Tuesday, July 24

The One Where John Finnemore Won't Lick My Autograph

Sorry for the break in posting, the blobfish ate my brain.

So guys, my awesome friend Ali - whose blog is kinda superior to mine seeing as she has adventures and posts pictures and says clever things, whereas I just watch tv and then BLOG ABOUT MY FEELINGS  - just happened to inspire my incredible envy last weekend* by going to a recording of John Finnemore's Souvenir Programme.

Just in case you're not quite sure who John Finnemore is, LET ME TELL YOU. He is a comedian, writer and actor, who is hilarious and charming and intelligent and silly and sarcastic and wonderful. 


For the record, I introduced Ali to John Finnemore, which is the only way I could repay her for introducing me to Benedict Cumberbatch. Well, obviously not LITERALLY introduced. But you know, in that weird we-live-in-the-future way that makes you feel like you know celebrities by being constantly exposed to their work, so that you get so familiar with the concept of that person that you find yourself casually typing "Where EXACTLY does Benedict Cumberbatch live?" into google and not even feeling bad about it**. 

I'd wanted to ask Ali to get me an autograph since I heard she'd got tickets to the show, but obviously I have all this awkwardness and self-loathing so I didn't say anything because I didn't want to inconvenience her or be disappointed or be a person who exists or whatever. PAIN IS REAL. Luckily alcohol came to the rescue, and after a Long Island ice tea roughly the size of my arm, Ali updated facebook saying she was off to the show, and I promptly commented: 



I'm thankful to Ali for not only coming through, but actually risking a restraining order to get me a one-of-a-kind autograph! Starting what I hope will be a long and noble tradition of making celebrities uncomfortable, Ali promptly got a normal autograph for herself and a GLORIOUSLY INAPPROPRIATE ONE FOR ME: 


To Dasia
All the best
No, of course I won't lick it!
But still, all the best.
John Finnemore

JOHN FINNEMORE.
WROTE MY NAME.
AND SPELT IT RIGHT.
AND REFUSED TO LICK IT. 
THEY DON'T MAKE CAPS BIG ENOUGH TO EXPRESS THE ALLCAPINESS OF MY FEELINGS.

Doesn't he have lovely handwriting? He's the complete package.I've never been an autograph person but I really see the appeal of it now. Maybe I'll start collecting written  refusals to silly / inappropriate requests and could eventually build a gallery out of it: "The Hall Of Celebrity No, Of Course I Won'ts!" or something similarly cheesy and awesome.

Anyway, I really love that this actually happened because I'd gone out the night I found out about all this, and woke up on Sunday morning thoroughly believing that the autograph was just an awesome booze dream. So yay for good things that aren't booze dreams! Ali's posting me the original, and I'm more nervous about this autograph being in the post than any certificate or degree I've ever gotten. 

Which is normal and healthy, right?*** 


*It was actually the weekend before last  - it took me a surprisingly long time to finish this post.
**I felt a little bad about it.
*** They don't make rehab for fangirls, apparently.

Wednesday, July 4

An Open Letter to my Brain

Dear Brain,

You are usually my favourite part of me. You are silly and sometimes can figure stuff out when there are no numbers involved in that stuff. You got me through university and even got me a job that doesn't involve working on docks or lugging coal. You almost always remember to get me fully clothed before I leave the house (yesterday was an exception, but at least I  was wearing cute slippers). You have an over-friendly relationship with Mouth, but we're working on that with our new friend, Social Filter.

So here's the thing, and this isn't a criticism but... sometimes you get distracted. Today we were supposed to be doing research for a graphic design article, and next thing I know you're cerebellum-deep in an article about blobfish. 

An irrelevant blobfish.

Blobfish are not very well designed, graphically speaking. In fact, I'm not really sure how you got from the effects of the colour red in web design to wondering what's new in the world of blobfish. 

Maybe it's my own fault. I've enabled you. I've given you too much brain candy and now I'm moaning about you being hyperactive. 

There was about an hour between that last line and this one, where you followed every link in the 'too much brain candy' phrase and got lost in the big, shiny internet. That's exactly what I'm talking about! 

Now, I'm not saying you should change. I think the fact that you find everything interesting is a credit to your brainfulness. All I'm saying is that maybe there's something to be gained from concentrating on a topic for more than two minutes. Maybe all that wildly fascinating stuff that's calling your name now will still be there in an hou[NOTE FROM THE EDITOR: Brain is unable to finish this post because scientists have found the Higgs Boson thingy and everyone is excited. Brain isn't entirely sure what it is, but Brain knows that Higgs Boson is a big deal because it's been mentioned on Big Bang Theory. Now Brain needs to watch lots of youtube videos and read lots of twitter opinions because the Higgs Boson is now officially Brain's favourite boson.]

In other news, Body wants to dance around.

Tuesday, June 19

My Blogging Life in Neil Patrick Harris Gifs

Today I saw this amazing list of Neil Patrick Harris gifs, which spoke to me so deeply I had to make a post out of them. I'm probably doing this "When X happens, my reaction is Y" meme wrong, but I don't think there's police for that.

Enjoy!

So Here's My Blogging Life In NPH Gifs OMG


When I realize someone other than my mom reads my blog

 

 

When I blog about something and everyone assumes I'm an expert

 

When I keep to my posting schedule

 

 

When I think about monetizing

 

When I finally hit POST

 

When that post still has zero comments

 

When I get that "1 new comment" email

 

When some bitch has more followers than me

 

When I get more followers than that bitch

 

When a commenter corrects me

 

When somebody finds my blog entertaining / helpful

Really?



 Oh, and when you make it to the end of this post

Saturday, June 9

My Wildly Improbable Birthday Wish List

For my seventh birthday I asked for a dragon.

I got this:

Bullshit.

I guess it's a good thing. I learned early on that the stuff I really want (yeah, the stuff everyone really wants) isn't stuff you can just go to a mall and buy. That's what makes birthdays so awkward. You can't just give someone a Lose Ten Kilos coupon or a subscription to Levitation & Flying Magazine and call it a day.

And since my birthday's in a week, those who love me enough to know that (without checking on facebook first) have been bugging me to tell them what I want. So here it is.

My Wildly Improbable Birthday Wishlist


1. A Car With An Engine And Wheels And Stuff

I just got my learner's licence again (after letting the last one expire) and with a full-time job and hobbies that require me to Go Places, you can probably imagine how badly I want my own car.

For some reason, I really want a blue Hyundai Atos. Not really sure why, but since they came out I've had this weird little feeling that this is the car for me. Probably because it's small and cute and you just wanna boop its nose a little bit.

*boop!*

 Also, it comes in an Automatic, because seriously, fuck gears. I mean, I know it still has gears, but frankly I don't feel like I need to be involved in changing them. I trust the machines. Go Skynet!

