Tuesday 24 April 2012
This post doesn't deserve a title
Seriously, why the FUCK is blogger so impossible to navigate on my iPod?
Saturday 14 April 2012
Faith in Humanity A.K.A Legit post #3
Okay, so the internet ate my last post, and it's now 4am, and I clearly don't plan on getting any sleep tonight, so I'll try writing it again.
Before I start, though, I should warn you: Firstly, this post isn't trying to be humorous in any way (although bits and pieces of it may slip in here and there), because it's about a few things which have been concerning me recently, and secondly, there's a lot of things I want to talk about, so this post is going to be all over the place.
I guess I'll start by mentioning that I've been doing some reading recently, about a number of issues. I've read internet articles, and blog posts - all of which people have linked to me - as well as a number of firsthand accounts by people who are going through a pretty rough time. In particular, this post got me thinking.
I'll take a bit of a tangent here, and say some stuff about my faith in humanity. Faith in Humanity is somewhat of a renewable resource - this is why I'm capable of losing it so often. But every so often, like in the case of that particular blog post, well... I worry. Not because the post was written, but because it had to be written.
Who do you think are the rulers of the world? Is it the politicians? The banks? The one percent? No. It's the stylists, the fashionists (that's a word now), and the media who perpetuate the fundamental untruth that there is one way to look, to feel, to be, and everything else is to be considered "fat" or "ugly" - "imperfect". This is a way of thinking which honestly disgusts me, and shouldn't be tolerated in any society.
When I lose my Faith in Humanity, I'll often turn to other sources to replenish that most precious of resources. Books, games, music - I'll sit and I'll read and play and listen and revel in the creativity of others. But, the other day, a thought occurred to me: all I'm doing is blocking out lies with more lies. It pains me to say it, but is lying to each other the only thing humanity is good for? After all, what the author of a book seeks to do is to create a false world, a fiction, and draw you into it - the sign of a great writer is to make you believe what you're reading. Realism is highly prized in video games, which create worlds and scenarios which often are simply impossible. It seemed to me, that mankind's only skill is in misleading other humans. Perhaps, then, the mark of sentience is this: The ability to lie.
I guess the mark of the divine then is to choose not to.
Before I just depress myself with this, I'm going to return to what I was saying earlier. Those who control the world are those who control the people. What they see, what they think, what they judge as acceptable. There is a standard in the media today which, while not only unrealistic, is also harmful to humanity as a whole. This is wrong on so many levels: Not only is it arrogance bordering on hubris that a small group of people can define what others do and do not find attractive, but it also degrades people to purely physical objects of attraction, where only appearance is important. It is also a MASSIVE generalisation, that every single person will have the same tastes in body size, shape, colour. I'll say it again: this disgusts me. There is no such thing as "one look", there is nothing which can define what every singe person finds pleasing.
This is also harmful to the individual. This unrealistic standard, combined with the fact that obesity is a real problem in many first world countries, is creating a push for people to constantly lose weight, lest they be branded as "fat" and therefore unacceptable to society. I don't have any figures to throw at you right now, but rest assured, they are SCARY. Many perfectly healthy women will push themselves to dangerous lengths to lose weight, often inducing, or being induced by, eating disorders like anorexia or bulimia. And the worst part? Meanwhile, women with naturally slim bodies are the ones branded as "anorexic", some going to unhealthy lengths to put on weight. As a normally skinny person myself, I've been called anorexic before, and this double standard is something which CANNOT be allowed to continue. Again, I find my reserves of faith in humanity depleting, rather quickly. Because it turns out, no matter what you look like, society will find a way to hate you. I say, put aside these stupid, ridiculous, bigoted views on what is acceptable. Be healthy, not skinny. And know this: You are beautiful.
Let me say that again:
You. Are. Beautiful.
And you are not alone.
(I feel like I should mention here that, while I'm focussing on women here, all of these issues are equally valid in men, too.)
The last thing I want to talk about is depression, which is a HUGE issue, and one which affects more people than you'd think. A lot of the time, these feelings of depression are very strongly linked to the issues of body image which I talked about up there. If you're suffering from depression, you might be reading what I said up there and be thinking, "He can't mean me. He's talking about everyone else. I'm the exception to this." You're wrong. You are beautiful. If you still don't think I'm talking to you: I am now. You are beautiful. And I mean it. You are perfect just the way you are.
