Imperial Decree #1

Since we are the empress of Mars, we could as well add a few rules to our empire, and share them with you.

You're welcome to adopt them if you ever find them to your taste.

In our world, these decrees will be the Law from the moment we publish them.

Since last year, we've lost too many artists dear to us, and, in one case, our heart will remain broken until our last breath.

We do not need to go visit Bedlam.

We do not need pills or drugs or treatment.

Thank you.

We're not asking anyone to give us permission to grieve in a nutty way (you do whatever you want with your incarnation; we do whatever we want with ours - full stop).

From now on:

Art1. We won't use the past to talk about someone who's no longer on planet Earth if it hurts too much.

In order to feed that illusion:

Art 2. The people who have left us went to a secret island where they're all working on secret projects. These projects will never be available in our lifetime, and therefore these secrets will forever remain mysteries.

I know it's properly barmy (all the more since I'm a nullifidian!), but it's either a secret island with artists working on secret creations or I keep crying the seven seas and all the rivers if I acknowledge the fact that the lights of my heroes are disappearing.

I know they're gone, but my dream/plot bunny/illusion/lie/coping mechanism/security blanket is easier to face... 

They're all working on something big, they share cocktails all together at 7PM as the sun sets on the purest and most beautiful sea in the universe.
Too bad there's no reception and no Internet there, right?

Gibbs-smackworthy

It's only been a day, and I'm not convinced about 2016...

I had to block a denialist on Twitter: it was trying to convince me that even the American soldiers knew that the Korean (and Japanese, as well) girls actually enslaved for sex (for whatever reasons) were just prostitutes. Well, in my book, when you're sold for money, you become a slave.

It's the second time that happens to me. What's frightening is that these illiterate, truth-denying trolls are quite young, and if you confront them with facts, they become aggressive. Swell.

As well, the e-mail saga goes on.

A gal on a forum was told that the provider was hacked (the stored passwords are not encrypted!), but they put the blame on the victims.

We're going to try to find a biped with more than three brain cells between the ears, coz they've got all our info on file, and someone with a brain - and not afraid of using it! - could solve this in two minutes. We got a message informing us that the account would be unblocked ("and please change your password as quickly as possible"), but they deleted that account from the main account page when they modified their website's layout so we can't access it!

Honestly, I want to ship someone in space without a suit.

Hacked! [The "Take Me for a Trout" Edition]

So... after yet another phone call to try to solve the issue mentioned here, I finally talked with someone who admitted that the e-mail account has been hacked.

Since the exact same day, a lot of people have been complaining of the exact same issue, buuuuuuuuut... our provider says that it's our fault. Yea. Of course, the whole lot of us... from the same moment.

When I mentioned the possibility that they had been hacked to the IT bloke, he went "No, Ma'am! That's absolutely impossible!". Yea... but back in September, they had to admit that they'd been targeted. Why wouldn't it be the same this time??? "No, Ma'am! That's absolutely impossible!"

Whatev'.

There's no shame in being targeted by criminals, and since it took them thirteen days to admit that the account had been hacked, I'm not inclined to believe them about the origin of the hacking - sorry, guys!

Now, the next stupidity from them (unless the IT person who's going to read our online SOS/message does not have soup between the ears) is going to be the hopping through loops to get control of the account again. It really looks like DIY à la MacGyver to have to send a registered letter with proof of identity and new address because the "old" account (that they fucking have in their archives as the original e-mail account with the "old" address on file) is not fully linked to the new account. "We've got everything, but we're going to make you suffer whilst we're the ones with two left hands."

I hope to deal with someone with more than three brain cells in the box above its shoulders...

I'll keep you posted...

See you next year! ^_^

Of Plonkers Raised in Barns

After the nastiest encounter with the Void in over a decade, I'm not exactly patient. Or compassionate. Or nice. [Let's face it, the average biped doesn't care if I'm being nice because that's the nicer thing to do to not screw one's karma]

Perhaps I'm too <insert some positive adjective here>.

Perhaps there's something Japanese in me (when I went to Chinatown last Tuesday, I cleaned the shop trolley that I took and threw the cookie wrappers left in it in the parking lot dustbin - coz that was the right thing to do. Pity there was no recycling bin, by the way).

