And you know what? I think I could survive.
For about five minutes.
It all depends on how I react when I see the zombie horde lurching up the road towards me. You see, I have a really strong aversion to dead things. I can't even sweep up dead bugs because they freak me out too much. This means that in the event of a zombie apocalypse, I would do one of four things:
1. Freeze, hyperventilate and pass out. Survival time: 0s.
2. Panic, gibber and wet myself. Survival time: 5s (because my panicked flailing would buy me some time).
3. Freak out and run very fast in the opposite direction. Survival time: Depends on how long it takes until my smoker's lungs give out/my clumsy ass falls over/I run into the zombie horde coming the other way.
4. Freak out, grab the nearest heavy blunt object and start swinging. Survival time: Until the mass of zombified bodies becomes too much to battle and I pass out from exhaustion.
Of course, if I was a little bit fitter I would last a bit longer, because it can't be difficult to outrun a bunch of dead, shuffling, groaning things, right? But those buggers are determined. Even Usain Bolt couldn't keep outrunning them forever. So I'd need to find somewhere to fight them, something to fight them with, and someone to help me fight them.
After giving it some thought, I have decided that I would like to be on the top of a very tall office building. Think narrow stairwells, where you can pick them off one by one as they reach the top. Think a wide, flat roof that allows plenty of room to manoeuvre in the event of them breaching your defences. Think of the hilarity value of shoving them down open lift shafts, long staircases or off the edge of the roof. Hehe, zombie go splat. And if he takes out other zombies with the force of the impact, so much the better.
As for weapons, well, any kind of firearm would be useless after a while. Okay, so you've got the advantage of picking them off from a distance, but you're going to run out ammo eventually and all you're left with is a sort of glorified stick. Plus there's always the option that they could get you when you take the time to reload. Personally, I'd prefer something heavy and/or sharp. A sledgehammer, an axe and a machete would be great. If I can only pick one, I'd probably choose the machete.
And now for companions. I would choose the WWE wrestlers. Because I woould feel a lot better about my chances of survival if I had a wall of highly muscled men to hide behind. There's always the chance that the ones I don't like will get killed. There's a lot of eye-candy on the roster, which is always a good thing. Let's face it, you're battling for survival and are probably going to die. Would you rather be stuck with the spotty oik from down the street, or John Morrison, stripped to the waist, face smeared with gore and grime, glistening with sweat and muscles rippling as he wields his massive tool... erm... -coughs- My point is, better for the last thing you see to be something pretty. And, admit it, how cool would it be to see Shawn Michaels Sweet-Chin-Music-ing their heads off?
It would be a pretty sweet way to go, in my opinion. All we need now is a kick-ass soundtrack. My personal choice would be 'Bodies' by Drowning Pool.
"Let the bodies hit the FLOOOOOOOR!"
-splat-.
Awesome.
Tuesday, 26 August 2008
Monday, 18 August 2008
Thoughts on a New Home, a Baby who Will Not Sleep, and Men
When I woke up this morning - and for once, I actually woke up in the morning - I was happy. I had just spent the first night in our new flat with my boyfriend, Dave, and our ten-month-old daughter, Jorja. It had taken us a while to get here, due to some highly tragic personal circumstances, but here we finally were. We were a proper family. We were together at last. All that we needed to do now was to unpack (which can wait, because I’m shattered after spending the last two weeks packing up all my personal belongings, whilst juggling looking after Jorja and my need to sleep) and start enjoying life together.
Well, I did actually make it out of the house today. We went shopping for kitchen items at Woolworths and shopping for food at Morrisons. I managed a brief conversation with our next-door-neighbour, who’s only a week from giving birth to her second child (Dave was amazed that I’d managed to find out so much information on her from such a brief conversation. It’s a female thing, dear). And I managed to sleep a lot, as I think two weeks of running on two-hour naps here and there whenever I could take them had caught up with me. Fantastic!
Of course, things weren’t all rosy. When we arrived at the flat, we discovered that there is no lead for the aerial, so we couldn’t watch TV. GASP! No TV! Whatever are we going to do? I like to have some background noise at all times, and I couldn’t turn on my iPod because Dave doesn’t approve of my taste in music (mostly punk and metal, if you were wondering). So that was a bit boring. And, while we were out, I forgot to buy some washing up liquid and dishcloths. Whoops, looks like the washing up will have to wait until I go out later today (as I’m writing this at 5:30 in the morning). The chaos in the living room is making me crazy, but I just can’t bring myself to do the right thing and start unpacking. I mean, it’s a big job, I should wait until I’ve built up my strength, right?
