I woke up, made coffee, smoked, practised my yoga routine, smoked, blogged, smoked, cooked lunch, ate it and smoked. I live a dream. Except while cooking, I got a nasty headache.
I was cooking fish, so maybe it was the ghost of the fish cooked that came to plague me. Maybe the fish cooked was a single mother and now her baby fish is floating bellies up in the ocean because their parent was hooked, deep frozen and cooked. Wouldn’t this image give you a headache too?
The fact that the lunch was barely edible didn’t relieve my pain either. Cooking is not on the short list of things that I hate the least. Since home cuisine as a cure did nothing for me, I popped two Ibuprofen 400 painkillers and went to bed, where I was growling for a while and then slept through the whole day.
Now I’m quite fine again, thanks to Ibuprofen, for which I composed a thank-you ode.
O Ibuprofen 400
I love it
When I’m low
You give me back
What I lack
My healthy glow
I’m in the wrong region. It’s one where you can’t stream video, have CDs or DVDs delivered from Amazon, and where beer is cheaper than water (no wonder). The Czech Republic however regularly makes it in the headlines when something politically incorrect and hilarious happens here. We have a long track record of naughty presidents in particular.
The former president Klaus had issues with pen thefts:
Our current president Zeman has longstanding booze issues:
Today, Zeman condoned the use of kalashnikov as a political weapon. Article here. Now, that’s silly, because this isn’t Russia (yet), and we do shotguns rather than kalashnikovs here. Nevertheless, on this news, I’m going to bed amused today. Better amused than ashamed.
I’ve been to the vet. I mean, I’ve been to the vet with the cat. The cat was far less inconvenienced by our trip than I was. She retained her carefully cultivated phlegmatic attitude all the while when I was checking hysterically if she was getting hysterical yet.
The cat bore the poking and probing with a stiff dignity which I should feel inspired to assume at my next check at the gynecologist (where I will go without the cat).
I paid the vet with my rent money and in return received a tip for cat vitamins and an informed opinion that the cat wouldn’t die of it. Whether she won’t die of her eye problem or of the vitamin prescription remains unclear. I suppose it’s an irrelevant distinction, as long as she doesn’t die.
I liked the vet though. He’s a new guy, but he looked familiar, and I couldn’t quite remember why. Then it dawned on me. He looked just like my general practitioner. I wonder if I should be worried about the cat’s health or my own.
I hate writing. (All right, I hate everything, but I hate writing a lot.) Inexplicably, I chose a career which requires me to write as much as possible as often as possible (aka academia: publish or perish). What’s still a greater mystery, I started to blog so that I had to write even more.
Now I write all the time, unless I procrastinate. (That is, I procrastinate all the time, unless I write.) I’m semi-orgasmic when I actually achieve to write something. (I may or may have not been emitting satisfied purring noises after I’ve written and submitted for prospective publication a short academic paper today.)
Also today, more than three weeks into my What I Hated the Least Today project, I realised what I’ve done. (Why, yes, and why, no, I didn’t see it coming before.) I very much committed myself to writing a blog post every day. How did that happen? I must have had too much champagne when I started this. Also, I should be writing.
I’m currently an
unemployed PhD holder independent researcher, and I’ve been working hard on my new career today. I’ve been shovelling snow.
My major motive for shovelling the terrace was the visit of my mother. My mother isn’t a shovelling freak, but I couldn’t think of an excuse for explaining what business I have on the terrace in this weather. She would know that I go to the terrace because there were my tracks in the snow. I go there to smoke. Why, yes, I’m over thirty and my mother still doesn’t know I smoke. Why upset her, right?
My minor motive for shovelling was to create a dignified smoking environment. No more squatting out there in the snowdrifts and having the white sh*t drench my slippers. I can’t be bothered changing into proper boots for each smoking trip.
I shovelled a lovely snow-free aisle alongside the window, with a narrow outreach to the railings at one end, so that I could explain to the mother that I take photos at the terrace while resting my camera on the railings. Disappointingly, the mother neither asked nor did she notice my efforts.
She probably didn’t notice because the moment I was done shovelling, it started to snow. It continued throughout the rest of the day. It’s still snowing. I make regular rounds of the terrace to re-shovel. I’ve made snow walls of considerable height surrounding my cleared aisle. It looks like I’m preparing trenches for the next world war.
On a happier note, I believe I’ve grown muscles with all that shovelling. I can now consider taking up an alternative career as a cleaner with a specialisation in shovelling. Or a bouncer in a bar. Or a snowman, or snowwoman, complete with a snowcat. By the way, below is a picture of what my cat thinks of the snow.
The advent of apocalypse
The cat gives her opinion