Dreams can come true

Yes! My dreams have returned to their full surreal glory. When I woke up yesterday morning I couldn't differentiate between actual events and things that happened while I was asleep. It was a most odd feeling. Did I end up in Club Tropicana with about 15 Irish people? Was I forced to retake my GCSE Science exam and write the answers on my stomach with a marker pen? Did I let my visitors drink all my housemate's Jack Daniels? Were people using my forehead as a dartboard with sharpened teaspoons as darts? The mind boggles.

...Anyhow, in light of recent events (you'll see why) I feel the time is right to share my favourite joke with you. I hope you're sitting comfortably. Right, here goes:

There was once a little boy who loved tractors so much that he was bordering on an obsessive compulsive disorder. He had tractor wallpaper, tractor trading cards, tractor toys, tractor bedcovers, a tractor pencil case and so on. I'm sure you get the picture by now. His mother was sure that his obsession would naturally run it's course once he entered adolesence, but she was wrong. This boy was mad on tractors even at the age of 18. He had no friends, not even the faintest hint of a girlfriend and no job.

One day she decided to confront him and suggest that he should perhaps seek some sort of professional help if he was unable to stop this unhealthy fixation. Sure enough, the boy redecorated his bedroom and chucked out all his tractor paraphenallia. A few months passed and he got a girlfriend and a job pulling pints in his local pub. His life had changed for the better and his boss was so impressed with his bartending skills that he awarded him a payrise.

The landlord asked the boy (who had now become his valued sage) if there was a way for him to keep all his regular customers but reduce the amount of smoke in the pub, without segregation.

"No problem" said the boy as he began to inhale deeply. The landlord watched in amazment as the boy proceeded to breathe in all the smoke in the pub. He then went outside and exhaled all the fumes into the open air.

"How the hell did you do that? " said the stunned landlord.

"I'm an ex-tractor fan" said the boy.

SIDESPLITTING. Peace out.

I've started so I'll finish...

Oh dear. Oh dear. Oh dear. Yet another person has linked me on their site, which means that I'm forced to either post something worthwhile or admit defeat and delete my blog for a second time. Looks like it's going to be the former rather than the latter, so I'll soldier on bravely, despite the handicap of having NOTHING WORTHWHILE TO SAY.

If you continue to read, you do so at your own peril. This blog contains the self-obsessed ramblings of someone who really hasn't got anything better to do, and YES, I may tell you what I ate for breakfast from time to time. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

So. It's been a good week for moi, Grace E. de Ville. Not only have I received two sets of marks above 70% (that's two firsts, yay!), I've also been immortalised both as the subject of a poem and as a character in a novel, which is nice. I've begun to feel relatively normal for the first time, well ever really, which is also nice. After one of the most difficult periods of my life so far, it's good to be able to sit back and know with absolute certainty that things are changing for the better. The only mildly annoying thing about my current state of mind is that my dreams are even more mundane than real life. No trysts with Clooney or magic carpet rides here, no siree. I only dream about everyday occurences such as library fines (which, I can assure you, are everyday occurences) or text messages. Yawn! I suppose I can't really complain when there are people out there like my friend. The poor girl not only has to suffer with having the sixth sense and two wombs, she also has an irrational fear of going to sleep, which causes her to wake up in the morning physically dreading having to go to bed that night. Sometimes she is so afraid that she'll literally be sick with fear at the prospect of going to sleep.

My "problem" of uninspiring dreams pales into insignificance compared to her, but it's really got me thinking. The human brain is a marvellous organ, capable of wonderous things. My brain is allowing me to type this post, breathe, stop and drink tea and, if I wanted to, I could get up and do a little jig RIGHT NOW. All because of my brain. If I didn't have it, none of this would be possible. The problem is, that all this power comes with a price. The ability that we have enables us to do great things, but our brains are also, like any organ, prone to malfunction. Most people can control their basic functions, but when it comes to their thought processes, it's a whole different kettle of fish. This can be something as simple as looking somewhere you shouldn't or thinking about something you shouldn't. If I tell you NOT to think about strawberries, I'm sure you'll find it difficult not to. The same applies to my poor friend, who knows that she shouldn't be afraid of a simple bodily function such as sleeping, but really can't help it. I know that I shouldn't be sad about things that really aren't that important, but I have no control over my emotions. When you think about it, depression is a logical illness. Just like a defective heart, only a defective brain. It's only in recent years that people have begun to realise this, and I'm beginning to realise it too.

Yo

I'm utterly wank at HTML. God knows what this blog looks like on your computer, but I had attempted a space-age style font on a grey background. I can't be arsed to bother with it anymore though.

So, I've been a bit waylaid with other, more pressing matters to attend to than posting on my blog. But now I'm back with more ramblings of a pathetic nature.

It all started when I treated myself to a packet of fruit pastilles. To my horror, all but one of the pastilles were GREEN. That's the last time I buy Rowntree's confectionary, believe you me. THEN... I opened one of the kitchen cupboards and a bottle of Worcester sauce fell out and smashed all over myself and the floor. It was horrific, it really was. I can still smell it now. Thse two (distressing, I'm sure you'll agree) events triggered a chain of disasters which culminated in me possibly failing my degree and the end of the modern world as we know it. Am now concentrating solely on pulling myself together and facing the world outside, but I'm not going to buy sweets for a while. I can't cope with the disappointment.

P.S. Why do men wear flip-flops in the winter? It seems rather foolish.

Grey-t new colour

From the Corrections and Clarifications section of yesterday's Guardian:

"We said in error that the rap artist 50 cent is billed to appear in a Sunderland pub on February 29. Neither the performance nor the date will take place. The next leap year is 2008."

Oops! I bet they feel right daft.

I hope you like my brand new blog design. The only difference (besides the look) between my old blog and my new one is that every Friday I am going to post a 'picture of the week'. How jolly exciting!

*BREAKING NEWS*

-I made a baguette for Jenny Willott (MP for Cardiff Central) the other day. She had brie and grape.
-My new shoes make me sound like a horse.
-I got a guitar for Christmas. I can now play a whole chord.

New Blog

Welcome to my new blog.