Addictions. No-one wants them and certainly no-one wants to admit to them - least of all on a social networking site. Well, I have an addiction. So there. It can easily take over my life, and I can't function adequately without playing it at least once a day.
When I start bingeing, it alters the chemical makeup in my brain, and I can't stop without some serious intervention, like starvation, dehydration or a desperate need to go to the loo. My problem is not booze, cigarettes, pornog, drugs, Wills and Kate fanaticism, pokies, shopping or exercise. It is a recurring compulsion to play the bubbles game.
I don't want to encourage others into my web of shame and illicitness, but here is the link to this massive waste of time. It's a dark, murky world, where bright little round balls prey on the vulnerable. A few things you needs to know before entering the land of bubbles. Don't let them build up, because they just keep coming at you, like rioting Syrians. And then they'll shoot you in the head.
I always try to pop the red ones first. I don’t have a justifiable reason for this; perhaps it is because I'm anti-communist and wish them to be eradicated from the planet. And I always seem to let the baby blue ones slide, as if they were harmless little puffy clouds that wouldn’t dream of messing with my batting average. The yellow ones are rather insignificant to me; much like Kim Kardashian is to the human race.
I always feel a tad guilty when I’m playing my bubbles, as if I am denying myself my true purpose in life; like plotting a new peace roadmap for the Middle East, or even more meaningful tasks, like eradicating that which is useless and pointless from my wardrobe. I guess what is most troubling about my indulgent, depraved pastime is my belief that it's worthy of a blog post.
Showing posts with label Psychology. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Psychology. Show all posts
Sunday, 11 August 2013
Saturday, 7 April 2012
Therapy for Road Rage
*Climbs on Soapbox*
How unusual of me to get on my soapbox about something that aggrieves me. In this case, blogging as a form of therapy is cheaper, smarter and far more legal than road rage. Because road rage is generally a VBI, that is, a Very Bad Idea.
I was driving along a highway in Canberra today - minding my own business, as much as I ever mind my own business - when a young hooligan in a dumb purple glitter V8 flew up behind me and decided to go around me only at the last minute, and then cut back right in front of me, narrowly avoiding transferring some of his purple glitter dust onto my front bumper.
After cramming my entire swear word vocabulary into a single sentence, I calmly let the whole episode pass over me, even though I am generally a boiling cauldron when bogan meatheads piss me off on the road.
While I didn't want to do him any harm in a moment of road rage madness, I absolutely hoped that he would take care of it all by himself. It may not happen straight away, but it'll happen eventually. This is my logic, and the road fatality statistics seem to agree with me.
As I watched this idiot speed off into the distance, I hoped - as I often do - that I will find his vehicle wrapped around a tree further up the road, thus giving me the opportunity to mock him as he lay trapped in his crumpled sparkly car. I know that's not very Christian of me, but I have a serious grudge against drink drivers, speeders and other road hooligans for various reasons.
I have held an argument with various people for years about my seemingly nonchalant attitude as to whether I would bother calling an ambulance or the police at this point - I would, because it's the law - and whether I would try and make things more comfortable for the idiot in his final minutes. I'd like to think that I would, but I would understand if I didn't.
Psychologists will tell you that boys behave like douches on the road because their brains - particularly the area responsible for judgement - are not fully formed until they are around 25. Well it looks like we have a friggin' problem then, doesn't it? Rather than banning them from driving altogether, why don't we play hardball and give some really tough love to the kids who have been caught speeding time and again.
The only way to get through to these teens is on an emotional level - they have to feel and experience some pain and shock - so what better way to get across the seriousness of the problem than have a staged intervention as a court imposed punishment. It goes like this. The police call the hooligan in the middle of the night and tell them that a family member has been killed in a car accident.
Once their shock has subsided, the police can produce the very much alive family member and maybe the hooligan has learnt his lesson. In reality, it's either going to be them or their parents who get that phone call. Obviously this solution is rather stupid and not much of a plan, but I don't see any other ideas being produced by the people who get paid to come up with solutions to these things.
You know those people who flash their lights to warn you of a police presence up ahead? Well the only time I flash my lights at cars is when there are definitely no police cars up ahead, but I just want people to slow down. I pretty much do this every time I drive at night.
I will never, ever warn drivers that the police are up ahead, because if they are speeding, they will be caught, and thus will not run over your grandmother in a hit and run further down the track. It perplexes and angers me why people side with other drivers rather than siding with the law. I really don't get it.
And then there are the people - from all walks of life - who race through the suburbs like they were Michael Schumacher, except without the talent, money and hot looking ferrari. If these people want to break the speed limit then they can go for their life, but I hope when they do eventually kill someone it is one of their own family, rather than destroy someone else's, and I hope they are ready to deal with the consequences of their actions. But of course they aren't, because these people don't think.
God writing is the best therapy...
*Gets off soapbox*
How unusual of me to get on my soapbox about something that aggrieves me. In this case, blogging as a form of therapy is cheaper, smarter and far more legal than road rage. Because road rage is generally a VBI, that is, a Very Bad Idea.
I was driving along a highway in Canberra today - minding my own business, as much as I ever mind my own business - when a young hooligan in a dumb purple glitter V8 flew up behind me and decided to go around me only at the last minute, and then cut back right in front of me, narrowly avoiding transferring some of his purple glitter dust onto my front bumper.
After cramming my entire swear word vocabulary into a single sentence, I calmly let the whole episode pass over me, even though I am generally a boiling cauldron when bogan meatheads piss me off on the road.
While I didn't want to do him any harm in a moment of road rage madness, I absolutely hoped that he would take care of it all by himself. It may not happen straight away, but it'll happen eventually. This is my logic, and the road fatality statistics seem to agree with me.
As I watched this idiot speed off into the distance, I hoped - as I often do - that I will find his vehicle wrapped around a tree further up the road, thus giving me the opportunity to mock him as he lay trapped in his crumpled sparkly car. I know that's not very Christian of me, but I have a serious grudge against drink drivers, speeders and other road hooligans for various reasons.
