Hello again. I'm still still alive. In fact, I recently turned twenty (15th of June to be precise), which is something of milestone in my book. I didn't really want to turn twenty. I realised when I turned 19 that I wanted to stay 18 forever - but there's nothing I can do about it now, except spend the rest of my life in denial. There is something about entering this new decade that brings foreboding of impending senility to me - even though I understand the irony of the fact that the only reason I feel that twenty is "old" is because I'm so young - and that plenty of people reading this would love to be 20 and so on... But I don't want to grow up...
It also kind of made me think about my eventual death a bit too. I'm not sure that I want to die either. I mean, I know I won't feel anything when it happens, and I won't get any leave to think about whether I'd rather still be alive or not - but I still don't like the idea of "me" being snuffed out just like that. I lament all the things I'll never get to see, or experience, or know. It's so shit that all that is "me" will never get another shot at existing ever again. It's little wonder that people invented endless myths of promises of eternal life and reincarnation.
This is the part where ol' Desmond Morris would console me with the idea that if I breed manically, I can continue to exist in some vicarious way through the genes I gave to my offspring. The trouble with that idea is that my offspring will only have half of my genetic material, and my grandchildren will only have one quarter, and so on and so forth, halving with each new subsequent generation. That's not a very good form of immortality, if you ask me. Organisms that reproduce asexually and those in incestuous relationships are getting a far better deal out of that idea - but I don't think it will work for me.
And even then, even if I were to create a clone of myself as heiress to my existence - it still would not be me - as much as an identical twin of mine would not be me. So no, I don't find the idea of vicarious immortality consoling. In fact, I don't even find it convincing.
And I know Richard Dawkins would tell me to stop whining about returning to the state I was previously, and the state that most "potential people" never get to leave. Yes - but the thing is, those potential people can't miss what they've never had. They can't wish they had life in the same way we wish we could keep it indefinitely. We have it: is it any mystery that most of us aren't keen on losing it?
Neitzsche probably wouldn't understand my optimism about life; and I confess I would agree with him in my darker moments when he quoted King Midas as having said: "Oh, wretched ephemeral race, children of chance and misery, why do ye compel me to tell you what it were most expedient for you not to hear? What is best of all is beyond your reach forever: not to be born, not to be, to be nothing. But the second best for you — is quickly to die." But I quite enjoy being alive at the moment, and I'm not keen on that being taken from me.
Of course, death is most likely pretty much off the cards for me for another few decades, which is okay. But seeing as it's pretty much inevitable, it still deserves a thought - no?
Philosophical rant over.
I'm still still alive.
Right, people, I promise you I will get around to that circumcision post - I keep on forgetting it, getting distracted (very common feature in my life, is distraction) and putting it aside. at the moment, I have the attention span of a gnat, so maybe tomorrow...
In the meantime I have some mildly amusing news about my love-life.
Going by the original verbal agreement, I am in a sort of open relationship at the moment; basically, me and my current bedfellow are never going to settle down and marry, and there are reasons for this. Let's just say for talking sake that he's too old for me and claims to be scared of babies. But, when the attraction between us was developing originally, I had no desire to suppress it, knowing as I did even then that it was going to be a relationship with a short shelf-life. I should mention that this had quite a lot to do with my sexual incontinence.
I've been with this same man for almost a year now. My last little indiscretion was giving an Española fan a blowjob while drunk, up a lane in the West End (of Glasgow), after the UEFA Cup Final on the 15th of May last year. Aside from this, I have remained mostly faithful to my man-friend. And a lot can happen when you've been hanging with the same man for several months...
As it happens, this man probes me at least twice a week in an endearingly paranoid way to find out who I'm planning to run off with, which is usually "nobody yet". As it also happens, I had a male friend who took a sudden very strong liking to me at the start of this year, and began talking to me quite seriously about the prospect of getting me pregnant (I kid you not). He sent me an unexpected Valentine's card and chocolates, and at Easter he sent a box full of Easter eggs.
I hadn't heard from him in a few weeks - and in the meantime a rather charming man in America has been in touch with me (initially via YouTube) and developed a rather large soft spot for me. In fact, I am completely flabbergasted, as he probably knows, by how forward he's been. He got my contact details from me and immediately got set to phone me. I tell you, it sure was ironic being told that I had an appealling aggressive streak while I was at that moment shitting a brick on the other end of the line, with the handset practically slipping out of my hand for all the sweat. And then he hoodwinked me into divulging my postal address and claims to have dispatched things in my general direction already. Jesus Christ, I just don't know what to say!
