Nobody Sits Much on the Starship Enterprise

Sitting is really, REALLY bad for you. Sitting for more than 6 hours a day has been shown to increase your likelihood of dying in the next 15 years by more than 40%, even if you exercise regularly. Because sitting uses almost NO energy, and because people are sitting down for longer than ever before, for longer periods of time (what with the internet and all), the obesity rate has skyrocketed and rates of heart disease have increased dramatically.

Check out this nifty infographic from http://www.medicalbillingandcoding.org/sitting-kills/ which it explains it all in easy to understand terms.

I know for myself that my health has deteriorated rapidly since I've been sitting around, not only have I got really fat but I have often felt like I was about to have a heart attack, my posture has become really bad because my back and stomach muscles just can't hold me upright, my spine has become too curved so I've actually lost height and it sometimes feels like I've broken my tailbone from my own weight pressing down on it. There's a constant cramp in my chest and lungs because my shoulders have started to come forward and inward, crushing them. Maybe this is why people seem to die so quickly once they're put into retirement homes? There's bugger all to do in such places but sit around and watch TV.

I've taken up dancing, walking, stretching and so on like I used to, but that's not enough, so I've put my computer up on a tall shelf roughly level with my chest to force me to stand to use it. I think this will have the added bonus of reducing my time using my computer, because it's really tiring. I have a big squishy pillow under my feet as I stand here typing this, because my knees could get very sore with the concrete floor below and my weight pressing down from above.

Because I need to change my overall way of living, I need role-models - to some extent, to live a bit of a fantasy. I've mentioned before how I believe that there's great value in symbolism, so I think I'll remind myself with a post-it that nobody seems to sit down for long on the Starship Enterprise in The Next Generation era - and look at how thin and healthy they all are!!

Unblocking

My Depression is NOT a result of a chemical imbalance in my brain. I may have an imbalance, but I firmly believe that if there is one, it is a mere effect. We're social animals, human beings, and physiologically we have certain needs. If those needs aren't met, the body (and brain) suffers. I have been cowed into a state of near-permanent submission because I'm different to those around me, my needs as a social organism have not been met for a long time - most of my life, in fact. My parents and siblings have disowned and belittled me, friends and romantic and sexual partners have criticised and condemned any nonconformity and suppressed me. I have been at the bottom of the pecking order all my life, the dog the others all snarl at. My depression, therefore, is the result of being effectively 'shut-down' by almost everyone around me, and of course my health has suffered as a result. I have not been my authentic self because I learned from the people around me that my authentic self was unacceptable.

I'm an artist at heart - I draw and paint, I write poetry and stories, I love to sing and dance. When I felt ashamed of these things and stopped doing them, THAT is when I developed an unhealthy relationship with food, gained weight, lost muscle, lost my self esteem and became depressed. All that external stuff stopped my brain and glands from functioning as they otherwise would. My task for 2012 then is clear - to recover what I've lost. And I think I can do it now because I no longer NEED anyone as much as I used to, I've learned to validate myself (see my last post). By living authentically again, I will encourage my body to recover from the years of repression and rediscover happiness and the feeling of being whole.

Of course another part of my Depression that I've only just started to understand is that I did this to myself - my Depression is a by-product of the way I have lived my life. But don't think I'm being negative here - because the way I've lived that I'm referring to I would not change for the world. I have sought to empathise with and understand others all my life, I've forgiven and explained away every hurtful word and action directed at me and gained invaluable insights into the way people's minds work, and as a result I've been able to provide greater support and comfort to others in need than many other people do. I'm PROUD of that, if nothing else, THAT'S what I exist for. But I haven't been able to find my own my to release all that hurt and frustration, my art would have been the ideal outlet but I was convinced I did not have those avenues for expression. I've been drowning in the emotions I haven't been able to release.

November 17 2009

Some of you will be aware of what the 17th of November means to me. It's the anniversary of my 'Coming Out,’ the anniversary of the day I told my mum I was gay, way back in 2001. November the 17th is about so much more than sexuality, though.

A lot's changed for me since 2001, I've moved from Oamaru to Christchurch, from Christchurch to Wellington, and from Wellington to Palmerston North. I’ve ditched the ‘gay’ label and moved on to ‘bisexual’ only to drop that for ‘queer.’ I’ve given up on Christianity, become an atheist, then a Satanist, a pagan and finally an agnostic. I’ve been a staunch supporter of monogamy and marriage, an equally fervent advocate of polyamory, and more recently I’ve committed myself to celibacy. I’ve subscribed to beliefs about divine ordination, biological determinism, social coercion, and lately social/environmental/biological interactionism. I’ve changed so much that I scarcely remember who I am and where I came from. I need this day, I need the time to reflect, to try and make sense of it all.

November 17 is about honesty and integrity, about earnestness and accepting responsibility. It’s about facing up to the fact that I create myself, about not laying blame at the feet of others. Every year I commit myself anew to honesty, having lived a pack of lies most of my youth.

You see, I learned to lie, prolifically, convincingly, from an early age. I was so desperate to win approval, from my parents, my peers, my teachers, complete strangers. It’s what I do, I lie, and I lie, and I lie, and I lie. I lie to you all, every time, trying to make myself look better in your eyes. It’s a compulsion. Most of all, however, I lie to myself.

It’s Aaron’s fault, I tell myself, for stealing my stuff and selling it. It’s Mum’s fault for leaning on me too heavily. It’s Bruno’s fault for swinging back and forth and changing his mind. It’s Bryce’s fault for being too needy. It’s Dad’s fault for yelling at me and beating me. It’s Brent’s fault for not telling me the truth. It’s Daniel’s fault for cutting me off when I said I missed him. It’s Scott’s fault for asking me to church. It’s Stewart’s fault, and James’ fault, and Tom’s fault, and Simon’s fault, and Kerry Anne’s and Tamara’s and AJ’s and Eric’s and Seth’s and Glenn’s and everybody else’s fault but my own. I tell myself a history that allows me to live with myself, and I rehearse it so often that I almost believe it.

Almost.

The truth of the matter is, I did this to myself. I brought me here, to this moment, by always choosing the path of least resistance, by avoiding responsibility, by accepting less than I felt I deserved, by doing what I knew would only hurt me in the long run because it was easy or appealing at the time. I have no one to blame but myself.

