Archives for posts with tag: i am an idiot

You should not track down and reread the teenage swill you posted on Usenet 10ish years ago. You were not big, nor were you clever. You will just feel very dirty and no small amount of embarrassment.

You will also risk flashbacks to what you did outside of Usenet and then feel like a proper tit.

Cirrhosis of the liver is likely to follow as you drink in excess to forget. You won’t forget, but you will now have all new things to feel guilty about.

On the other hand…

+ There were Good Times, so it’s not all bad.

+ It just about kept me sane when I lived in Westport.

+ It’s still less whiny than Livejournal.

+ / – It is also incredibly addictive.

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What no one really tells you before anything weddingish occurs is that you will be walking a twine-like tightrope over a pit of social jags and spikes that will admonish and glower you to death if you are not very especially and dedicatedly careful with every inch moved forward. They won’t tell you this during or afterwards, mind you, you’ll just discover it for yourself and wonder how girly it would be to weep into an open bottle of vodka. Russian vodka. Russian vodka that has wrestled with the deadliest of vicious bears in the coldest heart of winter and bested said bears in those pankratic arts. GRRRR.

This is very likely just me, however. I have a tendency to read too much into everything and then generate a moral crisis which will drive me into a berserker frenzy. So how much previous to this then is just a standard Brianist nonsense?

Olivia for the most part has a better sense of how to plough on than me. While I meander on trying to contextualise the pinball bouncing that is my approach to everything (in part due to not really having a clue how much anyone wants to know about any of this), she has been busy assembling information, preferences and ideas at her shiny new blog, Lif Laugh. Terrifyingly, the few days work there is a fraction of what she has put together.

There are some things that ladyfolk really are just inherently better at than their Y-chromosome genetic randomisers.

As I vaguely intimated in the previous post, as much as we try to define and create our own event as distinct from the ‘mainstream’ edition, we find ourselves being repeatedly drawn back to at least the structural elements of the very same. Social evolution has optimised the beast that is a wedding, to the point that we have relented in a lot of ways by even calling our plans a wedding, if only as a shorthand. Having tried and failed to apply a number of different names to it (each time getting shot down because they were confusing people or taking too long to explain), it was that or lose a lot of patience very quickly. Our only working alternative was in calling it a commitment ceremony, since it’s a more accurate expression, but I was loathe to do that not due to having issue of association with gay culture but rather because I didn’t like the idea of appropriating anything from a population that is already pretty heavily shafted by law, policy and religion. It’s also very likely that I’m being too sensitive, but screw it. Better over than under. There is a certain resonance, even if the motivation is completely different, and just a little bit selfish as regards myself.

This isn’t the vertiginous issue I was referring to at the start, by the by, just where we have ended up by the glorious vagaries of stream of consciousness.

The weird thing is that I started writing about this long before even the blog existed, but in a weird narrative diary where I was almost looking from the outside in at the event. Aside from the weird (il)logic that brought me to that point (quickly abandoned as when you make yourself an external observer of your own life yo will by default create some strange issues for yourself), I have found myself looking back on the first few months in a similar sort of way, and the relationship as a whole betwixt that. The last few months have been crazed with business, only recently calming and about to go nuts again in very short order, but I’m finally getting a grasp on all of it and a part of me wants to resume what I started.

Which, dang it, would add a third personal written project to my schedule, along with artwork owed and undrawn, an educational avenue to follow, a third party script to format dot dot dot et cetera. I clearly take some grand issue with myself and am determined to bring it to an end by drowning under a literal sea of paperwork. Oh well, I’ll live. I’m functionally immortal anyway, having not aged since college.

What, dear reader, would you care to see me discuss, as I dwell further on this Thing that Weds? Answers on a postcard or in the comments section are e’er welcome!

When you are preparing a litter tray for your cats, it is important not to confuse the cat litter with the gravel for your fiancée’s fish tank. Not only is it unsuitable to the task, it leads to an intensely distressed cat and will leave several rooms in your house smelling like the lower intestine of a squirrelly carnivore biohazard, forcing you to eat your breakfast in the living room.

You will also use up about three cans of deodorant as the smell will follow you, even into work. Psychosomatic-what now?