Teacher’s Pet

22 10 2009

I feel like such a horrible person.

It’s probably nothing, really, but I promised myself that I would blog at least every second day, in order for me to not get lazy and to keep my writing mind active. I was planning on blogging last Friday evening, but then my Significant Other tells me he thinks we should drive somewhere the weekend. As in, let’s drive all the way somewhere far on Saturday, stay over for the night, and then take the long drive back the following day. Okay, let’s do that. This he decides around 9:30PM or thereabouts. We found a place to stay, made the four-hour trip over there, and I suppose I could get really nostalgic about this if I wanted to, but I want to blog about something else, so to put it shortly and sweetly: we got engaged that Saturday evening. But, again, I did not have access to the internet, as my laptop was at his flat, which is why I couldn’t blog on either Saturday or Sunday.

Now, this week I’ve been busy with my final week at university. I only have two classes this week. One was an online discussion yesterday, where I tapped my brain for original ideas and responses to other people’s essay abstracts. I felt like a theoretical/literary machine. Today we have our final poetry class, and then it’s almost time to say goodbye to my beloved university…

I’ve come to realize how, to a certain extent, I have become a sort of “teacher’s pet” in the department this year. This is not necessarily a bad thing, of course, but I must admit that it does make me feel a bit bizarre. I’m a deadline freak. I admit that. I suppose that’s another way in which I am obsessive compulsive. I always hand things in way before a deadline; I bombard my lecturers with e-mails concerning classes, essays, deadlines, anything I feel might help me to not be a nervous wreck later in the semester. I’ve already handed in my Creative Writing portfolio, which is only due next Friday; I have finished an essay that is due on the 2nd of November, and I am currently busy with an essay that is due on the 6th of November (and I have already done my research and typed out the quotations I might possibly want to use)… All that said, I suppose it’s no wonder that they’ve all started talking about me.

Examples: I had a Creative Writing class with the South African writer Russel Brownlee last year. This year, he was one of the ‘lecturers’ in our Creative Writing elective. He knows me, so he constantly refers to me in class, to the type of work I’ve done, always asking my opinion or to read to the class what I have written… And we get along quite well. He even told me that he looks forward to seeing my name on a book someday (…him and me both…) The coordinator of our Creative Writing class, Shaun Viljoen, has also referred to me in class – when poet/writer Finuala Dowling showed up to do poetry with us, he told her that I had read some of her poetry. She, in turn, has been very impressed with my work, and has only suggested two or three changes in two of my poems. When a lady from Oxford University Press came to give a talk on the publishing industry, Annel Pieterse (who works in the department) told her that I was very interested in publishing, and that I want to work in that field… Then there’s Jeanne Ellis, an absolutely brilliant, lovely woman who taught me in my undergrad years, but with who I also had an elective at the beginning of this year (about the Victorian novel; out of all the texts we dealt with, Bleak House was my favourite). I’ve struck up a bit of a friendship with her, as she is so personable and sincere. I even bought her chocolates once and gave her a hand-made card (which I did in a kind of Victorian style, to match the elective we had)… I went to pay her a visit on Tuesday, and  she actually told me how impressed the people in the department are with me. Apparently they were busy discussing me and how I am always asking questions and early with deadlines and working so hard and efficiently throughout the year that I have quite amazing time-management skills. Isn’t that interesting… Plus I had my research project done really early, way before everyone else (who all asked for extensions…)

I might not be at the top of the class, but my marks are pretty good, and I do try my utmost best to manage my time efficiently. It’s a way of easing my entire mindset into the ‘real world’ of work that awaits me next year. I know how to cope with deadlines; I can work on more than one project/essay at a time, and as soon as I get something to do, I go do research on it before I forget and then have to worry about it later. In that case, I don’t think it’s all that bad to be a sort of teacher’s pet… or departmental pet, if you want to put it that way… but really, to be honest, I think I would get annoyed with myself at times. How many e-mails and queries can one really take?

