youngraven: A shamrock in flames with an instructional message (annoyed)
I clicked this link from Facebook. In the comments, I noted a person bemoaning the fact that the average silly kitten video gets more views than something important (and hopefully precedent setting) as this story. So I'm posting it here, 'cos most of us like to travel, and most of us prefer to do so without enduring a rigourous groping beforehand courtesy of a stranger wearing a badge.

So have a look, and boost the views of this video.



youngraven: (you heard me)
This makes my back teeth vibrate.



Alright, sure, it's One's Own Prerogative to determine what one should or shouldn't sell in one's chemists shop. I get that. I dislike it, but I get it. What's got up my nose is the woman who asserts to her children with some measure of confidence that other chemists sell medicine which can Kill a Baby in the Womb.

So.

Put your hands up, please, if you've heard of Lovenox. Chances are, many of you haven't done - and that's grand, may you never do. Lovenox is prescribed to treat clotting disorders. Here is a bit of text from the FDA's Medwatch web page (entire text here) concerning Lovenox: Pregnant women receiving anti-coagulants, including enoxaparin, are at increased risk for bleeding. Hemorrhage can occur at any site and may lead to death of mother and/or fetus. Sounds a bit as though it can 'kill a baby in the womb', doesn't it? And off the mum for good measure. Where do you think people buy this stuff? At the florists?

Lest you think 'well, this can't be terribly common, can it?' sure, it probably isn't so. However, I know a pregnant woman who must take injected blood thinners to battle a clotting disorder. Uncommon, perhaps, but not unheard of, and thus our friend on the news's argument is (say it with me) a specious one. It's also one borne of gross misinformation, which she's passing readily along to her children.

Recently, there was a great heaving parcel of legislation that was snaking its way round Washington (I've still got it saved somewhere), which would have - in part - redefined contraceptive drugs as abortifacients (I do believe the last I'd heard of it, that language had been removed - but I can't swear to it). Sobering, don't you think?
youngraven: (Mr Shamoose)
...with giving myself a list of topics is that at the time, I'd a clear notion of what I might write about.

Pause for brief, silent lecture against the evils of procrastination.

Ha, I say that, but it really only takes a few moments for me to lose my point on days when my brain has got holes in. At any rate, I'd had something entirely other planned for the previous entry - something that might have even skirted the edges of public introspection (shockhorror). So much for that, eh?

I'll talk about the soiree instead.

Yes, there was one, and yes it was grand. I'll admit to being a bit tired and a bit subdued that night, and then I'll blame that on the steady march of time. By half-eleven that night, I longed to make my exit and crawl into my bed. I think I managed that at last at half three in the morning. I remained remarkably sober, so that goes to show you that it's possible. I don't piss my brains out every time we have a do at Orion Rising.

Pauses to gloat for a moment.

My mates are of the opinion that I do often render myself paralytic, and thus I was given no fewer than six bottles of whiskey as gifts (five bottles of the Black Bush, and one of the Clontarf Single Malt). So, you can imagine my aggravation when, upon waking the next morning, I had five bottles of whiskey. Five. I counted. Now then, had it been that a group of people had taken it upon themselves to open said bottle and put it away amongst the lot of them, sure that would have been no trouble at all - it's why it's there. Only I'd have discovered the remains of that the next day (well, unless the poor bastard was so much in his cups that he buried the evidence in the back garden - I suppose if a still sprouts in the next few months, I'll know that this has what has occurred. Have I mentioned that plants hate me?).

Sure, I had it to spare - this isn't about gluttony at all, rather it's about asking me before collecting up something that was given to me and taking it off home. I'd not have said 'no', only I wasn't given the chance to consider it - and now I'm left to wonder who of them I shouldn't be trusting. Orgh. It's a small thing, really, and I know it.

