Currently in depths of depression slash anxiety, earlier today I was considering slashing my wrists but as per usual, I reconsidered because I don’t have my hair and nails freshly done and we must consider the feelings of those who find my body. Sorry for this killer intro, but it’s important to establish that I’m even more unbalanced than my normal unbalanced in order to gain insight into my following actions, which, I promise, are quite amusing (unless you’re the one taking the actions, of course, but that only makes it the funnier for you).

Working wasn’t working out for me today, so I resorted to the consolation of my disconsolate blog and checked out my notifications. (On a side note, if you’re anything like me [I hope for your own sake you’re not] and love tinkering around with new nifty features, go ahead and take the new post notification option in the Reader for a test ride.) So here I am, reading the comments on my blog and finding a note from Ellen, who expressed a mild interest in my curious capability of pulling a poem out of three random words. On this note I noted that the next thing I know, I’ll be pulling a poem out of my ass.

I thought to act on this dubious promise (threat?) and to gather inspiration, I went to check out my ass in the mirror. Kidding. I went to empty my ashtray, which is what I call a jar with a lid sitting at my balcony, which I religiously fill up with butts (not butts as in asses but butts as in, you know, butts). I usually throw the whole thing out when it’s full, but I’ve run out of jars, hence I had to keep the jar and relieve it of its contents only. I did this, on which I realised I’m such an asshole.

My anxiety agrees with this evaluation. I’m not only an asshole, I’m also a fire hazard. I emptied a jar full of fag ends into the dust bin, which obviously contains flammable materials. What if one of the dead fag ends wasn’t entirely dead and ended? What if I burn the building down? (And in case I don’t, for future reference, what’s even the correct and safe way of disposing of fag ends?) Now I’m terrified, courtesy of my assholeness and anxiety, and I’m periodically going down to check whether the bin has flamed up yet. So far, it hasn’t. Doesn’t make me any less anxious. Would you believe my stupidity? Please do nominate me for the post-mortem Darwin Award.

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Posted by Mara Eastern

I'm a sardonic blogger, snapper, scribbler and rhymer; a virtual space invader who indulges in cheerful negativism, morbid self-deprecation and bleak humour.

26 Comments

  1. Well I’m glad, if I may be so bold to say, I am pleased you didn’t slash anything, but I do agree with you that it would be most inconvenient to come to an end without proper preparation, hair, nails, clean underwear and such important things as that, after all those mortuary guys gossip and we wouldn’t want to be reading in the Sunday papers about the woman who died without even brushing her hair.
    So hang in there and stub your butts out well and truly, check and double check to ease your OCD.
    Have a good weekend, I did ‘borrow’ a few images from you yesterday to make up TW prompts.Let you know when they come up.

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    1. Aww, thank you, as always and ever, for your encouraging comment! In the end, I’m glad no one came to harm and no property was damaged. The latter pleases me even more.

      At least I had some wholesome exercise of running down and up the stairs to check the dust bin for flames and I’ll remember to be more careful and mind what the fuck I’m doing.

      Looking forward to your posts! With a bit of a thrill, it’s a compliment to be sort of featured on your blog like this!

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  2. Oh dear, that sounds like an anxiety ridden experience all round 😦 cigarette butts from my experience (not that I smoke. However, I am sometimes surrounded by those who do) do not smoulder for days on end. I’m pretty confident in assuring you that if your building is still standing your butt-ends are well and truly dead butt-ends and you are not 🙂

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    1. Thank you for your uplifting comment! I was quite thrilled to wake up and see that I haven’t burnt the house down. It would be inconvenient. I wonder if I’d go to prison. Hmm. So all’s well now!

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      1. Something to keeop you and Ella occupied – https://www.facebook.com/weloveallthecats/

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        1. Thank you! I do love all the cats. And I want to adopt them all 😮

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          1. You be da The Cat Lady 🙂

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  3. I’m glad your OK Mara! The term Fag is highly derogatory in my view, in this country but certainly doesn’t offend me one bit! My fag has different tobacco. 🚬🚬🤯

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    1. Oh, John, it gets worse than that. In Britain, not only is a fag a cigarette, a faggot’s a sausage. Neither is flammable, but the confusion’s endless.