And I’m still doing it. I’m doing it to you now, right now as you read. There are things I want to say, apologies to be made and lies I want to admit to, but I can’t bring myself even to utter them aloud in the silence and privacy of my bedroom. I’m writing this, leaving out the worst, all those shameful little secrets, all those dirty deeds and most private thoughts.

I live in a world of my own creation, a world where I am the victim, the martyr, who will be one day be vindicated. And yet, some tiny part of me still sees through the falsehoods I’ve spun, retaining enough clarity to wonder whether I could survive being faced with the screaming naked truth, that I am the monster. When the towering edifice of illusion comes crashing down around me, and I see myself as I truly am, will I persist, or will I smash what little remains of my kingdom? Will I wander about in that ruined wasteland, picking up and turning over the fragments, playing my accustomed role though nobody is watching? That tiny watcher in my soul knows the latter is the more likely.

November 17 is for honesty and integrity.

And I fail.

'What I Do' (The Sequel)

Maori Issues In Research - Short Assignment
by Danny Rudd

My name is Danny Rudd, I am a Pakeha New Zealander, born in Rotorua, and I have lived most of my adult life in Christchurch and Wellington. My mother lived her entire life in the central North Island, her parents were both first generation New Zealanders born to English parents. My father was born in Hokitika on the West Coast of the South Island, and spent his early adulthood in Christchurch before moving north to settle in Rotorua. His father was a second generation New Zealander of Scottish heritage, and his mother was a first generation New Zealander born to English parents. There is not a drop of Maori blood in my body, but as a gay man with a half-Maori partner, I believe I can relate somewhat to the concerns of Maori in regards to the range of approaches that have been taken in researching Maori people and communities. The following will outline the research approaches described by Walsh-Tapiata (1997) and Ruwhiu (1999), arguing that for someone of my standing in relationship to Maori, a Maori-Centred research approach is optimal.

Ruwhiu (1999, pp. 44-50) describes seven research approaches that have been taken in studying Maori and their communities, and which together comprise a continuum from disempowering to empowering. The first of these is the Pirating approach (Ruwhiu, 1999, p.44), in which non-Maori researchers make use of Maori informants and then present the resulting knowledge as their own insights without acknowledging the contributions of those informants. This approach was commonly taken by anthropologists and other social researchers in Colonial times, it would be a mistake however to believe this approach is no longer taken.

The second research approach identified by Ruwhiu (1999, p.45) is the Restructuring approach, in which the particular, culturally and geographically bound experiences and understandings of Maori are fitted into the cultural understandings of another group, commonly of the European settlers, downplaying the differences between them and misrepresenting Maori in so doing. Ruwhiu (1999, p.45) notes that while this approach is inherently limiting to the group being studied, it has paved the way for more equitable relations.

The third research approach described by Ruwhiu (1999, pp.45-46) is the Third-Party approach, in which researcher and researched agree upon an aide or supervisor who facilitates the process of information-gathering. Ruwhiu (1999, p.46) notes that this approach is not optimal however, for while it gives credit to all contributors, it does not necessarily benefit both parties equally.

The fourth research approach mentioned is the Mentor/Tiaki approach (Ruwhiu, 1999, p.46), in which a researcher gains the benefit of cultural guidance particular to the community being studied and has access to the community as a participant observer, and is accountable to the community. This approach gives Maori a measure of control over the research outcomes.

The fifth approach is the Whanau/Whangai research approach (Ruwhiu, 1999, pp.46-47), where the researcher effectively becomes a member of the Whanau and is expected to meet the obligations of a Whanau member. This approach benefits both the researcher and the researched, allowing the former a far greater understanding of Maori life in being a full participant observer, and benefitting the latter in that the research is intended to strengthen the Whanau, addressing issues that are relevant to that Whanau. This ‘adoptive’ status is conferred on the researcher by the Whanau or Iwi, and cannot be presumed by the researcher. It is entirely possible that my ethnic background and sexuality may prevent my inclusion in this manner.

The sixth approach is the Power-Sharing/Partnership approach (Ruwhiu, 1999, p.47) which emphasises partnership, participation and protection, observing tikanga or appropriate cultural practice, ensuring that both parties derive equal benefits from the work that is done together. Walsh-Tapiata (1997, p.140) notes that this approach affirms the validity of both Maori and Pakeha methodologies, but asserts that Maori methods are most appropriate in dealing with Maori. This approach may be most appropriate for me where I am working with Maori researchers, but may not always be practical, and arguably will limit my own understanding and my usefulness to Maori communities.

The seventh and most optimal approach is the Empowering Outcome approach, which is focused on researching the questions that Maori want to know about and are concerned with creating beneficial outcomes for those researched (Walsh-Tapiata, 1997, p.139). This approach can be divided into Kaupapa Maori and Maori-Centred research models.

Kaupapa Maori research is specifically focused on culture (Walsh-Tapiata, 1997, p.136), it is that which has Maori life and experience as its subject, which is done by Maori researchers, for the benefit of Maori. Kaupapa Maori research highlights the fundamental importance of Whanaunatanga (the establishment of relationships of trust and respect), Te Reo (language and expression), Tikanga Maori (appropriate custom), Rangatiratanga (the right to self-determination) and Mana Wahine/Mana Tane (acknowledgment and respect for the differences between and contributions of both men and women) to Maori people (Ruwhiu, 1999, p.49-50; Walsh-Tapiata, 1997, p.152). I am excluded from participating in Kaupapa Maori research because I have no Maori blood, however I do not feel excluded in this respect, for while the insistence of Kaupapa Maori researchers that only Maori do research on Maori can certainly be seen as being biologically determinist (Ruwhiu, 1999, p.50), I can sympathise with the sentiments that underlie this position.

I understand that retaining some control over the research that is done on one’s own community is an assertion of the validity of that community’s unique perspective, and affords some protection against researchers unsympathetic to the issues faced by that community. Certainly there has been plenty of research done on queer communities and individuals by ‘outsiders’ which has failed to describe the realities of queer people’s lives and has in fact been used to further marginalise and even criminalise them. Like Maori, lesbian and gay people still face discrimination and issues of invisibility (Baker, 2001, pp.99-100).