In a way, I really don't feel like I'm qualified to talk about this subject. I've heard about it, I've read firsthand accounts from sufferers, I've known people who I suspect may be suffering, but I've never had depression myself. In fact, I feel like a bit of a jerk, just because when people open up about their depression, I can't sympathise, because I don't know how. But at the same time, I've sat in conversation with people who will casually put themselves down, saying that they're "fat" or "ugly", and then wave it away like nothing happened. As an Aussie, self-deprecating humour is all part of the thing, really, but these things often go well past this. To my shame, I've never spoken to any of these people about this, both because of the social stigma attached to the whole issue, and because I don't want to call them out on it, when they might be denying it to themselves.
I don't know exactly where I was going with this. Originally, the plan was to put some inspirational message here, on the off chance that any sufferers who read it would magically be happy, but all I've done is bitched about my lack of experience on the matter. And besides, it doesn't work like that anyway. Some people suffer from depression for reasons not even remotely related to body image, and others drop in and out of depression, based off a wide range of factors I'll admit I know nothing about. All I can do is give my advice and support, even though I suck at giving advice, and the only support I can give is the general "I want you to get better" type.
So, if you're interested, here's my crappy advice and other pearls of wisdom:
You are not alone. This cannot be stressed enough. You. Are. Not. Alone. There are seven billion people on this little rock we call Earth, so don't think you can take them all on at once, and never for a moment imagine you're alone.
Don't be afraid. There are people all around you who will help, if only you reach out to them. And there're precious little things in this world which you can get without reaching out. Sure, people might judge you. But you don't have to care about that. In fact, relish in it! Revel in the fact that these pitiful excuses for human beings can't hurt you. You are invincible.
Set goals. Rome wasn't built in a day, and you can't expect to snap out of your depression, just like that. Baby steps, and remember that this is your decision. Even if you make small goals, such as to smile every day, or to give yourself a compliment, or to exercise more - as long as you believe it will take you in the direction you want to go.
Be happy. I know this sounds like the sort of stupid advice that only a jerk would give, and it probably is. Besides, we've already established that I'm a jerk. Just remember that this is your ultimate goal, and keep your eyes fixed on it.
Lastly, I'll leave you with this:
Some people say that nobody's perfect.
I say everybody is.
Before I start, though, I should warn you: Firstly, this post isn't trying to be humorous in any way (although bits and pieces of it may slip in here and there), because it's about a few things which have been concerning me recently, and secondly, there's a lot of things I want to talk about, so this post is going to be all over the place.
I guess I'll start by mentioning that I've been doing some reading recently, about a number of issues. I've read internet articles, and blog posts - all of which people have linked to me - as well as a number of firsthand accounts by people who are going through a pretty rough time. In particular, this post got me thinking.
I'll take a bit of a tangent here, and say some stuff about my faith in humanity. Faith in Humanity is somewhat of a renewable resource - this is why I'm capable of losing it so often. But every so often, like in the case of that particular blog post, well... I worry. Not because the post was written, but because it had to be written.
Who do you think are the rulers of the world? Is it the politicians? The banks? The one percent? No. It's the stylists, the fashionists (that's a word now), and the media who perpetuate the fundamental untruth that there is one way to look, to feel, to be, and everything else is to be considered "fat" or "ugly" - "imperfect". This is a way of thinking which honestly disgusts me, and shouldn't be tolerated in any society.
When I lose my Faith in Humanity, I'll often turn to other sources to replenish that most precious of resources. Books, games, music - I'll sit and I'll read and play and listen and revel in the creativity of others. But, the other day, a thought occurred to me: all I'm doing is blocking out lies with more lies. It pains me to say it, but is lying to each other the only thing humanity is good for? After all, what the author of a book seeks to do is to create a false world, a fiction, and draw you into it - the sign of a great writer is to make you believe what you're reading. Realism is highly prized in video games, which create worlds and scenarios which often are simply impossible. It seemed to me, that mankind's only skill is in misleading other humans. Perhaps, then, the mark of sentience is this: The ability to lie.
I guess the mark of the divine then is to choose not to.
