I’m going to peel and salt Justin Bieber…

I’m going to be nice for a whole post. Stop laughing. I can do it. Alright, i probably can’t. So i’ll let the voices-outside-my-head do a post and i can go back to editing The Thing. (I’m two-thirds through the edit, for those following that thrilling saga.)

The last time the voices-outside-my-head did a post, it was New Year and i was going through my usual dislocated why-doesn’t-the-weather-match-the-Christmas-cards annual fugue, and the voices wished you joy in your life. I said you shouldn’t be fucktards. Both good bits of advice.

****

Life can be an awful experience. No doubt about it. Bad things happen to good people and to bad ones, with no regard to who deserves it. No use getting stressed over it. Stress releases cholesterol into your blood stream, and it’s a fatty gunk that coats your arteries, and eventually blocks them. Use the energy to do something about what’s stressing you, but don’t just sit there.

It’s part of the old fight-or-flight-or-bugger-them-with-a-cactus reflex. The idea is you’ll burn that fat wielding your Cactus of Justice, or running away. If all you do is sit on your arse and shout, the way I do a lot, you’ll end up with high blood pressure, because your cloggy arteries are too small for the blood flow and your heart is over-worked. Oops, you just stroked out. (I’m not sure the voices should have let me type this, it’s much more cranky than they intended.)

Now, i don’t have high blood pressure, or high cholesterol, (any more), because i stopped worrying and learned to take joy in the moment. It’s not a permanent state, but it’s enough of the time that even with the extra weight i’m carrying, and my perpetual raging at the machine (on here and on Twitter), I’m not risking my life because i care.

Joy is where you find it. Watching nature, walking, cooking, making things, doing that perfect spreadsheet and knowing you’re going to make it financially through another month. Okay, so i’m not sure anyone but me gets that last one, but i totally love that feeling of being in the moment – i can get it washing up.

The big thing about the moment? Your brain is ostensibly off. You’re completely focused on the task in hand, even if that’s as simple as admiring the feather on a bird’s wing or that algebra formula.

You might be using your brain, focusing on some job, and the work might be hard, but you know you’re on the way to a goal, so it’s fine. And everything switches off. All worry, all care, all of it. You keep going, doing good work.

You come to, some time later. And often the solutions to problems are right there, as your ostensibly switched-off brain nutted out the answers while you were cleaning the silver.

We repeat. The word ‘enjoy’ means ‘with joy’ – so enjoy your life. Have it with joy. What else are you going to do with it? If you don’t like it, for most of us in the Western world at least, there are other solutions, like changing it.

You thought i was going to say ‘then top yourself if you don’t like it here’? Honestly, I’m the Antichrist, not a jingoistic right wing Earth patriot. I can imagine us in the future, snapping at alien immigrants the way the nasty little one nation types do. “If you don’t like this planet, then get off it!”

****

That’s all, i can’t stand it. It goes against the grain, being nice. What with me being the Queen of Darkness and proxy Antichrist. New readers may be wondering how i got to be the Antichrist, and all i’m saying is that even the Antichrist turned out to respond to a good clout across the earhole with a walking stick, and is still in a coma. I have his passwords. Nuff said.

As for being the Queen of Darkness, that’s a much older story – when i used to be in a band, i was shouting about something i’d read about Christian fundamentalists, and said, “They’re so sure they’re on the side of Light. If that’s Light, then i’m the Queen of Darkness.” (Originally there was swearing, because it’s the only language muso’s understand.)

That was nearly 20 years ago, old news. The Antichrist gig is fairly new. But hey, i’m told i get to peel and salt the emos, and i can do what i like with Justin Bieber and Lady Gaga. At the moment, i’m edging towards using the Gleaming Instruments of Death, but maybe the Cactus of Justice would do the trick.

Oh come on, who doesn’t want to torture Justin Bieber to death? Just for the fringe, people! Just for the fringe!As for Lady Gaga, well seriously, does anyone neeed a reason? Her whole schtick of pseudo-vulnerability wrapped in emo pouting deserves divine retribution.

© http://stinginthetail.wordpress.com

The Dustbunnies Are Revolting…

It seems my life’s made up of waiting at the moment.

Waiting to see if:

1. I actually die of this flu, or survive another year in NSW, the State of Unhealthiness
2. the Hot Young Singer takes up the option to record my song, (which may, of course, never result in any real money, but it’s a nice thought)
3. The Reader will confirm my thoughts about the edits required on The Thing, (the book i’m writing).

I’m filling my time with good work, though my back’s not good, so am working above the knee. Below there, things are getting crunchy. I’m sure one day soon i will both clean the bath, and the kitchen floor. Before anyone gets irreparably stuck to either.

In the meantime, I’ve warned Mr Whatsit (whose back is so bad he tends to keep things above the hip), to keep a spatula handy to free himself, and me, i’m pretending i can’t see the mess below knee level, and wearing slippers a lot. I have actually started spring-cleaning (it’s that time of year here), and above the knee and up the walls, have dusted, wiped, and dusted again.

Let this be a lesson to you, when they say the chimney at the local power station removes visible smoke, i think it gets visible again when it arrives on surfaces. Or in your lungs. *cough*

Patience, my arse, I'm going to kill something...

Also still waiting, on any of the several ways i have of leaving New South Wales and returning to Queensland. (Not my native home, that’s Western Australia, but Queensland is where i used to live and where i want to go back to.) Sadly, the Invasion Tour of Queensland ’09 which was made ’10, is now looking early 2011. God al-effing-mighty.

When you’re stuck somewhere, and leaving is all the time imminent, it’s so hard to get involved in anything. You feel you can’t get involved in local groups, because you’re about to leave, so what’s the point? Before you know it, that spreads into your personal life too.

You stop trying to achieve goals because you have a new life, starting tomorrow, in a new place. What you do today doesn’t matter, because tomorrow, everything’s going to change.

Fortunately, one of the things i’ve learned is that in times of waiting, it’s possible to achieve a lot, if you just use the time. I had a partner once who was always late, and i learned not to waste my time, waiting for people, or things. This period in NSW has been a hiatus of sorts, but i’ve produced an incredible amount of writing work, and thanks to the local library (reading how-to-write books and most of their novels), and the net, have learned so much more about my craft.

