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.

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!

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:

 The Adventures Of Calamity Jane

A life in juxtaposition

Anonymous Legacy

Cake Wrecks 

The Daily Dose

Dead White Guys 

Deeper Inside Of Me

Defiantly Literate 

Forget What Did

The Geeky Shopaholic
Hyperbole and a Half 

Jazzabelle's Diary 

Laird Sapir

Let Them Eat Vinyl 

Lillie McFerrin Writes

Linguisticali Speaking

Little Swallow : China Doll 

Mental Skillness

100 Reasons NOT to Go to Graduate School 
Saracasm 

Sleep Talkin' Man

Surly Muse

ToughxCookies 

Write Me Happy

Yearning For Wonderland

^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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

What Type of Writer Should You Be?

Blogthings: Free Quizzes for Everyone

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?