Sorry everyone, I'm dead. I couldn't sleep last night, and for some reason I feel like a walking corpse today. I can't fathom why this is. During my mid-teens I used to do crazy all-nighter stints for 36 hours or more on the trot staying awake - without feeling the slightest side-effect until the last few hours, before collapsing in a heap into my bed and zonking out for a good 10-12 hours to recuperate. And yet, today I feel as though my cognitive powers have been replaced by reconstituted and watered-down piss. And that's after two fairly strong cups of coffee. I know that I'm bordering death, because occasionally I actually stop thinking and my brain starts to fill with white noise - quickly filled with the sort of subconscious cackle that usually precedes sleep.
Can't do circumcision post today, sorry - my head is too garbled.
I'm actually in my own house just now, and I must say, I really miss my cats. As I suspected, my dad isn't giving them nearly enough TLC in my absence: Fluffy, I seemed to perceive, looks a little touch forlorn, and she's put on a little weight, and she was moulting quite a lot when I petted her, which means she isn't getting the usual excessive petting that I would have been treating her to had I been there. Rusty was always more of an aloof and independent spirit and seems less fazed. When they were both kittens, my dad's ex's daughter put one in each of her jacket pockets, and Rusty struggled and scrambled out, while Fluffy fell asleep in her pocket - and that pretty much sums up their characters from the outset. The last time I was away from the house for a short spell I took the Fluff-meister with me... I'm thinking of taking her before leaving tonight to get back to my leafy suburb with my man-friend.
At this moment, I am listening to this beautiful piece of music. It is soothing my aching brain.
Just thought I'd make a quick post to endorse my old mate Paul's site. This is because I'm just off the phone to him and he let me know that they now have MERCHANDISE on his satire site The Daily Mash.
I'm so damn proud of Paul for pushing the boat out with this wee site. I was there in the fledgling stages, hearing him talk about the plan for a website with his mate Neil, about this time last year. I watched it while in construction, and watched it become a roaring success with all that gratuitous filth and smut that I love so much myself. And now he has merchandise...
Well done old chap!
Good evening. I'm back again after a short break of listening to Fleetwood Mac (dad's influence), studying male circumcision and a bit of immunology, and being a complete social recluse.
I would just like to extend my arms in a virtual hug to all those who had emails, texts and phonecalls go unreturned over the past couple of weeks. My mind was completely absorbed by everything else at the time, and I'm deeply sorry I didn't get back to you. Especially Jac. I'm sorry darling, I'll phone you tonight to let you know I'm still alive and well. And David - I haven't written you an email in about a week, but I swear I haven't fallen out with you - all's well. I've just been particularly severely preoccupied. I'm back now: the lights are on and I'm home again. What's more, I miss everyone...
I am planning on writing a rather lengthy treatise on the ins and outs of male circumcision on this blog soon. My UK visitors are entitled to be bemused at this point, given that this practice is diminishingly rare in the UK, and is a bit of a non-issue - but across the Pond in America, around 60% of all baby boys born there are circumcised - and around 80% of American males living at present have been circumcised. There is no good reason for this being the case beyond various "cultural reasons" - which all amount to the fact that circumcision reached a critical mass in the country over the 20th century, and not enough people are wise or brave enough now to be the non-conformists. There are also the touted "health reasons", mostly mythical, which have been promoted over the past 150 years, and which helped the practice reach such dizzying heights in the US in the first place - but people usually just use these as something to grasp onto to justify their already quite firmly set bias.
Anyhoo, I shall cover all of this when I get around to it. I'll be doing a copy and paste job of a few posts on the matter that are currently up on Richard Dawkins' forum and put it altogether seamlessly to educate you thoroughly on this matter. You might wonder what my motive for writing on such a thing would be: to me it matters when boys have a piece of their genitals cut away for no good reason, just as much as it does when done to girls. This is an issue of blatant gender inequality. I am also particularly incensed by the rape of science by the ritual, and the blind eye being turned to this obvious Human Rights violation, on beautiful, innocent little babies. Plus, it takes in my interest in biology and penchant for penises. As well as a special little fondness for the foreskin. Thus ends my explanation for the topic. Call me obsessed with cock if you like; I won't contest that statement, even if it isn't entirely true...
I'm up late again tonight. In fact, I'm still sobering up from a few drinks a few hours ago - but I must post. I have a screaming sound in my ears, my palms are sweating and I am twitching. Desmond Morris, as much as I hate to pick on him, said something absolutely absurd about genetics, that, if taken seriously, would have anxious men accusing women of unspeakable things.