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      1. LOL 😀 I never knew about the sausage! Now I’m obsessively visualising sausages for some reason.

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        1. Distract yourself.

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          1. You know that when you tell a person not to think of, say, a pink unicorn, they won’t think of anything else…

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    2. Really?! You mean fag as in faggot, I guess? That’s what happens when one learns English from many different sources: I’m sure I picked fags for cigarettes in some Scottish novel.

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  4. I looked at my Reader and I don’t have the post notification option. But that’s OK. I don’t read in my Reader. Plus I am not real crazy about change. So I think we’re good. Oh, dear–slashing and burning?! Please. No.

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    1. I find the Reader quite handy, so I use it, though I often click through it to land on the actual site, so I could look around more. No worries then, it’s no big change and you’ll never notice!

      Also, good news: I didn’t harm either myself or the building (or anyone else) and I shall always remember than you don’t throw cigarette ends in dust bins. That’s for idiots and suicides. (Kidding.)

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  5. I tried to think of something to say that wasn’t patronising or overly chummy. I failed, and what follows is probably both. I’m glad you didn’t slash. Corpse-viewing preparedness notwithstanding, the internet is short of people who can not only construct a sentence, but make it worth reading. Assuming you don’t use voice-recognition software, you need wrists to type (well to support the hands that type) and since I think what you write is worth reading, I have a vested (albeit small — I’m not that patronising) interest in the survival of your wrists (and the woman they’re attached to).
    I thought of a brilliant solution to your butt problem, but it’s only brilliant if you have a garden or houseplants with whiteflies, gnats, root and leaf aphids, thrips and or leafminers. Apparently, soaking cigarette butts in water produces an amazing garden pest control spray thing. It also, obviously, stops them being a fire hazard. Just a thought.

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    1. Aw, thank you for your kind and lovely comment! No worries about being patronising or something, for one, you’re not, and for two, I’m not super sensitive about that. Usually when I’m told to shut up and get my shit together (or something like that), I wholeheartedly agree because patronising or not, it makes perfect sense.

      Also, thank you for getting through this rambling post. It must’ve been hard! A fun fact: I got my wrists tattooed so as to discourage myself from slitting them (and thus damaging the designs). I guess I should mind what I’m writing about, not everyone is keen on reading about suicidal thoughts, but it’s somehow a natural part of my life, hard to avoid mentioning it. On my defence, I’m trying to look at the bright side. Also, I’m still here, so.

      You’re right about cigarettes as repellents. I don’t have a garden (I guess my potted cactus doesn’t count?) but I’m now considering spraying the mix on the walls on my balcony to discourage spiders and moths. Hard to say if it would help and if the smell would be worth it but I have the whole rest of the winter to consider.

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      1. Hard to read only cos it’s hard to know someone’s feeling shit and I can do shit about it.
        I think tattooing your wrists is a really good idea. My self-destructiveness has tended towards cutting all my hair off (my aversion to blood and pain have kept me alive I think), so maybe I should get hair extensions. I hate wasting money, so would never cut them off. The flip side of course is that I’d look so ridiculous with hair
        extensions I’d be driven to thoughts of self-harm.
        Maybe you could save the nicotine water and sell it at farmers’ markets. It might help pay for cigarettes. Or tattoos.

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        1. You’re hilarious, thank you for it. Incidentally, my self-destructiveness also involves cutting all my hair off. Well, not all of it, but I do have half of my head shaved off. Deliberately. It’s a huge time and shampoo saver. I’d shave the other half off too but I’d look like a cancer victim.

          Hair extensions sound to me like self-torture. I used to wear my hair waist-length for many years and I vividly remember the bother it was. Hair everywhere. Of course, now that I live at my cat’s place, there’s hair everywhere too, except it’s not mine.

          I’m digressing though. What was I even trying to say?

