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The Day in Brief
Sometimes too much cheerfulness can seem degenerate in a person. But I woke up feeling buoyant at 3pm today, and, unusually, have retained all that cheer. Sure, the occasional psychic stab of pain about something or another came unexpected and unbidden, but they were easily fended off with a hearty jog and the consumption of significant amounts of mind-altering substances, including caffeine and pornography. Reading helped too. I am currently reading for my exams. I'd have probably read a lot more if not for my constant use of 15 minute breaks and strolls up and down the staircase for no apparent reason. The exams are here and I know I am doomed; I find it strange I feel so free.
GWB campaign site doesn't allow non-North American readers
According to news from Netcraft. I tried to access GeorgeWBush.com from Singapore and I can't. This is STRANGE. Even if non-Americans don't matter, there must be thousands of Americans all around the world.
I Always Get Resolutions during Exams
(This post is more for my own benefit than anybody else. My ethics is my own. This is very rambly and even more unedited than usual because I am out of time and need to return to my readings.) I can't help but feel illuminated each time I read MacIntyre and Aristotle, this time from an Ethics paper for my examinations, and I wish that I had read it the night before. I have believed, for a rather long time now, that the key to being moral is through the virtues, and the reason for being virtuous is that it is the only way to being truly happy. Not just satisfied - truly happy. But while I have understood it I've never really applied it. I am not virtuous, though I have thought that I was trying - but I wasn't. I think, the only way one can begin to do good, is to be good, and like Aristotle believes, virtue is not something that can be taught, but acquired through habit. This is plainly true. One can learn math, but one cannot learn the rudiments of virtue: these are, to think the right way, to feel pleasure in virtuous action both of self and others, and to perform the virtuous action. Law, fear, duty and chance may cause one to do the right action, but not with the same consistency that virtue does, and more importantly, it does not lead us to fulfillment. It is then, the being who strives, first of all, towards _health_ in mind and body who is ultimately most moral. The deeply unhappy person is rarely a force for good. The problem with this, of course, is that knowing does not necessarily lead to doing. Just as virtue cannot be learnt, neither can wanting to be virtuous. But perhaps I should start trying. As ever, I must start with the body: I must eat well, drink well, sleep well and exercise regularly. Tiredness of body leads one to tiredness of mind, which leads to weakness of will. How can one fight rage, depression, resentment, oversensitivity, meanness and impatience with a body that has been drained? The next thing I need to keep in mind is that nobody is obliged to do what is good beyond what they are capable of and what they are most comfortable in. At any and all times, the development of self and one's strengths is paramount to being a moral being. There is never any need to feel _insufficient_ because one is not achieving greatness. Can the doctor operate without the nurse? Can one measure how _socially useful_ a person is? It is a self-defeating task, and a meaningless question. There are no _oughts_ beyond the _can_. There are no moral duties that require you to give up one's development to be the best human being you can be. It is difficult on any analysis to claim the greatest doctors are capable of a greater good than the greatest journalist, but easy to see how it is better to be a good journalist than a poor doctor. The first thing on the agenda is to be nicer to my mother.
What's Your Problem?
I must be exceptionally unlucky: it seems that no matter in what direction I face, I inevitably end up pissing downwind. But misfortune cannot account for every predicament; in fact, in retrospect I marvel at how much of it is the result of my own misjudgement and weakness of character. Perhaps through a combination of genes and upbringing I am simply flawed, maybe even irredeemable. A few days ago, I read a quote by some eminent, but dead, poet or philosopher of some sort, that stated that no matter how much currency a self-depracating comment may generate, do not say it, because it will be used against you in the future. It seems obvious what one flaw I have is: 1. I don't follow good advice. That said, I can think of quite a few more characteristics I possess that seems to kick me in the balls on a consistent basis. 2. Laziness. Sometimes I wonder how much I could accomplish if I weren't so goddamned lazy, until I remember that I am incompetent. 3. Indecisiveness. I cannot count how many times I have been paralyzed by the prospect of having to make a choice. Everything is a dilemma. That's all I am going to write, because I have to go back to study. But how about you? What do you perceive to be your major character flaw?
Calvin. Hobbes.
