It may get hairy…

Posts tagged ‘hell’


15 Grammar Goofs and the Urge to Maim

This is the first time I’m reblogging another’s infographic. A friend found it on StumbleUpon and I just had to steal it.

As most of you know, I’m a bit of a Grammar Nazi. It’s not something I’m proud of, as I tend to insult people or patronise them unintentionally. It’s not purposeful, it’s more a of a …tick. I can’t help it.

I have a long list of pet peeves, including dolphins, touchy-feely people,  maggots and men who spend more time on their hair than I do. The below 15 Grammar Goofs are well up there, but I also find my blood starts to boil when I see grammatical errors in corporate documents, emails or marketing material.

We all have some form of spell check on our emails; for God’s sake, even Hotmail has a our friendly little ABC (tick) button. How can we allow emails to go out to clients that are riddled with, not only grammatical errors such as the below, but smiley faces (punch me now), exclamation marks (really?) and (God forbid) quotes. You may need someone to tell you each day that obstacles are there to be overcome or that you’ll regret more the things you didn’t do, than those you did, but your clients don’t.

Personally, it makes me want to punch you in the face.

Wouldn’t you just love to respond to these people and show them the error of their ways? It’s my daily wish, but sadly, I’d have no money, as I’d spend all day correcting emails. On a side note: If there are any errors in this post, after I’ve pressed the button and read it through, it’s because I have a new keyboard, with an overly sensitive mouse that likes to type in random places.

May I burn in Grammar Nazi hell for all time.

15 Grammar Goofs That Make You Look Silly

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Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world

I’m probably about as demotivated as you can get this morning, so I figured a post might make me more…well…alive.

I did yoga for the first time in ages, but I was up early and it’s so hot, so I’m now a walking zombie. I now have to work.

This usually wouldn’t be a problem if I had something to do, but the joys of being self-employed is that being ‘pro-active’ is the only way to survive. I don’t have a set list of tasks or end goals that people give me, I have to sort them out myself.

So, after a long December and half-January, I find myself in a demotivational slump. I’m not a happy chappy. Those who run businesses that have been going for a while and aren’t dependant on tourist/retail/holiday income, know that December and January are slit-your-wrists, take up drinking months (when you can afford it – you are allowed to substitute food with drinking, thus saving you groceries).

Whilst you can be prepared for it financially and mentally, it’s still drains you. Counting your pennies every single day, getting to the point where your pride is almost non-existent and while you don’t regret being self-employed, you start to look at rich, old guys in a new, more positive light.

Most people know admitting this is like a kick in the shins for me, or a well-aimed face palm, but, as aforementioned, I have little pride left, so I may as well use you all as my shrink, so I can maybe get motivated again.

Let me have a little interjection quickly. I don’t want sympathy. I’m not actually on the bones of my arse, my business is actually doing well, apart from the normal Christmas period (as expected). I’m just being pathetic and feeling sorry for myself.

But woe betide the person who offers condescending sympathy – I’m looking for a slap in the face and get off your sorry arse talk, not a ‘Oh shame, honey, is there anything I can do?’ Anyone who does that, particularly those who haven’t yet hit the harrowing speed bumps that come with self-employment, will be treated as someone who is saying ‘Oh shame, honey, I’m doing so well at the moment, so I have the time to offer you useless sympathy and simultaneously offer you snide comfort, whilst reveling in my success.’

Technically, I’m on track. I’m exactly where I expected and hoped to be when I started up in September. So it’s really damned impressive that I’m on par, instead of a few steps behind.

But I’m broke. With that comes a new perspective. Everything revolves around money, and, as per bloody Murphy,* more bills and more bills come in (for instance: a mobile company, whose contract with you ended 2 years ago, suddenly black listing you for a R500, that you actually paid, without ever having contacting you to say they think you didn’t pay, and subsequently upping that R500 to R4500…; or the vet telling you the cost of the Guns’ vaccinations being well over R800).