Before I just depress myself with this, I'm going to return to what I was saying earlier. Those who control the world are those who control the people. What they see, what they think, what they judge as acceptable. There is a standard in the media today which, while not only unrealistic, is also harmful to humanity as a whole. This is wrong on so many levels: Not only is it arrogance bordering on hubris that a small group of people can define what others do and do not find attractive, but it also degrades people to purely physical objects of attraction, where only appearance is important. It is also a MASSIVE generalisation, that every single person will have the same tastes in body size, shape, colour. I'll say it again: this disgusts me. There is no such thing as "one look", there is nothing which can define what every singe person finds pleasing.
This is also harmful to the individual. This unrealistic standard, combined with the fact that obesity is a real problem in many first world countries, is creating a push for people to constantly lose weight, lest they be branded as "fat" and therefore unacceptable to society. I don't have any figures to throw at you right now, but rest assured, they are SCARY. Many perfectly healthy women will push themselves to dangerous lengths to lose weight, often inducing, or being induced by, eating disorders like anorexia or bulimia. And the worst part? Meanwhile, women with naturally slim bodies are the ones branded as "anorexic", some going to unhealthy lengths to put on weight. As a normally skinny person myself, I've been called anorexic before, and this double standard is something which CANNOT be allowed to continue. Again, I find my reserves of faith in humanity depleting, rather quickly. Because it turns out, no matter what you look like, society will find a way to hate you. I say, put aside these stupid, ridiculous, bigoted views on what is acceptable. Be healthy, not skinny. And know this: You are beautiful.
Let me say that again:
You. Are. Beautiful.
And you are not alone.
(I feel like I should mention here that, while I'm focussing on women here, all of these issues are equally valid in men, too.)
The last thing I want to talk about is depression, which is a HUGE issue, and one which affects more people than you'd think. A lot of the time, these feelings of depression are very strongly linked to the issues of body image which I talked about up there. If you're suffering from depression, you might be reading what I said up there and be thinking, "He can't mean me. He's talking about everyone else. I'm the exception to this." You're wrong. You are beautiful. If you still don't think I'm talking to you: I am now. You are beautiful. And I mean it. You are perfect just the way you are.
In a way, I really don't feel like I'm qualified to talk about this subject. I've heard about it, I've read firsthand accounts from sufferers, I've known people who I suspect may be suffering, but I've never had depression myself. In fact, I feel like a bit of a jerk, just because when people open up about their depression, I can't sympathise, because I don't know how. But at the same time, I've sat in conversation with people who will casually put themselves down, saying that they're "fat" or "ugly", and then wave it away like nothing happened. As an Aussie, self-deprecating humour is all part of the thing, really, but these things often go well past this. To my shame, I've never spoken to any of these people about this, both because of the social stigma attached to the whole issue, and because I don't want to call them out on it, when they might be denying it to themselves.
I don't know exactly where I was going with this. Originally, the plan was to put some inspirational message here, on the off chance that any sufferers who read it would magically be happy, but all I've done is bitched about my lack of experience on the matter. And besides, it doesn't work like that anyway. Some people suffer from depression for reasons not even remotely related to body image, and others drop in and out of depression, based off a wide range of factors I'll admit I know nothing about. All I can do is give my advice and support, even though I suck at giving advice, and the only support I can give is the general "I want you to get better" type.
So, if you're interested, here's my crappy advice and other pearls of wisdom:
You are not alone. This cannot be stressed enough. You. Are. Not. Alone. There are seven billion people on this little rock we call Earth, so don't think you can take them all on at once, and never for a moment imagine you're alone.
Don't be afraid. There are people all around you who will help, if only you reach out to them. And there're precious little things in this world which you can get without reaching out. Sure, people might judge you. But you don't have to care about that. In fact, relish in it! Revel in the fact that these pitiful excuses for human beings can't hurt you. You are invincible.
Set goals. Rome wasn't built in a day, and you can't expect to snap out of your depression, just like that. Baby steps, and remember that this is your decision. Even if you make small goals, such as to smile every day, or to give yourself a compliment, or to exercise more - as long as you believe it will take you in the direction you want to go.
Be happy. I know this sounds like the sort of stupid advice that only a jerk would give, and it probably is. Besides, we've already established that I'm a jerk. Just remember that this is your ultimate goal, and keep your eyes fixed on it.
