I’m Typing This with My Tongue

You clicked this only to find out how to type with your tongue, right? As it goes in life, you’ll be disappointed. Tongue typing is only for experts and cripples. If you’re not one (or both/either/neither), I suggest you try typing with your toes first. But I’m no expert. I’m a cripple.

It started with the commendable resolution to do one housekeeping item each day. To kick off (and simultaneously terminate) my project, I began cleaning the bathroom tiles from glue.

You know these self-adhesive bathroom hooks? Those little shits that aren’t really adhesive at all? So when they peel off from your tiles under the weight of air again, I recommend you don’t scrape the bits of adhesive stuck on the tiles with your finger. I learned the hard way.

I cleaned the tiles pristine, that I got to owe to myself, except soon after the act, I discovered a huge blister on the top of my scraping finger. The blister I wouldn’t mind, but it turned out to be highly annoying when typing and mouse-clicking. Also, this irregular growth of a blister irks my OCD insanely.

img_20181010_032217-015102049966038621530.jpeg
Serving suggestion

Cut to the next day. I added a crippled arm to my crippled finger. That escalated quickly, right? This time, however, I didn’t do it to myself but had it done to myself. That’s called delegating. I got a new tattoo on my upper arm, which resulted in a loss of function for a few hours.

You know, they plaster a fresh tattoo with some plastic film to protect it. My tattoo guy doesn’t fuck around, so he fixed the film with some duct tape. It was inopportune that he taped my arm to the position of the robot dance. You got the image. Well, I guess it could’ve been worse, I could’ve ended up sieg-heiling for all I know.

My arm is fine now, thanks for asking, except the healing process is in the itchy stage, so I’m jerking around and looking like I’m having an epileptic seizure. My blister isn’t better at all, and how long the actual fuck does it even take for a blister to go away? Sorry for the fucks, by the way. But I maintain that expletives are an essential part of the language.

I put these fancy plasters on the blister. I hate the thing popping out of my finger, and the plaster flattens it, so. Have you ever tried putting a plaster on the top of your finger though? Or rather, have you ever tried keeping a plaster on the top of your finger? Don’t try. It’s impossible. You need a special plaster for that.

It’s made of silicone (or something) and, unlike bathroom hooks, it’s super adhesive. It’s so adhesive that when you want to remove it, you have to cut it off. Which is, as you would expect, where my (so far) last injury comes in. I was cutting the plaster with my sharpest scissors and, naturally, I cut myself in the same finger. So I had something proper to put plaster on. And that’s how come I’m typing with my tongue now.

Advertisements

My First-Time Muffin

Do you remember the first time you ate a muffin? I do. I remember it like it was yesterday. Incidentally, it was yesterday. How come I’ve got so far and so old without ever chancing to eat a muffin? Dunno. I wish I had a profound explanation. I have no anti-muffin agenda though, it just never occurred to me to eat one.

I’m currently watching one of the most idiotic TV shows ever done, Scrubs, and leaving aside my poor judgement and taste, there is one character who is always eating muffins. We all know how persistent advertising works, so it’s no surprise that I soon became obsessed with muffins. My obsession culminated to the point when I actively desired to eat one and, the advertiser’s dream, I took action to procure it.

Please note that we’re not talking euphemisms here. By muffin, I mean muffin. I got myself one in Tesco. It was unreasonably expensive, for a muffin, though I wouldn’t know, having never noticed that they even sell this shit before. I carried my muffin home, asphyxiating it tightly wrapped in one of those anti-nature plastic bags.

IMG_20180607_170732
Not a muffin

There, I set my muffin on a plate and commenced examining it visually. It was labelled as a chocolate muffin, hence it was nicely dark brown, but you never know whether it’s brown because it’s chocolate or because it’s artificial colouring and flavouring. I was pretty puzzled by the muffin sitting with its bottom stuck in whatyoumaycallit, baking cup? Another of these anti-nature wrappings, but paper, not plastic.

I got so many questions. Why is it called muffin in the first place? Because it muffles whatever you’re saying when you have your mouth stuffed full of it? But then it would be mufflin, I guess. Also, is it soft or hard? Some things are indeed better hard, like Oreos, but I’d prefer this one soft. And is there something in the centre of this misshapen ball? Like, uhm, cream filling? And will it explode on my face? On this note of practical considerations, how the fuck are you supposed to eat this thing??