When I go somewhere and that space is shared, I leave it the way I found it (or I make it better by fixing the equipment!). I was taught it was the proper thing to do in order to show you're civilized, not a Barbarian raised in a cave by rabid wolves.

And so... what happened today when I got to school? A colleague had left with my classroom's keys (I had to borrow the masterkey).

I was already growling a bit when I reached my door - then... I opened it and saw that the white board had been moved (I dragged it back to the spot where it always is).

Later, I needed the video-projector, and it was facing south whilst it's usually facing north. I turned it around and................................... I realized that someone had unplugged it (good thing I'm not clueless when it comes to plugging equipment - sometimes! - otherwise my lesson was toast).

Honestly, unplug all you want, but you're not alone on this planet, bloody plonkers! If you unplug/move/change anything, you take a few minutes to put everything back where you found it when you arrived! It's not quantum physics, selfish prat.

Give Me Liberty or Give Me... The Right to Growl at You

If I were President of Earth (the measure is already implemented in my empire, because that was the right thing to do), I'd have Strategy classes in all schools from the age of 6.

That'd teach Earthlings to spot manipulators and bullies - and bad politicos (or are they covered with "manipulators"??). Anyway... elementary strategy seems like a good idea to fight against the sheeple problem.

It's a real need, because John and Jane Doe seem to not notice how their Liberty is eroded one millimetre at a time.

In the wake of the recent events in France, local politicos have been taking emergency measures - strategy reading of this: they must be seen doing something (even if that's just following the script that the bad guys are expecting - if I were President of Earth, I'd do something so unexpected that the bad guys would freeze long enough to be tackled by the good guys I'd have sent; and yes, I know what I would do).

As well, we're assaulted by pseudo-specialists on telly who yell that you're a bad Republican if you don't obey blindly (that started two days after the attacks) - and the politicos are already in election-mode (ballots casting in 2016 and 2017!).

As well, we're fed pseudo-polls that say that over 80% of the population is in favour of the increased security measures - strategy reading: if you seem to be against the additional security measures, you'll appear to be a minority, and that's not safe (in clear: we're going to make you stay silent by scaring you with invented or twisted polls).

Over the past days on Twitter, I spotted this: 

 

It's rather accurate, if scary.

There are good articles on the topic here (about political sheeple passing laws in emergency), here (about the testimony of an ex-hostage of the plonkers), or here (about the manipulation and lies amongst the bad guys themselves).

And from the 18th century, there's the infamous: "Those who would give up essential Liberty, to purchase a little temporary Safety, deserve neither Liberty nor Safety."

I'm currently growling because of a detail. A little something. A bloody millimetre.

You see, when I go to work, we've got two guards at the door now, and I've got to show my badge - and open my handbag.

Legally, the guards have no special power over me. I open my bag because I'm a nice gal (and I need to go to work, and I can't wait for the coppers to show at the door to check my bag), but... the guards are forbidden to touch my bag. "Visual inspection", and that's it.

Of course, the bloke who checked my bag the past days puts his hand on the side of my bag - and he's doing that with everybody (I witnessed it myself and I asked my students).

I may end up being in trouble, but if I deal with the same bloke next time, I'll ask his boss to send him back to training.

If I allow this millimetre to escape me, what next? Registering as a slave for the bad guys? Allowing a male in a blue shirt to check if I'm hiding anything inside my body?

Sweet something. The bad guys must be laughing... but not for long. I'm going to defend all my legal millimetres, and I'll let no one limit my Liberty - it's already tough enough being a gal on this planet. I don't need more plonkers to bully me.

I feel like taking my favourite towel and raising my wand to get a lift home (yes, mixing fandoms. Problem?).

Dreaming of a Complicated Quilt

This is NOT a post about sewing at all.

It's about humanity, but using a pattern image.

The thing is, the recent events in Paris have made people start talking about community, and some people would like our world to be a piece of material with printed polka dots, in which the dots are separate communities that would have no contact with the next dot whatsoever.

Of course, that's one way to stay safe... but of course, with that, you never get out of your cave, and you die in the dark.

What I'm dreaming of is a lovely quilt. Different colours, different materials, but with defined limits so that "blue coton" doesn't "bleed" on "red satin" or "green wool".

