(If this guy and that guy can have somewhat condescending autobiographies written, I can compile a list that indicates expertise where perhaps there is none.)

1. Have no pride

I used to be one of those girls who parked her car next to her boss’ in the lot. I held my head up high as I changed the filter of the company coffee maker, I answered phones with dignity. I knew that I was good at what I did, and I fulfilled my job description expertly.

Freelance doesn't come with the kind of self-congratulatory recognition of a job well done. You’ll learn quickly that you will take any job (“Write advertising about a reusable tampon made of cigarette butts? Sure! 50% upfront, we’ll have the entire project to you by Friday.”) You will also learn how deep your well of patience is. You will perfect the art of smiling when you’re told that the job you wasted your entire weekend on has been pared down to two sentences that are grammatically incorrect, or you’ll write countless, fruitless taglines for an establishment that you would never frequent. Clients will yell at you and you will take it; and even if your general nature is to spout out riot grrl lyrics, you’ll learn to be called “dear,” “hon,” or “cute” by a potential client. Because patience equals money. And Kathleen Hanna never paid your T-Mobile bill.

Additionally, you’re going to have to ask for help. Accept that fact. Even if it’s in the form of an email to a writer you respect for guidance on creating the perfect metaphor, or putting a donation button on your blog (ahem), or simply handing out your business card at every opportunity, remember that the squeaky wheel gets the most oil. Especially if it’s a wheel attached to a Ferrari, not a fixed gear.

2. Don’t think too far ahead

Sometimes the unpredictable happens. For example, last week our old office was broken into and Simon’s computer, router, Grundig radio, and space pen were stolen. This was not something we had planned on dealing with, but you take the rough with the smooth.

It’s easy to want to compartmentalize your experiences and look to the future, especially if you’re a product of the higher education system. Grade school leads to high school leads to college leads to a master’s degree or a job…leads to marriage, house, kids, retirement. Let’s face it, freelancing barely pays this month’s bills. I can’t conceive of a day when I will be able to actually save money to purchase the stamps for the envelope that would mail a mortgage payment, let alone buy a house. Or a car. Or a pair of new shoes.

If you commit to following your passion, chances are you’ll have to accept that you don’t know what’s around that proverbial bend. It’s like The Lady, Or The Tiger?, only it’s The New Client, or Sell Your Stuff? Hopefully karma will repay us for that theft and the next unpredictable turn of events will be an email offering us a new gig.

Besides, you’re fucking batshit if you think you’ll ever be able to retire. And I don’t even know what you do for a living.

3. Have side projects

I know this probably seems a little counterintuitive, I mean, if you’re starving how can you focus on anything else? But if you don’t want to go apecrap bananas and wind up so stressed that you start having hot flashes and diarrhea, get a hobby. Seriously. One of us is a DJ on the side, the other has a blog and a crossword habit. It’s essential for us to write our own stuff, may it be stories, poetry, articles, blogs, grocery lists. Being stuck in “work mode,” even if it’s what you love to do, can only suck the passion right out of the party. Just like how in a functioning relationship you need time away from your partner, as a freelancer you sometimes need to stop swimming laps in the professional pool in order to soak in the creative hot tub.

Also, I cannot understate the importance of regular showers, wearing an actual outfit while working, and making sure you have readily available caffeine.

4. Be grateful

The donations from this blog, the clients who have solicited our work after reading, anybody who has ever sent an email saying simply that they enjoyed this professional whingeing diary…thank you. (And, yes, I mean whingeing.)

There isn’t a day that has gone by since the beginning of going freelance that I haven’t felt sincere gratitude towards strangers. It’s a symbiotic relationship, really. If we get work, we get to eat; if I get letters and donations as a result of this blog, I can’t flake on it and just say, “Oh, fuck it, nobody is reading it anyway.” The equation for persistence isn’t like that “success” piechart of 1% inspiration, 99% perspiration. It’s 50% feeling guilty combined with an immitigable need to make people like me.

Any morning that I wake up and don’t wince because I have eight hours of something I don’t care about in front of me is a good one. It’s people who read this that make that possible. I know it’s a hippie-dippy thing to say. I know it sounds like it should be the voiceover for a public television ad. But know that if you read this, you are directly making somebody’s life better. (Mine. And, indirectly, Simon’s.) Double that happiness if you give feedback.