I dug an exploratory finger in the top of the muffin and behold, it’s soft and crumbly! It’s so soft and crumbly that I got crumbs in my keyboard. Damnit. It’s nice though. Very nice. Very chocolatey. Also, now that I’m observing the remains of a muffin which has just undergone a lobotomy, have you ever noticed that the muffin looks like a nuclear mushroom cloud? No? It totally does! Look at that shit properly the next time you eat a muffin. And for your information, the muffin was as empty inside as me.

I’m Great with Kids (Not)

I’m squatting at my balcony, smoking and minding my own business. Apparently, me minding my own business does not impress on others that they had better mind their own business too because after a while, I’m hearing some high-pitched shrieking noises that won’t stop. Then I notice it’s the neighbour’s kids jumping up and down at the common backyard and screaming, Mornin’!

They seem to be looking straight at me, though I can’t be sure, as I’m badly short-sighted. I turn my head antagonistically in their direction and yell back, Morning what? The kids, pleased to have established contact, enthusiastically cry back, G’ mornin’! I grunt, I wish it were, and continue minding my own business, hoping the kids will take the cue.

They don’t. Soon they’re yelling again, We have a tiny little problem here, missus! I interpret this as an act of war and rise up to the challenge. My joints squeaking a bit, I stand up to the full extent of my medium height. I do a hair toss with the half of my head which has hair and rub thoughtfully the half of my head which is buzzed. I pet the cat sitting on my shoulder and cough up a furball.

IMG_20180507_193151-01.jpeg
How is this picture relevant to the story? I don’t know. You tell me.

While I’m preparing myself thus to confront the enemy, the kids shout that they accidentally threw a ball on the roof. I’m genuinely dumbfounded, so I say, How is that any of my problem? The boy kid says, Duh, and, Can I climb for it? I take a long draw of my cigarette in lieu of a dramatic pause. I say, I don’t know. Can you? The boy kid accepts the challenge and assures me he can.

Then it dawns on me that the kids are of the tender age when they still believe that grown-ups have answers to all the world’s problems. So I decide to take responsibility and yell at the kid that using a shopping trolley to climb somewhere isn’t a good idea because, duh, wheels. Unless you’re suicidal, of course, I add. The kid doesn’t know what suicidal means. One lucky bastard.

While I’m at it, I warn the kid that if he damages the roof, his parents are going to pay for it. Literally. Finally, I suggest that they summon their parent or legal guardian, finish my cigarette and retire, hoping the kid won’t break his neck. On the other hand, it would probably discourage him from nagging random people in the future. I’m great with kids, aren’t I?

It’s Weirdly Quiet

When it’s quiet
I think I’m deaf or dead
But—
How do I tell?

So, I say (quiet)
Hey—
Anybody out there?

Sometimes
The cat comes (quiet)
But all remains—
Quiet

IMG_20180430_183931-01.jpeg
Quiet out there

 

A Square Week

My week wasn’t particularly square. Neither was it round though. I’m just running out of ideas what to call my posts in the challenge which consists of snapping and Instagraming a photo a day and throwing a week’s worth bunch together over on the blog. What would you call it? The lazy challenge? The recycle challenge? The zerofucksgiven challenge?

Here you go. I challenge you to scroll down. Not in one mighty scroll, preferably. You know, I did put some minimum effort into making captions for the pictures. I challenge you to read them. Or not to read them. Whichever you find more challenging. Or less challenging. Wait. I know what to call my challenge. The challenged challenge.