Practising Satanists have rights too
The British Navy has allowed a Satanist to join its ranks. Freedom of religion is awesome. According to the article, Satanists follow the 11 Satanic Rules of the Earth. It didn't list them, so I did. Whoever said Satanists are immoral, eh? 1. Do not give opinions or advice unless you are asked. 2. Do not tell your troubles to others unless you are sure they want to hear them. 3. When in another’s lair, show him respect or else do not go there. 4. If a guest in your lair annoys you, treat him cruelly and without mercy. 5. Do not make sexual advances unless you are given the mating signal. 6. Do not take that which does not belong to you unless it is a burden to the other person and he cries out to be relieved. 7. Acknowledge the power of magic if you have employed it successfully to obtain your desires. If you deny the power of magic after having called upon it with success, you will lose all you have obtained. 8. Do not complain about anything to which you need not subject yourself. 9. Do not harm little children. 10. Do not kill non-human animals unless you are attacked or for your food. 11. When walking in open territory, bother no one. If someone bothers you, ask him to stop. If he does not stop, destroy him. (Sounds like rules for a boy's school.)
This Week's Theme is: Quotations I Disagree With
"The end may justify the means as long as there is something that justifies the end." - Leon Trotsky
Run Boy Run
It's been three months since I've engaged in any sort of physical activity more strenuous than masturbation and masturbation-related action. The armchair in front of my computer has a perfect impression of my buttocks on it, cupping them gently but also proof of a withering lack of vigour. With the sense of mortality that physical torpor brings, I decided that I had to test myself by going jogging today. My brother was home, nursing a gaping hole in his gums, so I got him to come along. My friends express surprise and concern over the Internet. Cisoux: have fun! Cisoux: don't die! neochaichin: hahaha, you jogging?/ hahahahaha Apparently nobody thinks I am the athletic sort. (BTW feel free to add me to your MSN lists. The nights are lonely and I've got one free hand for chatting. Those two are the only people who bother to message me ever. holy001 who can be found at bluebottle d.o.t. com) At 6.30pm sharpish I stroll downstairs with my ankle socks around, surprisingly, my ankles. My brother was holding mom's car keys. "We're going to take the car to the stadium," he said. Serangoon Stadium and its rotting track is maybe a ten minute walk away. I was overcome with the irony of taking a car to the stadium to exercise. I felt like one of those guys who take the lift to the gym so they can use the Stairmaster. I said: "What? Why not just walk?" He said: "If we take the car we have more time for intensive exercise in the stadium." Apparently the stadium has certain divine properties that transcend common sense. Fuck the environment. We head towards the shoe rack. At this point my brother sees my socks. He gasps. "Why wear your socks so high?" he asked disapprovingly. "What the hell? These are ankle socks. I am wearing them around my ankles. If they aren't supposed to be around my ankles why the hell are they ankle high?" I replied, not unreasonably, I thought. "You look like a fucking dork," he said. "Jesus. We're going jogging, not to a prom, hoping to lose our virginities or something, fuxake," I retorted. He tsked, like I just made Kate Moss get breast implants or something equally fashionably catastrophic, and bent over to roll my socks down, saying: "Remember, if you look good, you feel good. If you feel good, you ARE good!" I give my brother an uncomprehending stare. He still looked the same, but clearly Anthony Robbins had returned from undeath to possess my brother's soul. But who am I to reject a message from a recognized authority on peak performance, motivation, and the creator of Personal Power and Get the Edge (TM) from the beyond? Who else has managed to conquer death like he has (Anthony not my brother) through the pure power of mind? The man has not aged one bit in 20 years. Even Bob Dole himself (little known fact: He was the inspiration for Emperor Palpatine*) needed Viagra to retain his powers of immortality. I jogged. I exercised previously dormant muscle groups known as "thigh" and "calf". I looked out for hot chicks but there weren't any. ("It's Friday I think they're all out partying.") We did however see a fitness psychotic making his young daughter do all sorts of exercises. Poor girl. Right now every part of my body is burning. Tomorrow I may go swimming. The chances of me surviving that is 45%. Push the limits, baby. *may not be true
Secret Life