Lastly, I'll leave you with this:
Some people say that nobody's perfect.
I say everybody is.
Monday 2 April 2012
Dublin, I guess.
So, I've been asked to do a post. Good luck with tha-
Oh wait.
Now, as an incredibly charming, witty, sexy and just generally awesome individual, you'd assume I'd have some charming, witty, sexy and/or generally awesome things to talk about, right?
Wrong. Which is why I'm going to tell you about Dublin. Or more specifically, that time I went to Dublin last week, rather than Dublin as a city, because I'm in no position to make judgements on it.
So, the date is last monday. Evening.
Actually, wait, scratch that. The date is any time before about three weeks ago. People ask me, what am I going to do for my holidays? And I say, well, fucked if I know, I might as well go to Dublin.
So skip ahead to last monday evening. The flights are booked, I've just finished packing my bags, and I had beef jerky on frozen pizza for dinner. Bam, I step out the door, make my way to the train station and get on the train. Interestingly enough, my coat gets caught on the door on the way out. I even said, out loud, to nobody in particular, "Well, that's not a good start." Or something of the like. I might have mentioned that it was foreboding. I can't remember. If only I realised how right I was.
Halfway to the airport, my plane leaves in an hour, and I have a realisation: WHERE the FUCK is my PASSPORT?
*sigh*
Get off the train, make my way to the other side of the station, call up fellow gap student/co-worker/guy who lives in the room next door to me, and ask him if the door to my room is unlocked. He says he's down at the pub. Well, fuck. But! He says that guy who lives on the other side of me is home, so he'll give him a ring and see if he can get my passport, whereupon there would be running and, all going well, the passport would be in my possession back at the train station I left from.
I get to the train station, call up fellow gap student, ask for some good news, turns out guy who lives on the other side of me has just walked in and...! He couldn't find it. I mean, that's alright, it was inside it's passport wallet, and it wasn't where I said it probably was. So, much more running, and I get back to home (wearing a huge motherfucking backpack, by the way), open the door to my room, and lo and behold, my passport is right there on the desk. Not two metres away from the entrance. I mean, sure, I guess. It was in the passport wallet. WITH THE WORD "PASSPORT" WRITTEN ON IT IN BIG LETTERS. Argh. So, I wash the blood off my face (did I mention I had a nosebleed on the train back?), and step out the door again. After much more running, I catch the train in time to be twenty minutes late to the airport.
So I need to book another flight. That's okay, it's cool, I'll deal with these things. £50 later, I've got a flight booked for half past noon the next day. Well, I need a drink now.
The next day, I get on the train, I make sure my bag is locked before dropping it off, pass through security and get on the plane. Not a problem. Read through the book I bought (Raymond E. Feist - A Crown Imperiled - it was alright).
I arrive in Ireland. Woohoo. Do all the airport stuff, and step outside. Well, it's pretty sunny, and I'm actually wearing a large coat and a hoodie as well. So what do I do? I take them off, of course. Unlock my bag, chuck them in there, lock it back up and get straight on the bus which will take me to the hostel. I get there, walk in, tell them my name and explain I missed my flight, etc. They ask for some ID. I figure I'll show them my passport, so I reach into the pocket of my backpack where I keep the keys and....
Shit.
Shit shit shit shit shit.
Fuck.
The keys aren't there. I check all the other pockets. Nope, not there. The keys are not in my backpack. Ugh.
Luckily, they'll accept my Aussie driver's licence, so that's what I give them, I drop my (still locked) bag in the 20-share room, and then step outside. I have a look at the Christ Church Cathedral, which is seriously like two hundred metres away from the hostel, have a nice beef stew lunch in the cafe they have, take some photos, and go back to the hostel to figure out exactly what I'm going to do. It's tuesday evening, I fly out mid thursday morning, and I need to open my bag to get at my passport, and, if I'm lucky, my keys which I suppose could have been locked in there accidentally. All I have at my disposal is my crappy pocket knife. Yeah.