I have held an argument with various people for years about my seemingly nonchalant attitude as to whether I would bother calling an ambulance or the police at this point - I would, because it's the law - and whether I would try and make things more comfortable for the idiot in his final minutes. I'd like to think that I would, but I would understand if I didn't.
Psychologists will tell you that boys behave like douches on the road because their brains - particularly the area responsible for judgement - are not fully formed until they are around 25. Well it looks like we have a friggin' problem then, doesn't it? Rather than banning them from driving altogether, why don't we play hardball and give some really tough love to the kids who have been caught speeding time and again.
The only way to get through to these teens is on an emotional level - they have to feel and experience some pain and shock - so what better way to get across the seriousness of the problem than have a staged intervention as a court imposed punishment. It goes like this. The police call the hooligan in the middle of the night and tell them that a family member has been killed in a car accident.
Once their shock has subsided, the police can produce the very much alive family member and maybe the hooligan has learnt his lesson. In reality, it's either going to be them or their parents who get that phone call. Obviously this solution is rather stupid and not much of a plan, but I don't see any other ideas being produced by the people who get paid to come up with solutions to these things.
You know those people who flash their lights to warn you of a police presence up ahead? Well the only time I flash my lights at cars is when there are definitely no police cars up ahead, but I just want people to slow down. I pretty much do this every time I drive at night.
I will never, ever warn drivers that the police are up ahead, because if they are speeding, they will be caught, and thus will not run over your grandmother in a hit and run further down the track. It perplexes and angers me why people side with other drivers rather than siding with the law. I really don't get it.
And then there are the people - from all walks of life - who race through the suburbs like they were Michael Schumacher, except without the talent, money and hot looking ferrari. If these people want to break the speed limit then they can go for their life, but I hope when they do eventually kill someone it is one of their own family, rather than destroy someone else's, and I hope they are ready to deal with the consequences of their actions. But of course they aren't, because these people don't think.
God writing is the best therapy...
*Gets off soapbox*
Wednesday, 4 April 2012
Love triangles and other geometric-type situations
I'm blogging with the telly on as background, which is the only time I tend to write. I'm multi-tasking the shit out of this situation. I get very bored just watching telly, apparently. The program is about the aftermath of last year's earthquake in Christchurch, I think, because they are talking in an odd accent about "keyos iveryweer" and "eets quort skeery" and "ez thet en eftershock?"
It would be quite exciting to be a wrecking ball operator person. You'd never have to spend a day in therapy. But if you hit the wrong building you’d be in muchos trouble and would have to fill in oodles of confusing and pointless paperwork designed to obfuscate the entire issue. Sounds just like a desk job with the Government to me, except you actually get to watch the train wreck in real time. No, I don’t know what the fuck I’m prattling on about either, but I did warn you.
I didn't actually want to write about wrecking balls or endless paperwork, so this is a good time for an intervention into the progress of this post. I went to see A Dangerous Method at the cinema this week, which is about Keira Knightley's jawline and it's 'love triangle' with Carl Jung and Sigmund Freud. As far as shapes go, the old triangle has a bit of notoriety, don't it?
It’s unpredictable (hello Bermuda), perplexing (hello Bermuda and Grade 1 geometry) and a bit of a vixen (hello love triangles). I am currently in a bit of a 'lack of interest' triangle at the moment; torn between continuing with this post or sticking a hot poker in my eye.
Circles aren't very exciting at all; I tend to roll my eyes at pie charts, and when people draw circles it often means they want to place arrows everywhere and try to explain something to you that you are probably not very interested in. Round and round and round you go; the motto of any self-respecting Government.
Pentagons are five-sided polygons, which makes them slightly greedy and pretentious, rather confusing and the bearer of many wives. The only pentagon that matters is The Pentagon. It has five sides, five floors, five ring corridors per floor and possibly a five ring circus. Don't be messing with The Pentagon. They can make you disappear.
This is going to be one of those posts that I really shouldn’t waste my time constructing, and you most assuredly should not waste your time reading. Oh well, too late; the wrecking ball has swung – like a psychotic pendulum-type disco ball - and it’ll cost a lot of dosh and the weight of many, many strong people with numerous muscles to stop it razing my blog into a desolate wasteland. Although, I imagine it wouldn’t appear much different that it does right now.
It would be quite exciting to be a wrecking ball operator person. You'd never have to spend a day in therapy. But if you hit the wrong building you’d be in muchos trouble and would have to fill in oodles of confusing and pointless paperwork designed to obfuscate the entire issue. Sounds just like a desk job with the Government to me, except you actually get to watch the train wreck in real time. No, I don’t know what the fuck I’m prattling on about either, but I did warn you.
I didn't actually want to write about wrecking balls or endless paperwork, so this is a good time for an intervention into the progress of this post. I went to see A Dangerous Method at the cinema this week, which is about Keira Knightley's jawline and it's 'love triangle' with Carl Jung and Sigmund Freud. As far as shapes go, the old triangle has a bit of notoriety, don't it?
It’s unpredictable (hello Bermuda), perplexing (hello Bermuda and Grade 1 geometry) and a bit of a vixen (hello love triangles). I am currently in a bit of a 'lack of interest' triangle at the moment; torn between continuing with this post or sticking a hot poker in my eye.
Circles aren't very exciting at all; I tend to roll my eyes at pie charts, and when people draw circles it often means they want to place arrows everywhere and try to explain something to you that you are probably not very interested in. Round and round and round you go; the motto of any self-respecting Government.
Pentagons are five-sided polygons, which makes them slightly greedy and pretentious, rather confusing and the bearer of many wives. The only pentagon that matters is The Pentagon. It has five sides, five floors, five ring corridors per floor and possibly a five ring circus. Don't be messing with The Pentagon. They can make you disappear.