I guess I woke up in a funk. A monologue played in my head, a gratuitous voice-over. It could have said this: "I'm old. I'm fat. I'm bald. My toenails have turned strange. I am old. I am -- I have nothing. She'll think I'm an idiot. Why couldn't I stay on that diet? She'll pretend not to be disappointed, but I'll see that look, that look -- God, I'm repulsive. But as repulsive as I think? My Body Dysmorphic Disorder confuses everything. I mean, I know people call me Fatty behind my back. Or Fatso. Or, facetiously, Slim. But I also realize this is my own perverted form of self-aggrandizement, that no one talks about me at all. What possible interest is an old, bald, fat man to anyone?" Except I am not old, fat, bald, or have strange toenails. Nor am I Charlie Kaufman, as played by Nicholas Cage, in a movie adapted from a Susan Orlean book. I guess I woke up in a funk. I woke up thinking, Goddamn, I need a secret life, a different one. It can't be worse than what I've done with this one. But what? Maybe don a cape at night and fight crime, or fight crimefighters. Join an NGO, wave banners for a cause, go naked for fur, reek with disdain. Worship some God or gods, hang around like-minded people, feel spiritual once in a while, proselytise, my way or the highway. Wear black and disco, DISCO, DISCO. Maybe start participating in online forums again, be a peer among like-minded losers, on real-time board chats with people I don't really give a shit about. Take up online roleplaying again, pretend to be a vampire, a wrester, a cleric, get orgasms when the 2d6 fall my way, write bad prose about magic, refresh mailbox every 10 minutes, hoping for OOC messages that say: "Hey man that was cool. You have AIM or ICQ?" and proceed to be Busy or Offline all the time. Start hanging out in gyms. Become a groupie. Join a band and be a drummer, drum. Become part of a community. Or something, something other than just this. I'm listening to Modest Mouse right now. It's my favourite album, The Moon and Antarctica. The name of the song is Lives. It goes like this: Everyone's afraid of their own life If you could be anything you want I bet you'd be disappointed, am I right?
It's Dark in Here!
(For some reason the post below overrode this post, so I rewrote this. )
I can't see! The light's out and the Samsung monitor is slowly destroying my eyesight! What does that mean? It's time for a fun recap!
Coffeshops and taxi cabs and void decks
I was haunted by this thought today: That he is an incomplete man who only calls those who are like him his friends. It seems to me that the man who seeks to be whole must constantly seek a revision of his values to glimpse the truth, and what can achieve that except through a never-ending engagement with those who are not like him in a democratic forum, where the views of others, like incense in a temple, refreshes the stale air of odious and unchallenged assumption, and where dull thought is sharpened through the whetstone of debate? There is no such thing as idle talk, for rhetoric that seems wasteful today may be the cause of right action tomorrow. And I daresay any society that considers unconsidered and wasteful action a higher good than communal discourse is a foolish one, colonised by the impression that any work is better than no work, that holds productivity as an end in itself! So where, in Singapore, can one chatter? Where he who is trapped in the asphyxiating poles of work and home can go and breathe deeply the soul of his community, where any man regardless of race or creed or class may speak his mind, the Singapore beyond those divisive little hovels known as church and mosque and temple, where people flock to not only for spiritual sustenance, but intellectual too, a regression to medieval norms, to fill the emptiness of communal life? Why is it that the new HDB estates and airconditioned food-courts, the shopping malls and fast food restaurants, the large chain-stores with rotating staff, feel so cold and dehumanising, compared to the older ones, with the little neighbourhood coffeeshops where one can lounge for hours with a kopi and shopkeepers who know your name, with void decks with ping pong tables and long round benches where people may congregate and talk? The best conversations I've had with strangers have been in taxi cabs, the last bastion of equal opportunity discourse in Singapore as a generation of coffeeshop ah peks and void deck pai kias wither away in a landscape that, increasingly, does not allow for their existence. I wonder if the self-proclaimed modern man, who equates happiness with consumption and peace with the self-help book, who clubs all night and works all day, whose transcendental esctasy comes from the throb of electronica, who wakes up in the morning not knowing who he is and where he is, knows why the hell he feels so empty?
This Is Haiku Week
i. The Flu Haiku Vit'min C fizz'lin' I drink the stuff from a mug Nose is still running ii. Loser's Lament So what if last place? What does it really matter? Losing is cool too. iii. Insomniac Dreaming 3 a.m is no Time for a haiku my friend I wish I could sleep. (PS. Updated Profile. Click on pic above profile.)