5. The Internet is every fuck up’s PR firm

I know my friend Lisa. She lives in Chicago, likes to read David Foster Wallace, has a dog named Reeses, and hates pad thai. From her photograph I can tell that she has brown hair. I could not, however, pick her out of a lineup, or notice her on a crowded bus. She, on the other hand, thinks I look like a rotary telephone. Because that’s my icon.

The internet is a bizarre place. You “meet” a lot of people on it, and by following tiny, self-administered snippets you can feel as though you’re let into a person’s life. If you’re lucky, you meet some good ones. But a lot of the time, however, you wind up with what I can only describe as the kinds of people with the social skills that got them banned from the Renaissance Faire due to bad behavior.

In order to write about yourself you probably have some hope of getting attention. Understand that part of creating an identity on the web -- no matter how close to the truth it is -- requires some level of persona management. People will think that they know you from what you‘ve written, it is likely that they do not. People may feel that they have the jurisdiction to pass judgment on you, and they do, because you are sharing something, may it be as trivial as the kind of cereal you had for breakfast or the fact that you accidentally got elbowed in the face during sex.

That’s not to say that anyone has the right to aggressively berate you or act seedy and weird. Playground rules still apply: play nice. But recognize that by using the internet to voice your opinion, or to do a burlesque dance of verbiage for work, especially as a freelance writer, you’re putting yourself at risk of being scrutinized. And, of course, there’s that issue of oversharing.

Just take note, dear reader. Readers, plural, if both of you are reading, Mom and Dad. Keep your head up, keep your distance, but most important of all, keep trying.

Ainsley Drew at gmail

Brevity equals wit?

Cash money.

(Thank you.)

Il a donc compris que son auditeur était homosexapoile... (à date... rien-là)

L'animateur était semi sous le choc, mais quand on est nerveux... Notre cerveau peut dire carrément n'importe quoi...

Animateur : Alors, j'espère que toi et ton copain... allez vous dilater la rate ce soir au show...

La dilatation est un phénomène au cours duquel une cavité du corps, un vaisseau ou un orifice sont élargis ou étirés, à la suite du fonctionnement normal de l'organisme ou d'une maladie.

Auditeur : Dilater quoi ?

Animateur : La rate... la rate... amusez vous (avec la voix d'un gars mal à l'aise avec l'accent radiophonique FM)

Je l'ai trouvé bien bonne... À défaut de la trouver bonne... L'avez-vous compris ?

Le cerveau peut jouer de vilain tour... À moins d'en prendre soin... J'ai décidé de faire plaisir encore une fois à mon cerveau et également à mon coeur cet après-midi en me procurant deux autres livres d'Avard...

J'ai toujours aimé Avard pour son honnêteté et son franc parler, mais je le connaissais sans plus. Après la lecture de Chronique d'Avard, je viens de m'attaquer à les 50 premières pages du livre: Pour de vrai...

Déjà, après 2 heures de lecture je suis comblé. Possible que je passe le reste de ma soirée à dévoré ce livre et me dilater (oups) la rate à le lire... Par la suite, j'ai acheté le livre : L'esprit de bottine...  J'ai bien hâte et je me connais... d'ici 1 semaine ou 2 je vais avoir terminé la lecture des deux ouvrages.

Ah oui... J'aime bien avoir de l'attention et quelque chose à faire partout ! Je me suis procuré dans une autre librairie, mais celle-ci était une librairie usagée... J'ai acheté la biographie de Jacques ''Coco'' Demers qui est maintenant bien installé près de ma cuvette. Après Tom Lapointe, Mario Tremblay, Michel Bergeron et le livre sur l'histoire de Lance et Compte, un autre livre sportif prend place près de ma toilette... Je ne sais pas pourquoi, mais lorsque je suis à la toilette... J'aime dilater un livre sportif de fond en comble.

Coté lecture de bol... Il y a toujours le Reader's Digest qui fait une excellente besogne. Les amaricains l'ont trouvés le concept... Une revue pour la selle avec le mot Digest... Fallait y penser !