Teacher'sPet[This picture was taken last Halloween… hey, I was at home, and I had nothing better to do, so why not dress up like a cat?? Although, I must admit, I also did that in my first year at university… the only difference is, I went to write a history exam like that…]





Reflective Remembering

15 10 2009

I couldn’t sleep last night.

Which is saying something, in itself. I used to sleep very little, almost bordering on insomnia, yet lately there has been in influx in my sleep quotient. It has a lot to do with my migraines, and the medication I was on for a while – because of it, all I wanted to do was sleep… But last night, after having finished my short story (thirty-three A-4 pages) for my Creative Writing portfolio, I decided to call it an early night. That was 00:30. By 02:00, I was still awake, listening to an owl hooting outside my bedroom window. I’ve had many, many pigeons around, as there is a large tree directly outside my window, and some squirrels, too. Yet this is the first time that I have had the pleasure of an owl’s company. Just my luck – in two more weeks, I’ll be leaving the residence for good.

When I woke up this morning, it was still early. I debated whether to try sleeping some more, but as I knew that it would be futile anyway, I got up after about five minutes. It was 06:06. By 07:07 I was already out of the dorm and on my way to the printing room (that makes it sound a lot fancier than it really is, but oh well). It’s supposed to be summer over here. Guess nobody told the weatherman. Monday we had icy cold conditions and a cacophony of rain (‘cacophony’, yes, because it sounded so loud, creating an air of disharmony). Tuesday brought unbearably humid weather, which didn’t help my head much. Yesterday it was sunny again – at times very warm, yet in the late afternoon settling into a pleasant chill, which means that I could wear my ‘comfy jersey’ while working. It’s a grey schoolgirl jersey, actually, age 13-14… but whoever designed those things most definitely got the proportions wrong! For although I am somewhat petite, I am still a bit ‘bigger’ (awful word) than a thirteen year old, and the jersey is too large on me! Makes it look like I lost two dress sizes… Anyway, let’s get to today’s weather.

Today is cold. Blissfully, lovingly cold. In the summer. *sigh* I’m not one for warm weather. Give me autumn and winter of a sprightly spring or sanguine summer’s day anytime. Give me rain, coffee, blankets, a KitKat, the heater, and my beautiful black cat – keep your exhaustive heat, sweat-stains, bouts of dizziness and the inability to be just cool enough. I don’t mind. Today: crisp and cool, with the new green leaves blowing briskly down Victoria Street. It’s the times like these that I’ll miss the most. I was walking outside at 07:07, with only two other people in sight, feeling the breeze’s refreshing kiss on my face, as slowly it started to rain ever so slightly.

I know the path to the printing room well. I’ve spent the last four years walking that path, from Harmonie to the Arts building, jogging up the three, five, or six flights of stairs, depending where I want to be, and thinking on quite a few occasions that I am rather unfit. Four years of watches the squirrels come and go, noticing how, strangely, Morning Squirrel trudges about while Afternoon Squirrel bounces jauntily to wherever it needs to be. Perhaps Afternoon squirrel is actually Morning Squirrel after having had a sufficient amount of coffee? In that case, Honours students (among whom I currently count) will never be associated with squirrels: coffee doesn’t have that effect on any of us anymore… Oh yes – four years of academic deadlines, stress, developing great time-management skills, and reading countless amounts of prescribed text books (along with their accompanied readings). Spending time at the Neelsie’s smoking area just to see my one friend; watching the guys from Wilgenhof hanging out of their bedroom windows and parading across the building’s roof in only their underwear, blaring the latest hit song from their sound system; mastering the art of dodging cars, making lecture notes, and finally overcoming my cravings for buying those chocolate squares at the tuck-shop in the Arts building…

There are so many memories, so much more I could share with you. Going out in second year with my then-roommate to buy pizza at Romans while changing the lyrics of Avril Lavigne’s “Girlfriend”, and late-night trips driving around the mountain, gazing out over the sea, with my then-boyfriend (having either coffee or, more often, having hot chocolate from Wild Bean) stand out. Still having the ability to drink four mugs of coffee in a row during exam time in my first year comes up, as well… Plus the beautiful black-birds with the orange tipped wings… Not to mention (and I promise this is the last thing!) the statue of the kêffie kat in front of the town hall 🙂

No matter where I go from here, I’ll always love this place. Always… although I won’t miss the pigeons. Bloody hell, no!

