Death and other diversions

I think we can all agree that being sick is pretty great. Not only does it get you off work or whatever you are supposed to be doing for the day but it practically insists that you stay in bed and not wash your hair for a few days. Washing one's hair is pretty much crap. There's all the soap and water to deal with, two things you will know I am pretty much against. Washing the dog's hair is hilarious though, if only for the brief half an hour he runs around shivering. Fucking A. Unfortunately I hardly ever get sick because I am the off-spring of two horribly hardy people. From my mother's side comes the tough Murphy stomach which could swallow children whole and not experience the slightest digestive upset. From my father comes the enviable Aughney resistance to all disease before age fifty. Wait! Before you beg me to procreate with you and spread these anti-disease genes onto your kiddies I have to warn you that the Aughneys have a curious proclivity to develop serious and unpleasant illnesses around fifty to fifty-five and die soon after. Go on. Beg me to procreate with you now.

Fortunately I have developed an unusually paranoid hypochondria to keep me busy until death. What I like especially is self-diagnosis. This keeps meddlesome Western medicine out of my way. And Eastern medicine while we're at it. I ain't no racist. For example, I have determined that I am a unmotivated underachiever with anti-social urges and a slight narcissistic tendency. I know: inspired. Talk about your in-depth assessment. Here's some more: that pain in your side after your fourth cup of coffee? Cancer. Those unidentified bruises on your person after a night out? Cancer, without a doubt. That vague fluttering in your chest whenever your mother starts muttering about your inability to keep a job? Cancer. And stress, probably. You need to lie down.

Speaking of lying down, I have recently learned an excellent self-diagnostic trick from my good friend and colleague, Roberta. Roberta, aka Bert but not to be confused with 'Burt', listened with little patience to my third-in-a-month declaration of my concern that I had appendicitis. I haven't a clue where my appendix is but I am dead certain that if I experience a sudden, unrecognizable ache somewhere in my body it has to be appendicitis. Unfortunately, Bert does know where the appendix is. And how to tell whether it is burst or not.

'Lie on the floor and get someone to poke you. If it hurts then your appendix is burst. If not it's not.'

Ignore the juvenile misreading of the first sentence and concentrate. This is good stuff! Now I check for appendicitis every morning when I get up. That and scorch marks on my bedsheets for signs of spontaneous combustion [I've read Bleak House, don't you dare tell me it's a myth!]. Of course, avoid having a malicious person like Roisin doing the poking as I did that first day in work, or you will find yourself kicked and stepped on until you agree to get up and stop annoying everyone. Selfish cow. I might burst my appendix just to spite her.

I am a horrid, scabrous wretch

Don't mind me. One of my regular bouts of self-loathing just kicked in, should be over it by March. I have a coldsore on my lip, a plaster on my thumb and multiple cuts on my knees. So the scabrous bit is about right. In happier news I have decided I want a hamster for my birthday. My good buddy Roisin whose mum owns the pet shop here in Tramore says they only cost about a tenner! I would keep him in a drawer in my room and feed him grapes. Make sure to check no-one else is getting me one before you buy though; apparently if you have two they end up eating each other. You get them to mate by leaving them in a bucket for half an hour together, any longer and one would eat the other. Which, admittedly, would be cool but I really couldn't face cleaning up the mess.

By the way, Wednesday night is off-limit for all future conversations. I don't want to talk about it. The cuts on my knees are memory enough.

Little sister mine

Wow. Thank you all. Sally is majorly delighted. If she could figure out how to post a comment, and if she had time off from faffing about college and flicking her hair she would tell you herself. Instead, I will do it for her. This is thank you, Sally style:

Tnx so much!U guys roc!!Can sum1 get me a job in da Gap now?and sum fake id i wnt b 19 for like a whole month.Tnx again!!!

She means it you guys. Also, I know Canada doesn't have an STD named after it. That was just me trying to be funny. Failing miserably, as usual. Anyway. Next problem up for group discussion: Jenny Len spilt Lucozade on my new brown leather bag last weekend. It won't come off when I rub it or when I frown at it. Suggestions from the floor?

