I just took a test online to see if I'm neurotic. The test is called 'Are you neurotic?'. I got 112%. And then I realised that the mere action of finding a test on the internet called 'Are you neurotic?' means 'Yes, you're completely neurotic'. What is 112% anyway? I'm totally neurotic plus 12? What the fuck does that mean?
Things that pleased me today were neglible. Although I did find out that if you're vigilant and keep an eye on the Sky menu you can watch Come Dine With Me continuously. All day. Which is nice.
I am feeling existentially disturbed today. Tedious isn't it? I fear my inner goth tendencies will never leave so I have decided to embrace them and write lots into the night supported by gin, cigarettes and opium.
Also, the interwebz promised me that Charlie Sheen would be on Celebrity Big Brother. He's not. I actually watched the launch show thinking he would come on. Instead it was bovine booze hound Kerry Katona, ex-actress Tara Reid, fucking Jedward and about 12 people I didn't recognise.
Today I'm mostly reading a book entitled Why We Lie by Dorothy Rowe. She's an excellent psychologist (I think. Or pyschiatrist. Or maybe she isn't any of them. I dunno. I haven't done any research. I'm just making shit up). It's very interesting, so it is. I'm also reading Oliver Burkeman's book, basically a collection of his columns from The Guardian. Very funny and very helpful. If you don't know who he is, Google him. He's intelligent, level-headed, insightful and funny. I might actually stalk him on Twitter and ask him out. Why not eh?
Having vaguely skim read this blog it appears to read as the disjointed ramblings of a mad woman. Huh.
Other things that I noticed today include the fact that Fatman will only let me work if I lie on the floor with the laptop in front of me and allow him to curl up in between my arms and the keyboard. It's really comfortable and convenient. Especially when he drools on the keyboard as well. Moments like that make life worth living.
I also noticed that Match.com have a new advert along the lines of their grotesque effort with the nauseating Camden-type nouveau hipster twats singing about the Godfather 3 in some junk shop in the most twee and arse bendingly badly targeted advert I've ever seen. I have used Match.com. Men on there do not dress in tweed suits and have emo hair cuts. They ask you for photos of your tits and spk like ths. As if vowels are beyond them. They call you hun and darlin and expect you to reply to them even though you're pretty sure you wouldn't touch them with the end of 15 bargepoles welded together.
Anyway, the new advert features a busker on the tube. Although he's probably not a busker. He's probably called Tarquin and has taken his inspiration from Pete Doherty or some shit. He's probably on his gap year and experimenting by pretending to be poor. Of course it's set in London. No one looks for love outside London you know. He starts singing (again) to the girl opposite him. The girl bears an uncanny resemblance to the tart in the music shop in the first ad. She has that floaty, semi-hippy hair and a side parting that starts just above one ear. It looks like a massive combover and she's wearing a dress that looks like it's from Laura Ashley in the 80s and is all ethereal and coy. JUST like every girl should be.
So he starts singing about her beauty. And she doesn't look up, tell him to fuck off and call the police. She grins inanely. Just as he's warming up (I mean, who DOESN'T want to date a busker on the London Underground? WHO?) the tube comes and he loses sight of her. When it leaves she's gone. He gives an exaggerated downward grimace, like a toddler who isn't allowed sweets. But WAIT. She's only right next to him. For his turgid, creepy 'song' has, naturally attracted her to his busking self.
I have so many problems with this advert I can't even speak.
Just as I was recovering from the experience, a mascara commercial came on that promises to 'millionise' your lashes.
Then I started looking for quizzes about being neurotic.
I hate life.