But still, they were only minor blips. Besides, SummerSlam, the WWE’s second-biggest pay-per-view of the year was going to be on and I was particularly looking forward to seeing Edge versus The Undertaker in a Hell In A Cell match. Yes, I am a twenty-five year old woman who still watches - and enjoys - pro wrestling, what of it?
Dave went to bed at around half past eleven. Jorja went to sleep not long after. 1am rolled around, and I settled down with a cup of coffee and a bag of Doritos, ready to enjoy myself watching The Biggest Blockbuster Of The Summer via the magic of the interweb.
It was a good show. At least, I -think- it was a good show. I can’t really be sure as I kept getting interrupted by Dave, who was complaining that Jorja, who woke up at about half past one wanting to play and feed and generally do baby things, was making too much noise and kept waking him up. See, ever since she had a tummy bug a couple of months ago, her internal clock has gone a bit haywire and it’s not unusual for her to be up until 3, 4, 5 or even 6 in the morning. Attempts to get her back on a more sociable sleeping pattern have so far proved futile.
Anyway, Dave is not a happy bunny, as he has to get up for work at half past six. And he believes that my being up and still on the internet at four in the morning is directly responsible for Jorja being awake and therefore the reason for him not getting any sleep. Don’t you just love the way a man’s mind works? Never mind the fact that, at the weekends, he has seen me tumbling into bed at 5am, he has seen the fights I’ve had with Jorja when I’ve tried to put her to bed any earlier than she wants to go - and has done a bloody good job of laying there pretending to be asleep, I might add. He‘s always gone to bed before me at weekends, he has no idea how hard it can be to keep a baby quiet and happy especially when they don’t want to be. So what could I do? Really?
Was he expecting her to magically fall asleep at a reasonable hour, just because we are now living together and he has to be up for work in the morning? She’s a baby. She’s also teething. She doesn’t know how to be quiet, and I’d rather have her babbling than screaming, it’s easier to sleep through babbling, I’ve found. All right, I should have noticed that she had grabbed hold of my keys and was banging them on the floor (I had my earphones in at the time, my bad), but did he honestly think I’d done nothing to try and quiet her? I’d fed her, changed her, rocked her, cuddled her - she didn’t like that, she wanted to be on the floor, so I put her on the floor. She can and has slept through anything, including a rather violent thunderstorm, so me tapping away on the computer wouldn’t affect her at all. And I’m sorry, but to be told that it’s my fault when I really have no control over my baby’s desire to sleep or the volume of her voice is really rather angering.
He’ll be getting up in half an hour to an hour. I have a feeling he’s going to shout at me. But I’m sorry, his argument that I was still up meant that she would still be up is completely wrong, as all last week I had her in bed no later than 12am, sometimes as early as 9.30pm - and she was still awake a couple of hours later, and she still didn’t go down for her full sleep until the break of dawn.
This week I will be attempting to get her back onto a normal sleeping pattern. I foresee lots of tantrums, especially when I wake her in two hours for breakfast. It means going without sleep myself , yet again, but it’ll be worth it if I succeed- and, if I’m completely honest, I feel a sort of vindictive pleasure at the fact he’s had such a bad night, because now he knows how I’ve had it over the last ten months.
Men, eh? Why do we bother?
Well, I did actually make it out of the house today. We went shopping for kitchen items at Woolworths and shopping for food at Morrisons. I managed a brief conversation with our next-door-neighbour, who’s only a week from giving birth to her second child (Dave was amazed that I’d managed to find out so much information on her from such a brief conversation. It’s a female thing, dear). And I managed to sleep a lot, as I think two weeks of running on two-hour naps here and there whenever I could take them had caught up with me. Fantastic!
