Pains of After-Swimming - Contains Schadenfreude

I love swimming. It's one of my favorite physical activities. Anyway, today I went to the leisure centre with my dad to do a few laps. He paid because he got a two for one voucher from the library. The swim was great. I did twenty laps of freestyle and twenty of breaststroke which equals a kilometre.

Nothing interesting happened with the actual swim. I say this because I'm guessing a few of you are thinking "This is it? Is there a form I can fill out to get those two minutes of my life back?" or something similar. Stay with me, it gets better.

After my swim I felt pretty good. Nothing like a bit of movement to clear the mind. I meandered to the showers to wash the chlorine off me. Now, anyone who has been to the Albany Creek Leisure Centre knows that there are no doors on the showers, which kinda sucks. I mean, why is it that only old men over the age of fifty feel inclined to strip completely naked in doorless showers? *Shudders* It should be illegal; there are kids wandering around.

Back to the point:

I'm in the shower, and start to undo the string tie on my board shorts. My boardies are a bit loose around the waist and I have to tie them pretty tight to prevent them from zooming straight off when I dive in. Just a single bow.

I pull on one string which, in theory, will undo the knot completely. I don't know what happened, but somehow, when I pulled that string it did not undo the knot. Like the fist of the God of badly tied knots, it grabbed a handful of hair that grows around the pubic region and yanked. Hard. I managed to keep myself from screaming but my pubic hair was now intricately interwoven into an elastic knot.

Feeling tears approaching, I searched for the second end of the string and pulled, which I hoped would result in the knot's undoing and freedom from hair-plucking pain and possible death.

No chance. I'm not that lucky.

The board short's string tie, in combination with hair of a sensitive area, had shrunk and tightened into one of those little annoying balls of material known to some naval cadets as an "impossible overhand knot." The "impossible overhand knot" is easily recognised as being similar in mass, size and density as a planet that has traveled through a black hole and has been crushed into a singularity. The attempted untying of such a knot often results in nothing but several broken fingernails and string of swear words.

And I had one attached to my privates. Oh, joy.

To put it nice and simply; it fucking hurt. This wouldn't have been so bad if the showers had doors on them, providing some privacy for me and my embarrassing agony. But the non-door-ness of the cubicles forced me to face the wall as I tried to undo the undo-able . Unfortunately this made me look like I was pissing in the shower. Thank-god there was no one else around.

Another problem that faced me was that my glasses were stuffed in my bag which I fully intended keeping dry.

So I stood in the shower wet, blind, and in pain. I decided there was nothing for it but to yank each hair individually from either the knot or my body; which ever came first. I prayed to several gods that the hair would come out of the knot first.

But then an inspiration! If I could gather enough slack from the string around my waist the knot might loosen. It could work, it had to work!

At this point I would like to point out that as an ex-navy cadet I would very much like to say that I am an expert on knots.

Hell no.

After nine or ten months without the need to tie so much as a clove hitch, one tends to forget absolutely everything about knots.

But, after several attempts I felt the knot loosen ever so slightly. I tried once again and this time managed to dig a thumbnail into the centre of the torturous ball of elastic. Gently and gradually I eased the knot apart. After some minutes the noose of pain came free, releasing me from it's grasp. The pain vanished, I raised my fists in victory, the string went loose, and my shorts fell down. I quickly pulled them back up, dried off, and got the hell out of there.

I have suffered no side effects; the swelling and redness has almost disappeared.

But I don't think I'll ever look at a knot in the same way ever again, however cliched that sounds.

PS: Schadenfreude is a German word that means "taking pleasure in someone else's pain."

There is a song about it on Youtube. Here's the link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YtYzsRMaQpo

Enjoy

How to... Motivate?

I knew this would happen! I knew it, I knew it, I knew it!

I have neglected my blog and almost forgotten about it. I could blame it on increasing uni work, or on my involvement in performing in a musical show. But the show is now over, and uni has slowed down (however briefly). Basically I can only blame this lack of blogging activity on my own laziness. Sad but true. Well, I suppose not realistically sad for or anyone else who might be reading this, but a blog was something I wanted to keep going. I may not always have something interesting going on in my life, but I know I have enough imagination to either elaborate colourfully on the not-so-interesting bits or, more likely, simply make some shit up.