Of course, no guarantees in my life, other than, there will be uncertainty. I might still be here this time next year, though i hope not, another winter here in the House of Doom (it has mould) is something i’d rather not face.

I have several options regarding getting back to Queensland, but  none of them are things i can influence. They’re all reliant on other people’s actions and there’s not a damn thing i can do. The only certainty is uncertainty.

So of course, i’m chafing to throw myself back into The Thing where i can hide in a world of my own creation. It’s been read once, edited/corrected, is being read again, about to undergo 2nd edit, then it goes out to two new readers. Letting other people read your work is terribly exciting and scary, but so far other people reading it (and me taking time out) has been so good for the text, i’m hopeful that the next stage will also be positive.

Then what? Well, omg, then i think i need an agent. I have lists of websites, notes of possibilities, and the vague idea of self-publication if necessary. I’m praying the moment i say, The Thing is done, one of the nice agents i follow has secretly been nursing a desire to publish it and snaps it up. Unfortunately, i’m pretty sure all my agent tweeple (i think i have two), don’t do sci fi fantasy.

As for The Thing itself, I have the story mapped out, at least in vague terms, as it continues through the next few books. The nature of the story lends itself to a computer game, i have some notions for merchandising, and i suppose i’ll need a real website, instead of this hosted one.

Gawd, i think i’ll go hide under the bed for a while.

*****

The dustbunnies forced me out, they’d formed an army and were knitting rope out of all the shed hair.

cute but dangerous - srsly, they may contain all kinds of heavy metals

So while i waited for the insecticide to work, I had a chat with First Reader about my thoughts on where the ending should be.

Basic plot was of the hero’s adventures from 15-20: during his last year of school, at a university, in the army (for three years), and then as a kind of diplomat. I was sure i’d tried to stuff too much in, and Book 1 should end at point where, during a drunken rampage, he joins army.

Reader agrees, phew, so am now able to start some work without needing Reader to be finished his second read. (i’ve done an initial edit after printing out the original.) He’s a published writer, so a useful resource. It’s important to me that readers give me more back than just whether they liked it or not.

So now I have cut book back to where hero joins army, which as book was too long, brings it to within about 15,000 words of where it should be. (Cut bits now form outline of Books 2 & 3.) It makes a lot more sense like this, i was trying to stuff way too much in.

So the plan now:

1. i rejig chapters
2. do chapter summaries and note chapter lengths (will expose where there’s too much stuffed into chapter, or a thread could be expanded)
3. with saved space, and 15k to play with, i will kick The Thing around, beat it with sticks, and then
4. send to the next round of readers. Along with First Reader, I have a girl reader and a boy reader for round 2, both scifi fantasy fans.
5. pray the mould in the house abates and my nose stops running

With spring having sprung here, am hopeful we will at last break the flu cycle – doctors round here say this year, a lot of people who usually have flu shots all ended up with flu so early in the season, they were never able to get well enough to get the shot.

This year, I’m going to have mine right after bloody Christmas.

*****

Oh – and after we’d been waiting for six months (you may remember we rescued a boat from the lake and were told we had salvage rights), the police finally decided to contact someone about the boat, (after Mr’s 4th phonecall).

Once we were pirates....

I’d tried to find a stolen boat register, but only came up with a site that offered to check a list for me for a sizeable fee. We were trying to return the thing to its rightful owner, why should we pay?

Turns out there was a report of a stolen boat. Which anyone in authority could have looked at six months ago. Before the boat killed the lawn.  Still, it’s nice the owner’s finally getting it back.

Us? We didn’t even get a thank you.

© http://stinginthetail.wordpress.com

I’ll just be a minute….

Picture this…

You’re disabled, badly. In Queensland you qualify for a disabled parking sticker,  but in New South Wales you’re told, as that useless leg is still attached, you won’t get it. If you were enormously fat, says the doctor, acknowledging how bloody unfair it is, no problem. It’s a pity, he adds, that you’re such a fit cripple, and haven’t let yourself go, or eaten yourself into diabetes.

Women with children get close parking. You don’t. Okay, so you cope. You walk despite being crippled. You pull up outside the chemist, on your way in for your heavy duty painkillers and nerve blockers. Someone parks beside you, so close you can’t get out. Even an able  bodied person couldn’t slide out. You wind your window down.

Mate, you say, you’re too close, you’re blocking me in the car. I won’t be a minute, says the man, dashing past you. So naturally, you back out, re-park a few spaces away, and get out. You limp back to the car that was blocking you in. With your good leg, you kick the door in. Then you limp away.

****

You’re about to use the self-serve checkout at the supermarket. It’s evening, when you shop because there are less crowds, as it’s easier for you to deal with a trolley, something you find very hard with your bad leg. You can also get parking close by, which as you don’t qualify for a disability sticker, makes a huge difference.

A woman and her partner are blocking three self-serve checkouts. One with their two trolleys of soft drink, frozen food, and chips, then the one they’re using, and another with their giant pram.

Excuse me, you say politely, would you mind moving the pram so i can use the checkout? We’ll just be a minute, says the woman.  Five minutes later, they’re still feeding different cards into the reader, trying to find one that’s not maxed out. Your pain levels are rising, you don’t do standing well.

Rather than offering to kill them if they don’t get out of the bloody way making a scene, you go to the one manned checkout and queue for a while. You see the couple at the self service checkouts are now getting the staff to remove items from their bill, then going through the rigmarole of feeding through their twenty cards again. You notice there’s no baby food in their two overflowing trolleys. No nappies either. (Diapers.)

As you leave, fifteen minutes later, they’re still there, still looking for a card that works, apparently too stupid to walk twenty metres (about that in yards) to the nearest cash machine, and find out which, if any, of the cards has any money on it at all. You’re poor, you have sympathy for those in the same boat, but there are limits. You hope they choke on their bloody chips.

****

Up in Queensland, when you did have a disabled permit, you’re pulling into the bank parking area, when someone in a large 4WD cuts you up, and parks across two disabled parking spaces. Oi, you say. I won’t be a minute, says the man, hurrying to get into the bank.