Bon revenons à nos moutons... (en faite... quel mouton) Je parle de n'importe quoi depuis tantôt ! Aujourd'hui je pensais... Je réfléchissais en écoutant la radio sur le projet radio que j'avais piloté avec Phil et les deux filles et j'ai bien hâte de reprendre l'aventure à la fin septembre. Il y a Phil et une nouvelle venue qui va se joindre à nous. On va l'appeler : Stella ! C'est son surnom avec son blog.

Un blog sur sa vie et sur le ploto Mont-Royal... Assez intéressant... Elle va apporter le coté cu-cul jeune fille qu'on cherche moi et Phil. Je t'agace Stella, tu es très intéressante...

On se reparle plus tard, je suis toujours en vacance et François Avard m'attend...

Sylwia s'est levé un matin en réalisant à peine qu'elle avait finalement accepté la proposition de ses patrons, de les suivre à Paris. Depuis au moins septembre 2007 elle se refusait à partir et là, en quelques jours tout cela a changé. Et ce jour là, elle partait alors que je me levais.

Anne a quitté le bar Latino mercredi soir, probablement en me maudissant de rappeller sans cesse qu'elle n'allait plus être avec nous. Je savais que cela devait arriver et je lui avais proposé mon aide pour son déménagement. Alors quand ce jour est arrivé, je l'ai aidé.

Suna a organisé son pot de départ. Cela aussi devait arriver, je craignais juste que mon coeur ne cède sous la douleur. Et me voilà à parler d'elle avec le chauffeur du taxi qui me ramène. Il croit au karma, aux liens des existences. Alors je me suis endormi en pensant à elle. A elle, si belle.

A toi pti coeur, mon pti ange.

Vrijdagavond straight from work zoals dat dan noemt naar een bbq. En wat voor één ! Zelden nog zoveel plezier gehad met een gezelschapspelletje "vanaf 12 jaar"

Zaterdag op het gemak nog wat solden gedaan (jaaaaaaa alweer schoenen ja ;) )

En vandaag, zondag dus, alweer een barbeque.

Dit alles speelde zich af in Brugge en twas verdorie plezant.

Wat mij wel zorgen baart is dat ik alweer zo verschrikkelijk moe ben. Nochtans heb ik véél geslapen dit weekend. Het is net een jaar geleden dat ik klierkoorts had, en hoewel je daar na één keer immuun voor bent geworden, kan je wel nog altijd een andere variant krijgen... Nuja, ik ga nog even afwachten (alleszins tot na Rock Zottegem) en verder zien hoe het evolueert.

Feit is dat ik geen zware inspanningen doe en altijd vreselijk moe ben!

Nu ga ik jullie alweer laten: Federer naar de overwinning proberen schreeuwen op Wimbledon & ondertussen een stukje eten.

Ik hoop dat jullie weekend even goed was als het mijne!

P.S.: Ik ben geslaagd ;)

I am supposed to be revealing a set of 8 secrets about me, well this is a real tough one, I need to dig deep into my closet, lets see how many I can unearth.

• I have entered women’s loo once in my lifetime. Well it was an accident of course, I was kind of half asleep with a real urgency to find one, I didn’t realize until I got in and began to see that there were no long urinals in there, still not realizing it kind of went into the ones with the door, and came out. Only the next morning I realized what I had done. Can I blame this on work stress? Hehhe
• I always considered sleeping with a body pillow as very girly thing to do, but somewhere I have a fear that I might end up liking it if I start doing it. Oh man this was one of the toughest secrets get out of me.
• I love to have mid night snacks, I was so obsessed with the idea that I used to stay awake with lots of difficulty until 12 o clock so that I can get to have the satisfaction of having a midnight snack. It usually used to be chocolate bar, and at very rare times I end up making myself a full fledged southing Indian breakfast at the middle of the night.
• I am too afraid of dogs, I think I have mentioned this already,  whenever they come near me, even if they are puppies, I kind of feel afraid, What do I do about this one?
• I once in a while exaggerate incidents when I make a post out of them, Is this a writer’s fault?, or may be its in my personna
• I claim peach is my favorite color, but I never buy anything for myself in that color, mainly because I like it only on women and am more or less ashamed to admit I observe what women wear.
• I like to skip showers on weekend, and am easily caught by mom every time.
• I am shy to get into swimming pools, I don’t like to get into bathing suits and get into the pools, so I normally choose the night times when there are hardly any people around.