I believe however that it is not necessary to experience first-hand the particular form of oppression, discrimination and exploitation faced by a minority to see how unjust it is and work to change it, and indeed there are plenty of Pakeha who sympathise with Maori (Melbourne, 1995, p.16). Maori must seek alliances with other oppressed and marginalised groups across ethnic divisions, as they have many of the same concerns. The insistence that research on Maori communities and Maori people should only be conducted by Maori researchers is inherently limiting, depriving Maori of valuable allies and access to the often greater resources of the non-Maori majority (Poata-Smith, 1996, p.114-115). Maori, particularly, are often materially disadvantaged and thus lacking in resources to challenge the prevailing system (McLennan et al., 2004, pp.208-209; Poata-Smith, 1996, pp.114-115).

It can be argued that circumstances only really improve for minorities when they have allies who are not part of their group, as those ‘alien’ to the wider society often need endorsement from others in the mainstream to be accepted. The application of the Maori-Centred research approach presents an ideal opportunity to forge such alliances. Maori-Centred research shares with Kaupapa Maori research the privileging of Maori experience and world-views, the emphasis on Maori participation at all levels of research, and the expectation that Maori research be conducted in ways that are culturally appropriate to Maori (Ruwhiu, 1999, p.48). It does not, however, necessarily exclude non-Maori, and is therefore the optimum approach for researchers like myself.

Walsh-Tapiata (1997, p.134-135) notes that researchers often find themselves greeted with suspicion and even contempt by Maori, who have been marginalised, misrepresented and exploited by Eurocentric academics in the past. Given my ‘outsider’ status and the various Iwi’s potentially differing responses to the prospect of a non-Maori researcher, I would expect some resistance from Whanau and Iwi, as such it would be appropriate for me to approach the community’s leaders for guidance, and to make myself and my intentions known. I would need to demonstrate an awareness of the validity of Maori understandings and emphasise that the work is to be collaborative, and that the community will be involved in the decision making process at every step if they so choose, including in deciding the intended outcomes of the research.

Key to this process is the principal of Whanaunatanga, the establishment of relationships of respect between myself and the community or individuals I wish to work with, a transparency about who I am, what the research is intended for and how it will benefit them. If possible, the involvement of Maori researchers held in high esteem by the Iwi should be sought, and I should demonstrate some proficiency with Te Reo (Walsh-Tapiata, 1997, p.153). This last may present a particular challenge, however preparedness (perhaps through enrolment in a Maori language course at Te Wananga O Aotearoa or similar provider) may offset this difficulty, and certainly under a Mentor/Tiaki approach some assistance may be provided by the Whanau or iwi. A third and final issue that may cause difficulties, as already noted above, is my identity as a gay man, this may be too problematic in some cases, and yet I would venture that openness, persistence, and the support of a respected takatāpui advocate may overcome this barrier.


 
References
Baker, M. (2001). Families, labour and love: Family diversity in a changing world. Crow’s Nest NSW, Australia: Allen & Unwin.

McLennan, G. Ryan, A. & Spoonley, P. (2004). Exploring Society: Sociology for New Zealand students, 2nd ed. New Zealand: Pearson Education.

Melbourne, H. (1995). Maori sovereignty: The Maori perspective. New Zealand: Hodder Moa Beckett.

Poata-Smith, E. Te Ahu. (1996). He Pokeke Uenuku i Tu Ai: The evolution of contemporary Maori protest. In P. Spoonley, C. Macpherson and D. Pearson (Eds.) Nga Patai: Racism and ethnic relations in Aotearoa/New Zealand (pp. 91-115). New Zealand: Dunmore Press.

Ruwhiu, L. A. (1999). Maori knowledges, philosophies and research. Te Puawaitanga o te ihi me te wehi: The politics of Maori social development policy. New Zealand: Massey University.

Walsh-Tapiata, W. (1997). Te Rangahau: Methodological concerns. Raukawa Social Services: Origins and future directions. Waiho ma te iwi e whakarite. New Zealand: Massey University.

Weep, Weep For Future Generations...

Here's a short list of some of my favourite quotes from the atrociously spelt and narrated Harry Potter fan-fic 'My Immortal' by Tara 'Ebony Dark’ness Dementia Raven Way.' You can find the full hilarious story at http://myimmortalrehost.webs.com/chapters122.htm Just for a bit of context, Ebony/Enoby/Eboby is a vampire goth in Slytherin House at Hogwarts, her bisexual vampire goth boyfriend is Draco/Drak/Darko Malfoy, Harry Potter has changed his name to Vampire and... yes, he's a bisexual vampire goth... noticing a trend? A good third of the story is actually incredibly detailed descriptions of vitually indistinguishable black outfits and identical emo concerts, there's sex, drugs, murder and bad grammar. My Immortal also has perhaps the biggest fanbase of any internet fan-fic - nobody can quite decide if it's serious or a vicious parody. So without further ado (and without any editing)....

Dumbledore: "WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING YOU MOTHERFUKERS!"

Snake and Loopin were in da middle of da empty hall, doin it, and Dobby was watching!

"STOP IT NOW YOU HORNY SIMPLETONS!" shouted Professor McGoggle who was watching us and so was everyone else.

"I MAY BE A HOGWARTS STUDENT"" Hargirid paused angrily. "BUT I AM ALSO A SATANIST!"

"Hey bitch you look kawaii."

"The Dark Lord shall kill all of you. Then you must submit to him!!!!" Snape ejaculated menacingly. "You fucking preppy fags!" Serious shouted angrily.

"Volfemort has him bondage!"

"You fucking bustard!" yelled Draco at Vampire. "I want to shit next to her!1"

"VAMPIRE POTTER, YOU MOTHERFUCKER!" I yelled.

"Why did you do such a thing, you mediocre dunces?" asked Professor McGonagall.

"YOU ARE NOT FIT TO BE THE PRINCIPAL ANY LONGER!" yelled Rumbridge. "YOU ARE TOO OLD AND YOUR ALZHEIMERS IS DANGEROUS! YOU MUST RETRY OR VOLDEMORT WILL KILL YOUR STUDENTS!"

"CUM NOW!1!" Preacher McGongel yielded. We did guiltily.