I don't want a world of ghettos (my cave, my family, my tribe, my village, my street, my pub, my region, my country?). Whatever the size of these limits, I don't like them. I do understand that I'm not like a Zen monk or a farmer from... let's say Guatemala, but if we are civilized we can respect all our boundaries, agree to disagree on some topics, and live together in harmony (then again, I grew up a trekkyer, so I probably dream about the Federation too much).

If people insist on having polka dots on the fabric of humanity, we could have them close enough to talk to one another couldn't we? Or are most people so afraid of the mauve cashmere polka dot that just moved too close to them?

Are so many people really that afraid? Can't we talk and communicate and be better than frightened animals?

I'm probably too optimistic.

I know.

PS: I'd kick any polka dot/quilt square so hard that "it" would land on a polar bear if "it" told me to obey "it" and let "it" treat me like a slave. I'm optimistic, not stupid.

Of the Arrogance of Plonkers

I've just blown a fuse.

You see, I've been working on that file... I say "file", I should say "heap of manure". I've had bad files, but this one's the point of origin of all bad files.

And yet, I was massively diplomatic whilst reviewing it because I don't like to club bipeds to death if I can encourage them to keep working and improve. The culprit (who's the decerebrated cousin of the village idiot) is now fuming and demands that I apologize for being petty.

Erm... lemme think... No (or if I'm channelling my lil' sis': 'Drop dead, do that').

I've been asked by my coordinator to reconsider and be kinder (I was already kind enough, and see where it got me!).

Enough is enough... Then again, today was a festival: I had to finish the work of a so-called specialist because he'd done only half of what he was supposed to have done (can I get his wages?). Oh! Speaking of wages, the work I did on the yelling, offended plonker's manure isn't paid yet, and I'm not even sure it's ever going to be.

And this, Ladies & Gentlemen, is why it's good that I'm de facto co-CEO at job #3 because I can yell at plonkers and invite them to go have lunch in hell on the devil's lap for all eternity, coz I'm the co-boss (and the other two in our triumvirate are formatted like me).

Plonkers are such a fucking waste of time.

'Why Aren't You a Copycat?'

The question in the title of this post? Oh, it's just what a relative recently told me. Apparently, the secret of a good life is to do what my neighbours do.

Yeah...

Right.

I could read this as a "we want you to be happy (or happier than you already are)", but in fact, it all boils down to success and money.

Yesterday, I was treated to a lecture that was meant to bully me into doing what "that wonderful neighbour's doing to improve its life" because I "clearly need more money".

I'm not equipped to understand that need for greed, and I'm not equipped to care about what people I barely know do with their lives. If they're happy, good for them, but I'm me, myself, and I, and I don't want to copy a stranger in the faint hope to please DNA-related sharks.

My mistakes are mine, and my triumphs are mine, too.

It's days like this I'd like to head back home to Mars. I'm sure Curiosity and the other rovers are cool company...

Modern Life 2.3

Yes, my sweets, we're getting daily updates now... because the situation is quite ridiculous.

MIA, the e-mail I should have received last night to confirm that I'm keeping my current Internet connection.

And then... Magic! The parcel that I was told had been delivered to a store where I could retrieve it Apparated to my post office, whose employees gave it to my building's caretaker (I'm parked in a council estate, and the lovely bloke told me that they dumped about forty parcels at his offices without warning).

So, first, the travelling parcel will go back to its "mummy", and... *drumroll* the council will change the optic fibre connection boxes in all buildings and replace them with one linked to a net provider that's not mine because they've made a deal with that other company. So I just cannot have an optic fibre netbox with my current company.

 

I love my plonkers disorganized, but I find the lack of communication in most places today quite frustrating.

Icing on the cake for today? I tried to phone my provider's hotline, but we were too many, and it disconnected me each time... until they closed the shop for the day - at 10pm instead of midnight as advertised on their website (they change the theme of their site every other month, but they don't bother updating the pages - or they're in India, and I'm entering a bad remake of The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel).

You know what?

I go OCD each time I deal with this, and that's too much of a waste of time for a Whisky Tango Foxtrot snafu.