So you stop right there, get out of your car, and even with your leg brace on,  something in your eyes warns the man,  he doesn’t pass you, and runs back to his car, which he moves into a non-disabled space.

****

You’re walking with a severely disabled friend. She’s had a stroke, only one side of her body moves. She can move at a shuffle thanks to her braces and cane. People keep barging into her, to the point where you are hyper-alert, watching ahead, behind, and to each side, ready to say oi!

There’s plenty of space around you, no need for people to come so close, but they don’t look, intent on their own lives, and insist on pushing past, in so much of a hurry that a two-step detour is impossible. You’re not in some central city area, this is at a quiet suburban shopping centre. It isn’t some once-off freakery, it happens every time she goes out.

****

You’re at the shops with your disabled friend. He’s walking with a stick, slowly. It’s Christmas time, heavy crowds.  Even so, as the woman nearly knocks him flying, and hits him (on his bad knee, which stands out, it being held together with a large metal leg brace) with her shopping, several people around see, and join in with your “Oi! Look out!”

The woman looks back,  and you shout angrily (over the noise of xmas carols) that she nearly knocked him over. She humphs, and says she’s in a hurry, like that’s a good enough reason to knock over a disabled person – or anyone.

The other people giving sympathy and offering help are very much appreciated, and make you both feel better, but you feel like chasing the woman down and cracking her on the knee with a shopping bag full of electrical appliances, just to see how she likes it.

****

You’re having a bad day. Along with the leg brace, you’re using your walking stick. You see some people walking towards you. They are spread out over the 4 metres of open space (12+ feet) that’s the walkway next to the shops, completely blocking it to anyone else. You stop, next to a shop window, close to it, waiting for the people to both see you, and move to one side.

They keep walking, looking everywhere but dead ahead, until one of them actually barges straight into you. It doesn’t knock you over, you were ready for it. They get stroppy with you and complain that you’ve hurt them when they bounced off your titanium leg brace. (Stroppy is angry.)

You point out they had plenty of space to walk through, they could see you clearly, you weren’t hiding, and point to your leg brace and stick. Some of us, you say, can’t get out of the way easily.  I’ve been standing here since you were over there, you say, and point some fifteen metres away (45+ feet) They seem surprised, both at where you appeared from (you being such a sprightly and fast-moving person), and that you didn’t get out their way if you saw them.

****

You’re waiting for a taxi you phoned for. You’re outside the shops, leaning on your walker. You have many problems, including being unable to walk unaided. The taxi driver pulls up behind you, and starts calling to you.

He gets out of his car and comes up, shouting and yelling. “What are you, deaf?” You hear him, finally. There are people all standing staring. “Yes,” you say, mortified, fighting back tears, “yes, I am. My hearing aid broke this morning.” The taxi driver looks embarrassed, mumbles something that might be an apology, and helps you into the car, folding your walker to go in the boot.

You want to tell him to sod off, but instead you decide getting home is more important. Your small revenge will be not tipping, and complaining to the taxi company. When you get home, with the door shut, then you let yourself cry.

****

What is it with humans? Can’t you put yourself in the other person’s shoes? Or in their orthotic brace? Have a bloody care – when something happens to you, and you’re not able to move as fast, or as surely, is that the only time you realise, gee, it’s a bit rough trying to get around with the other humans who think their needs take precedence over everyone else’s?

Can you imagine how fucking frustrating it is, when your body doesn’t do things as quickly or as well as you want it to?

I suppose not. However, you might want to remember, not all of us are crippled so badly that we can’t push you back when you shove us. Some of us studied martial arts, and can do things to you with our walking sticks you won’t believe.

So don’t mind me, and don’t be surprised when your car door gets dented if you park so i can’t get out of my car, and then expect me to wait while you go off and do your shopping.

This militant cripple has had enough.

NB - i don’t look crippled. Like most disabled people, i do my damnedest to hide how hard it is for me to look normal.
The above examples are all ones i witnessed or were related to me by the disabled people involved.

© http://stinginthetail.wordpress.com

10 Reasons Not to Follow Me on Twitter

You see a lot of people begging you to follow them on Twitter, so they can get a bigger Follower list. You shouldn’t follow me. Not at all. I can hardly keep up with the Followers i have. I probably won’t follow you back, so don’t do it.

In fact, i bet i can think of ten more reasons why you shouldn’t follow me.

1. I’m not always on a lot every day, but i make up for absences with  a high typing speed. If you’re not following many people, you’ll get a wall of me. “Many” in this case means less than about three hundred very chatty people.

2. I’ll follow you back, then decide oops, you’re not for me after all, and unfollow. Unless you happen to try to Direct Message me (to send a DM, the other person has to be following you back) or use a program like Twitter Karma to show you who’s unfollowed you, you’ll never notice.

3. Sometimes i divest myself of followers in drug-induced frenzies housekeeping binges, by Blocking then Unblocking. This makes them unfollow me too, which i figure is fairer than just unfollowing, as i don’t really want you to follow me on Twitter. Once i did it to about 500 people, so don’t feel special don’t get paranoid.

4. I talk about my writing. A lot. Everyone on my twitter list gets to know the #amwriting hashtag, because i tweet to it usually a couple of times a day. (It’s a writers’ group on Twitter founded by @johannaharness, who’s a very nice person to follow, to find out more, click on link – opens in new window.)

5. I rant. Pretty much all the time. I shout about religion, feminism, humanism, politics, bigotry, getting older, um…  sorry ,what was i saying? Politically, I’m an anarchist monarchist, which means lots of shouting. I get to be queen, and you can do what you like. Unless i’m right there, and bossing you round, but i can’t do that to many people at a time. Not without a sound system.

6. I don’t get jokes, or sarcasm. Call it being blonde, autistic, whatever. Sometimes i do, but i fluff it reasonably often.