"Suddenly an idea I had. I clozd my eyes and using my vampire powers I sent a telepathetic massage to Drako and Vampire so they would destruct Snape."

"THE BARK LORD IS PLANNING TO KILL THE STUDENTS!" yelled Cornelia Fudge.

"Crosio!" I shited pointing my wound. Snoop scremed and started running around da room screming.

"OMFS, letz have a groop kutting session!11" said Profesor Trevolry.

A chapter after Loopin "masticates" outside of Enoby's window, Tara took a second stab at it: "You saved me from getting a Paris Hilton p- video made from your shower scene and being vued by Snap and Loopin." Who MASTABATED (c is dat speld rong) to it he added silently.

"Abra Kedavra!" he yelled at Snape and Loopin pointing his womb.

"Noooooo!11" she screamed. All the preps in da theater screamed but everyone else crapped koz Satan and I loked so cute 2gether.

I smelled happily.

"Hey haz aneone fuking seen Draco?" I asked gothikally.
"No Draco told me he wood be watching Hoes of Wax." said Profesor Trevolry.

Dracola used to be called Navel but it tuned out dat he was kidnapped at birth and his real family were vampires. They dyed in a car crash.

"Rid my sight you despicable preps!"

Snoop laughed meanly. He polled down his pants. I gasped- there was a Dork Mark on his you-know-wut!11!

"But it was to late. I knew what I herd. I ran to the bathroom angrily, cring. Draco banged on the door. I whipped and whepped as my blody eyeliner streammed down my cheeks and made cool tears down my feces like Benji in the video for Girls and Bois (raven that is soo our video!). I TOOOK OUT A CIGARETE END STARTED TO smoke pot."

"I laffed statistically."

"We went sexily to Potionz class. But Snap wasn't there. Instead there was…………………………………………Cornelio Fuck!11111"

"“OMFG!!! Im back in Tim again!!!!111” I screamed loudly."
"“Oh my fukking god!!!! Voldimort! Voldimort!” screamed Hedwig as his glock touched Voldemort’s."

"then suddenlyn………………. the floor opened. “OMFG NO I SCEAMED AS I FEEL DOWN. everyone looked At ME weirdly.”"

Word Association, 30/10/09

Ok, so picking a word, the first thing I see looking up, I will write every distinct word or phrase that comes into my head in the next five minutes. Here goes...

Table
Food
Plaque
Teeth
Dentists
Poverty
Africa
AIDS
Sex
Curtains
Window sill
Dust
Cloth
Kitchen sink
Water
Swimming
Rope swing
Laughing
Dogs
Dad
Shouting
Hitting
Leather belt
Brother
Toy dinosaurs
Transformers
Fooled
Mum shouting
Suitcases
Crying
Bible study
Sunshine
Harbour
Wellington
Cake
Seth
Black wings
Rain
Polite
Cell phone
Library
Computer
Table

Danny's Angry Letter

[Submitted to CHAFF and published 12th October 09]

Leah was smart, beautiful, hilarious, cheeky, warm, friendly, generous, outgoing, popular and passionate. She was also gay, and very recently she committed suicide. Her community is devastated, we miss her terribly, and we’re struggling to come to grips with what happened, searching for answers to heal our broken hearts and finding few. I suspect it will be a long time before our hearts heal.

Bernie was gentle, witty, considerate, daring, charming, fun-loving and funny. He too was gay, and he killed himself a couple of months ago. His friends are still reeling from the shock, and grieving the loss.

The lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender communities in New Zealand and around the world are disproportionately represented in suicide statistics. We are more than three times as likely to commit suicide as our heterosexual peers. We live in a world with few visible role models, we often grow up always looking over our shoulders to make sure we’re not being noticed, laughed at, jeered at and threatened. We sometimes experience complete rejection from lifelong friends and from our families when we finally try living honestly and openly as ourselves, and in some towns and rural areas we have no one to share our struggles with. And sometimes, we are the victims of horrific violent assaults.

We live in a world that tells us we’re pathetic, sick, unwanted, un-thought-of, unimportant. We hear you, Girl in the Library, when you gossip with your friends and you laugh about some guy you know, calling him a ‘fucking faggot.’ We hear you, Dude on the Bus, when you laugh with your mates, saying that [insert object of humiliation here] is ‘gaay!’ You either think we’re not there, that it doesn’t matter, or worse, that those words really do mean stupid, lame, disgusting, pathetic and worthless. You don’t go around saying ‘that’s just Maori!’ or ‘He’s such a nigger,’ cos you know that hurts people. So why do it to us? Every time you say it you tell yourself, the world around you, and maybe some lesbian, gay, bisexual or transgender person who might be sitting right next to you that anyone not heterosexual isn’t worth the same human decency you extend to others.

My 10 yr old cousin Reece is gentle, clever, kind, funny and cheerful, he already knows he’s gay, and his mother tells me he comes home crying from school more often than not.

So stop it. Just fucking stop it, ok?

DR

Her Name Was Leah

She was outgoing, fun, friendly, energetic, always the life of the party. She put a lot of time and energy into helping people and volunteering for things, and she was involved in everything - she DJ'ed at the bar most weekends, she was involved with two local acting groups, she played softball and soccer, was part of the medieval jousting club (yes, they exist), she wrote poetry, modelled, took photography classes -- everyone knew her. And nobody knew she was having such a hard time the last six to twelve months - she kept it to herself, and then a week ago she killed herself.

I saw her a few hours before she did it, up at the bar, and I didn't stop to ask her how she was cos I was out looking after some friends of S's from out of town and the place was noisy and full. She seemed to be in her own little world, and her hair (which was often flaming red, golden or bright pink) was black. I wish I'd said something now, anything at all to make her know that we cared. I wish I could go back to that night.

The funeral was yesterday and about two hundred people showed up. The service was 90 minutes, and was lighthearted and full of humour, just like Leah was, which made it all the harder to bear. Her family came through, which we hadn't expected seeing how they'd disowned her for being gay, and they gave some really beautiful eulogies. And her flatmates and friends had all paid for it, and it was really lovely. I was bawling my eyes out the whole time, she was always so nice to me, and so cheerful and beautiful, and it was like she was proof that you could come through even the hardest of lives with a smile on your face, but I guess none of us knew just how hard it had really been for her. We all failed her.

