As I wrote in my Twitter feed (what, you’re not following? The wit, the pearls, the absolute gems, I tell you), it was recycling day today, which meant I had to run the gauntlet of two garbage trucks with their grabby robot arms (which would be nervous making enough if I’d not grown up watching Doctor Who) snatching at bins as I duck and weave in the blackness on my way to the bus stop.
Ah, and they are indeed the bins of social shame. Not just for the ‘who put that in there’ kind of thing that’ll get you’re a fine from the council, usually because some neighbourhood miscreant has done a midnight fling of old nappies into your carefully washed and folded recycling, but the audible evidence of personal vices. Or, to put it bluntly, one can get an estimate of the average alcohol consumption of each household by the din caused by the smash and crash of many empties being flung into the trucks.
I mean, I thought the house next to the bus stop had an eyebrow raising number of empties in the mix, but the house on the corner is either running a speakeasy out of their lounge room or someone needs to ask if they’re ok, because, seriously, dudes. That was quite the protracted smash and crash. It just went on and on and on. One can at least ope there were a few Chinese takeaway containers in the mix.
Yes, I’m being judgemental and mean, still, and I can’t seem to help it. I mean, I read about personality changes being a symptom, but man, this is weird. Weirder still is that I know this is going to win me a lot of friends, not, and I’m finding it hard to care. Ah well I was always far too sensitive and emotional.
Okay, that was so weird. Just spent four days away, or struggling to be me, or suffering what the Victorians call a brain fever. Probably just the concussion giving me another whack. One minute I was at work and getting it done, the next writhing on the bed shaking and suffering such fever dreams that even the makers of Legion would have dismissed as too far out there.
Then I had a couple of days of still being woogy and needing to have post-it notes everywhere like Dean in that episode of Supernatural where he got hexed (I know, not narrowing it down). I really felt for the poor boy, though killing the witch that hexed me wasn’t really an option for me.
Or maybe it was. Some real mean girl posts (don’t know why but these episodes make me really mean and cranky) some mad as fuck dreams and a couple of thunderstorms and I’m a bit better. At least in a sitting up at my desk remembering my passwords kinda way.
Bit better than yesterday, when following the slender plots of 70s and 80s cop shows was a struggle. No, I’m not telling you which shows but I found them on a channel up the back of the dial, as it were, and as I wasn’t up for reading and the worksite next door ruled out sleeping and I was feeling all unhappy I thought maybe a wallow in the past might help. Oddly, it did.
And at least I was home, with the telly on again, on Monday when I had two building sites going at it hammer and tongs, and trucks, and I got to see the Oscars fiasco, and that delighted my feverish wicked heart no end, just because, like a vogon, I didn’t see why anyone else should have a good time, and seeing skinny blonde girls humiliated never gets old (especially as it so rarely happens, they get everything they want in life, people love them).
I know, I shouldn’t be mean, but I was feeling awful and the schadenfreude of seeing that film, where the untalented and arrogant white guy never stops telling everyone how things should be, actually get kicked off the stage, there was beauty in that. Cruel, yes, but rather deserved in their insufferable smugness and presumption of destiny.
And as for the dude who messed up the envelopes, man, I wouldn’t want to be him, but watching the whole thing play out in the media, it treads a fine line between blood sport and there but for the grace of, you know? Usually I’d be way more sympathetic, but eh, shrug.
And still with the crazed fever dreams, but points for incorporating Le Déjeuner sur l'herbe into the mix, surely. I know, what the? My head is a perfect bubble and squeak of places I’ve been, things I’ve seen, not this week but years, even decades ago, all mixed up and set to simmer. I couldn’t even tell you which library I was dreaming I was in, as it was the National Library of Victoria, the State Library of NSW, the British Library and maybe even the Bodleian, all jumbled up Escher style. I was looking for a book that was straight of some of the lurid stuff I’ve been watching/reading and then I was trying to get to the park, and I kept getting messed about on the way. Needless to say, I never made it.