Thursday, 3 April 2008

You didn't have the time, so I softly slip away.

I administered first aid today at London Bridge! The lady did fainting and sick. I did first aid. She was all stressed and I made her drink fluids! I actually had to say, can I help? I'm a first aider. And did smugness. I said "Whats your name?" And everything! WOOOH.

I thought I was going to a smelly candle party tonight but I got the date wrong, its next week instead. So tonight I shall be doing girl stuff, like my nails and face packs and that. Life doesn't get much better than this.

I put on 2.5 lbs at Weight Watchers tuesday. I think that might be down to all them pints I've been drinking. Like my friend Sarah pointed out (who I go with) " Leanne, lets be honest we've only ourselves to blame, we used to come here 4 years ago and look, we're still fat." Haahaa. We even tried wearing our most crepe papery clothes but to no avail. I MUST go to the gym tomorrow. I'm gonna go. I really am.

I need to be more active.

I'm thinking of getting a hobby. I was thinking Knitting. Does that sound a bit shit? I think it sounds jumpery.

Amusing Charlie Brooker Article

I don't get people. What's their appeal, precisely? They waddle around with their haircuts on, cluttering the pavement like gormless, farting skittles. They're awful.

As you might imagine, given my inability to relate to the rest of the human race on even the most cursory level, I'm somewhat socially inept. Slide me between two strangers at any light-hearted jamboree and I'll either rock awkwardly and silently on my heels, or come out with a stone-cold conversation-killer like, "This room's quite rectangular, isn't it?" I glide through the social whirl with all the elegance of a dog in high heels.
A friend once tried help by coaching me in small talk. Step one: take note of what day it is. On a Monday or Tuesday, ask what they got up to at the weekend. Thursday or Friday, ask if they've got any plans for the coming weekend.

"What about Wednesdays?" I asked, wide-eyed. "Or what if I meet them at the weekend? What the hell happens then?" "Oh, for Christ's sake. Just ask what they do for a living."
That Friday, I attended a reasonably sized get-together and boldly stood in the corner, trying to avoid everyone and everything. When this plan failed, I tried out my newfound small-talk skills. But having dealt my opening gambit, I drifted off, gazing at eternity as their stupid wobbling faces outlined their weekend plans in punishing detail. I didn't care what they were doing at the weekend - nor, indeed, whether they lived or died. Afterwards my friend asked how the party had gone. I complained that the key to small talk had merely opened a door on a world of tedium.

"Well, duh," they said. "No one really cares what anyone else is getting up to. Why do you think it's called small talk? It's just shit you say to make things less awkward." What, just a pointless noise you make with your mouth? "Precisely," they said. "Cows moo. People small-talk." And I thought: I hate this world. This stinking, unbearable world.

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