There Are Scarier Things In The World Than Murderers

Ugh, Halloween.

OK, so – Halloween you say. Well, it’s not really a thing in Australia, some retailers are trying to suggest it in a ‘just the tip, just to see how it feels’ sort of way, but it’s not really taken off. To be honest if Halloween hasn’t grown some legs by now then I doubt it ever will. Besides, spring isn’t exactly a spooky time of year.  Shit, I mean it doesn’t even get dark till like 8.30pm.

Nevertheless, we’re talking about Halloween. The subject has come up among friends, the conversation tends to go:
“So Halloween is this week”,
“sure is”,
“what day?”
“wednes (checking phone) day. Wednesday”,
“I ain’t opening my door for any punk ass kids”.

Yeah, OK, boring conversation aside, this is pretty much what has transpired between and multiple people. And no, I’m not opening my door Wednesday night, and you can go straight to hell for even suggesting I share my candy…The nerve!

One conversation I had didn’t quite follow its usual flight plan. Alright, so it started off the same – Halloween, yup, what day, checks phone (can’t remember it’s Wednesday each and every time ho), Wednesday, ain’t no kids stealing my skittles – and so it goes. But instead of just veering off the cliff into the dead-end conversation wasteland, it instead took a turn…

“So, will you be scared?”
“Why?”
“Halloween?”
“Why?”
“Halloween; you’ll be alone won’t you?”
“Yeah…”
“Scary stuff happens on Halloween”,
“Such as?”
“I don’t know, scary stuff, wasn’t that what ‘Scream’ was about, or something”,
“Who was behind that mask? And why did he kill everyone; that seems kind of important.”

Yes, my friend was correct; I will indeed be alone on Halloween.  Am I scared – no.  There are way scarier things in the world than an arbitrary day celebrated in another country.  I mean, let’s use the ‘Scream’ example.  As I recall he likes to call people to freak ‘em out a bit before he slices and dices.  Well that’s not going to work if bitches like me don’t answer their phone.  I mean he could text perhaps, or even write on my Facebook wall, Twitter is probably out as I don’t check that too regularly – point is that he will have a hard time doing the initial set up if I am not willing to play ball.

So I guess he could skip that part.  Too bad really; that is the bit that gets the heart pumping.  Anyway, the scream mask guy is nothing if not resourceful so I am sure he will bounce back. So I guess he just has to break-in.  Now, I can’t really give details of how he would accomplish this as I have yet to find a way to do this myself.  I get locked out a LOT and there is just no way to get in without smashing some windows.  I’ll be honest, I don’t care for the window smashing if you are going to murder someone – it has no finesse.  Its fine if your just wanting to rob and vandalise the home, but not for serial murder.  I don’t know, maybe I’m just traditional that way.  So he is in.  Spooky – or it would be.  He finds me sitting at my kitchen table covered in piles of papers.  Gesturing opposite me I ask him to have a seat.  Of course he doesn’t sit, he wants to chase me around for a bit, but I’m having none of that – I won’t run on the treadmill in my garage, I’m not running around for him, simple.  I insist that he sits.  Begrudgingly he takes a seat.

“You like scaring people, don’t you?”

He nods.  Dude doesn’t talk, typical.

“Well let me show you something really scary”,

I turn my laptop to face him, I watch as he studies it for a moment.  I swear I can see him furrow his brow under his mask.  He pushes the computer back and stares at me.

“Scary, yes?”

He nods in agreement.  Of course it’s fucking scary, I just showed him my bank account summaries..

“Look at this then”,

I slide over a pile of papers all of which are more or less identical, except for the escalating number at the bottom of each.

“Yeah, those are notices of demand for my car payments”,

He nods again even though I didn’t ask a question.

“Do you know what these are?”

As I say this I point to another pile of papers.  He shakes his head.

“Well, these are various requests for different medical tests I require.  I can’t afford them so I ignore them.”

He nods again.

“You see, I’m broke.  I’m ignoring creditors and ignoring my health simply because I’m broke.  You see what I’m getting at.  Then you come in here – thank you for not breaking my window by the way – wanting to chase me around and chop me into little pieces?  You can see why I’m not scared can’t you? “

As I was about to launch into a pretty lengthy speech about the economy and employment he had already picked up his scythe and was out the front door.  Annoyed, I get up to make a cup of tea when I see where he was sitting he left me a couple of twenties.

 

Happy Halloween.