Thursday, 29 December 2011
A Bold & Beautiful Confession
Well, this is embarassing. But it can be resolved. After I watch today's episode.
Last week I was minding my own business, possibly wrapping Christmas presents or some such undertaking, when I unconsciously turned on the television for a bit of background vibes. It turned out to be around 4:30 pm which happened to be a very Bold and the Beautiful time of the day.
Half an hour later of empty dialogue, frightful acting and one dimensional characters, I was absolutely captivated. So much so that I have been forced to watch this stupid show since then. How the hell did this happen?
I think one of the characters is perpetually stoned. Although it’s hard to be certain, given all the face lifts, botox injections, and general inability to act confusing the matter. If these people could act any shoddier they would be blocks of concrete. Maybe that’s why they are always standing next to pillars, columns and stone structures. So they look competent.
Despite my new brand spanking compulsion to watch this deplorable soap, the only characters I don’t find utterly irritating are the old favourites, Brooke and Ridge, who in real life would be around 80, but in soap years, forever remain around 28 years old. Which is uncanny given their overabundance of twenty something offspring.
But I guess credit where credit’s due for the Bold producers. I ridicule the show, I detest the show, I think it is pure crap; yet I seem to be watching every day. They seem to end every show with a ‘cliff hanger’, if that’s an appropriate description for a really lame, tedious culmination of a bunch of really dreadful scenes.
Perhaps the reason I feel compelled to continue watching this drivel is because it is appealing to my need to resolve situations that involve suspense and the anxiety that surrounds it. No, that can’t be it. I think I just need to turn off the television.
Last week I was minding my own business, possibly wrapping Christmas presents or some such undertaking, when I unconsciously turned on the television for a bit of background vibes. It turned out to be around 4:30 pm which happened to be a very Bold and the Beautiful time of the day.
Half an hour later of empty dialogue, frightful acting and one dimensional characters, I was absolutely captivated. So much so that I have been forced to watch this stupid show since then. How the hell did this happen?
I think one of the characters is perpetually stoned. Although it’s hard to be certain, given all the face lifts, botox injections, and general inability to act confusing the matter. If these people could act any shoddier they would be blocks of concrete. Maybe that’s why they are always standing next to pillars, columns and stone structures. So they look competent.
Despite my new brand spanking compulsion to watch this deplorable soap, the only characters I don’t find utterly irritating are the old favourites, Brooke and Ridge, who in real life would be around 80, but in soap years, forever remain around 28 years old. Which is uncanny given their overabundance of twenty something offspring.
But I guess credit where credit’s due for the Bold producers. I ridicule the show, I detest the show, I think it is pure crap; yet I seem to be watching every day. They seem to end every show with a ‘cliff hanger’, if that’s an appropriate description for a really lame, tedious culmination of a bunch of really dreadful scenes.
Perhaps the reason I feel compelled to continue watching this drivel is because it is appealing to my need to resolve situations that involve suspense and the anxiety that surrounds it. No, that can’t be it. I think I just need to turn off the television.
Saturday, 21 May 2011
Best Before: May 21, 2011
Apocalypse now, anyone? I bet y’all have forgotten that the world as we know it is supposed to end today. In my haste to spend time in reality, I completely forgot that the world’s selectively perceptive people (see: village idiots) had deemed today to be the world’s use-by-date. Best before May 21. I hope I have a bit of time for one more blogpost before the armageddon hits the fan.
Despite all their constructive version of the facts (see: lies) and alternative wisdom (see: ignorance) that the world is nudging its Judgment Day, no-one in the mainstream (see: sane people) will take these folk seriously. Why is no-one taking them SERIOUSLY? They have a very SERIOUS message! They are screaming out to us: please have me commited. On a more serious note, I truly adore the more challenging, socially misaligned members (see: psychotic lunatics) of society.
Days like this give us a very clear indication of who among us is one of these excpetionally special folk, and it should be a time of rounding them up and introducing them to some type of correctional facility. Apparently the Rapture was predicted to occur in June 1994 as well, but when that didn’t pan out to anything remotely apocalyptic, they re-jigged the world’s use-by-date in a show of responsible citizenry and cooperative lunacy.
When it turns out that they are differently logical (see: wrong) this time, I guess we’ll just call it a learning experience (see: mistake). The next time anyone gets word that the world is going to end, can you please keep it to yourself, because I am far too busy for such a crisis.
Despite all their constructive version of the facts (see: lies) and alternative wisdom (see: ignorance) that the world is nudging its Judgment Day, no-one in the mainstream (see: sane people) will take these folk seriously. Why is no-one taking them SERIOUSLY? They have a very SERIOUS message! They are screaming out to us: please have me commited. On a more serious note, I truly adore the more challenging, socially misaligned members (see: psychotic lunatics) of society.
Days like this give us a very clear indication of who among us is one of these excpetionally special folk, and it should be a time of rounding them up and introducing them to some type of correctional facility. Apparently the Rapture was predicted to occur in June 1994 as well, but when that didn’t pan out to anything remotely apocalyptic, they re-jigged the world’s use-by-date in a show of responsible citizenry and cooperative lunacy.
When it turns out that they are differently logical (see: wrong) this time, I guess we’ll just call it a learning experience (see: mistake). The next time anyone gets word that the world is going to end, can you please keep it to yourself, because I am far too busy for such a crisis.
Monday, 18 April 2011
Declutter drugs
I have a storage unit filled with useful, and many more less useful, personal items that I haven’t seen or heard from in two years, but when I “visit” them (1st red flag), I can’t work out for the life of me (2nd red flag) how I have coped without them for so long. For example, I have a pair of black, sturdy platform shoes, that were glued to my feet in the early 00’s, that I haven’t worn for a good eight years. I know they sound terribly glamourous – prison warden chic, as it were – but I loved them.
