I had my last day of placement today. Included in this was my final placement review. The word "adequate" was bandied around a lot. Thanks a lot, bitch!

The Gay American moved in! He is now back in America again, but rest assured that he stayed just long enough to complain about our internet connection, shift his overwhelmingly enormous television to the front room (and take my old one upstairs to his room, where it sits now, surrounded by several thousand scented candles), make me feel inferior about my inferior furniture, inferior backyard and overall inferior house, and leave packets of "hot chrysanthemum beverage" in my pantry. DON'T be tempted to try something, just because it comes packaged in a bright yellow box and comes in the form of attractive yellow crystals. You'll be sorry. I spent much of Sunday carting his stuff upstairs (so much stuff. OH so much stuff), which means that in the event of some sort of fire or other disaster, I won't be killed while trying to navigate my way to the front door. Hooray?

Time for some pimping. Some very nice people have promised me a copy of The Devil Wears Prada on DVD if I write a review on this blog, and who am I to question such a sweet sweet deal? That will be coming soon, but in the meantime here's a link to a video associated with the aforementioned movie, because I am nothing if not a man of my word...

In anticipation of The Gay American's arrival some time this week (details are sketchy. I was under the impression that he wanted to avoid moving into my fortress of doom for as long as he possibly could, but he told me yesterday that he was ready to move "as soon as possible," so god knows what day I'll arrive home to find him sitting on the doorstep with his massive television and collection of designer jeans), I started cleaning the house.

There's an awful lot of house to clean, especially for one person, and some of the house doesn't seem to enjoy being cleaned at all and ends up looking worse than it did before. The walls of the laundry, for example, took on the properties of an old person's dry skin and began to flake before my eyes. I hope the place hasn't been given an extra coat of asbestos.

Also, because Jenny (lover of the environment that she is, apart from her ability to enter a room without turning on the light at any time of the day or night) is no longer around, I'm free to use bugspray to do away with the hordes of cockroaches that come marching in every night, rather than having to resort to making a mess of my shoes and hoping desperately for a clean kill. I've never really gotten used to the hearty crunching noise they make when their exoskeleton (or whatever) gives way beneath my mighty Dunlop Volley, and I've lost count of the times I've inadvertantly twisted my foot a little as I make the kill, resulting in cockraoch guts being spread all over the floor/wall/bathtub and the activation of my gag reflex as I wipe it up with a paper towel. I sprayed the hot water cupboard yesterday afternoon, and ever since there has been a steady march of cockroaches in various stages of their death throes staggering out onto my bathroom floor. I considered leaving them out to serve as warnings to any other cockroaches thinking of paying a visit, but then decided that was a little too gross, even by my house's standards.

I also weeded the back yard, and as a result I am pretty much in agony every time I sit, stand or try to move. Stupid lack of stamina.

The countdown begins.

Thoughts on the position applied for following the Big Scary Interview with the Evil Faceless Corporation at 8am (OMG).

Pro: Would get to wear lots of lovely suits (I don't even own one lovely suit at present) and wander around the city during lunch.
Con: In danger of becoming suit-wearing, lunch-buying, city-wandering wanker.

Pro: Opportunity to help individuals stuck in the teeth of the Evil Corporate Monster.
Con: Likely to be consumed outright by aforementioned Monster.

Pro: Interviewers seemed considerably less jaded and at least 40 percent smilier than public health interviewers I've thus far encountered.
Con: I had to be smiley at the Educational But Fun Store when kowtowing to the all-important customer, even when my soul was slowly dying. It's not hard to fake.

Pro: Was mentioned that my job would involve approximately 70-80 percent clinical work.
Con: A friend was promised the same thing while on a placement in a similar setting. The amount of red tape she had to wade through made her want to staple her head to the wall within about three weeks.

Pro: Would receive a hefty income increase compared to what I'm earning now.
Con: Part-time work at McDonald's would also bring about hefty income increase compared to what I'm earning now.

Pro: Security of a full-time job, and not the scattiness of several part-time jobs as I had envisioned.
Con: Hassle and stress of a full-time job. I've just completed 19 straight years of formal education, and I was pretty busy in the four before that as well, what with learning to hold my head up and focus my eyes, and probably other things as well. Time for a couple of cruisy jobs for a while to let me catch my breath?

