Twas The Apocalypse Before Christmas

This post is a little shorter than usual for two reasons: the first is that it was Christmas and I was busy doing Christmas stuff. The second reason is that I’m planning a little something special for you guys for next post that I hope you’ll like and it's taking up a little time.

Also, I’ve had one or two people ask me why I’m not updating every week like I said I would, which is unusual, because I said that I’d be updating every second week back in my first post. But just to clear up any confusion: posting is every second Thursday, with the chance of special updates when and if something happens. Anyway, onwards.

Soooo, if you’re reading this, chances are that you’re still alive. If you’re reading this and you’re not alive, then thanks for reading. And, you know – sorry for whatever you did to deserve this.

He sends some readers my way.

Damned souls aside, all of you have now suffered through the crass consumerism, stilted conversation with little-seen relatives, and glorious, artery-rending binge-feast that is Christmas. Now, there are plenty of people who love to complain about Christmas, harrumphing as they pick fleas out of their green fur and steal all the Whatsits in Whoville. This is especially true here on the internet, where your standing is derived mostly from how jaded you can act and the number of tits you require to stay your demands to GTFO. Not me though: I normally really like Christmas. The food, the family, getting neat stuff (this year’s haul includes both an Xbox and a wicked scale-model kit of the Ecto-1); it's all normally really good.

Normally.

Not this year though. This year, I was embarrassed, humiliated, and severely let down by a certain someone. Someone who really should have known better: someone who I am very, very disappointed with. I think you all know who I'm referring to.

That's right: the Mayans.

Warning: Personal Post Ahead.

So, I realise that this post is pretty significantly late. And there’s a reason for that: to be honest, I wasn’t really sure if I wanted to publish this at all. A lot has been said about the issue of people oversharing on the internet: as a medium it tends to be unedited, unregulated, and undefended from all the bile and savagery online anonymity engenders. This post also felt a tiny bit too self-indulgent for my tastes: a little too “poor me, boo hoo hoo.”

At the same time, many amateur bloggers (like myself, natch) consider their writings to be a window into their brains, at least on some level. Whether those windows open onto anything worth seeing, or the internet equivalent of a urine-soaked brick wall covered in misspelled graffiti, is irrelevant: blogging, almost by definition, tends towards the intimate.

With that in mind, I decided to share what I’d written, but with the following warning.

Hold onto your butts, people – shit’s about to get all personal up in here.

Now, with all that hype, you’re probably wondering what I’m about to be going on about. “Is it a sex thing?” I hear you thinking, reading the minds of imaginary readers kind of being my thing. “I bet it’s a sex thing.”

In which case, I’m sorry to disappoint, ‘cause what I’m about to talk about is nearly as far away from sex as you can get: writing.

Long and hard, but still nothing to do with sex.

Boring Travel Post, Woo!

I have a riddle for you: what has two thumbs and was recently chilling more than a thousand kilometres from his house.

This guy

Having never in my life travelled further away than the coast before, it proved to be a strange, exciting and utterly exhausting week -- impressions hardly helped by the necessity of dragging an infant from one end of Melbourne to the other. And though my experiences are anything but unique, I am at heart a blogger, and that means I'm still going to tell you all about it whether you like it or not. I mean, what are you going to do: stop reading?
...
Actually, please don't do that.
...Hello?
Guys...?

Well, nuts to you jerks, I'm going ahead anyway.

No Boys Allowed

By this point, it's probably pretty clear that I'm a father. And with parenthood comes a whole host of new and exciting experiences, most of which revolve around the excretion and subsequent removal of several fairly disgusting bodily fluids. Despite living in a civilised society, babies frequently refuse to hold off on such excretion until they can find a toilet, and will gladly urinate all over the floor if you let them. This is because babies are disgusting, and you should be ashamed of having ever been one.

Truly, truly disgusting.

The Thing On Our Doorstep

(Guys, I had some uploading issues with this post. It was meant to go up last week, but wouldn’t: presumably I displeased the Internet God and this was His pale, sweaty judgement. Anyway, here’s this one, and hopefully from here on out it’ll be every second Thursday at 8pm Queensland time.)

Before I start, can I just say: wow. It's been six days since I published my first post, and in that time its pageviews rocketed up from one lost little view, up to seventy-five. Seventy-five people, reading what I’d written. And not just from Australia: our ever-helpful Overlord, Google, tells me a significant number of views came from America, and a small handful even originated in Europe.

This mightn't sound like a huge deal, seeing as there are websites out there that rack up millions of hits per day from all over the world, but to a tiny wannabe like me just starting out: wow. And it feels truly amazing to someone who’s greatest dream in life is to be read. So to everyone who took a chance clicking on my last post: thank you, and I hope you enjoyed it. I'd like to thank you more concretely, but until I can find a way to science high-fives through the internet, words will have to do.

We're thinking maybe voodoo?

Biological Viability: Confirmed.

It will come as a surprise to exactly no one reading this that I am in possession of a human infant. While this concept is rightfully frightening to anyone with an ounce of sense, my stewardship of said baby - commonly known as Oscar but known, in my heart of hearts, as Punchfist DANGER Incognito - is both legally and socially valid. In fact, it was surprisingly easy to find myself entrusted with an entire human being to raise: I didn't even need to take a test. I, in short, have a son.

Pictured here. Or...wait, no...