On a mostly unrelated topic, if you find you've nowhere at all to be on the 11th from 3.00pm until 6.00pm, then you can come and gawk at me at Trinity Hall. I promise I'll not lob a cipín at you (not intentionally, at any rate).
youngraven: (in flames)
Dear Creepily Obsessive Gobshite,

Greetings and salutations. Since you've gone to very great lengths to learn of all of my cousin's comings and goings, I thought it high time you met the rest of the family. Primarily me. You recall me, don't you? She mentions me in one of the web sites over which you've so thoroughly pored. Frankly, stating 'I'm not a stalker, but rather I thought you'd like to be aware...' or however it was that you said it goes a very little way towards proving you aren't a stalker. Especially when you then carry on to rattle off a list of things that you've learnt about her through your perusings. Now then, I do realise that we must all be mindful of the footprints that we leave out in cyberspace - sure, this is a very valuable lesson. I agree. And if truly it was your sole aim to teach this lesson, then my word but you've got a great deal of time on your hands.

Tell me this, have you at all considered channelling that boundless energy you've got towards something a bit more useful? Going to Africa to dig wells? Rumour has it that wells are always needed in Africa - you'd never want for a bit of digging. Here, I've got a splendid idea - as you're so hellbent on tracking people down via Ye Olde Ynternette, why don't you have a go at finding Bono's mobile number (I'm sure you've heard of Bono, yes?). Then you could ring him up and ask him to send you to Africa to dig wells. He'd be delighted to arrange it all, I'm sure. It would also serve to place a goodly lot of distance between yourself and my cousin. We both of us benefit here, don't we?

I'll not keep you a moment longer; I realise that you've many other people to worry and alarm (I'm sure), so I'll leave you with this: you touch one hair on her head, and you'll have me to contend with - and I'll not be alone.

Cheers,
G.
youngraven: (in flames)
This morning, I'd the singular pleasure of listening to Donald Trump lambaste Rosie O'Donnell. Apparently, she had a few choice words to offer him over his pardoning Miss USA's silly little spree.

Hrm. When I close my eyes, I can see the looks of sick shock on your faces as you mutter bloody hell, she's succumbed to the pop culture machine. I haven't done, really, and in all honesty I don't care that the Donald has decided to puke a gullet full of vitriol over Ms O'Donnell's head.

It's the way he attacked her that's got up my nose. Did he insult her intelligence? No. Did he question her ethics? No. He did point out that her magazine was a disaster and her ratings aren't grand - but it all seemed to sum to: You're ugly, and thus a loser; and you're a lesbian, and thus immoral - these things make you a Bad Person.

So...he's sixty years of age, and yet he still resorts to the same nasty schoolboy arguments of Days Gone By? Oh, please. Do I have to say again how it vexes me that when time comes to give a woman in power (or any woman, come to that) a fine dressing down, the throats they go for are her looks and her sexuality? Oh, sure - and clearly this is an egalitarian society. Nobody would think to say to the Donald 'you've got a face like arse, mate, go shove your head in a sack' - because no-one cares that he's got the pinched look of an irritated jackal on him. Now, had he been a woman - that one would have been the first sword drawn. What's worse - I've yet to hear anybody suggest that this might be strange.

He insinuated that the silly drunken tart (which reasonably describes the actions she took to almost lose her that coveted crown - and thus it all applies), was of a 'higher moral standard' than O'Donnell because she's lovely and straight. O'Donnell's protestations were, of course, borne of jealousy. See? Schoolboy logic. Astonishing.

According to mythology, Lucifer was considered quite lovely as well - how would you rate his 'moral compass', sir? Do you golf together? Hrm?

Ugly is a label I've worn most of my life, so sure, perhaps I'm taking it a bit personally. I've been retched at, barked at, asked to commit suicide so that people shouldn't have to look at me anymore (no honest) - it stings a bit. These days, I've mostly come to terms with the state of my own face, and if it truly troubled me that much, I'd take steps to change it round. But mostly I think is that the best you can do? Insult my looks? If I were a man, my face wouldn't matter, and that's what gets up my nose most of all.

