Sorry, you were saying...?

I have a terrible memory. It's a lump of swiss cheese that's been attacked by a dozen hungry rodents. Not only, like most people, am I terrible with names, but I also have trouble with dates, places, people, quotes and actual details of stuff that happened as recently this morning. The most common phrase you will hear from me is "I don't know if I've already told you about this but..." Strangely I'm really good with movie titles and late '80s song lyrics.

Often I wish I could telekinetically communicate with my blog. I compose poetry in my head on the way to work, pushing a trolley down the aisles in the supermarket, in the shower, in meetings, at the pub... and the second I get anywhere near blog, the swiss rodents have long devoured my words and I am left with table scraps.

so shoot me

it's not enough just to be confident. sometimes you have to be just plain arrogant.

agony

I stubbed my toe today, and there was sooooo much pain behind the profanities that followed. Yet there was no concern nor curiosity as to the cause of my wails.

I wailed.

community vs government

A friend of mine works at our local community centre. She pretty much does the same kind of work I do, publishing, project management... only I work for the government.

She was bitching to me that she has a hard time getting anything done. People she works with always want to get involved (ie. meddle) and provide feedback (ie. criticise). I said to her: isn't that what community groups do - people sharing ideas and opinions? Normally she loves that stuff, thrives on it. Personally that touchy-feely-community-vibe shits me. Give me a job, and bugger off and let me get on with it. Fortunately my bosses are too busy trying to further their own careers to worry about what I'm doing. I guess that's why I work for the government. That, and the money.

Community workers get paid crap. My friend has a university degree from some fancy schmancy uni in the UK, whereas I went through the TAFE system. Nothing wrong with that, but I always thought uni degrees were held in much higher regard than a TAFE diploma. So how come she's working in some cruddy little community centre, letting all these people with massive egos and posh theatre accents interfere in her work? Didn't she learn at her expensive English studies degree enough big words to astutely* tell them to shove off, or give her more money to justify putting up with their overbearing self-importance?

* courtesy of Rogets Thesaurus ;-)

lessons learnt

yesterday i learnt the hard way the reason amazonian warriors cut off their breasts

and then?

I wonder what I will have left to blog about after Letch finally leaves us? I’ve been plotting ways to make it happen sooner. The usual office pranks are no good; they imply acceptance rather than repulsion.

I want to knock over his motorbike in the car park. Cancel his return flight from the conference next week. Steal his lunch and give it to the homeless guy across the street. Draw up divorce papers and mail them to his wife. Probably be doing her a favour, poor woman. TP his front yard. Slash his tyres. Kidnap his cat.

Post his pasty face on my blog.

It had to go. Made me sick just looking at it.

Yeck.

truth

Knowledge, not possession, is power.

But no one tells you anything. I won’t even tell you the time.

You surround yourself with gadgets, symbols of authority. You may hold the key to technology, but we know where you hide it. Don’t make a fuss when it is taken from you. You will only alert everyone to our distrust.

No matter how many big words you know, you cannot glorify the menial tasks we give you to keep you out of our way. The cleaner has a smaller vocabulary but a much more important role—and our respect.

Wear your incompetence on a big pink neon sign that glows in everyone’s face but your own. Do you not hear—or just ignore—our loathing, condescending tones and laughter as you walk away? You don’t yet know this, but you will be walking a lot further away. Soon.

And no one will want you there either.

because i'm too slack right now to write my own posts...

Today we mourn the passing of a beloved old friend, Common Sense, who has been with us for many years. No one knows for sure how old he was since his birth records were long ago lost in bureaucratic red tape.

He will be remembered as having cultivated such valuable lessons as knowing when to come in out of the rain, why the early bird gets the worm and that life isn't always fair.

Common Sense lived by simple, sound financial policies (don't spend more than you earn) and reliable parenting strategies (adults, not children, are in charge).

His health began to deteriorate rapidly when well intentioned but overbearing regulations were set in place.

Reports of a six-year-old boy charged with sexual harassment for kissing a classmate; teens suspended from school for using mouthwash after lunch; and a teacher fired for reprimanding an unruly student, only worsened his condition. It declined even further when schools were required to get parental consent to administer Panadol to a student; but, could not inform the parents when a student became pregnant and wanted to have an abortion.

Finally, Common Sense lost the will to live as the Ten Commandments became contraband; churches became businesses; and criminals received better treatment than their victims.

Common Sense finally gave up the ghost after a woman failed to realise that a steaming cup of coffee was hot. She spilled a little in her lap, and was promptly awarded a huge settlement.

Common Sense was preceded in death by his parents, Truth and Trust, his wife, Discretion; his daughter, Responsibility; and his son, Reason.

He is survived by three stepbrothers; I Know My Rights, I'm A Whinger and I'm A Victim.

Not many attended his funeral because so few realised he was gone.