Dried up and sick to death of love…

4 02 2013

LiverpoolStation-dWell, here it is, February 4th and already I am on the dried up and sick to death of love post. It’s from Elton John’s song, “This train don’t stop there anymore”, which has spoken to me ever since it came out, as I struggled through the last years of my marriage.

(I’d alternate between this and “The Bitch is back” depending on how feisty I felt)

There’s something quite horrid about the breakup of a marriage. It usually doesn’t end with a bang. It’s more like the years of piled up hurts gradually start an avalanche that is impossible to stop. And while it is piling up, there’s the heartbreak, the happy memories that crumble to the ground, crushed in the ugliness of what is happening right then.

It’s been many years and still his abandonment of me hurts.

He’s remarried, and I hope he is happy. I’ve not, and I hope I am. I think, overall, though there’s the need for touch, I don’t think I’ll let my heart be taken again.

You may not believe it
But I don’t believe in miracles anymore
And when I think about it
I don’t believe I ever did for sure

So what’s started this new onslaught of bitterness after my hopeful posting yesterday?

Ah. The online dating sites.

Gruesome. Totally gruesome. I don’t think I can stand them anymore, and yet, how does anyone meet anyone in their fifties?

It’s sad – all these men smiling hopefully into the camera, not noticing the gawdawful mess in the room behind them, matched by women done up to the nines, wearing push-up bras and enough makeup and hair dye to support a third world country. Men who are seriously 4’s on the 1-10 scale, demanding 10s. Smokers demanding healthy people. People who are substance-ly retired (e.g. alcoholics) sending me messages saying “Hi sexy” as if I am panting for attention and would take even them on for a night. And among them, me, probably feeling more like a loser than I ever have, being round and disabled and grey-haired in a perky breasted world.

It’s fecking ridiculous. I am worth more than this foolish tarting of my qualities to appeal to a dreg of humanity.

So I decide to back off, cancel my profile, step back, hide. Focus on the things that make me feel good about myself.

But it’s addictive. Like chocolates, I can’t help but peek, though I know it’s not good for me.

And even now I find myself saying, “not that there’s anything WRONG with the ‘dregs’ of humanity”, and it’s true, I don’t mean to sound judgmental. Well, except for about the “Hi, sexy” people who just want to get laid without having to pay for it. They need a good slap upside the head.

It’s all fine and good to get together for an evening to talk or whatever with someone totally unlike you. But there’s no staying power, and so it ends up being a waste of my time and theirs. (Although I do like to understand how people live their different lives…). And difference can add spice, as long as there is a connection somewhere, but too much spice burns the tongue.

When I said that I don’t care
It really means my engine’s breaking down
The chisel chips my heart again
The granite cracks beneath my skin
I crumble into pieces on the ground

My engine is tired. I think it may be time to close down this station for renovations.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=evuV-9OgiYU

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Dumb Ways to Die, or how to stick a safety message in the head…

25 11 2012

I used to write advertising copy. Yeah, sure, we used to call it health promotion, but so much of that is just advertising, good or bad. Unfortunately, there’s often not a sense of humour to the messages we use in our “professional” voice. So many people are sure something might offend someone they pull even the most innocuous things out of the message. It leaves it dead, flat, uninteresting, and ultimately, unreadable.

Contrast that with this charming train safety message. I’ll bet it sticks in your head:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=IJNR2EpS0jw

I’m still wanting the “brown ribbon” campaign for bowel cancer. I would love to write limericks for healthy living, or catchy songs for  safe drinking guidelines. Silly, wonderful things that catch the eye.

Like this one, by Air New Zealand, leaders in the air safety message category…

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XCbPFHu3OOc

It all comes down, yet again, to good writing. I argue that good writing should engage the mind, should demand a response, should perhaps offend slightly someone somewhere, or it isn’t good. All those years I wrote for public health, I only got away with a couple of vaguely funny remarks. Everything else was edited out. Nothing I ended up putting out there had any impact, save for the smiling face of a colleague (we’d taken her photo for an exercise pamphlet) shining off the side of buses for a cervical screening campaign. She looked so so very happy to have a pap smear. Not sure what the impact was except that she’s very well-known in our town now.

Perhaps my only other high impact campaign involved a wrong phone number in our walking guide. That sent people looking for more trail information to an adult sex line. Three days later we were still applying correction stickers.

The trail guide flew off our shelves.








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