Tom Jones Is Bigger Than Us All

I hereby am giving notice to one Tom Jones and the only 2 lines I know of his song ‘It’s not unusual’ to vacate my head.  I mean really, it’s been days with no reprieve.  I don’t even know why I would get this in my head to begin with – I mean, sure, I’ve heard the stories of Mr Jones’ rambunctious ways, but even I thought he would draw the line at subliminal penetration, apparently not.  I honestly feel as if I have a week-night show in Vegas in my head; soon seniors will start complaining about their seats and women will start relieving themselves of their panties.

I am not even sure Tom Jones can be stopped.  I mean, really, who is going to stop him?  Carly Rae and her ‘call me maybe’ malarkey?  Ke$ha and her ‘blah blah blah’-ing antics?  I don’t think they have it in them.  They are but wee babes in the wood still wet behind the ears compared to the Tom Jones.  I need to bring out the big guns, but who?  Who is up to the challenge?

Who can defeat Tom Jones?

.

..

He is bigger than us all!

My Meeting With Blogging HR

Well, let’s see what we have here.  Sorry for the mess.  Please, take a seat, let me just get those papers out of your way.  Ah, okay, so I bought you in today to discuss, err, crying in the bathroom; is it?  Well, to put it frankly, you haven’t really been performing as we expected you to Miss.  In your interview you said you were keen to write at least somewhat regularly, now we aren’t so unreasonably that we don’t understand that things crop up from time to time, but you haven’t been in touch at all.  Not once since, um, September…

August, actually.

August!  My gosh, well it’s taken a long time for you to get in here hasn’t it.  Well, let me start out by saying that the purpose of this meeting is to find out what we can do to get things rolling again.  Is there anything you need from us, any support you need, or something you feel needs to be changed…

Well, um, not really.  You guys do a great job, and I didn’t have a problem exactly, it sort of just, I don’t know, got out of hand I guess.  I didn’t know this was going to happen; it just sort of got away from me.

Riiiiight, so where do we stand?  Should we think about, perhaps, shutting…

I’ll start writing again.

Good, good.  That’s what we aim to see.  Well.  What are you waiting for, get to it…  Oh, and if you could put that to me an email, that would be super.

 

:/

© cryinginthebathroom 2012

Free Serum, And Restricted Blood Flow To My Vital Organs? The Answer, Spanx™

Which is better: super-duper or ultra?  Inquiring minds (mine) wish to know.

For my money, I am going with ultra.  I guess because I equate ultra with ultimate, which by process of deduction would exclude anything other as being lesser.  Whether or not, etymologically speaking, that is true or not is par for the course really as this is my impression, and impressions count if you are going to rank things: medium, super, super-duper, and ultra[1].  To help you decide I should probably mention that these rankings refer to the ‘slimming level’ as determined by the good people at Spanx™.  You see, while I am evenly proportioned[2], I would preferably like to smooth over the edges a bit[3] – blur everything together if you will.  I have hopes that by shaving off a few centimeters[4] I may even fit back into some old clothes, which makes the purchasing of Spanx™ the more fiscal decision[5].

 

I’ve never owned a pair of Spanx™ or even a similar type of garment.  I did once try one on… Well, that’s not true; I more wrestled with it in a tiny change cubicle for 15 minutes until it judo-chopped me the fuck out of there.  I think I might have had the wrong size.  Since that day I haven’t tried on anything tighter than a pair of sweat pants outside of the comfort of my own home.  If anything tighter wants to encase my body it will do so on my turf; where I control the temperature[6], and have ample space – then we will see who wins.  I do not abide by the saying ‘just because you can get it on doesn’t mean it fits’, like a LOLcat, if I fits, I sits[7].

 

I’m not a total fool (See footnote 7); I did learn something from my last tussle with shape wear, that is: measure.  I simply cannot overstate this enough.  If I recall correctly I grabbed a medium when I was in the department store.  All I can say is “medium?  pfft! Who are you trying to fool with your medium!?” According to the sizing chart I am at best an extra-large.  My humiliating defeat is all starting to make sense[8].  I have narrowed my choices down to two.  They both are similar in appearance – sort of like a one-piece bathing suit with the bust-section missing[9].  While they are similar in appearance (and presumably function), there are three notable distinctions:

 

  • Price – for some reason there is a difference of thirty dollars between the two.
  • Ultra V Super-duper – the ultra is cheaper, this perhaps suggest that is in fact super-duper with the most slimming power[10].
  • The cheaper ultra option comes with imbedded[11]serum’ for some reason[12].