After two unsuccessful attempts to pick the tiny little padlock (neither of which I realistically thought would work), I hit upon the bright idea to see if I could open up the zip with the padlock still done up. This, i thought, was a stroke of brilliance. Unfortunately, all I have is a crappy pocket knife. My first idea was to use this to split apart the teeth of the zip somewhere in the middle, but this didn't turn out too well. The only way to have at this was to do it from the end of the zip. The end of the zip which, I should point out, is covered up as part of the bag to stop people from doing exactly this. Well, no problem, I cut open the tiny little part of the bag where the zip is hidden, and open up the zip. Okay, that's all settled, I can open the main pocket of my bag now, and I have my passport. Unfortunately, my keys are not in there, so there's still two pockets which remain unopened. And I really, REALLY do not want to mutilate my bag even further. Still, it's open, and I'm feeling pretty good about myself.
Until, that is, I decide that it would be a good idea to zip the bag back up so it actually looks like it's locked, and my shit doesn't get stolen. This is when I learn the second reason why the end of the zip is covered up: To stop the zippers coming off the zip. Which, in my case, due to me pulling a bit too hard (That's what she said?) is exactly what happened.
So, I'm sitting there, with this bag, completely open, with almost no way to close it back up again (I could always have just put each of the zip teeth back together again by hand, but that was annoyingly difficult). I spend the better part of an hour and a half trying to put the zippers back on - a surprisingly difficult task - and I meet no success. Now, by this point, I haven't quite suffered a mental breakdown yet, but I'm at the point where I'm trying to force one to happen so I'd stop trying to do this clearly impossible task. I briefly considered just banging my head on the wall. Also, it's getting dark, so it's gonna be even harder to do this. So what do I do? I do what any sane, rational-minded adult would do in this situation: I go to the pub.
Two drinks (and probably like two hours) later, I come back to the hostel, and figure it I should maybe try again, but thirty seconds in the dark with that zipper, and I give up.
NEXT MORNING: I wake up, have breakfast, and have at the zipper again, before I go and do anything else. This is when I meet with success. Y'see, it turns out that the way you gotta put the zipper back on is like this: If you're feeding it on the way the zip goes in CLOSED, then, obviously, it helps to have the zip closed when you're trying to put it back on. But the problem with that is that the closed zip won't go past the bit in the middle designed to separate the two halves. Because normally, there's already part of the zip which is in the zipper, pulling it apart. Since there's no zip in the zipper at all, I'm forced to take some creative measures, which is how I finally managed to do it: I stick my pocket knife into the zipper from the other side, and separate them by myself.
HAHA!
SUCCESS!
I AM A MOTHERFUCKING CHAMPION!
SUCK ON THAT, STUPID ZIP!
DO YOUR WORST, LIFE!
I was pretty stoked. And it was barely even nine thirty. So, because I'm now on a "dealing with problems" roll, I submit a lost item report to the airport for my keys, and I also phone up the lost property for the bus service (in case I left them on the bus). They tell me to call back after two, because they wouldn't have everything that was left yesterday until at least then. No worries, I can do that. I set off to look around Dublin. I buy a ticket for the hop-on hop-off bus tour, which was kinda expensive, but is a remarkably good system. After learning a bit, I hop off at the Guinness store house, and start learning about Guinness. Okay, so I said in like my fourth post that I don't like Guinness. Well, that didn't stop me from going here, okay? And, towards the end of the "How they make Guinness" part, they start offering free Guinness taste tests. So... I try some. It really, really wasn't bad. I mean, I don't think I'd call it good, but it was still perfectly drinkable. Yeah, yeah, whatever. If you read my blog for the sole reason that I don't like Guinness, then I just lost your readership. Well, if that's the only reason why, I don't think I need you that much anyway.
I have lamb stew with mash for lunch at the dining hall in the storehouse, and it was a pretty big meal, and the pink lemonade I had with it was kinda fizzy, so I'm feeling VERY full after that, and I skip the complimentary Guinness they give you for being over 18. I get back on a tour bus, and sort of listen while it take me back to the first stop, where I'd gotten on. Oh, also, I called up the Dublin Bus lost property. They said they didn't have my keys, and I should call back tomorrow. Well, I was leaving then, so I was kinda annoyed at that. Skip ahead to later, I decide that I'll walk down to the lost property office for Dublin Bus (it was only like twenty minutes walk from the accommodation, and only just off the main street in Dublin), and... it turns out they closed an hour before I got there. So there's no chance of me getting my keys back from them.