7. I’m vain and want you to pay attention to me. At the same time, just when you’re sure i’m the shallowest person on the planet, i’ll disconcertingly pay microscopic attention to you. Usually when you’re being light and flippant.  (See also .6)

8. I am evil, and regular readers will know i’m the ad hoc Antichrist. I have to fill in, seeing the real Antichrist met with an unfortunate accident and is in a coma. *Hides cosh behind back.* It’s nearly time for the Rapture. (see below)

9. Did i mention my book? I call it The Thing, but that’s because it’s a shorter title than than the real one. and i need a short version so i can earbash you about it on Twitter. (Twitter only allows 140 characters.) Not about buying it, that joy is still to come. You get to ride the creative process. Or me wasting time on Twitter when I should be writing. This is actually The Thing Mark II.

10. I’ve already forgotten why i’m doing this. (See 1.) (NOTE: that doesn’t make sense, because 1. was edited, and no longer includes the bit about how dizzy i am… *sighs*)

Despite the above advice, if you want to see what i’m shouting about now, to follow me on Twitter, (remembering that when the Rapture comes, you’ll be one of the ones that God’s Giant Faulty Vacuum Cleaner leaves behind), or perhaps if you’d like to block me in a pre-emptive act of self-defence to save your immortal soul…

it’s ~ @stinginthetail ~

© http://stinginthetail.wordpress.com/

I am shutting my eyes now…

This is going to be a ten minute rant. Well, less depending how many words we get to. My blog is most shamefully neglected *brushes away cobwebs* but that’s a good thing, because I’m in the middle of edits after the first outside read of The Thing. (For those who haven’t been paying attention, The Thing is my now-complete sci fi fantasy novel.)

So, the rant. Lordy, so much to bitch about, and so little time. I think I will focus on one thing. Tights are not pants. If the foot is in, you wear it with something covering the crotch. I do not want to see your genitals outlined in all their glory. Tights in this instance means what we Aussies call stockings and the UK call tights – anything one piece with the feet in, in various weights from sheer to knitted.

I am great believer in ‘every twat is beautiful’ but it doesn’t mean i want to see yours. I even saw a woman this week wearing a pair of the black tights with the white breathable crotch area. People were stopping to stare, and laugh. The woman wiggled along, no doubt thinking they were all looking at her cos she was hawt. Nobody looks hot wearing tights as pants – well, they might look lewd, but if you want to do porno, there are places for that, and it’s not where children or unconsenting adults can see you.

Then there were the group of young girls, who were wearing tights with the waist rolled down to nearly their pubic bones, a shirt tucked in, inside their g-strings underneath, and the g-string pulled up to show waist whale-tail. Ridiculous didn’t quite cover it. Again, people were stopping to laugh, and there were a number of men noting that you could actually see the colour of their undies AND every detail of their vulvas. Look at that chick, she’s got an outie!

Keep your vaginal lips to yourself, sugarpops – if i want to see them, i’ll go look at your page on one of those adult sites where all the men post their penises and the women, in increasing numbers, reduce themselves to a collection of flanges and pink bits. It’s like budgie-smugglers – those tight and tiny lycra swimming togs for blokes that show you whether he’s circumcised or not. So, where was i, penises and labia, um…. i think that’s covered the tights are not pants thing, and it’s been ten minutes.

I even edited out a side rant about Tony Abbott (our leader of the opposition) wearing budgie smugglers and making me want to wash my eyes with bleach. Having said that, if you’re on the beach, and a mad swimmer, or a lifesaver, then sure, I’m told they’re good to swim in.

Tights, however, are NEVER good to wear anywhere by themselves, except possibly in the bedroom when you tell your Mr to tear his way in. What, you’ve never done that? The ripping of the nylon is rather spiffy.

Pfft – you’ve had an extra four minutes. Time for me to go. My work here is done, and The Thing needs another hetero sex scene. Yeah, i put in a bunch of homo ones, and somehow edited all the hetero ones out. As Mr Whatsit said, i could have cornered the gay sci fi fantasy market.

• On twitter, those who rant about tights not being pants do it under the hashtag #tightsarenotpants
• If instead of laughing at that, you’d rather follow me – do so at – @stinginthetail
• I was first awakened to the glory that is tightsarenotpants by @franksting – who is one of the best ranters in 140 characters on the planet, and a lovely bloke to follow.
• @agent_x – who is likewise an excellent follow, showed me this – there are many of us, and we have press packs! http://www.tightsarenotpants.com/
  

© http://stinginthetail.wordpress.com

This is normal….

I had very little sleep last night, trying to blog may be pointless, but i am overdue something here, so ….

Let’s anchor ourselves in the world, shall we? I am not anchored, i barely know what day it is. As you’re all on different days, we won’t start the great timezone debate again. Well, we could. You see, unless you’re somewhere in the Pacific west of Hawaii, or in New Zealand, I AM IN YOUR FUTURE.

Unfortunately BP is still pissing oil all over the US coast. British Petroleum. Who reckons it’s a subtle revenge for you guys winning that one little war against them? Well, that’s far-fetched even as far as political conspiracy theories go, but I’m tired enough not to care. I care about the oil leaking, not about who did it and what kind of stupidity led to it.

Humans are full of stupid. It’s why we have legislation, to protect the rest of us from the stupid. I never understood why people think that’s a bad idea. After all, you only have to look at the history of the Industrial Revolution to know, if you rely on industry to police itself, you end up with oil slicks and dead people.

Seeing the US is very anti any government interference, so BP is free to do as they like, I think the way they’re about to kill all the board is cool . *whispers* Oh? One of the voices-outside-my-head said they’re not. The ‘top kill’ they’re going on about is not a boardroom cull. It’s a way to stop some of the pollution. Pfft. I am so disappointed. (At time of writing, the top-kill plan hadn’t worked.)

In other news, i have flu. Again, still, ad nauseum. All the fucktards ‘soldiering on’ – and incapable of covering their filthy germ-ridden faces when they cough or sneeze -  give it back to me every time i leave the house.

I though it was just me and Mr Whatsit, in the perpetual flu cycle, but spoke to a young friend who lives locally, discovered he and partner (young fit people) are also catching it over and over. He complained even his young friends who caught it kept coming over, despite being so ill they could barely walk. A health worker i know said that nearly everyone admitted to the local hospital has it, or rather, has complications from trying to soldier on.