Kêffie Kat <3





Why I LOVE Dr Daniel Roux

15 10 2009

Dr Roux

So my supervisor this year for my research project was Dr Daniel Roux… *internal squeal of pleasure*

Now don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I have or ever had a crush on my lecturer and supervisor. But there’s one thing I have to say about him: he’s funny. Probably, sometimes, unintentionally, and even dryly or arbitrarily, yet funny and extremely witty nonetheless… in my opinion, at least.

I don’t know if he’s going to read this blog entry or not; I’d wager a guess that ‘not’ is more likely. Lecturers are busy people, and besides, why would one of them choose to read one of their (almost former) students’ blog? Still, on the off-chance that he is going to read (or possibly at this very moment is reading) it – hullo, Daniel! *blush*

That aside, I just felt that I had to share some of the memorable quotes I have collected from our Modern Theory classes with him. Yes, it’s almost the end of the second semester, and we had Modern Theory with him in the first semester. Time has elapsed, and I have posted this on Facebook at an earlier stage. But I would like to add this to my blog: because everyone needs a laugh 🙂 Not at the expense of Dr Roux, but thanks to him. He has been a great support throughout the year, and has patiently read many of my rambling, paranoid, blahblah et cetera e-mails. In this way, I can pay homage, although I’m not quite sure how he’d take it…

Here are the quotes – enjoy! Please note: everything placed in square brackets [ ] are my personal comments or observations.

Some quotes from the HonsBA(Eng) Modern Theory class:

* Literature, as pure entertainment, can help us to escape… as in, ‘oh fuck, I can’t bear it anymore’…

* I once sat on someone’s antique coffee table thinking it was a chair… and it broke.

* It’s a kind of hubris to say we’re not animals.

* Armadillos always have four identical young of the same sex.

* My parents named me after an alcoholic grandfather whom they didn’t like…

* The idea of the Self can paralyze the body.

* There’s a weird bleeding of reality into the text…The mother of a famous actress [her name escapes me now] was watching a film on television when her water broke, then decided to name her daughter [the actress] after the character.

*There is a world behind the mirror!

*I want my-ghurt… [what he overheard a child saying who wanted yoghurt; but since that “yo” sounds like the Afrikaans word for “you”, and the little boy was Afrikaans speaking, he wanted “MY”-ghurt… ;-p ]

* We lose the jouissance of self-recognition.

* The moment you speak a law you can break it. That’s why such obvious things like “don’t have sex with animals on the school grounds” aren’t in school rules. It just might make you think, hmm, animal husbandry, iiiinteresting… 😉 = The moment you prohibit something, you create the possibility – the rule invites its own transgression.

* We are continuing the myth… [cue dramatic music]

* …fat and happy on the barge of life…

* If the Other has it [jouissance] and you don’t, it’s because they stole it from you! We have to protect ourselves from others – we’re living in a more and more paranoid society.

* It’s our duty to enjoy our drives and superego.

* This wasn’t a useful seminar, let’s just all go home… [puts head on table, and dramatically says] I’m sorry, I’m sorry…!

* Hmm, the sinister eroticization of knowledge…

* I have a penis… whoo… so what.

* Bodies do things – they get sick they get aroused…… what else do bodies do? … they die!

* My mother desperately wanted me to be gay. I had to break the tragic news to her at age 17 that I was not, in fact, gay… My mother just didn’t like straight men very much. She had high hopes for me…

* For Freud, something goes wrong if you’re a lesbian, basically.