2. Mad Roller Derby Skills

Not only would I like to be able to stop without the aid of a wall or a friend who's going down with me, but I want to be bout-ready like RIGHT NOW. Unfortunately, turns out spending hours reading articles on derby isn't quite equivalent to a Matrix-style download of all the skills I need. Damn it, Skynet!

Apparently, whimsical socks are not enough to master a fast-paced contact sport.

By the by, the league I'm in, the C-Max Roller Derby League, is having their next bout on 28 July and I'll be there cheering on the mayhem! You should come!

3. The Opportunity To Be A Prodigy At Something

Since I turned 18 I have been super bummed about this. I will never be the ukulele boy or the tiny opera singer or S.E. Hinton, who wrote my favourite YA novel, The Outsiders, when she was 17. I'm turning 24, which is way past the prodigy expiration date.

Show off.

Now I can only be an old-person prodigy, which isn't even actually a thing. But you know now and then there's a fluff story on the news like "Woah! This lady's like a million and she's rapping / teaching yoga / modelling for Victoria's Secret". So maybe if I take up bowls or collecting cats now, maybe I'll be considered a prodigy by the time I reach retirement age?

4. Adamantium Teeth

Yeah, over the past year my sensitive teeth problem has gone from charming to WTactualF. So that's it, I want teeth made out of adamantium, which would probably give me a pretty street Lil' Wayne look so I don't see the downside.

This would totally suit me.

And hey, if I could get some retractable claws put in while I'm at the adamantium clinic, there go my cheese-slicing, vegetable-chopping and people-murdering woes!

5. A Time-Turner

Mostly for napping, long lunches and extra reading time. And winning the lottery.

And high-fiving myself. Oh wait - would that break the universe?

 Okay, apparently you can buy these online. But it's just not the same if Professor McGonagall doesn't give it to you.

That's what she said.

Wait.

What?

Aaaanyway, those are the things I really want for my birthday. But since my list ranges from the highly improbable to the downright impossible, I guess I may just have to settle for fuzzy socks. Or a dragon.


Monday, June 4

The Agony and the Ecstasy of Russian Hairdressers

Here's the thing about being Russian. You're not allowed to do things the simple, rational way. You have to do them The Russian Way.

Let me paint you a little picture. For a few years now, my family has been going to an amazing Russian hairdresser who also happens to be a maniac. Not to generalize that all Russian hairdressers are maniacs - it just seems like the hairdressing talent is in direct proportion to the crazy.

In case any of my readers decide to become Russian through paperwork or surgery, I thought I should let you know the secret inner world of going to a Russian* hairdresser. 

A Russian hairdresser will cut your hair in her living room. Salons are for "foreigners" (the generally accepted term for non-Russians - and yes, expats insist they live in a country full of "foreigners") and girls just starting out. If this woman can handle scissors without hurting herself, she'll have her schedule full of Russian women eager to get a proper haircut.

A Russian hairdresser will cut like her work is about to be entered into the Microscopic Hairdressing Olympics. This is probably the best thing about my last hairdresser - she did beautiful work, carefully sculpted to the last micrometre. For the record, speed doesn't count in the Microscopic Hairdressing Olympics. Which is why she'll -

Take three hours to do a trim. No matter what time you go to the hairdresser, it'll be dark outside by the time you leave. This is one of the reasons I look like an overgrown hobo most of the time - getting my hair cut isn't a lunchtime errand. It's a whole thing. It's a couple of hours for me, a couple more for my mom, and I'm not even gonna go into how long my blonde sister takes - I think we had to camp out overnight when she first got her foils in. But hey, at least the hair dresser will:

Be cool if you bring your own picnic basket of food, drink and books for the long wait for freedom. Did I mention there's no TV and only a handful of Russian hairdressing magazines for entertainment? If you go without provisions, you're a dead man. I don't know why local people (perhaps more to the point - normal people) are weirded out if you bring your own food to these sorts of situations. Everyone's just supposed to starve and act happy with their rations of tea and Marie biscuits. That's not okay, comrades! We need sustenance for this five year plan! Which is made even longer because your hairdresser will...

Stop mid-cut for a cigarette and a chat. My sister and I aren't very  chatty (my Russian skills aren't good enough to defend my life and my choices) so it's always mom's job to smoke and gossip in twenty-minute sessions. It doesn't really matter to the hairdresser whether she's mid-cut or not. She knows we're not going anywhere. Nobody gets off the rock. Nobody wants to get off the rock because the saltwater's gross, and your hairdresser will always...

Treat every hair like precious silk. Russian hairdressers have to study for two years before they get certified. They take this shit seriously.  She'll refuse to do bleaching / dying that will leave your hair in a worse condition, even if it means giving up the money she would've gotten for that job. Local (normal? human?!) hairdressers, in my experience, take your money, screw your hair up and promise it'll be okay if you use this conditioner or buy that treatment. Which doesn't work. Your average hairdresser will be okay with smiling and taking your money, whereas...

A Russian hairdresser will give you her unfiltered opinion about your life and your choices. Spoiler alert: her opinion will never be a happy-clappy one. Everything from your skin to your career will be criticized, loudly and without regard to those silly little things called "feelings". Which you're not supposed to have anymore anyway, since they should have been killed by shopping and vodka a long time ago. It's okay, you're new. You'll learn. Hangovers are like boot camp for your liver.

I went to a non-Russian hairdresser (gasp!) over the weekend because I was young and foolish and thought I didn't need to spend a day being judged, criticized and smoked on to look good. The local hairdresser took half an hour, she spoke to me like a normal person and not a criminally deranged toddler, and at the end of the day, my haircut was... meh. Just meh. Not fantastic. Not hideous. Just a normal, ordinary, "foreigner" haircut.

Yes, I want to go back to my talented maniac of a Russian hairdresser. It's sort of like a pilgrimage: first you set off on the long journey there, (and of course a Russian hairdresser must always live at least half an hour away from you). Then you followed by hours of verbal abuse, discomfort and borderline-starvation (you'll never bring enough snacks. Ever.) But at the end of the day, you are renewed. And as you stumble home, emotionally broken but aesthetically bouncy, the bad stuff fades away and you're just left with a seriously kick-ass haircut.

It may sound crazy to you. But that's The Russian Way.

*I have a feeling this post will attract a lot of Russian Bride For Yourself! spam because I use the R word so frequently.

Sunday, May 27

How To Make A Green Smoothie That Doesn't Taste Like Regret

I'm not exactly a health nut, but I do enjoy smugly saying I drink a green smoothie every morning because it makes people look at me like I've just said I chew glass instead of flossing, it's better for the environment.