Like us, my friend hasn’t been able to even get his flu shot this year. He works with the public, so is in ‘at risk’ area, but has no sick pay, thanks to being forced onto casual work, so he must soldier on, which he knows is wrong, but he can’t get the shot, thanks to not being well enough since bloody March.

The people at his work who are on full time (with sick pay) boast about having a full year’s sick leave available to them (accrued from LAST year), but won’t take a day off. Then they cough on him. *sighs* Thanks to the hysteria over the anti vaccination morons, people seem to be thinking catching flu, polio, whooping cough, or measles beats getting a shot.

Did i mention, i hate fucktards? So much i want to stamp them into pulp. Stamp! Stamp! Stamp!

Ahhhh.

****

In a lovely bit of related news - the corrupt medico who started the whole anti vaccination movement has been struck off in the UK – he’s hiding in the US, of course. This was the best explanation of both his crimes (not an exaggeration) and the lack of science (and the hunt for profit for his own vaccination shot).

It’s also the funniest, and written in cartoon format – i recommend a read, it contained a lot of good background that was news to me. To see the other side’s science (lol) i suggest this wiki link. It’s about the Australian campaign to eradicate measles. Scroll down to “criticism”.

I’d like the power to arrest anyone who sneezes in public without their hand in front of their face, and to shoot anyone who coughs on me in the supermarket, but i’m guessing they’re not going to let me. Bastards. I’ll have to be satisfied with saying, “Excuse me, but before i break your nose so nothing else can escape, back off!” It’s worked well so far.

Well, so far i’ve only thought it at a few people, who seemed to get what i meant. Must be the look in my eyes.

****

Now, the interesting stuff - oh yeah - ME. So, aside from flu, how am i? How’s The Thing Mark II going? Well, still plotting to escape the horrors of New South Wales (double the rainfall of London, for those who think this place sounds like a great place to live – sure, if you have webbed feet).

I have plans, schemes, and nefarious strategies even… but no money, so the Queensland Invasion ’09 ’10 ® is waiting for funds. For some reason, my begging for dollars isn’t going well – donations to the Buy Me A Tank Help Me Get Out of Here Fund have been noticeable by their absence.

You lot are slackers! What are you? *listens for the shout* Yes, so long as you know. Anyway, it’s alright, i wasn’t relying on my Minions. Ahem. I mean, Beloved Visitors, of course. You only have to read the blog and check me out on Twitter. If i ever finish The Thing, if it is ever published, then yes, i will force you to buy it. Emotional blackmail, probably, i will look pitiful and beg a lot.

Twitter is still my main line into the outside world. Enjoyable, informative, and a place to rant. *sound of whispering* As i am reminded, another place to rant. So, i’ve covered not feeling well… that wanker ex-doctor… BP pretending to kill their board… what else? I said, i’m sick, i can’t remember a thing. Oh yeah, The Thing!

By some mad miracle, i’ve managed to keep writing. I’ve been working on this one since I Killed The Thing back in late April. Currently, i’m on an average of 1,949 words a day, over 39 days. Some days i barely touch 300, others i manage 3,000 or more. Two thousand words a day is the target. If i keep going, i’ll be done with a first draft in three weeks.

Assuming,that is, i don’t get part way through and discover i’ve broken the plot, or that i just don’t like it. Which happened with the Original Thing. It’s painful to have to admit it’s crap, especially since it was supposed to be to draft stage by the end of February.

Fortunately, it’s only crap in parts, and i keep coming to bits in The Current Thing where i can either put in chunks of text (suitably edited) from The Old Thing, or the research i did for it means i don’t have to spend hours doing it now.

My span of attention (twitterised as it is) can’t focus here any more.

So you’re free! Fly away!

I plan to, just as soon as the drugs kick in.

****

lolz – first time i published this, i realised too late, it had no title.

© http://stinginthetail.wordpress.com

Die Already, Emo

To be clear, when i say emo, i’m not necessarily talking about moody teens following a musical fashion, with long fringes and too small tshirts. That’s pretty normal teen behaviour, wanting to be different by dressing exactly the same and writing very bad poetry.

My emos are those who exist to milk your pity, otherwise known as the professional victims.

I am NOT talking about the genuinely depressed.

Here’s a therapist’s account of dealing with professional victims. As she says, “The victim posture is the ultimate self-fulfilling prophecy. By wallowing in the passivity and supposed powerlessness of the victim, one becomes blind to all opportunities and outlooks that do not conform to the supine posture of the victim.

One might call it “self-victimization,” but the point is that it is voluntary.”

I quite often (just by law of averages, not intentionally) read emo blogs or Twitter profiles written by professional victims. I’ve found that emos come in all ages, and that men are just as happy to use misery to manipulate as women are.

There’s a fair number looking for money for nothing, others pretend to sell you something.  A pity purchase. Others are hoping for a pity fuck, or even a pity relationship. Many are hoping you will take pity action and donate to them or their cause, or write to the government on their behalf. I even had one saying “buy my book, help me help myself, instead of just handing your money straight to me like i was a charity case.” Um, yeah. But your book is crap.

They may be partnered, or not, the pro victim doesn’t stop whining because they find a partner, (especially if the old partner starts to realise they’ve been suckered, or the new partner is actually an emo too), and they’re happy to move on to a new sucker any time they find one.

Some of them whine on behalf of others “the poor [insert disadvantaged group/animal here] – feel sorry for them!!!!” and some run charities – some even do so without taking a wage and when they’re in need of charity themselves. Even when helping others, they have to be victims. It’s how they get off. It’s what gets those emo juices flowing. Mmmm….  suffering. Woo hoo!

Oops, did emo just lose their home because they weren’t paying attention to real life? No problem, they can write a blog about it, and garner lots of attention. Of course, using their (poor homeless) kids to manipulate your emotions is part of the deal. Münchhausen’s Syndrome, where people deliberately make themselves ill for medical attention, is classic professional victim. Münchhausen’s by Proxy, where they harm their children to get attention, is too.

Emos are addicted to trying to manipulate emotions by exposing their suffering. However, you are not getting the whole story. That they made themselves homeless, ill, or poor, is never mentioned, except to show you how it’s never their fault. A lot of people stay a little wary, thinking there’s something not quite right, but others fall in head-first to the emo trap.