* Sex itself is simply trauma.

* Sex and death kind of define our identity…we’re just born into this condition.

*I brought you some snacks to apologize for last week’s class…and also because you have to fill in evaluation forms after this. [bribes!!!]

[and, finally, one of my favourite Daniel quotes from my first year]: We’re all living in the Da Vinci Code!!!





Playing House… or should I say Apartment (?)

14 10 2009

So, my Significant Other asked me to move in with him.

We had already established the fact that, hopefully and perhaps, I would move in with him come end December, yet he always assumed that this was a given – an obvious, undeniable fact (tsk-tsk). But now that I have pointed out to him that his assumptions are mere presuppositions, and that he has no factual standing ground from which to defend his statements, he has (dutifully) considered my point and, accordingly, asked me whether I would like to move in with him.

All that said, I look forward to the move. It’ll be revolutionary: the end of my studies at Stellenbosch, and a moving on to greater things in the job sphere… once I find a job, that is… plus it helps that my parents only live 15 to 20 minutes’ drive away from his flat. Still, independence is independence, and it ought to be fun to live in the adult experience of ‘coupledom’. And he’ll be gaining, all right. Typical female statement? I can prove it to you:

When I’m there, things are always clean. Cleaning is the obsessive compulsive factor in my genes. And it’s cathartic, really. When I’m angry, I clean. When I’m frustrated, I clean. Need to think, cry, feel happy, or get upset? Clean, clean, and clean clean clean, girl! Although I admit that talking to oneself as if there’s nothing wrong with it is, actually, seeing that there is something wrong with it. So much so that my younger sister once walked into the kitchen, paused somewhere between the doorway and the table, looked at me, turned around, and told my mother (in a grave, hopeless tone) that she thinks there is something severely wrong with me. I wouldn’t be surprised if she shook her head as she said this. She might not be far wrong.

I mean, who actually likes to do ironing, or the washing up, or laundry? Most people say ‘no thank you’ to dusting and vacuuming. I embrace it like the modern woman I am, taking it in my stride along with academic and literary interests. After all, you don’t only have to be a housewife. It’s not an either-or situation of either a dedicated housewife or a defiant headstrong feminist. I’m a bit of both, and at times I annoy myself.

Want to know how bad I am with this obsessive cleaning habit? I cannot so much as use a glass without having to immediately wash it, dry it, and put it back in the cupboard. Yes. That’s right…

But again, I digress from my original point of departure: that point being in proving that my Significant Other ‘scores’ in the deal – or, should one call it a negotiation? – of me moving in with him. So. Example: when I am at his flat during the day while he is at work (and I, myself, busy working on university related tasks), I prepare supper in advance and see to it that, once he walks in the door, I am busy dishing up whatever I had prepared. Also, I get up earlier in order to make him sandwiches for work, and to prepare his breakfast. The feminists would probably howl in outrage at this, yet I am under no obligation to do anything: all of this is done voluntarily. The last time I was there, I not only prepared supper for that specific evening, but also his lunch for the following day and supper for the following evening (that he would only have to heat) because I would not be there. I find joy in preparing meals, and he finds joy in consuming aforementioned meals. And he is always satisfied. Not because he is obliged to be, but because I have at least some form of culinary talent and diversity. I have sufficiently proven by now that I won’t poison him once we get married… unless he develops some bizarre allergy in the meantime, God forbid… (and no, that was not obligatory to say on my part *laugh*).

Another way he scores: he will never have to buy mugs again. Seriously. I have a whole box full of mugs. You see, I have various sets of mugs, each set consisting out of four mugs – four and not six for the mere fact that these mugs came out with four different pictures in the range. A lot of these mugs have pictures of cats on them – something he will just have to learn to accept. Others have Marilyn Monroe and James Dean on them; and yet another set, in a way my favourite, is what I like to call the Ironic 50s Housewife Set. These four mugs each have a typical housewife scenario depicted on them, and the captions read as follows:

(1) I only have a Kitchen… because it came with the house.