Green smoothies have gotten a bad rap for looking like portable swamps and tasting like socks. But I swear guys, this recipe is not only healthy, but tastes good. Now, I'm not saying it tastes good compared to steamed broccoli or lettuce tartar. I'm telling you: macaroni and cheese tastes good, toffee ice cream tastes good, and this green smoothie tastes good.

It's pretty simple to make, too. It takes me ten minutes (including washing the blender) to make in the morning, and that's with my sloth-like agility. You may not have these ingredients in your fridge at the moment, but that's the great thing about shops existing.

Yummy Green Smoothie 

(Serves 1, because let's face it, nobody's going to be asking for a glass until they taste yours and realize it's mindblowingly good.)


You'll need:
  1. A blender (to mix it all together, not as an ingredient. That would be a bit chewy.)
  2. Fruit juice, one cup (I use fruit cocktail, but apple tastes good too.)
  3. Raw seed mix, one teaspoon (mine has sunflower, pumpkin, sesame, and flax seeds.)
  4. Fresh cucumber, one mini (pickles don't count!)
  5. Baby spinach, raw, three handfuls (this freezes well too.)
  6. Fresh mint, raw, to taste (also freezes well, but if you can't find it, you could try mint essence. Mine's frozen, which is why it looks so black and sad in the picture. Still tastes awesome though!)

Step 1: Pour the glass of fruit juice into your blender and add a teaspoon of the seed mix.

*action shot!*

Warning: DO NOT try to replace the fruit juice with water. It will negate the glorious balance of the universe and make your smoothie taste like cold, bitter, spinachy regret.

Blend on high to chop up the seeds. This is especially good for the flaxseeds, which are super-mega good for you but aren't broken down in your stomach unless they're crushed open first. The seeds help you to feel full with all the omega-3 fatty stuff. You can also replace them with a scoop of avo, which is quite lovely.

Step 2: Turn the blender OFF first (if only I could send that piece of advice back to my past self) and add the baby spinach, mint and cucumber.

If you can't find cucumbers, substitute with alien willy.

I use three sprigs of mint because I think mint is the best thing ever. Also it takes the slightly spinachy taste off the end result. Using baby spinach instead of regular means that there isn't much spinachy taste to begin with, and using fruit juice with a bit of orange involved takes it away completely.

Blend on low for about a minute, until everything starts looking uniform.

Step 3: Pour back into the glass you used to measure the fruit juice (what, you think I was going to dirty an extra glass for no reason?) and enjoy!


Warning: Though this smoothie definitely tastes more like accomplishment than regret, there's no way to keep it from looking like a tiny, portable swamp. If left unattended, it may attract bog creatures.


Be on the lookout for giant gangsta penguins, incontinent crocodiles and the Great Scuzzy Lion of Indifference.

You may have to share.

Sunday, April 29

Critical Drinking and other discoveries

I've been at my job for a month now.

These are some things I've discovered.

I wish we had one of those Antique Roadshow type shows so I could find out if these discoveries are worth anything...

1. Everyone is numb, and everyone's resigned to that fact.

Though there are no sad little cubicles and flickering fluorescent lights, my job's still at an office and there are still the hum of monitors, bored sighs and and furtive glances for managers followed by monotonous gossip*.

Back in the day, my young, impressionable, only slightly perverted mind saw Joe Versus The Volcano and believed that nine to five was just as may-as-well-commit-suicide-ish as Joe's experience at the beginning of the movie. But now that I know all about magical realism and have dealt with my crush on Tom Hanks, I know that it was ever so slightly exaggerated. But, like all bad-in-a-weird-but-kinda-good-way movies, it was based on truth, man.

Fuck yeah corporate life.
There must be some neurological speed camera that could measure how much duller I get throughout the week. On Monday I'm like Perky! Happy! Lunchtime already, woo! and by Thursday I'm like Oh. Hey. Yeah. No. Huh? No.

2. Pretending to work is even more tiring than actually working.

You would think I'd have learned this in varsity, but when you're working on an essay and decide to take a 'refreshing study break', you can sit on the couch, eat ice cream and put in a Friends DVD. At work, if you're not in the mood to put in that last 45 minutes of effort before home-time, you can't just grab your Kindle and go chill on the couch in the lobby. Firstly, because there are always weird ladies sitting there and they never talk to each other, just glare at people and judge their vending-machine choices. Secondly, did I mention there are CAMERAS EVERYWHERE?

So if you're not in the mood, the best you can do is sit at your desk and stare out of the window, wiggling your mouse now and then so that the screensaver doesn't come on. Yaaay.

3. I suddenly understand the appeal of going out every weekend and getting incredibly intoxicated.**

 I call this Critical Drinking, because it's as close to critical thinking as I've gotten over the last few weeks, and by that third tequila it feels pretty critical. Red-wire blue-wire big red numbers COUNTING DOWN kinda critical.

While I enjoy the odd party, I never really got clubbing until now: the loud music drowns out your thoughts, the dim lighting hides your flaws, and the alcohol makes you brave in a world full of limits. It's a strange alternate universe that serves as an antidote to the quiet, sensible sameness of what's become my everyday life.

You know what else I didn't get until now? Hangovers. I had my first bona fide hangover the other day, and it was so unexpected that at first I didn't know what was going on. I woke up (at like, two in the afternoon) and thought MAN WHO MADE THE WORLD LOUDER, COME ON GUYS. NOT OKAY. It wasn't cute. Don't drink, kids. And if you do, take painkillers and a big glass of water before bed instead of falling asleep drunk like a dumbass.***

4. I actually sympathize with people who want to DO STUFF in their spare time.

I still see myself as the mossy, fuzzy rock that rolls her eyes at all those rolling stones for having so much energy. But now that I HAVE to sit around and stare at a computer for most of the day, it's sort of lost its appeal as a low-impact hobby.

I actually want to feel alive in my spare time. I'm exercising. I'm steaming veggies. I've signed up for roller derby, ffs. Me. Doing a sport. That requires a mouth guard.

So that is the handful of unexpected discoveries I've made as I slowly morph into a tax-paying citizen. And they said it'd never happen because of my forearm tattoo!




*I feel like my writing's gotten worse. FMWC. (that's fuck my writing career, y'all.)
**I haven't been around cool kids in a while so I'm not sure if the term "wasted" is still in use.
*** Somehow I don't think that clause is going to make it onto many high school sobriety pledges.

Sunday, April 22

I'M NOT A HOBO anymore.

Hey guys! I'm back :)

Quite a bit has happened during my hiatus, the biggest of which is that I got a job. Like, a real job that I have to brush my hair for. I'm a web copywriter for a company that owns a bunch of online casinos. So I'm spending my days writing gambling ebooks, updating news blogs, and sneaking lame puns into twitter updates.

It's funny, because I haven't gambled since I was thirteen and lost R50 in that bullshit totally-rigged coin-pushy game in the arcade.