The Struggling Novelist
It was not done yet. He swore he would write a chapter a month, and finish the story in two years, and he never faltered, not once, but it was always the first chapter, always unsatisfactory, hollow, voiceless, shrill, and discarded on the thirtieth day, and always he would begin anew. Old now but still typing, only on the Dell by the window facing the market in the eighth storey flat he shared with his youngest son (who resented living with him) instead of his trusty old typewriter, obsolete, like he was, thirty-five years later, which was held in a box, next to a cupboard, filled with more boxes, all containing page after page of manuscript, years of work and unrealised dreams, but merely waste paper now, yet still superior to being a blip on a multi-gigabyte hardisk - in fact, not even a blip. Retired now, the old schoolteacher, who once taught English to teenagers who despised him for trying and who now misses those days very much, walks to the coffeeshop behind the market he looks to every day, and spends his time drinking 50 cent coffee, complaining about how expensive life has become in Singapore, biting into his kaya bread breakfast, doodling with a worn pencil the faces of the people he doesn't know in the afternoon, making up histories about them in his head, until the street lamps light up to announce the descending dusk, when he heads home, climbing the stairs, stopping at each landing to catch his breath, clutching his pad and his pencil to his chest wheezing, until he reaches his door, where he fumbles for his key, and stumbles in, towards the computer by the window. He awakes the slumbering machine with a click of the mouse, so the monitor lights up with the unfinished first chapter still open, but no matter how he tries, no story flows to his fingers, until he sleeps, when it comes to him nightly in a dream so lucid he can't help but weep, but is cursed never to remember.
Saudi Arabia Election
Hi guys, this is your correspondent Wifflewiffle reporting from the terrible, dank depths of news.google.com to give YOU the latest and greatest news of the day for the most recent subject that has gripped me as I ponder the mystery that is Dreamweaver (that is, avoiding touching the damned thing for Online Journalism class). Before I continue, let me explain something. One of my favourite things to do is headline watch in news.google.com. Choose a topic, click on "all related", and read the headlines and leads of several newspapers or tv networks or news agencies. It is quite fun to see how the politics of each paper often shapes the angle of each story, sometimes even when they use the same wire copy. Let's be boring here, and start with the big news regarding women's suffrage in the Middle East. First, some background on the election from the BBC from back in August and also its political overview. I am going to start with al-Jazeera because I just had a class by Shyam Tekw*ni this week and it would be appropriate. Women excluded from Saudi elections Actually, this is too shitty. They completely mangled the original Associated Press copy. I'll also link the Arab News version, which actually decided to angle its story and give an Arab perspective by adding quotes and info instead of ripping stuff it didn't like out. Note that Arab News is based in Saudi Arabia. Some Western papers focused on the idea that not letting women vote is just so fucking pathetic (not that I disagree), but Arab News angled it as at least a small step towards giving women more rights in a kingdom that still scares the fuck out of me. I really liked it. "Time Constraints Put Women's Vote on Ice" "This is the first time that Saudi women are running for such positions, and maybe there is little hope after discouraging comments from some government officials, but I still feel this is a step forward for our children," said Al-Bayat in a telephone interview from Bahrain. "We must change the Saudi women's situation. We see how women have improved in other Gulf countries, and we would like some of the same." The quintessential Western reaction may be summed up in the CBSnews.com report. See the difference in how the stories are framed? I think this is quite close to the original AP copy. Saudi Women Barred From Voting I wonder why Arab News and al-Jazeera both chose to leave this paragraph out: Some women considered the move yet another indignity in a country where they need their husbands' permission to study, travel or work. But others said they wouldn't trust themselves to judge whether a candidate is more than just a handsome face. and this was a fun exchange: "Women are capable of voting and making the right choices," said Ahmed, a 22-year-old marketing graduate. "Why aren't men and women equal in this issue?" "We aren't," countered her friend Sarah Muhammad. "We have so little interaction with men that we will vote with our emotions, choosing candidates for their looks and sweet talk rather than for what they can deliver." I may be stupid, but if fucking Afghanistan is able to set up suitable booths I don't see why it would be impossible for Saudi Arabia. I mean, Afghanistan!
It's the Muslim fasting month!
Geylang sipaku geylang, Geylang, si rama rama. Pulang, marilah pulang, Pulang bersama-sama. Pulang, marilah pulang, Pulang, bersama-sama. (Apologies to all ye non-Malay Muslims reading this blog.) (I also have no idea what the song is saying.)