 

Despite my little internal tête-à-tête of ultra versus super-duper, I’ll probably choose the cheaper one because, really, isn’t that what all things eventually come down too?

It’s About Nothing. Or, Why Life Is Like A Bento Box

You would think it impossible to be about nothing, owing to the simple fact that even nothing – once it is written about -, is something.  Yet here it is, in all its glory before you, being read; being shaped by your own unique facets of being.  In other words, being turned into something.  You’re doing that, not me.

I’m just the train carrying the sushi.

You are the one experiencing the sushi.

Not I.

Life is like a bento box - deal with it.

Life is like a bento box – deal with it.

I act as a merely a conduit for your own mind to shift into gear.  That’s what all writing is.  Don’t misunderstand; I don’t seek to put my writing on a pedestal – or any sort of platform, shelf, or even a pile of old magazine and newspapers.  It is what it is, the stark reality of interpretation.  After all, humans have been interpreting various written works for thousands of years.  Their slant, always being the author’s one true intention.

Always…

Of course I’m being factitious.

If writing and story are like a sushi train then it only stands to reason that life is like a bento box, and not a box of chocolates as first hypothesized.  The most strident argument supporting the bento box theory is that at some point in your life, you will indeed have soup.  If you should make it to old age, the consumption of soup will exponentially increase until you eventually depart.  Upon departing, you may find yourself being returned to the earth whereby you will decay, insides liquefying – thus becoming your own version of soup.  Not quite chicken soup for the soul, more like human soup for the earth.  Don’t despair; you could end up looking like the contents of an ashtray.

Like I said, even nothing is something, and therefore nothing is sacred.

Image Source

Australia, Don’t Be That Person

Australia, don’t be that person.

Don’t be that person who shrugs while saying, “Americans and their gun violence, when will they learn”. Yes, statistics have illustrated an undeniable link between tighter gun control and gun related violence. We only need look to Canada, or indeed in our own backyard to see evidence of this. But Australia, don’t be that person.

Don’t rattle off statistics. Don’t say “only in America”. Don’t shake your head lamenting a life gone wrong.  Don’t vilify all men for this man’s actions; Or all Americans for that matter. Our hands are not clean. We are not so superior; that, with a snort of derision, we can dismiss 12 deaths. No one is, don’t be that person.

Going to school, a club, the movies, an airport, a restaurant, should not and never be part of a calculating the risk for enduring violence.  Victim blaming is endemic in our society.  It spreads itself lasciviously, masking the true issues, while both denying and making light of one’s pain and suffering, all under the guise of “they should have known better”.  If you say this is the world we live in, I say you’re part of the problem.  While you may never feel the cold trigger give under the pressure of your own hand, you will always have the blood stain of innocents etched into your palms.  You can’t wash this away with your dismissals, as surely as you can’t hide behind your malformed opinions.

If you dare say, “everyone is entitled to their opinion”, I may never be able to stop screaming.  If your ‘opinion’ of 12 senseless murders is to critique America’s domestic policy, you are wrong. You missed the point. You didn’t see it. I don’t know how, the world media didn’t exactly bury the lead on this one.  Twelve people were murdered; fifty people were attempted to be murdered. Why? Because they had the gall, the nerve, the cheek to think they could see a movie in a country with lax gun control? That is what you are saying when you ruminate on politics instead of people’s lives.

Don’t be that person.

Causes come later. There will be time for postulating and questioning.  Gun control will be addressed; mental health safety nets will be looked at; online presence will be examined all in a bid for this to be the last time. You and I both know it won’t be. There are too many of us, too close together, for there not to exist murderous infighting.  All the laws, policies and standard for social conduct won’t change that. Where there’s a will there’s a way. For now, though, remember the victims, hug your loved ones, and stand in defiance of violence saying “this is not okay!”  Don’t sweep these people under the rug, to the annals of Wikipedia lists on public massacres.

Don’t be that person.

Because right now Australia, you are being that person, and it makes me fucking sick.

Lather, Rinse And Repeat. Always Repeat

If I’d have left it up to your mother, you’d have ended up in a hell-hole like this, just lying around, never working, without a care in your head full of long, luxurious, hippie hair. The Simpsons, ‘D’oh in’ the wind’.