Of course, things weren’t all rosy. When we arrived at the flat, we discovered that there is no lead for the aerial, so we couldn’t watch TV. GASP! No TV! Whatever are we going to do? I like to have some background noise at all times, and I couldn’t turn on my iPod because Dave doesn’t approve of my taste in music (mostly punk and metal, if you were wondering). So that was a bit boring. And, while we were out, I forgot to buy some washing up liquid and dishcloths. Whoops, looks like the washing up will have to wait until I go out later today (as I’m writing this at 5:30 in the morning). The chaos in the living room is making me crazy, but I just can’t bring myself to do the right thing and start unpacking. I mean, it’s a big job, I should wait until I’ve built up my strength, right?
But still, they were only minor blips. Besides, SummerSlam, the WWE’s second-biggest pay-per-view of the year was going to be on and I was particularly looking forward to seeing Edge versus The Undertaker in a Hell In A Cell match. Yes, I am a twenty-five year old woman who still watches - and enjoys - pro wrestling, what of it?
Dave went to bed at around half past eleven. Jorja went to sleep not long after. 1am rolled around, and I settled down with a cup of coffee and a bag of Doritos, ready to enjoy myself watching The Biggest Blockbuster Of The Summer via the magic of the interweb.
It was a good show. At least, I -think- it was a good show. I can’t really be sure as I kept getting interrupted by Dave, who was complaining that Jorja, who woke up at about half past one wanting to play and feed and generally do baby things, was making too much noise and kept waking him up. See, ever since she had a tummy bug a couple of months ago, her internal clock has gone a bit haywire and it’s not unusual for her to be up until 3, 4, 5 or even 6 in the morning. Attempts to get her back on a more sociable sleeping pattern have so far proved futile.
Anyway, Dave is not a happy bunny, as he has to get up for work at half past six. And he believes that my being up and still on the internet at four in the morning is directly responsible for Jorja being awake and therefore the reason for him not getting any sleep. Don’t you just love the way a man’s mind works? Never mind the fact that, at the weekends, he has seen me tumbling into bed at 5am, he has seen the fights I’ve had with Jorja when I’ve tried to put her to bed any earlier than she wants to go - and has done a bloody good job of laying there pretending to be asleep, I might add. He‘s always gone to bed before me at weekends, he has no idea how hard it can be to keep a baby quiet and happy especially when they don’t want to be. So what could I do? Really?
Was he expecting her to magically fall asleep at a reasonable hour, just because we are now living together and he has to be up for work in the morning? She’s a baby. She’s also teething. She doesn’t know how to be quiet, and I’d rather have her babbling than screaming, it’s easier to sleep through babbling, I’ve found. All right, I should have noticed that she had grabbed hold of my keys and was banging them on the floor (I had my earphones in at the time, my bad), but did he honestly think I’d done nothing to try and quiet her? I’d fed her, changed her, rocked her, cuddled her - she didn’t like that, she wanted to be on the floor, so I put her on the floor. She can and has slept through anything, including a rather violent thunderstorm, so me tapping away on the computer wouldn’t affect her at all. And I’m sorry, but to be told that it’s my fault when I really have no control over my baby’s desire to sleep or the volume of her voice is really rather angering.
He’ll be getting up in half an hour to an hour. I have a feeling he’s going to shout at me. But I’m sorry, his argument that I was still up meant that she would still be up is completely wrong, as all last week I had her in bed no later than 12am, sometimes as early as 9.30pm - and she was still awake a couple of hours later, and she still didn’t go down for her full sleep until the break of dawn.
This week I will be attempting to get her back onto a normal sleeping pattern. I foresee lots of tantrums, especially when I wake her in two hours for breakfast. It means going without sleep myself , yet again, but it’ll be worth it if I succeed- and, if I’m completely honest, I feel a sort of vindictive pleasure at the fact he’s had such a bad night, because now he knows how I’ve had it over the last ten months.
Men, eh? Why do we bother?
Thursday, 14 August 2008
Moving is hell.
On Saturday, I am moving home. I am leaving the beautiful town of Bournemouth in the most beautiful county in the land, Dorset, and moving to Sidcup in Kent. I am leaving the lovely three-bedroom house that has been the family home for twenty-three years and moving to a two-bedroom flat that doesn't even have a balcony, let alone a garden. And I cannot wait.
