From a man to his son. Well...maybe "man" is too strong a word...

Thursday 27 December 2012

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.

Sunday 16 December 2012

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.