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
Today I did a lot of things.
I had a breakdown this morning. I was planning on marking some work, before going in to teach two new 2-hour classes, followed by another 3-hour class. I'd been bubbling with anxiety over the fact that it was new students for over a week, and it all overflowed in a fairly pathetic crying fit.
Bilingual poem about fatigue / laceco.
I just felt a little frisson of joy. I was sitting at home alone, feeling sorry for myself, when I realised I could blog about my feelings. This is already taking on the role of full-time therapist for me, and at quite a reasonable price as well!
So, you're a parent, friend, teacher, whatever to a Certain Person, and one day while Googling online, or through the arcane workings of Whatsapp, you find the Internet Page of said Person. It could be a philosophical blog, a gawky vlog, a lewd Twitter... The important thing is, it's something personal that you had no idea about. You get a little thrill of finding something out you "weren't supposed to", and maybe even a pang of hurt, because you feel like you know this Person so well that they should've told you about it.
I never considered myself an ambitious person, but it's a label others have applied to me. I've always been a project junkie: RPG maker, UTAU, fandubbing, conlanging, NaNoWriMo, Bitsy, vlogging... Heck, once I even started translating The Mencius into Esperanto. This blog and my podcast are just the latest in a long list of Internet-based/derived hobbies. But surely this isn't a sign of ambition? After all, they're pretty niche.
La historia de mi hombro es larga y triste pero acostumbro resumirla así: me lo disloqué por primera vez hace 11 años al caerme de una bicicleta en una senda rocosa y rural en pleno Cornwall, la región qué forma la punta suroeste del Reino Unido que tiene una sola sala de emergencias plagada de una congestión interminable; me herí la segunda vez festejando mi vigésimo primer cumpleaños danzando al estilo Vogue con demasiado entusiasmo, y desde entonces me lo he dislocado una decena de veces, en ocasiones haciendo cosas muy simples como bajarme del autobús.