So, how can we change this? I'm not fishing for compliments, but I would like thoughts on why it seems that women still aren't taken seriously in society - 'cos I believe this is the crux of the issue.
youngraven: (Oops)

HAVE YOU SEEN ME?!1!

I turned my back on her for a moment, and she scarpered. I'm sure she had assistance, as bodhráns (being inanimate objects) haven't got legs.

So.

So, I'll be lurking about in pawn shops near to Gilligan's with the hopes that the bloody moronic crack fiend thieving amadan poor unfortunate soul who saw fit to borrow her decided that she'd be happier at one of them.

:(
youngraven: (in flames)
IM IN UR DOKUMENT EATN UR TABLEZ.
youngraven: (bah)
Christ on a bike, I'm fagged today. I don't exactly feel like hammered shite, but there was sure a sense that the air above me had got a damned lot heavier as I slept. I had dreams that made me think 'what the devil was that' on waking, but of course now I can't remember even a flicker of them.

Needless to say, this morning's bit of Monkey Leaping did not occur. Ah well, the day's long yet, and if it troubles me that much, I can do it tonight. You know, when it's dark outside and Peering Neighbours are less likely to be hovering about in the alley in search of some reason to complain.

Yesterday, I discovered a nasty note from the Town sellotaped to my door to the effect of 'haul your poxy boat off the gorramned grass'. Sure, I can imagine their glee when we drag the thing up to the roof, 'cos we're right out of places to put her (for all of youse who are inclined to rap on our heads and say 'hallo? marina?': get stuffed, please. Go on, do).

We simply must finish erecting our fence. Then the frigging neighbours can eff the fuck right off.

So, what else is up my nose today? I've got to hie me off to Another Office to linger about in meetings for most of the afternoon. Argh. Hurrah that. At least it keeps me out of gaol (touch wood).

Speaking of noses, mine is running like a spate. Sure, you're glad to know it, aren't you?
youngraven: (och)
I know I've used that title before. It was just as revolting then as it is now. Hurrah that.

My Bad Cat Calendar's offering for today is likely to offend somebody, so I've covered it over with my Podlike Being. My Podlike Being's first offering for the morning is 'The Kilburn High Road'. That song always fills me with a mad desire to get filthy pissed and burn things down.

I'm not entirely certain why.

It's another song that Floggin' M play astonishingly fast live. Seriously, the corners of the room had begun to curve inwards. If the song had been another minute longer, the universe would have frayed round the edges.

Edges. Ha. )

I was an unforgivable 20 minute late to the office.

'S all I got, me dearies - and to think you've just killed ten minutes of your life at reading it. Seems damned unfair, dunnit?
youngraven: (spriggan)
Sprig have been occupying some measure of our time searching for a studio to record our first, as of yet unnamed record. I'd hoped to be well into the creation process by now, but there's always something that leaps up and demands that time - and this summer has been fraught with that sort of something. What do you do, eh? (Erm...say no now and again? Yeh, yeh. Bah.)

At any rate, three out of four of us have taken one studio tour, and in all honesty I'd be perfectly willing to look no further. Only...well, that isn't the wisest decision to take, is it? I mean, the likelihood is still high that we will choose this one, but shouldn't that choice be made after we've had a bit more of a look round?

The answer to that question is, of course, absolutely.

[livejournal.com profile] typsygypsy phoned the first studio, and despite her utter aversion for phoning people, she's quite good at it. Myself, I babble and stammer, and often fail to make my point (sort of thing). No, my forte is the written word.

Until, that is, I'm charged to write letters of enquiry, responses to letters of enquiry, or any letter at all that is addressed to or from a person whom I don't know. It's as though a wall sprouts in my head with the words 'good luck, eejit' chalked across it, and anything warm, engaging or useful that I may have to say vanishes in the haze. Good-bye winsome cailín, hallo knuckle-dragging trog.

It is ridiculously vexing.

