I don't have anything to say and I'm tired from work and don't want to look at a computer screen anymore and I have no creative juices and I don't want to just keep blogging about myself and my introspective thoughts because it can only last so long and I feel like I can only be so self-indulgent before it gets tiresome.
So I am instead going to go and continue reading my book and maybe watch an episode of a TV show and then go to bed. At least I have fulfilled this obligation for another day. Don't worry, I have a four day weekend coming up and I'm sure by the end of it I will be sufficiently bored of any other distractions that I'll feel like writing creatively again. Probably at about 9:30pm the night before I start work again but hey, I'll take what I can get.
Thursday 26 March 2020
Wednesday 25 March 2020
Don't Call It A Comeback
Except actually don't. I had a very long day at work today, finishing around 8pm :) :) :) :) So now I'm doing this in OG Adrienne Style, by which I mean at 10:30 when I should be reading or sleeping and instead I'm sitting down to start thinking about writing something now.
Today was a hard day. Our home internet wasn't working, and because I live in a Maltese house of character, it basically means that the bottom floor is under 1,000,000,000,000,000 kgs of stone and we don't get phone reception there, which meant I spent the day hotspotting from my phone but the only place my phone gets reception is in my room. So basically I spent the day working from my bed which may, in theory, sound delightful and like I am Living The Dream, in reality, it stinks. Maybe it would be good if I at least had the choice to leave but I didn't and it was Not Fun.
Isolation is a weird place. I found myself wanting to go for a run? It hasn't yet materialised into actually running yet but I've been wearing a sports bra for three days in anticipation that it might, and not wanting the excuse of needing to get changed to get in the way. I did voluntarily do some exercise: jumping jacks, sit-ups, push-ups, squats, etc. (There is not etc. That was all there was.) And normally I'm reluctant to go to bed in the abstract, there's-other-things-I-want-to-do-with-my-time-like-watch-another-episode-of-The-Resident way. Now I'm reluctant to go to bed because I have already spent all day in it so how do you transition to night-bed from day-bed.
My muscles, especially my legs, feel cramped and achy from the doing nothing - and I'm not the most active girl on a regular day. My sprint to the bus I'm always running late for is about it. But I feel increasingly like a tightly coiled spring with too much energy and nowhere to put it. I never thought the introvert in me would struggle so much to be housebound.
So this is Isolation Diary Day Something. I'm trying not to think about the uncertain endlessness of this looming in front of me. At this rate, I'll be running marathons - in my mind.
Today was a hard day. Our home internet wasn't working, and because I live in a Maltese house of character, it basically means that the bottom floor is under 1,000,000,000,000,000 kgs of stone and we don't get phone reception there, which meant I spent the day hotspotting from my phone but the only place my phone gets reception is in my room. So basically I spent the day working from my bed which may, in theory, sound delightful and like I am Living The Dream, in reality, it stinks. Maybe it would be good if I at least had the choice to leave but I didn't and it was Not Fun.
Isolation is a weird place. I found myself wanting to go for a run? It hasn't yet materialised into actually running yet but I've been wearing a sports bra for three days in anticipation that it might, and not wanting the excuse of needing to get changed to get in the way. I did voluntarily do some exercise: jumping jacks, sit-ups, push-ups, squats, etc. (There is not etc. That was all there was.) And normally I'm reluctant to go to bed in the abstract, there's-other-things-I-want-to-do-with-my-time-like-watch-another-episode-of-The-Resident way. Now I'm reluctant to go to bed because I have already spent all day in it so how do you transition to night-bed from day-bed.
My muscles, especially my legs, feel cramped and achy from the doing nothing - and I'm not the most active girl on a regular day. My sprint to the bus I'm always running late for is about it. But I feel increasingly like a tightly coiled spring with too much energy and nowhere to put it. I never thought the introvert in me would struggle so much to be housebound.
So this is Isolation Diary Day Something. I'm trying not to think about the uncertain endlessness of this looming in front of me. At this rate, I'll be running marathons - in my mind.
Tuesday 24 March 2020
A Streak of Two is Still a Streak
I'm working on writing other things - stories, in theory, I suppose, or something. I asked for prompts to help my creative juices flow, which was great up until the point that I realised it created both an audience and an expectation, however indifferent either of those may be. At this realisation, of course my brain has now rebelled against doing absolutely anything related to anything that's been suggested to me, but I'm trying, I promise.
One of my brothers asked me to write song lyrics. Here goes.
...
Oh wait, that's not in my talent set. I can only think of overly earnest and cheesy things or obnoxious coronavirus-related ditties, and neither of them well-formed.
Okay, I'm going to cop out and go on a song lyric generator, where I will now create a song line by line with the inspiration word 'home'. Spoiler warning: It's a shit show.
Thank you https://www.song-lyrics-generator.org.uk/ ????
One of my brothers asked me to write song lyrics. Here goes.
...
Oh wait, that's not in my talent set. I can only think of overly earnest and cheesy things or obnoxious coronavirus-related ditties, and neither of them well-formed.
Okay, I'm going to cop out and go on a song lyric generator, where I will now create a song line by line with the inspiration word 'home'. Spoiler warning: It's a shit show.
