‘Beware The Twin Neurotoxins of Jealousy and Insecurity,’ said I to Myself

Sometimes I feel very strongly that I truly cannot rest easy until I have… oh, I don’t know… a couple million words-written to my name. To know that I was able to do it. And not bullshit graphomaniac word vomit either; but rather, creditable efforts I can be proud of. Such will be the exorbitant price of admission for a moment where I can finally just breathe and be content. Because I’ll be able to point to that body of work and say: look at that! that proves I’m worth a damn! that retroactively gives my life some meaning!

(Out of curiosity, I looked it up. That moment has five out of five stars on Yelp. But that’s sourced from relatively few reviews. And the reviewers kind of seem like a mix of bots and fakers. Hmm. Weird. Oh look, a moment called ‘the strangely comforting victory of learning to be okay with what you already have’ only has three stars but it does have a shit-ton of reviews. From what seem to be nice, normal, well-adjusted people. Its popularity is enticing, I have to say. Damn it. Choices, choices.)

Okay, so… my motivation for this goal sounds insane, I know. And in a sense it very much is. But stick with me. I’ll try to explain. Hopefully it may make infinitesimally more sense by the time I’m done.

I suffer from jealousy way, way more than I’d like. To an unseemly and humiliating degree really. I feel it in many aspects of my life, but most often and most especially when it comes to the craft of writing.

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Thoughts on the Jussie Smollett fiasco

Let me just say a few things up front. Before this whole scandal unfolded, I did not know who the actor Jussie Smollett was. And, moreover, I obviously do not know whether he truly did fake the assault upon himself. I have not seen the evidence amassed against him. So I will be talking from the hermetically-sealed chamber of hypotheticals at various points throughout this post. (Shit. I hope I remembered to turn on the oxygen valve in there.)

To be completely honest, I must admit that when I first heard the lurid details of the attack, there was just something about them which did strike me as… well, I’m not sure quite how to articulate it. A little too on the nose? A little too perfectly despicable? A little too… theatrical? (I know I am far from the only person to feel that.) But, of course, I also knew that faint hint of weirdness doesn’t mean anything at all really. It was certainly no reason to doubt it genuinely happened. I mean, so what if it seemed oddly theatrical? When deranged individuals decide to attack celebrities, they do sometimes plan it out for quite a while beforehand, sweating the little details. Trying to get everything just right to convey the intended message, to achieve the intended emotional effect. Because they’re hoping to get into the news, to spawn eye-catchingly fucked-up headlines. They’re hoping to make some kind of disturbing statement with the nature of the act itself. In that sense, the attack itself almost becomes half violence, half utterly depraved spectacle.

However, now that Smollett has been charged with making a false police report – a felony – it’s officially alleged by prosecutors that this event was just a twisted attention-seeking performance. On the one hand, I believe wholeheartedly in the virtue of the presumption of innocence (and not just in the stuffy confines of a court of law either.) And it must be noted that Smollett is still insisting that he is not guilty. But on the other hand, if the prosecutors do indeed have the wide range of conclusive evidence they claim to have, I’ve got to imagine that this will be an open-and-shut trial in their favour. Like, we’re talking a total cakewalk here. Don’t even bother showing up, defense attorneys. Treat yourself to a vacation.

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The Labour MPs who just left their Party should not retain their seats in Parliament

So, seven eight MPs – this updated count may well be added to further in the coming weeks – have just made a big grandstanding to-do about leaving the Labour Party. Whether their stated motivations for doing so are valid is an interesting question, but I’m going to put that to one side for now.

Because I just find it absolutely astonishing that they presume they ought to still keep their elected office.

Now, lest you think that this reaction is merely a partisan tantrum – as though I might just be a rabid Labour and/or Jeremy Corbyn devotee who’s feeling wounded by this ‘betrayal’ – I’ll preface with a few things. I do not support any political party, nor any political figure, and never have done. Yet it goes far, far deeper than that. Let me put my cards on the table. In point of fact, I deeply abhor the entire system of representative democracy itself. Even in theory. It is a fundamentally and profoundly and irredeemably flawed setup. Its chief effect is to placate people with the illusion of control whilst distancing them from any power to directly alter the way in which they are governed. (If you care to, you can hear me talk about my reasoning for this stance at greater length here.)

