I'm writing this, agog, agag, and awash, on the way home from a two-week holiday, so please forgive any inconsistencies in style or coherence. I have been to two events this summer: the Agen TPRS Workshop in the south of France and the 75th International Youth Congress of Esperanto in Liptovský Hrádok, Slovakia. The TL;DR … Continue reading A progress report on living life for real
I feel so hopelessly, endlessly alone. I have been sitting in the park, crying and smoking. My flatmate is ghosting me, I have no partner, I have no IRL friends who I can go to for support, and the family that I do have wouldn't even understand why I'm so miserable. How do I even … Continue reading Un cri de coeur or some bullshit like that
When I was a teenager, I didn't feel like I had an identity at all. I was a bundle of trauma, loneliness, undiagnosed autism and unrealised transness. I barely communicated in the "real world", spending all my time with online communities and friends that spanned a gamut of abusiveness. I "came out of my shell" when I started doing youth theatre. I became more social, began to have an identity in the commonly accepted sense.
This time, I think I've really cracked the code.
People are weird about translations. "I only watch subs, but for Cowboy Bebop, the dub is better." "You really have to read it in the original language to fully appreciate it." "It's so funny seeing dubs; the words don't match their lips!" Me? I'm completely normal.
A poem about the above.
I'm a really big fan of Rupaul's Drag Race. As a professed autist, I take it very seriously. I discovered the series about five years ago, just after season six came out, and I binged all the way through and hopped on the livewatching train at season seven.
In the immortal words of Rebecca Glasscock, "today is just a funky day for me". Despite talking a lot of bravado about reading a few days ago, shifting reading to before my meditation and writing routine did not bring about the instant level of enhanced craft and enlightenment I'd hoped for. When I was working on fiction today, the words came slowly and painfully, and I fell back into that writing mood of tabbing away from my novel to google Why is writing so exhausting?
Adults are just riddled with complexes. Adults are impatient. Adults are uncreative. Adults write everything down. Adults wear their anxiety on their face. Adults stay perfectly quiet. Adults would rather talk about washing up than wizardry. Adults don't want to read for gist. Adults refuse to be in a class with people of "lower levels" than them. Adults don't believe what you tell them.
You wanna be brainy? Be productive and innovatey? You better read bitch. You wanna be artsy? Have your routine sorted? You better read bitch.