They were a tad chunky, a tad heavy and a tad ugly, but for some incomprehensible reason they were my faves for quite a few years. And then there is the long, dark green velvet (yes, velvet) skirt I have for reasons I cannot fathom. It's very soft and comfy, but I can't leave the house when I am wearing it without being accidently mistaken for Anne of Green Gables. Better being mistaken for Anne than Gaga, I suppose.
I recently saw the movie Limitless, where the beautiful (not in this picture, right) Bradley Cooper pops these pills that enhance his senses 100-fold, allows him to use all of his brain, and gives him an IQ in the thousands. I love how the first thing he does is write a book in three days (he's a copywriter). Anyway, so I jumped onto the U.S. Food and Drug Administration (FDA) website, looking for word that these super-pills had been approved. Pills that if I popped like jelly babies will make me as smart as Al Gore. Oh, wait, they would need to take AWAY from my IQ to make me as smart as Al Gore.
It wasn't terribly important to me that they had been given the all important FDA gold stamp. But, alas, it seems these magic pills do not exist. I am shocked. It turns out that Limitless is just made-up. A whole bunch of hokum. I wish someone would tell me these things before I get all disappointed, because the accuracy and attention to detail in Hollywood flicks… geez, foiled again. The same thing happened when I saw Al Gore’s soul-destroying, action-packed psychological thriller, An Inconvenient Lie.
 |
| Coop in urgent need of a haircut |
It wasn't terribly important to me that they had been given the all important FDA gold stamp. But, alas, it seems these magic pills do not exist. I am shocked. It turns out that Limitless is just made-up. A whole bunch of hokum. I wish someone would tell me these things before I get all disappointed, because the accuracy and attention to detail in Hollywood flicks… geez, foiled again. The same thing happened when I saw Al Gore’s soul-destroying, action-packed psychological thriller, An Inconvenient Lie.
I would never have picked his movie as made-up bullshit, what with all the scaremongering, lying, delusional scientists, absurdly inaccurate charts and graphics, and the fact it was narrated by renowned science-fictionist Al Gore. It's amazing how far Hollywood has come with special effects. I’m joking; I never saw his retarded mockumentary. And if I had, I wouldn’t admit it. If I could make someone non-exist with my mind, it would be Al Gore.
So what the bejeezus has all this got to do with decluttering? Um, I can’t remember. Oh yes, if I had one of these jagged little pills I could clean up my shite in no time flat. Sure, I would be addicted to a dangerous, soul-destroying uber-drug, have constant headaches and seizures, and experience time-lapses that take me from Friday to Monday in the blink of an eye; but I would be all decluttered! Oh, and I want to write a novel as well. And in the end, Coop doesn't die. Bullet dodged. Come on pharma companies, let’s get this happening.
Friday, 1 April 2011
Self Doubt, Interrupted
As I listened to a speech in the Great Hall at Parliament House in Canberra, waiting to receive my Bachelor of Arts degree, I pondered the significance of the occasion. Here I was, after six and a half years of multiple essays, presentations and exams; countless tutes, lectures and lecturers; numerous psychological breaks, meltdown and tantrums; thousands of dollars of textbooks; one stupid, incomprehensible textbook that now has a broken spine; many late nights; too many deadlines; hundreds of headaches and panadols; two eye glasses upgrades; and one computer meltdown.
But yesterday, none of that mattered, as I was about to receive that all-important piece of paper; a symbol of hard work, perserverance and commitment. But it also represented something much more important to me. Yesterday I had a bit of a personal breakthrough. Despite my life-long questioning of my ability to do just about anything, I gave myself a break and thought: "I earnt this, damn it! I'm wearing a friggin' mortar board on my head, so I fit in here as much as anybody else".
I certainly wasn't so calm and collected when I entered the Great Hall, as I discovered that my old foes, anxiety and self doubt, also wanted a piece of the action. The two graduands who were to be seated next to me arrived soon after, and we spent the next half hour in friendly chit chat; covering uni, career options, current work, travel, family.
As usual, I was a good 15 years older than most of the kids in the room. Which is probably for the best, because I would likely have just joined the public service after graduation if I had gone to uni straight out of school. And if I had joined the public service in my twenties then I would, without a doubt, hate it even more than I do now. Which is a sobering thought.
Of course we also discussed the more pressing matters of the day, like graduation shoe choice, our hair styles, the appropriateness of certain outfits for such an occasion, the thickness of the robes' fabric, the gradient and workmanship of the ramp we were to come down, and reassuring each other that it was strong and sturdy, and how incredibly intelligent we all looked, and would probably never look again.
In that half an hour, Anita, Kristy and I - brought together by the ordering of our surnames - became each other's sounding board. When times are uncertain, people tend to stick together; and we worked through an important social process. Most of the graduands would have been feeling some type of nervous anxiety, and, looking around me, everyone was expressing it in different ways.
Some people were sitting quietly, some needed to chat, some fiddled, some closed their eyes, and some were completely indifferent and played angry birds on their mobile phones. For me, my interaction with these two complete strangers got me through that last half hour, and shot down my internal anxieties and doubts. Group information processing to release nervous energy and anxiety - often we don't even realise its importance in everyday contexts in getting us through moments that we perceive to be bigger than we can handle.
But yesterday, none of that mattered, as I was about to receive that all-important piece of paper; a symbol of hard work, perserverance and commitment. But it also represented something much more important to me. Yesterday I had a bit of a personal breakthrough. Despite my life-long questioning of my ability to do just about anything, I gave myself a break and thought: "I earnt this, damn it! I'm wearing a friggin' mortar board on my head, so I fit in here as much as anybody else".
As usual, I was a good 15 years older than most of the kids in the room. Which is probably for the best, because I would likely have just joined the public service after graduation if I had gone to uni straight out of school. And if I had joined the public service in my twenties then I would, without a doubt, hate it even more than I do now. Which is a sobering thought.
