h...e...l...l...o...
1. People say that dial-up is too slow to bear, but I think this is because many of the people who have dial-up also have slow computers. My computer was an Athlon 1600 processor with 256mb memory and it pottered around doing normal web stuff perfectly well. Not enough for uploading films, but fine for blogging. Now I am using a Pentium II with 64mb memory and I CAN'T STAND IT ANY MORE OMG THE SLOWNESS STOP GRINDING THAT BLOODY HARD DRIVE FOR EVERY PAGE YOU HORRBILE HEAP OF CRAP.
I will have a look at the carnage later and try to work out whether it needs a new processor, a new processor fan or (eek) a new motherboard. Either way, it'll be months before I can afford to get anything so I won't be enjoying much netlife in the meanwhile.
2. I still have a vile chesty cold thing. I start out fine and then weaken horribly in the afternoon, which makes me wonder if I have TB (nothing like an overactive imagination for cheering myself up). It's been a week since I got off that wretched plane and I still feel awful. I don't think it's, er, helping my mood any much either.
3. Despite this, I have to spend tomorrow wrestling with the council who have stopped my housing benefit because they heard that I did a day's work in July but mysteriously didn't hear that it was only for one day. This is obviously designed to encourage me to do temp work. I have to sit my ill self down in a queue for six hours or so tomorrow for no good reason at all. Crap.
4. I still have to get an actual job, preferably one with flexible hours so I can keep it on after starting the PhD, which is, once again, the only bright spot in my worthless hole of an existence. I can't afford it and should spend the money on my giant debt mountain, but I can't bear to think of another pointless year (grind GRIND goes the hard drive).
I am still fighting the horror of being a sad, lonely middle-aged failure with nothing to do and nothing to show for it. I have almost no friends and I am approaching too old (and yes it is a gender thing, it's a curse to be female, I have to sort my life out in the next two years, not ten). I don't want advice from young people or stupid messages of sympathy from the happliy married or the successful ones with careers, only from people who are fucked fucked beyond repair. Almost beyond repair. I never meet anyone. I never meet anyone and I will not go to speed-dating for fuck's sake or volunteer at a charity shop with the other old biddies. Why didn't I realise I was a fucking loser five years ago? I was just as pathetic then but I still thought i had time. I have no time. No, I don't, don't contradict me, you with your successful life and warn circle of friends. I never see any one I am going insane with misery and yet no-one will believe me because I don't do any of those attention-grabbing stunts. Maybe I should. I hate it when people boast about themselves, and yet I never do. I am a brilliant dancer. I could write if I wasn't such a lazy blob. No, it doesn't matter because I go everywhere on my own, so why go anywhere?
Don't worry about me, I might just have a cup of coffee, because it's never serious. It's never serious until I die of old age with my fucking cardigan on. I put pajamas on at six pm because it's more practical. I can't complain. I mustn't complain. I do try. I try to be positive and jolly and hopeful but I want GRIND FUCKING MACHINE STOP BEING CRAP one thing to work one fucking thing and I don't even have that. I go out and speak to people and try and try but it slides off. I work and get sacked. I went to university last year and met no-one. No advice can help as they say to do things I've already done as if I'm stupid. Why do people always give me advice and never ask for any? It's because I'm useless. No, I am. Stop with the platitudes. What would you think of a withered bitter thirty-four year old dolescum loser with nothing nothing at all. Most of all, don't say I'm still young. I've been telling myself that sick evil lie for years. I know, part of this is the report that women shouldn't 'put off' having children until they're 35, as if I ever had the choice, as if I ever imagined myself as being an adult. Part of it is the ever-worsening of my finances. I can't afford to eat properly most weeks. I have nothing to put on my CV and go to job application forms sick with despair at the number of lies I have to tell because my real self is unacceptable.
No wonder the PhD is worth doing - it's the only thing I ever had the faintest success at, even though I have to pay to be there, like a sort of vanity publisher. I also plan to write a lot more fanfiction because I get no validation from the real world. Nobody ever looks at me twice.
I will leave this rant in because it's true, although like all these rants, it is only partially true, just an excavation of the worst elements. As I said to Louis the other week,it takes a lot of the pain away to use the word 'bohemian' instead of 'loser'. No matter how crap the pieces I could paper over a lot of the cracks if I wrote more, and you know, the PhD is seeming more and more like an essential golden future of (GRIND YOU BITCH MACHINE) shabby respectability. If I'm going to pat my own back, I should be glad I can just burble my way out of moods like that - or is that a bad thing that leads to complacency and I should be more operatic? Squeaky wheels get the grease as they say. I am still here in cardigan and pajama land and still have no-one to go to the cinema with. My fault. I made a terrible mistake somewhere, probably to do with laziness. I will take suggestions for improving my social life (as long as they cost less than £5).