Con: Several friends have mentioned that they can't see my in this sort of role, seeing as I'm not completely corporate or heartless. It's nice to know that I'm putting my best foot forward.
Pro: I never thought I'd be good at lawn bowls either, but there you go. Perhaps I should go and try pole vaulting!

Con: Will look like a massive sellout compared to more noble friends who are healing refugees/rescuing kiddies from unpleasant parents/giving little old ladies nicely fitting dentures.
Pro: Um....no. You have me there.

Pro: Nothing that I do now will box me in forever. I'm still young enough to try different things without them unduly influencing my life.
Con: I don't even have this job and I probably never will. Talk about a waste of time.

Five things Bus Stop Dude has said to me in the last week before a bus turns up and whisks me away to safety.

a) "My friends think of me as their rock, you know? They know I'd do anything for them, I'll always be there for them, they can call me any time. They're my family."

b) "I just don't need that type of baggage in my life anymore, you know? It's not what I'm about right now."

c) "I'd call myself a pretty spiritual person."

d) "Sometimes I think I can just read people too well. Like on September 11, I was just sitting there watching the news and crying my eyes out."

e) "You're about 28, right?"


Right (he types through gritted teeth). Let's deal with each of these in turn, shall we?


a) Does anyone else irrationally HATE this kind of statement (with the fire of a thousand suns)? It's just so trite, or...self-serving, or...SOMETHING, I don't know. Maybe you should tell me that you like to dance like nobody's watching. Or that you avoid cliche like the plague. Or that "ur str8-acting sorry no GAM or fatties." Whatever. You like your friends and let them call you at 3am! You have no personal boundaries! I GET IT. Do you think I need to be convinced further about what an amazing and considerate person you are? How about you tell me how you're all sorted and understanding and shit, and in touch with your own emotions and those of others? Oh wait, that's still to come...

b) People who claim to not want any baggage in their life are delusional. Life IS baggage. There will be people who unload their problems on you, or drag you in, and sometimes there's nothing you can do about it. This is not a just world and bad things often happen to good people. IN ADDITION, to distance yourself from this sort of thing casts a bit of doubt on claim a), dontcha think? Also, talking about "where you're about" in life makes it sound like you should be a sassy guest on a trashy American talk show. Don't even go there, girlfriend.

c) You have a big ol' chunk of quartz sitting on a shelf somewhere?

d) If you're so empathic, guess how I'm feeling right now.

e) Dear World, STOP ACTING SO FUCKING SURPRISED AT THE FACT I'M 23. Being told I'm "so mature" translates as "Old Man Time really took a bat to your face, didn't he." I've had my age guessed at numerous times recently, and for some reason 28 is the magic number. I have no issues with being 28, at least not when I'm ACTUALLY 28. In FIVE YEARS TIME. Sorry for the shouting.

Also, I think he wears eye shadow, or cakey makeup of some sort. But that concern is currently coming a distant sixth.

I think it's pretty fair to say that most psychologists-to-be, as they finish their training, are rather high-minded about the types of jobs they will and won't go for. They're all about the healing, dude, and they're not going to be told what to do by some stuffed shirt in a huge faceless corporation, and if anyone tries to get in their way then that's just TOO DARN BAD.

I'm quite self-righteous at the best of times, so you can imagine MY views on the whole thing. However, the part of my brain that says "be true to yourself, don't be a sellout" is slowly being eaten by the part that says "oh noes you'll never get a job and will be living ON THE STREET," and so I've decided that perhaps it wouldn't be so bad to...shall we say, broaden my net just a little as I search for a job that will keep me in mouthwash and Gilmore Girls DVDs. This TOTALLY isn't selling out, before you ask.

Which is just as well, as a couple of days ago I had a "casual chat" with Big Boss Man of Faceless Corporation arranged for me by Woman Who Rejected My Application But Decided to Force Me Onto Someone Else (Not in That Way). She called me to let me know that I wasn't successful in my application to her company, but would I let her pass on my details to someone else? I said sure. She rang about three minutes later saying that BBM would like to meet with me tomorrow as he was just about to go on leave, would that be possible. I said no, because I had placement all day. WWRMABDTFMOSE(NITW) said she could arrange the chat for 5.30PM, giving me ample time to get to where I had to be. I ran out of excuses and said that would be fine. She said she would email me further details later that afternoon.

