Ash-Matic Does Domestic Discord

Uh oh. I’m in trouble.

Miss-Matic has guests. And when Miss-Matic has guests, the laws of chaos seem to inexplicably change.

Normally, when I walk into a someone’s home and see an unwashed mug, the roof of that home does not sag and collapse and kill all the occupants.

Usually, when I’m sitting on a friend’s sofa and spot a crumb on the floor, a madman does not leap through the window in a cloud of glistening glass shards, and slaughter everyone in the room in particularly bloody and brutal ways.

And never, in my personal experience, upon spotting a coffee ring on a horizontal surface – which is usually a good thing, a sign that the surface is sufficiently robust should I wish to rest a warm beverage on it – have I caused the eruption of a solar flare of such magnitude that it boils the oceans and sterilises the planet down to bedrock.

You would not believe Miss-Matic hasn’t experienced these things if you had ever witnessed her expecting guests.

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Ash-Matic Does Feline-Distraction Syndrome

I like cats, but my affection for these aloof felines sometimes comes with negative consequences – and therefore I don’t always like that affection.

For instance, as much as I love getting cat on my face, my immune system doesn’t. It makes my skin turn red and bumpy. I start to wheeze and sneeze. I scratch my neck. And if I get cat in my eyes – either directly or via my fingertips – they turn red, water, and itch like a motherfucker.

But I’ve recently realised another disadvantage of liking cats:

Feline-Distraction Syndrome.

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Ash-Matic Does Likes and Dislikes

I don’t like things.

I’m a grumpy person, and so, I like not liking things. I get a sense of familiar reassurance when there is something I don’t like, a sense that everything is right with the world – that I can clearly distinguish between good things – which are likeable – and all the other shit on the buffet of life.

Conversely, there are some things that I do like.

And, as a grumpy person, I don’t like this fact.

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Ash-Matic Does Arachnophobia

I don’t like spiders. Nobody likes spiders. Let’s not kid outselves about this. Nobody.

Those freaks who keep tarantulas in tanks? They don’t like spiders. They just want to know where that bastard is at all times.

When they get it out of the tank and let it crawl up their arm? They don’t like that. They’re not stupid. They’re just trying to get it used to their scent, so it doesn’t call over its buddies to have a face-eating party the following evening.

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Ash-Matic Does Some Exercise

Okay, okay. I suppose that is a somewhat misleading title.

Of course I’m not exercising. Don’t be silly. I’m in bed, drinking coffee.
Maybe I should have called this post:

Ash-Matic Thinks About Doing Exercise In a Minute.


Ash-Matic Ponders the Problem of Exercise.

I think I prefer the last one, after all, there IS a Problem of Exercise. We all know this. It stands up there with the great philosophical problems, like the Problem of Evil, or the Problem of Other Minds – only nobody dares to treat it with the same academic consideration or importance, for fear of seeming lazy.

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Ash-Matic Does Speech-Recognition

I’m a child of science-fiction.
It was my father’s fault. Him and his bookshelves full of Asimov and Clarke and Wyndham and Wells, and to this day I still look forward to the myriad promises I found there.

Given the choice, I would trade my phone for a laser gun any day. Wouldn’t we all? And I’d swap my rented flat for a rented room on an interstellar vessel – even a crappy one with a shared bathroom and portholes that are painted shut. And I’d definitely exchange Miss-Matic’s wardrobe for one full of tinfoil dresses.

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Ash-Matic Does Chore-Avoidance

Did I ever mention how prominently my ability to procrastinate features on my list of talents? It’s pretty high. Or it would be, if I’d gotten around to making that list.

Right now, right this second, I should be doing the dishes. There are a lot of dishes, waiting to be done.

There are bowls, plates, knives, spoons, glasses, mugs, forks, and chopping-boards. There are also pizza cartons to be thrown away, and surfaces to be wiped. All these delights are waiting for me in the kitchen, due to be done approximately yesterday, while instead I slowly list them. Why don’t I just do them? Won’t it be easier to get it out of the way? Won’t I get less trouble from Miss-Matic if I just do the frickin’ chores?

Well, yes. But I’m just going to do this first. And then make a bad cartoon about it.

Then I’ll do the dishes.

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Ash-Matic Does Dental Surgery

Some people like going to the dentist.

I imagine these people call themselves dentistophiles. They’re the kind of person who likes hands in their mouth, and being told to open wider seventeen times consecutively.

Others don’t like it so much. These are the dentistohaters. They don’t like hands in their mouths, and have a terrible fear that on the seventeenth time the dentist will shriek, ‘Too far! Too far! Oh God! Please, God, no!’

Personally, I’m ambivalent about being the subject of dentistry. Maybe this is because my teeth are okay and I don’t have much trouble with them. The last time I was at the dentist my teeth were described as beautiful, which was nice until the rest of my face was described as, ‘that stuff on the front of your head.’

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Ash-Matic Does a DVD Film Review

Last night I watched a 2010 film called Buried. This is a Ryan Reynolds vehicle, only one without wheels. It’s more like a box, with Ryan Reynolds in it.

I once took a course on short-film production. In that course, it was suggested that the way to make a short film is to use as few actors as possible, and as few set-pieces. The powerhouses of creative vision behind Buried clearly decided to take this idea to its extreme. There’s one actor – Mr Reynolds, and one set-piece – him, in a box.

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Ash-Matic Does Webmail

I have a couple of webmail accounts. There’s the one I use for Important Stuff, like applying for visas, clawing back erroneously paid tax, and saving lives – and the one I use for everything else.

The reason I use two accounts is because everybody wants to spam me. Spam is just another form of currency. If I want to purchase item X or service Y from you, it costs me Z. But that’s not all it costs me. It costs me regular weekly emails from you and all your partners, and all the idiot companies you’ve passed my email address to.

I don’t want these emails. I don’t like them, I don’t read them. This crap outnumbers the number of emails that mean anything. What makes you think I read them, anyway?

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