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Showing posts from March, 2011

The Meaning of Life

I’ve been reading a bit of philosophy lately. I suppose we all have some interest in the questions of philosophers. In my case though, I just wanted to read up on the philosophers so that I’d sound intelligent down in the pub on a Friday night. If someone said something like ‘I can’t stand all this clerical abuse stuff’, I could turn around and say “a tyrant must put on the appearance of uncommon devotion to religion. Subjects are less apprehensive of illegal treatment from a ruler whom they consider god-fearing and pious. On the other hand, they do less easily move against him, believing that he has the gods on his side.” Then I’d murmur ‘Aristotle’ under my breath.
But it didn’t work. I’ve ended up bogged down in all these questions about the meaning of life that I just can’t get my head around. At the moment I’m on Spinoza. He’s the guy who asks these five questions:
Why does anything exist? How is the world composed? What are we in the scheme of things? Are we free? How should we live?

Sex: the Place and the Time

For someone who feels most at home in a tent and claims to be able to sleep anywhere as long as I’m tired; I’m surprised at how picky I am about location when it comes  to having sex. Years ago I hiked overland to China, sleeping mostly on trains and the floors of hostels that swore there were no snakes. I’ve been one of those bums sleeping on the beach in Greece. I slept under a boat in Italy, on a roof in some hot country that I can’t remember the name of, and I once even slept in a phone box when I was locked out of my house back in the days of no mobile phones. It’s different when it comes to sex though. Beaches are out for a start. I mean, I don’t even like exfoliating in the shower, so why the hell should I have to exfoliate every crack and orifice of my body whilst trying to perform the love act? A mouthful of whatever tickles your fancy is just not hot when it comes topped with sand. Then there are cars. I remember dating a guy years ago when I was more ignorant than innocent.…

A Fat Lot of Good

This may not be a new and groundbreaking thing for a middle aged woman to do; but I’m on a diet. Probably what makes my weight issues a little different from other women though, is that I just don’t see how fat I am. While many women will look into the mirror and go ‘my arse looks huge in that’ or ‘I can’t go to the party, I’m the size of Roscommon’, I tend to look in the mirror and think ‘I look good today’. I can’t understand why I am size extra fatty when my reflection just seems the same to me as when I was size skinny bitch. But then something happened. My American cousin sent me some photos following her recent visit to the homeland, and one of them was of this really obese woman slouched into a chair. At first I didn’t like to judge the obese lady, as I am aware that there is an obesity problem in the United States, and this woman probably lives in a house where Coca Cola comes out of the taps (they’d say faucet), instead of water. It was only when I realised that the woman wa…

The Cure for Depression

I suffer from depression. Actually, no, I don’t, I’m just moody. Then again, you could say that I’m not moody at all, but that rather, I am enlightened as to how miserable the world is, so therefore, I am neither depressed nor moody. In fact, I am an enlightened soul who realises that being bitter and twisted is actually the most realistic way to view this world. Let’s face it, by the time you reach middle age you’ve probably been cheated, robbed, disappointed, sick, broke, bereaved, bereft, hurt, betrayed, stabbed in the back and taken for a ride at least once. You may also realise that you have become your mother, your father, your schoolteacher, the bin man an imbecile, all rolled into one. Funnily enough, most days I am blissfully unaware of all this tragedy and sorrow that fills the world. Most days I am too busy looking for a pair of socks or going down to the shops to get milk. But then you get a day that there’s plenty of milk and all your socks match and you start wondering …

Goodbye Facebook

I’ve left Facebook. But there’s a problem. Now I’m wondering where to post ‘I just left Facebook’ as my current status. I suppose Twitter. But if I do that I might get too addicted to Twitter, and then I’ll have to quit Twitter too and if I do that I won’t be able to pour out my innermost thoughts to the whole world in 140 characters. I left Facebook because I only have six years to finish my novel before moving to New York, and let’s face it, in six years time there’s no way that having an incredible high score in Bejewelled Blitz and two thousand friends who like my latest status is going to get me Brownie points on a Visa application to the USA. And besides, the book won’t be finished, and I really don’t want to still be a wannabe writer when I’m well over fifty.
I’ve convinced myself that the three extra hours per day that releasing myself from Facebook will bring, will be spent writing my novel, and so far so good, I’ve been at it all day. But realistically the novel writing is ju…