We held the wake at the club, and everyone was pretty shattered. I couldn't stay, I was really depressed, so S and I went for a walk, and then I went home and slept. I just feel dazed now, it's like it hasn't happened but I keep having thoughts of her lying in the coffin, and that starts me off crying all over again.

She really was so beautiful.

Loss

"Yeah... And I'm sad! But at the same time I'm really happy that something can make me feel that sad... It's like... It makes me feel alive, y'know? It makes me feel human. The only way I could feel this sad now, is if I felt somethin' really good before, so I have to take the bad with the good. So I guess what I'm feelin' is, like a beautiful sadness... I guess that sounds stupid... Besides, I'd rather be a crying little pussy than a faggy goth kid!" (image and quote courtesy of Gay Banker at http://gaybanker.blogspot.com/2009/09/philosophy-of-butters-stotch.html)

It's been a pretty horrible week for the whole community here - it's like everything has kind of fallen to pieces.

I went in to the student association yesterday to see Karl about some details for the Sexual Health Group meeting I had arranged for last night, and of course Karl shares an office with my mate Cassie, who also knew Leah. Everybody did - she was so involved and active.

Cassie was sitting there when I walked in the door - we took one look at each other and both burst into tears. It's all so unfair, and way these things always come down to family fighting and money - that's just disgusting.

The funeral is tomorrow afternoon. Cass and me joked about everyone showing up goth, or with bright pink hair, and we actually did laugh -- that kind of relieved, guilty, sad laughter -- but really it would be the most appropriate thing to do. She always did stand out, and I can't help thinking that she'd be smiling if we did and she could know it.

Politics Quiz Result

Two And A Half Hours I Won't Ever Get Back...

Ok so tonight I went and saw Transformers 2: Revenge Of The Fallen, knowing full-well that it would be mindless trash, having seen the other terrible films that make up Director Michael Bay's life work, including its predecessor, Transformers. At the end, I found myself quite unable to articulate my feelings on the movie I'd just seen, so and so when I got home I perused the Interwebs to find something, ANYTHING, that might get the verbage going again, my brain having been for all intents and purposes liquified by the seemingly endless explosions and gunfire I'd witnessed. Below, I've copied and pasted the two reviews that I feel come closest to capturing the essence of this cinematic abortion...

The Empire Strikes Out
Retrieved 02/07/09 from http://www.flickfilosopher.com/blog/2009/06/062309transformers_revenge_of_the_fa.html

I’m certain that someday it will be acknowledged that Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen is like the most totally awesome artifact ever of the end of the American empire. It’s so us, a preposterously perfect reflection of who we are: loud, obnoxious, sexist, racist, juvenile, unthinking, visceral, and violent... and in love with ourselves for it. And Michael Bay is the high priest of our self-engrossment. It’s not enough that we like blowing shit up: the blowing shit up must be transubstantiated into something religious by having, say, a ridiculously gorgeous girl humping a motorcycle, her face aglow in the golden hour of sunset as she watches the shit get blown up, her glossy lips parted just a little in orgasmic joy.

What we have right here is the Easter Island statue of our legacy. People 1,000 years from now will gaze at Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen in wonder and mystery and marvel how we just couldn’t see. How could we not see?

I liked the first Transformers, two summers ago. It worked because it pretended to absolutely nothing, aspired to absolutely nothing beyond being a big dumb loud brainless advertisement for toys. Unlike every other propagandistic Michael Bay film, which all revel in their jingoism about justice or patriotism or heroism, Transformers felt no need to bother. If only Hollywood could have left well enough alone.

Of course, in Hollywood, “well enough alone” means you wear out a franchise with 12 movies, until even the fanboys are complaining that it’s stupid and a budget-bloated sequel finally bankrupts the studio. We’re nowhere near that, though. Transformers 3 is coming soon to a theater near you, you may rest assured of that.

I was ready for Revenge to be as agreeably inconsequential as the first film, and I was perfectly happy to be enjoying that it’s so completely fuckin’ bonkers from the get-go, when we discover that the alien robot things have been on Earth from 17,000 BC, when they apparently fought off Stargate’s Goa’uld or something for the right to pick on the poor uncivilized cavepeople natives. But then I got lost beyond that, for -- unlike the first movie -- this one either assumes that you’re steeped in the laughable mythos that Hasbro invented for its toys, or else screenwriters Ehren Kruger (The Brothers Grimm, The Skeleton Key) and the team of Roberto Orci and Alex Kurtzman (Star Trek, Mission: Impossible III) invented a new laughable mythos. I’m not an eight-year-old boy, and I wasn’t in the 1980s either, so I don’t know which is which.

It’s something to do with an ancient bloodfeud between the good robots (the Autobots) and the bad robots (the Decepticons). You can tell which are the good robots -- they have blue eyes and are nice and round and shiny and look like Japanese motorcycles or something Paul Walker drove in Fast & Furious or gas-guzzling, all-American pickup trucks manufactured by companies now in bankruptcy -- and you can tell which are the bad robots: they’re very pointy and have red eyes. Beyond that, there’s a lot of high-falutin’ about wrongs done eons ago and such: it’s impossible to understand 90 percent of the Transformers’ dialogue, which is probably a blessing, because the other 10 percent sounds like Gandalf explaining to Frodo about the Ring, or Darth Vader grumbling about the damn Jedi Knights, but without the gravitas of either.

Apparently the good robots have discovered that Shia LaBeouf is Indiana Jones’s kid, because they send him on a mission to find an ancient doohickey from 17,000 BC in the North African desert. And luckily his superhot girlfriend (Megan Fox: How to Lose Friends and Alienate People) is along to gape in ecstatic joy at stuff blowing up and blue-eyed robots and red-eyed robots beating one another up over the ancient whatchamacallit, which is supposed to have the power to do something-or-other.

To call Revenge incoherent and bloated is to put it kindly. To say that Michael Bay fetishizes slow-motion and we still can’t see what the hell is happening the half the time is probably something he’d take as a compliment. But eventually I got so bored -- for these two and a half hours feel much, much longer than the same two and a half hours the first movie consumed -- that I lost track of the number of testicle jokes and taser jokes that flew by. The target audience will be pleased to know, perhaps, that yes: one joke combines testicles and tasers. It’s like the Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup of frat-boy humor.