A lovely gal promised me that my wish was duly noted. I'll believe in her professionalism in all this.

If not...

The Law is on my side and Mrs Hyde wants to have some fun.

Modern Life 2.2

Aaaand here's an update.

So soon?

Well, if I'm not being tricked, yes...

Things at work are still messy, but I can mutate and adapt. ô.O

The Internet thingy?

Well, I called my provider's hotline thrice.

#1: waited 20 minutes only to have the line be cut off "because of a technical problem" (I'm still the Empress of Mars apparently).

#2: waited 25 minutes after being told that "your call will be answered in less than a minute" (okay, I'm the one who decided to hang up this time).

#3: after 10 minutes, I got a human being to answer me.

I was so happy to get through that I could have kissed her!

I told her that their parcel was marked as "delivered" by Chronopost, but there was nothing in my box (not even a note to tell me the whereabouts of the ellusive parcel) - I was then informed that it had been delivered to a shop where I could retrieve it (very efficient, Chronopost! You can't even be bothered to check if I'm home or not. How [un]professional!).

I exclaimed that I didn't want to know where it was, as I'd asked for nothing, had learnt that the box has a noisy fan, and I like being able to sleep in my own flat, thank you very much.

She tried to convince me to have a technician come and install the box, but I refused.

Then.......... she said she was registering my wish on my file with them and I'd get a confirmation e-mail tonight.

I want to believe that this lovely lady didn't lie to me!

I want to believe that what could have been a nightmare is now behind me for good.

The optic fibre line would fully belong to my provider, whilst the ADSL line's still controlled by France Télécom (Orange, today). 

I don't care about the war between France Télécom and Free. My connection works, and I don't need a new one (with a fan from hell and disappointed reviews about the connection!).

If it ain't broke, don't fix it. Sheesh! Bloody sheeple.

Opposable Thumbs Aren't a Licence to Kill

I'm quite furious, so don't mind the cosmic-sized growl (and do click back if you believe that bipeds are the crème de la crème on our planet - oh, or if you like politically correct crap).

I recently signed a petition to try to save a Mamma Bear who was accused of killing an off-trail hiker. I've just read that she was slaughtered.

This is what happened and here's a very good statement on the topic.

The first to say that 'she was just an animal, and a dangerous one!' gets Gibbs-smacked with a rolling pin to Kingdom come.

She was a good mother, who was executed (and her two orphaned cubs may be killed or sold to slavery).

The whole situation made me furious: the arrogance of the bipeds, who think they own the rock (no, you don't, Cupcakes; you share it with all the other lives on it), and the officials hiding behind pseudo-science in order to sell their 'We had to kill her' to the average sheeple who'll think "Oh, well, if there was no other way... They know what they're doing; it's their job" (I want to cuff the idiotic sheeple and bite the officials for resorting to slaughter).

And then, there's the first comment on the page of the second link I just gave you, where a delightful biologist resorts to comparing apple and cheese by mentioning a story where a bear, in town (fake gasp & Sarcasm font firmly on), invaded someone's house. Hashtag Crikey.

I find it revealing that the first comment talks about a completely different scenario.
If I were to find a bear in my flat, I'd wonder how he got in (we don't leave our doors open where I'm parked), and then I'd run outside before calling people equipped to deal with him (we don't keep firearms either - we have no need for them).

It must be cool to think that you're so special that you can invade an animal's territory and have it killed if it nibbles you, but the animal cannot visit your house. 'Oh, nooooo! It's an animal that must stay where it belongs!' Well, sorry, Cupcake, but it belong on this planet, just like you. You're not special because you can hold a can of soda or load a gun - not in my book, at least.
If I were to venture in Yellowstone, I'd be on the bears' turf, and they can do whatever they want. If I'm stupid enough to not follow the safety rules and I end up turned into bear snack, that's karma (and probably a spot of Darwinism).

Seriously, do read Dr Bekoff's page (still link #2); it's enlightening on many levels.

A very good mother was massacred because some bipeds wanted to punish her for being a bear.

All bipeds stepping outside (parks and forests aren't just enough, as the average plonker will go scratch the head of a cobra for a good selfie) should sign standard waivers to prevent future slaughters.