Of course we also discussed the more pressing matters of the day, like graduation shoe choice, our hair styles, the appropriateness of certain outfits for such an occasion, the thickness of the robes' fabric, the gradient and workmanship of the ramp we were to come down, and reassuring each other that it was strong and sturdy, and how incredibly intelligent we all looked, and would probably never look again.
In that half an hour, Anita, Kristy and I - brought together by the ordering of our surnames - became each other's sounding board. When times are uncertain, people tend to stick together; and we worked through an important social process. Most of the graduands would have been feeling some type of nervous anxiety, and, looking around me, everyone was expressing it in different ways.
Some people were sitting quietly, some needed to chat, some fiddled, some closed their eyes, and some were completely indifferent and played angry birds on their mobile phones. For me, my interaction with these two complete strangers got me through that last half hour, and shot down my internal anxieties and doubts. Group information processing to release nervous energy and anxiety - often we don't even realise its importance in everyday contexts in getting us through moments that we perceive to be bigger than we can handle.
Tuesday, 22 March 2011
Entropy and my physics-induced migraine
Last week I attended a special meeting of the Canberra Astronomical Society (CAS). The meeting was called to vote on whether the society would amend their Constitution so family members would be treated as separate entities, rather than as a block membership, or something.
This resolution came about because of the loopy behaviour of one psychotic member, who can’t be thrown out of the society under the current Constitution, because her membership is linked to her equally odd former astronomer boyfriend. They are not family, but they joined the society together, or something. It’s very confusing, but the point is the society is trying to pass a vote that will allow a vote to get rid of this narcissistic, histrionic personality disorder-addled woman.
Angela, as I shall refer to her because that's her name, has been causing problems for a long time. Like sending offensive and abusive email rants, and, lately, physically abusing other members and tossing around personal threats. So this special meeting was called so the society can move on from this episode and get back to doing what they do best; that being astronomising.
My mother, a long-time society member and Secretary, puts me down as a member every year, despite the fact that I have never registered any particular interest in astronomy, stars, planets or galaxies. I’m not disinterested, but I’m also not a hard-core fan of the science. Science, in fact, is something that escapes me for the most part, probably because I’m not smart enough to understand the ins and outs of entropy, for example; the second law of thermodynamics. If I was honest, I think it is quite interesting, but I will leave it to brilliant scientists to get all excited about it.
One of these brilliant scientists, Dr Charley Lineweaver, was the guest speaker for the meeting. Considering I only showed up in anticipation of seeing crazy lady and her crazy antics for the first time, I was a bit wary of having to sit through an hour long science presentation without accidently falling asleep. As it turns out, Dr Lineweaver is not only a ridiculously intelligent astrobiologist; he is also brilliant at working a room. In the Leonard Hofstadter self-depreciating way, not the Sheldon Cooper irony deficient way.
His energy and passion for science made the lecture fascinating and thoroughly entertaining. It was like an hour long episode of The Big Bang Theory. I actually followed about 70% of his talk; the biological references in particular were totally up my alley. The other 30% I found completely incomprehensible, or replete with confusing scientist jokes, that I pretended to understand and then whole-heartedly laughed along with the crowd. Hey, don't judge.
And thanks to my stern concentration in trying to get my ahead around the impossible (physics and I are generally not allowed in the same room together), my brain decided it hated me, and I ended up with a 30-hour physics-induced migraine. So that was tops. I had reached maximum entropy. My very own heat death, if you will. Or something. So I am now armed with a comprehensive understanding of entropy. When I say comprehensive, I mean very loose.
Anyway, the night was a success, and the room passed the vote by 77%, so the Constitution can now be amended. CAS utilised the services of a mediator from the ACT court system to run the poll, so Angela cannot come back with her crazy rants that it is all unfair and rigged, and I believe there were security personnel in the room in case things (crazy lady) got out of control. I promise you I am not making any of this up. As it turns out, Angela just sat there all psycho-style; acerbic look, eyes glaring, arms crossed. She's four-foot nothing but quite terrifying. Hopefully she will now find something new to obsess about.
This resolution came about because of the loopy behaviour of one psychotic member, who can’t be thrown out of the society under the current Constitution, because her membership is linked to her equally odd former astronomer boyfriend. They are not family, but they joined the society together, or something. It’s very confusing, but the point is the society is trying to pass a vote that will allow a vote to get rid of this narcissistic, histrionic personality disorder-addled woman.
Angela, as I shall refer to her because that's her name, has been causing problems for a long time. Like sending offensive and abusive email rants, and, lately, physically abusing other members and tossing around personal threats. So this special meeting was called so the society can move on from this episode and get back to doing what they do best; that being astronomising.
My mother, a long-time society member and Secretary, puts me down as a member every year, despite the fact that I have never registered any particular interest in astronomy, stars, planets or galaxies. I’m not disinterested, but I’m also not a hard-core fan of the science. Science, in fact, is something that escapes me for the most part, probably because I’m not smart enough to understand the ins and outs of entropy, for example; the second law of thermodynamics. If I was honest, I think it is quite interesting, but I will leave it to brilliant scientists to get all excited about it.
One of these brilliant scientists, Dr Charley Lineweaver, was the guest speaker for the meeting. Considering I only showed up in anticipation of seeing crazy lady and her crazy antics for the first time, I was a bit wary of having to sit through an hour long science presentation without accidently falling asleep. As it turns out, Dr Lineweaver is not only a ridiculously intelligent astrobiologist; he is also brilliant at working a room. In the Leonard Hofstadter self-depreciating way, not the Sheldon Cooper irony deficient way.
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| Physics translator - Dr Charley Lineweaver |
And thanks to my stern concentration in trying to get my ahead around the impossible (physics and I are generally not allowed in the same room together), my brain decided it hated me, and I ended up with a 30-hour physics-induced migraine. So that was tops. I had reached maximum entropy. My very own heat death, if you will. Or something. So I am now armed with a comprehensive understanding of entropy. When I say comprehensive, I mean very loose.