That night I checked my mail and there lay the promised cyber-missive. The details enclosed suggested that my "casual chat" would be not so much a "casual" affair as a gruelling test of endurance that would require me to prove my worth at some length. "It is IMPORTANT that you are prepared and can name times during which you have shown INITIATIVE; team and individual LEADERSHIP; ORGANISATION and PLANNING"...The RANDOM capitals of DOOM just went on and on, outlining about one BILLION ways in which I would be required to prove I was fabulous and an asset to every team.

Also attached was a "brief" job description (which actually sounded as if it could be quite challenging and, dare I say it, rewarding) that included the requirement "participation in team-building 'fun days'" (quotation marks author's own). This concerned me, and apparently it concerned my psyche as well because that night I was plagued by a creepy dream where I was shown through this olde-worlde-style building with faded fleur-de-lys wallpaper and unimpressed floorboards that my tourguide was valiantly attempting to pass off as a "modern and cutting-edge work environment." THEN I was shown into a wide open space resembling a rifle range and was shown one of these fun days in action; it seemed to consist mainly of people with rugby balls getting piledriven into the ground. After this, a group of swarthy neaderthals (who looked strangely like a whole lot of people I went to school with, except with better haircuts and in suits, even though they'd just been playing rugby...symbolism? Probably not) swaggered past, promising to "make things REEEAL difficult" for me if I decided to work there, to which I replied "well, thanks. At least I won't get my hopes up," which at the time I was rather proud of as it seemed rather ballsy and assertive, even though it doesn't make much sense in the grim light of day.

After all of this, I finally woke up, thinking "well, at least THAT'S over," before realising that the damn thing hadn't even HAPPENED yet and that nothing had changed except for a drastic depletion of my adrenaline reserves.

So, after a day of sweating it out and trying to subtly look up "relevant literature" on the interweb at placement (which wasn't easy, having to enter my as-yet-unmemorised password every three seconds), I made my way into the city and towards the big intimidating building where my casual chat OF DEATH would take place. I wasn't going to wear a tie at first, but I got intimidated by their high density as I made my way to reception and put it on the mirrored elevator because I couldn't find a freakin' bathroom...sophisticated businesspeople apparently don't have to pee, so if I ever get a job I can look forward to a catheter-filled future.

In the end, my casual chat Interview of DOOOOM! was, in fact, a casual chat and yet ANOTHER complete waste of adrenaline. Fifteen minutes later I was back on the street, although not before tangling my bag in the legs of the chair and feeling like something of an idiot. However, because this is pretty much my regular state of being, maybe it all went okay? Watch this space.

My heart has been giving me grief. And when I say "my heart" I don't mean it in some bullshit metaphorical way, I mean my actual heart.

One of the questions on an anxiety scale we use a fair bit at the clinic goes "I was aware of the action of my heart in the absence of physical exertion (eg, sense of heart rate increase, heart missing a beat)." This is TOTALLY me at the moment, y'all. The only trouble is, I don't think I'm particularly anxious at the moment.

I was at the pool last week, flailing my way through my laps (the thought of stripping down to my Speedos fills me with dread and terror normally, but I go to the nearby indoor pool which seems to be used only by hairy people, old people and hairy old people. Most of whom can swim further than me). In the soothing floatiness of the water I was alright, but the second I hauled myself out of the pool, all I was aware of was my heart jackhammering around my ribcage and the sudden dizziness that ensued. I'd like to think I know enough about Panic Disorder to not completely freak out about the whole thing, but it was still a bit frightening. I haven't felt that way since the 21st birthday party where I had to make a speech and my blood was pumping around my body with such pressure that an old shaving cut opened up again and I started bleeding from the neck while I was speaking.

Not too long ago, a friend asked me about Rob and whether he made my heart go all aflutter whenever I saw him. In fact, Rob usually managed to settle me down, and make me feel that everything was alright in the world (no mean feat at times).

Maybe my heart's just missing him.