I bite my thumb at you, coin pusher of lies.

And the more I research it, the dumber I think gambling is. Luckily, my retail experience has taught me to sound cheerful about things that make me want to do some recreational stabbing. At least when it comes to gambling I'm still sort of meh about its lameness, as opposed to the fiery rage that paintings, posters and framing now inspire in me.

People keep telling me that I'm a grown-up now that I've got a job. I can't totally agree with that, since I've already worn pyjamas under my work clothes for want of warm leggings (not that I'm a never-nude, though there are dozens of them! Dozens!) and my mommy still drives me everywhere because I'm too scared shitless highly evolved to learn how to drive. Though I'm technically more productive and less couch-potatoey than before, I don't feel any more adult-like now.

Besides, I'm just into this whole capitalism thing for book- and tequila-money anyway.

I can't get too specific about my job because a) THERE ARE CAMERAS EVERYWHERE, b) perhaps unwisely, I put a link to my blog into my CV just to prove that I've actually done something vaguely resembling writing over the past year and a half, and c) it's, uh, not very interesting. Suffice to say that the dress code is casual and the people are nice (quite nice. VERY NICE. So nice I'm worried they put Prozac in the water cooler,) so I'm happy I found it.

Hopefully my future posts will be a bit more entertaining than this one. I just wanted to say that I'm back and will be updating once a week, and that I've missed blogging like crazy. I have so many things I want to squee and snark and muse over, so hold onto your fancy hats!

And finally, I'd just like to say a huge thank-you to everyone who's followed this blog and stuck with me during my silence :) as ever, you guys rock!

Saturday, February 18

On Hiatus (and some Recommended Reading)


So I'm taking a break from this blog for a while.

I could tell you it's because I'm so busy with real life stuff, or that I have to focus more on my fiction writing, but that would be both dishonest and predictable of me.

Truth is I'm a damaged and broken human being who's started to genuinely dread the 'pressure' of posting*, and that's not fun for anyone. I'd rather take a break and get my inspiration back than keep forcing myself to post lifeless, mediocre stuff, you know?

I just need to be quiet for a while. Maybe a month. Or less. Or more. We'll see.

In the meantime, here are some amazing blogs to keep you occupied during my silence:



^Wow. Those are just the blogs I really like and keep up with. There's almost thirty of them - no wonder I don't get through many books! I was going to write descriptions of each one, but then I didn't. Suffice to say they range from personal blogs to writing blogs, some comedy, some fashion, some feminism, some by people I know well, some by people I would totally stalk if they lived near me**. If this list doesn't keep your brain occupied while I'm away, I don't know what will.

But anyway, thanks for reading. I have the best, smartest, funniest, kindest, wisest, sweetest, sexiest readers in the world. True story.

* #whitegirlproblems
** I'm a lazy stalker.

Thursday, February 16

Flash Fiction: Psychic Kitty


My entry for The Fairy Ring Writing Contest over at Yearning For Wonderland. Because I could never pass up a chance to write about fairies, right?


Psychic Kitty

“Hey dude, you ever wonder what your cat’s looking at?” asked Amy.

Lil took a sip of wine, “You think my cat’s schizo?”

“Or what if he sees things we don’t? Cats' eyes are always focusing on 'imaginary' stuff. Even chasing it. What if he’s seeing things on another level?”

“What like, ghosts?” Lil looked at her innocent grey tom.

“Nah, a cat wouldn’t chase ghosts around –”

“Maybe the ghosts of mice.”

“Mice don’t get ghosts.”

“Look who’s suddenly an expert on the supernatural,” Lil snorted, “Please, what’s my cat seeing? Bunnies from parallel dimensions?”

“I’m thinking more like fairies.”

“I’m thinking you need to get your head examined.”

“Why not?" said Amy, "Animals have better instincts than humans… what about those goats who know when earthquakes are coming?”

“Well, since you’ve brought up the irrefutable scientific evidence of the goats who know when earthquakes are coming, I guess I have to submit to your premise.”

“You can get all sarcastic, missy!” Amy grinned, “But life’s full of weird shit.”

“The weirdest shit this cat’s ever done is somehow convince himself that I enjoy seeing dead birds on my doorstep in the mornings,” Lil scooped up the tom and looked into his green eyes, “Are you psychic, my fluff? Are you a psychic kitty?”

“Well, obviously he’s not gonna admit to it…” said Amy cheekily. 

The cat had decided he’d had enough of this patronizing cuddle-fest and squirmed out of Lil’s lap.

He strutted outside into the pale light of the new moon, raising himself up on two legs which quickly became straighter, more humanoid, as he effortlessly morphed into his true form: a proud faerie prince with a plush grey fur coat.

Smirking, he decided it was a good night to hex some sparrows. 



(Words: 306. Doh!)
Here are the contest details, and other entries!

Monday, February 13

SHERLOCK VID! The Gay Translation of the Roof Scene [Includes Spoilers]

Guys, remember how in my review of Sherlock season two I wrote out my ever-so-slightly perverted interpretation of the roof scene conversation?

OF COURSE YOU DO.

Well I had a great laugh this weekend when I saw my very gay interpration translation come to life in this amazing video, made by my endlessly talented sister who, lucky for me, also happens to have a lot of time on her hands. Thanks Stas!

So now I present to you: the official video, made exclusively for Dasia Has A Blog, of that ridiculously erotic roof scene...

JUST WATCH IT ALREADY.




WASN'T THAT AMAZING?

And don't ask why Lady Gaga is playing in the background - I negotiated away from Miley Cyrus! Also, my sister insists, it's a blindingly clever play on words because see Gaga is singing about the edge of glory, and Sherlock and Moriarty are on the EDGE of a ... building.


Here's a transcript for- erm - for shits and giggles!

MORIARTY: So I've been stalking you for fifteen years because I just like watching you DANCE. And we have so much in common - we both know what kind of underwear is reserved exclusively for gays.
SHERLOCK: Oh, you! *blush* I figured out that computer code by the way, because I don't care about the solar system but memorized the precise timing of your every movement when you came over.
MORIARTY: LOL no, I was just messing with you! You're so normal! Your friends are making tea for my snipers! Kill yourself!
SHERLOCK: Aw goddamnit.......... NO WAIT TROLOLOL
MORIARTY: Say what?
SHERLOCK: You can call them off with a secret code or word, so I don't have to die AS LONG AS I'VE GOT YOU.
MORIARTY: You can't make me do what I don't want to do. *sassy face*
SHERLOCK: [some bullshit about angels roughly translated as] But I'm like you, I've got no morals or conscience, I'm WILLING TO DO ANYTHING, I've got no limits or boundaries so you can burn me, humiliate me, own me any way you like... so let's go to your place and test the mattress.
MORIARTY: OMG thank you! Bless you! Let me touch you! But actually I'd rather kill myself. *BANG*


I love that after 26 comments on the original post, nobody's offered me a decent non-perverted interpretation of this scene. That's because this isn't an interpretation so much as a translation!

