What I Hated the Least Today 241/365: Weirdo Dreams

What I Hated the Least Today 241/365: Weirdo Dreams

I usually have realistic nightmares, which I remember in great detail and wake up confused whether it actually happened or not. However, today I had something between a dream and a nightmare, which was utterly unrealistic (obviously, you don’t know that when you’re in the process dreaming it) and which amused me wholeheartedly.

My 65-year-old-mother gave birth to a baby. I found the newborn in the sink in my childhood home. We were deciding whether to keep it or toss it (I know, WTF). I was for giving it away, but the baby looked cute, so I thought we could just as well keep it. It was a girl whom my mother insisted on calling Jiřina, which is an idiotic name that I can’t even pronounce (though it’s in my mother tongue), so I was having second (third) thoughts on keeping her.

Cut to the last day of school. All fellow students were present and the programme was to watch a movie in an open-air cinema. I arrived in my wheelchair, though my legs were fully functioning. As I wheeled in the cinema, a nurse grabbed me to give me a urinary catheter (double WTF). While it didn’t hurt, I didn’t enjoy having the procedure performed on me in public. A classmate whom I considered actually disabled joined me in her wheelchair, which she would however leave periodically to walk around.

Still sulking about my catheter, I was about to leave early, but another nurse stopped me. I wasn’t recognising her, but she insisted I wasn’t allowed to go because of my history. Apparently, I would be always leaving classes to have a smoke or overeat myself with chocolate. Since I indulge in both of these evils, I didn’t protest, despite my amnesia, and felt duly deeply ashamed.

A spatiotemporal discontinuity happened and I was just about to leave home for the last day of school. My father offered me a lift but I’d have to go right away. I immediately freaked out because I hadn’t applied my make-up yet. I categorically explained to my father that going out without make-up is not an option. Then I fell in a hysterical fit of anger directed at those who own cars and have no clue what it’s like having to walk everywhere. I got myself quite worked up.

I wonder how the dream ended; I either got a stroke in it or I just stopped dreaming it. I also wonder how the fuck my brain comes up with this crazy stuff. Some motifs make sense though and can be explained, I think, in the sense that the dream seems to reflect my real-life fear of not being in control and my anxiety about being always perfect. Also, I probably needed to pee, hence the catheter. Is it me or do you also have nonsense dreams like this?


What I Hated (the Least) Today 240/365: Friday Evening

What I Hated (the Least) Today 240/365: Friday Evening

Meanwhile, on a perfectly uneventful Friday evening, I’m chatting with my anxiety.

Me: Why are you making me shake?

Anxiety: *shrug*

Me: Seriously, why?

Anxiety: No reason.

Me: There’s always a reason!

Anxiety: *evil laugh*

Me: But everything is as it should be.

Anxiety: Exactly. So why not throw a shaking fit?

What I Hated the Least Today 239/365: Long Live Lexaurin

What I Hated the Least Today 239/365: Long Live Lexaurin

When I was admitted to the mental hospital, I was clean, as of not using any medication. When I was dismissed seven weeks later, it was with a budding addiction to prescription drugs. The irony.

When I moved, I had to change my psychiatrist. My current psychiatrist is a jerk. Most psychiatrists are, in my experience, but this one is even more so. His solution are prescription drugs. The addictive kind.

From my most recent psychiatrist appointment, I returned with a prescription for Lexaurin, the anti-anxiety drug. It’s a present-day version of Valium. In other words, something you don’t want to get addicted to. Inevitably, you get addicted when you use it because, duh, it’s an addictive substance.

I’m supposed to have my Lexaurin for emergencies only. Except it’s always an emergency. I’m trying to avoid abusing it, but it’s rather tempting because the effect is practically instant. Imagine you’re shaking like a vibrator (for lack of a better comparison) and when you take the pink pill, it stops.

It’s awesome. I imagine that’s how normal people feel on a regular basis. I suspect being normal is rather enjoyable. Obviously, when you’re normal, you don’t appreciate it because it’s normal for you. So what’s the point? Dunno. Probably that there’s something bad (like addiction) to everything good (like Lexaurin)?


