According to the Mind Unleashed website, one thing mentally strong people don’t do is expect immediate results.
“Whether they are working on improving their health or getting a new business off the ground, mentally strong people don’t expect immediate results. Instead, they apply their skills and time to the best of their ability and understand that real change takes time.”
With that piece of advice in mind I’ve come to the thunderously sinking realisation… my mental fortitude is as weak as a weak little kitty-kat kitten.
Of course I bloody well expect immediate results!
If I order a Game of Thrones t-shirt from the United States online, I expect it to be here within 24 hours... max.
I did such an outlandish thing a month ago and waited… and waited… and waited for it to arrive.
It was to be sent to hubby, Scotto’s work place, as there is never anyone home here (except for a huge, savage, unrestrained German Shepherd in case you’re a burglar who’s happened to chance upon this blog and is still reading… although I doubt you’d still be reading because you probably have 'places to case', or you’d be bored already, or trying on ski masks you’d purchased online… if they’d ever turned up in the damn mail that is).
Anyway… in my anxious wait for the much lusted after t-shirt to arrive, I’d violently spear tackle Scotto every time he walked in the door demanding, “Did it arrive yet? Huh? Huh?”
At which he would shake his head sadly in the negative (after picking himself off the floor, popping his shoulder back in its socket and spitting out a bloodied molar or two.)
I mean… COME ON PEEPS!
We live in the age of aeronautical transport. I’ve flown to the United States in a day, why did it take my t-shirt a whole MONTH to get here.
“Can’t you track it like you track the stupid computer parts you order?” I challenged Scotto.
“It’s only a t-shirt, Pinky. It cost twenty bucks. It’s coming via surface mail. You can’t track that,” he replied huffily.
I was desperate. I wanted to wear it when I went over to my sister Sam’s place because she’s in the Lannister Camp and I am clearly out and proud, “Camp Stark”.
Now the fourth season of Game of Thrones is finished on the telly, I’m very anxious about the health and well-being of its genius author, George R. R. Martin.
In fact, I’ve never been so anxious about the welfare of any American author in my entire life.
With that piece of advice in mind I’ve come to the thunderously sinking realisation… my mental fortitude is as weak as a weak little kitty-kat kitten.
Of course I bloody well expect immediate results!
If I order a Game of Thrones t-shirt from the United States online, I expect it to be here within 24 hours... max.
I did such an outlandish thing a month ago and waited… and waited… and waited for it to arrive.
It was to be sent to hubby, Scotto’s work place, as there is never anyone home here (except for a huge, savage, unrestrained German Shepherd in case you’re a burglar who’s happened to chance upon this blog and is still reading… although I doubt you’d still be reading because you probably have 'places to case', or you’d be bored already, or trying on ski masks you’d purchased online… if they’d ever turned up in the damn mail that is).
Anyway… in my anxious wait for the much lusted after t-shirt to arrive, I’d violently spear tackle Scotto every time he walked in the door demanding, “Did it arrive yet? Huh? Huh?”
At which he would shake his head sadly in the negative (after picking himself off the floor, popping his shoulder back in its socket and spitting out a bloodied molar or two.)
I mean… COME ON PEEPS!
We live in the age of aeronautical transport. I’ve flown to the United States in a day, why did it take my t-shirt a whole MONTH to get here.
“Can’t you track it like you track the stupid computer parts you order?” I challenged Scotto.
“It’s only a t-shirt, Pinky. It cost twenty bucks. It’s coming via surface mail. You can’t track that,” he replied huffily.
I was desperate. I wanted to wear it when I went over to my sister Sam’s place because she’s in the Lannister Camp and I am clearly out and proud, “Camp Stark”.
Now the fourth season of Game of Thrones is finished on the telly, I’m very anxious about the health and well-being of its genius author, George R. R. Martin.
In fact, I’ve never been so anxious about the welfare of any American author in my entire life.
The guy is sixty-six and still has two books of the series to write and I’m sorry to be the one to say this but he’s not looking the picture of robust health.
No offence George.
Put it this way, I’m pretty sure he doesn't follow a vegan diet and run 10 km a day followed by yoga/meditation and a wheat grass shot.
What if he… you know, doesn't get to finish the books? What will we all do?
Why can’t he just… write the bloody things. I want to know what happens next, NOW! NOW! NOW! NOW! NOW! NOW! NOW! NOW! NOW! NOW! NOW! NOW! NOW! NOW! NOW!
What if he… you know, doesn't get to finish the books? What will we all do?
Why can’t he just… write the bloody things. I want to know what happens next, NOW! NOW! NOW! NOW! NOW! NOW! NOW! NOW! NOW! NOW! NOW! NOW! NOW! NOW! NOW!
Have you ever waited for an inordinately long time for something you bought online?