But it’s all good, because, you see, even though a Decepticon snatches the American flag from the Brooklyn Bridge as a show of contempt for us puny humans, it’s back later. America rules! Take that, Decepticons!

Welcome to Easter Island.

Viewed at a semi-public screening with an audience of critics and ordinary moviegoers. Rated PG-13 for intense sequences of sci-fi action violence, language, some crude and sexual material, and brief drug material.


Small Penis Humilation
- by Dustin Rowles
Retrieved 02/07/09 from http://www.pajiba.com/film_reviews/transformers-revenge-of-the-fallen-review.php

I realize I’m stating the obvious here, but it bears elucidation in light of this review because it’s the single biggest driving force behind Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen. Michael Bay has a profoundly tiny dick. The man has a diminutive dangler — what’s known in medical circles as a micro-penis (less than 2.75 inches erect). And rather than seek psychotherapy for his small penis humilation, Mr. Bay deals with his itty-bitty anxieties by hiding behind his work. It’s classic overcompensation; all the symptoms are manifested in his person — long hair, leather jackets, sports cars — but none more evident than his pursuit of aggrandizement in Revenge of the Fallen. His desire to embiggen Transformers II over its predecessor — to make bigger in power, to enlarge our conceptions — is clearly an attempt to conceal his sexual inadequacy.

It’s sad, really. Mr. Bay has no ability to drive, thrust, shove or plunge. All he has in his arsenal is a malevolently irritating poke delivered with a toothsome sneer, the flick of his mullet, and a decidedly timorous and almost hopeful, “Do you like that, baby?” And so Mr. Bay takes these frustrations out in his films, and in Revenge of the Fallen his eagerness gets the best of him. It’s easy to suggest that the two-and-a-half hour series of explosions, cheesy toddler one-liners, and cacophonous, bass-heavy noises is all part of an ongoing big-dick swinging contest Mr. Bay has with McG, but if you look closer, you’ll see what’s really at play here. Revenge of the Fallen is little more than a series of explosions transposed with shots of Megan Fox’s cleavage and/or ass. Mr. Bay sees what he cannot have in the bedroom, and out of those phallic frustrations, he obliterates everything in his wake like a petulant little child who destroys the contents of his toy chest because he’s been denied an ice cream cone. Those Transformers are his toys; the big screen is his bedroom; and sexual competence is the ice cream cone that will forever elude him.

Serial killers are often associated with small-penis syndrome and though there may be little veracity in that theory, it’s apparent that Michael Bay shares the same hedonistic soullessness of a Ted Bundy or Leonard Lake. There’s not an ounce of life in the Fallen’s script. But there is little denying that the man knows how to film an action sequence — 44 years of practice borne out of sexual insufficiency will make a person an expert. In Revenge of the Fallen, Bay sticks to what he knows, barely capable of poking his spectacle into a narrative framework. It’s a battle of good and evil. Autobots vs. Decepticons. Megatron is pulled from the sea to assist the original Decepticon, Fallen (a metaphor for Lucifer? No: For Bay’s limp junk). Fallen wants avenge an ancient slight against the planet Earth by finding an instrument hidden in a monstrous Egyptian obelisk that will allow him to stab out the sun (there’s some metaphorical wish fulfillment for you).

Sam Witwicky (Shia LaBeouf) spends all of one day in college, where he is attacked by a human-shaped Decepticon (Isabel Lucas) with a phallic tail, before he is recruited by Optimus Prime to act as an ambassador between the Autobots and the United States military, which has an uneasy relationship with the Transformers. That relationship becomes moot, however, when Fallen and the other Decepticons invade Earth in search of that sun-diffusing instrument, which Sam — along with the assistance of Megan Fox’s low-cut blouses and all powerful slo-mo cleavage — has to prevent while also retrieving a few shards and something called the Matrix of Leadership.

That’s essentially the gist of the nonsensical, incoherent, illogical ass-brained plot, and even the six-and-a-half minutes of story seems to get in the way of the other 144 minutes of shit blowing up. There are, of course, even more Transformers in the sequel, which only means it’s even more difficult to tell what’s going on, who is on whose side, and who is battling whom, which becomes particularly problematic near the end where everything is also obscured by a storm of sand.

John Turturro brings further indignity upon his career by appearing as a former government agent turned conspiracy theorist; it’s hard to say what the fuck he was doing in this movie — both Turturro and his character — except to bring shame on his family. Megan Fox is in a perpetual state of glisten and never stops pouting her lips; meanwhile, Shia LaBeouf continues his fast-talking douchenut ways. Rainn Wilson has an incredibly brief two minutes as a college prof — it’s the best two minutes of the entire movie, and the possibility he might return at the end of the film was the only thing that kept me in my seat. I’ll save you the trouble: He does not. [Actually... if the reviewer had stayed on to watch the credits for a few minutes - tedious as it was - he would have seen that this professor comes back for an utterly redundant and unfunny minute-long final scene - DR]

In addition to Fallen, there are a few other new Transformers, including a sand-sucking monstrosity that bites the tip off an ancient Egyptian pyramid (ouch); a senior citizen fighter-plane Decipticon who switches allegiances; a few mini-Transformers; and Mudflap and Skids, the Jar Jar African-American racial caricatures (gold tooth, hip-hop lovin’, bad slang, can’t read) of Transformers, who really are offensive, though it’s not too surprising: Racists have notoriously small dicks.

Lookit: Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen is Bush League, and I mean that in a purely political sense. It’s chest-thumping, racially-insensitive, sexually provocative redmeat bullshit designed to get needle dicks hard. And that’s fine, if you’re a hormone-addled pubescent Beavis who gets his rocks off on blowing up frogs. But you know that, and you don’t need a review to tell you that Revenge of the Fallen is an epic shit storm so bad you’ll wish you were watching Wolverine. And for a lot of you, that knowledge isn’t going to prevent you from seeing Transformers II, and I won’t begrudge you that. Your morbid curiosity may get the best of you. The confluence of your skepticism of critics, your overwhelming childhood nostalgia, or your desire to see just how awful it is may compel you into the theater. That’s cool — that’s what a manipulative, $100 million marketing campaign will do. But you’ll probably walk out of the theater fuming, itching to murder the one guy in the theater who attempted to start an ovation every time Optimus Prime appeared onscreen (he was met with a round of blank what-the-fuck stares by a sold-out crowd).

