Wait... dude... what?

So I finished my degree. Yay I guess.

However, it all begs the question 'What now?'

Quite.

What now indeed.

Thus far I have been eating and sleeping and watching TV, the sort of TV that rots your soul and leaves you thinking that if this is the pinnacle of human civilisation after years and years of evolution then we are all basically fucked.

Having said that, oh my god, Quantum Leap is seriously awesome.

I've also been spending an inordinate amount of time dwelling on all the flaws I happen to carry around with me, falling in love with Zach Galafianakis in that borderline-psychotic way I do, and having dreams where I go on secret missions to save the fate of the world but end up getting distracted halfway through and making out with whoever happens to be my co-star that particular night (I don't think we have to dig too deep into my subconscious to unroot the particular genesis of those particular flights of fancy). That's it. That and thinking about writing, going to my laptop to write things, opening up Word and looking at a blank page, closing Word, opening up My Downloads folder, rolling a joint, watching Six Feet Under instead (In the name of My Super Sweet Sixteenth, how much more awesome are shows like Six Feet Under when you're stoned? I so totally get the character's motivations and, like, dude, he totally wants her to think that he thinks that when in actuality he thinks this but he isn't consciously aware of that fact and yet she is! Yeah, it all get's pretty deep round my way let me tells ya's).

Yet somehow, and God knows how, doing all this isn't really that fulfilling. I know right? Who woulda thought it?

I sort of feel stuck at the moment. I had this thing (i.e. my degree) that I was working towards and I DID do work, for the last four years, and it all paid off and I got good marks and I sort of have a vague idea with what I'm doing next (for the coming year at least) and yet, here we are. I was expecting to feel more like a proper grown up but I don't feel like a grown up. I was expecting to feel a sense of relief but I don't feel all that relieved. I was thinking that I'd probably feel kind of sad when it was all over but I don't really feel sad. I just don't feel anything. I keep waiting for something to happen, for a bolt of lightning to shoot down from the heavens above bringing with it a handy instruction manual for what I'm supposed to do and feel now. But it doesn't. So really, seriously, honestly, what now?

There's a mouse in my house

This isn't the start of a witty poem or whimsical folk song.

There's a mouse. In my house.

He seems to like me whereas I am wary of him*. Maybe because on our first encounter he tried to make me look like a damned fool by running away and not coming out till the wee hours when I pointed out to Chloe; 'look, there's a mouse there!' Before the last syllable had escaped my lips he was gone. Boy, can he move. I'm convinced he has a hoverboard, or at least hovering capabilities built in, as I refuse to believe any creature can move as fast as him naturally.

He sits under my chair eating the crumbs between my carpet tiles (yeah. I live in the 1970's. Deal with it) and I sit atop the chair terrified to put my feet down in case... well... I'm not really sure what 'The Dude' would do (I'm calling him that as he came out of his hiding spot and revealed himself to Chloe in order that he could inspect an ashtray containing the remmants of soft drugs) but I'm terrified nonetheless. The fear is slowly subsiding but I still don't like the idea of waking up in the middle of the night and having something sat there looking at me. My three main fears are:
1. The thought of touching dead things (whether it's a deceased moth or the ashes of my dearly departed great aunt escaping into the atmosphere when I am in the nearby vicinity of her ash-scattering** ceremony),
2. Pigeons,
3. Being stared at.

He is cute. I'm going to grant him that but I think he knows I feel this way and consequently he's taken the authority position in our relationship (as all males are wont to do) as I'll be chatting away telling him to leave; 'Dude, I can't cope with strangers running round my room. Seriously, get out' whilst he ignores me. It's not great for one's self-esteem to be openly and wilfully ignored by something smaller than the palm of your hand.

Still. I guess he IS The Dude. The Dude does what The Dude wants. And what The Dude wants is to make my room smell of mouse. Which it does now.

Great.

*This phenomena is also apparent in babies, although in their case I'm not sure it's that they like me. It's more that they'll stop whatever they are doing - crying, playing, pooing, and just look at me with wide eyed astonishment. I'm starting to think I engender feelings of fear within them but I'm not sure how yet.
** Is that the correct term? I'm pretty sure there's something more formal I could have used there. My mother didn't believe this was a genuine fear of mine until I started getting hysterical that it was a windy day and I couldn't cope with getting dead person ingrained on my clothes. Papa M calmed me down with the comforting words 'don't worry, you breathe dead people in all the time don't you?'. He always knows how to make me feel better.

Someone made a computer game out of my face.

It's awesome

(Click on 'toons')

Procrastination Masterclass

The concept was simple enough: three essays in three days. I'm reasonably smart, I am an extremely quick reader, I have all the journal articles and books I need to write the essays. Three essays in three days? Piss easy mate.

I then started laughing in the face of time. I openly mocked it's stupid, perfectly round, clock face.

'Ha' I said. To it's face.

But then time turned around, raised one of it's time-eyebrows and said...