So that pretty much made my weekend! I'm still grinning. Having a blog is awesome.

Friday, February 10

Review: The Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy by Douglas Adams


 You know what I loved? It was an easy, quick, completely whimsical read with some laugh-out-loud moments. Almost every line delightfully charming, it's easy to see why this is a classic with so many pale imitators.

You know what kind of sucked? Nothing about the book itself, but how my experience of it was altered by the fact that I'm definitely not the first person to think it's awesome. The first time I saw the movie, I don't think I even knew it was based on a book. It's one of those pleasant watch-it-if-it's-on kind of movies that I've ended up seeing a handful of times – the upside of which is that I had Arthur Dent cast firmly as Martin Freeman in my mind, though back in the days before Sherlock Martin Freeman was only in my head as That Guy Who's Very Very Good At Playing Normal Guys.

The massive downside of knowing the movie well is that a lot of stuff was spoiled for me. I even remembered exactly what the bowl of petunias falling onto Magrathea was going to say. Though the ending was quite different, which was a pleasant surprise (remember back in the day when people used to actually adapt stories for screenplays instead of just making sequel after sequel?) and it certainly ended on a bit of a cliffhanger, so I'm keen to read the rest of the series.

You know what was weird? Theoretically, I shouldn't have enjoyed it. It broke a lot of rules that usually make fiction unbearable for me: there was a ludicrous amount of adverbs, it was sorta sexist*, and the narrative voice had that slightly mocking self-aware tone that usually makes me want to rip my eyes out when amateur writers attempt it. But somehow, through magic or, more likely, mad skills, everything works, because the story remains anchored to an unpretentious style and a fiery, confident imagination.

I gladly give it 4 / 5. Adams got through my stylistic hang-ups by charming my pants off, and I liked it.

*I say sorta sexist because the only woman in the story (and by proxy, in the galaxy) had no agency, no opinions, no impact on the plot whatsoever. Hell, she barely got any lines. It irked me.

Thursday, February 9

Comedikachu, I choose you!

So, genre - what's up with that?

I recently took a lame quiz in order to determine my direction in life. I got this rather ominous result:

You Should Be a Joke Writer

You're totally hilarious, and you can find the humor in any situation.
Whether you're spouting off zingers, comebacks, or jokes about life...
You usually can keep a crowd laughing, and you have plenty of material.
You have the makings of a great comedian - or comedic writer.

So the question is, does a writer choose a genre - or is it the other way round? Could I write bodice-ripping romance stories with gag-inducing sincerity, or hardboiled detective novels without falling asleep at the keyboard?

Some may turn to religion for these big questions. I turn to Stephen King:

Sometimes I speak before groups of people who are interested in writing or literature, and before the question-and-answer period is over, someone always rises and asks the question: Why do you choose to write about such gruesome subjects?

I usually answer this with another question: Why do you assume that I have a choice?

Writing is a catch-as-catch-can sort of occupation. All of us seem to come equipped with filters on the floors of our minds, all the filters having differing sizes and meshes. What catches in my filter may run right through yours. What catches in yours may pass through mine, no sweat. All of us seem to have a built-in obligation to sift through the sludge that gets caught in our respective mind-filters.... The sludge that catches in the mesh of my drain is often the stuff of fear.

- Stephen King, Night Shift (Introduction)

Isn't that a neat thought? That genre is not a choice but rather an obligation, some built-in leaning you have to discover rather than invent. In this ridiculous writerly world of drafting, editing, rewriting, re-editing, agents, queries, self-publishing, indie publishing, small presses, the big six, and fifty gazillion things you have to decide with nothing to guide you but your gut and the bad decisions those around you have made... it's nice to know some things are meant to come naturally.

I have no idea what my genre is. I know I like writing funny things, morbid things, and ludicrously postmodern things. And maybe that's all I need to know. It's not the most popular or maybe even the most sensible combination, but at least I know my brain's filter-meshy things are working.

So, writer friends, what catches in the mesh of your drain? Do you like the idea of having a genre, or reject the whole concept? And, most importantly - doesn't Comedikachu totally sound like a real Pokémon?

Monday, February 6

How To Suck A Little Less At Twitter

Have timeline, will bitch.

I'm hardly a social media expert, but I'm nothing if not a social media addict. There's plenty of advice out there on how to be great at twitter - be funny, be interesting, be a good curator, blah blah blah. But I've got a few pet peeves that I haven't seen mentioned on any of these lists.

Protip. (source)


This is by no means a definitive list on how to behave on twitter. The average user (myself included) probably does a few of these now and then, because we all sorta suck, right?

My mission is a small and achievable one: to suck a little less at twitter. Here are some fun tips to make that happen:

Stop detailing your bodily functions. If all you tweet is I’m so hungry! or I’m so full! then you may as well just name your account after your stomach. Same goes with I’m soooo cold. Following accounts from both hemispheres, I’ve constantly got someone whinging about being cold in my timeline. It’s dull. You’re giving me nothing. I want insight. I want a new perspective. I want frostbitten spirit-fingers!

Quit the TMI app. Specifically, abusing the TMI feature by making every tweet ridiculously long and drawn out. The joy of twitter is that it’s a series of short, readily available, self-contained messages. Usually I only click through if you’ve offered a particularly interesting comment on something you’ve retweeted, and I want to see the whole retweet. But if you start with ‘You know what’s wrong with the world…’ then I am so not clicking through.

Stop tweeting inane decontextualized song lyrics. Maybe you’re listening to this amazing song and it’s bringing your soul to delicious musical orgasm, but twitter is a text-based experience and all I see on my screen is ‘baby baby baby oh baby baby baby no’ - and I just don’t give a duck.

Limit the text speak. Perfectly acceptable for your average tweeter with three bots following them. But what blows my mind is when self-proclaimed writers use text speak when it's not necessary (we've all had to make sacrifices to save that -1 character.) But dude, you’re trying to sell me a book you wrote? You better damn well show me that you know how English works.

Quit being didactic or overly philosophical. Thinking out loud isn't always equivalent to making other people think. Being high-minded now and then is refreshing, but if every tweet is an abstract attempt at being deep, you're probably coming off pretentious (at best.)

For the love of pie, quit with the ever-so-unique nicknames for people in your life. You can’t just say my husband or Dave (if your husband’s name happens to be Dave), oh no! It has to be The Man, The S.O., Mister BetterHalfington, and all that shit. And kids become The Princess or Little Winner. You’re not being cute and creative. You’re being that married person or parent who makes all the other married people or parents look like lame, kitschy dorks.