IMG_20180402_191217_506
2 April: My windows are so filthy that the cat has difficulty looking out through them. That’s the only thing that may coerce me to clean the windows. Maybe. 
IMG_20180403_222128_420
3 April: Feel free to appreciate my cute yoga pants and fancy yoga mat. I also recommend to your attention the commendable fact that I painted my toe nails and shaved my big toes. 
IMG_20180405_001022_662
4 April: This is just to deliver a bullet-proof proof that I also painted my finger nails. And that on this day, as on any day, I had coffee. 
IMG_20180406_011322_992
5 April: There were blue holes in the late evening sky. Ozone holes visible? The photo turned out more like darkness visible. 
IMG_20180406_221255_004
6 April: I have tiles. They are ugly. There are shadows on them. That’s about it.
IMG_20180407_195748_832
7 April: I put my as lovely as beloved winter coat (rightmost) to sleep for the upcoming summer. I was surprised to discover I have multiple options of spring coats: blue and yellow (middle and left). How did that happen? What on earth possessed me to buy two versions of one thing and so expose myself to decision paralysis? 
IMG_20180408_205356_835
8 April: I read. That’s apparently what people do. Hence, I’m people. Though I have my doubts.

 

Weekly Photo Challenge: Smile (if You Can)

In response to WP Weekly Photo Challenge: Smile.

I colour. Colour is used as a verb here. I do not identify myself with colour, as in I am a colour. Though, if I were a colour, I’d totally be pitch-black.

18-04-04-smile.jpeg

Another Instaweek

I’m still on Instagram. And still taking pictures of crap. This week I couldn’t have even been bothered to take pictures of proper crap, so I’d just point my phone camera in a random direction and call the result abstract, conceptual and minimalist. That’s a polite way of saying that something is plain dumb and shows zero effort.

IMG_20180326_190042_454
26 March: Still traumatised by a blackout that happened forever ago and caught me in the act of not having a torch, I purchased a candle holder. Cheaper than a torch and doesn’t need batteries.
IMG_20180327_142643_292
27 March: The Day of the Triffids. That’s another trauma of mine, this time a childhood one. Ever since I read this book, I’ve been wary of plants. Admit it. This plant looks so scary.
IMG_20180328_222832_554
28 March: I was forced to sew a button back on my pants so I could wear them and I hated it.
IMG_20180330_135246_602
29 March: I unregistered from paying radio broadcast fees and since I now officially must not own a radio, I tossed my unused radio alarm on the shoe rack, ready to take it to the pawn shop. By the shape of its loop aka noose, I assume the device suggests I hang myself.
IMG_20180330_224857_035
30 March: You think you’re seeing a night light show? You’ll never believe me but it’s really a picture of bubbles on my coffee shot with flash. Yep.
IMG_20180401_021246_789
31 March: That’s not a disused flag but my bed sheets. Changing the bed was the highlight of the day. I so much hate doing it, jumping from one end of the bed to the other and trying to fit the supposedly fitted sheet.
IMG_20180401_183317_027
1 April: I’m either twelve or I never grew up because journaling in these super cute notebooks is super idiotic when an adult does it. I apologise if you’re doing it too. I don’t mean you, I mean me.

 

Bringing Light to Instagram

Do you think this post is going to be about my enlightening Instagram? Gotcha! Of course not. You should know better now than to trust me. I bring gloom and doom wherever I go, including Instagram.

Since the last week’s power outage, I’ve been entirely enthralled with manifestations of light. Light is good, especially artificial light, because artificial light means the power is on. And so is WiFi.

So I bring to your attention another instalment of my photo-a-day project (which I’m still denying I’m doing), as originally posted on Instagram.

IMG_20180319_153914_409
19 March: Go, Cheddar, go! Cheddar didn’t but I went to get groceries.
IMG_20180320_224808_019
20 March: The grocery mission was an unqualified success. For a small fee, I will organise your fridge all neat and nice like this. I’m OCD, that’s what I do.
IMG_20180321_181650_459
21 March: This is my flat entry door. I think someone forgot to throw in a threshold. Light Exhibit #1.
IMG_20180322_180610_743
22 March: That’s a perfectly useless random window in a wall between two rooms. But, good for Light Exhibit #2.
IMG_20180324_143528_025
23 March: I wasn’t drunk when taking this. My phone apparently was. But it’s Light Exhibit #3.
IMG_20180324_182202_470
24 March: I changed the bulb. Not ideal, but I never said I was a good janitor. Light Exhibit #4.
IMG_20180325_194746_737
25 March: I specialise in low-res grainy shitty photos. Street Light Exhibit #5.

 

What Happens on Instagram…

What happens on Instagram doesn’t stay on Instagram. That sounds catchy and cheesy, right? What I mean is that I give you literally what I posted on Instagram last week, continuing in my snap-a-day thingy.