He claims thus (on page 52 of "The Naked Man"):
"...because the gene for free lobes is dominant, and the gene for attached lobes is recessive... if a woman with attached earlobes is married to a husband with free earlobes and she gives birth to a child with attached earlobes, her husband cannot be the father of that child."
In short, this is NOT TRUE. You can breathe again, and should probably keep paying your Child Support money.
In long, and please bear with me here - there are some genetic traits that are dominant and some that are recessive (as well as various other shades of grey in the expression of inherited traits that I won't need to delve into at this moment).
As the name implies, a dominant type trait, when inherited from one or both of your parents, will always express itself totally. You could have inherited an attached earlobe gene from your mum and an unattached from your dad - and your earlobes would be completely unattached. There's no meeting in the middle or "blending" of both parents' traits - the dominant trait (unattached) overrides the recessive one (attached) completely - even though you'd still have a silent "attached earlobe" gene written in your genetic blueprint. In order to have attached earlobes you have to have inherited two copies of it - one from each of your parents.
When your blueprint has a mis-match of inherited traits on a specific detail (such as earlobes) as detailed above, you are heterozygous ("hetero-zie-guss"). When you get two sets of traits the same from your parents on a specific detail, you are homozygous. And as I said, you have to be homozygous to be showing a recessive trait outwardly.
Now, just for fun, let's call our "unattached" gene U, and our attached gene u. That's right - big U, little u. Don't argue with me, it's scientific convention. The recessive trait always takes on the lowercase of the letter used to denote the dominant one. It is dominated totally even in this sense.
Morris' unfounded argument seems to stem from the scenario of a man with two big U's having children with a woman with two little u's. There would be no possibility of producing a child with two little u's in such a scenario, and the husband should indeed be worried if one of his wife's kids has attached earlobes.
This is conveniently illustrated in the punnet square below, with our wife denoted in a sweet magenta here, and the husband in a dashing shade of blue - while the rather dull potential offspring from this man and woman's genes have no background colour.
As you can see, every single potential child resulting from that bond will have unattached lobes, because the father's two big U's will overcome his wife's puny genes every single time they breed. So it is impossible, freak mutations aside, for him to sire a child with attached lobes at all.
But that's all well and good for him, being homozygous as he is - but what of the kids? Yes, they'd all have unattached lobes just like their father - but each and every single one of them would also carry a silent little u. And if we were to propose that this couple spawned a handsome son who then went on to breed with a pretty woman with attached lobes, then we can happily knock down Morris' proposition like a row of skittles.
Look at the illustration of this partnership. Remember how our handsome man has completetly free lobes, but he's also inherited the recessive attached lobe gene from his mother (heterozygous)? He has free lobes - so he couldn't possibly have any kids with attached lobes - could he?
Well, actually, there's a 50/50 chance... so Des' assertions of impossibility are quite preposterously wide of the mark indeed.
That's me made that point now, and I'm fairly satisfied with that - but just for fun, I have two more punnet squares to entertain you with.
Now let's imagine that the handsome man's relationship with the pretty woman with attached lobes doesn't work out, and he moves on and settles down with a sweet filly with free-hanging lobes just like himself. But - the plot thickens - she's heterozygous too! And behold:
Both parents have free lobes, and yet there's still a 1-in-4 chance of them having a child with attached lobes.
While Desmond states that both your parents had to be attached for you to be attached. Correction dear Dezzy-boy: both parents have to be carrying the recessive gene - it doesn't necessarily mean that either is expressing it.
And just to finish up now - Desmond's (un)certainty of parentage gauge does potentially work in one scenario. Remember the pretty woman with attached lobes who split with the handsome man? She went on to form an attachment with a chivalrous young fellow with lobes just like hers. Here they are posing with their beautiful kids:
It just isn't possible for this couple to have kids with dangling lobes - and it's quite safe to say that if the pretty woman does give birth to a child with free lobes, the chivalrous young fellow would be well within reason to dispute his involvement.
Thus ends the fun and games on the matter.
What I've just gone over here is elementary genetics - the sort of thing that, while it may not be his main field - Morris should know what he's talking about on. I mean, if you want to popularise biology, it's all-important that you know what you're talking about on any given subject you makes claims to knowledge about - particularly when you wish to give the impression that you do know what you're talking about. It's one thing to be speculative and throw up new ideas out of nothing - it's quite another simply to be damn wrong, and so easily proven so.
