ONEMONTHYAY

Would you even believe it's been a month since this blog was opened to the public? In that time I've had 300+ views, which isn't really very many in the grand scheme of things because there are billions of people out there, but to me it is an achievement. I feel like I should be given a sticker and be allowed to have a little party with a few choice people and some fizzy drinks and sweeties.

No I really have no idea what's going on there either.
Or here for that matter.
BUGGER IT I DON'T CARE IF THIS IS THE WORST BLOG POST EVER I EARNED IT.

Inside the Mind of a Mutant

I was sitting and I was thinking about how I couldn't blog because my head was too full up and I couldn't think of anything to write about and then in all the confusion I managed to have a brainwave. Why not just try and explain what this is that is in your head? Maybe it could be interesting.

So where have I been? Oh, I've been many places. I've been here, there and everywhere. There are stories in there somewhere but I can't get them out through the fog of thinkingthinkingthinking. It happens to me, all these thoughts happen and create a thick smog that covers the outer reaches of my mind and leaves me teetering on the edge of mania. It's a LAUGHSCREAMCRY waiting to come out because I've left it all too long and it's clogged up my brain. It's hysterical confusion. Sometimes though, it isn't like that. Sometimes it's like the thoughts decide that they have lain still for too long and they must all at once start rushing around, trying to find their place. When this happens it's like playing Break Out with too many balls, it's a frenzy that I have to try so hard to keep up with lest the thoughts fall off screen and then it would be Game Over.

You see all the thoughts are special and they have their own special place, but there are too many of them and  if I were to sit and try to organize them I wouldn't know where to start. It's a daunting task and one that should not be taken lightly. And then when you try you realise that all those things you've been fretting about and worrying yourself over are nothing. They are small and insignificant and really don't make much sense. Why is your brain so clogged, Robyn? You have not got thoughts that are too big for this world. But still they are there, pressure mounting, head feeling like an about-to-boil kettle that never quite gets around to it. They make you feel dejected and weak and unable to face even the simplest of tasks. They are nothing but they are huge and weigh more than the sun and they are sitting inside your head making you stoop like you are elderly.

This is why I haven't been around much, if you can make any sense of it. You probably can't, that's why I've avoided doing this. It is my head, laid bare for everyone to see. It is raw and it is nonsense and it is mine.

Now I'm going to go and celebrate my head being intact and non-exploded by eating a great many doughnuts. They are sugary and full of jam and I am going to keep myself from licking my lips between bites.

An Unexpected Absence

I have had so much going on. It's unbelievable. I can't even begin to explain what exactly has been preventing me from posting because my head is still spinning. I'm in a state of perpetual confusion. Life has been a haze of mental illness, sleep, dancing, fires and chaos. I think it's over for a while. I hope it is.

This isn't really a blog post, this is just filling in for the absence of real content. Until my world stops spinning, until my head stops feeling like it's caught in the spin cycle of a washing machine, I won't be able to think of anything substantial so you're just going to have to put up with this.

It wouldn't be so bad if I could just figure out how to accurately describe my experiences of the past two weeks but my brain is far too itchy. Thoughts are bouncing around, richoteting off one another with such velocity that I can't catch them to put them in order. It's not even like anything particularly eventful happened, I just haven't been able to stop.


Bloody hell. I don't know where I'm going with this so I'm just going to end it here.

Dream Logic (or Why I Should Stop Following Amanda Palmer on Twitter)

The following blog post is entirely based on a dream I had last night. There really is no point to it, other than I thought it was fun and a little strange.

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Once upon a time, in a kingdom far, far from reality, a little Mutant Girl found herself in a bit of a quandary

Being a bit of an anxious young lady, Mutant Girl fretted over her attire for the upcoming party. She had to look beautiful. She had to look fascinating. She had to look unique. You see, Mutant Girl did not have a great many friends and she was looking to this party as a means of getting to know people and finding herself some companionship.

She thought long and she thought hard about what she would wear. Suddenly, Mutant Girl had a brainwave.

Furry green legwarmers were the perfect accessory for her party outfit. How did she not think of this earlier? Such a show of megafashionability! Such style. So stylish, in fact, that nobody had even thought to make them yet. She checked high and low through shops and markets but nobody was selling the sought-after furry green legwarmers. Mutant Girl realized what she must do, she would have to buy the furry green fabric and create the legwarmers all by herself.

So she stitched and she stitched and she sewed and she sewed, putting all her love into the pieces of luxuriously soft, green fur. She rubbed her cheeks against it, rubbing her cheeks against things being one of Mutant Girl's favourite pastimes. 

As time passed, Mutant Girl became more and more enamoured with the furry, green fabric and less and less enthusiastic about her previous idea of creating a fabulous pair of legwarmers with which to attract friends. She was wondering what to do when out of the blue she had a very peculiar visitor.

Suddenly, Mutant Girl knew what she wanted to do with her no-longer-legwarmers

And with that, Amanda Palmer was gone as mysteriously as she had arrived.

Mutant Girl worked furiously into the night, devoting all of her love and attention to her new project. She had a goal now, she knew what she was doing and she was very excited. For hours and hours she stitched her furry green fabric until at last she was finished.