I am going to attempt to post something, anything, up here on a regular basis. Well, semi-demi-hemi-regular basis.

I do have stuff to write about, I just need to motivate myself more to get this done. I need to motivate myself to get other things done. I want this to help.

The sad music playing on the TV in the background is inspiring me to end on an emotional and inspiring note. But, as I finish the phrase, the music has changed into amusing dialogue thus ruining my train of thought. Meh.

Till next time!

Don't forget to smile about something.

:-)

Placing My Mind In A Bucket and Sacrelicious Koalas

Here is an update on my sanity to all those who thrive on the pain and suffering of others. Don't feel ashamed, we all do it. Why do you think Funniest Videos and Idol are such popular shows? It's not for the talent, don't kid yourself.

It has been a week, and I am still progressively getting crazier. I have been living off the same bowl of stew since Monday and frankly I am sick of it. It started off really nice; big chunks of tender steak and vegetables in an onion and orange gravy. But now it seems to resemble, in taste and appearance, old vomit. It is also getting a bit old, despite the wonders of modern refrigeration. I have been constantly wondering whether the white bits are congealed fat (not as disgusting as it sounds, it happens when

rich food gets cold) or in fact some type of primitive life that has evolved from the carrots. I beginning to lean towards the possibility of new life, as gravy doesn't usually send up rockets to orbit and photograph the strawberry jam.

I have been eating special K out of the box, no milk, but I am not sure if this is a symptom of insanity or just me being a young male. Probably the male part, but it is the fact that the cereal of choice is special K that is disturbing. To add insult to injury I also was the one to buy the special K in the first place. What can I say? It was cheap.

At some point today I went looking for my thongs. I needed them for the obvious reasons; to shear sheep. No. To walk to the shops. Yes, I do walk, believe it or not. However, I could only find one to begin with. I searched in the regular, non-crazy places: by the front door, under the bed, beneath the coffee table, and on the bookshelf (If you knew the intimate details of my life, then the bookshelf would seem quite normal). Then I progressed to look in the slightly odder places around the house: on the dining table, by the back door (yes, that is strange), next to the sewing basket, and in the bath. I eventually found the missing thong. It was in the downstairs freezer, along with an ice brick, a knife and fork, and ten packets of shitty "gourmet" pasta sauce that my Dad stole

from Eagle Boys while he was "removing" some rubbish. Just in case you missed it here it is again: I found my missing thong in the freezer! I have no memory of putting it there! No one else has set foot in this house since last Tuesday! How the fuck did one of my thongs end up in the freezer? Actually, I'm more worried about WHY one of my thongs ended up in the freezer. I shall probably never know. Which, in retrospect, is for the best.

But I think the most recent and by far the most worrisome change to my mental state is that I have been having conversations with myself about how I really shouldn't be having conversations with myself about how I really shouldn't be having conversations with myself about how I really shouldn't be having conversations with myself about how I really shouldn't be having conversations with myself...

I just had a great idea! If everyone mails me a cat, I can become a crazy cat person. Or does it only work with ladies? Let me know. Write your suggestions on a cat and send it to Town Hall, King George Square.

Friday the 14th

Got slightly drunk on margaritas and played Age of Empires for almost six hours straight. You would not believe how quickly the time goes when you are playing that game, sober or otherwise. The drunkenness also adds a certain emotional element during battles.

"Don't you dare hurt my centurions, you bastards! Where are my catapults? I want my catapults now! Elephants? They have Elephants?! I want Elephants! I only have Camels, Camels suck! Why can't I have Elephants?" I believe at this point I broke into sobbing hysterics. But I somehow still won.

However, I would have preferred to have gotten slightly drunk while watching movies with a friend, but he couldn't make it.

You know who you are.

That's right.

I'm looking at you!

*Glares*

Saturday the 15th

Today I went to Chermside to purchase some clothes for my upcoming musical. You know, the theatre restaurant that PRIMA is putting on "Broadway To West End: The Musical Extravaganza" that you are all invited to it opens in two weeks it will be the best thi

ng you've ever seen book tickets now before they run out see it or you will all die very slow and painful deaths at the hands of very pissed off dancers and people with pointy sticks and sparkly hats with a personal vendetta against you simply because you didn't see a really great show that everyone worked really hard on and put so much effort into entertaining you but you didn't even bother to show up so of course you deserve to wear your own esophagus as a bracelet.