Cool! ….not bad…I did find eight of them.
So any of you guys wanna try?

E Gonzaguinha eu sempre associo a um amigo dos meus pais, que morreu na mesma época, provavelmente porque os dois usavam barba. Esse Pedro Nelson morreu em uma daquelas chapadas do Goiás/Mato grosso, jogando o carro desfiladeiro abaixo depois de uma cachaça das boas.

Deve ter sido hollywoodiano.

برای دانلود بر روی ادامه مطلب کلیک کنید

سرور 1

The latest corruption scandal afflicting the Kibaki government is yet another episode in the theatre of mediocrity afflicting Kenya, and fuelled by a cruel, corrupt elite with an aristocratic strangle hold on power protected by the security forces.

Kenya’s recent ranking among the world’s failed and failing states is, in large part, due to what the authors of the ranking describe as, “a fractured elite.” The Grand Regency saga and the calls for the sacking of Finance Minister Amos Kimunya are driven by infighting between various factions of the elite and not out of a sense of duty to the Kenyan people.

The worst manifestation of how Kenya leaders, both opposition and government, have run the country down was the violence witnessed early this year following disputed elections. Tribes turned against each other, edged on by politicians willing to shed blood in order to score points against their opponents. People who had lived peacefully for 50 years suddenly found fault with each other. After the violence, the elite were quick to talk of a return to normalcy while hundreds of thousands slept in fields: destitute and hopeless.

The same politicians felt no shame heading to foreign capitals to plead for Shs31 billion (US$500 million) for reconstruction, without saying who had caused the destruction in the first place.

The story of the Grand Regency underlines how an insensitive and visionless elite can hold a country hostage and ruin the hopes of hard working Kenyans. The hotel was built with funds stolen from the Central Bank by Kamlesh Pattni in collaboration with former President Daniel arap Moi. Every member of Kenya's elite partook of Goldenberg money. It is ironical and painful to see the same people today pretending to be holier than though.

Look at Mutula Kilonzo, the Minister of Nairobi Metropolitan Affairs, loudly proclaiming how he helped sell the Grand Regency to Pattni in the early 1990s. Isn't this a confession from Kilonzo of having aided and abetted grand corruption? Is it any wonder that soon after he became minister, his biggest client – Moi – expressed confidence in the Nairobi Metropolitan ministry?

Listen at Cyrus Jirongo remodelling himself as leader of the Grand Opposition. This is one man who should not even be talking. He should explain to Kenyans how he became rich through Youth for KANU 92 and where the money came from. I am sure Kenyans, whose memories are famed for forgetfulness, would be interested to know that Jirongo's deputy in YK92 was one William Ruto, currently Minister for Agriculture and chief of the Kalenjin.

Well, I'm not defending Kibaki. If it wasn't for his poor leadership skills (if any), Kenya would be a much better place to call home. Neither am I saying that Amos Kimunya is any better. He is the latest blue eyed boy of Kenya's elite to be duped into doing their dirty work. Because of being made to feel important, Kimunya assumed an air of arrogance that lost him the friends he so badly needs today. Soon, Kimunya is going to be dumped just like all the rest. Can't Kenyans see? Unless you are born from one of Kenya's top families, you are just another piece of trash to be used and tossed away like toilet paper.

I'm not writing this because I am pro-this or pro-that party. All these parties are nothing more than big lies aimed at masking the truth from Kenyans. That is why political parties have become meaningless. When Mobutu was president of Zaire (now Congo) they had hundreds of political parties and Mobutu was happy that Zaire was a democratic country. Well, we all know what happened to Mobutu and Congo afterwards. People in that country are fighting so much that they eat each other for food.

My wife recently asked me whether things will get better in Kenya. My answer was a big NO! Kenya will continue getting worse. Our ranking as a failing state will get lower and lower. We may think that we are better than Zimbabwe, that we will never become another Somalia. But I fear that, at the rate in which we are going, we are working very hard to get there.

The Nairobi Chronicle welcomes written submissions from readers. Please write to nairobichronicle@live.com. Submissions will be edited but only for space and enhancement of clarity.