IMG_20180312_155429_192
12 March: It’s been raining and the tile on my balcony appears rusty, which is curious, given it’s not even made of metal.
IMG_20180313_123854_418
13 March: The skies haven’t fallen yet. Though doom and gloom are constantly impending.
IMG_20180314_121501_110
14 March: I lit a candle and it was red and warm and nice.
IMG_20180315_195740_459
15 March: Today was the day when I, as every day, made coffee. 
IMG_20180316_201901_884
16 March: That’s my cat’s spot. The other day I made the mistake of using the at the moment vacant spot to fold laundry. Bad idea. Now all my laundry is furry.
IMG_20180317_153839_989
17 March: Kids are fascinating creatures. They need so little to amuse themselves. These look like Star Wars kids. In the modest conditions of the tenement culture, of course.
IMG_20180318_214236_881
18 March: Light, light! I almost loved that, but I don’t have the capacity, obviously.

I Hate Being the Janitor

I present a new instalment in my Janitor from in Hell Series, which starts with my installation in the concierge function, continues with an epic flood, and I wish I could say it ends here, but the tragic story goes on.

I don’t hate being the janitor. I fucking hate being the janitor. I’m exceptionally unsuited for the execution of this post. I know next to nothing about maintenance, I’m not passionate about the vision of making the tenement a better place and, most of all, I panic in emergencies.

The other day my janitorship struck back at 10:30 PM, while I was sitting at my office-slash-kitchen table, watching people pretending to be surgeons dissecting a tumour on Grey’s Anatomy, and munching Oreos. On which the power went off. My mother would observe that it was surely a divine strike punishing me for eating Oreos for dinner. On which I’d retort that I’m Buddhist and fully confident that the universe doesn’t give a shit about my eating habits.

I finished my Oreos while the buffered video was still running on the laptop and then went to explore. I didn’t get farther than the corridor when I realised that the power was off, hear, hear, and since there is no god in this godless building, there was no light. The flashlight function on my phone didn’t turn out to be exactly powerful, but I managed to stalk my way in the street and confirm the worst.

IMG_20180318_171001-01.jpeg
And there was (no) light

No, there was no zombie apocalypse, that wouldn’t have been so bad since I’m already half-dead and why not take it to the next level, right? The worst thing was that the outage was in my building only. Which is where the janitorial hero comes in and saves the light and WiFi. I’m kidding, of course. This was when I picked the phone and called the landlord to ask where the fuck were fuse boxes in this forsaken building.

The operation was much more complex than it sounds. Apparently, you can either be conducting a call or flashing the flashlight on the phone, not both simultaneously. Don’t tell me that I should’ve grabbed a regular flashlight. I couldn’t find it because there was no light, see? If you don’t see, nevermind, neither did I. So I grabbed a lighter and kept the flame on while operating on the fuse box, which I probably deemed a good idea. It’s not like it’s the main gas shutoff valve. Is it?

Neither the landlord’s instructions nor my description of the situation proved particularly productive. I spent an hour haunting the building and hunting fuse boxes, while burning my fingers on the lighter and exchanging profanities with the landlord. Then I decided that I.WASN’T.FUCKING.DOING.IT, gave up and returned to my flat to die of exposure, since the heating doesn’t work when there’s no power. Before settling down to die, it occurred to me that I had a candle, which I duly lit, because I needed to pee and didn’t want to miss the bowl. Yes, I know I’m a girl, but it was dark enough to miss the bathroom entirely.

I retired in the bed, wearing all I have. I googled generators, in case I survive, because the next time this happens, I want to be able to boil some bloody water at least. Then I decided I’d go the medieval way and prepared to start burning books. Then I fell asleep and dreamt of an electrician alighting from a white unicorn with a rainbow horn, chanting Let there be light and resurrecting me and the electricity alike.

In the morning, the summoned electrician arrived in a yellowish van, presumably originally white, which was in the final phase of entropy. He asked what happened. Dunno, I chattered my teeth. Life, I guess. The torch-bearer worked his magic on one of the switches, which was in the off position, though I swear it was in the on position when I left it. Okay, I don’t swear, I don’t know what I was doing. On which the power went on.