I really wish I could keep Curiosity company; things must be quiet on Mars!

More Windows 10 (from Afar)

Soooo, I had been growling in advance about Windows 10, but now I'm more and more convinced that I'll have to go look for a small shop where I can have Windows 7 installed on a machine the next time I need a computer because the more I read about 10, the more I want to slap the Microsoft boys (quite possibly with a marble rolling pin).

Some people could say that they have our best interest at heart, but anyone buying that is ready to kiss the bottom of my robes coz I'm the Empress of Mars...

Now I read that you cannot turn off the Windows Update (coz "security" and yada, yada, yada).

Piece of news, boys: I (me, myself, and my Imperial persona) am the BOSS. THE ONE WHO DECIDES. GOT IT? Or is that too much for your three brain cells?

Of course, there seems to be a way to bloody turn Windows Update off (read down the page, there's a trick, and have a look at the comments for an extra tip to not have the thing turn itself back on again), but you know what, boys? Getting a new computer used to be about installing our programmes, customizing the desktop and the style of the files and folder and... basta. Since 8, you need a degree in computer engineering to make the changes, find the hacks and get the computer to do what you want.

I can do it, but not everybody can (Hell! I'm the 'tech' for all my family!).

I know the Microsoft boys (pardon my French!!) don't give a fuck about anything I can say, write, blog about, or growl, but even the average sheeple has a point where a last straw can make it walk away from the cliff.

No one's too big to fail (as people with a brain know), and if it fucking ain't broke, don't fix it.

I have a few months to investigate Linux, too...

Whisky, Tango, Foxtrot, Twitter!

A few days ago, I opened my Twitter Home, and instead of being greeted by a lovely photo of Vincent van Gogh's Long Grass with Butterflies, I got blinding white.

Instinctively, I asked a search engine what was going on, and I discovered that Twitter has decided that everybody should have white backgrounds (and some people suppose that's to pave the way for full-page ads).

First, I *am* a creature of habit, and once I've customized something I don't change it often - if at all.

Then, I've been working for years on computers, and back when Microthingy allowed us (with no additional encoding fuss!!!) to customize all the colours on our screens, I'd tested all colours and hues. Though I positively hate that colour, I must say that the best, most soothing choice if you're going to spend hours reading stuff on a screen is pastel pink.

White? Best and quickest way to kill your eyes and get headaches.

So since Twitter started smoking the lawn, each time I want to check my timeline, I hop by "Settings" first, and I (fucking momentarily) bring back my background image... because I like it, and because I don't think the Twitter guys would finance my glasses.

It's bloody annoying to have to change something that I want on my account, but as long as I can do it, I will.

If the collective bunch of arrogant plonkers decide to fully take the option away, I'll log off for good.

I've already seen a few sheeple say, 'But it's free, and they can do what they want with their site.'.

Yea.... And this growling Empress of Mars says that she likes customization more than anything, and Twitter stock may be disappointing to some, but the whole thingy is quite valuable to even more people. They're not providing us with timelines for free; we're having fun, and they're making money.

Big companies have fallen before, because they thought they knew what their audience wanted, and when people complained, they didn't listen.

Guys! You need to pay attention and not think someone died and made you kings.

I would miss Twitter, but I love my eyes a lot more.

The Right Cuppa - In Praise of Tea

I'm going to use again a line that I used to talk about cheese with a vegan: 'Leave it alone!'

This time, I'm not going to defend my addiction to cheese whilst chatting with someone who tried to label it as animal abuse; it's all about tea.

I must admit that when I saw the title, I blinked. As I read the article, I kept blinking. And I kept thinking that someone was in need of a good cuppa, or he needed to admit to himself that he's a closet coffee-lover (and that it's not a sin).

I can drink the lowest kind of tea (I stop at Lipton, for personal reasons), and I can have milk, or not.

Usually, when I'm home, I don't have milk, so I drink my tea black (sometimes, I don't even add any sugar - for literary reasons that I shan't explain here).

A delightful Oxonian lady taught me to brew properly (she was on the "tea first" side; then again, if we're to believe that it all boils down to the quality of our china cups, she had outstanding pieces and was brought up in a very good family, who probably poured tea first since the 19th century).