I'm afraid I'm going to have to be widening Desmond's berth again... This isn't ad hominem - it's his argument, not him, that I'm attacking, and this has to be stated. It's just cold hard science.
Sifting through the media collection today, I thought I could do with posting some photos - particularly a few from the Tramway (as well as some links) that I found.
First up, I did a light bit of research today that probably could have done yesterday, and discovered that that amazing act I was describing yesterday was "La Pocha Nostra", which is the name of this group of artists rather than their act. Look, I forgot to pick up a programme, okay?
Here are the two photos I managed to take of them before I was told that there was no photography allowed:
The one with his arm out is Roberto. The one on the right is Steve. Steve was really nice too - we had a good chat about science, philosophy, physics and art - when I had not long finished my third large glass of red wine in about as many minutes. He was a very genuine character, and I'm quite sure he gave me his email address - I'm just not sure where it is now. This isn't an admission of how bad my manners are - just an admission of how drunk I was when I got home that night.
The girl with the cropped hair to the left of Roberto was the girl who handed him the leeches. She had a genuinely slightly startled look on her face during the procedure, and when I chatted with her after the act, she too seemed genuinely sweet. I didn't find anything else out about her though.
Immediately before I got my finger-wagging. You can't see it clearly in this picture, but she has a strange kind of metal brace in her mouth.
I didn't catch quite so much of the other guy's performance, getting so engrossed in the others as I was - but it was good too.
Moving on, there was a jacuzzi that I didn't get the opportunity to get into (they had some cheap swimming costumes they'd bought for the occasion), but did linger around for about half an hour, throwing my tuppence into the debate, but, sadly, without partaking of the wine. The boy with the red stuff sprouting from his head was the one who dropped his kegs during La Pocha Nostra. His name, I believe, is James. I had a good talk with the chap in front of him with the wavy hair about religion, and with the boy with the Red Stripe can too - but I can't for the life of me remember their names. I was chattering with the author of that blog - DeDominici - too, and I believe I still have his email address in my jacket pocket.
I was inspired to do some quick performance art of my own:
Had I been over-indulging in the chocolate that week? (Yessir.) Or just been too indolent for my own good. (Yessir.) Or perhaps two months' pregnant? (Not possible.) You watch - I'll have burnt that off by March.
Showing off my innovative "Piss While U Drive" (patent pending). Tried and tested!
Happy (belated) Valentine's day!
Some interesting graffiti I saw in an underpass at St. Georges Cross.
And lastly, after returning home for a night last week I found my room smelling a touch foul. I traced the smell to this cup:
Hello again. I'm alive and well again. Staying up late in the man's house enjoying my liberty while it lasts. I am fully recovered from my downward swing last month and am generally reasonably happy at the moment.
A couple of weeks ago, the man had a few artistic friends over staying, and I found myself getting tagged along to the National Review of Live Art at the Tramway Gallery/Theatre in Glasgow. I didn't know what the fuck it was about intitially myself, either. It was all about "performance art" - which is like art, performed by people. Performance artists, as I discovered, range from egotistical attention whores and genuine geniuses.
I spent the first two days generally being the heretic at the art festival - blurting out a few crass jokes during some short films and sneering at some the acts as "a bunch middle class baby-boomers being pretentious... they thrive on being obfuscatious - coming out with a load of cryptic drivel in the confidence that the audience will find some allegory in it that even they don't know is there."
I also had very high-brow, yet wreaking-of-remnant-teen-angst, intellectually charged discussion about the nature of art with the man's artist friend.
At one point a rather obnoxious fellow came and practically spat in my face for touching his "exhibition" - as though it were some holy relic. He asked me specifically: "Do you realise this is art?"
And I wish I could have thought quicker on my feet - to say something like: "Well no, how would I tell if this (piece of piss) was art?"
He made a point about how I wouldn't go touching an exhibit in a museum (even though I would). And to be quite frank, my response to that is - I don't fucking care if you spent "10 hours" arranging some props - and just so you know, I wasn't intending to transgress the limits with your work - but don't dare to have the nerve to demand your work get the same treatment as that well-established in art galleries around the globe until it is even a fraction as good as theirs. I added at this point that some of the art was about "making tripe seem profound".
