Post One Hundred and Thirty: Weird Food.

I had a really awesome dream last night. Alarmingly, my dream was so captivating that I slumbered with my body weight stacked on my right arm. I woke up freaking out that my arm was unusually numb; could aliens have exchanged my flapper for a long fat rubber one? It took me a couple of minutes to shake the delusion and waggle the blood back into my digits.

Anyway, the dream was pretty stupid. I was writing this blog in the dream, and then I decided to write another blog. The new blog was called something like "Weird Food" and I just wrote a heap of weird funny shit about eating. It's probably something I should look into. I love eating, I love gross things, so this all seems like a natural progression.

I'm back to work tomorrow. Heading back into the mortuary after a couple of days of fresh air is always a struggle. The smells, oh the smells!

Keep safe,
S.

Post One Hundred and Twenty Nine: System Failure - My Personal Imbroglio.

I'm not a smoker (So, self, WHY ARE YOU SMOKING?). Foolery.

I'm currently making bad decisions on a dependable and consonant inventory. It must be that forces are aligning quietly to make me as emotionally uncomfortable and privately unstable as possible. I threw my last dollar for the week on black and lost. I mixed a lot of red wine with a lot of gin, three nights in a row. I lost my soup. I also lost my iPhone, my only connection to the internets and my valued human population, because I didn't take a bag out. Lesson learned that stockings cannot support 137grams of expensive telecommunications.

I'm in Perth presently for the annual Australian Institute of Embalmers Conference. It has been a weekend full of swan river cruising, ruinous buffet gormandizing and wild west fancy dressings. As well as ungovernable, shiraz fuelled social events we attended day time educational sessions covering topics such as facial reconstruction, the effects of chemotherapy on embalming and death close to birth. My observations are thus: Embalmers are amazing. Warm, funny, outgoing and honest. It was a conference of passionate professionals who know stupid amounts of information about very intriguing things, and I love that I can work in close association with them. I may even certify some time!

I'm now making use of this computer, it's free and it's lovely. Perhaps my luck is changing? Maybe I'll walk out into the lobby and Lindsay Lohan will be there, winking at me and offering a cigarette.

Peace x
S.





Also, this happened.

Post One Hundred and Twenty Eight: Stripped.

An open letter to the universe:

Dearest Universe,

Please provide.

It is a sad day. I am computerless. Without ownership of a beloved techno-gadget to connect, collaborate and entertain. And blog. Gah!

I haven't owned one in about five years. I've always lived in shared accomodation and have thus mooched of others for the commodity. I'm out on my own now in the big scary world and thus have no computer, no spider killing skills, no pegs and no dish cloths. The spiders I can kill with kindness, the last two things I can afford, just, but the computer is going to take a long time and preeminantly lots and lots of death. I need overtime. I need my second job back. I need a lotto ticket.

Maybe, just maybe, something will fall off the back of a truck. Maybe, just maybe, it'll be an Apple iMac. Maybe a mega huge one. (It'll probably be a cheap notebook on clearance at Tandy with sticky keys and a cracked screen).

Sorry for all you blog thirsty readers, I'll try as often as I can to continue mooching off others until I buy something. I also promise to write more about the crazy things that have been

Until then, Peace.
x

Post One Hundred and Twenty-Seven: When You Say Nothing At All.

Damn Ronan Keeting and all that he is. Silence to you, sir.

I was feeling decidedly better until I started thinking about Ronan Keating.

This distraction aside, I've realised it's not becoming of me to dwell and depress. Huzzah! I was starting to feel alien, and not in the good John Lithgow/Alex Mac sense. My face is made for smiling, it seems, and I'm just sad-lesson-learning during this part of my life. Anyway, herein is another tip o' the hat to advice well received.

I'm a talker. I like to have a yarn. I don't mean chit chattery, shitty gossip or conversational niceties; but if something is on my mind it feels natural for me to talk about it with the parties concerned. As it turns out, sharing how you feel isn't always the smartest way to go about things. I like being transparent and knowing that the people who know me understand my perspective. Yet is there tact and benefit in calm and restraint?

And I'm back to the same old mind pickle. Do you tell/show/do whatever you need to because of the odd but not impossible chance that you get may get hit by a BCC bus crossing the street to buy a marked down pumpkin curry after 2PM? Maybe. Probably not.

Call me.

Peace,
S.

Post One Hundred and Twenty Six: Perspective - The Ball Breaker.

I'm having a hard time. Being honest with yourself is a real b*stard of an experience really isn't it?.

This last week in particular has been challenging. I'm heartbroken. I'm miserable. I feel like crawling away into a cavern for a few months, letting my underarm hairs dread and my tear ducts open and stream continuously until my body is a withered empty and indecipherable membrane. A hairy one at that. Do we have caverns in Brisbane? Surely.

And then I stop and look at what is happening around me, in my hands and at my side. I'm not dead. My friends on my table most certainly are. They've had car accidents, heart attacks, cancers and strokes and all I have is a bruised and tender ego. Woe is NOT me.

The perspective I get as a mortician is a unique and precious job perk. I guess police and emergency service people would understand it too. Even when I'm sad, other people are much much sadder with due reason. I am not as lost as I feel.

Peace and love (and a promise for something uplifting next time),
S.

Post One Hundred and Twenty Five: Three Hundred and Sixty Five.

A year of death and a year of thoughts and reflections as a chain reaction. You like?

Today is this here blogs birthday. Hip hip hoorah!

I've matured just a little bit this year because of the blog. I think. Weird huh.

I have a more responsive emotional acknowledgment of death. I still don't get it though. As such I have comprehended this much: We live, and then we die, and we generally have at least one person that cares about the fact that we do. I will review this lesson in another 365 days.

Anyway, I've shared more about my thoughts and feelings to a wider audience than I ever thought possible. My CEO recently told me that he reads my entries (Hi Boss, thanks for being open minded enough to give me the green light to write what I do, gracias!).

Good times. I've travelled, I've met great people, I've cried alot, and I've opened my heart.

I'm going to celebrate feeling so exposed. It's a very beneficial thing. Come party with me tonight, 7PM at the Beetle Bar in Brisbane. It's also my friends birthday so it'll be fun times all round. Bands, beer and probably a few sets of boobs.

Peace and love until it does indeed kill me,
S.

Post One Hundred and Twenty Four: I Went There.

I think I was kicked in the back by a ghost. Seriously. Kicked or pushed. Either way, I was moved forward with unexplainable force. It's serious X-Files shit.

I stacked it in the fridge pretty badly really. It makes no sense, but I'm sure that the full house of 20 odd corpses were laughing in their not yet buried bones. It would've been a sight to behold, (if ghosts continue to possess that ability). Knees cracking to the cold concrete, arms flailing, I had my first official 'fall' as a sober adult and feel very much like an idiot. Story checks out that you can be shamed by the dead.

The next few weeks are going to be a challenge with a smashed knee, messed up hip and gammy arm. I'm a hodgepodge of pain. It's not like I have to move dead weight around constantly, right? Or, at least I'm not actually dead.

Still, FAIL.