Skip ahead to even later, and after some hostel-supplied pasta dinner, I head out to go drinking again. After wondering around Temple Bar for the better part of an hour, trying to find a pub or club that isn't absolutely jam-packed full, because I'm too a) socially awkward and b)by myself to go into a completely full pub without feeling ridiculously self-conscious, I end up at the pub I went to the night before, which is more full than before, but still more empty than anything else around. I sit down, order a drink, and contemplate getting over the social awkwardness barrier and start talking to one of the moderately hot girls further down the bar. I'm on to my second (or maybe third) drink, and I'm still seriously thinking about pushing past the five guys in my way between me and the girls when in walks drunk, 70-year old Swedish guy.
It's like this: I'm sitting there, drinking my half of Guinness (I'm still not sure if I can actually handle a full pint), and this guy with grey hair walks in. In a barely understandable accent, he asks for a Guinness, and sits down at the nearest available seat. Which happens to be the recently vacated one next to me. He starts singing some random song, in a language I don't know, out loud, and I'm sitting there grinning like an idiot at him. He looks at me, seems vaguely insulted when it turns out I don't know the song, and bam. Instant conversation. Just add Swede. Or whatever. The conversation actually wouldn't have been that interesting if it weren't for who it was with, so I'll sum up the main points here:
Note: Most of these points came from him, not me.
Oh wait.
Now, as an incredibly charming, witty, sexy and just generally awesome individual, you'd assume I'd have some charming, witty, sexy and/or generally awesome things to talk about, right?
Wrong. Which is why I'm going to tell you about Dublin. Or more specifically, that time I went to Dublin last week, rather than Dublin as a city, because I'm in no position to make judgements on it.
So, the date is last monday. Evening.
Actually, wait, scratch that. The date is any time before about three weeks ago. People ask me, what am I going to do for my holidays? And I say, well, fucked if I know, I might as well go to Dublin.
So skip ahead to last monday evening. The flights are booked, I've just finished packing my bags, and I had beef jerky on frozen pizza for dinner. Bam, I step out the door, make my way to the train station and get on the train. Interestingly enough, my coat gets caught on the door on the way out. I even said, out loud, to nobody in particular, "Well, that's not a good start." Or something of the like. I might have mentioned that it was foreboding. I can't remember. If only I realised how right I was.
Halfway to the airport, my plane leaves in an hour, and I have a realisation: WHERE the FUCK is my PASSPORT?
*sigh*
Get off the train, make my way to the other side of the station, call up fellow gap student/co-worker/guy who lives in the room next door to me, and ask him if the door to my room is unlocked. He says he's down at the pub. Well, fuck. But! He says that guy who lives on the other side of me is home, so he'll give him a ring and see if he can get my passport, whereupon there would be running and, all going well, the passport would be in my possession back at the train station I left from.
I get to the train station, call up fellow gap student, ask for some good news, turns out guy who lives on the other side of me has just walked in and...! He couldn't find it. I mean, that's alright, it was inside it's passport wallet, and it wasn't where I said it probably was. So, much more running, and I get back to home (wearing a huge motherfucking backpack, by the way), open the door to my room, and lo and behold, my passport is right there on the desk. Not two metres away from the entrance. I mean, sure, I guess. It was in the passport wallet. WITH THE WORD "PASSPORT" WRITTEN ON IT IN BIG LETTERS. Argh. So, I wash the blood off my face (did I mention I had a nosebleed on the train back?), and step out the door again. After much more running, I catch the train in time to be twenty minutes late to the airport.
So I need to book another flight. That's okay, it's cool, I'll deal with these things. £50 later, I've got a flight booked for half past noon the next day. Well, I need a drink now.
The next day, I get on the train, I make sure my bag is locked before dropping it off, pass through security and get on the plane. Not a problem. Read through the book I bought (Raymond E. Feist - A Crown Imperiled - it was alright).
I arrive in Ireland. Woohoo. Do all the airport stuff, and step outside. Well, it's pretty sunny, and I'm actually wearing a large coat and a hoodie as well. So what do I do? I take them off, of course. Unlock my bag, chuck them in there, lock it back up and get straight on the bus which will take me to the hostel. I get there, walk in, tell them my name and explain I missed my flight, etc. They ask for some ID. I figure I'll show them my passport, so I reach into the pocket of my backpack where I keep the keys and....