Now that I've alienated everybody ever, here are some things other people say to stop doing, that I say keep doing on twitter:

Swearing. Apparently not many people like swearing on twitter, but I think if that's part of your personality, don't censor yourself to appeal to the masses. Fuckbuckets.

Drunktweets. Yup, it's an art, and completely depends on what kind of drunk you are. I happen to be a happy and inappropriate drunk, so my drunktweets are by far what gets me the most followers. Unless you're tweeting on behalf of your boss, or your parole officer is following you, I'd say drunktweets are harmless fun.

Oversharing. Twitter is beautiful because it gives you the freedom to post whatever you want. And if you want to post “The thing that bothered me about my ex is that he had really weird junk.” then I am totally gonna follow you and favourite that shit.


Did I miss anything? What would you add to the list, or take off it? Have you ever tweeted about a fire before fully evacuating the building? Share in the comments!

Friday, February 3

Review: A Sudden Bout Of The Plague

Last night I had a tickle in my throat. This morning I felt for a dagger sticking out of my neck. That's right, kids - I have the plague again. And because I don't have the heart to leave you guys without a review two weeks in a row, please enjoy this out-of-ten approximation of my misery.

Suddenness: 8 / 10. Truly impressive, would recommend. If you're looking to get out of a fun weekend or a shotgun wedding quickly, just let me know and I'll email you some of my germs!

Plaguiness:  7 / 10. Quite plaguey, especially seeing as it's just getting started.

Boutiness: 10 / 10. It's a fun word, isn't it, boutiness? I wish it were real.

Reviewability: 6 / 10. Not as reviewable as a book but far more reviewable than a passing phase of existential doubt.

Forethought and Planning in Event of the Plague: 0 / 10. I had planned to casually read a hundred pages of the book I'm busy with, to get a review done today. But I decided to pass out for the majority of the day. If it's any consolation, I had fever-dreams about some water park I was trying to review for you guys. I even had a screen full of text in my dream.

Odds of Survival: 6.6 / 10. I've had bronchitis twice before. So this is either going to be a piece of cake, or the third bout that kills me.

Temperature: 3 / 10. An unimpressive 37.3 C. I'm sure it was higher before the Degoran, but I don't care about my blog enough not to take medicine. Medicine is my favourite.

Achiness: forever / 10. My back, hips and every single joint is radiating unhappiness. This must be what Woody Allen feels like all the time.

Sexy Croaky Voice: 8 / 10. Could totally belt out a verse of Sticky Shoes by Phoebe Buffay.



Overall Rating: I'm Too Tired To Do Maths / 10. I'm all reviewed out. Hope you guys have a good weekend full of rainbows, ponies and strong immune systems!

Wednesday, February 1

Clandestine - Five Sentence Fiction

A tiny story based on this prompt from Lillie McFerrin Writes.

The room was dark. Cold tile pressing into her bare feet, she followed the path she'd memorized long ago. Sweaty palms opened the single door that didn't creak, careful not to leave fingerprints on the aluminum handle. Pupils dilated, ears twitched at the crackle of the foil and then the simple, sweet snap between her teeth. 

The tastiest cookies are the ones you steal.

Tuesday, January 31

The Great 2 A.M. Wasp Drama

So on Sunday night, I'm casually headed to bed after a not-so-fun day at my job that I don't really love too much, and a night of far too much youtube, when I happen to see that there's a GIANT-ASS WASP on my bedroom wall.

I hate wasps. I really, really, really hate wasps. They're like the sick result of a three-way between a bee and an Orc and Satan. Usually I would just scream and slam the door and avoid the wasp-infested room for as long as humanly possible... but my bed was right there. I was tired. I was already in my pyjamas.

So I decided to be brave and went (okay, ran) to the kitchen to get what is possibly the most ridiculous weapon available for a war against the devil's spawn: a long-handled bright pink feather duster.

I had a vague plan to smoosh the wasp in the feather duster and then shove it out of the open window from whence it came, but as I stood at the door to my room I sorta lost my nerve. The more I stared at the wasp, the bigger and scarier it looked - I'm sure it grew from the size of my thumb to a decent-sized rabid terrier. What if the smooshing went awry? What if it escaped and stung me, or - even worse- GOT STUCK IN MY HAIR?!

This whole situation just crystallizes my plan that when I'm a grownup I'm going to have an industrial strength beekeeper's suit in every room. Actually, make that in every corner of every room.

So I figured the safest thing to do would be to gently shoo the wasp towards the window - but the bastard would not be shood. I'd fluff the feather duster at it and it would fly up and freak me out and settle down a meter away from where it was.

HEY LOOK, I drew you guys a picture of my epic struggle between woman and beast!


Accurate.

So every time I got it flying I would suppress a shriek and bolt out of the room. For something so obviously menacing, it didn't seem to have much forethought going on, because it wouldn't go to me and it wouldn't go out of the window, it just hovered around aimlessly like a big dork. Then it'd just settle down on another obviously-not-window part of the room. We carried on this stressful dance of lameness for a fucking hour.

At one point I got ridiculously hopeful because I saw it dart behind the curtain of an open window, heard it buzz a bit, and then stop. It MUST have flown out! Already feeling victorious, I gave the curtain a little prod to make sure it wasn't just sitting on the other side. Nothing. I started to relax, giving it one last sharp poke just to reassure myself. Out zooms the fucker, circling me (and I'm sure I heard its buzz go a bit higher in its waspy lulz) before sitting quite resolutely on the light in the middle of the ceiling.

The wasp and I had battled it out for the territory of my room, and it had won. I admitted miserable defeat and went to sleep on the couch in the lounge.

Now, you guys know I'm a sensitive soul, right? Here's another fun fact about me: I don't react well to sleeping in strange beds. Most times I'm not in my own bed, I don't sleep at all. And if I do, I have weird icky dreams and wake up feeling hungover.

Lying on the couch covered in blankets that smelled a bit like cat, I was prepared to have an uncomfortable sleep. What I didn't expect was the epic nightmare I had about evil ghosts that were eating my soul. I'm not even exaggerating, this was some trippy existential shit. And it had one of those awful patterns where you wake up and think everything's okay but then it turns out you're still in the nightmare, so you wake up again but you're still there, so you wake up again...

Eventually I woke up for realsies and decided no amount of scary wasps would make me stay on that couch for another second. So I got up, checked that I still had my soul, (just in case), and went to my bedroom.

The wasp was still sitting on the light, its wings closed. It suddenly looked small and unimpressive. It was minding its own business. I let it be.

I left the door open and climbed into bed. I'll admit I had the covers up over my head until I got too hot and tired to care anymore.

In the morning the wasp was gone.

HELL YEAH IT WAS. Apparently I'm most intimidating when I'm unconscious.