Anyway, the night was a success, and the room passed the vote by 77%, so the Constitution can now be amended. CAS utilised the services of a mediator from the ACT court system to run the poll, so Angela cannot come back with her crazy rants that it is all unfair and rigged, and I believe there were security personnel in the room in case things (crazy lady) got out of control. I promise you I am not making any of this up. As it turns out, Angela just sat there all psycho-style; acerbic look, eyes glaring, arms crossed. She's four-foot nothing but quite terrifying. Hopefully she will now find something new to obsess about.
Wednesday, 16 March 2011
Graduation shoes
In a couple of weeks I will graduate with a Bachelor of Arts degree. Finally.
I was never terribly good at school when I was a young thing, but my brain isn't crash hot at storing long-term memories, so I really have no idea what I actually did with my time, but I do recall that I didn't open too many textbooks. So, despite a lack of real evidence that it would be a particularly good idea, seven years ago I decided to go to uni after a good, solid ten years out of the education system.
Like many mature-age students, I struggled at first. The reading matter was impossible (not difficult, just too left-wing for my liking - that'll teach me for studying humanities), the workload was demanding, and everyone else that seemed to be in my orbit was about 42 years younger than me. So that was tops. I studied full-time and worked part-time, and then I studied part-time and worked full-time. Nothing worked really well for me, and it all sucked for a good few years, but, looking back, I wouldn't change a thing.
So now I am going to my graduation in March. Although I refuse to believe they won't make me do an extra unit until I actually get that piece of parchment in my hand. Before I started telling people about my graduation, I was all calm and chill about it. Then people, as they are wont to do, started to warn me about things to do, things not to do, things to avoid, etc etc etc. So now I am quite terrified about the looming graduation.
First, there's the shoes. See, I don't really care about shoes. They are a boring topic of conversation, and there is not much to discuss once you finish yakking about the brand, the style, the cut, the colour. I don't care about stupid shoes. Some people do, and that's cool, but I don't care for conversations about shoes. But now I am quite obsessed about what foot attire I should wear to my graduation, because someone told me to be careful about walking up the stairs to receive my degree because it would be terribly embarassing to trip and fall. Why the hell did she need to plant that seed of destruction inside my head?
I was never terribly good at school when I was a young thing, but my brain isn't crash hot at storing long-term memories, so I really have no idea what I actually did with my time, but I do recall that I didn't open too many textbooks. So, despite a lack of real evidence that it would be a particularly good idea, seven years ago I decided to go to uni after a good, solid ten years out of the education system.
Like many mature-age students, I struggled at first. The reading matter was impossible (not difficult, just too left-wing for my liking - that'll teach me for studying humanities), the workload was demanding, and everyone else that seemed to be in my orbit was about 42 years younger than me. So that was tops. I studied full-time and worked part-time, and then I studied part-time and worked full-time. Nothing worked really well for me, and it all sucked for a good few years, but, looking back, I wouldn't change a thing.
So now I am going to my graduation in March. Although I refuse to believe they won't make me do an extra unit until I actually get that piece of parchment in my hand. Before I started telling people about my graduation, I was all calm and chill about it. Then people, as they are wont to do, started to warn me about things to do, things not to do, things to avoid, etc etc etc. So now I am quite terrified about the looming graduation.
First, there's the shoes. See, I don't really care about shoes. They are a boring topic of conversation, and there is not much to discuss once you finish yakking about the brand, the style, the cut, the colour. I don't care about stupid shoes. Some people do, and that's cool, but I don't care for conversations about shoes. But now I am quite obsessed about what foot attire I should wear to my graduation, because someone told me to be careful about walking up the stairs to receive my degree because it would be terribly embarassing to trip and fall. Why the hell did she need to plant that seed of destruction inside my head?
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Actually, the possibility that I will trip over in public, thus humiliating myself in front of hundreds of people, is something that I would likely have come up with all by myself. I didn't need her help in feeding my insecurities and lack of confidence in walking up a couple of stairs in front of a bored, therefore judgemental, bunch of people. And then she just told me not to stress about it and to stop overanalysing. Well, I actually have quite a gift for overanalysing. And, besides, if people could just stop overanalysing all by themselves, I would have just wasted four years of my degree studying psychology. If people could work out how to get rid of anxiety all by themselves there would be no need for psychologists.
Monday, 31 January 2011
Young gun no more, Mr Sheen
What does the average 45-year-old male do on a Thursday night? Watch a bit of telly? Play a bit of sport? Pop down to the gym? Hell no. Real men go on a 36-hour drug and alcohol bender with a plethora of skanky porn star strippers and end up in a hospital emergency department. Just another day in the life of an average joe, aka Charlie Sheen. Mr Sheen has headed off to rebab again, to try and clean, wax and polish up his act.
Charlie Sheen is the star of CBS’ hit comedy Two and a Half Men, which premiered in 2003, and has been in the Top 10 of U.S. television programs ever since. Despite the fact that it is a cheesy American sitcom, I very much like Men, with its misogynistic comedy and double entendres. Charlie plays Charlie Harper, a self-gratifying jingle writer, who lives in a Malibu beach house with his freeloading brother Alan, and Alan’s son, Jake. Charlie’s character is exactly like Charlie in real life, except Charlie in real life is just a bit pathetic.
I bet you didn’t know that Mr Sheen, the actor, has quite a bit in common with Mr Sheen the cleaning product. It’s true. They both sweep clean surfaces containing white puffy stuff, and they both spend time trying to clean up their act, only having to go redo the whole process when they mess up their house/life again. Clean and polish surfaces as you snort with Mr. Sheen, indeed. But the cleaning brand, Mr. Sheen, wants to distance itself from its namesake, as it notes on its Wikipedia entry:
“Mr Sheen is a brand of cleaning materials (chiefly floor and furniture polish) to be used after visits from Charlie Sheen.”