(2) If you want same day laundry service, do it yourself.

(3) Housework can’t kill you, but why take a chance?

(4) Both of us can’t look good at the same time, it’s either me or the house.

Quirky and quaint – that he can learn to live with. In a way, with me, he already has (although he does not ‘live’ with me, but you all get what I’m grasping at). Other than the mugs, I have my own set of plates, side-plates, and bowls. My coffee plunger, Italian espresso coffee, serving tray, platters, and various containers in which to prepare (and serve) food have already taken up residence in his kitchen cabinets. My set of teaspoons will probably be next in line for the flat life – I’ve broken two of his teaspoons, and he only has three left… none of them are going to last much longer…

This list could go on and on, but I feel it sufficed to say that my point has been justified. The only thing he grapples with, and which I shall keep insisting on, is the fact that, if I am going to pay for half of the rent, I want my own room. The flat does have two bedrooms, after all. He and his slightly older brother currently share the flat, but he (the brother) will be moving out by December. So technically, the room is going to be there, and it is going to be mine. I already have a duvet and pillows and a CD player and lamp and whatnot with which to fill the room, but he doesn’t want to hear it. Oh, all of the things can come along, of course, but I won’t be using the room – he is going to buy himself a bed that will accommodate two people, so he believes that I have to sleep in the same bed as him… *scoff* I cannot sleep in the same bed as him – he really takes up all the space! Don’t ask me how, but he does. He’s like a cat that way, and although I love cats, I swear I’ll have him neutered if he gives me any trouble. Last year we stayed in a guest house because my friend’s 21st birthday party was held some distance’s drive away from where I live. The room had a huge bed… and I didn’t get an inch. I sat on the warm tiles drinking coffee very early in the morning, listening to the cloudburst of rain outside which seemed to mock me.

He’ll probably win, of course, in the end. But if we do share the same bed, and he crosses the line, I’ll take my cat neutering thought into account. Either that, or I’ll send him to the spare bedroom. And I’ll lock ‘our’ bedroom door, slipping into the voluminous covers with a Stephen King book for company.

Yip, this could definitely all work out for the best. Don’t you think?





Stuck in the Middle

13 10 2009

Maybe things are looking up.

Although I have found that my genes (most likely) keep me from being a perky positive person in general, I cannot deny that life is rather good at the moment. Okay… maybe my genes aren’t to blame… but it’s as good a start as any. Perhaps I should do a research study on the genetic code of middle born children, and see where that leads me. Then again, would I have to factor in that I am the second of three daughters? Would having male siblings alter the course of my findings? Or would I even be bothered about this question if I were male instead of female?

I’d say it’s too early in the morning to think about these things, but once it’s already after 11 AM, ‘early’ becomes relevant only in relation to the time of the afternoon or evening. At that point, morning has plenty much run out of early.

I think growing up with two sisters helped quite a lot in making me who I am today… Wow, look at me, little Miss Points-Out-The-Obvious… Don’t get me wrong; I have no grudge against my sisters. We get along fine – fine as it’s possible for three completely different yet somehow eerily the same girls can be. If it weren’t for my sisters, and the fact that somewhere along the lines I decided to keep more to myself and immerse my imagination in books, I probably wouldn’t be a writer today. I wouldn’t have been interested in the various kinds of literature and mythology; I wouldn’t have read Stephen King (the horror!!); I wouldn’t have dabbled in writing short stories and poetry; and I most certainly would not even have gone on to do not only languages as an undergraduate degree but English Honours as a postgraduate degree at Stellenbosch university. In essence, I wouldn’t be the ‘me’ I love.