Once someone is sucked in by the pro victim, it’s like the sucker is in love. There is nothing you can do to make them see the truth. Even if you provide documentary evidence that their emo is actually a manipulative piece of pond-life, you will often be accused of lying to discredit the poor victim. Victim is the operative word – they must always be the victim, even when bravely speaking out on behalf of other people suffering in similar ways.

Ever told someone that the person they love is cheating on them? That their self-help guru stole all his/her ideas from Norman Vincent Peale (one of the first ‘self help gurus’)? If you haven’t, let’s just say that hell may have no fury like a woman scorned, but burst someone’s sucker bubble and you’ll find out what real hell is. The suckered may come to hate the one who suckered them, but they’ll hate you more. You will earn the enmity of both people. I know this from real life experience, more than once. It never works out well. For anyone.

I think that secretly, like the cuckolded do, suckers know when they’re being played – the signs are there. However, the suckers deliberately blind themselves to what the pro victim is doing – milking their pity and manipulating their emotions. Eventually, the sucker should come to their senses, usually when they notice something about the pro victim. Emos don’t want healing or practical help. If you leave a sympathetic note on their site, saying how they can get real help in their area, they will delete your post. If they followed your advice, they would have to pull their head out of their arse and stop whining.

The more they whinge, the more people pay attention. Pro victims have their metaphorical (and sometimes actual) hands down their pants over this – it’s better than sex or kink play, because they don’t have to give anything, they just whine and bitch and moan, and everyone pays attention! It’s something for nothing, which is exactly what they’re looking for. If you offer real help, especially the kind where they have to do something for themselves, you’re trying to stop their performance, and that makes you something to be destroyed.

Even if someone physically rescues them, the pro victim will be back in their chosen forum (Twitter, their blog, a chat room, MSN, the cafeteria), inside a week, complaining about how the place they’re in now has weird-coloured walls and they have to clean their own room. Not only that, their rescuer is being mean, because they say the pro victim should stop wallowing in self-pity.

So the emo complains and whinges some more, about how awful their current circumstances are. It’s so good, they may even cut themselves.  Someone comes along, says, “Oh, how dreadful, don’t you have anywhere else to go?” And emo has hooked another sucker.

I have this to say to emos…

You want to play the victim? Don’t come to me. I don’t tolerate you in real life, and I won’t online. I’m not interested in being a sucker for you. I’ve been there, done that, and consequently have a low threshold for bullshit. You want to cut yourself? Go ahead, sweetie, and can i help you find the vein so you do it properly? Emos are experts at not harming themselves when they cut – it’s not to kill themselves, it’s purely to get attention and to look tragic.

I knew one (in his 40′s, true emos are all ages), who would drive to the Emergency Department at his local hospital, and park within sight of it – so there would be no risk of him bleeding to death if he slipped with his sterile scalpels. He had dressings too. His mobile phone was right there, charged up, emergency services on speed dial, in case he couldn’t walk the 20m (20 yds) to the door. After a couple of hours in the A&E, getting all the attention he craved, he would come online, asking people if they wanted to see his cuts on webcam. Hysterically, (laugh or cry, your choice), he was on a kink dating site, advertising himself as a dominant male.

The best thing to do with emos – like all attention whores – is deny them the oxygen of attention. Yep, just ignore them. Occasionally remind others that if someone wants to stay miserable, it’s best to leave them that way. You see emos a lot on Twitter – people saying, “So and so was mean to me, everybody hate them on my behalf. i can has mai victimhood nao? kthxbai”

Some people even attract emos. If you feel you should help the helpless, watch out, you might just be on a hiding to nothing, trying to help someone whose idea of heaven is whining about all the reasons no one can help them. It’s very tempting to be mean when they turn on you for daring to say, “Well, happiness is a choice.” It’s not a choice to them, one doesn’t get attention for being happy. What are you, nuts?

That scent in the air is the scent of burning martyr, so a person being mean (or someone an emo can represent to others as being mean), is fodder for the pyre of their victimhood.

Still, sometimes, I just can’t help myself. I snap back.

© http://stinginthetail.wordpress.com

First, suck up to the pope….

Darn, here we are in February, and i’ve been slacking on the blog. Actually, i wrote some posts, but the PMT quotient was too high, they take off paint at ten paces – anyone actually reading them would have their eyeballs exploded, and that’s not what we’re about. It’s not my fault, i caught thrush from being on antibiotics, and it makes a girl cranky.

So, what’s happening? Well, the thrush seems to be clearing, and The Thing’s reached 88,000+ words, which means only about 22,000 to go. I’m trying to make sure the first part is good before i wrap up the end. Currently, i’ve done my usual trick of putting a capable person into a situation where he managed quite well. Damn! No fun unless he’s having problems.

Aside from still being sure he’s gay, that is, but i figure there’s enough young men who read fantasy sci fi who that will resonate for, so his angst over that can stay. After all, I was never going to get the Mormon Church stamp of approval that the Twilight books got. (Yeah, how bad would that be? Mormon Church can’t find anything in your books about vampires that contradict their made-up bible? Though my books aren’t about vampires. Maybe that’s the trick – bloodsucking churches like books about bloodsuckers.)

Come to think of it, maybe i should go do a Bono? No, no, not put on pastel sunglasses and then put out the same album every year for the next twenty, or go live in Ireland because artists didn’t pay ANY income tax on royalties there (and you thought all those celebs lived there cos it’s a cool place? Oh come on! The scheme ran from 1969, but was recently capped at quarter of a million Euro per year) – i mean go suck up to the pope and get him to give up some of the church’s wealth.

Wait, Bono never actually managed that, did he? He just sucked up to the old dead pope for nothing – while he was alive, obviously – but old JP – the P was for Pervert – went back into his bedroom, thinking about all the hot black chicks in Africa doing it without condoms. Risking AID’s, unwanted children, and other disease, all because some wrinkled old toad who got off on whipping himself said so.

They were doing it bare because he said condoms were the work of the devil and that good Catholics would be driven from the church if they dared to even think about them. That’s what excommunication means – and yes, using a condom is reason enough for the Church to drive you out. I’m so glad i turned renegade Catholic before i became sexually active.

