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Dreadful Nonsense

"I've read your blog. it's really funny. you should write a column." - Jon Ronson

I have just spent the last two weeks cramming a nine-month course of social psychology into my brain. I don't think it all fits, but thank God there are less than 38 hours left until I can sit down in front of my laptop in the exam centre and start bashing out everything I know, because if I had any more days like the days I've had in the last two weeks - staring at paper, convinced that none of it is going in, and at the same time starting to go mad because I'm applying theory - different, very diverse theory that is in fact in constant conflict - to every situation in my life.

This last two weeks I've been studying (a) what it means to be a person; (b) what it means to be a person in an intimate relationship; (c) what it means to be a person in a social group. Holy Fuck, you guys. That's a lot for one tiny brain to take in, especially from five different psychological perspectives.

So when He Who Only... turns around to me and tells me he has just had a dream about a train, I have up to five different theories on why he's dreaming about trains. (When I wake up sweating in the middle of the night having dreamt about sitting exams and failing, I've got five different theories on that as well, but at least on this point if no other they're not in conflict.)

What's funny is that, even though my mind's been suddenly jolted awake into constantly analysing, dissecting, contemplating and pondering on the meaning of each and everything that happens in the world around me, everything that happens to me and He Who Only..., everything that happens on my way to work, at work and on my way home from work, I still can't but hurl myself into the cliched behaviour of every other brick carrier on the planet.

For example: this evening, I went to pilates class, and then came home and had a lovely healthy meal of green vegetables, rice and tofu. I then sat at our dining room table, made hundreds of lists of things that I needed to do tomorrow on my last day of study, looked at internets, sat down and watched some god-awful programmes on Channel 5 and had a lovely glass of wine. The evening was fantastically pleasant, not least because for a rare evening I had the house to myself, as He Who Only... was out with his boyfriend writing comedy for all the world to enjoy.

And yet. The very moment he called to say that he was running late, but to be assured that he was still on his way home, I immediately descended into a sulk because HE WASN'T HOME THE MOMENT HE SAID HE WOULD BE, AND ISN'T THAT TYPICAL OF MAN, BLOODY MEN.

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