I have a new client at placement. She's small and timid. Here's an excerpt from our first session:

Me:...so when people are assertive communicators, it means they're able to take their needs and the needs of others into account blah blah blah...
Client: *starts crying*
Me: Oh shit, I've broken her already... Can I ask why you're crying?
Client: It's just that...I've never ever thought that I have needs before.
Me: *heart shatters into a million little pieces*

In other placement news, I've been given a "project" to do with Alvin. This means spending more time with him and being baffled by the conversations we have, where he just does NOT. Give me. Enough. Information. EVER. To work out what the fuck he's talking about:

Alvin: So I was in the toilets this morning...
Me: ...
Alvin: And there was this guy there who spent about five minutes washing and drying his hands over and over again.
Me: (Okay, so where's he going with this? Funny story? Tragic anecdote?) Well, um...maybe you should've sent him our way or something! Ha ha?
Alvin: *Looks unimpressed* Well actually, I think he'd just come from seeing someone here. And you know, he probably told them he was fine.
Me: (Oh, so it's a conversation about how clients can sometimes lie or use avoidance so that they don't have to push themselves! Silly me!) It's interesting to think that clients really aren't being entirely honest with you, isn't it...shows that they're human.
Alvin: Well...no, I was saying that he probably has gotten a lot better, you know, and it just totally brought it home to me how debilitating this sort of thing can be...

I mean, Jesus. How do I work with that? I feel like a trained seal clapping my fins so I can get enough little fishy morsels of information in order to flounder in his wake. Bring on this "project" and hours of baffling conversation!

There's another intern at my placement. Let's call him...Alvin. This isn't his name, but what it has in common with his real name is that when I first heard it, I thought that he would either be very old, very Asian, or both.

He is neither of these things. Alvin is young and from exciting and mysterious parts foreign. He is charming and a natural conversationalist, he is extraverted and has the ability to find exactly the right key to unlock a person's soul. He cycles to work, and does salsa dancing at the end of the day. He is a magician with PowerPoint and now all the other counsellors love him because they have a whole bunch of multimedia hoopla to show to students who've been failing every university course they've ever applied themselves to and therefore need as many pictures as possible.

I probably sound a little bitter. After all, I'm Mr Introverted 2006 (not that I'd ever attend the awards ceremony, all those people...), I find small talk a ridiculous chore, I can't dance and I still use overheads for all my presentations. But really, Alvin's far too likeable, curses, for me to dislike him. And I've tried. Not all that hard, mind you; I like him too much. But it's easy to feel a little inferior.

I realise that there's no prize for Best Intern - actually, I might have to check on that, in case there is, especially if it's cash - anyway, the point is that it doesn't bother me that Alvin is more of a well-rounded person and natural clinician than I am, and possibly ever will be. I'm happy to concern myself with the functioning of frontal lobes after going through windscreens rather than helping people through major depression, and being generally two-dimensional if it means that I don't have to learn how to salsa dance or risk coming off my bike on my way home.

I was originally going to end my post about here, but then all of this happened, and I thought it might be worth mentioning. Teehee.

Alvin is also a stoner. I think. Either that, or he's high on life ALL THE TIME, which doesn't seem right at all.

Earlier in the week, we both had to help run an anxiety workshop scheduled for 2pm, right after lunch. Alvin wandered into the room at about 2.15, hair pulled back in a straggly ponytail. He told me that he had been really "inspired" by this "mellow and inspirational" band in the park who sang all these totally "inspiring and uplifting" tunes, man. Uh-huh. I can see the inspiration too, dude.

When he wasn't sitting on a stool up the front, staring vacantly at a spot on the back wall, Alvin was ad-libbing from his fabulous PowerPoint slides, regaling the audience with stories about his mates, how he applied this particular relaxation technique over the weekend (with any sort of herbal aid, Alvin?)...it just dragged ON AND ON and was quite frankly embarrassing for all concerned, and enraging for our supervisor. When the time came to run through a script for a muscle relaxation exercise, and Alvin decided that he wasn't going to be constrained by the impositions of a well thought-out script and decided instead to drone interminably about having thoughts like trains at a station and feeling the breath in your belly and not beating yourself up if your mind wandered and feeling the air on your bare skin, and everyone sitting in the room was secretly looking at everyone else through half-closed eyes wondering if this whole thing wasn't just some sort of weird joke and we finished 20 minutes late, I thought she (my supervisor) was in danger of spontaneously combusting.

Chalk one skill (timekeeping) up to me! Woohoo!

rant

Dear creators of mX magazine,

I know your publication well, despite the fact that, until last Friday, I had never actually been handed a copy. Every train I've been on in the last year seems to have been littered with old, flicked-through, folded-up and stomped-on copies; apparently your two size-12 "Please Recycle" suggestions printed unobtrusively on the first and second pages aren't doing the job properly! What a surprise!

