the hirsute of happiness

I recently started reading Practical Ethics by Peter Singer, and it has made me think about how I would defend some of my decisions. For example, can I defend choosing to eat meat?  And yet nothing I've yet read prepared me for the dilemma with which I am now confronted.

Upon finding the dark hair on my chin (edit: it was only one hair, but you tell that it had ringleader qualities), two choices were immediately apparent.  One involved plucking it to preserve my culturally appropriate sense of femininity. (Admittedly, a more pressing threat to my femininity comes from the MS attack, which has left me with the kind of gait you'd expect of a man with balls the size of watermelons.  Fear not, however, for the recent course of IV steroids should shrink my testicles back to their normal size, if not smaller.) The other choice involved purchasing a bottle of beard oil and truly embracing the hipster aesthetic so pervasive around our neck of the woods.

I told you this was a real humdinger.  And I don't yet have an answer.  Would you excuse me a minute while I ponder the problem over a glass of organic pear cider?  Thanks, I knew you'd be accommodating.

52 minutes later....

Woooooo! Youse are the best.  And can I just say that I've had an epipanny?  Hang on, let me try that again - an epiphany.  There, did it!

Between you, me and PRISM, James has an aversion to wearing showy clothes.  By his definition, this includes tshirts with any writing or any graphic design. Hell, he's even refused to wear a tshirt with a v-neck collar. For the purposes of exaggeration, I'm going to diagnose him with a phobia and, as loving partner, I'm going to help him overcome it with some sneaky exposure therapy.

I'll start by using my superfluous hair to do some fancy stitching around the hems on the back of some tshirts.  Then, assuming he hasn't had a hysterical reaction, I'll move onto bigger things.  What I've got in mind is to take his favourite, black tshirt (round collar, standard cut), and I'm going to embroider a 3D kale motif on the front. I think we can guarantee one thing: I'm going to blow his mind.

Reality purees

After publishing my previous post, I spent some time contemplating my remarks regarding a fatuous stint on reality tv. I quickly came to the conclusion that my ultimate goal should be aiming for the 15 minutes of ads, not the 15 minutes of ads masquerading as a show.

If I'm not mistaken, I've seen a masterchef winner hocking laundry detergent. Now there's someone who's opting for longevity and brighter whites and I like it.

So, while labouring to fall asleep last night, I asked myself "is there a product that I would refuse to promote?", and the answer hit me like a bullet... a nutribullet, to be more precise. Yes, I do think it's one more unnecessary appliance to clutter your house, but that's not the reason for my decision. The truth is that I just can't act that badly.

If you hand me a glass of puréed prawns, prunes and the gonads of the actors who failed to exhibit sufficient enthusiasm (i.e. people who have long known about the existence of blenders and are grappling with finding their character's motivation), then you'd better be prepared to be wearing that drink (edit: nutriblast). And this is where we come full circle because that masterchef winner has cornered the detergent market with a product so magical that it will remove the toughest of nutribullet stains.

Health news featuring the letters I, U, M & S

Earlier this year I underwent an intra-uterine insemination procedure. Whether it was successful or not is a matter of opinion; it did not result in a pregnancy. What's more important, however, is this example of Jamie's dry sense of humour.

dr: James, you've got excellent sperm. It's red hot. I don't suppose you've heard that before. 

James: Mmmm, Mary has never complimented my sperm. 

Prior to this exchange, the doctor probably thought that James was mute. (edit: He was now wondering "Is this guy British? Surely, not.  His teeth are too nice.")

In more recent news, I have been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis.

In our house we enjoy the odd bit of black humour. The cats especially come out with some hilarious, albeit dark, things. On this occasion, Jamie took on the burden of lightening the mood.

James: An auto-immune problem would suit your personality.

It's true. I have a habit of attacking myself, all in the quest to have self-esteem low enough that I might consider applying for a spot on a reality tv show to be a worthwhile pursuit. 15 minutes of fame, interspersed with 15 minutes of ads is all I want. (Not true.)

Anyway, here I lie in hospital, suffering from a wakefulness that might be due to today's infusion of steroids.  Instead of counting sheep, I will count down the average number of minutes my phone stays charged.