At least that is the advertising angle we are taking this year. Seriously though, check your facebook invitations. It should be there somewhere.

Anywho... As I stepped off the bus at the good old, teenager invested Chermside Interchange, I got given a "free showbag" by some random young people, one of whom was very hot. I was quite pleased at the freeness of the fluorescent green carrying device until I searched the contents and realised that the said "showbag" contained a bunch of pamphlets on Jesus and instructions on how to join a certain Baptist church. On the other hand it also contained two lollipops, a green fizzer, a mint, and a caramello koala. Also a box of matches, probably designed for me to burn heretics and non-believers with. Actually the box of matches bit is not true, I made that up for laughs. But I do have a small box of matches in my usual carry-bag. I picked them up at an Adelaide tourist centre, probably so I can burn heretics and non-believers.

But like I said in my last Blog, I don't like it when people try to recruit me to their church, especially when they trick me into accepting information which I am just going to throw away immediately. And this was a trick. The bag was plain green, and when they gave it to me all they said was "have a free showbag." They should have said "have a free showbag and join our church" at the very least. Oh well, I got free lollies out of it.

I realise that this is the second Blog in a row where I seem to bag out religion, but it is just a coincidence. I probably won't talk about it again unless something pontifically odd happens to me in the next two weeks. Maybe I'll see the face of the Virgin Mary in my cheap special K? Oh, wait. I need to add milk for that happen, don't I? Forget it.

Oh, If I am suddenly apologising about my previous sacreligious and blasphemous statements in the next few days it is probably because I've been struck by lighting. Probably several times.

So as I sit here sucking my possibly blessed lollipop, the wind seems to be talking to me... something about grated cheese. Your guess is as good as mine.

Can you hear the sanity dripping away?

I knew this would happen. I started this blog about three week ago, and although I do have much to write about that others may find interesting, I am simply too lazy and not bothered to put them down in writing. However, a slight but brief change in my current lifestyle has driven me to write this blog.

Those who know me well know that I still live at home with my parents and younger brother. Despite the inherent loserishness (I have patent pending on that word) of my present living condition, it is a pretty good arrangement in my worthy opinion. But first let me take you back in time to accentuate why living at home is not so bad. At this time last year I was working for the Royal Brisbane Hospital. The job itself was very boring. So boring that if someone changed all the words in every single book at the Brisbane State Library to "boring", and then read every book out loud in a dull monotone voice one after the other, it would still be slightly more interesting than doing my particular job in the payroll department of the RBWH. However, it was a government job and believe it or not but government job's rule when it comes to perks and extras. Paid sick leave, paid rec leave, leave loading, public holidays, and overtime and weekend pay that could double your fortnight's take simply by working a couple of extra hours. But the work was still horrible.

Imagine playing solitaire for eight hours straight. It was something like that. But the people there more than made up for it. If any Payroll people are reading this, you guys are awesome!

My apologies, I have digressed. Basically what I am saying is while I was only earning about seven to eight hundred dollars a fortnight (after tax), I had no debts and no bills of any kind. All money I made went straight to the bank and stayed there.

Today, I am unemployed, studying full time at university, live with my parents and brother, and receive centrelink payments. But I still have no payments to make to anyone. Yay me.

If you have read this far then please stay with me. The point of this blog is almost upon us.

As of last Monday I have suddenly found myself living alone. No, I haven't moved out yet, although that is near the top of my to-do list. Well, top 25 at least. I am living alone because my Mother and brother have traveled to England, and my Father has a new job at a drilling company located in some forsaken western desert.

I have stayed home alone before, don't get me wrong. But never for this amount of time; almost two weeks. And I have lived away from home alone before for a few weeks, but that was different. This time I still have the same surroundings, but everything seems bigger. It feels as if there is double the space than usual. I don't have to have a degree in analytical psychotherapy to realise that the house feels big because there is only one person living here as opposed to the usual four. But that is not the big thing.

It is the silence that is getting to me. The perfect quiet that seems to surround a usually noisy house like a plastic bubble is, in my belief, driving me a little crazy.