But that’s okay; your informative blend of celebrity gossip ("OMG Eminem pays trainer lots of money to get hot abs!!!1!") and lifestyle trends ("Live with your parents until you’re 35! It's easier that way!!1!" No, really! It said that! Well...okay, not really, but it's all about fully-grown adults living with mum and dad and quite frankly the last thing they need is encouragement) keeps me entertained at least until the train pulls out of the station, and more than makes up for your shocking disregard for the environment! Also HILARIOUS is your "What In The Weird" section, which pokes fun at current events in countries other than Australia! Hahaha! Those crazy foreigners!

But your letters page? Let's not go encouraging Sydneysiders to become even more selfish and mean-spirited than so many already are, shall we? Publishing what people are idiotic enough to text-message in to you while they’re crammed on a train early in the morning does not make for thought-out, rational discussion. And good Lord, find something more interesting to print than bitching about the person on the train who's wearing too much/not enough deodorant, or what a bloody disgrace the current Cityrail timetable is (no shit, Sherlock). WE GET IT. People on trains stink. But people stink everywhere. You stink. I stink. Sometimes stinky people have to wait longer than they should for trains, and they stink the platform up, and sometimes they eat cabbage and onions in confined spaces and you're right, school children do talk too loudly and show insufficient respect for their elders. Oh yes, and we pay too many taxes, and what is it with the crazy weather we've been having anyway?

The winner, however, is Cyril, from Minto, who asks “Does anyone know when homosexuals hijacked the rainbow? It seems everything associated with being gay has a rainbow stuck on it.” Cyril, from Minto, quite clearly puts Jerry Seinfeld to shame with his razor-sharp wit and powers of observation. What's next, Cyril? A text message about when sometimes you go to a nice restaurant, and they put the check in a little book? What is this? The story of the bill? What's that about? (Joke shamelessly stolen from No Rock&Roll Fun)

Jebus. Don’t even get me started on the text messages that talk about Muslims and flag burning.

But back to the point of my letter. On Friday, I was at Central Station, and positioned around all the major entrances, jostling for a spot amongst the Big Issue sellers and the Pepsi Max bikini girls, were large hunky men and not-unattractive women, trying to shove a copy of your fine publication into every set of unwilling hands that passed their way. I think I may have been offered a copy about seven times (my friend was running a little late), and yet STILL MORE of your newspapers were being unloaded from trucks and trolleys (this was at around 3.30, by the way, hardly peak traffic time), forming towers of the kind that loom menacingly and crush old people in their spare rooms while they're doing the vacuuming and who are only found after the neighbours notice the mail hasn't been collected for a couple of months. NOT THAT MANY PEOPLE IN SYDNEY WILL WANT TO READ YOUR STUPID NEWSPAPER, YOU DICKHEADS. I shudder to think what you do with the copies that people aren't stupid enough to take, although when I'm in the city on a Friday afternoon I manage to see dozens of copies drifting around the streets like small, particularly stupid ghosts. It's nice to know that all your hard work and research isn’t being wasted, isn't it?

In conclusion, your "people" get in my way when I'm trying to go places, your content is vapid and poorly thought-out, your letters section appears to do nothing except foster illwill amongst the general public, and in terms of environmental friendliness you're on a par with Agent Orange (not really). I would have texted this in to you, but I found it hard to contain myself to only 160 characters.

Please go away soon and encourage people to buy a book instead,
Scott

PS. That picture of Girls Aloud you put in your Friday edition was very nice. Keep up the good work.

"You looked happy, and that's great. I just miss you, that's all."

These are two lines from Robyn's Be Mine! (everyone who doesn't have it should go and listen to it so they know what I'm talking about. Or email me or something, I can totally hook you up. Or rather, I can totally redirect you somewhere legal and above-board) that, as I might have mentioned before, almost never fail to make little girly tears prickle at the corner of my eyes. I realise after intensive experimentation that these semi-tears don't restrict themselves to appropriate times, like my bedroom or in the corner of the library. No, they threaten to burst forth in public: the bus, the train, my friend Dangerfield's (and no, that's not really his name) place when I made him listen to it.

It was actually Dangerfield who asked me why those two lines made me so sad, as opposed to I Will Always Love You or the death of a puppy or something. My first answer was along the lines of "Well...you know...because, she's like totally sad and that makes me, like, totally sad," or something similarly eloquent.