On my list of tasks today were five people/studios to whom I intended to send email. It's embarrassing to admit actually how long I stared at the list in growing dread, but it was longer than thirty seconds. My aim was to write pleasant-sounding, yet succinct (because I realise how circumlocutive I can be) letters of enquiry and responses to these people. Well, let's say that I succeeded on the succinct score and cease with the self-flagellation (which this isn't really, but I thought I should check whether I still knew how to spell 'flagellation' - 'cos sure I know I can't pronounce it). Pleasant-sounding is another beasty entirely. Can you believe that I've actually scarpered off to the Internet to perform desperate searches for perfectly worded letters? Well, I know you can believe that I've usually found sweet fuckall and have shut my windows grumbling that I could do better myself. Only, I'm met again with a blank waiting page, and now the wall in my head reads '@ll UR b@s3 R b3long 2 uS. U hAV b3N pWN3d'.

Well.

So, I keyed in an email address, moved my cursor down to the Subject line, and...and I saved my thoroughly blank message as a draught and minimised my email window as fast as I could click the little Make Me Go Away bar. I perused LJ, I chatted with my sister, I went to the web site for the Irish Embassy and gawked at it for a quarter of an hour. I wrote no email. I did not click send. I do not win the day.

I waited till I'd five minutes left me to get anything done, and then I blurted each message out as quickly as I could do. They all of them stop short of being wholly monosyllabic. Seriously, the statement I made about bashing two sticks together? I'd have made a stronger, more engaging point had I been bashing two sticks together. Janeymac - at the end of it, what I wanted to say to each of them was this:

DEAR AMADAN,
I AM A NASTY BITCH.
YOU WANT ME OR I WILL POUND YOUR EEJIT HEAD.
PS YOU ARE VERY UGLY.
BYE

'Cos sure, that'll win you friends.

However, at the end of it all, I did eke out five rather brief messages, and I did click Send five times. Thus far, I have received one favourable response (erm...not to say that I've also received four unfavourable responses), so I can wander away to seisiun cosy in the knowledge that I Accomplished Something.

But Christ on a bike, has it got to be such a fucking ordeal?
youngraven: (in flames)
I AM: Avoiding the rest of my Eejit Project
I HAVE: A bruise on the palm of my right hand as a result of said Eejit Project.
I WISH: That I had been successful in persuading the girl who saw fit to request 250 saddle-stitched books (at the dead last possible minute) to instead take the lot of it to a proper print shop. Once I've given them to her, she'll wish the very same.
I HATE: That we haven't got a folding/stitching machine.
I MISS: Our long-departed copy centre goddess (no, she isn't dead - she's merely not here).
I FEAR: We shall never be allowed to replace her, and thus I shall be stuck in Copy Centre Hell.
I HEAR: A multitude of people murmurring that I 'could have said "no"'.
I SEARCH: For a way to explain how this is not truth without uttering the words 'eff off'.
I WONDER: How long Girl has known that she had this burning need, and why didn't I know about it Monday?
I LOVE: That at least the colour printer will make my covers for me.
I ALWAYS: Rant when something vexes me.
I AM NOT: A terribly patient wee poppet at the moment.
I DANCE: Whenever I staple my thumb. Thus far, this has not occurred. I've got 51 more books to stitch, which makes for a total of 102 more opportunities to place my digits in harm's way. I have, however, stapled thro' my sleeve.
I SING: Angry protest songs about colour copies whilst plotting the grisly downfall of consultants everywhere.
I CRY: Oh, will it never end and tear at my hair in a manner appropriate for the expression of woe. Never mind that if I pulled myself off of my arse I'd have done with most of it by now.
I AM NOT ALWAYS: This poxy disgruntled.
I WRITE: Answers to mindless memes in order to shirk unpleasant tasks.
I CONFUSE: People when I try to explain to them that the Saddlestitch Fairy never visits this office:
Them: 'Haven't you got a machine to do that for you?'
Me: 'Have you got a helicopter?'
Them: 'Erm...no...?'
Me: 'Likewise, I haven't got a machine to Do This For Me.'
Them: *blink* 'Oh. Okay...'
I SHOULD: Have done with the bloody mess already - the day is Going Away.
MY FATHER IS: A pensioner, and thus no longer must endure such silly aggro.
MY MOTHER IS: Also a pensioner, and thus no longer must endure such silly aggro; however, she has got to put up with my Dad.
WHAT UPSETS YOU: Knowing that after the stitching comes the folding.
youngraven: (Hrm...)
So, the boys on CNN are debating whether the 'war on terror' is actually World War III - and if so, will the seemingly inevitable rather nasty clash with North Korea actually be World War IV?