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  6. How keenly I can relate, my fine fellow arson-hole.

    The other night the arachnid-like, green-eyed fire-alarms perched on the ceilings barked and protested at me for cooking. Apparently, my cooking skills were on fire that night.

    Har.

    I tend to keep a tiny, sooty nest of cigarillo fag ends in a little match box hidden away in my desk (somehow, I thought to remove the matches first). Sometimes, I’ll smoke an end just to see how adroit my lips can be at avoiding the flame. I would smoke more if it would snow but it never does.

    The forethought you describe here exceeds my own in most things, so I commend you, and congratulations on the avoided conflagration- could have been a nuisance, that. I am surprised that I have not killed at least 73 people by now, with all my mishaps (arson-related and otherwise), and who knows how I’ve made it this far. One of my hobbies as a toddler, after-all, was burning things in the garage when I managed to steal away unnoticed.

    Har. Huh…

    By the way, very cutting opener (non-opener, if you want to get literal about the state of your wrists). I’ve often been swatted away from the idea meself for similar reasons. Anyhow, I am most relieved you decided to spare some poor body-finding sod and continue on (selfishly on my part too, as it gets a bit difficult to deliver witty sardonicisms as an upgrade to dust mote, and I’m addicted to your posts, after-all, and cannot wait for the next installment already).

    I rambled myself into a corner again.

    Cheers.

    Toad Breath

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    1. Wow, you triggered a fire alarm with your cooking? Cool! Though I bet my cooking would also trigger a smoke alarm, if I had any. Wait. I do have a smoke alarm. The cat. And she is indeed triggered anytime I prepare food. So here you go.

      Thank you, as always, for indulging me. I appreciate that very much. I’m aware I’m difficult to be around, I mean, I’m around myself all day long and it’s so taxing. Phew.

      Take care and stay away from arson, arrest and murder. Or at least don’t get caught.

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  7. Gawd, I hate to say it but I enjoy reading these morbid, but yet, hilarious, posts. Slash your wrists?! Can’t you think of any other, less messy way? I’m too curious [read nosy] to even consider suicide. I want to know what’s waiting around the corner. I would like to know who will attend my funeral also LOL. That saddens me a little because, most likely, there won’t be anyone. The vision of pulling a poem out of your ass made me laugh out loud. Many English expressions make me smile, like «no skin off my ass!» 🙂 I read the fag word all throughout the post, I knew what you were talking about and didn’t react until I read John’s comment, so I must have been exposed to the word fag for cigarette butt. I use butt. When I’m not totally certain about my ashtrays, I empty them in the toilet or the kitchen sink. When I choose the latter, I still have to grab the wet butts with a paper towel. My husband is also super careful about this … perhaps because he once set his bedroom on fire and had to call the fire department [long before my time phew].

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    1. Aw, it’s the greatest compliment to hear that even my morbid posts have their fans 🙂 Well, I don’t particularly want to kill myself either (and damn it, now I’m dying of curiosity as to who might attend my funeral, since you mentioned that), it’s just that sometimes I can’t even, so suicide is the obvious idea.

      No skin off my ass? That’s the first time I hear it. I’d never guess the meaning if I didn’t Google it. I know “by the skin of your teeth” and I think it’s so weird: I don’t think I have skin on my teeth. Or do I?

      It didn’t occur to me to empty an ashtray in the toilet. Wouldn’t it clog? Or smell even worse than before? I’ll try not to run out of empty jars, it’s easier and I think quite safe to throw out the whole jar when it’s full. I fortunately never set anything on fire yet, but I’d hate to burn down the building where I live. I’d have nowhere to live then.

      I prefer fags to butts actually, I can’t help imagining an ass (like in buttocks) when I hear butt. What are these called anyway, one word which has several different meanings? Polysemous or something?

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      1. In Swedish they’re called “fimp” (sing.) and that word doesn’t have any other meaning.

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        1. Fimp sounds nice. We have some colloquial words in Czech for cigarette ends, and one of them, along with butts, also means “starling”. It’s ridiculous when you think about it.

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