Sure, we have our pitfalls. Three different ages – three different perspectives on the various aspects of life. My older sister is engaged. She studied hotel management, and one of her favourite pastimes is going to the gym. She is a hardworking, no-nonsense, ditch-the-skirt-and-grab-life-by-the-balls individual who doesn’t mind me calling her a bitch – she knows it, she’s proud of it, and if she could, she’d probably take it as a middle name. My younger sister, now in her final year of high school, is a lot like my older sister. (This is approximately where my middle child syndrome starts to kick in.) She wants to make a career of singing, and is going to study music next year at university. They really are scarily alike, my two sisters. They took all the same subjects at school. Whereas they opted for Biology and Music, I chose Geography, History and Computer Studies. Both of them sang in the school choir (although, technically, my younger sister still does); I wrote for and was the subeditor of the school newspaper. Both of them are spontaneous, good with people, flirty, make friends easily, and have a kind of charming chagrin I could never hope to master. I, on the other hand, am soft-spoken, quiet (when you first get to know me), reserved, terrible at fitting in in a crowd, and somehow unappealing to the opposite sex. I think both of my sisters are better looking than I am; they, on the other hand, think I’m the cutie in the family. ‘Cute’. Aren’t dogs cute? Or a dress you see in a shop window? Cute. Hmm. I’m the quiet librarian type, glasses and all.

I’m sort of going off the point here, if there ever truly was a point. I cannot claim that my genes have anything to do with my outlook on life. Maybe I just love pessimism. Yet now, at this point in my life’s journey, I find that “For a Pessimist, I’m pretty Optimistic” – many thanks to Paramore for that song title, it fits in quite nicely here. And the reason, I would wager, that ‘things are looking up’, as my introductory line states, has much to do with both my writing, which is my metaphysical (?) love, and my Significant Other, who is my True (human and thus literal) Love.

But that’s enough of all of this, for now. Tomorrow is another day – cliché!!! – and another blog entry awaits. Perhaps I could write about him then. Or perhaps I could just talk about how I wish that people were more like flowers… or how I take criticism… or (yes, so many ‘or’s) I could go off on a tangent about the Angry Beavers, and hopefully get their memorable episode dialogue and silly one liners out of my head.

Because having the words “The salmon are running!” in your head for a few days can really make you want to go off of fish for the rest of your life.

[Oh, and did I mention that I’m the shortest of the three sisters? Exit, stage left, to inferiority complex territory…]

Exit, stage left





In The Maddening Hours

9 10 2009

i find it far easier to throw

cold coffee down the drain

than to crumple up

the (still) blank page on my desk –

at least if it had scribbles

on it, meaningless words,

or my failed attempt at

drawing a cat (can anyone

ever get the leg:head:body

ratio right??), i would

feel more productive

besides, what’s the use of

throwing away a perfectly good

blank page? that

would be like throwing away

the cup with the coffee –

what did the cup ever do to

deserve that?

(not aggravate me like the

blank page, that’s for sure)

but, if i do throw the blank page

away, does that make me a coward?

it’s 2:42 on a Thursday

morning, and i can swear

the waste bin just laughed at me…

black bile remainders





Newspapers (and my medication)

7 10 2009

I’m not a big fan of newspapers, really.

I once toyed with the notion of going into journalism after obtaining an undergraduate degree… But once you get to Stellenbosch, and every second or third person tells you that they really want to do journalism, your mind just might change. Besides, I’m not the sort of person who would willingly eat, sleep, and breathe journalism. Working for a magazine would be nice – working for a publishing house even better (as I have aspirations to go into publishing… wish me luck…)

No, it’s the newspaper industry that really gets me. My general knowledge is bad… really bad… I cannot tell you what the name of the last pope was, who won the rugby over the weekend (heck, not even who was playing), and definitely not what’s going on regarding politics. I’m not sure any of us knows! My point being, I have no idea what is going on around me. I have some idea what goes on regarding politics. My dad is a good update for the world of sports… and if I really need to know something about the celebrity world, I’m sure to find something among the scattered magazines in my younger sister’s room. It’s sad, actually, to think that I know more about celebrities than what I can remember from taking history at school… or even campus politics…

I’m not your regular campus goer. I stay in one of the female residence’s here. I attend my classes, I go to the library, and I sit in my room, working, most of the time. I am not a social being. I am probably one of the few students who can say that, during my four years here at university, I have not been out to go party or have a drink or whatever even once. I’ve been to see a few movies on my own, or perhaps one or two in the evenings with my significant other, but that’s about it.