Fortunately, not all the performances were as uninspired, and I had a road-to-Damascus conversion to the whole idea in one 90 minute performance that seemed to last all of 5 minutes. It took ne about a day to say it right, and I won't spell it right as I never saw it written - but it sounded like "poco nostra". It was all strobe-lights, stark imagery, mixing religion with irreligion, and politics, and ethics - wordlessly, with performers on three separate stages playing out their acts. It included a depiction of Jesus by way of removing leeches that were placed on the chest earlier in the act, and standing wearing nothing but a bloody loin cloth, with a long plank of wood held behind the back, across the shoulders. And a female having the audience pull on what vaguely resembled a burqa. This woman also managed to seduce a young man from the audience to come up on stage and drop his trousers and boxers, to inject vitamin B into his arse... This stood out too. Though I could never put across, particularly with my sketchy memory of it now, just how rapt it all held me for the best part of the duration.
The guy who did the Christ emulation was an absolute hunk. I got into conversation with him after the event and he told me his name was Roberto- rolling the Rrrr, for good measure, and he wasn't gay, either ("I only let women and leeches attach themselves to me"). While drunk on the last night I blurted out: "You're a very sexy man, Roberto... But you know it! You know it!" ("Thank you... Thanks... You're sweet..." etc.) - "And I just wish you well with whichever lady-friend you're going home with tonight... Another time, another place, doll. Goodnight."
Good times, good times...
Beyond that, I haven't done much productive these past few weeks. I still need to get that apology thing done now that I'm reasonably level-headed again, and need to get a new passport, and some other annoyances. And so on and so forth.
In other news - science has advanced a little. In spite of implying that he doesn't suffer critics well - Desmond Morris has changed his tune remarkably on an issue in the space of a couple of months from:
"From a purely evolutionary standpoint, exclusive heterosexuality is the only biologically valid lifestyle"
To something like:
"Ok, fair enough, plenty of animals do it... though, I mean, I did obviously already know that, what with having written a paper on sexually frustrated pseudofemale behaviour in ten spined sticklebacks and all... So yes, perhaps we can account for some human homosexuality after all. It's just the ones who are just never engaged with the opposite sex, ever, that need an extra special explanation. But until then - here's some completely unfounded quack conjecture that I just plucked out of Clive Bromhall's bumhole."
It's a step in the right direction to him seeing the hypothesis for the steaming pile of crap that it is. (He is incorrect on several counts that I can't be bothered listing here - I'm not just rejecting the idea out of hand.) Plugging a gap in knowledge with some flimsy hypothesis, because that gap in knowledge cries out to be plugged, is the wellspring of religion and superstition, as well as forming the main architecture of a lot of pseudoscience. If you don't like it, don't do it yourself. This isn't a dictum against your mind's right to meander, or the right to bring forth new ideas - but is a harsh word about trying to foist it as scientific fact to the lay public: my main gripe.
He also mentions a book in the interview linked in the above quote. I have good reason to believe he is referring to Bruce Bagemihl's "Biological Exuberance". And I also have some reason to believe that he hasn't actually read all of what Bagemihl has to say, and is just being a lazy critic. (Pot, kettle, black.)
For a start, the book is about so much more than getting across that human homosexuality isn't unnatural - it's about communicating that homosexuality (of any sort) is far from unnatural, point blank, to the kinds of neo-Darwinists who think it jars with their ideas. And beyond that, it also covers several other, beautifully referenced facets of non-reproductive behaviour. (On a side note, I don't suppose Morris thinks that beta wolves - who don't breed, only alpha male and female in the pack do - are "reproductively challenged"?)
In short, though Bagemihl focusses particularly on homosexuality as a point of study, the general outline he's trying to make is a rebellion against the mindset that sees all of life on earth engaged almost solely in the seductive eternal slavery of replicating itself - as existing purely as a means of replenishing itself. When life has so much more to it - so much more waste and inefficiency, so much more grandeur, so much more pointlessness. But it isn't A nihilstic pointlessness, is is an effervescent exuberance to be enjoyed in many ways. Yes, reproduction is the means by which life sustains itself (as a consequence of death, of course), or keeps the species going, or the Selfish Gene exerts its right to another generation - or however you like to assemble it in your mind. But reproduction is the sideline, not the main show, when it comes to life - and perhaps if I could but do away with both mortality and reproduction, I could make some biologists see this view. Life for the sake of life...
Morris also says something about reproduction being a "genetic instruction". I wonder what he means and wish he would elaborate. Does he mean that all sexual animals are "genetically instructed" to copulate heterosexually? Or to nurture their young? Or just to have a vague profound desire to have offspring? I'm afraid that statement really needs elaborating on. And while you're all musing on that - check this nice article out and be amused.