-su 007, che se ho capito bene uscirà anche in italia a novembre, ho una news sulla colonna sonora..non verrà più cantata da amy winehouse, troppo agitata la sua vita, ma forse dai duran duran! un ritorno quindi, speriamo bene!

-sta per uscire il nuovo film su Batman,"The Dark Night" (stavolta il titolo è stato tradotto: "Il cavaliere oscuro"): è il mio supereroe preferito..su internet si possono trovare i trailer, ma anche altro come una parodia americana (ben fatta!) e questo confronto tra il vecchio e il nuovo Joker, chi vincerà? secondo me Jack Nicholson era più fumettistico mentre il compianto Heath Ledger è più realistico (si parla addirittura di Oscar postumo!).  comunque sia io mi aspetto un gran bel film!

Tout d'abord n° 1 j'ai élu Fler - Warum bist do su. Ne me demandez pas pourquoi je pourrais vous répondre. Peut etre parceque ça me rapelle des trucs ? C'est peut etre l'explication la plus valable... Bref écoutez et réagissez selon vos envies. Moi en tout cas je kiffe !

En n° 2, je met une musique j'aime vraiment : Linkin Park - What I have Done. Là aussi impossible de vous dire pourquoi. Malgré tout je pense que ça a rapport avec la chanson. Cette video montre en gros tout le boxon qu'a mis l'homme sur la terre. Bon allez, vaut mieux écouter que s'apitoyer sur le sort de la terre...

Pour la n° 3 j'ai choisit celle qui auparavant était permière : WithinTemptation - Memories. La musique est magnifique et le clip est parfait. Un pur bijou musical. Ils ont réussi à mettre ensemble un violoncelle et une batrie ainsi qu'une guitare et un piano. En plus la voix de la fille est magnifique. Donc y a plus qu'à écouter...

Overshare (v): [oh-ver-cher, òver-shér] To give inappropriate personal information to a stranger or group of strangers, often in written form, namely through the forum known as the Internet.

I’ve heard the expression why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free? about two things: women and blogging. I feel like I’m in a fair enough position to comment on both.

Some guy called Rex something-or-other said some stuff on another blog hosting site. I have no idea what he wrote and I hadn’t heard of this man until today, courtesy of my favorite website that informs me of things that I wish I had been aware of when they were actually happening, Gawker. Apparently his blog is about trying to get with girls and the Internet and New York City, all of which I list as components on my list of top ten things that give me reason to live. (Five food groups, two parents, you do the math.)

As a woman, society seems to have this notion that my goal is to settle down and breed. In order to get to step A in that manual, however, I need to find a man, lure him into my clutches, and then somehow or another entice him into setting up a little nest where the wonders of reproduction and domesticity will take place.

This, to me, is not only a terrifying misrepresentation of what every girl I’ve slept with has wanted, it’s also flat-out wrong for me personally. I mean, I want kids. But I don’t even need a dude to do that.

Back in the day, when this convention was established, women would stay virgins until their wedding night as a sort of consolation prize to the men who had slipped out of the comfortable sweatpants of bachelorhood in order to strap on the steel wool unitard of marriage. The assumption, I guess, was that the hymen would be the last bit of fun a gent would encounter until tossing a football in the yard with junior years later. So girls who gave up the big v in the back bucket seats of a Thunderbird were sullying themselves, lowering the price of their personal stock, and possibly compromising their opportunity to obtain an idyllic and white wedding. Mothers would say to their little ladies, “Now, dear, he’s not going to buy the cow if he can get the milk for free.”

With blogging, it’s much the same. What originally served as either a tool for self-promotion or as the Internet equivalent of stealing your sister’s diary has now become a way to write yourself into a corner.

Case in point: I want a book deal. Would you buy my book? Maybe. Would you pay me to write one? Uh, I’m already writing a semi-regular blog. I’m basically writing that book and simply controlling how many chapters you get to read at a time, no? Why pay me for that?

For those of you in publishing, if you’re reading, I can make really great coffee if you need an administrative assistant. Or, you know, write a book, article, corporate blog…

The issue of Rex Sorgatz’s blog is tied to my revelation regarding the milk with the outcry from those who rally against oversharing.

Rex, who wrote in response to a comment that had been posted on his blog, decried the very notion of oversharing, stating that if “ fucking Tumblr is oversharing, then so is writing a goddamn novel.”

