Manic Monday, er...Tuesday

I'm a bouncy-bouncy-manic little ball of meds sorting themselves out so gird thy loins.

On memes

Have you ever looked at your meme collection and realized that if anyone went through your photos when you die they’d a) know quite a lot about you, and that b) it’d be as worrying as it was hilarious?

On mental gymnastics

I had a 5am thought, as one does, about mental gymnastics as a descriptor. If you think about it, gymnastics is a rigorous discipline that requires flexibility, the core strength of a steel bar, spatial awareness and years upon years of constant work. A mental gymnast would be a philosopher, a mathematician, a scientist or a scholar, not a shuddering tosspot justifying bigotry and/or sexting the church secretary.

On music

It is impossible to listen to the Nutcracker suite and not be happy in at least one shadowy corner of your bitter soul[1]. I’m finally turning into my father; I mean I have been morphing into my mother for like 5 terrifying years now[2], so it was a bit surprising when I woke up about a week ago straight-up craving symphonic orchestration[3]. I retain a margin of cool by listening to happy, shouty music suggested by my buddy Pho. Sev, who is a minor deity of melodic metal and beautiful girls who sound like angels and then very abruptly like the fallen ones, has more than once hauled me away from the syrupy pop edge.

Anyway, back to the symphonic thing. I used to be a solid Yo-Yo Ma girl but something in me now craves reeds, brass and the kind of strings section where your chair appointment makes a difference to who you are as a person and might be cause for poisoning.

On friends

I’ve been talking to an old friend who is letting me read his thesis on SA serial killers and freaking wowie. I didn’t know you could discuss eating nipples[4] in an academic document; he also quoted Hannibal Lecter because he (the author) is a badass like that.

My academic paper experience has been unlike that, or at least so I assume. The husband’s is incomprehensible (something something super math), my dad’s (something something religion and the rain queen of Limpopo). I haven’t even tried The Beautiful Girl’s stuff on account of plants and viruses and as you can see by the previous bit, I’m not just excellent at pinpointed bits of smart.

I also briefly reconnected with a school friend who is the cool dude version to my extremely dorky high school self. Another chaplain’s kid but this one was, like rilly, pretty and willingly watched Seinfeld as a teenager...see? Cool. I’ve only recently been able to watch it and only because the husband enjoys it as much as he enjoys anything so it’s on par with puppies, ice-cream and Gibson guitars.

I get to speak to TBG this afternoon, so I’ve got that goin for me which is nice.

I’ll do a happy bubble post about why life doesn’t suck, next.

[1] Yep. Calling you out Krugaza. [2] I love her, this is a normal experience for everyone, the internet tells me so… [3] Why in the hell do you go to a live taping if you have so much as a tickle in your throat? Take a mint! Sip from your monogrammed flask but for the sake of hard chairs and even harder expectations don’t cough. Good lord, man. [4] It has the consistency of giblets...who knew!