I just spent as long in the shower as a teenage boy. No, I was not fiddling my faddle, rather I was flushing out my follicles.

 

This, after spending a damn near eighty dollars on products to undo the damage done by the supermarket shampoo and conditioner. Given my current deficit in the job department it seemed prudent to cut back on luxuries, vis-à-vis* expensive hair cleansers and conditioners. Yes, when you buy salon brands it is not Shampoo, its Hair Cleansing Cream – and yes, the capitalization is necessary you follicular philistine! I initially thought I was so savvy for purchasing my supermarket brands, doing the right thing financially and what not, until that is they decided to pillage, plunder and rape their way across my scalp. After one wash I ended up with this sticky, waxy build up that was impenetrable to water. Impenetrable to water is not a good feature in what is essentially a water-soluble hair product.

Relaxed Enough For You?

Today, someone told me to relax.

So I killed them.

“Relaxed enough for you!” I screamed, as I paced around their lifeless corpse, bouncing on the balls of my feet, electric with homicidal energy.

Okay, so that never happened.  But I kind of wish it did.  The level of rage I experience when someone says to me, ‘you just need to relax’, is just below homicidal and just above someone stealing your car-park at the mall the week before Christmas.  Meaning, I am pretty damn livid.

‘Do you hate me?’  I feel like asking.  Because the arrogance that connotes with telling someone to relax  insists that you either, don’t know me at all, or, hate me.  It can only be the latter as what chump would tell someone they don’t know to relax?  No one, is the answer to that question.

Did you know it is actually impossible to chillax.  It is.  To relax, is by virtue, quite relaxing. However to both chill while relaxing simply can’t be done.  Unless we are using the other equally important definition of chill, that is to make cold, in that case, yes, I suppose you could chillax as it were.  Perhaps if you found parking your caboose in a meat locker relaxing you could have quite the chillaxing time.  In which case, fill your boots, you are an outlier of society anyway.

The Anatomical Heart

On Friday the 13th I birthed a new baby blog, The Anatomical Heart.

Whether or not this proves to be a bad omen is yet to be determined.  The Anatomical Heart came to being as a place for me to publish my poetry away from my the brevity of my usual haunt, crying in the bathroom.  Often times, what I wrote about there and what I wanted to publish here just quite simply didn’t gel.  How can I write a post about sexy cat ladies or my penchant for men’s undergarments one minute, then a dark poem about depression and isolation the next.  Sandwiched together would likely solicit some armchair diagnosing calling into question the stability of my mental faculties.

I therefore have decided to divide and conquer, as it were.  I’ll still publish content in both spaces, but at least now there will be some sort of divide between the two.

The Anatomical Heart

That’s Not How You Wash Your Face

If commercials have taught us anything, and they have, it’s that the act of washing ones face is not complete until you have hurled cupped handfuls of water at yourself. Basically, you need to splash around in your sink like a toddler during bath time in order for your super-extra-pore-refining-pimple-evicerating-age-asskicking cleanser to do its damn job and, well, clean your face.  Perhaps its not them, perhaps its me?  Maybe I am doing it wrong?  Is that why I still get zits, while simultaneously fighting the seven signs of aging?  Is that final splash somehow integral to getting all those peptides and cyanide’s to work?  Well I’m sorry Nutro-Clin-Cleara-Gena-Nique, but I am in charge of cleaning my bathroom, and I just don’t fancy mopping on a daily basis.  I also happen to be fresh out of those yellow ‘slippery when wet’ signs, and don’t particularly feel like courting a lawsuit should someone slip on my bathroom tiles if I haven’t mopped for the 600th time that year. I’ll level with you, my house is not a beacon of hygiene, you know I’ll never have the stamina to mop every damn day just so I can end my beauty routine with that all important splash.  Plus we both know it will more likely be me who slips and cracks my noggin on the side of sink.  I can’t very well sue myself – I know I’ve got nothing, so can I sue you Big Cosmetics?  Doubt it, you’d pop me like a little pimple, or perhaps you’d prefer to put some of that fancy zit cream on me that allegedly makes pimples ‘vanish’*overnight.  However unlike the pimple, I’d vanish.
Here's looking at you kid.

Here’s looking at you kid.
It smells better than it looks.
If anyone is interested is Lush’s Cupcake mask.

*Oops, did I say vanish, I meant stay the same, but don’t worry it will also look inflamed and some say angrier.

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