The pope then forced himself not to masturbate over the hot black chicks, by getting his rocks off with a belt-thrashing. Making it up? Me? I think not – they’ve just admitted it, Pope John Paul the Bent (the one who died not long ago) used to keep a belt in his wardrobe to beat those urges out. Or off. Some people actually orgasm from pain – makes you wonder.

Still, if i could get Pope Benny to back my book, it would be good PR. He’s got a taste for Prada and couture, maybe i could put some in the book. Repressed gayness whilst fathering broods of children will be huge in the Vatican, that part will be easy. Of course, the women are all very in charge of their own lives, and i’ve made a huge mistake: contraception is easy and available to all. *sigh*

See, i’m screwed,  people in charge of their own lives who don’t kowtow to God’s representatives on Earth – Pope Benny won’t go for it. Not unless i get rid of the strong women and the contraception. And even then, i bet the moment i say all i want is one papal ring, enough to flog to pay for the printing costs, Pope Benny will probably get huffy.

After all, the church didn’t make all that money by giving it to the poor!

Writing is just fraught with problems.

He likes it!

(pic via http://captions.illmeyer.com/)

© http://stinginthetail.wordpress.com

List me, baby, make me squeal….

I have never more truly understood the concept of “it’s not the heat, it’s the humidity.” Not until i moved to New South Wales. People round the world think Sydney is some sun-drenched paradise.

Oh puh-leeze, summer here is about as comfortable as Newark – yes, 90% humidity and 39+° C (100+° F). Then the weather breaks, it plummets to 20° (62°F) and we’re all shivering, except the bloody humidity is still so high you feel underwater.

It also gets hotter after the sun goes down. Demented place. My plans for The Invasion of Queensland ‘09 ’10 ™ have been set back a bit, thanks to an emergency trip there by Mr Whatsit that meant using every cent of our savings and borrowing, so now every week i’m $50 down.

One of his family faked her own death, then recovered – okay okay, so she had a kidney removed and everyone thought she was going to die. It still fucked my budget up.

Meanwhile, it’s the end of January, and i’ve had to get extensions on the phone and electricity bills, and am paying them off. *sighs* At this rate, i’m going to have to hitch-hike to the bloody border. (It’s about 1000k, 800 miles.)

Rather than bitch about the weather and money, though i could go on for another thousand words without breaking a sweat, (in real life, i’m sliding off my towel) I thought i would explain my lists a bit.

****

Lists on Twitter are a great way of keeping your followers in some kind of order without resorting to cattle-prods. It also gives other people a chance to look at who you’re following, talking to, and to see if they’re an interesting bunch. Some people even follow whole lists of mine, which is flattering.

I enjoy lists, they’re a good way to find new people to follow, though some people don’t seem to take much care over lists, as you spot spammers posting ‘make $ on twitter’ or ‘monetize your twitter.”

You do all know this is what they used to call a pyramid scheme? You buy their software, (which is a pile of rubbish, as Twitter is all about who follows you, not who you follow), they make money, you don’t. Instead, you get blocked and reported on Twitter.

****

So, Lists  – what do i have?

Most recent is the Conversation list which is “A dynamic list rebuilt daily of the people you are talking to and about. ” It’s not one i collate, it’s done automatically, you too can have one if you go here. It updates every day, but is about 12-24 hours behind. So it’s more like “who i was talking to yesterday”.

There are currently “Following: 25 Followers: 2″ – which means there are 25 people listed because i’ve been chatting to them or about them, and another 2 people are following my list to see who i talk to. I hope it’s for entertainment, not for stalking purposes.

I checked (paranoid, me?) the followers on that list (listed on right of page when on web) are @loveunrg from New Zealand, and @thepainterflynn who’s in Dublin – both lovely people i’m often chatting to.

****

Then there are my lists i made:

• blogs People whose blogs are worth a visit

• stopaussienetfilter Australian Government is bringing in Net Filter over All Australia – banning nipples – help stop it

• food Cooking, Eating out, Foodies, Enthusiasts, Whole Food, No Genetically Engineered Food Campaigners

• interestingtweeps no matter what you’re into, these people are ones that make good tweeple to follow

• shopping If i had any money, i’d buy their stuff or use their services

• centralcoastnsw Central Coast, New South Wales, Australia – some Aussie-wide tweeps

• gardening Gardeners, Sustainability, Growing Food

• photography Professional, Amateur, and Galleries

• music Musicians, singers, songwriters

• socialmediamktingpr Social Media, Marketing, & Public Relations

• arts-and-design computer art, painting & fine art, architecture, crafts, also comics (not writing)

• geekish Geeks of all kinds, from the extreme to the subtle – my private collection

• newsmedia Journalists, News outlets, the Media (not social media)

• forlaughs Funny people & feeds – possibly NSFW, (not safe for work)

• writingpublishing Writers, agents, publishers, feeds about these things (not bloggers)

****

i think my notes on them mean they are self-explanatory. If i unfollow someone, i also remove from any lists – as it’s not automatic. If someone is listing you, and you don’t want them to list you, you can block or block and report. I have 107 listing me – (this goes up and down a lot, as more people get the Conversationlist going) i also go through those (not the Conversationlist, that’s just who i’m talking to or RTing), and block any spammers, or people who aren’t following me (if you don’t follow me, you don’t get to list me).

Also, i list people on more than one list – some people are on four – i think 200 is the upper limit for numbers you can have in one list, but i haven’t hit there yet.

So, you want a list? Look on the right hand side of your Twitter page on the web. Past the top, where it tells you who lists you, go down, past the Search line – see Lists? Before Trending Topics. Just click on New List, and off you go. Make a list, then look through your Following list (not much use Listing people you don’t follow back), and start adding them. As you go, you’re bound to find new subjects you could put as lists. Some people just divide theirs into people they chat to, and have “Chatters1″ “Chatters2″ and so on.

****

I am in some strange lists. These are some i’m listed in, (not necessarily strange!) of my favourite Twitterers.