Friday, January 27

Tiny Hibernation Post

No review today because I didn't finish a book this week. I think I've forgotten how to read.

But for your merry amusement (and to prove that I'm not dead) have a snoring dormouse:





I love the way his little hands move up and down, like he's knitting a dream-sweater!

(Regularly scheduled tomfoolery and skullduggery will resume on Monday.)

Wednesday, January 25

Keep Your Trenchcoat Closed

A writer's impulse to flash can be a dangerous (and occasionally illegal) thing.

Because once you're past that point of OMG OTHER PEOPLE SEEING MY WRITING IS LIKE FALLING INTO BOILING ACID FULL OF SHAME AND REGRET, well, it's rather pleasant to show your writing off. Especially when (not to name names) certain relatives and fellow amateur writers say nice things to you.

Things like:
I like this.

This is nice.

This is great.

This is excellent.

This is my favourite thing ever.

You should be worshiped as a goddess.

Of course, there are those negative (oh, excuse me, I meant constructive, helpful, and my personal favourite: just being honest) comments that send your ego screeching back into the boiling acid stage. But more often than not, I find if people don't like something they just wander off - someone who takes the time to comment is generally pleased with the thing.

And that praise, however lukewarm, tends to be a little addictive. For a sensitive (read: cripplingly insecure) soul like mine, there's something edifying about someone (often a stranger) telling you that what you're doing is worthwhile, that something you made had an effect on someone else.

And there are so many options for flashing now: between FictionPress and Jottify and Livejournal and Smashwords and blogs and facebook notes and haikus that fit into tweets. It's all about showing off, pimping, and the instant gratification of comments, likes and shares. And all the cool kids are doing it - tweeting lines from their books and even posting 'deleted novel scenes' to their blogs (which I really don't get - isn't that the literary equivalent of serving leftovers to dinner guests?)

While deep in this oversharing phase, I happened upon the first piece of advice in Dorothea Brande's Becoming A Writer: Don't whore out your amateur stuff, you idiot. It's counterproductive.

Okay, maybe I'm paraphrasing. But that's the gist, and it's been bothering me ever since.

I have the manuscript for my first novel, Sarai, complete and sitting on my laptop. I could format it tonight and have it up on Smashwords by tomorrow. And that is so bloody tempting - but I know it's not good enough yet. It's far from good enough. It's embarrassingly inadequate, actually.

But the truth is that I've posted writing - here and on my Jottify account - that I didn't like, that only marginally passed the not-embarrassingly-inadequate mark.

But I posted it anyway, because it was 'good enough for the internet.' I flashed it because I wanted a reaction, even if it was just a passing like by someone who simply hoped I would like their stuff back. But the hard truth is that unless someone is a professional writer or editor, their opinion, however glowing, will not make you into a better writer.

So I've made a resolution to keep my trenchcoat closed, and face those hard edits, ask those hard questions of myself and make my work stand up to my own (punishingly high) standards, rather than taking the easy road and flashing bits that I know aren't at their best yet.

Do you think writers these days - especially n00bs like me - suffer from chronic oversharing?  Share (or overshare) your thoughts in the comments!

Monday, January 23

Amazing Guest Post: Top Ten Torrid Moments In Period Film


In a recent post, Dasia listed my blog Yearning for Wonderland as one with which she’d most like to do a post-swap. 

I have never guest blogged. However, given that Dasia sometimes writes her posts by MASHING HER BOOBS ON THE KEYBOARD, I felt confident in writing this post as I, too, have boobs.

Also, as you can see from the previous paragraph, I have mastered her advanced blogging technique of ALLCAPS. This technique shows how EXTREMELY IMPORTANT THESE WORDS are. See, don’t they leap right off the screen?

These techniques (boob mashing and ALLCAPS) are but two of the reasons why Dasia is my blog/Twitter buddy/Siamese twin separated at birth. She is also brilliantly funny, not to mention the originator of the “Benedict Cumberbatch weequashing in crisp twilight” meme. I kid you not. 

Well, okay, I’m kidding about the separated Siamese twin thing…unless they found a way to separate us by *gasp* nine years. Time traveling Siamese twins! I think I’m onto…no, I’m just digressing.

As I pondered how to transcend my own whimsy for DHAB, I direct messaged Dasia on Twitter.


In typically Dasia fashion, she immediately popped back with:



A splendid solution - I could write a post on period films that would be too saucy for my own blog and yet likely bore Dasia’s jaggedly sophisticated readers to tiny tears of despair.

I started researching this post, if you call eating  a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos and numbing yourself with endless video clips of men in tight-buttoned pants (excuse me, BREECHES) as research.

For inspiration, I stared a lot at this photo:



Then I went to the kitchen and made some nachos. I decided I needed further inspiration, so I stared awhile at this photo:



This is how you can tell I am a real writer. I intersperse my writing and research with lots of eating (hard) and daydreaming (harder).  I watched endless clips of period pornography, involving lots of glove squeezing and longing glances. I suffered, gentle reader, so you need not. 

Saturday, January 21

Review: SHERLOCK SEASON TWO OMG!

Can we talk about Sherlock now OMG.

Here be spoilers, carry on if you dare! Or if you already know!

Or if you don't care.

By the way, this isn't so much a "review" as a very long, disconnected, slashful, ALLCAPS SQUEEFEST. Cool? Cool.

So I couldn't imagine anything that could upstage the first season, which was the best television I've seen in years (possibly ever). But OMG, the second season completely exceeded my expectations, which is shocking because I’m one picky weequasher. I tried to tell myself it would suck, because that way it's easier to not get disappointed if it DID suck. But in many ways the second season is even better than the first, and I just can't stop thinking about it.

CAN WE TALK ABOUT SCANDAL NOW OMG

I’ll admit they way they ended the cliffhanger pool scene annoyed me. I was expecting explosions and wet t-shirt contests and I didn’t get any of that. Despite that, I think Scandal In Belgravia was my favourite episode of the series. The 90 minutes flew by and it gave me so many warm and fuzzy feelings.

In fact, I might even use the trite term EX-FUCKING-HILARATING to describe this episode. It was so awesome.

Irene Adler was hot, though I don't find visible ribs sexy I think she had swag and hey, everybody likes lesbians. I also deeply respect her for pulling The Naked Man on Sherlock (pity it only works two out of three times!) 

Sherlock finally got those x-ray contact-lenses to work.

It does irk me that Adler was Sherlock’s intellectual equal except she was worse than him because she was a woman ("Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side" – smooth.) That was lame.

BUT WAIT, she's gay but straight-for-Sherlock, and my big heart-wrenching THING that I had to rip out of the subtext was that Sherlock was straight for her too.

Wednesday, January 18

A Fascinating Glimpse into the Psychology of Dasia Has A Blog!