While cleaning brands are well-known for their disinfectious humour, I don’t know if that entry was entirely necessary. But I can certainly understand if they want to differentiate their product from the cheaper, trashier brand; in the event we got the two confused.
Charlie Sheen has been a little loopy for years. I’m not an actual psychologist, but then neither is Dr Phil. But I do possess the psychologist’s bible, the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Psychological Disorders, and I know how to use it, so let’s do a little diagnosing. I’ve never met Mr Sheen, and I haven’t done a differential diagnosis, but I’m gonna go with drug-induced psychosis, based loosely on the fact that he has a nasty little habit of snorting alot of cocaine on a pretty regular basis. You don’t need to be a psychologist to know this idiotic behaviour does not bode well for your psychological health (See: Britney Spears and the hair-shaving brouhaha).
To be diagnosed with a ‘Substance-Induced Psychotic Disorder’ you must meet certain criteria, one of which is prominent hallucinations and delusions. Hmm, that sounds an awful lot like our Charlie. Let’s look at the evidence. How about this gem from Charlie Sheen commenting on the September 11 attacks:
"There was a feeling, it just didn't look any commercial jetliner I've flown on any time in my life.….but did it sorta look like those buildings came down in a controlled demolition'?"
Yes Charlie. It probably looked a little unorthodox to you because commercial jetliners flown by pilots who are not terrorists do not tend to fly intentionally into scyscrapers. I have no doubt that Charlie is well-regarded at AA meetings for his Homeland Security credentials and construction industry expertise, but this sort of analysis doesn't really wash on Planet Sane. And this from the same interview:
"It seems to me like 19 amateurs with box cutters taking over four commercial airliners and hitting 75 percent of their targets: that feels like a conspiracy theory."
Even Osama bin Laden would think Sheen's conspiracy theory was whacked. Disregarding the fact that al-Qaeda couldn’t wait to tell us that they were responsible for the attacks, a flushing toilet is going to look like a conspiracy theory to someone who has been snorting cocaine for most of their life.
Charlie Sheen is the star of CBS’ hit comedy Two and a Half Men, which premiered in 2003, and has been in the Top 10 of U.S. television programs ever since. Despite the fact that it is a cheesy American sitcom, I very much like Men, with its misogynistic comedy and double entendres. Charlie plays Charlie Harper, a self-gratifying jingle writer, who lives in a Malibu beach house with his freeloading brother Alan, and Alan’s son, Jake. Charlie’s character is exactly like Charlie in real life, except Charlie in real life is just a bit pathetic.
I bet you didn’t know that Mr Sheen, the actor, has quite a bit in common with Mr Sheen the cleaning product. It’s true. They both sweep clean surfaces containing white puffy stuff, and they both spend time trying to clean up their act, only having to go redo the whole process when they mess up their house/life again. Clean and polish surfaces as you snort with Mr. Sheen, indeed. But the cleaning brand, Mr. Sheen, wants to distance itself from its namesake, as it notes on its Wikipedia entry:
“Mr Sheen is a brand of cleaning materials (chiefly floor and furniture polish) to be used after visits from Charlie Sheen.”
While cleaning brands are well-known for their disinfectious humour, I don’t know if that entry was entirely necessary. But I can certainly understand if they want to differentiate their product from the cheaper, trashier brand; in the event we got the two confused.
Charlie Sheen has been a little loopy for years. I’m not an actual psychologist, but then neither is Dr Phil. But I do possess the psychologist’s bible, the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Psychological Disorders, and I know how to use it, so let’s do a little diagnosing. I’ve never met Mr Sheen, and I haven’t done a differential diagnosis, but I’m gonna go with drug-induced psychosis, based loosely on the fact that he has a nasty little habit of snorting alot of cocaine on a pretty regular basis. You don’t need to be a psychologist to know this idiotic behaviour does not bode well for your psychological health (See: Britney Spears and the hair-shaving brouhaha).
To be diagnosed with a ‘Substance-Induced Psychotic Disorder’ you must meet certain criteria, one of which is prominent hallucinations and delusions. Hmm, that sounds an awful lot like our Charlie. Let’s look at the evidence. How about this gem from Charlie Sheen commenting on the September 11 attacks:
"There was a feeling, it just didn't look any commercial jetliner I've flown on any time in my life.….but did it sorta look like those buildings came down in a controlled demolition'?"
Yes Charlie. It probably looked a little unorthodox to you because commercial jetliners flown by pilots who are not terrorists do not tend to fly intentionally into scyscrapers. I have no doubt that Charlie is well-regarded at AA meetings for his Homeland Security credentials and construction industry expertise, but this sort of analysis doesn't really wash on Planet Sane. And this from the same interview:
"It seems to me like 19 amateurs with box cutters taking over four commercial airliners and hitting 75 percent of their targets: that feels like a conspiracy theory."
Even Osama bin Laden would think Sheen's conspiracy theory was whacked. Disregarding the fact that al-Qaeda couldn’t wait to tell us that they were responsible for the attacks, a flushing toilet is going to look like a conspiracy theory to someone who has been snorting cocaine for most of their life.
Tuesday, 25 January 2011
Scary Creature Phobias
Spider Phobia
I must confess that I have deliberately increased my arachnophobia in the past to test if I actually have a phobia, or if I’m just a little bit cwazy. And the answer is yes, on both accounts. Spider phobia is a specific phobia, and the psychologist’s bible, that be my beloved Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Psychological Disorders, says that I have a problem, because this is my life:
I also have a shark phobia, because I don’t like to do things by half. I think sharks are hauntingly beautiful but belong nowhere near me. On the Universal Studios tour of Amity Island, I was the only person who ducked when a feeble mechanical fish the size of a large carp attempted to scare us. Somebody screamed, but I think she was around three-years-old.