But even if you do help to contribute to the $150 million Revenge of the Fallen is likely to gross over the next five days, you can rest easy knowing that, no matter how much money Michael Bay has in his bank account or how many bloated, corporately jingoistic films that he makes, all he has to show for it is an estate that’s the size of Delaware and a babydick the size of your little toe. It’s small consolation.

Dustin Rowles is the publisher of Pajiba. He hides his small penis behind petty insults and personal attacks on Hollywood directors.

Do Y'all Get This?

Ok, so I'm really, really pissed off this week, with basically everything about me and my life. People disappoint me, I feel like study, work and hell, even breathing, are a waste of time, I don't want to leave the house or eat or talk to anyone... and when I bring myself to blog about it I just can't seem to articulate it.

What about you lot? Is it easier to write when you're calm and lucid or when you're spitting tacks?

Also...

I win!!

Semester over, I get four weeks off now (two of which will be in Christchurch but oh well).

I think I aced my exam, and I'd already passed the paper through good marks on my assignments through the semester. I so rock ;)

Gangsta Stylez

I spent several hours last night at the Student Association's 'Casino Royale' evening, held on campus, where it seemed half the student population showed up to gamble for a chance to take home a rather posh scooter, a couch, a bunch of food and wine baskets and yes, even a packet of instant noodles.

I dragged some of my 'mos along, and my token straight buddy Yannick, we dressed up a bit and mozied along at 7pm with our tickets, expecting maybe 20 people to show up. How wrong we were.

The evening was a great success, there were literally HUNDREDS of students there, all dressed to the nines and groomed to within an inch of their lives. The student Asssociation got in an actual casino company to decorate, set up and (wo)man the tables, there were more games laid out than I know the names of, they got in a professional piano player and staffed the bar with hotties.

I wasn't especially interested in actually playing anything, I was basically just there for the booze and the socialising, so I got my chips or tokens or whatever the hell they're called and divvied them up between my mates, and set off to work the room.

I caught up with a heaps of people I know and like, watched folks win terrifically and lose impressively, ate a crap-load of nibbles and got wasted on something called an 'Aston Martin' which as near as I can make out was almost entirely tequila. It was great! I also quite enjoyed giving my 'millions' away to all and sundry like I didn't give a damn, made me feel rich and powerful. Muahahahahahahaha!!

Oddly, when I was finally convinced to have a spin myself at the end of the night, I was pretty lucky. I shoulda maybe taken it seriously from the start, I coulda been rich for real!!

;)

Oh my GOD I cannot be bovered wiv this

BEWARE: RANT FOLLOWS.




People. GRRR!!!

You have one good friend complaining because she hasn't had any submissions for her student newspaper agony aunt column, so you take something from your life, spin it out a bit, indulge in a bit of hyperbole for a laff, make sure no names are named and send it in, then forget all about it.

Some weeks later you get another friend bawling her eyes out because you wrote about her (even though you didn't use her name or sign it with your own name), she takes what she reads in a student newspaper way too seriously - a student newspaper that is full of tongue-in-cheek humour - and she's completely blown it out of proportion and is calling you horrible, petty and immature. Even though she wasn't mentioned explicitly she say's it's obvious it's about her, when after a little probing it becomes apparent that somebody else told her it was about her.

At first she won't even agree to talk to you about it in person but attacks you by text, you apologise sincerely, saying that you're very sorry that she's upset but that that was never the intention and suggesting that perhaps she's taking it a little too seriously. It is, after all, just a trashy student paper and it was written somewhat humourously. She agrees to meet with you in a few days time to talk it over, and then her Significant Other gets stuck in. CHRIST!!

Then you get home and find out that she's been bawling her eyes out to your flatmate in your absence, and he seems to be actually ENJOYING this!! You determine that you have to find out exactly what happened by speaking to the editor of the paper, who knows the offended party personally (though not all that well, or so you think), and your friend who writes the agony aunt column (who she doesn't really know at all, to the best of your knowledge), to see if you can work out who's been sh*t-stirring. You then decide that you're no longer comfortable in your flat and should start seriously thinking about moving out ASAP.

It's enough to make you give up writing for trashy student papers.

It's enough to make you give up on people.

>:(

Loathing

Dear S,

I’m sorry, I don’t know what to say to you anymore. I know I’ve been rude to you lately, but sometimes I just don’t want to look at you, I don’t want to talk. The thoughts are all mixed, I can’t make any sense of my life.

You’re better off without me. I’m childish, selfish, paranoid, neurotic, moody, pessimistic and angry. I’m not there for you nearly enough, I don’t visit your house nearly enough, I don’t ask you about your day, I’m vain and attention seeking and self-obsessed. I wait for you to text me so I can ignore it. I think of you as my enemy rather than my boyfriend – I don’t think you’re on my side, I don’t think you’re interested in me, I feel like you’re always more interested in dvds and my computer than you are in me.

I’m not good-looking enough, I think you could do a lot better, and I take your interest in other people as proof of my own inadequacy. I think you’re a bit of a hypocrite, you want monogamy but you’re always checking other people out online, in movies and in real life – to me it’s the same as actually sleeping with them. You’re a lot better looking than me, I get comments all the time, and sometimes I wish you’d cheat on me or tell me to fuck off. I want you to hit me instead of have sex with me, I want you to call me fat, stupid, lazy, selfish and pathetic. I think I gave up on us a long time ago, before we broke up the first time. And in 2008 I guess I gave up on ever being in a relationship with anyone again.

I missed you, but I got used to the idea that I was going to be lonely the rest of my life. I can’t function sexually anymore, I don’t want anyone to ever see me again, and I don’t want to be touched. I can’t get you off anymore, I’m not what you want.

I want to kill myself – I think about it a lot – I don’t want to make it to 30. I imagine hanging myself, setting myself on fire, walking out in front of traffic, overdosing in the bath. Sometimes I actually try it. I’ve started throwing up again. At the UniQ conference in Auckland, while the rest of you went out clubbing, I went to the park and made myself puke out everything I’d eaten that day. I spent a little while crying, and then when I ran out of tears I climbed on the motorway barrier and tried to will myself to jump. What stopped me was not a will to live but fear of pain and the fact that couldn’t ruin someone else’s life that way.

