Sometimes if I think too hard about something, I completely forget what it is

The same thing generally happens with blogging. Case in point, this.

I was told off for not updating my blog recently, by one of the ... oh, two people that read it (not including you, Mum). And really, I have no particular reason for doing so, except that I tend to find that if I really focus on being hilariously interesting, then I fail.

Miserably.

Added to that, PhDing takes up an inordinate amount of my time as I hone my (already highly developed) skills at looking-terribly-busy-while-not-actually-doing-much. I have also been concentrating-very-hard on not eating a metric shitload of chocolate, and doing lots of boring rugby-related things. And other stuff, probably, but I am far too absent minded to remember what this is.


So instead, here is  a picture of Skeletor with a unicorn My Litttle Pony:

proof that skeletor loves ponies from here

And what I imagine his reaction would have been at the prospect of giving Rainbow Dash a new hairdo:

OMFG, PONIES!

Because when my brain stops functioning normally, this is what I revert to.

stupid food

from here

No bloody wonder I lost my appetite.

There was a cock in the noodles.

Or the noodles were cock flavoured.

Or the cock soup was really... noodly.
Yeah.

I know it's a joke but...

via my mate Oli

knowing people that would embrace something such as this is an even bigger joke.
Yes.

You know the type.

The kind that refer to their dogs as their children, and themselves as their parents. Fairly sure I can't leave my fucking kids outside while I go out for a night on the booze, however, and I'm quite sure that my children can communicate with words, eat with utensils and don't lick their own arseholes.

But, you know, each unto their own...weirdos.

little boxes

I love the ocean. I think if I didn't live near the hills, I would have to live next to the ocean. Perhaps I could live on a deserted hillside by an ocean.



My cousin was posted on facebook a video of a cover The Decemberists did of Malvina Reynold's song, Little Boxes.

I love that song (particularly Malvina Reynold's original) as such a scathingly accurate depiction of the expectations (and assumptions) of conformity in middle class society. The desire to fit within the box that we are assigned is, I am sure, overwhelming for many people, to the point where those that do not fit within our prescribed 'types' of appropriate behaviour are problematised and isolated as abnormal.

And while I appreciate that this is a broad, sweeping statement that does not apply to all people, at all times, I would argue that, well, it's not intended to. But the fact that it applies at all, I think says much about the cultural values and norms of the society within which we (or I) live.

It is the differences that make us unique, and although I don't feel that we should all strive to be different for the sake of it, I suppose I find the expectation to be the same is both exasperating and for many, difficult to resist.

I say this because it seems to apply to so many things and so many people in so many different facets of our daily lives. Occasionally I stop and look and am surprised by this.

So, yeah.

It's not that I'm hating on society, but I guess today has been one of those days where I surprised at the conformity to these cultural ideals and societal behaviours and expectations that is so overwhelmingly present in so many people.

That, and I  just that I have nothing funny to say today.



Anyway. Here's the song lyrics.

Little boxes on the hillside,
Little boxes made of ticky tacky
Little boxes on the hillside,
Little boxes all the same,
There's a green one and a pink one
And a blue one and a yellow one
And they're all made out of ticky tacky
And they all look just the same.

And the people in the houses
All went to the university
Where they were put in boxes
And they came out all the same
And there's doctors and lawyers
And business executives
And they're all made out of ticky tacky
And they all look just the same.

And they all play on the golf course
And drink their martinis dry
And they all have pretty children,
And the children go to school,
And the children go to summer camp
And then to the university
Where they are put in boxes
And they come out all the same.

And the boys go into business
And marry and raise a family
In boxes made of ticky tacky
And they all look just the same,
There's a green one and a pink one
And a blue one and a yellow one
And they're all made out of ticky tacky
And they all look just the same.

mirror, mirror

frack you, ikea

I can't remember why - because I couldn't possibly have justified needing it- but I bought a mirror from Ikea.

As I walk past it, still in its box on the shelf in the spare room, it glares at me in ways only mirrors can glare - saying, "go frack yourself, Katey".

Well. Frack you too, mirror.