This was declared to be lame. So then I said that maybe it was because she realised that something she had so desperately wanted was never going to happen, which is sad enough in itself, but to resign herself to such a fate, to be so matter-of-fact about it all, while all the while her bottom lip is trembling and she struggles to keep the floodgates together...now that is tragic.
Dangerfield, having gone to the Sapnish Inquisition School of Curiosity, asked me if this song actually made me think of anyone. I said yes, it made me think of Rob. This satisfied Dangerfield somewhat, but he had another question; it wasn't as if I'd never had Rob, was it? After all, this song is about never having someone to begin with, not having them and then losing them (at least geographically). Surely some other song would make me cry more than this one, at least while thinking about him?

I had to admit it, Dangerfield had a good point.

After much thought, I can remember one night in particular when Rob was here. That morning, we'd gone off to meet my grandmother so that he could interview her for an assignment. This was followed by dinner, then by a movie I fell asleep in, and then by an interminably long bus ride back to Rob's place, as services to my place had stopped. By this stage of the night I was cranky and irritable (hard to believe, I know) and just wanted to sleep in my own bed. Rob asked me a question, I forget what now, and I also forget what my response to him was, apart from it being more than a little snappy.

Rob turned to look at me with those amazing big brown eyes of his. They were watering slightly (in hindsight, I think that was more to do with his dodgy contacts than any sort of emotion, but the effect was the same) when he said "I just want to spend time with you" in exactly that tone of voice. A little wounded, but so matter-of-fact. And, for a brief moment, I remember all of that crankiness disappeared and all I wanted to do was hug him and tell him that I was sorry and that I wouldn't ever get cranky with him again if it meant that he would have to give me that look again and talk to me in that way and oh my god I am SUCH A JERK...but we were on a bus, so I didn't. Even though I should have. Sometimes the experience of being the idiot who causes someone pain is almost as bad as being the one it happens to. Well, if you're me and you like to ruminate on such things.

Perhaps I'll tell Dangerfield this story when I see him next. See if that satisfies him. Except then he'll probably ask why my brain works in such a stupid way, choosing to file things under "Bittersweet Emotional Experiences" rather than, I don't know, "Colour" or something. And then I'll hit him with a book about behavioural neuroscience.

My placement (all two days of it so far) is going quite well. It's full of beautiful women dressed in stylish short skirts who don't walk so much as hover gracefully around the office and generally make your little world a better place for floating into your field of vision. My role so far has been a fairly passive one, sitting in on cases, filing, photocopying...basically all the stuff I do for V.A. without the joy of payment to look forward to. Still, I live in hope that I will amount to more than a glorified administrative assistant.

In other news, Jenny brought a guineapig back from the country. She is small and very nervous (the guineapig, not Jenny), with twitchy albino eyes that ensure you can never be certain what she's looking at. Loud, unexpected noises cause her to scrabble madly in her chaff or adopt the "if I don't move, you won't see me" position, and the sound of the washing machine is enough to drive her into a neurotic frenzy.

It's unfortunate that her cage is set up in the laundry.

During the eight-hour, super-duper-traumatising car trip home, the guineapig was stored in a box adorned with a cartoon character that reminded Jenny very much of Atomic Betty, and so Betty the guineapig was thus named.

To look into Betty’s eyes is to know true fear.

Betty has a strong survival mechanism; she does absolutely NOTHING in order to avoid being unduly startled. Last week, Jenny and I went on a shopping expedition for her, further perpetuating the rumour that we’re an item; the lady at the pet store told us that Betty was one "very spoiled little baby" (and gave us a meaningful glance) after Jenny bought one of those rolly balls to promote a little bit of healthy living. After being begrudgingly crammed inside, Betty decided that it wasn’t for her and sat, motionless in the middle of the loungeroom floor instead, confirming her status as Crappest Pet Ever. So far, Jenny's Sea Monkeys have proven themselves to be a far more interesting investment, and even they're nothing to write home about ("Hi mum, today I bought some freeze-dried brine shrimp...").

Maybe I consider Betty to be boring because she's so passive. Perhaps a less fearful animal would get out there and explore, wander up and down the little ramps in their cage, run in their wheel and what have you, and their owners would clap their hands in delight. But Betty...no. Perhaps she's so worried that she won't enjoy herself, or that she'll fail at what she tries that she just doesn't try in the first place --> passivity and accusations of BEING BORING from those who don't understand her. Poor pig.

Speaking of life lessons...