PS: I'm going to be in Dublin next weekend. Get the lead out you guys. And the vodka. The lead isn't actually necessary. That was just me trying to be an asshole. Successfully, I think we can all agree.

Canadia

My sister is going to Canada for the summer. One of those student-fuck-about-drinking-while-pretending-to-work-and-experience-other-cultures things. I'm sure you've heard of them. At least it keeps the student's from vomiting in Irish gardens, I say. She got a loan from the Credit Union this morning and is pissing herself with excitement at spending the thing. Seeing as she's not going till June and she can't hold on to a tenner for longer than ten minutes, I doubt she'll have much of it left by then. Here's my problem though: Sally looks to me for advice on everything*. I am God to that poor girl. And my knowledge on Canada extends to Bryan Adams and facts gleaned from that South Park film. Does anyone know anything about Canada? Besides the fact that it has an STD named after it, obviously.

*Slight stretching of truth employed here.

Like Austen, I never even finished Persuasion. Couldn't be arsed. Dunno what her excuse is

You are Anne Elliott from Persuasion. You
might also be Harriet Smith from Emma,
or Fanny Price from Mansfield Park or
possibly even Jane Fairfax from Emma.
People underestimate you all the time. You are
somewhat introverted, so it is assumed that
other people can persuade you to do anything,
or even think that they can roll right over
you, even when they mean to be doing you a good
deed. The good news is, you have it within
yourself to stand up and take charge-- you know
what's right, and you know what you want, after
all! It's just a matter of speaking up!

Which Jane Austen Character Are You?

There's a girl works down the chip-shop thinks she's Lucy

I'd update but I am off celebrating. I've told everyone I know that I have been nominated for a prestigious blogging award. That's right, nominated. By my peers. Don't go correcting them, what they don't know won't hurt them. My aunt Mercy roared laughing. Everyone else seemed vaugely impressed though. I am thinking of letting the mayor honour me. She managed to marry into Mossy's family though so her judgement can't be all that sound. When I win I can put 'Lucy Aughney-Ireland's greatest blogger' on my passport. Brilliant.

Also, wee Laura Murph turned nineteen on Tuesday. She is hugely grumpy about it so don't mention it. What's nineteen, I say? Twenty-three, now that's a bitch of a number. March twenty-first, fuckers. I read an interview with Mark Little last week and in it he goes: 'if you're not passionate about something at twenty-one, you may as well wait for death'. What? I'm not passionate about anything except tuna sandwiches. That and where my next vodka is coming from.

Poor Lucy. An internet celebrity and a passionless worm waiting for death. I'm feeling a bit lukewarm about 2006 so far.

The 2006 Bloggies

Vote for your favourite blogs now. Remeber to vote Feigning Interest for best Irish / British weblog.

Link

Lest we forget

At this time of year it is customary to faff about looking back on the 365 days just gone. To my mind this is ridiculous. It was hell enough going through them all, leave off the retrospection. These are my plans for 2006: give up smoking, join the gym and sort out everything else. When I announced this last night Jenny's cousin Esther said that gyms were a joke. 'Just don't eat for a month,' she said, smoking my cigarettes, 'that worked for me.' This Esther person is an utter loon by the way who announced, rather hilariously* within ten minutes of meeting me that she wanted to 'make out' with me at midnight. Now, I know I'm hot stuff but 'make out'? What are we, American? That's all I need.

So I am all about the future. The next step. Looking forward. Some people will insist on bringing me down though. Yesterday in work smarty-pants Donal goes: 'Are you coming up to Noel's party tonight?' and I went 'No, I'm not fucking invited, am I?' and he went 'you weren't invited last year' and I went 'Yeah but I didn't go last-' and then Donal started sniggering. Because apparently I did go last year, uninvited, and started flinging bowls of peanuts about and sitting behind the Christmas tree. And other madcap things that us freespirited sort enjoy.

So, yeah. Last year. You may be pleased to know that this new years I did not attempt to beat anyone up. Instead I spent six hours banging cheekbones (my version of air-kissing- I do not put my lips on the disease-riddled skin of the common people) with various people I hardly ever see. But onwards, I say!

*Not.