I will have a look at the carnage later and try to work out whether it needs a new processor, a new processor fan or (eek) a new motherboard. Either way, it'll be months before I can afford to get anything so I won't be enjoying much netlife in the meanwhile.
2. I still have a vile chesty cold thing. I start out fine and then weaken horribly in the afternoon, which makes me wonder if I have TB (nothing like an overactive imagination for cheering myself up). It's been a week since I got off that wretched plane and I still feel awful. I don't think it's, er, helping my mood any much either.
3. Despite this, I have to spend tomorrow wrestling with the council who have stopped my housing benefit because they heard that I did a day's work in July but mysteriously didn't hear that it was only for one day. This is obviously designed to encourage me to do temp work. I have to sit my ill self down in a queue for six hours or so tomorrow for no good reason at all. Crap.
4. I still have to get an actual job, preferably one with flexible hours so I can keep it on after starting the PhD, which is, once again, the only bright spot in my worthless hole of an existence. I can't afford it and should spend the money on my giant debt mountain, but I can't bear to think of another pointless year (grind GRIND goes the hard drive).
I am still fighting the horror of being a sad, lonely middle-aged failure with nothing to do and nothing to show for it. I have almost no friends and I am approaching too old (and yes it is a gender thing, it's a curse to be female, I have to sort my life out in the next two years, not ten). I don't want advice from young people or stupid messages of sympathy from the happliy married or the successful ones with careers, only from people who are fucked fucked beyond repair. Almost beyond repair. I never meet anyone. I never meet anyone and I will not go to speed-dating for fuck's sake or volunteer at a charity shop with the other old biddies. Why didn't I realise I was a fucking loser five years ago? I was just as pathetic then but I still thought i had time. I have no time. No, I don't, don't contradict me, you with your successful life and warn circle of friends. I never see any one I am going insane with misery and yet no-one will believe me because I don't do any of those attention-grabbing stunts. Maybe I should. I hate it when people boast about themselves, and yet I never do. I am a brilliant dancer. I could write if I wasn't such a lazy blob. No, it doesn't matter because I go everywhere on my own, so why go anywhere?
Don't worry about me, I might just have a cup of coffee, because it's never serious. It's never serious until I die of old age with my fucking cardigan on. I put pajamas on at six pm because it's more practical. I can't complain. I mustn't complain. I do try. I try to be positive and jolly and hopeful but I want GRIND FUCKING MACHINE STOP BEING CRAP one thing to work one fucking thing and I don't even have that. I go out and speak to people and try and try but it slides off. I work and get sacked. I went to university last year and met no-one. No advice can help as they say to do things I've already done as if I'm stupid. Why do people always give me advice and never ask for any? It's because I'm useless. No, I am. Stop with the platitudes. What would you think of a withered bitter thirty-four year old dolescum loser with nothing nothing at all. Most of all, don't say I'm still young. I've been telling myself that sick evil lie for years. I know, part of this is the report that women shouldn't 'put off' having children until they're 35, as if I ever had the choice, as if I ever imagined myself as being an adult. Part of it is the ever-worsening of my finances. I can't afford to eat properly most weeks. I have nothing to put on my CV and go to job application forms sick with despair at the number of lies I have to tell because my real self is unacceptable.
No wonder the PhD is worth doing - it's the only thing I ever had the faintest success at, even though I have to pay to be there, like a sort of vanity publisher. I also plan to write a lot more fanfiction because I get no validation from the real world. Nobody ever looks at me twice.
I will leave this rant in because it's true, although like all these rants, it is only partially true, just an excavation of the worst elements. As I said to Louis the other week,it takes a lot of the pain away to use the word 'bohemian' instead of 'loser'. No matter how crap the pieces I could paper over a lot of the cracks if I wrote more, and you know, the PhD is seeming more and more like an essential golden future of (GRIND YOU BITCH MACHINE) shabby respectability. If I'm going to pat my own back, I should be glad I can just burble my way out of moods like that - or is that a bad thing that leads to complacency and I should be more operatic? Squeaky wheels get the grease as they say. I am still here in cardigan and pajama land and still have no-one to go to the cinema with. My fault. I made a terrible mistake somewhere, probably to do with laziness. I will take suggestions for improving my social life (as long as they cost less than £5).