Things I don't understand and the things I might have to say about them.

This is going to be part rant, part honest incomprehension, part discussion on the possibility of thing. If you can't stand those things, please leave, if you have answers, please comment, if you want to, please read on.

Ok, let's go.

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Why is it always the older, slightly to very pudgy construction worker who takes his shirt of in very hot wheather and not the seventeen-to-twentyfive-year old ones who seem to be very content wearing a very thick fleece sweater? No, really, if I am going to be treated to the view of a half naked man from the subway (which is no skin of my back, I assure you) I want it to be a view of rippling abs and bouncy pecs. NOT rippling fat and bouncy moobs. Really, beyond my comprehension. I mean I realize the older one with the fat warms up swifter but still, doesn't solidarity count? I vote that should any construction worker take off his shirt, ALL construction workers take off their shirts. Yes this will mean that more pudgyness will ensue, but also more pec-age.

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I know some things about the human body, not much, but enough to get me, euh, by. So now I have a little scratch on the back of my left hand, with a little scabby bit over it. Now, when this scratch occured, not much happened, no real blood as such, just a bit of scratching. So why, when I now pick at the scab does there erupt a veritable geyser of blood?
Seriously, this is not even the size of a musquitobite, but when I just scratched at the freaking little bit of dried blood, it spurted, really, spurted. Let me say this again. SPURTED! There are now spots of fresh blood on the ceiling, honestly. Co-workers are as I type this trying to mop up the tsunami of blood that has come out of me. Why is this? Why?
Well, I know why they would be trying to clean up; blood is icky.
Should the "wound" not been healing underneath that little scab?
Seriously, dumbass bloodcells. How hard is it to design a mechanic like the body and then forgetting to get wounds to heal from the inside out instead of the other way round?

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Why is it that dreams can really fuck up your day? And really, they can. And I don't mean the big nightmarey "I was stuffed by 18 burly contruction workers and when I woke up my pillow was gone" type of thing, which isn't so much about the dream but about waking up in the wrong joke.
I mean the "I dreamt you ate my stake and I will be pissed of at you for the rest of the day" type of dream-annoyance. Some nights one can dream about kissing some random person on a bus and that day you will be suspiciously eyeing most eligible co-passengers on the public transport. Or not talk to your roommate for a few days because she admitted she dreamt she flushed your books through the toilet and you have never been able to trust her around your books again, really.
And the sad part is you do this, the hating, the eyeing, the everything, even though you KNOW, rationally, that it was only a dream.
Dreams are weird.

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Ok, another public transport related one; I take the bus to work, and this bus is usually filled with the people you would expect to see in a bus at 7:50 in the morning, the collection of grey drabness with a pulse that greets shiny little me every morning is easily imagined.
Now, occasionally, there will be someone on the bus who draws the eyes, and even more rarely this might be someone who does so because he or she is simply very, very cute.
Now, whenever this happens I try to sit soI can get this little bit of niceness in my view. Not for ogling or leering, mind, just to pass over whenever I am not stuck in my book. I am a very visual person and facial beauty lifts my senses and makes my day a little bit better.
That being said, whenever I am in position, WHY is there always a person who finds the need to position themselves so that they block my view? WHY? Usually they stand right between me and the stuff even though there are multiple places to sit left and all.
They do it to spite me, I'm sure. It has occured to me to draw a connection between the fact that these people seem to be mean and spiteful, and the fact that they are almost without exception, extremely ugly.
And you know what, this works. Ugly people are spiteful. I should know, I am one, and if I see people prettier than me, I will do my best to ruin their day ;)

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I briefly touched upon this in my blog yesterday but it needs another mention.
I have friends, as do most people (and as undeserved as most, I'm sure), and sometimes these friends say or do things, as do most people, that makes a person want to take a spade to their lower intestine.
Now, on these "I could now rip off your head and dance a little jig in the fountain of blood your neck will have become" moments I usually find it prudent to mention my intention for grievious bodily harm. Not that I would directly begin to threathen or nothing, but still.
For example, I had a friend who had a tendency to make disparaging jokes about other people, usually something I can dish out and take, but as do most, I have my weak spots. One day, he managed to stumble upon one of these subjects, and I asked him, kindly, to not go there again.

Obviously, he ignored me and continued on the same line, so I asked him again. Nothing. In the end, I was forced to tell him that should he make one more joke on the subject, I would feel forced to break his nose.

And here is the thing I don't get. He says: "I would like to see you try."

WHY? Why do people do this? Because, you know, you really wouldn't. Nobody really likes to see a fist fly at their nose. And I am not kidding. As most people who know me can attest, I don't usually lie. I may exaggerate, I may make things a bit more colourful than they really were, but I don't usually lie.
So when I tell you that I will soon be doing my utmost to hurt you I will soon be doing my utmost to hurt you.
And I might not be the bestest fighter in the world, I will be able to land at least some points there, matey.
(By the way, sheer height and physical strength would make me quite the adversary, were it not for my debilitating fear of things flying at my face, which I think proves my point a bit)
Plus, I bite, and I am nasty. So if it would come to fisticuffs, you'd be damn sure I will walk of with scratches, bruises and parts of me in a cast, but YOU will walk away with teethmarks in places you would not like to explain to your girlfriend.
(I am not weird, I just tend to play mean when the chips are down(And I am weird))

So no, no you really would not want to see me try. Honestly. Plus, if I am forced to try something is wrong between us, which opens up a whole new can of worms.

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Ongoing on the theme of "please trust me, I know this" why is it that whenever one tells a person that one really isn't a nice person and should perhaps be left alone, that the other person will NEVER believe this?
Really... I am not a very friendly person, I am emotionally unavailable, I fill my time with books and music, I am bitchy, strong-worded, whiney, needy and high maintenance. Whenever I say this to a date, he or she ALWAYS responds with something along the line of "you are just vulnerable and I can take what you have to give"
And really, when something like that is said there is nothing more to it than the woodchipper. Because from then on, I have been given freedom from responsibility. Do not come to my house three weeks later complaining that you have lost touch with your friends, your house has turned into an illegal nightclub and I am apparently in bed with your mother because I FREAKING WARNED YOU!
Truly. Be warned when I warn you, and feel safe when I tell you to feel safe. I know me, and I can judge my moods and effects of them better then you'll EVER be able to.

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Hmmm, this blog has been in the making since the 20th of June (and I'm posting this on the 11th of July, even though it shows up for the 20th..), and I really can't think of anymore. So please, help me out, tell me about these things, tell me why...
(Anita Meyer be damned for all eternity to wander the globe in search of for the one decent Frans Bauer song for the torment of getting THAT SONG stuck in my head.)

Grtz,
Kevin.