That being said, I also think that given that representative democracy is the system which happens to be in place, the people should at least get what little it’s supposed to grant them. Which is the right to choose who represents them in Parliament, based on that person’s political affiliation and stated intentions.

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First of all: some things to know, some things to click

Okay, look, I’ll be straight with you. It’s simple, this site is where I’m gonna post the things I write. They’ll be non-fiction, of varying lengths, and about anything and everything. Like, sometimes just blog posts about my life, sometimes thoughts on politics, etc.

Hmm. I nearly just made some hackneyed quip about that pairing being appropriate because ‘the personal is political’ and whatnot. But then I stopped myself. Because, as we all know, you’re entitled to vomit copiously onto anyone who says that unironically, as if it’s some notable insight. And *this*? This coat right here? It’s mink. Not just any old mink-fur either; my one is made solely from little minks that really, really wanted to escape being skinned and made into coats. This added note of tragedy, for still poorly understood scientific reasons, renders the resulting garment especially soft and delicate. It will, therefore, definitely not pair well with stomach acid. And I don’t know exactly what ‘dry cleaners’ are or how to use them. I think they may only exist in movies. Just like those weird white open-top boxes which Chinese takeout comes in.

Now, it may almost seem patronizing to even explain the purpose of this site to you, given the URL, but I know that you’ll give me the benefit of the doubt here, negating that potential faux pas. Strangers on the internet are inherently kind like that, right? I sure hope so. Otherwise perhaps that down on his luck king-in-exile who emailed me asking for a loan in order to reclaim his throne and confer honors and riches upon me as reward is… actually not who he says he is?…

No. Impossible. I mean, I’ve already done the requested bank transfer. And so I will be a wealthy prince of Madeuplandia – strange name, an etymological relic from the original, umm, Dutch settlers there I imagine? – in thirty to forty business days. (The well-known standard waiting time for overthrowing usurpers and restoring order, of course.) Don’t worry, I won’t forget the little people when that happens. Probably. Depends on your littleness I suppose. My memory can only retain six-footers and over. It’s a very, very rare neurological condition. I tried to create a GoFundMe page to crowdfund money for treatment, but the error page it gave me just said ‘Fuck You’. Which is… fair. I guess. From a certain point of view.

We’re getting off track here. Let’s focus. Why am I making this blog? Because I have what one might call a manic-depressive relationship to writing. As in, during times where I’m not writing, it makes me depressed. I feel hopeless and insecure and sad. But when I am habitually doing it, I feel elated and fulfilled. Writing makes me feel worthwhile. Writing makes me feel real. Life is better with it, and better when processed through it. Many things are very complicated; this core truth of my self is not. It could not be more simple. And it’s taken me a gallingly long time to just accept that.

I’ve never had my own actual website before. So I’m probably going to be crappy at this for quite some time before I even get okay at it. I do not know how long that length of time will turn out to be. I’d say I hope it’s not too long, but the universe has a way of feeding you your hopes back in their maliciously inverse form. So I’ll just say that I’ll continually be trying to figure this shit out and get better. And we’ll see how it goes.

One last note. Maybe you sometimes prefer absorbing words through your eardrums rather than your eyeballs. Variety is allegedly the spice of life, after all. If so, you can find the podcast I do with my absolutely darling girlfriend here: After Reading This And That (EDIT 09/4/19: Name change! In the interest of greater upfront honesty, the podcast is now called After Rambling Through All That…) It’s super fun, I swear. It’s even been described by an avid listener as “a series of working mp3 files downloadable via an RSS feed”. More effusive praise, you will not find. At least, if you’re asking low-grade androids which you were too cheap to buy the personality-upgrade for. Also, you can find some audiobook recordings I made here and here. You may enjoy them, you may not. Like, I’m not psychic, so just chillax with those expectations of psychicness or whatever. It’s 2019. I don’t owe you anything.