Shit.
Shit shit shit shit shit.
Fuck.
The keys aren't there. I check all the other pockets. Nope, not there. The keys are not in my backpack. Ugh.
Luckily, they'll accept my Aussie driver's licence, so that's what I give them, I drop my (still locked) bag in the 20-share room, and then step outside. I have a look at the Christ Church Cathedral, which is seriously like two hundred metres away from the hostel, have a nice beef stew lunch in the cafe they have, take some photos, and go back to the hostel to figure out exactly what I'm going to do. It's tuesday evening, I fly out mid thursday morning, and I need to open my bag to get at my passport, and, if I'm lucky, my keys which I suppose could have been locked in there accidentally. All I have at my disposal is my crappy pocket knife. Yeah.
After two unsuccessful attempts to pick the tiny little padlock (neither of which I realistically thought would work), I hit upon the bright idea to see if I could open up the zip with the padlock still done up. This, i thought, was a stroke of brilliance. Unfortunately, all I have is a crappy pocket knife. My first idea was to use this to split apart the teeth of the zip somewhere in the middle, but this didn't turn out too well. The only way to have at this was to do it from the end of the zip. The end of the zip which, I should point out, is covered up as part of the bag to stop people from doing exactly this. Well, no problem, I cut open the tiny little part of the bag where the zip is hidden, and open up the zip. Okay, that's all settled, I can open the main pocket of my bag now, and I have my passport. Unfortunately, my keys are not in there, so there's still two pockets which remain unopened. And I really, REALLY do not want to mutilate my bag even further. Still, it's open, and I'm feeling pretty good about myself.
Until, that is, I decide that it would be a good idea to zip the bag back up so it actually looks like it's locked, and my shit doesn't get stolen. This is when I learn the second reason why the end of the zip is covered up: To stop the zippers coming off the zip. Which, in my case, due to me pulling a bit too hard (That's what she said?) is exactly what happened.
So, I'm sitting there, with this bag, completely open, with almost no way to close it back up again (I could always have just put each of the zip teeth back together again by hand, but that was annoyingly difficult). I spend the better part of an hour and a half trying to put the zippers back on - a surprisingly difficult task - and I meet no success. Now, by this point, I haven't quite suffered a mental breakdown yet, but I'm at the point where I'm trying to force one to happen so I'd stop trying to do this clearly impossible task. I briefly considered just banging my head on the wall. Also, it's getting dark, so it's gonna be even harder to do this. So what do I do? I do what any sane, rational-minded adult would do in this situation: I go to the pub.
Two drinks (and probably like two hours) later, I come back to the hostel, and figure it I should maybe try again, but thirty seconds in the dark with that zipper, and I give up.
NEXT MORNING: I wake up, have breakfast, and have at the zipper again, before I go and do anything else. This is when I meet with success. Y'see, it turns out that the way you gotta put the zipper back on is like this: If you're feeding it on the way the zip goes in CLOSED, then, obviously, it helps to have the zip closed when you're trying to put it back on. But the problem with that is that the closed zip won't go past the bit in the middle designed to separate the two halves. Because normally, there's already part of the zip which is in the zipper, pulling it apart. Since there's no zip in the zipper at all, I'm forced to take some creative measures, which is how I finally managed to do it: I stick my pocket knife into the zipper from the other side, and separate them by myself.
HAHA!
SUCCESS!
I AM A MOTHERFUCKING CHAMPION!
SUCK ON THAT, STUPID ZIP!
DO YOUR WORST, LIFE!
I was pretty stoked. And it was barely even nine thirty. So, because I'm now on a "dealing with problems" roll, I submit a lost item report to the airport for my keys, and I also phone up the lost property for the bus service (in case I left them on the bus). They tell me to call back after two, because they wouldn't have everything that was left yesterday until at least then. No worries, I can do that. I set off to look around Dublin. I buy a ticket for the hop-on hop-off bus tour, which was kinda expensive, but is a remarkably good system. After learning a bit, I hop off at the Guinness store house, and start learning about Guinness. Okay, so I said in like my fourth post that I don't like Guinness. Well, that didn't stop me from going here, okay? And, towards the end of the "How they make Guinness" part, they start offering free Guinness taste tests. So... I try some. It really, really wasn't bad. I mean, I don't think I'd call it good, but it was still perfectly drinkable. Yeah, yeah, whatever. If you read my blog for the sole reason that I don't like Guinness, then I just lost your readership. Well, if that's the only reason why, I don't think I need you that much anyway.