What I Hated the Least Today 238/365: Shit Crazy Cat Ladies Do

What I Hated the Least Today 238/365: Shit Crazy Cat Ladies Do

Though I’m owned by one cat only, I’ve recently noticed that I act like a full-time crazy cat woman. This is what I do with my cat on a daily basis:

  • Asking the cat questions like I expect an answer (Did you miss me? What’s up? Have you finished eating? Are you being good? Have you been to the box? What are you seeing?)
  • Telling the cat things while talking about myself in the third person and referring to myself as mummy (Mummy’s going out now but will be back soon. Of course that mummy loves you! Mummy’s going to eat now, but you eat at 7:30, ok?)
  • Answering the cat’s random meows with Hush, kitty, mummy knows.
  • Pulling faces at the cat while she is staring quietly and wonders if her human went nuts.
  • Singing to the cat, in a terrible voice, improvised sing-songs featuring the cat (You’re my kitty, little kitty, favourite kitty, lalala…).
  • Rolling on the floor and playing with cat toys because it’s beneath my cat to play with them and they’re just lying around.
  • Being actually pleased as I struggle to get up and the cat has her face in my face, with her look saying, Get the fuck up and make yourself useful!

I know, I should get a life.


What I Hated (the Least) Today 237/365: Tinder; or, Meet Weirdos in Your Area

What I Hated (the Least) Today 237/365: Tinder; or, Meet Weirdos in Your Area

I use Tinder and I’m duly ashamed of myself. My hypothesis is that there are only losers on Tinder. And me. I mean, including me. I’ve been conducting a practical research of the app for several months and hence I am now able to provide empirical evidence to support my hypothesis concerning losers. Besides proof of losers, I have hilarious stories which must be shared for the sake of general entertainment.

So, I met several guys after chatting with them for a bit—not simultaneously, successively over a period of  some time—each of them once, and even once was too much. Based on my social experiment, my conclusion is that when a guy of my age is single, there exist painfully profound reasons for his singleness, including, but not limited to, him being a complete idiot. Following my findings, suggested measures to take include me getting another cat and embracing being a crazy cat lady.

Weirdo Type One: The Three-Year-Old

Weirdo of type one is a real-life version of Sheldon Cooper (Big Bang Theory), but significantly less cute and funny than Shelley. The version that I met held a doctorate in physics (like Sheldon) and devoted his spare time to gaming, reading children’s fantasy and playing with lego (he proudly showed me a picture of a lego truck he built). He insisted that the bill in the coffee shop be split between us. There must have been some kind of misunderstanding—I’m not looking to adopt a grown-up child. Also, when a guy asks you out and then expects you to pay for your coffee, does that mean that he’s a confused feminist or what?

Weirdo Type Two: The Mommy’s Pet

Weirdo of type two is a natural aberration in whose existence I didn’t believe until I encountered a living sample. Describing the peculiarities of this phenomenon would be too time-consuming and would border on supernatural fiction, therefore I’ll limit myself to two statements I heard from the particular person I met. My personal favourite is his psychiatric evaluation that my depression springs solely from me having crooked teeth. (He messaged me this and I had the best laugh in years.) I certainly have both depression and crooked teeth but I doubt that there’s a causal connection. To improve on his statement, he followed up saying that unlike mine, his looks are perfect. Besides him being a perfect idiot, he also lived with his mom, full service and all.

Weirdo Type Three: The Psychiatric Patient

Weirdo of type three is a chameleon. He looks normal to start with, but you mustn’t spend more than five minutes in his company. He brought me flowers for the first (and last) date, which I thought quite awesome, and paid for all, which I deeply appreciated. It however soon transpired, no kidding, that we’ve been to the same mental hospital. He insisted he had an acute overreaction to stress and was entirely cured, but I didn’t think so. He spent the whole time talking about his achievements in his job, juxtaposed with his deep insecurities concerning his looks (he looked normal), his last name (which was mildly awkward, but nothing too bad) and other things which I forgot. I should’ve taken a book for this date, it was considerably boring to listen to an uninterrupted stream of consciousness for two hours.

Or Is It Me?

I swear I neither invented nor exaggerated any of the above. Also, the idea wasn’t to ridicule anyone (except myself), but to contemplate how weird life and people are. On the dating note, I also discovered a curious thing: it looks like half of the guys won’t approach me because they believe I already have someone, and the other half won’t approach me because they’re intimidated by me. How weird, right.


What I Hated the Least Today 236/365: Tesco Trips

What I Hated the Least Today 236/365: Tesco Trips

Most of my social contact consists of trips to Tesco. This might be sad, but I read an even sadder story the other day. It was about this guy who’d go smoking to where the homeless hang out so they’d ask him for a cigarette. His only social contact.