{Edited To Add: If you're at this post to see Benedict Cumberbatch weequashing, kindly skip to question 19, and from there read until the end, and then stop. If you hit the comments, you've gone too far!}

I know it's Writing Wednesday, but the thing I was going to post today was super lame. And this post is about blogging, which is sort of like writing, EXCEPT WITH MORE ALLCAPS.

I've realised far too late that today is the SOPA and PIPA blackout day. While I totally support the fight against this, I can never be as hilarious and on point as The Oatmeal about it, so check out his page today and learn more about why American censorship would break the whole internet.

Meanwhile, I've had this in my drafts for like a month...

Community Meme from Sunday Stealing! I can never resist a meme! Found through The Geeky Shopaholic.

1. As a blogger, what do you draw inspirations from for your posts?
Generally when a rant in my head / to my sister starts forming itself into bullet points, it'll turn into a post. As a rough guide, anything that excites me or pisses me off will make for a good post!

2. If you could swap blogs with another blogger for a post, who would you switch with and why?
I'd love to post on Yearning For Wonderland once, because Anna's blog a) is really awesome and b) has a vastly different tone from mine. She's all whimsy! fairies! fancy hats! and I'm all CRASSJOKES and SNARKYREVIEWS and MASHBOOBSONKEYBOARD. Come to think of it, it'd be funnier to see what she comes up for my blog rather than what I'd do for hers!

3. If your blog had a theme song, what would it be? Why?
IT'S THE EYE OF THE TIGER IT'S THE THRILL OF THE FIGHT.
Excuse me for the text-karaoke, I can't resist allcaps when it comes to this song. Not only is it hilariously motivational on its own, please observe this very beautiful man doing a very silly lip-sync to it.

4. What is your writing process for a post?
I usually decide on the topic about a week before it's due. Then I draft it up and feel really productive. Then I forget about it and freak out on the day it's due and spend about two hours re-reading and previewing it until I finally post. Then I hyperventilate until someone comments on it. Healthy, huh?

5. Your blog requires a cute, new, mascot - what would it be?
Well I'd be hard-pressed to find something cuter than a momonga, which was my first mascot!

squeeeeeeeeee. (source)


6. Do you feel you express your "true self" on your blog?
In a way. I'm far more honest and - erm - expressive here than in real life.* But I'm also aware that people on the internet don't care about the stuff that real-life people have to care about. So when I'm a sadface I don't post about it, I JUST SQUEE THROUGH THE TEARS.

7. What is your biggest online pet-peeve?
Oh, so many. The biggest ones are probably when people on twitter beg for followers (OMG I'm nearly at 1000 followers I just need 998 more PLS RT!!!!!!) and when bloggers put cheesy, distraction animations up - snowflakes falling, bats flying around, etc - I saw one recently where a poorly-animated twitter bird actually flew around the screen and sat in front of the text. It irks me, I feel like there's bugs on my screen!

8. If you could live in a fictional universe, where would you live? Why?
I'd live in the Pokémon universe because there isn't any intense fight-for-the-world thing going on, but it's still pretty magical. Also, you don't need an education and nobody ever dies. I'd totally apply for Team Rocket, they were my favourite. Prepare for trouble! And make it double!** 

9. You're having a bad day, you're upset, you're angry, or you're sad - what is your go-to comfort?
Tin-roof ice-cream or emo rock - I know, I know, I'm a walking cliché! 

10. What is your favorite inspirational quote?
Oh, so many. I love quotes, don't make me pick my favourite! But here's one I dig, by Goethe:

Plunge boldly into the thick of life, and seize it where you will.

11. If they were to make a movie based on your life, who would play you, your leading lady/man, your best friend, and your rival?
I would be played by Merrit Wever (the amazing ball of awkwardness who plays Zoey on Nurse Jackie) and the movie would be me in a padded room with a laptop surrounded by gremlins who represent the voices in my head. It'd be deep.

12. Do you think the world is going to end in 2012?
Did you know that 150,000 people die every day?  So a lot of people's worlds are going to end in 2012, when you think about it. And that number's probably gonna go up once the zombies take over. 

13. If you could change anything about yourself, what would it be?
My self-worth or my thighs. I can't decide. My thighs think my self-worth would be the more mature answer.

14. What is your favorite season and why?
I love Autumn because the world cools down.

15. You've been bitten by a vampire. Would you fight it with all your undead being or would you embrace it for all it is worth?
I'd embrace it. I'd finally have an excuse to sleep in all day! And kill people all night!

16. Have you personally met any of your blogger friends?
Yes! I know Ali in real life. Though I knew her before Linguisticali Speaking was even a thing so I'm not sure if that counts. I bet it does though.

17. What does your favorite pair of underwear look like?
Your mom.

18. Have you ever drank something right from the container in the refrigerator knowing other people will have to drink out of the same container later?
 Yes, it's the first step in my plan for world domination.

19. What is your favorite word and explain why?
Oh no you didn't just ask a writer to choose a single favourite word. A short sentence is the best I can do:


Benedict Cumberbatch weequashing in crisp twilight.  ***

  • I might have mentioned that I like Benedict Cumberbatch, and his ridiculous name is one of the things I like the most about him.
  • Weequashing is a lost word I came across in The Phronistery, which is an awesome site. It means 'spearing of fish or eels by torchlight from canoes.'
  • Crisp is one of the best words ever.
  • I've always loved the word twilight and its abuse is just one of the many, many reasons I dislike Stephenie Meyer.

20. 2011 is soon coming to a close (told you I took forever to post this), is there anything you'd like to do different on your blog in the year 2012? 
Well I made the biggest change late last year by starting to post regularly and, um, putting more effort and thought into my posts. This year I want to read more about comedy and decide if I want this to be a comedy blog or an everything-blog.

If you guys are bored and you have a blog (what am I saying - everyone has a blog!) you should post this and link it back to me so I can read it!


*Although I'm quite inappropriate in real life as well - but because I don't have a week to edit the things I say in real life I come across as awkward and deranged rather than witty and ironic.
**It makes me sad that I had to google the exact phrasing of that quote. I'M SO OLD. 
***If  somebody would photoshop this scene, I'd love you forever.

EDITED TO ADD 

The Amazing Stasia has proved her amazingness once more...
Ladies and gentlemen, I now present to you...
The picture that made me laugh until I cried tears of squee...

 BENEDICT CUMBERBATCH WEEQUASHING IN CRISP TWILIGHT!!!

:D :D :D

View the larger, fancier version of this epic piece of art at my facebook page - and while you're there, click like! 

Awesome reader Lair Sapir also made a version, in which the good canoe itself announces Benedict's mission! Those eels better watch out!


MOAR WEEQUASHING


So yeah....
I LOVE YOU GUYS.