Where was I? It feels like my mind is just going off on its own course. I blame the medication I am on. I went to the doctor because I get excruciating migraines. Turns out that I have neck problems (I could have told him that), and that I need to go for physiotherapy. In the mean time, I have to drink Trepiline, something that will help relax my neck, but – the doctor warned me – it might make me somewhat drowsy at night. Still, he promised that it wouldn’t interfere with my sleeping patterns and all the work I have to do, so I decided to give it a go… Not that I had much of a choice. It was either keep on living with migraines, or try to soften the blow. The latter seemed a more obvious choice.

So… yes, so. I start taking the medication. One tablet just after eight in the evenings. The first five evenings I have to take the tablets, I start off with the milder dosage, containing only 10mg (of what, I’m not sure). By half past ten I’m out, gone, down for the count – sleeping. If I’m lucky, I get up by ten the following morning. Not interfering with the workload I have to tackle at the end of my Honours year? Surely he would jest… If I manage to get up earlier, I end up sleeping for another two to three hours later in the morning/ afternoon, and when I wake up, I am completely disorganized. My head feels worse, if that is possible, and there is no way that I am able to focus on my academics, no matter how hard I try.

(The doctor’s daughter is studying the same course as me – is he trying to set me back…?)

The stronger tablets, which I am supposed to start taking tonight, contain 25mg of whatever. I don’t think I’m going to survive this… so I’m opting out, for now. My mum is going to phone the doctor, and in the meantime, I’m just going to try to stay awake. Good thing I’m back on coffee again.

Oh, yes, I remember where I was heading. Good. Finally some clarity. It was about newspapers. I picked up a copy of our campus newspaper this morning, leafing my way through to the quotations and columns page, when a passage in one column struck me. The writer was talking about the creative individual and the “thin line between uninspired and offensive.” The passage (or sentence, rather) reads as follows:

“Too little edge and you end up with LOLcats: The Movie.”

The person was ripping off LOLcats. This did not sit well with me. Not well at ALL. Looking at what the article was about, and student politics and blahblah, I suppose I understand what he (yes, the individual was in fact of the male species) was getting at. Still, I don’t think that LOLcats is a dumbing down of the human race. LOLspeak is a whole different language, something some people are unable to master. My significant other, who works in IT as a flash developer, usually has to ask me to make out for him exactly what the cats are saying (even though the way he types an sms sometimes is even worse than their ‘simplistic’ language). How difficult can it be to understand? The words are typed out and spelt as one would hear it. Thus, even though it is not grammatically correct, you should be able to fathom what’s going on. Furthermore, LOLcats bring a lot of humour and irony into life – just look at the expressions some of those cats have on their faces… And the people who come up with those captions just seem to know exactly how to capture the essence of the moment. I think they are brilliant – possibly, they deserve rewards.

Okay, so perhaps LOLcats don’t have enough “edge” to make a valid point or political statements, but at least a lot of us can relate to what they are ‘saying’. Besides, what’s wrong with looking at the lighter side of life? Some things in life have too much edge, I would argue, or people try to make too much of certain things. Perhaps I’ll talk more about this later; I’m starting to feel drowsy again…

If there ever is a LOLcats movie, I’ll surely be first in line. For to catch teh cheezburger, you must be da cheezburger, and iz trayin to luhk at teh lite side of laif – if you cannot laff, wot you round here fur?

[Yes, I realize that there was absolutely no point to this blog entry. At least it was fun – I went through my collection of LOLcats pictures… I have almost 4500… Besides, I’ve described my creative side as a cat – need I say more?]

mew'z-cheezburger