On a normal day there is at least one other person in the house with me. My Mum who would be hanging out the washing, or talking about how she is late to work, or playing John Barrowman on the stereo. My Dad who would be cooking, or watching the news, or operating a stinking petrol driven power tool, or constantly asking where the "on" button is on the computer. Or my brother who would be playing his annoying music at top volume, or stomping around upstairs as if he were wearing reinforced concrete socks, or playing video games, or complaining about food while still eating it, or having an orgasm every time some apparently super famous sports star that I have never heard of scores a point in whatever sport may be on TV.

But now there is nothing. And I am going ever so slightly insane. I am turning the television on for background noise. I am talking to myself more than usual. I am voluntarily and willingly doing menial chores, which is unheard of. I think I may be developing responsibility; I must see a doctor to have it removed.

Oh, I also tried to eat a man who knocked on my door and tried to talk to me about Jesus. But that has nothing to do with going crazy, that is how I normally react to religious door knockers. That or running around waving a stick screaming "You are cursed! You are cursed!" Or simply answering them in a slow, dark and deliberate voice "I'm sorry, but you are too late..."

The look on their face is priceless.

That reminds me of something that happened about a year ago.

I remember it being Sunday and I was probably watching TV, when I heard a knock at the door. Upon answering the door I saw two boys, roughly between the ages of 12 and 15, dressed in what was obviously "Sunday best." Good pants, blue shirt, tie, blazer, and those dicky straw hats that private school students are forced to wear (poor souls). And it was summer so it was a hot day.

Anyway, these two young kids asked if I was interested in joining a church of some description; the exact details are lost within the dark recesses of my memory. I told them no thanks, I'm not religious. But after they left I felt angry. What the hell were two young teenagers doing on a Sunday morning knocking on doors asking people about Jesus? They should be at home playing video games, or pretending to study, or looking at pornography, or playing sport. I really do hope that it was a one off occasion, that they had been forced into it by their parents.

At this point I hope no one is offended. I am not religious myself, but I do respect the beliefs of others as long as they don't tell me I'm going to hell for not believing. That is just rude.

But kids or teenagers should not be doing the mormon thing, they have enough troubles and self-esteem issues already without a hundred people telling them to "get lost" on a Sunday morning.

I could probably keep typing about random shit until my fingers bleed, but I think organising these thoughts into some sort of order first would be beneficial.

I may post another blog about the state of my sanity soon, and whether or not I have burnt the house down or gnawed my own leg off out of boredom.

But for now just try and stay happy, it will probably get better. And remember: mormons taste better than they look.

Bumping Into Those Of Past

I was buying milk at Woolworths. Correction, I was buying milk at Woolworths and not watching M*A*S*H. But anyway, I was walking past the frozen peas with a bottle of milk in each hand, one light and the other full-cream, when I saw someone I recognised. Someone I used to know at school.
His name is Matthew ...? I will check the year book. Matthew Brewer, aka "Wombo." I'm not sure how he got the nickname, I did ask him once and I think he said "because people tell me I look like a wombat." Okay...
Matthew, or Wombo, which ever you prefer, was a year above me at school so I didn't always have that much to do with him. But when we were thrown together for whatever reason we got on quite well. I would go so far as to call him a friend of the time.

I remember the first time we met was during Wednesday afternoon "options" at our high school. Wednesday ops was a period for the year nines and tens to become involved in some type of extra-curricular activity. Students could choose to play a type of inter-school sport, or one the "options". These "options" included board games, bush walking, golf, bowling, and many others I can't remember. The "options" changed and varied every term. One time a thing called Tai-Bo was available which turned out to be a sort of kickboxing aerobics. It was pretty fun, and very good exercise. Me and Matthew/Wombo were the only males in a group of about 30 students taking part in Tai-Bo so we always partnered up. I think we mutually enjoyed each others company during the time, but as we were in different year levels we never really talked outside of the exercise class.

Back to the present...
I saw Matthew/Wombo at the shops, but I didn't call out to him for he was at the other end of the store and I didn't want to embarrass myself. I thought "I can catch up to him when he goes down the aisle."
He started walking down the chip and dips aisle, and I headed down baby and pet food (why do they put baby and pet food in the same place? I've always wondered that) intent on cutting him off and surprising him. But! He had made a U-turn into the confectionery section. Blast!

