The half monty?

I’m having a hard time keeping my spirits up this week, I don’t really know why. Perhaps I’m overly-overthinking. As in considerably more than the standard CB-DNA overthinking.

I remember reading in a book about mels once, the one by the LaHayes, that mels can sometimes analyse and criticise their self worth so much that there isn’t anything left. So that’s probably it.

I’m eating away at myself. I really wish some mad genius could figure out a way to burn calories through thinking, coz it’s exhausting exercise.

Speaking of exhausting exercise, congrats to all the Stanchart Marathoners. You guys are hard!! I don’t know what would possess me to put myself through that! I’d rather bungee jump, and the only way I’d bungee jump is if you knocked out my kneecaps.

I’m working on some relaxation tips, like meditation, accupressure and mudras, and they do help for about five minutes at a time. So I’m guessing whatever is bothering me comes from further down. Unfortunately, it’s not PMS. I checked.

I have been described as bubbly, and denied it emphatically. After a while I started to believe it. Perhaps I was simply deluding myself. I don’t think so though. I think I am bubbly, when I’m happy or relaxed, when I’m around people that I enjoy, especially one-at-a-time.

And I’m generally bubbly on twitter because I have a simple policy – don’t tweet when you’re down. It’s not a conscious plan, it just comes. When I’m jazzed, I tweet incessantly, one hundred tweets a day even. But when I’m down I just read without chirping and occasionally DM. That’s probably why I’ve averaged just 500 tweets in the last five weeks.

I read that mels enjoy suffering and that we like to wallow because we somehow like being miserable. That offended me. I mean it feels so crappy when I’m down, so why would I want to stay depressed?

And yet sometimes it does seem that way. It seems like I actually want to just feel bleargh for a while. Except that when I eventually decide to snap out of it, it doesn’t happen.

Other times I find I just don’t have the strength to cheer up. It takes an awful lot of energy to jump from depth of abyss to Miss Sunshiny. At least it does for me. It’s so much easier to play goth and grab some chocolate and ice cream.

I know that the dark moods come from thinking too much, and I’ve even found an accuspot that counteracts the effects of too much thinking.

I find it interesting that it counteracts the effects rather than attacking the source. Hm. I guess not even yoga can cure overthinking.

Haven’t tried it yet, and no, it doesn’t use needles. It actually suggests you use the rubber on the back of a pencil.


Thing is, I don’t want to let go of my overthinking. I know it only does me harm, but I feel like relinquishing it will somehow make me less … me.

I have to do something though. So I’m thinking maybe I should just surround myself with bubbles, like The Secret suggests, that I should become obsessed with following my bliss, that I should make sure I am always, always, always in the presence of something or someone that makes me happy.

I suppose I could do that. It would take practise, patience and immense willpower. Not sure I have all those, but I am immensely stubborn, so that could work.

Of course the next natural thought progression, at least for me, is to wonder which side is the real me – the bubbles that I consciously derive or the misery that I wear like a … like an item-of-clothing-that-is-constantly-on-my-person … say … an undergarment? It’s possible that bubbles are my t-shirt while depression is my black lace.

My faith tells me I can be whatever I choose to be. My purpose is to figure out, to decide, to re-member who I really am.

So I’d rather think it’s the other way round, that the bubbles are the lace. Bubbles are so lace-like. They’re light, airy, delicate, and oh so pretty. And they don’t last very long.

Usually when I meet someone, what they see is the t-shirt and jeans, then if they are deemed worthy, I can show them the …

Ok, in a less guttervilly analogy, for the most part, I am initially sombre except with people I am easy with, comfortable with. So with some people I am bubbly in an instant, they just bring out that side of me. But then even with them, there are moments when it gets chilly, so I throw on the t-shirt and jacket and they’re left like wtf happened to the view?

I think if I can find a place where it is always spring, where there is endless beach and warm gentle waves, then I can be constantly in lace, if only coz lace makes it easier to swim. I mean, can you imagine swimming in jeans?

Or at the very least, I can carry around little beachy mementoes, like sun-in-a-can or sea-breeze bottled-mist, or a seashell or CD playing waves, or instant sand.

But it’s going to take a lot. I don’t know if I have it in me.

PS: Food for thought —> Sometimes when it walks like a duck, talks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it’s adopted. Or maybe it’s halloween, or Kung-fu panda. So you might want to check the calendar and the birth records. I’m just saying…

PPS: I have been swearing a lot lately. Mild swearing, granted, but still, swearing is swearing, and it’s surprisingly liberating … *puzzled frown*

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This is how I feel today

Pinky and the Brain, Pinky and The Brain

One is a genius, the other’s insane

They’re laboratory mice, their genes are filled with spice

They’re dinky, they’re Pinky and The Brain, brain, brain, brain

Pinky and The Brain, Pinky and The Brain

Their midnight campaign is easy to explain

To prove their mousely worth, they have to rule the earth

They’re dinky, they’re Pinky and the Brain, brain, brain, brain

Te-re-re-re-ren, ten-ten

Pinky: So, what shall we do tonight Brain? NARF!

Brain: Same thing we do every night Pinky: Try to take over the WORLD

**cue thunder and lightning, or lab-lights short-circuit blackout**

I love the animaniacs. Hellooooooo Nurse!

Also, there’s this bajaji driver in my hood who likes to hit on mboches.  I saw him hitting on mine and wanted to smack him backwards. As soon as she ducked indoors, he was hitting on another mboch. And when I came back later he was hitting on a  third mboch, and then a fourth.

His strategy is simple; he hits on them at the kiosk, and soon as one goes back to their workplace, he picks another one. So each of the girl thinks she’s the only one.

I just hope those girls are using Salama.

Another of the neighbourhood lotharios has been on my case, pleading for my name and asking to get to know me. I generally ignore him, poor lost boy. Yesterday I caught him skirt-handed with some local girl drawing maps and giggling. Poor lost girl.

Anyway. It’s Friday, smile. It could be much worse!

Necessary Noize At the altar

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