There's only one problem with that, though - packing. Sorting through forty-three years worth of stuff (and my parents thought I was a hoarder!) and chucking out anything that I wasn't going to be able to fit in the flat and the little garage that comes with it. I've come across some wonderful things - pictures of my grandparents I've never seen before, a whole slew of birth, marriage and death certificates, my mother's eternity ring and even a family tree stretching back to 1836. And I've come across a whole lot of rubbish, too. A medium-sized skip's worth of rubbish, in fact. And there's still a lot to sort out. And I'm fed up with the whole bloody lot of it.
The house I am moving out of is a council-owned property, and when I handed in my notice they said that I had to leave the place completely empty. Now, that would be fine and dandy if I had a car, but I don't, so I can't get down to the tip in order to chuck away the white goods (the tumble dryer packed up a month ago and the washing machine decided to die today). Hell, I'm not even prepared to touch the frightening wiring that my dad did in order to disconnect the stuff.
There's also the fact that I am on my own with a nine and a half month old baby to take care of. The boyfriend works in London during the week, and all of my friends have full-time jobs. My baby brother buggered off two weeks ago and hasn't any way of getting over here in the evenings to help. I've had roughly seven hours of sleep in the last three days (and that was only because I passed out at around 7 this morning and didn't wake up until 2). I am exhausted, and have come to the decision that I'm going to ignore what the lady told me and I'm going to leave whatever I'm not taking behind.
I'm sorry, but it's pretty ridiculous to tell a single mother with no transport of her own that she has to leave nothing behind, especially, when asked what help they could provide, the answer was "none". I'm even supposed to take the carpets and curtains. Why should I? I have carpets and curtains at the new place! I have white goods at the new place. Why should I break my neck and stress myself out trying to get rid of it all? Sod that! I refuse. The council have done bugger all to help me since my dad died, so I'm not going to help them. Let them do some bloody work for once.
The removal chaps arrive at 9am on Saturday. Anything that's not boxed up or furniture is getting left behind. I still have an awful lot to do, I still have all my daughter's things to pack up for a start, but I'm getting there. I'm starting to see a light at the end of the tunnel.
Trouble is, I'm pretty sure it's a flamethrower...
There's only one problem with that, though - packing. Sorting through forty-three years worth of stuff (and my parents thought I was a hoarder!) and chucking out anything that I wasn't going to be able to fit in the flat and the little garage that comes with it. I've come across some wonderful things - pictures of my grandparents I've never seen before, a whole slew of birth, marriage and death certificates, my mother's eternity ring and even a family tree stretching back to 1836. And I've come across a whole lot of rubbish, too. A medium-sized skip's worth of rubbish, in fact. And there's still a lot to sort out. And I'm fed up with the whole bloody lot of it.
The house I am moving out of is a council-owned property, and when I handed in my notice they said that I had to leave the place completely empty. Now, that would be fine and dandy if I had a car, but I don't, so I can't get down to the tip in order to chuck away the white goods (the tumble dryer packed up a month ago and the washing machine decided to die today). Hell, I'm not even prepared to touch the frightening wiring that my dad did in order to disconnect the stuff.
There's also the fact that I am on my own with a nine and a half month old baby to take care of. The boyfriend works in London during the week, and all of my friends have full-time jobs. My baby brother buggered off two weeks ago and hasn't any way of getting over here in the evenings to help. I've had roughly seven hours of sleep in the last three days (and that was only because I passed out at around 7 this morning and didn't wake up until 2). I am exhausted, and have come to the decision that I'm going to ignore what the lady told me and I'm going to leave whatever I'm not taking behind.
I'm sorry, but it's pretty ridiculous to tell a single mother with no transport of her own that she has to leave nothing behind, especially, when asked what help they could provide, the answer was "none". I'm even supposed to take the carpets and curtains. Why should I? I have carpets and curtains at the new place! I have white goods at the new place. Why should I break my neck and stress myself out trying to get rid of it all? Sod that! I refuse. The council have done bugger all to help me since my dad died, so I'm not going to help them. Let them do some bloody work for once.
The removal chaps arrive at 9am on Saturday. Anything that's not boxed up or furniture is getting left behind. I still have an awful lot to do, I still have all my daughter's things to pack up for a start, but I'm getting there. I'm starting to see a light at the end of the tunnel.
Trouble is, I'm pretty sure it's a flamethrower...
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