I'm quite Zen in the kitchen, but there are a few things that I buy that are on the posh side. My Korean soups are cheap, but I love them. My rice is the best Thai quality. I make my bread and pasta from any kind of flours.

When I'm at home, I'm extremely picky with my teas. I buy exotic flavoured and scented blends from Mariage Frères. I have a "baby kettle", and a special spoon-filter for the lovely leaves that will brew in one of my favourite cups. I don't have to scratch my brain or turn into philosophical mood to know that my evening cuppa is a treat I love. Not because of tradition. Because I chose my blend wisely, and it happens that I do enjoy it.

If one was to pour Lipton down my throat, I'd probably growl and bite, but since I get to choose what I drink, there's no problem.

I see many issues in the article that brings me here today:

- unless you're offered a cup of tea in a blend that you loathe, what the heck is wrong with being offered a cup of tea when you visit friends or family. It's a ritual. It's friendship. It's being polite. It's taking time to stop the world and get to catch up on one another's lives, share things, and be nice (and it can make Nana or Cousin Charlotte happy).

- Mr Golby writes 'It’s a lukewarm mug of leaf water, presented as a cure-all for life’s ills'. What's coffee then? A lukewarm mug of crushed-bay water? Perhaps he prefers coffee or water or whatever, but now that several other options are easily available, I just can't picture so many people being such masochists and keeping drinking something they loathe out of tradition. I may be wrong, though, judging by the state of the world, but... I'll try to be optimistic.

- the "when to add the milk" issue is ridiculous. Add yours whenever you want, let me add mine whenever I want, and everything will be all right. We've got three sides: 'milk first', 'milk last', and 'I bloody don't care!!!'.

- the tea-making-at-work fantasy is irrelevant as it could be a nightmare scenario with any kind of beverage. It could be tea; it could be hot cocoa... but the nastiness of tea has to be spread everywhere. [I'm beginning to spot a pattern here]

- speaking of everywhere, tea becomes a symbol of colonialism, and then you know it's evil: if you drink tea, you must be missing being a slave owner (that's how far I read this, and I shook my head in disbelief - okay, my tea is French... which is a double offence, it seems!).

- when I read this: 'Once we examine tea, once we put that central tenet of British culture under the microscope, what else will we start to doubt? Gin? The royal family? Dancing dogs on TV talent shows? Black pudding? An inherent hatred of the French?', I growled loudly, because of the last item. 'An inherent hatred of the French?', but of course! Hello, Cliché! My father is British, and my mother is French; should I wonder if Father is nuts or if I should kill half of me for being such a despicable creature (a bit as if I were an Irish woman with Catholic and Protestant parents, you know)?

I think the colonialism and "French hatred" thingies got my Mrs Hyde a bit out. Then I Googled the writer's name, found his Twitter feed, realized what his line is, and... I went to brew a cup of "Mangue" by Mariage Frères in a lovely china cup.

Some of the comments on the article are worth your time, actually (so click the link, and scroll down to them right away).

"Harriet" Potter, with a Silver Lining

It's not really that I'm a witch, but since I get stuck with Muggles (my blood relatives) almost each time there's a school holiday (that's the one annoying thing for me as a teacher: they just have to look at the calendar to know when I'm going to be free to come and see them visit them in order to be slaved), I've taken to comparing myself with a female Harry Potter forced to stay with the Dursleys (some of you even know that I call their house New Privet Drive, or NPD).

Yes, they're deeply annoying, and bigoted, and old-fashioned, and (sometimes) racist, but I've been training for years to tune out bipeds that bug me, so I can be in front of them, nod and 'Oh!' and 'Ahhh!' at all the right places (and if I miss one, since they're becoming deaf, I can get away with almost any wrong answer now).

So, yes, they're a pain in the You-Know-What (Merlin! Sorry for that lousy Potter-related pun!), but I've learnt to make lemonade:

- as of right now, I'm making them pay for half my trip to come see them.