All right, Rex, and for those of you who agree with him, let me strap on my apron and play the role of mommy: There is at least one fundamental difference between a blog and a novel.

Novelists are paid.

Most bloggers are not.

This is why oversharing is technically okay. One could argue that by presenting everything, for free, in written form, from your toddler eating Cheerios to your lover leaving cumstains, and placing it on something as quasi-transparent and ever-available as the Internet, that there is no such thing as truly sharing too much. Unlike being stuck on a crowded subway car with some asshole singing along with Fergie on her iPod, you don’t have to bear witness to it. If you don’t like what you read, then don’t visit that site ever again, don’t subscribe to its feed, forget about it. Post a nasty comment if you really are offended.

Much in the same way that a novelist will go back to being an admin temp if nobody buys his or her novel.

Which is when I ask why do we do this at all? I started this blog to document what I was sure was a rapid decent into starvation and eventual retreat back to Long Island, New York, where I would waste away on my mother’s couch, my dreams tethered by a pantyhose to a cubicle.

Instead it has become a weird lifeline in a way, my scrapbook of attempting to do the one thing I‘ve fantasized about doing but never had the balls to try: writing for money. If somebody is reading something I write -- and if they fucking donate money -- I’m a writer. It’s that simple. I might be so poor that I use change to buy food, but I’m still doing what I love. This blog, therefore, morphed into a method of possibly getting clients and garnering attention that could lead to work, and self-aggrandizing in the process.

If that fell apart it could always spiral out into a whiny documentation of my boring life. Instead of the validation of my professional aspirations by generating any sort of paltry income, I would send my posts out into the ether feeling like my actual existence “meant something” because somebody out there could read it.

Let me tell you, my day-to-day life is a simple and boring formula of grocery shopping, sitting at a computer, going to AA meetings, bumping uglies with my boyfriend, checking out girls and making crass jokes. It’s not exciting. The only reason why you’d care to read about that half of what’s behind the curtain is ‘cause you’re my mom or you’re stalking me.

The final point to the pasteurization argument was illuminated to me today when I wanted to write a post about the writers’ block I’ve been experiencing. The block is why I only posted once this week, it’s why I haven’t worked on more than assignments with upcoming deadlines, it’s why I am one cranky little bitch. The causes are numerous: it’s been hot, I had some sort of stomach flu, I had worked over ten days in a row, but mainly I was simply having personal issues that, now, are somewhat entertaining to reflect on.

At the time they were wrenching and miserable. But now? Hilarious.

Yet the decision to write a blog posting about how my emotional state informs my writing, or if it does at all, would possibly imply

a) that I let my feelings interfere with my work.

b) that my life is fraught with drama.

c) that I am human. When you’re hoping to get hired by people associated with ISPs, software companies, and data networks, the last thing you want to seem is human.

Oversharing, or, in layman’s terms, talking too damn much, can be career suicide if you use your blog as more than a shiny soapbox with an Apple logo. Even if the posting I was (finally) inspired to write was witty, it could have backfired. Potential clients could have found me unprofessional, those in the tech sector might have been disinterested, and, really, who is going to be more willing to pay me to write because of the fact that I spill my guts? Those of you who would be titillated by hearing about whatever had been going on in my world would be staring at your screen with little white mustaches below your nose. Got discression?

Within the realm of an actual, tangible office, the coworker who gossips, the intern who breaks the confidentiality clause, the staff member who talks too loudly on his cellphone, they all overshare, and they pay for it. (At least from my experience.) Blogging is no different. There’s a reason why certain companies block access to personal networking sites during work hours, why some employers search for you on MySpace and Facebook the moment you hand in your application, and why many people don’t have the crack-like carrier pigeon of instant messaging while on the clock. Work is work. Blogs sort of fall into a gray area, I guess, unless they’re connected to work.

As for the further implications of oversharing, mine were more important than any job or blog. I recognized that I would have potentially hurt or embarrassed the other parties involved. And what the hell good is a gig anyway if you don’t have people you love to take out to dinner with the money you’ve made?

Now, I’m not getting all righteous or anything, again, this is a blog, and one could argue that I’m just sharing my opinion. You don’t like it, close the window. After all, I’m more than willing to vomit up smut, snark, and scat on Twitter every day, and I‘ve already talked about sex at least once in this post alone. Who the hell am I to judge?

