23 February 2005

My personal space is very important to me. I love it. I'd be so happy if I could live in my own little bubble which no one could burst, unless I let them because they were nice people that didn't say silly things or have body odour. (Me have only-child issues, much?)

Late last year I wrote an article about people invading it. I think the most commonly used word in my vocabulary is “I’vegotitI’vegotitI’vegotit” as I try to make people who want to "help" get their hands off my sodding wheelchair. But when I wrote that, I was thinking more about non-disabled people. But non-disabled people aren't the only people that think that me being disabled allows them a license to come up and chat to me. I never know how to react when someone in a wheelchair comes up to me the in street and says "is that a Quickie?" (At least I hope they're saying "is that a," rather than “fancy a.” The hazards of having Auditory Processing Disorder, though that would explain why some people look shocked when I say “yes.”)

Sometimes I don't mind, like the time the woman came up to me in Camden Town and asked if I knew the details of the local wheelchair service. Of course I didn't, it was before I moved to Camden, I was just on an “I'm a student therefore shopping at Camden Market is compulsory," excursion. But that was informational, I can see why she would ask me that. It would be a random question to ask someone non-disabled, or someone not using a wheelchair, unless it was your GP I guess.

But why do other disabled people assume that I'm going to be chatty, just because I'm ‘one of them’? I don't care where you bought your wheelchair, how much it cost, or how long it was before it first broke! All I care about is being left alone and getting home in peace. Thank you.

Lesbians don't do this. When someone passes me in the street and I register on their gaydar, they don't come up and ask me “how long have you been out?” Or “how old were you when you started shagging women?” The most I get is a knowing smile. So why do disabled people think it's OK?

Whinging aside, I would like to thank the disabled guy who tried chatting me up yesterday evening at a bus stop while I was on my way to a gig. I'm thankful because talking about him on stage provided me with the biggest laugh of my whole set.

I can guarantee absolutely anyone that if they chat me up at a bus stop, I will write them off as a weirdo and try anything in my power to make them go away (sadly my power is limited to refusing to make eye contact and praying the bus will come). Especially if they open with “You're gorgeous. You know, I've had a relationship with someone in a wheelchair before.” It's kinda gonna leave me thinking “you're not interested in my wit and intellect, are you? You only want me for my wheels."

It would appear that I was this man's dream woman (ha!) He informed me that not only does he like women in wheelchairs, he also has a thing for glasses. God I should've come out of him. If he knew I was a lesbian I bet I'd have been his wank fantasy for months. Actually, suddenly uncomfortable, don't want to think about it. Ewww.

I firmly believe that being chatted up by, well, the kind of people that would chat someone up at a bus stop is the kind of situation, where it is always morally right to lie your arse off. So that is precisely what I did. I told him that I was in a relationship. Anyone that has ever met me before would know that that is a blatant lie because I'm so unattractive. But he fell for it, clutched his baguette tighter to his chest and backed away. The power of my untruths. Didn't of course stop him from staring at me the whole time I was getting on the bus. But I'm used to that. Unusually though, I'm not sure if he was gawping out of “ooo, that's what the ramps do” curiosity, or if he just thought I was fit.

The moral of this story: Do not assume that I'm friendly and approachable. I am in fact evil through and through. Yes. Now it's late, and I'm going to snuggle with my teddies. Fear my wrath.

22 February 2005

I got my revenge on bicycle boy, hooray!

For those not familiar with the back story, I live in a completely inaccessible bedsit, and the guy in the room next to me has a tendency to clog up the entire hallway with his bicycle.

For the last nine months, I've has to leave my wheelchair in the boot of my car, and hobble into my building, because I can't fit my chair through the obscenely narrow door into my "flat," (a side note: I should've gotten an almost equally inaccessible council flat today, but, of course, with Lisy Luck... I'm still here in the cupboard with the mice).

Well, today I couldn't leave my chair in the boot of my car. It's snowing (fucking weather. I wanna live in LA. Except for the earthquakes. And everyone has fake boobs (even the lesbians)), and me walking into the house would almost certainly wind up with me riding in an ambulance what with the being rubbish at walking and having the bones that break easily and all. To remedy the problem of having to walk into my house, a pretty lady did offer to let me sleep in her bed. And for some reason I said "no"!?! Damn my love of laying in bed as late as possible in the mornings and not wanting to have to travel from South to Northwest to East London tomorrow morning.

I had no choice but to bring my wheelchair into the building. Well, I did have a choice, but I doubt the paramedics would've been that attractive. I've never pulled an ambulancewoman before (well, once, but we weren't in her ambulance at the time), but I didn't fancy the broken hip as a chance to change that.

Of course, once my chair was in the building, I couldn't get it through my door. Well, I could take it apart to fit it through the door. But then where would I put it? It's not like my habitat is exactly spacious. I know I've shared bedding with my wheelchair before (hey, 1 person and 1 wheelchair in a two-man tent - underneath is the *only* option), but I thought the tyre marks on my white sheets might take some explaining. Not that anyone ever views my bed other than me. But, Sod's Law and all... the one time you have skid marks on your sheets...

So, my chair is clogging up the hall. Ha Mr Bicycle Boy! He's got some logic problems to solve in the morning to work out how to get his bike past my chair. Knowing Lisy Luck, I'll exit my bedroom in the morning to find one giant tyre mark going straight over my seating. Or my wheelchair out in the snow.

In the meantime I'm going to gloat. Yes Bike Boy... I've gotten revenge. Put that in your bong and smoke it (yes, I do recognise that smell seeping out from under your door).

08 February 2005

Well, my keyboard issues have been resolved. No, I didn't go out and buy myself a spangly new keyboard, no, that would be far too easy.

Instead I bought myself whole spanking new laptop (hey, it's not like it was unjustified. The last one was five years old and took half an hour to switch on). Of course, now I have access to a b button, I'm not using it anyway. I decided to also get myself Dragon NaturallySpeaking, to see if that will ease the pain of RSI.

I think I'm now at risk of Repetitive Vowel Sound Injury or something like that.

I'll have 60 billion vowels please, Carol.