- I get to spend a lot of time in the garden which means that:

     a) I don't have to deal with them for hours and hours

     b) I don't have to pay a sports club to get very nice muscles

     c) I stop looking like the average vampire, and I get a nice tan (except during the Christmas break)

- they feed me (and we're not talking brains [sic] on toast or other horrors)

- I do all the things they can no longer do, which means that:

     a) I'm learning DIY skills that I can use in my nest later

     b) they're feeling sad because they see me do (quite easily) things that they can no longer do

    c) they're beginning (with age) to feel a bit guilty for taking so much of my time (and having them feeling somehow indebted to me can always be useful)

- when I do anything for them, I do that thing I started when I was working on my PhD: I think about what I'm going to write. With the PhD, it started one day as I was unsure about a chapter, and I relaxed and found the right sequence whilst washing up. Now, I've got the plot bunnies in my head, and I plot their next actions as I do stuff for the Muggles.

In fact, the one thing that really bugs me about my Muggles is their slight tendency to sing the same songs several times a day (if they were singing all the time, I'd be in Bedlam - or Reading - by now).

As well, my kitten loves the garden, and he's been through enough. He deserves regular breaks from my tiny flat - and this is why, Ladies & Gentlemen, I still visit my annoying Dursleys, and I try to make the most of it.

Calling Plonkers Plonkers

As I've said before, I'm (probably mostly) done being nice.

There are so many people who are crouching in the shadows, waiting to tear your throat open at the slightest hint of decency and kindness that they'd translate into a proof of weakness, that my patience broke.

Right now, I've been waiting for two bipeds to give me work-related answers, but all I'm getting is the sound of silence. I'll have to waste time contacting them (for the third bloody time!), and I know that one of the two deserves to be read the riot act in a way that'll make its ears shrivel [if it turns out, which is highly improbable, that they were both in car crashes, I'll be nice. If not... It's quite simple: Hell is going to look like a cool and quiet spot].

As well, I sign e-petitions (the first to say that clicktivism doesn't work gets a free trip to Saturn - launching to be made, thanks to my boot, until it actually works).

In my e-signing early days, I was quite respectful, even if the petition was to be sent to a complete idiot, who was slaughtering baby penguins for fun (or anything)... But plonkers are plonkers, and either they won't stop doing whatever it is they're doing even if 99% of the planet population asks them to stop or they'll feel bad (or more probably they will realize that they can't afford a boycott), and they'll change their tune.

I'm done being nice with them, and if I sign something that denounces something that I find disgusting, be it to stand by a biped or any other kind of animal, I tell the target of the petition exactly how its action or inaction makes me feel (I've just insulted a military twat and a medical charlatan for condoning various forms of bullying - one of the two plonkers being potentially responsible for the death of a child, not for medical reasons, but because of religious dogma and bigotry). 

Sometimes bipeds need to be reminded that they're plonkers and that they must change their tunes - and e-yelling at them gets my blood pressure down, so...

One Angry Bunny

Yes, I'm calling myself a 'bunny'. And why not?

Things are strange these days, and being growly and angry is getting more results than being decent and kind and compassionate.
Oddly enough, as far as I can remember, characters (from books, series or films) have been a kind of inspiration, and these days, it's Carolyn Knapp-Shappey, who is my model (she's my Rory - and if you don't know Cabin Pressure, you're going to be lost... and I recommend that you binge-listen to John Finnemore's creation[s]).

Basically, I've growled at bankers, thus treating them the way they tried to treat me, and that got them to change their tune. They look like bullies, who don't have the guts to face someone standing up to them.

Then... my Muggles. I snap back at them, and I've found a couple of ways to make them feel bad and inadequate <insert a Slytherin smirk here>. That's not much, but they're all confused, and just that is rather funny - and worth the time I'm somehow wasting because of them.

Last: DIY department stores. I'm absolufuckingly done asking men anything there. Since someone (yea, a bloke) had used my lawn-mower in such a way that Tarzan (yea, that's my lawn-mower's name) needed a new air filter (ta - muchly, by the way!), I went to buy one. Incidentally, I can actually clean the original filter, but that'll take me a bit of time (since filters are so cheap, the bloke who recommended me to buy one probably thought that cleaning the old one's not worth the effort *pfft!*). I know the kind of filter I need, and whilst Mother was asking the head of the DIY section where there are lawn-mowers' accessories, I found my filter and headed back to Mother right on time to hear the DIY bloke telling her that we wouldn't find that variety of filter in his section, and that we'd have to head to another section. Since I needed something else behind him, I walked past him, and never stopping, I showed him the box and said, 'Found it!'. From the corner of my eye, I saw him freeze. That bloke's working there, for Merlin's sake! But I did a better job all alone.

