There’s nothing that elated me more than that flicker of doubt on their face as a lifetime of enforced values crumbled suddenly in the wake of absolute pleasure, and nothing I hated more than the eventual, “Umm... isn’t that... gay?”, as the conflict in their heads was settled by cultural norms and not their own will. The frustrations of overly charged teenage sexuality are too many to count. But more on that later.
I'm planning to paint this on a t-shirt, much to the uneasiness of a mother who's trying to cope with her son's sexuality. Don't call me a bad child. I need to hone my t-shirt painting skills.
That isn't my photo. I was skulking around the interwebs late last night after watching some six episodes of Malcolm in the Middle, when I found this. Between Malcolm marathons, all I seem to be doing is jamming out to AM. Further exploration led me to a forum on which a user claimed that young Alex Turner resembled Dewey:
I went to be because it was too late at night to delve into, or as evidence suggests, invent, another unlikely (understatement) cross-fandom. Malcolm's a drummer now, did ya know?
This is my attempt to get back to blogging. Summer is here, and I have nothing better to do.
For the last 9 years, it has been a tradition for my aunt to give all the cousins diaries every Christmas, and while I have no idea how much everyone else uses them, if you were to look into any of mine, you would find the first three days after Christmas full of events and musings. The rest of the diary would probably be empty. Perhaps there would be a page somewhere in July that I had opened at random to try out a new biro, but aside from that (and a couple of doodles), the diary would be a mass of crisp, white paper. I would never throw it away. Though it enclosed nothing of value, I would constantly convince myself that empty notebooks were never a waste of space. As a result, I now have a stack of empty diaries from the year 2005 gathering dust in a cupboard.
The point of that story is that perseverance invariably turns into some sort of burden for me, and that any project I work on, sooner or later, turns into a white elephant, through no other fault than my own lack of interest, a.k.a my incurable laziness.
I dare the fucker to strike again, and lead me to abandon this blog as well.
To keep it at bay, I have decided not to let myself any room for complacency. No more updating whenever the hell I feel like. Weekly posts shall be a thing.
The history of every major galacgtic civilisation tends to pass though threee distinct and recognisable phases, those of Survival, Inquiry and Sophistication, otherwise known as the How, Why, and Where phases. For instance, the first phase is characterised by the question "How can we eat?", the second by the question "Why do we eat?", and the third by the question "Where shall we have lunch?". - Douglas Adams
Similarly enough, my blog has gone through recognisable phases as well. There's the initial phase of great inspiration and excitement, in which posts come regularly and on a wide range of topics. Then comes the first stale phase, in which I post nothing but images, videos and eventually, nothing at all. Then comes one, or more, revival phase, in which I promise to update my blog regularly, and subsequently fail to do so. Then, last of all, comes the sentimental nonsense, in which I talk about how odd I feel nowadays, and is thoroughly disgusting.
So, in order to break that terrible trend of emo posts that have been coming out of my head recently, I shall rave about h2g2 for a while (yes, HHGTTG is an actual abbreviation for The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy as well), the original BBC radio series in particular. It's pure brilliance. Period.
Here's the first episode:
A considerate YouTuber by the name of Conan Salada was generous enough to upload all five series.
That's it. I'm tired of hiding. It may be hard as hell to tell someone these things in person, but to anyone reading this blog (if at all), here's a list of all the things that I am/do that are generally frowned upon by the society in which I live:
1. I'm pansexual. Or bisexual, fine. The number of male celebrity crushes I have outweighs the the number of female celebrity crushes I have, but it isn't a rule in real life, where I tend to get along better with girls.
2. I'm a nudist. It's awesome, you should try it.
Only 2? Well, well. It seemed like there were many more. I find it mildly amusing how I tend to exaggerate things in my head based on how they will be received by people.
I remember, very clearly, an incident that took place at a clothing store back when I was 12. I had picked out an oversized army-green T-shirt with the word 'REBELLION' printed in large bold letters on the front, when mum said something that would haunt me every day since: "But you're not rebellious!"
She was right. But I really wanted to be. There was no scope for rebellion, with liberal parents and a liberal school. There wasn't even any point to rebellion.
"You're not rebellious!"
Aged 15, I would burn things in secret, pretending to be a pyromaniac. An abused child. Like the kid from The Heart Is Deceitful Above All Things. I was kidding myself, and I knew it. I wanted to rebel. Against myself, if no one else.
"You're not rebellious!"
I pretended to be depressed, damaged. Like the guy from The Wall. I was far from it.
"You're not rebellious!"
In trying to become a rebel, I hurt myself. But isn't that the point of teenage rebellion? We can't allow ourselves to be happy. Nope. Never. That would be playing it safe. If we're unhappy, we can yearn for happiness. Happiness achieved somehow by becoming more and more unhappy. Catch 22. The less happy we become, the happier we think we will become. Which can obviously never happen.
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