'I think you might be forgetting something Ms Mulholland'

'What's that?' I smirked

'You have the attention span of a ritalin addicted three year old. You might have more than enough time to do these essays but no way will you stay focused enough to complete them'

'Oh yeah? I'll show you time. I will show you good'

So here we are. The deadline I set myself is 5 o' clock on Friday. Right now it is 1am. I have 16 hours left.

Guess how many essays I have completed since the start of this ridiculous adventure?

None.

And do you know why?

Because I have the attention span of a ritalin addicted three year old.

Amongst other things, I've watched three episodes of How I Met Your Mother (Doogie Howser MD is my hero on it), two episodes of Dexter, one episode of the Gilmore Girls. I have renamed all my downloads so they adhere to the same naming system and therefore look much neater when you open the folders. I have spent time daydreaming. I listened to music. I had a nap or two. I wrote a blog.

You will be surprised to learn that none of these things are helping with the essay writing.

Martyrs Unite

So I gave up.

I went home for dog cuddles and soup and homemade rice pudding and my moms.

Martyrdom really doesn't suit me. It looks better on people that have a soul. Or an ounce of dignity in their body.

I left The Ford at 21:48 on Wednesday evening. It was the exact point in time where I was starting to feel better enough that I could actually appreciate someone looking after me but still ill enough that I wouldn't have to fake being ill to garner appropriate amounts of sympathy.

Which was nice.

Now I know, for one, I hate those stories and bon mots that start 'My dog does the funniest thing...'

But.

The red dog has really enjoyed my 'visit'. Pretty much every one of my used tissues has been taken out of the various bins we have around the house and torn up a little. Why? What does it mean? What does it achieve? Why does red dog do this?

Because she's nuts. If she were human she'd be Glenn Close's character in Fatal Attraction. She is needy and weird and obsessive.

The fact that it only happens when I leave her alone in a room for more than three minutes twenty seconds makes me think it's either a punishment of some kind or a present. Especially as upon my return she's always sat back in the last place I left her (behind the sofa, on top of the sofa, on her back with her head on a cushion). To be honest, red dog is starting to creep me out.

Illness does not become me

Let me preface this by saying that:
1) I'm a hypochrondriac
2) Everyone knows that hypochrondriacs never get ill

With that out of the way comes my first question:
How did I end up getting ill?

And by 'ill' I don't mean 'oooh I feel a bit peaky this morning, best stay in bed and watch This Morning'.

I mean I havent eaten anything for three days because just the thought of standing up for longer than it takes a kettle to boil (I may be ill but I still need tea) makes me feel exhausted. But also I'm just not hungry anyways. This isn't a problem I've encountered in a while as I normally lose my appetite in connection to the male of the species (either due to being lovesick or heartbroken) and the male of the species haven't exactly been bothering me lately*.

I mean I've slept pretty much non stop for the last 72 hours. And therefore missed TWO consecutive days of seeing my lecturer crush. Trust me, when it comes to crush days ('Crush days: The best days of all the days') it would normally take a Biblical flood to keep me away.

I mean I've been unable to watch The Wire (The motherfucking Wire man! I love that shit dawg!) because it requires some degree of concentration. (Unlike every other television programe on channels one through four. Sweet. Baby. Jesus. I knew I'd been spoiled what with all the downloading and the skyplusing and the DVD boxsets. But... I just... I didn't realise how bad it had got in normal telly land. But there's the rub: Has it always been this bad or has all the well-written, subtley acted, emotional engaging tv that I've almost exclusively been exposed to for MONTHS now (minus the intentionally trashy so-bad-it's-good shows like ANTM and Come Dine With Me) changed my perceptions irrevocably? For now, for ever, and for always?**)

I haven't even been able to put pen to paper to plan my radio shows this week. Even with my laziness gene managing to make a mockery of a sham of all the tasks on my to do list EVERY SINGLE DAY, I actively enjoy doing that (my procrastination superskills only kick in on things I don't particularly want to do. Like essays. And everything I'm being made to do for the sake of it rather than the love of it. Which is everything.)

But now, as it approaches 2 o' clock in the morning... I feel a little better. I even feel a little hungry. My voice is sounding slightly less Marge Simpson-y with each passing minute. All things we can safely store under the 'yay' column. However, I don't feel TIRED. I've never felt more awake. I guess sleeping for 72 hours will tend to have that effect on a person.

* This is something I've been meaning to talk to y'all about. I've had a couple guys ask me out recently (definition of 'recently'? Within living memory) And both times THEY have asked me out. Both times I have said yes. Both times a time and date have been agreed upon by both parties. BOTH times nothing has come of it. To coin a phrase: wat up wid dat? Seriously?
**And this from the girl that used to obsessively watch Doctors.

Things that improve my life by (approximately) 78%

1. Curly straws
2. Drinks umbrellas
3. Stories that start 'You know when you have an awkward amount of cereal left?' and end 'so I had to graze at it like a horse'.
4. Never having to do statistics again in my life AS I GOT MY BLOODY DISSERTATION DONE INNIT. (How to celebrate? Pizza, beer, tidying up my room. Rock on)
5. When my mum ends phone conversations with the phrase 'rock on'