By now the two bottles of ice cold milk I held were beginning to numb my fingers and hands. I knew I had to eventually pay for the milk and leave, and my erratic running around was beginning to attract the attention of several Woolworths employees. But I just wanted the chance to bump into Matthew and say "hi."

I never got the chance.

Despite his slightly stocky stature Matthew was a swift walker and always seemed to disappear behind a shelf just before I could reach him. I eventually gave up and wandered to the checkout to pay for my milk.

Then I thought the tables had turned. As I stood in line, Matthew walked in my direction. I smiled at him as he walked past, mere inches from me. But he just kept on walking.

He had not recognised me.

I walked home rather disappointed and annoyed that I had not done more to gain his attention.

It also made me think. Had Matthew purposely tried to avoid me? Why? Would he have found it awkward to talk with me for what ever reason? Was the feeling of friendship not mutual? Did he in fact remember me as annoying or one to be avoided? Did he remember me at all? Did he not recognise me as he walked past; am I more different than I possibly imagined?

I shall probably never know.

Learning Experiences

My attempt at points of actual interest is nigh!

(Did I spell "nigh" right?)

I began my second semester this week at the Queensland University of Technology, Caboolture campus. For those who don't know, I am currently studying for a Bachelor of Education (Primary).

I started the day by hammering the snooze button into a pulp. Not a good move as it meant I literally ran to the bus stop. It put a whole new meaning on "catching" the bus. But I arrived on time, and was even able to grab a quick coffee from the canteen. I don't remember Kelvin Grove campus being like this but the Caboolture canteen is ridiculously overpriced. Anyway, I am heading to class with my coffee. Just as I take a sip someone calls "Good morning!" to me, to which I reply "Shit, I just burnt my tongue," slightly louder than I would have liked.

This only achieved a 4/10 on the embarrassment scale so I wasn't too bothered.

I have two subjects on Fridays. The first is Indigenous Studies, a very challenging subject. It is not about the culture of the Aboriginal people that existed over 200 years ago as one might think, but rather how Aborigines live today and experience life in a white person’s world. It has a lot to do with sociology and how we as an individual or group perceive the world and its many quirks and facets. Our lecturer, being an Aborigine herself, spoke with such a fervour and passion you couldn't help but hang onto her every word. We, the students, were so intrigued by her stories that it wasn't until some hours later it was realised no one knew her name. For all we know she could have been some random person just wandering by. A fun thought, but unlikely.

The second subject is Wellness and Citizenship. Please don't ask me what that means, I have no idea what it is supposed to be about. Our lecturer for this subject didn't actually mention anything about the content of the subject, she simply gave us a few dates and read some information off the Uni website which would have taken a normal person ten minutes under their own steam but she managed to drag it out to a full hour. But this is what I really noticed:

She has a twitch.

Her face twitches every ten seconds or so. Her cheek muscles in the right side of her face seem to spontaneously contract giving the effect of Arnold Schwarzenegger with half of his face burnt off during the Terminator movies. You know the scene? When you can see the metal teeth and mechanics just under his cheek. That is what she looked like. Scary.

I know I must sound like the nastiest person in the world right now, but this is the first lecturer to have disappointed me. She was boring and didn't look like she wanted to be there at all. A big academic turn-off.

And so ends the first day of the second semester. I hope I haven’t bored you too much.

My First Blog

Before I say hello, let us excuse the rather lame title of this blog, even if it is rather fitting.

As you probably would have guessed by reading this, I have decided to start a blog. As much as I would like this to be a regular thing for me, there is a good chance that it will wither and die and eventually be forgotton within a few weeks like so many other projects I have attempted to give life to. On the other hand, this may be one of my few exceptions. I do hope for the latter.

These blogs will be a way of saying how I feel about some things as well as any interesting anecdotes I come up with. But the purpose is not to offend, so if I write something you find insulting or incorrect just let me know.

I only ask that if you do read my blogs, please leave a comment or post a response, or whatever it is you need to do to show you have read this. I still haven't quite worked out all the buttons and dials on this site.