I have many more points to make up my sleeves, but they'll just have to stay up my sleeves until next time - because it's almost fucking 7am now, and I am so tired I could fall asleep any moment now.
Just a quick update to fill everyone and anyone concerned about my progress over these past few days, still faithfully skipping over my much-neglected journal looking for some signs of life. I'm sorry to have come back from the void after a long silence only to be so completely elliptic and short on how things are faring. And it's approaching my bedtime now (have to get to bed at some reasonable sort of hour if I'm to catch any daylight when I get up), so I probably won't be being too detailed just now.
I spent a few days, after my last post, mowed under the thick fog of a moderate dose of the blues: I didn't want to move, I felt shit, I couldn't smile, I felt rejected and dejected, and I kept getting headaches whenever I tried to exert myself slightly.
What got me the little chat at work was something of the tip of the iceberg: I'd been drifting in an out of suicidal thoughts, and, on the day that I quit the job, what had happened was that I'd been mentally on the edge when a manager had quite simply pulled me up for using the internet non-productively, and I couldn't take it. I got up and strode off to the bathroom where I broke into tears. I tried my best to compose myself, but on my way back to my desk, breathing deep and trying to hang tough, I passed this manager in the corridor. Back to the bathroom for round 2...
When I had finally managed to make it back to my desk and attempt my job again, my own manager came over for a little chat, and I broke down. Which set off the chain of events outlined in my last post.
I'm feeling much recovered now, but for the slight headache that's still cropping up occasionally. The only thing that's on my mind regarding the issue now is that it's happened before, it'll probably happen again, it sounds like mild/moderate depression, and I should possibly start thinking about doing something about that.
As some of you may know, I have had my suspicions about mild/nascent manic depression for a few years now. I tried to bury the self-diagnosis over a year ago, on the basis that it was probably hypochondriac, and that, even if I did have a slight upset in my balance of humours, I could jolly well deal with it on my own.
Unfortunately, my unhealthy rate of suicidal urges and spells of self-loathing have continued at the same merry pace. As have those spells of thinking I'm the bee's knees, unshakably fine to the core, magnificently intellectual - those little bouts where I get impudent, insolent, arrogant and often downright obnoxious with those who aren't seeing the light that I perceive on a particular point. My pretentious tirades, my sailing directly into the wind without appearing to have an inkling of awareness that I'm doing so...
I have the intention in me to go share this with my doctor, but I get the feeling I'm either not going to do it, I'm going to cop out at the last minute, or I'm going to go in and sit there talking about how I've been getting annoying headaches of late.
I have lots of other intentions on my mind along with that, including composing comprehensive final apologies for my emailing tirade, and so many things that I really should write a to do list to keep track of. I'm still thinking of getting out of Glasgow, but I've been kept here in the company of the man-friend, being an inverse housewife, while stuck in my little rut. He's trying to drum home to me in my suggestible state that cooking, ironing, washing up, making the bed and tidying up after myself is good for lifting the blues - but I'm not buying it.
This day will go down in history as the day I said to my employer, upon being taken aside for a quiet chat: "I'll be honest, I... I think I suffer from depression."
A few hours later, my manager took me aside and had a word with me about all the calls I'd been hanging up on, and left the choice on me to leave or stay out my notice as planned, and do my job. And I quit. I quit my job today. Just like that.
Haven't had enough time to regret it yet, but I suspect it's the right decision, for me, as things stand. Haven't any plans yet for time off, but I'm considering jumping on a train somewhere and just getting away from things for a think about the rather dire mess I've been making of myself over the past month. I suppose I should have seen that I was headed for a bit of a blow-out or a burnout one way or another, and should have saw it all coming a mile off. I've done it before, I'll no doubt do it again... I hate it.
I still have lots to say regarding that other issue - more confession than apology really. Admission of my stupidity, but also that, I never do quite experience the indulgence of full-blown delusion, for what it's worth. I tend to have the voice of reason nudging gently in the background even while I'm firing from all cylinders with perversity and ostensible ineptitude. I tend to be secretly aware in the far corners of my mind that I'm being laughed at, loathed, ignored - but I cave in to this strange overwhelming urge to be idiotic and irrational, with the faint hope that I might just get something from it in the end. It's like some sort of neurotic lust. I don't think I'm articulating this well - all I will suggest is that all those mad and melancholic creative geniuses - they would probably concur. I suppose it might come under the loose heading of "stubborn perversity", if you like.
But back to our muttons...
The counter is now getting stuck here because it is.