Mysterious Hoarders

Admittedly, I love television. Recently, I introduced two programmes on Foxtel's Bio Channel to my screening: Mysterious Diagnosis and Hoarders. Both series talk about sick people, chronically sick people.

I watch Hoarders in absolute disgust. Homes look like dump sites - they're hazardous and unsanitary. It's sad. It's infuriating. How could adults put their children through such living conditions? Children cry during interviews. They're ashamed. They're perplexed. They're angry. They don't want to come home.

I thought I grew up pretty bad - Mum hardly discarded anything, and Dad's always been a collector. I had my own room but it was cluttered with two-thirds of things that weren't mine. Like children of hoarders, I felt the same to a degree - distressed and silently angry. The difference, however was that our home wasn't filthy and I always wanted to come home (partly to my hobbies).

The experts on the show talk about how this illness can be a form of heredity. So I ask myself the question: am I a hoarder? Honestly, I do exhibit a few hoarding tendencies (for e.g. I keep things that I can still use - e.g. my pencil case of 17 years, and clothing that I can still fit no matter how old or unfashionable they are) but in the scheme of things, they all now seem so mild.

Meanwhile, I learned that Bickerstaff Encephalitis is scary sh-t. It's an auto-immune condition where the brainstem gets attacked and your central nervous system goes out of whack in no time! Alopecia and Graves, the two auto-immune conditions I have also now seem so mild.

Flight Control

I'm glad that I can indulge myself a game or two of Flight Control at will and pleasure. The last couple of months have been very unpleasant, so bad that I dug out from my library a David Allen for professional help, a Nick Hornby for laughs (note: I don't always read fiction), a Shutterbug for inspiration and a Khahlil Gibran for peace and quiet. Some evenings, I also blasted my home stereo with Chopin on weed, and either sat in the sauna or soaked in hot baths long enough to lose track of time.

If you haven't heard of Flight Control, it is a simple (and addictive) game. As the air traffic controller, you just need to land aircrafts on the right runway strips and avoid collisions. When it gets chaotic is when the fun begins. I got hooked to this game when I first played it on a friend's iPhone at its launch. I'd rediscovered it three weeks ago *wide grin.

I do wonder if one's ability in mastering Flight Control is a reflection of one's ability in keeping one's daily life in order. Does life have to be chaotic for it to be fun? This, I can attest - the answer is: hell no!

Without Expletives

I swear, there is only one other apart from God who does not bullsh-t me - my Reflexologist. The things they have in common:

1) They would touch your stinking feet with great care and respect
2) They know exactly what is going on with you better than you do
3) They have a real job of inflicting a hell of a pain upon you because they can
4) They make you want to swear
5) They make you feel better in the end

Needless to say, these are the two whose advice I heed more than the usual.

I Quit!

I won a AUD9million lottery last Saturday so I decided it's time for that career break I had been dying to pull. I was pursuing every one of my interests, including keeping the bl--dy strata management company honest. I loved it, but...

Next thing I knew, I woke up - just three minutes before the alarm went off.

D-mn!

The Return

My last blog entry was about this time of the year back in 2009. Where did 2010 go?

With 2011 more than half-way gone, I can only sum up the time between now and then to be eventful. Tragically, there had been three deaths in the family. I 'lost' a friendship that I most treasure. I drove my health to yet another brink to add hyperthyroid to my list of severe auto-immune sufferings.

Other than that, life hasn't been too bad. All of my 2010 resolutions were fulfilled and I also discovered a couple of new things about myself. For example,

1. I seem to have a knack for the ancient art of Wadaiko - somewhat.
All it takes is some stress of astronomical levels and you unleash it in a fury with two bachi sticks on to a Taiko the size of an elephant's hind.

2. I have trouble deciding if I should outsource my ironing.
I did eventually, convincing myself that I'd avoid repetitive-stress injury. I had a stack that was 8 months high.

3. I play chess like a bloody street fighter.
It means three things. One: anything goes - sometimes, it's brilliant; most of the time, not. Two: you throw whatever you've got, everything and everywhere. Three: even if you turned out to be the winner, you probably got hurt pretty badly, anyway.

4. I like the gym.
...but am far from being a junkie.

5. I'm more willing to give up my full-time job and rid my scabs of corporate bullsh-t than I have ever cared to consider.
There are way too many better things to do, like picking belly fluff.

6. I can live without Facebook.
...but I'm not yet ready to commit Facebook Suicide. For now, I'd refer to myself as a (Facebook) recluse.

7. I have a green thumb - somewhat.
My plants are thriving (read: not dead). I sometimes forget I'm a Landscape Architect.

8. I want to retire a photojournalist, with a genie in a bottle.
I should really start taking myself a bit more seriously...

Now, it's half past two in the morning. I'm in inane denial - like a child who doesn't like school, telling myself that if I didn't go to bed on a Sunday, Monday would never come.

No TV

Yesterday, I ditched a social event so I could sit back, relax and watch Law & Order at home... but, I received no feed on my TV. The 'No Signal' came flashing in screensaver mode.

Not happy, I went to bed. It wasn't even 10pm.

Today, I have been cranky all morning, all afternoon and all evening - a bit like a mad junkie who didn't get his fix he thought he had but ran out.

I shall warn you that small talks during this time are to be avoided.

Week 21

When you see Week 21 for a title, you'd get an entry that is no less inspiring, of course.

I had so many meetings, especially this week that I lost count. At the end of it all, it felt like I got chewed like grass by cows - slowly and through four compartments. I dread some of those meetings in the manner men dread the talking when women say to them those four deadly words in one unnerving sentence: we need to talk.

If you organized a meeting without an agenda to start, you're probably a wimp. I'd buy you beer and make sure you know that. I won't show up because you will very likely piss me off, piss the team off and then piss yourself off in the end because of all that pissing-everybody-off you did, so it is best for you to piss off because your pants must be wet by now.

Meanwhile, my car still isn't home yet after two months and that makes this truly a week-twenty-one.