rational thought that I possess.

But it doesn't end there. I've wasted countless hours reading books and watching movies that I've known were awful within the first couple of pages or few minutes respectively. Because SBO is always convinced that they will get better. She made me sit through all of Hostel, and she almost made me go see the sequel because even though I hated the first one the sequel really did look like it might be all right and surely I was just the tiniest bit curious about whether it actually was? That's the only time that I've ever managed to defeat her. Because the thing is that sometimes she's right. Not often, but just enough to reinforce the idea that if I stop reading or watching I may be missing out on something.

It's not just with books and movies either. Most of the too-small clothes she's made me buy I've eventually been able to fit into - just not in the timeframe that she led me to expect. And sometimes things really have worked out as I've imagined they will. Of course, sometimes they've gone as I've imagined only to go horribly wrong later on, but that's the thing - I just never can tell whether she'll be right or not.

That's why I haven't given up on the glory and riches.


When it comes to thinking up titles I do one of two things. Either I come up with an awesome title and then struggle to come up with something I can write that fits it, or I write something and then struggle to come up with a title that isn't completely lame. Unsuccessfully. Always unsuccessfully. So when I decided to start a blog I didn't even bother. I just decided straight up to call it Stupid Title, since anything I came up would eventually sound stupid to me anyway.

If you're here then you already know that didn't work out. I was thwarted by the fact that someone who had already taken that name. So I went with Dumb Title, which is almost the same except not because I wanted Stupid Title and I don't like to be thwarted. What's worse is that I visited Stupid Title to try to see who had stolen my name and the page was blank. So if you know who stole my name and then did nothing with it, or you if ever happen to meet them, punch them in the face for me.*

*Please do not actually punch them in the face just because I said so, as that would make me feel bad and I don't actually condone violence in any way.

Thursday, October 14, 2010


So you've decided to start a blog - Step 1: Become disillusioned with Google autocomplete

I decided to start a blog (obviously), but I was not really sure where to go from there so I turned to my old friend Google for advice. With high expectations I typed in the words 'so you've decided to start a', eagerly anticipating the moment when Google successfully identified what it was I had decided to do. It didn't come. I kept typing, certain that Google's autocomplete function - that had always known me so well in the past - would come through for me yet again. I typed the 'b', the 'l' and the 'o', pausing between each to give Google a chance. By the time I got to the 'g' I was completely disillusioned, forced as I was to enter a search query without the assistance of autocomplete.

Things got worse from there. A quick scan of the first results (which really, is as far as I ever get with a Google search) yielded nothing that I was actually looking for. Through autocomplete I knew that Google had a lot to offer me if I had decided to steal cable, become a goth, be a ninja, go to work high or be a bottom (after some debate I decided not to check that one out), but it had nothing on my decision to start a blog. I could, of course, have tried entering different search queries, but I had already been distracted by one particular autocomplete result that very nearly prevented me from continuing with my intial search at all...

So you've decided to start a blog - Step 2: Become evil

All right, so first of all I owe Google autocomplete an apology. The fact that 'so you've decided to become evil' was the very first thing you thought I was looking for obviously proves that you know me just as well as I thought you did. I do, however, find your insistence a little irritating. A person can have more than one hobby. Yes, I realise that you offered me ninja, but we've been down that road and I'll return it if and when I'm ready. I do not and never will want to be a bottom. I'm going to assume that was your idea of a joke.

Second of all, this is where I had to take a break since research had become involved and that inevitably led to procrastination. Weeks of procrastination.

Finally I decided enough was enough, returned to Google and clicked on the first option it gave me, for reasons mostly having to do with being too lazy to trawl through all the results to find the most suitable (yeah, you might notice a theme here).

The website was extremely comprehensive. It defined evil, described the benefits of being evil, and even went so far as to give a quick quiz to help you determine whether or not you're actually qualified to be evil. So naturally I had a quick look at it and decided I couldn't be bothered. I did click on the link titled 'Make your own evil plan', which was a multiple choice plan generator, and I did start it....but there were a lot of questions, and I got bored.

That's when I remembered why I often talk about world domination but have not yet managed to take over the world - because it seems like a lot of hard work and I quite simply can't be bothered.


So you've decided to start a blog - Step 3: You know what? Figure it out yourself.