PROSE GONE WRONG 2004 By Wifflewiffle, with input from Cisoux
Back in December 2003, I decided, on a whim, after reading a few tracts of bloated romance writing, to write a little passage emulating the style of some such writers, which can be found here. Although the comments are long since gone, I remember promising more of the same, so here it is,the sequel. Sort of. Imagine that this is a great unwritten book that's floating around my head and that I'm pulling random passages out of it, except that there is no such book, and I will never inflict such a horror on anybody. Except maybe you. It starts off really shitty, then it gets worse. --------- She smiled coyly, intently, as Alberto pulled his dapper blue-and-green-striped Lacoste sweater off his body in one swift motion, displaying gleaning muscles that rippled in waves in the mini-floodlight that illuminated the pool, by which they stood, facing each other. She slithered forward, and reached for his bermudas, which hung loosely just below his abdomen, which was so sculpted that she wondered whether it was possible to tease previously unknown muscles into existence through sheer willpower. Her own body was pretty majestic too, with her large but firm boobs, with nipples so perky they could cut glass, and skin so white and smooth it resembled snow that had been whitened and smoothened and compressed, like ice, except it's not ice, it's snow. As she went down on her knees, she noticed how the glow from the pool made light dance on Alberto's body, and looked up, only to see an impassive, stony face. Almost bored. He probably gets to fuck hundreds of girls, she thought. He's probably thinking, what's one more? Oh but I'll show him. I'm going to blow his mind away. So, with a coquettish grin and a wriggle of her slim yet brutally buxomy body, Jeannie pulled the bermudas down to his knees to reveal navy blue Calvin Klein briefs, which surely possessed astonishing elasticity as it strained to restrain what it contained within. Alberto made no movement, but she could feel a tingle in his skin as her fingers crept along his golden thighs upwards - and with some expectation, having heard the rumours - tugged fiercely downwards. His manthing unfurled like a hibernating python trapped on a flag pole, and Jeannie gasped, like a python that just discovered it spent winter on a flag pole. Resolutely, she gripped her newfound friend, and they did whatever couples did in situations like that. "A blowjob," said Lai Lee thoughtfully. "Have you ever had one?" Clarence looked up from the class bench but didn't put down the copy of Catch-22 he was reading, which was known for unannounced, abrupt and often jarring point-of-view shifts across time and space and style, leaving the reader reeling. This is a literary device that can be dangerous in the hands of an amateur writer, such as a blogger. What you won't find in the book, however, are strange paragraphs that diverge from the narrative, shifting from the characters' voices to an omniscient voice, rambling about issues that are at best only tangential to the story, interrupting the story's natural flow to its detriment. After all, a reader will often find it difficult to follow the story if it is fragmented by one too many descriptions about nothing. "No," said Clarence, and in that one utterance, compressed all the apathy and annoyance he possessed in his reserves, which were considerable, and, if Lai Lee had been anything less than completely oblivious and oblique, would have rendered its target incapable of speaking for the next hour, in the same way Physical Education class, by making its prisoners run around in the afternoon sun, coupled with the school's lack of shower facilities and the students' mystifying disregard of hygiene, would create a deadly mist that would overpower unsuspecting teachers in the afternoon, which incidentally accounted for why Clarence Chow was trapped with the one person he did not want to be trapped with: everyone else was out getting their share of skin cancer to the remorseless, rhythmic screeches of the coach's whistle. Clarence looked like he had never exercised in his life. He was gaunt, bespectacled and pallid, with cropped, brown-streaked hair, who exhibited the sort of uninterested worldliness possessed only by those who believed they knew everything that anybody needed to know about anything because they have read a one-paragraph descriptions of them in a book. While Lai Lee was not in class because of the broken knee from the assault, Clarence never took PE, for reasons nobody knew but often speculated about. The reason was simply that he didn't want to and never bothered to say so, which made everyone certain there must have been something horribly wrong with him, when it was almost certainly the other way round. He cultivated around himself a certain sort of literariness that was recognised by others who crave a similar sort of literary aura by being seen with the right books by the right authors, resembling prairie dogs who pop out of their burrows, sniffing the air for other like-minded prairie dogs, except these prairie dogs refrain from the moniker "prairie dog", preferring "cynomys ludovicianus" instead. For example, a book like "If on a Winter's Night a Traveller" by Italo Calvino would fit the bill by being famous while being esoteric to the lay person at the same time. Their knowledge assures their superiority to the lay person, because the lay person wouldn't understand the book, a contention the cynomys ludovicianus never had to prove because the lay person has never heard of the damned thing in the first place, and who was more likely to have heard of books by Dan Brown, whose magnum opus has since been made into a hugely popular movie trilogy staring Mark Hamill as Darth Vader, "The Lord of the Rings". "Blowjobs are awesome, I think, because they are scary. You know why a blowjob is scary? Teeth. Teeth damn scary sia. Can you imagine someone using her teeth on your penis? The threat of it being bitten off at any time? I mean, wah biang eh." Alberto was asleep beside her. She loved his name. It was so - different. So - classy. So - unexpectedly Catholic. She rubbed her cheeks. Maybe he would ask her out?
