FOR FUCK’S SAKE. BRING PHOTO ID. Otherwise, you’re not getting into Genting, you’re not getting into LIV, you’re not getting into any karaoke bars and you’re not getting into Birdcage. It’s a standard thing. ALWAYS fucking bring it out.
Tired of organising nights out and people coming out then having to go because they aren’t prepared. Piss take.
As for myself, I’m slightly braver these days. Making approaches. Town has been quiet recently- there haven’t been that many women to approach in the first place. Students are at home, and people are getting pissed during the day while it’s warm. But I’ve put some effort in. Supervisor in work also says I seem more confident, and I’ve fitted into the new position well. (I’ve just realised I’ve been there three months now.)
More stuff happening on the horizon. Will see what happens.
…but I didn’t get a chance to discuss the girl from the rave. There wouldn’t have been much to discuss anyway- she didn’t respond to my texts.
Instead, I covered an ongoing issue- or debacle- in work, one that involves convos around sex and, and it’s one I don’t want to bang on about here. I’d had the book thrown at me, but CK admitted she didn’t think I’d been that bad. It felt good getting things off my chest and getting solid advice on how to move forward.
It’s annoying that now I’m finally getting advice on sex, I’m having to talk about work as that’s the biggest stress-factor in my life right now. I was supposed to go out on Friday but I was in a bad state physically, a nasty cough and no energy. So my next meeting with her will be mostly about how to cut down on porn. There’ll be no nightlife to discuss.
So tired of doing the same shit in work. No idea what to move into given mental issues I have and lack of work experience. I’ve worked here for nearly a decade and there is so little that I have experienced that would actually benefit me in any other role. I’ve not discussed work much recently on this blog as my situation is quite a unique one.
I have a team meeting and a 1-1 coming up and I expect carnage. The atmos is hostile.
Added to the mix a close relative is getting a divorce. I want them to be happy, so if this is the process that should happen for them to move forward, it should happen. They are the only person in my family that I know of who has gone through this process, but already a couple of people my age that I know have got divorced.
My opinion on marriage in general is that if one in five of them in the UK end in divorce, then it clearly isn’t working on the whole. It’s supposed to be until death do you part. It clearly isn’t. If one in five life jackets didn’t work, or one in five gas ovens didn’t light… You see my picture? Marriage cannot work in this day and age. It is an outdated concept and (even if I found a willing participant) I wouldn’t try it. At least one guy I know is divorced. (I say I know him, I haven’t seen him since TM’s wedding and he was an arsehole before that.)
And then there’s me. I can’t find anyone I want a relationship with. I struggle to approach people. I can’t lower my standards. I’m addicted to internet porn and I can’t come on the rare occasions when I have sex. I’m STILL on a wait list on the NHS (for the second time), I’m a chronic insomniac and I feel like an embarrassment to all around me.
On the flip side, I’ve met loads of new people- some cool people- I still have some long standing friends, although the majority of those are too busy / broke to see me. I’m waiting til feb before I have any major nights out, so I’m just going to do what everyone else does and go to the gym and get massive.
…We’re still friends, but there’s flirting. She looked good in a tight tartan skirt and crop top. She was perhaps getting on better with a few other people than me, but whatever. Her party was good.
I’ll keep in touch. Online social groups are great for this kind of thing (but they’re also terrible for getting pregnancy scares from idiot women too, but that’s old hat now).
Weekend: great. Week: shite. My female colleagues are a bunch of shit talking bitches. Next week I’m going to my union rep (who is an older gay bloke who fancies me and doesn’t particularly like women in general, so this could be fruitful). I’ve made a list of instances when people were coming out with cocky, anti-male comments (written into my notes function on my phone as they’re being made. My colleagues think I’m checking Facebook) and I’m going to hand them over to my rep. Seeing as there are redundancies in the pipeline, it should be easier than normal to get someone sacked (not that I’ve tried before, but there’s always a first time).
Fuck it, one of them has gone on maternity leave and the other needs an attitude adjustment anyway.
I’ve been helping out in someone else’s office, doing mind-numbing paperwork. Wait, don’t click off. This gets weird.
The other day I went out on lunch. When I came back to the tiny, three-desk room, the 40-year-old woman was I was working with was flat-out on the floor. I mean flat, like a rod. On her back, legs straight, arms at her side. Her head was at the door end, and when I walked in, she looked up at me. She started giggling.
“I thought you had an hour for lunch,” she said.
“No,” I said, bemused. “Thirty minutes.”
She started climbing up off the floor. “I suffer from dizzy spells,” she explained. “I need to lie down for a few minutes every day.”
That’s it. Nothing sexy/sleazy to read, I’m afraid.
You know what I had to tolerate this week? Some immigrant who couldn’t speak English, coming into the reception of my workplace using their language, expecting me and my colleagues to understand what she was saying. She got pissed off when none of us had a clue what she was jabbering on about. It was infuriating, to say the least, but what followed this was plain weird.
A deaf guy and his signer interjected. Neither spoke this woman’s language. But somehow, the deaf guy figured out what it was she wanted, and possibly which member of staff she’d need.
It’s incredible that people who have used sign language for possibly their whole lives can pick up on subtle nuances that we give off when we’re trying to say something. Well, they say only 7% of communication is verbal. If you’re deaf and you can’t speak to communicate, I suppose you’d develop an expertise in gestures and their meanings.
This is all well and good, but it must be pointed out that if you can’t speak English, don’t come to this country expecting US to understand YOU. Britain has a 1000-year tradition of conquering lands and teaching them English. They only taught me French and German in school, and none of us became fluent in those languages. We didn’t need to either, as most of Europe speaks pretty good English. Unfortunately, Asia doesn’t. So why the GOOD FUCK would you come to this country if you can’t speak the language? And how FUCKING AUDACIOUS is it to get pissed off when WE can’t understand YOU?
Of course, the problem is not that the individual decided to Emigrate. It’s the UK’s SHIT lax immigration laws, mostly put in place by Labour, that have allowed hundreds of thousands of unskilled, non-fluent-English migrants to flood our shores. However, the Tories took over in 2009 and we’re STILL dealing with people who can’t speak the language!
Come on, Mr. Cameron. You’re supposed to be good at this. Do your job and stamp down on this. A full Examination on entry to the country would be a good idea. No clean bill of health? Get out. Not fluent to a proficient standard? Goodbye. No saleable skill? Shed’s that way. We don’t all have translators- or deaf people- on hand to fill in the gaps.