And then clients don’t pay**

One of the first things my parents taught me, to a flabbergasted and incredulous face, was that ‘profit’ and ‘cash-flow’ aren’t synonyms. I pity those coming into self-employment who assume they are, and most newbies carry that comforting assumption around. The reality is that you often have to wait up to three months for payments, calling, threatening, emailing, just to get a payment. Sometimes, they don’t pay at all. Yes, it may come as a shock, but it happens. Legal fees cost too much to sue someone over a lousy K or two; so eventually, it dies and you move on at a small loss. Luckily, I haven’t had that yet with this company, or the three-month wait, but I do find someone stalling at present, and it irks me.  A lot.

So, I sit here, dwelling on when an appropriate time between emails has passed, so I can press on with that problem and I can’t seem to focus on anything else, such as making more money. I have many leads, but they’re taking their time to come through… and I sit here demotivated and making matters worse.


“Turning and turning the widening gyre

the falcon cannot hear the falconer”

*If Firefox hadn’t insisted I ‘proper noun’ his name, I’d have left it at my initial lowercased insult…but red lines upset me.

**I’m sure people will tell me not to put this on my blog, but hey ho, there’s no connection from my site to here, just the other way around, so hopefully I’ll be alright.


A special kind of hell

Friday looms. Most look forward to Fridays, more so as they start to mark the end of the year and the coming of vacation.

Cat + little redhead that looks just like I did = perfect picture for me.

I have no life, I work throughout the weekends and I don’t have a vacation – therefore, Fridays loom. But more so this one, as Friday marks the day I turn a whole 28.

I’m not all that fussed about age. The older I get, the further I seem to get from my small goals, but the closer I get to my big ones, so technically, I’m sort of balanced. However, birthdays for me hold a special kind of horror.

Firstly, a day that’s all about me is likely to send me cowering under the desks and holding back remotely telling anyone about said day (which, due to my terror, I always seem to do – earning myself my very own high-five to the forehead). Don’t get me wrong, I’m plenty selfish and self-centred on any given day, but a day that forces you down on your knees to beg for attention isn’t my idea of fun.

I don’t want everyone looking at me. As a redhead, that comes part of the package and it’s the part I despise. I need no more attention please. I don’t want the world to see my fly’s undone, or I’ve, yet again, spilt coffee down my front. I don’t want hugs from smelly strangers or lovely smiles that, regardless of who they’re from, I feel the need to smack off the holder’s face. And I don’t want presents 😥

Don’t laugh, this is where I quiver in fear. The present giving. Yes, we all like to get shit that we’ve wanted to for ages and the shit I get is good…great even, but the process of getting it? Let’s just say I’m not sure it’s worth the sacrifice.

Days before the big day looms I start to practice my expressions. A one-size-fits-all expression doesn’t work. Present givers know me too well and would know that one present is by far superior than the other, and therefore determines a superior expression. But what if I don’t like said present?

If I’m ecstatic, am I showing my appreciation enough? Do they know that inside I’m yelling for joy and offering them my first-born child? If I hate the present, is it showing? Can they see me plotting revenge behind my tightly stitched on ‘thank you smile?’

The idea that someone would know that I’m not happy with something they went out of their way to get me, sends me off into a stressed, panic-driven spin. The idea that they haven’t the foggiest that I’m happier than I’ve been in years, does the equivalent.

A short example: My parents call me to the nearby mall the other day, as they struggled to find the speakers that I had hinted I wanted (the hint itself took much effort). I rush off there, in dread, but pasted a solider-face on, only to find they’d organised for me to ‘test’ the various speakers. I was in Hell. I tried to look at prices (choose the cheapest), but the folks know me too well and hid the prices. I tried to choose the first one, but they insisted I try them. They know me horribly well.

By the time I arrived home, my ulcer had actually started bleeding again.* This is how much stress birthdays are.