That question right there is the set of lost house keys to the Internet.

Of course the draw to blogging is the ability for you to possibly showcase your personality or uniqueness, but for me it’s less to broadcast that I’m a special little snowflake, and more to try to entice clients to pony up some money for my words. (Though, as with bad puppies, any attention, for me, is good attention.)

I’m hoping that if the cow is still upright, and has her udders full, that this blog acts as that wooden fence separating you from her. You want the milk, pay for your pail.

As for the idea of oversharing, it ain’t always bull.

AinsleyDrew at gmail

Oversharing: small

Sharing. Just sharing. The good kind.

Sen, franska fraser hela kvällen och eftersläckning på Jefferys...TILLS NATURKRAFTEN KOM. En murare, en charmör, en dåre, en hjälte.

Plötsligt satt man i en taxi på väg till Dubliners. Muraren skrek om musikvalet. Allt annat än techno var bögigt. Techno däremot, det rockade fett.

Framme vid D. Ta det lugnt så ni kommer in, rådde muraren. Tack för tipset, liksom. Fem minuter senare låg han och juckade på dansgolvet. Hans tröja dröp av svett och det var allmänt jidder. Sätt honom i frontlinjen så kan ingen storma vårt land. Vilken naturkraft...

So I was finally able to go back to therapy; big mixup with insurance forced me to stop going for 6 months (boo). I've been twice so far, and I feel SO much better already.

I've been having a lot of trouble dealing with (what I perceived as) bil turning on me, partly because I'd always looked at him as my surrogate brother. My (biological) brother is 7 years younger than me, so while we can go have a few drinks or hang around laughing at Family Guy, he's still a young pup, as my mom might say.

I used to have a brother who was a couple of years older than me but he died (lonnnnnng and very personal story) when he was 5. When bil and I started getting along well I thought maybe this would be my chance to be able to relate to a sibling close in age to me.

Anyway, so the blowup bil and I had really shook me up. So I talked to my therapist about it. She said it sounds like one of two things happened:

• He started having thoughts about me that were not sibling-like
• He actually developed un-sibling-like feelings for me

Either way, it freaked him out and he didn't know how to deal with it, so he simply withdrew and finally blew up.

When she first brought up this possibility I was like no f***ing way - we're friends, and he's my brother-in-law. The more we talked, though, the more things started occurring to me, like:

• Him telling me he wasn't used to people understanding him
• Him acting differently around me when mil and dh weren't around - like, being more open and friendly and relaxed
• Him almost always coming up and talking to me when he was working (at the gym)
• Pulling me into an empty room at work, talking a mile a minute and acting somewhat nervous
• Him calling up or stopping by randomly (prior to last year) and talking with (just) me for an hour or three

Then I was like Oh Shit. Is it EVER possible for 2 people to just be friends? Why do emotions and "feelings" have to enter into it so often? I had sort of the same thing happen with my dh's cousin a few years ago, and haven't really talked to him much since.

The hysterical thing is, it's not like I flirt - in fact, I'm the farthest thing from a flirt you could ever find. Try "wallflower" and you'd be more in the ballpark.

So now I have to figure out how to talk to him without directly saying "Look I know you're hot for me and it caused you to lash out at me at Christmas, but..." (lol) I mean, it's not like I can expect him to blend into the family tapestry; he is my dh's brother.

Fuck it all....

Lenny Kravitz, Again

Sur les panneaux d’affichage SNCF :

« Les trains à destination de Saint Quentin en Yvelines et Versailles Rive Gauche sont retardé de 45 à 50 minutes »

Sur l’écran de mon MP3 :

« Battery is so low that system shutdown ».

Une heure à attendre dans le vide.

Je suis pas tout seul. C’est la sortie du concert d’Iron Maiden. Génial, le concert, à ce que j’entend. Le quai est bondé, les gens sont énervés, ils sont fatigués, ils n’ont pas de places pour s’asseoir, ça les énerve et les fatigue encore plus.

Personne ne voit les rangées de sièges inoccupés dans le train qui ne part que demain à part moi. Il fait à moitié noir dedans, mais je m’en fout, j’ai besoin de calme et de silence.