When I grow up, I want to be Carolyn Knapp-Shappey. ^_~

Priorities

It's no secret that I loathe politicos - not because they're dealing with politics, but because they're a bunch of lying plonkers who treat all countries like companies that they bleed for their own profit, and their pals'.

I'm trying to think of any Earth politico who's a leader, with guts and compassion, and I can't come up with a single name.

Why am I currently growling now?
Piece of cake: in a place where, for over a century, there's been a strong separation of State and churches, I'm now seeing one church pointing its bony finger at a State company that refused to promote an ad that was partly religious (and concerned one specific variety of religion). And, cherry on the icing on that cake, local politicos (some of them very high-ranking!) are taking the side of the church - a church that, incidentally was very meek in the 1940s, but that is making comparison of the inaction back then with what's going on now, and with what they're trying to prevent today (so, basically, they'll be loud, but only seventy years after the tragedy or if they're under attack themselves). 

I'm not saying that the people the religious ones are trying to help should be abandoned to the wolves.

No.

I'm saying we must see beyond any religion and do something to help all those who are being currently massacred by demented bipeds. Religion, colour, or anything is irrelevant because all victims are fellow Earthlings and that's all that matters.

The churches (all in the same basket - again) should stop caring only about their brothers, and the politicos should stop doing election-marketing in order to pander to factions. We're all on the same planet, and when a group of plonkers blows a fuse, they should be stopped - not because they're attacking this or that group, but because that's the right thing to do.

We need global solidarity, not tribal divisions; otherwise, we'll regress as a species.

Compassion & Empathy

According to my own version of the Dursleys, I'm too sensitive (because of my star sign that makes me too emotional - I'm not even joking; that's really what they believe!).

But this is just the way I am, and I won't try to change myself to please people who don't really care about me (I'm deeply convinced that I'm dealing with a bunch of manipulators who would like nothing better than turn me into a weather vane for their own twisted amusement).

I'm not better than them; I'm different. And one big difference between me and them is my compassion and empathy for most of my fellow Earthlings.

I don't have to know people to feel happy or sorry for them. I don't need to be friends with people to worry about them. I don't require to be related by blood to have feelings for someone.

These Muggles and I aren't wired the same way.

I don't know if my compassion and empathy make me weaker or stronger; it's not important - but that's who I am, and if my own relatives accepted that, perhaps that acceptance could spread. It'd be nice to not be mocked for being the way one is (and that would probably save time and energy on our lovely planet).

[Strangely, I don't see that happening any day soon, as most people seem to believe that the rest of the world must be and behave like them or they enjoy making others feel insecure and miserable and sad.]

Perspective

So, my council estate is very varied.

The dominant tendency is to WEC (White, European, Christian), and since they arrived on my street first, they tend to disparage the others, be they AM (African, Muslim), MEM (Middle-East, Muslim), or AV (Asian, Varied).

I've know them all for years, and I don't have any issue with the AM, MEM and AV - unlike the WECs, who tend to be disparaging at the first hint of anything different (oddly some MEMs join the WECs to bash the other communities).

Once more, this is one of the things that makes me feel like the Empress of Mars, because I'm not formatted like the bigoted bipeds on my street.

I love it when my neighbours of Vietnamese descent cook Asian dishes (I'm tempted to knock on their door and ask for the recipes).

The African kids aren't troublesome - if you don't treat them like lepers. We say 'Hello!', we smile at one another, and I've never had any issue if any of them.

Basically, the loud bipeds on my street are the ones who are unpleasant and nasty and arrogant (and a happy bunch of nosey busybodies, as well).

The plonkers downstairs have been insufferable with their loud music at night.

But on the other hand, each day, I can also hear the Indian family on my right... Each day, around tea time, I hear them laugh all together for about fifteen minutes; then, they're quiet again. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the beautiful, weird relativity of my life; if we were in the same staircase, I'd be sorely tempted to bake them a cake - for making me smile on the other side of the wall.