.His name was Griswold and she loved him with all her might. "Who needs to go to a party to make friends," thought our little Mutant Girl, "when one can simply stay at home and create one of her very own?" From that moment on, Mutant Girl and Griswold were inseperable. She took him everywhere with her, including to Amanda Palmer's ninja gig for the local Polish community.

And everybody lived happily ever after. Apart from the xenophobic bastards.
I'm not too sure how that poor faceless man fared either.

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Foot Notes:

1. I have many dreams about Amanda Palmer. In almost all of them she gets her boobs out.

Mutant Shoes for Mutant Feet

People often say that shoes that fit are shoes that should be worn. I agree with this sentiment apart from on the odd occasion when the shoes are ugly and I would not wish to wear them, such is the case with Crocs. Just because the Crocs happen to be my shoe size does not mean that I will wear them, I would rather walk barefoot or wear a large pair of man's shoes than wear Crocs. That is down to personal taste though, not to mention I am rather getting off the subject here. The thing I am meaning to say is this; the shoes I have found to wear not only happen to be my size but I also find them aesthetically appealing and delightfully comfortable.  And by this, of course, I am meaning this blog and being Little Mutant Girl.

Mutant Girl is a persona I adapt well to, it fits me like a glove. A glove that fits me properly though, because I often have trouble finding gloves that fit due to my peculiarly small thumbs. It's annoying having a little bit of fabric that just flaps around at the end of your thumb, catching on things and getting trapped in places it has no right getting trapped in. So being Mutant Girl fits me like a pair of those Magic Gloves. You know, the ones that look really tiny but stretch to fit nearly any hand? Sometimes they have cool little jellyish stars on like slipper socks. What is that material exactly? If I could I would apply it to the soles of all my shoes to stop me slipping. I have a terrible habit of slipping.

Anyway. Back on track. By starting this here little blog I have found me and who I am and what I write about and why I write about it. I have also found that drawing a crappy little doodle helps me along the way. I have found that I prefer being slightly odd and silly to being very odd and serious. I have found that other people seem to prefer this too as I have had 150 page views in a week which is good going by my standards. I have found that I like to mock myself and my freakishly long neck and my monkey feet and everything that comes in between. I have found that I take pleasure in amusing people, although that has not been my aim. I never thought it possible. Thank you for (pretending to) laugh.

In summary: I have found THE jeans, such as the pair that Liz Lemon finds in that one episode of 30 Rock that make her ass look all BADONGBADONG. Except they are not jeans they are a blog and I still really want a pair of those jeans. This blog is that dress, the one that highlights all your curves but hides the rolls, except it doesn't rip at the seams because your ass is too huge.

This post was brought to you by Insomnia and the letter Tea.

The Tale of Cuthbert and the Drama Llama

Once upon a time I had a close-knit group of friends. We shared laughs, we told secrets, we cried together and loved together and breathed together. We were inseparable, friends until the very end. We would grow up together, be each others' bridesmaids, care for each others' babies. It was the dream. There would be no stopping us.

Then one by one, each of them was taken down by the Drama Llama, a ferocious beast who makes his way into social circles and destroys them. He spreads malicious lies and rumours, starts arguments and slander until everyone is divided. Even the mightiest of friendships can crumble when the Drama Llama is present.

But he is not the only one to blame, there was also Cuthbert, the raging ball of paranoia who lives in my head.

Cuthbert fed off my sensitivity. He plagued my mind with a torrent of venom powerful enough to cripple me with self-loathing. Cuthbert was right, I wasn't really their friend. I was just this irritating, disgusting human who followed them about. Nobody in their right mind would be friends with me. The paranoia took root, I was left unable to think clearly. I didn't contact anybody for fear of rejection. They would only be annoyed that I was still trying to be their friend. The love I felt for them turned into bitterness at how I was never accepted, never truly part of the group. It hurt.

Growing apart is all part of growing up, they say. I can't accept that though, I will always blame Cuthbert and the Drama Llama.

Losing my friends hurt for the longest time, I felt betrayed and alone. But not any more, now I have friends who will love me for who I am no matter what, who understand that sometimes Cuthbert gets into my head and who know how to help banish him. I love them with enough ferocity and power to light up a thousand cities. Sure I still miss the other guys from time to time, I miss the laughs we shared and everything we ever experienced together, but I suppose our time has come. Those who were driven away by the Drama Llama are unlikely to ever come back to me, but I no longer hold on to hope. The people in my life now are all I need. I've let go of the bitterness and resentment.

So here's to friendships new and old, and appreciating the people you have in your life.

My Hair Has a Mind of Its Own

This happened yesterday. Fact. Horace and Reginald teamed up to become one huge spike of hair sticking up from the top of my head. I had to get creative with a scarf to try and cover it up, which worked until I left the house, got drunk and had the scarf blown off my head by a mighty wind. By this point Horace and Reginald had been pushed forward by the scarf, flattened on my head and showing off my thinning crown to the world behind me. Fortunately (I think) by now I had consumed so much alcohol that I really didn't care and went about my business as usual. Usual in a "Hey I'm inebriated so I'm going to try and swing dance to terrible pop music" kinda way. Or perhaps a "Yeah you're trying to make the moves on me in bed but instead I'm going to blurt out 'I feel like a rectangle' and go to sleep" kinda way. However you look at it, I was pissed as a fart and hadn't a care in the world. Screw you, hair spikes, you won't get the best of me.