Do any of you suffer the same? Would any of you truly (now let’s be honest) prefer to cancel birthdays and have absolutely no money spent on you?

*On the plus side, the speaker I chose was awesome.

Drunken woes and toilet bowls

Right, so this is a far from pleasant blog, as the heading tells you.

So, this weekend I popped off to Margate with my lovely mother and grandfather. We behaved ourselves for a full day, until Saturday, when I was asked to be the sacrificial Designated Dave and off I drove my elders to the pub, so they could get sloshed.

Sunday was my turn.

I’m going to skip ahead quickly – mainly because the banal details of how I ended up hugging the toilet bowl, eyes streaming and fully believing parts of my stomach were swirling around in the (…well… I won’t gross you out, but you get it), are pointless.

Lesson learnt 1: Don’t go drinking with a 19 year old.

Not only can they out do you, but they’re smart enough not to try. They remain pretty. You don’t. Although, to be honest, she was an absolute ball.

Lesson learnt 2: Do not try to convince some brauns-no-brain plonker that religious arguments are pointless.

Just shut up. They won’t stop. Ever….

Lesson learnt 3 (and most importantly): Do not drink blue shooters on an ulcer.

Why it takes two mind-numbing lessons to teach me this, I haven’t the foggiest. The last time I got plastered, was through some other blue, toxic nonsense that led to loose morals and stomach contents.

It took a week for me to recover. Not fully, as for over a month I struggled to eat anything – the consequence of pouring neat alcohol onto a gaping hole in your innards.

This time it was bubblegum tequila. I hate bubblegum. I hate tequila, so how I had so much, god only knows.

There is no hyperbole when I say I thought I lost chunks of my stomach lining. The pain was so intense that I barely believed I was alive. Long after any alcohol had left my system in the projectile sort of way, I still lay sprawled over the bowl, calling God on the Great White Telephone.

Sleep-induced delirium didn’t help me. How sleep came (and so deeply!) in my state floors me, but every time the spasms passed, I slipped back, which means that the pain took on strange and gnarly contours, becoming a real and living thing, rather than a symptom.

I eventually stopped, well, mostly and heedless of my appearance managed to pack, climb into the car and snooze myself back into normalcy.

My pain was noticed during the night – others knew of my ulcer and realised that this wasn’t any hangover, but rather a horrible situation, triggered by bloody blue shooters.

And yet, come morning, the jokes ensued. I know I should have expected them, but I wonder why, when the world knows of your affliction (ulcer, not alcoholism), does it all become moot, when triggered by booze?

So. Moral of the story – do not drink blue shooters on an almost healed ulcer.

PS. My friend recently posted a rather personal blog on the effects of over-thinking – ‘Why didn’t I do this?’ ‘Why did I say that?’ ‘Why didn’t I stick up for myself‘ etc etc…we all know the feeling. I’d tag her in this, but I believe her blog to be very personal, so won’t, but now I’m afflicted with the same bloody disease. Pre-puke, I was rather happy and very friendly. I’m a loving drunk – everyone is beautiful and I give much needed advice (not!) to the young’uns and know better than everyone else. I try to fix fights, hug and touch everyone (usually, in the normal platonic way) and am just amicable. So, post-puke I find myself wondering – Why did I do that? Why did I confront the idiot in my nice and amicable way? Did he take it the wrong way when I touched his arm? I’d rather return to mid-puke than have anything with that lunk of dumb.

There are few things worse than drunken woes and toilet bowls. 😦

Infernal can go to hell

I have learnt the error of my ways – never again shall I say “well, it couldn’t get worse.”

Infernal has brought in motorcycle wielding residents.

Not just any bikers, I may add. I’ve never had a problem with the biker community, I find them fun, loud, fellow ale-downers and, on occasion, rather hot.

But these bikers…these are the type that believe the volume of their revving is directly proportionate to size of certain appendages.

I am not happy.

They’re not even hot.

And one’s a Vespa – need I say more?

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