Et voilà qu’on vient s’asseoir juste en face de moi. On me l’avait jamais faite celle-là : c’est évident que je veux la paix, là, non ? Mais casse toi pôv conn…

« Comment tu t’appelles ?

- Je… Nicolas.

Moi, c’est Camille. »

Et j’ai discuté pendant une heure avec Camille, parce qu’elle voulait pas attendre toute seule.

Je ne la reverrai jamais.

Doze Bizarrices sobre Esta que vos Fala.

1. Sou a única pessoa que conheço que nunca assistiu F.R.I.E.N.D.S - na verdade, assisti uma vez e não achei graça - e que não ficou viciada em Lost, mesmo após uns 3 episódios seguidos no DVD. De todos estes seriados famosos, eu prefiro Grey's Anatomy, logicamente por tratar-se de residentes de medicina. E nunca vi Dr. House.
2. Eu tenho hiperfoco. Se estou realmente concentrada em algo, uma pessoa pode falar comigo e eu simplesmente não ouvir. Pode uma explosão acontecer que eu nem escuto.
3. Também sou distraída. Já tentei mil vezes, abrir a porta de casa com o alarme do carro, além disso, também já tentei abrir um carro que não era o meu e nem da mesma cor! E ainda me senti no direito de ficar desesperada quando a chave não entrou! Só depois percebi que no carro faltavam os cachorros-da-guarda de pelúcia que encontram-se espalhados no meu. Já até citei aqui o dia em que saí para trabalhar com um sapato de cada cor, não?
4. Não existe ninguém mais lábil do que eu. Se houvesse uma palavra que me definisse, com certeza seria essa. Meu humor muda da água para o vinho em questão de segundos. E desmuda em questão de milissegundos. Basta um 'não', eu me aborreço. Basta um sorriso, e eu me derreto. Parece criança!
5. Sou guiada por minhas listas mentais. Ao acordar, monto uma em mente e enquanto não fizer tudo da lista no meu dia, eu não sossego. Às vezes, elas ultrapassam o limite do dia. Há semanas em que todos os meus passos já estão programados até o weekend (e ai de mim se acontecer algo inesperado!).
6. O meu cérebro é mais rápido do que os meus movimentos, o que implica em palavras desconexas, erros de digitação freqüentes e gagueira eventual.
7. Sou curiosa ao extremo. Agora, com o google, wikipédia, orkut e o aurélio, meus problemas acabaram. Mas antes da tecnologia, dava um trabalhão satisfazer minhas curiosidades...
8. Qualquer paixão me diverte. Seja um texto, uma música, um blog interessante, uma comida... quando conheço algo que me chama atenção e agrada-me, logo me auto-intitulo apaixonada, e faço questão, ainda, que as pessoas também conheçam e se apaixonem (ou não).
9. Eu pratico o desapego. Perdi dinheiro? Meu namorado me deixou? Meu relógio quebrou? Lamento... na hora fico triste - até revoltada, às vezes; mas logo eu me acomodo. A vida é assim mesmo... não adianta ficar chorando pelo leite derramado. Sigo em frente e vou à luta.
10. Já passei um mês inteiro de férias escolares, fazendo caligrafia com a mão esquerda. Só para ter o prazer de dizer para todo mundo que eu escrevia com as duas mãos. Escrevo, sim, mas mal e lentamente com a mão esquerda. Acho que é falta de prática. Cadê meu livrinho de caligrafia mesmo?
11. Se houvesse um gênio da lâmpada, depois de pedir saúde eterna para mim e para a minha família, eu pediria, como último desejo, uns cinco centímetros a mais de altura. Com eles, eu poderia ficar em pé na maioria das piscinas, sem ficar de ponta. E também não precisaria ficar de ponta para dirigir e apertar a embreagem até lá embaixo. Minha qualidade de vida melhoraria MUITO! Ainda bem que eu fiz Jazz, quando era criança, e aprendi a fazer a tal ponta.
12. Adoro cremes. Tenho vários, um para cada parte do corpo: rosto, olhos, colo e braços, coxas e pernas, glúteos, e pés. Aplico-os todos os dias, mesmo quando estou atrasada. Se não der tempo, eu levo e aplico no trabalho.

Pensando bem... eu nem sou tãããããão bizarra assim, sou?