I don’t know the origin of my fear of the shark, but I do know that Jaws probably didn't help matters. Every time I walk along a deserted beach, those two notes pop into my head, and then speed up as I get closer and closer to the shoreline. What can I say, my life is just one long disaster movie. But clearly it is not exciting enough to ignite the box office, a la Titanic.
It's been a long time since I ventured voluntary into a body of water for the purpose of swimming. A few years ago I went waist deep into the ocean at Broulee on the South Coast, but only because I didn't want my fly-away Hawaii cap returning to its homeland. I know, I'm a sook, but guess who will be laughing last when a great white snaps you in half? (Note to Ed.: Why are you so mean-spirited?)
Obviously I wouldn't laugh literally, but it would look kinda funny. I would try to help, but I would likely pass out before I got anywhere near you. I'm sure you'll be fine though. It would just be an alternative take on cloning. If you are a surfer, try to look less like a seal, and more like anything a shark is scared of. Perhaps wearing your great white shark suit might help; I doubt Jaws would eat his family members. Just trying to help. I'm a helper.
Despite the fact the modern backyard swimming pool has no connection whatsoever to the ocean, I refuse to believe that sharks don't swim in them. Because I know that sharks are very intelligent and can track down pools using special sonar navman. Not many people know that, because it doesn't make the evening news. Maybe the media sharks are in on it; it takes one to know one.
This is one weird blog post.
Sayonara, writer's block
Having completed uni at the end of last year, I started this year with a goal of writing every day and writing consistently. I wanted to form a habit, but my writers block was working against me. Although I always remember how effortless and enjoyable it used to be. So two weeks ago I began a writing challenge that would see me tackle 26 topics over 26 days from the 26 letters of the alphabet. The idea was to choose a topic and write a 500 - 700 word post every day.
And so far, so good. I expected to tire of it around the ‘F’ mark, to stop making an effort around the ‘K’ mark, and to quit at the ‘L’ mark. But this challenge has been fun and satisfying, and not once have I found it tedious or considered not continuing, which has been a surprise to me. And most importantly for me, my writer’s block has vanished (touch wood), leaving a creative flow in its wake. I hope it continues because it’s a big part of who I am.
I must confess that I have deliberately increased my arachnophobia in the past to test if I actually have a phobia, or if I’m just a little bit cwazy. And the answer is yes, on both accounts. Spider phobia is a specific phobia, and the psychologist’s bible, that be my beloved Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Psychological Disorders, says that I have a problem, because this is my life:
- I experience a ridiculous amount of fear and anxiety when a spider is in my presence
- Exposure to said spider causes me to hyperventilate and respond anxiously in other fun ways
- I can recognise that the fear is ridiculous because I am human and it is spider
- I generally avoid arachnid type hangouts, and anxiety builds if I have to go into sheds or random cobweb-filled dark alleys
- My fear and anxiety often ruins my day and forces me to keep furniture away from walls and retrieve stuff from the mailbox with barbecue tongs
- I very much dislike those fake spiders that dangle around certain theme park attractions. They are real to me. Universal Studios: I'll send you my psychiatric bills
Shark Phobia
I also have a shark phobia, because I don’t like to do things by half. I think sharks are hauntingly beautiful but belong nowhere near me. On the Universal Studios tour of Amity Island, I was the only person who ducked when a feeble mechanical fish the size of a large carp attempted to scare us. Somebody screamed, but I think she was around three-years-old.
I don’t know the origin of my fear of the shark, but I do know that Jaws probably didn't help matters. Every time I walk along a deserted beach, those two notes pop into my head, and then speed up as I get closer and closer to the shoreline. What can I say, my life is just one long disaster movie. But clearly it is not exciting enough to ignite the box office, a la Titanic.
It's been a long time since I ventured voluntary into a body of water for the purpose of swimming. A few years ago I went waist deep into the ocean at Broulee on the South Coast, but only because I didn't want my fly-away Hawaii cap returning to its homeland. I know, I'm a sook, but guess who will be laughing last when a great white snaps you in half? (Note to Ed.: Why are you so mean-spirited?)
Obviously I wouldn't laugh literally, but it would look kinda funny. I would try to help, but I would likely pass out before I got anywhere near you. I'm sure you'll be fine though. It would just be an alternative take on cloning. If you are a surfer, try to look less like a seal, and more like anything a shark is scared of. Perhaps wearing your great white shark suit might help; I doubt Jaws would eat his family members. Just trying to help. I'm a helper.
Despite the fact the modern backyard swimming pool has no connection whatsoever to the ocean, I refuse to believe that sharks don't swim in them. Because I know that sharks are very intelligent and can track down pools using special sonar navman. Not many people know that, because it doesn't make the evening news. Maybe the media sharks are in on it; it takes one to know one.
This is one weird blog post.
Sayonara, writer's block
I have always loved to write, but my passion and creativity disappeared when I started uni seven years ago. The writing style I conformed to when studying the humanities worked in opposition to my natural style. It was like working within a box; with rules, conventions and referencing, and it felt like the creativity was slowly draining out of me. To this end, I stopped writing for fun, due to lack of time, motivation and an extra strong dose of writers block.
Having completed uni at the end of last year, I started this year with a goal of writing every day and writing consistently. I wanted to form a habit, but my writers block was working against me. Although I always remember how effortless and enjoyable it used to be. So two weeks ago I began a writing challenge that would see me tackle 26 topics over 26 days from the 26 letters of the alphabet. The idea was to choose a topic and write a 500 - 700 word post every day.
And so far, so good. I expected to tire of it around the ‘F’ mark, to stop making an effort around the ‘K’ mark, and to quit at the ‘L’ mark. But this challenge has been fun and satisfying, and not once have I found it tedious or considered not continuing, which has been a surprise to me. And most importantly for me, my writer’s block has vanished (touch wood), leaving a creative flow in its wake. I hope it continues because it’s a big part of who I am.
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