My trips to Tesco are a life study. It’s about a kilometre away, sitting atop a hill. I’m not used to hills because I formerly lived in a region that was perfectly flat, like my chest. At least the way back, when I carry my groceries, is down the hill, like my life. On the way, I watch people.

The locals seem to be quite a homogeneous bunch. Men prowl around in boiler suits. Women wear nondescript clothes, natural hairstyles and no make-up. For some reasons, most people look ugly. Not plain, outright ugly. It might be the radiation from the nearby nuclear plant.

The people are nice though. Even the cashiers in the supermarket. I always get suspicious when they smile at me, wondering if I forgot to wear a shirt or what. The next thing I know we’ll be on first name terms. Most people seem to be on first name terms with most other people. It’s a small town.

It was fittingly expressed by an old man in Tesco, who was walked around by what was apparently his middle-aged daughter. She observed with some discomfort, “You’re wearing sweatpants in town?!” He says, “What town? It’s a village.” So it’s a village.

This doesn’t answer my questions though. Where are smart men in suits and fancy women in dresses? Should I get me a boiler suit? Am I expected to engage in small conversation with other people in my queue? Should I ask the cashiers about their children / spouses / pets / gardens? Should I get me a garden? What the fuck is the behaviour code here and why is everyone so weird?


What I Hated the Least Today 235/365: Catifying My Cat

What I Hated the Least Today 235/365: Catifying My Cat

My cat isn’t very catty.

To start with, she’s turned vegan. She won’t touch wet food unless it’s swimming in sauce, in which case she licks the sauce off, carefully shoving pieces of meat out of the bowl. I’m reconciled with her dietary requirements and keep on buying her meat in sauce, throwing the meat out, so that she doesn’t live on dry food only.

She’s a poor jumper. Here’s where I decided not to put up with having to put her up on elevated surfaces and started to teach her to climb. The other day I noticed two stray cats outside of the window and a marten on a tree. I thought it would be of interest to the cat, to socialise with her fellows through the glass, so I put her up on the window sill. She loved that but took several weeks to learn to jump up on her own. Now she’s quite proficient in perching precariously on the rather narrow sill or balancing on the radiator and she even looks comparatively elegant when jumping up.

The next thing, the cat didn’t use to sleep in my bed because I wouldn’t allow her and she didn’t show any inclination to do so anyway. Two years later or so, I changed my mind. Feeling somewhat lonely and gradually getting used to the idea that I’ll sooner end up a crazy cat lady than finding myself a human company, I decided to teach the cat to sleep with me in the bed. The first attempt was a disaster and the cat jumped down right away when I placed her on what I designated her half of the bed. There was no second attempt because a while later I turned around to see the cat napping on the bed already. Since then she’s been making me company.


What I Hated (the Least) Today 234/365: Trying to Get Up

What I Hated (the Least) Today 234/365: Trying to Get Up

I have issues.  Among others, issues getting up in the morning. As an armchair psychiatrist, I suspect it’s because I lack motivation to get up. Unfortunately, I currently don’t have the ability to look forward to something or enjoy things. However, I think my routine of trying to get up is hilarious. Here’s what I tried to coach myself into getting up.

  1. Set an alarm, obviously. That didn’t work out because it’s too easy to reach for the phone, kill the alarm and set a new one for an hour later.  I can repeat this up to three times. Then I sometimes get up and sometimes give up and go back to sleep again, not bothering with the alarm anymore.
  2. Set an alarm and leave the phone on the table away from the bed. This didn’t work out either because I turned out to be capable of some cool zombie moves, crawling with my eyes closed and arms outstretched to the table, killing the alarm and returning to bed to resume sleeping.
  3. Set an alarm, leave the phone on the table and raise the volume to the max. This method succeeded in scaring the shit out of the cat, while leaving me quite calm and perfectly capable of getting up zombie style, silencing the alarm and returning to my place of rest.
  4. Set an alarm, leave the phone on the table, raise the volume to the max and set the most annoying sound for the alarm I could find (specifically, the ship bridge in Star Trek under attack). This scared the cat and me too, but persistent as I am, I still managed to get rid of the alarm and continue sleeping peacefully.

Tomorrow I’ll try all of the above plus leaving the phone in the kitchen. Perhaps on the top of the cupboards so I have to climb there. I’ll keep you posted if I get up or break my leg.