I suppose if I hadn't a project, I could have lurked about in the canteen (where the telly lives) and actually worked out an answer, but I have got a project, and thus I could only afford them the amount of time it takes to make the tea.

So...what the devil? What is your motivation here? To trick the bugaboo that is World War III into believing its time came and went whilst it was after doing other things so that it might cease to plague you? To rattle the citizenry into a paranoid frenzy that drives them howlling into derelict, asbestos-ridden fallout shelters from here to Ballinasloe (eff off, it's a line from a song. It's witty, alright?), 'cos surely World War IV has got to be more unspeakable than World War III - after all, it's got a V in. Vs are pointed and thus more dangerous than Is, right?

Criminey.

Well, guess what, my old menaces? I'm not biting. No. Sorry. Waggle your worm in another fishy's face. The alleged bin Laden tapes haven't frightened me (wouldn't it be a lark if he's been dead for years), the frantic news readers heralding that a vast plot to blow the New York path trains to a twisted mess haven't frightened me (have you seen 'Wag the Dog'? Yeh, I'm wondering how many of these plots are concocted), the doom-sayers bent on proclaiming that the End Is Nigh haven't frightened me (perhaps people have been predicting this ghastly end since that ugly day on Golgotha - after a handful of centuries of the same gloomy message, you stop listening).

Am I denying the grim realities we very likely face? Ah no. Of course not.

I understand that terrorists like to blow things up - preferably things with people in. When I lived in Germany, a building near to where I lived - one that I visited often - was bombed by terrorists. Fortunately, nobody was inside when the bomb detonated, but it wasn't kept secret what had happened to it.

I understand the gravity of the difficulty with North Korea. I grew up in the shadow of the Bomb. This sort of unease is nothing new to me.

But I also understand St Francis of Assisi, who asserted that he should hope to be tending his garden on the last day of his life.

Of course, it's entirely likely that this sort of conflagrant, deliberately worrying speech is expertly designed to scare the wits out of even the most staid of us - thus rendering us easier to control. Fortunately, tending the garden is best achieved with any assortment of sharp implements with sturdy handles. ;)
youngraven: (in flames)
Got my laptop back.

The 40GB hard drive that was full to brimming (with Outlook archives, it would seem, not mp3s) has been replaced with a 30GB hard drive.

Go on, have a guess.

Dead in the gorramned water, me. I am vexed. I can't load my cursed printer drivers because I've no space left for them. What part of Graphic Designer can be interpreted as does not need to print?

I've been sporting about it - I have. I've confined my more creative streams of invective to barely intelligible mumblings. But I crossed my limit two hours ago, a chairde, and I really want to eat a brain.

Want? No, I need to eat a brain.

Reprieve?

Apr. 11th, 2006 10:41 am
youngraven: (bang!)
I had a look at my mobile, and it would appear that it phoned the Graphics line on Sunday, rather than Friday night. This isn't to say that it didn't happen twice, but for my own sanity, I'm choosing to believe that it was only the once. Chances are, it wasn't even myself who was talking. It seems strange that there should be two conversations regarding pathological liars in one week end, but this odd sort of synchronicity often happens to me.

So. Sigh of relief? Perhaps.

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