I discover Cisoux is a better gamer than I am
She scored 136 on Squares in one of her first tries while I only managed 107. I tell her she must defeat James' score of 144. Crunchier than day-old cookies says: so now i'm going to be like one of those movie characters Crunchier than day-old cookies says: someone finds out i'm naturally good at sth Crunchier than day-old cookies says: and then pin all their hopes on me Crunchier than day-old cookies says: because they never got to fulfil their own dreams Shagga says: i am going to live my gamer dreams through you Crunchier than day-old cookies says: so they're living vicariously through me Shagga says: hahaha Crunchier than day-old cookies says: exactly
Name me one person that everyone around you likes but you despise with a passion
Go on. The fella has to be famous.
The Neocon Paradise
I just read Baghdad Year Zero, a concise and well-argued summary of the economic policy pursued by Bremer and its effects by the author of international bestseller No Logo, Naomi Klein, in Harpers.org, the website of Harper's Magazine. This was originally published on Sept 24. Favourite Quote: Iraq was to the neocons what Afghanistan was to the Taliban: the one place on Earth where they could force everyone to live by the most literal, unyielding interpretation of their sacred texts. One would think that the bloody results of this experiment would inspire a crisis of faith: in the country where they had absolute free reign, where there was no local government to blame, where economic reforms were introduced at their most shocking and most perfect, they created, instead of a model free market, a failed state no right-thinking investor would touch. And yet the Green Zone neocons and their masters in Washington are no more likely to reexamine their core beliefs than the Taliban mullahs were inclined to search their souls when their Islamic state slid into a debauched Hades of opium and sex slavery. When facts threaten true believers, they simply close their eyes and pray harder. Whether or not you agree with her now-famous stance on the IMF and international corporations, this article is a very enlightening read.
Rites, Suicide and Money
I know this is a late post for the story I am about to link, but I don't usually check the South Asia section of BBC News (in fact I hadn't been checking news too much lately) so when I was catching up I gasped when I read this: Three sisters in Indian village attempt suicide because they are afraid any potential dowry demands would financially cripple their father He said that the dowry system - while technically illegal - is a way of life. "A dowry has to be given," he said. "If you have a daughter, you have to give a dowry. If you have a son, you will receive one when you are married. That is the way of our society. "So I don't grumble about that... I was mentally prepared for that. I can't imagine why my daughters would do this." But perhaps the root cause is poverty.However, Dr Megnat Mhurnu, of the hospital that treated the three sisters, said he had seen many examples of suicide linked to dowries - and that the principle cause was extreme poverty. "Some months ago we did a study on this phenomenon, and we found that 35-40 people were trying to commit suicide in this area every month," he said.
Underwear Shopping
I've got a confession to make. But don't laugh. Until last Saturday, I've never bought my own underwear. Really. Cis and I had finished dinner at Far East Plaza and were strolling around Borders when this conversation may or may not have occurred: "Well? Do you need anything?" "I only need underwear and socks." "Let's go get them, then." "What? Are you sure?" We have pretty weird dates sometimes. So we ended up at Isetan, where we stood in the middle of a hundred bulging packages, all pointing in my direction. All my life, I've only worn those ugly tiny triangular briefs that scream "horrible turn-off" because my mom only buys those, probably to constrict my testicles. I may have been a little stressed. I don't think it's possible not to be, staring at row after row of Calvin Kleins. It was quite easy for me, standing there, to feel a great deal of empathy for bukkake models. "Are you alright? You look distressed." Cis said to me. At least I assume that's what she said. She may have said, "Look at this dress." But it's unlikely. I mean, I don't think of shirts when I'm forced to stare at adverts of those newfangled strapless anti-gravity brassieres that hang on to what they are supposed to through pure force of will. "I'm alright," I said. "It's just underwear." To be continued?
On the heels of a creationist
I wrote a lot here and quoted this creationist writer, who is apparently somewhat admired in some circles, and I deleted it all, because I know people who read it would get absolutely stark raving pissed. Cowardice, I know. All I felt like saying in short was: Creationism is dangerous. It is ignorance claiming to be knowledge, reason and truth. It is a drum that rumbles loudly because it is hollow. And such pretend is prevalent, because it is not truth that people seek but comfort, and because those weak in their beliefs feel they need reasons to continue believing in what is most unreasonable, even when they know it is not in reason that they found God, and it is not in reason that God resides. Believe in whatever God all you want, but why build faith on lies?
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