A Song For Noah To Practice Guitar
Hospice, let's talk about hospice
I've got new multiple sclerosis
I need a rheumatoid mortgage
Like the neurosis over meiosis
Urogenital, urogenital girl
And when you're gone I feel creaky
You must think I'm a grumpiness
And every subconsciousness is squeaky
[chorus]
You don't wanna be wheezy like me
Got more carefree
I know you think that I'm turnkey
Got more carefree
An e for you and one for me
Got more carefree
You and me
Rheumatic, rheumatic boy
Then you came with all your ailing
You don't want to go crumbling with me
And I'm dancing because you're not failing
[chorus]
Save me from the unselfconscious neuralgia
Neuralgia neuralgia
Save me from the unselfconscious neuralgia
Internal ain't nothing when I'm tottering with ya
Tottering with ya
Monday 23 March 2020
Let Us Embark (Perhaps)
Every return becomes a little more sheepish. Especially this one, six (6) years later. But where else to write nonsense on the internet? I could create a new blog of oddly assorted nonsense, but that seems to defeat the purpose. What makes this nonsense any different from the old nonsense? Years and wisdom? Not likely.
Here, newcomers to my life can track a few years of it in crippling detail: Harry Potter fanfiction (only one ... thus far), rants, doomed attempts at regular or frequent blogging, embarrassing confessions, etc. Longer-term investors in the life of Adrienne can return to all these posts you may have seen before, and delight in how far I haven't come.
I want to write more. I want to connect with a version of myself I seem only able to reach when I'm writing. Writing forces zero distractions. I can't write (well) while I watch TV or look at my phone. It is only through writing I can examine, explicitly or otherwise, parts of myself that fade otherwise. And now we're all basically in isolation and my computer is permanently set up glamorously on my coffee table while I learn how to work from home so there's really no excuse, is there? I will find one, don't get me wrong. But let's see how long it lasts until I do.
Reading back through these blogs always brings me a strange confluence of feelings. (Am I using that word correctly? Google didn't help. I think so. I'm sure my dad will tell me otherwise if he ever reads this.) I think I'm funny enough, and as you can see from the angsty poem below, it's pretty difficult for me to think good things about myself in general. I like reading my own work. But it also terrifies me, because a lot of it feels like it was written by someone else. Someone, and you might be sensing a theme here, better. I just reread a poem I wrote and I don't know anything about poetry so I can't exactly say it's a good poem but I can say that it captured a feeling that I know in a way I don't think I could capture now.
So I'm writing here again partly as an outlet. I spend so much time pouring things into my brain - phone, TV, podcasts, Youtube, there is literally enough content in different forms that you never ever need to spend a second alone with your own thoughts if you don't want to. I want to pour something out, instead. And I wish I was more multidimensional but I'm me and what pours out is words. Always too many and too fast but at least it's an out, not an in.
Also I did 20 minutes of yoga from a Youtube yoga instructor with almost my name today so I'm basically a lifestyle blogger at this point.
Oh and for the newbies? I never proofread. Well, I do, often, but I can never be bothered doing it before I hit publish, so think of the typos like a fun game where you get to figure out what I was trying to say, and the prize is comprehension.
Here, newcomers to my life can track a few years of it in crippling detail: Harry Potter fanfiction (only one ... thus far), rants, doomed attempts at regular or frequent blogging, embarrassing confessions, etc. Longer-term investors in the life of Adrienne can return to all these posts you may have seen before, and delight in how far I haven't come.
I want to write more. I want to connect with a version of myself I seem only able to reach when I'm writing. Writing forces zero distractions. I can't write (well) while I watch TV or look at my phone. It is only through writing I can examine, explicitly or otherwise, parts of myself that fade otherwise. And now we're all basically in isolation and my computer is permanently set up glamorously on my coffee table while I learn how to work from home so there's really no excuse, is there? I will find one, don't get me wrong. But let's see how long it lasts until I do.
Reading back through these blogs always brings me a strange confluence of feelings. (Am I using that word correctly? Google didn't help. I think so. I'm sure my dad will tell me otherwise if he ever reads this.) I think I'm funny enough, and as you can see from the angsty poem below, it's pretty difficult for me to think good things about myself in general. I like reading my own work. But it also terrifies me, because a lot of it feels like it was written by someone else. Someone, and you might be sensing a theme here, better. I just reread a poem I wrote and I don't know anything about poetry so I can't exactly say it's a good poem but I can say that it captured a feeling that I know in a way I don't think I could capture now.
So I'm writing here again partly as an outlet. I spend so much time pouring things into my brain - phone, TV, podcasts, Youtube, there is literally enough content in different forms that you never ever need to spend a second alone with your own thoughts if you don't want to. I want to pour something out, instead. And I wish I was more multidimensional but I'm me and what pours out is words. Always too many and too fast but at least it's an out, not an in.
Also I did 20 minutes of yoga from a Youtube yoga instructor with almost my name today so I'm basically a lifestyle blogger at this point.
Oh and for the newbies? I never proofread. Well, I do, often, but I can never be bothered doing it before I hit publish, so think of the typos like a fun game where you get to figure out what I was trying to say, and the prize is comprehension.
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