I have lamb stew with mash for lunch at the dining hall in the storehouse, and it was a pretty big meal, and the pink lemonade I had with it was kinda fizzy, so I'm feeling VERY full after that, and I skip the complimentary Guinness they give you for being over 18. I get back on a tour bus, and sort of listen while it take me back to the first stop, where I'd gotten on. Oh, also, I called up the Dublin Bus lost property. They said they didn't have my keys, and I should call back tomorrow. Well, I was leaving then, so I was kinda annoyed at that. Skip ahead to later, I decide that I'll walk down to the lost property office for Dublin Bus (it was only like twenty minutes walk from the accommodation, and only just off the main street in Dublin), and... it turns out they closed an hour before I got there. So there's no chance of me getting my keys back from them.
Skip ahead to even later, and after some hostel-supplied pasta dinner, I head out to go drinking again. After wondering around Temple Bar for the better part of an hour, trying to find a pub or club that isn't absolutely jam-packed full, because I'm too a) socially awkward and b)by myself to go into a completely full pub without feeling ridiculously self-conscious, I end up at the pub I went to the night before, which is more full than before, but still more empty than anything else around. I sit down, order a drink, and contemplate getting over the social awkwardness barrier and start talking to one of the moderately hot girls further down the bar. I'm on to my second (or maybe third) drink, and I'm still seriously thinking about pushing past the five guys in my way between me and the girls when in walks drunk, 70-year old Swedish guy.
It's like this: I'm sitting there, drinking my half of Guinness (I'm still not sure if I can actually handle a full pint), and this guy with grey hair walks in. In a barely understandable accent, he asks for a Guinness, and sits down at the nearest available seat. Which happens to be the recently vacated one next to me. He starts singing some random song, in a language I don't know, out loud, and I'm sitting there grinning like an idiot at him. He looks at me, seems vaguely insulted when it turns out I don't know the song, and bam. Instant conversation. Just add Swede. Or whatever. The conversation actually wouldn't have been that interesting if it weren't for who it was with, so I'll sum up the main points here:
Note: Most of these points came from him, not me.
- The song was the Swedish national anthem (I think).
- Dublin is expensive.
- Apparently Guinness where he lives is €3, while at this place it was €5.
- This guy was drunk.
- His flight home was at six o'clock the next morning.
- We play cricket in Australia.
- They play ice hockey in Sweden.
- Canada also plays ice hockey.
- All the Canadian teams hire swedish players to play for them.
- This is because Swedes are so much better at ice hockey.
- This guy would go to Australia, but he's scared of crocodiles.
- Therefore, he would go to New Zealand instead.
- He got a cheap flight and accommodation in Dublin.
- A friend of his got flights to Dublin from Sweden for €1 per person.
- That is seriously fucking cheap.
- No, seriously. It is.
That's about as much as I could remember, until he got up, ostensibly to go back to the hotel, and came back five minutes later and started chatting with the recently seated two girls who were sitting on the other side of him. These two, from what I gather, were obviously not interested in this conversation, and the barman told him to stop bothering these two. Swede ordered a drink. Barman said no, because he's drunk. Swede got all outraged over this. Something along the lines of "I'M DRUNK? No, YOU'RE DRUNK!" I tried to explain that he was drunk. He agreed with me. I told him that he shouldn't be drinking any more. I can't remember what he said, but I gather it was more of just the principle that he was being told he was drunk. From that point on, he wouldn't listen to anything Barman said. Apparently because of his accent. He asked me what Barman was saying every time Barman spoke to him. Anyway, we eventually teamed up on him and he left, but not before telling me to visit him when I go to Sweden. I believe he tried to give me his business card or something, and he told me that he had four hundred people working for him. He left, I had another drink, went to the toilet, drank some water (turns out it's free), and went back to the hostel.
Next morning, I fly home, have a minor panic attack when I think I've lost the keys to the gate and my room, find them and then make it safely back.
And that was my trip to Dublin.
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