• @malevolentlala/fo-lo-fo-sho Obey! Obey! Obey! Or not, up to you really.
• @Gabfran/ye-shall-follow … because I can no longer be arsed with Follow Friday.
• @mistressmia/womenwhokickass Social Media Goddesses
• @PaulCampanella/word-wit-and-whimsy The Fun Starts Here!
• @Maxey2012/you-belong-to-me-now
• @alanjlee/forklift-gang-members
• @jackassletters/people-worth-a-shit
• @detlef_c/conversation
• @cravenheart/share-last-beer-with
• @SavageMike/crazy-mofos
• @LaCaffeinata/writers
• @debonbon/australian-tweeps
• @DDsD/news-economics-politics
• @Bern_Morley/my-favs
• @franksting/haveachat
• @tweet_fail/buds
• @fridley/media
• @Sattii/kft

****

The above isn’t everyone – basically, if i’m following them – around 460 people at the moment – then it’s because i think they’re good. The further back they are in my Following pages, the longer i’ve been following them – so if they were tricky spammers, i have already blocked and deleted, and you’re safe to follow. Like everyone, I do sometimes make mistakes with following people who turn out to be spammers.

So, no excuses – get off your respective butts and list meh!

****

Widget alert: yes, how many people has lunatic anti-vaccination campaigner Jenny McCarthy’s bullshit killed, maimed, or made ill? I have a new widget, (on the left) that tells you. [EDIT unfortunately, it's no longer working - but you can click through here and see the totals. At time of writing, it was 501 dead, and 54,907 people ill with preventable diseases - those with polio will never fully recover, and indeed, will get worse as they get older. And how many poor lil kiddehz had autism as a result of inoculations? None. Zero. Nada.]

Around here, we’ve had a whooping cough epidemic, and children have died, because a bunch of celebrity seeking idiots want us to go back to the days (pre-1955) when polio epidemics killed thousands and crippled tens of thousands – every year.

I’m not going to go deeply into it here, you can click the link for more info or to put the widget on your own blog – but despite this woman’s rantings, there is still NO scientific evidence that vaccination causes autism, though she and her fellow self-serving cohorts have been known to make up scientific ‘proof’ – it’s just wishful thinking, looking for a reason for autism, followed by misery when the people who believe them have to nurse or bury a child that catches a preventable disease.

If you’ve ever seen anyone with polio, or living with the life sentence that is the after-effects, (including twisted limbs, and the most agonising pain and muscle wasting), you would never ever think that vaccinations are optional, or worse, that they’re so bad you shouldn’t have them.

© http://stinginthetail.wordpress.com

You want me to stick rhinestones where?

I don’t think this needs much introduction, other than I’m proud to count @Tweet_Fail as a friend, and you may remember i did a guest post for her blog not long ago.

This is her guest post for me.

*****

I used to think my grandmother had some sort of palsy. We’d talk about popular culture, and her head would move from side to side. I now understand what she was doing, because and I’m turning into her a little more every day. Not a day goes by that I’m not shaking my head at the antics of people who make their living being famous.

If you can successfully pretend to be someone else, people throw gobs of money at you. Or, if you’re completely untalented, you can go from being an ordinary girl next door, to one of the Girls Next Door by forgoing such mundane things as morals, standards, and self-esteem.

The ridiculous, shocking, and strange has become the norm, as many people become famous by debasing themselves on reality tv. In the end, we will all have our 15 minutes of fame, because it’s much cheaper to film ordinary people doing ordinary things than to have writers waste their precious time on such silly things as character development, and plot.

Things that have left me contemplating the state of the world lately:

• Heidi Montag (from The Hills), during an interview following her 10 Plastic Surgery Procedures in One Day, who said, “I want girls to understand that beauty comes from within.” She’s right. In her case, beauty isn’t skin deep. It’s actually just as deep as the surgeon’s knife.
• Snookie, from the reality show “The Jersey Shore” who is now renting herself out for parties. One has to wonder, “As what?” It seems to me that the type of parties where she would be a welcomed guest already have their share of loose young women and drunks who show up for free.
• The freak show that is Nadya “Octomom” Suleman. The woman should be in treatment for her addiction to birthing large quantities of children she can plop in front of a tv camera. Or forcefully sterilized. Instead, she gets interviewed everywhere and becomes a media darling.

She’s even on the recent cover of Star magazine, claiming her new bikini body didn’t involve surgery. Right. Shut off the lights and lock her up already. [Star was consistently down, link leads to starcasm.com which shows before and after]

This latest thing that almost made me pass out from extensive eye-rolling:

• Jennifer Love Hewett’s vagazzling. “It looks like a disco ball.” I have never seen a man look at a disco ball and heard him say, “I want a piece of that.”

Here’s a clue: guys don’t care what it looks like. It can be fuzzy or smooth, vagazzled or plain, perfect or asymmetrical; as long as the welcome sign is up, they’re willing to give it a go.

I do have to wonder what kind of friend feels comfortable saying, “Let’s glue stuff on your cooter. You’ll love it.” I have lots of female friends. The most I’ve ever done is rub suntan lotion on their backs. I can’t imagine in a million years offering to stick things on their genitals. Or, if I got drunk or high enough to propose it, having them happily agree.

Jennifer obviously has much more time on her hands than I do. Husband wouldn’t patiently wait for me to go out after hearing, “just 15 more minutes, honey, this butterfly is almost perfect.” Swarovski crystals is going to have an amazing year, as bored young women follow in her footsteps to decorate their lady parts.

I just checked. The following domains have already been secured by people looking to cash in on what’s certain to be a new fad:

1. Vagazzle.com

2. Vagazzling.com

3. Vagazzler.com

4. Vajj.com

5. Vajayjay.com

6. Vajazzle.com

7. Vajazzling.com

There’s probably another 50 domains that are variations on the theme. At least one of them will be opening shop with kits and instructions. If they’re smart, they’ll run ads in every Ghost Whisperer commercial break and clean up like thieves.

I won’t be vagazzling. But then, I also don’t have ear holes down to my shoulders, or piercings anywhere not visible to the public. When I get my 15 minutes of fame, I’ll be shown in “mom” jeans and sensible shoes.

I’m fine with that.

© @tweet_fail on Twitter – also at the Twitter Fail blog