I feel like I’ve boxed myself in, painted myself into a corner – I’ve made sexuality my whole life, stupidly, knowing that it’s something distresses me, that sexual satisfaction is something I can’t ever have because my life situation prevents me – now I’m too old, fat and ugly, I have too many mental health problems, and my body doesn’t work. I wish I was asexual, but the more I want it, and the more my body keeps responding sexually – though never fully – the more sex disgusts me.

I have made myself a laughing stock by being openly bi and polyamorous, people don’t want me and it’s because I’m fat and ugly. The gym won’t change that – neither will dieting – all that happens is that the skin gets looser and the stretch marks get worse. I’m sorry I ever mentioned it to anyone – I’ve probably embarrassed you too. I never want to be seen again, I just want to die. I keep thinking about suicide but I’m scared of getting it wrong and ending up even worse off. I have every intention of doing it before I turn 30. And I don’t want anyone to know what happened – I want to just disappear. No funeral.

It’s hard to look at you because I think you’re beautiful, and you make me look even uglier. When we go anywhere together I think I hear people laughing at me, calling us ‘fatty and skinny.’ I never want you to take my photo again, I want all photos of me erased or burned.

Will you just LISTEN already??

When people learn that I have a mental illness, everything I say tends to be filtered through their existing preconceptions of what the mentally ill can and cannot do.

Let's say I have an argument or an unconventional belief - however well thought out and logical, however long it's taken me to come up with it - it's inevitably seen as a sort of twisted logic, I can't possibly be right. Homosexuality or bisexuality? It's because I'm ill. Polyamory? It's because my illness has distorted or warped my views on love and trust. The right to die? That's my depression talking.

People confuse causation with correlation. My bisexuality doesn't cause my depression and anxiety, neither is it a result of it. Polyamory is not a symptom of mental dysfunction, it's a position I take based on my understandings of human biology and psychology, it simply makes more sense to me than compulsory monogamy. I would change my opinion on it if I found evidence to the contrary. And my stance on the right to end one's own life is something I have come to having witnessed first-hand the misery and despair that failing health often brings. I strongly believe in human dignity, that people should be given the choice to take control of this one last aspect of their lives and that their loved ones should be free to assist them (or not). It’s respect for humanity - not weariness of it - that brings me to this conclusion.

Sure, when I’m deeply depressed I might think of ending my life, and sometimes these depressions last for weeks at a time. But that impulse is coming from a different place than my intellectual stand on the right to die. If I were someone else with the authority to grant permission for Danny’s death, I would refuse it, because I understand that Danny is not capable of making a rational choice at those times.

I think other people’s confusion of causation and correlation with regard to my unconventional thoughts is largely due to their simply not knowing enough about mental illnesses and the people who are affected by them. It’s assumed that my problem with depression and anxiety affects me all the time, people often fail to understand that I have significant periods of lucidity that outlast the periods of depression. In those periods, I have ample time in which to think rationally and clearly, and to reflect on whether my beliefs and understandings are the product of my illness or whether they are actually valid conclusions.

Yes, I probably do have experiences in my life that make me more likely to hold some of the opinions I do and feel the things I feel, who doesn’t? But I get frustrated with people thinking that I am incapable of thinking critically and discerning truth, that I am blind to my own condition and to the thought processes of ‘normal’ people. I think if anything my lapses into illness force me to be more critical, particularly of my own thought processes. I can’t take anything for granted.

I guess the point I’m trying to make here is that you can’t attribute any observable aspect of my being to another, as such, at least not without a fair bit of investigation. My mental illness is not a symptom of my polyamory, bisexuality or beliefs about death, neither does it cause any of these. It is another facet of me, it may have developed alongside some of these ideas and beliefs as a result of quite unrelated circumstances, and perhaps the marginality of my positions on these issues makes me more likely than most to experience mental illness, but you cannot attribute one to the other. Evidence from studies of other individuals and groups with these beliefs and conclusions exist, and they simply don’t support a causative hypothesis.

November 17 2008

Seven years.

I've been a self-admitted out homo for seven years today. And right now, I don't see anything to celebrate in that.

Being honest with myself and others - that was what it was all about. I believed so strongly that truth was the most important thing in life, that honesty was a force to be reckoned with. I thought I would change what 'gay' meant in New Zealand, I would reconcile homosexuality with faith and spirituality. I would prove that it was possible to be both Christian and gay. I guess I was hoping to change Christianity too.

But I couldn't do it, could I? Trying to make sense of the Bible's stance on homosexuality, I could come to no other conclusion but that the Biblical writers didn't know what they were talking about, and that actually, the truth wasn't really so hard to see. The Biblical writers were just bigots, pure and simple.

It didn't stop there though. I found I could not be selective about what I took from the Bible, it was either all inspired or none of it was. I discarded Christianity, and it was one of the most painful things I've ever had to do. I felt robbed of the world I had invested so much of my life in, my whole purpose and meaning. I guess I've been grieving ever since.

Certainly no 'family,' bological or otherwise, has lived up to the love and community I experienced with the Church of Christ. With my spirituality in tatters, I threw myself into the gay community, hoping to find the same sense of belonging. I didn't find it - I was largely ignored because I was neither rich enough or pretty enough.

But I didn't give up on the gay community, again, I sought to reform, to guide, to support and encourage. I became deeply involved in caring for and protecting queer people - I joined the Wellington Gay Helpline, helped with the Newcomers' support group for gay men, campaigned for gay rights with the Civil Union Bill and wrote to newspapers, even contributing regular articles for Deviant, the weekly gay page in the Massey Student newspaper.

Maybe I got so involved in supporting the queer community because I myself was in need of that support. I always seem to be outside the norm, even within the queer community. My committment to honesty has seen me try to find responsible alternatives to the world of nominal monogamy, first looking at open relationships, then polyamory. I've renamed my sexual and gender identity to have more integrity with who I am, from gay to bisexual to queer, and now genderqueer or possibly even transgender. And it seems that my committment to honesty and integrity actually hurts me more than it helps.

I'm lonely. I am so overwhelmingly, desperately lonley that I spent last night, before this anniversary, contemplating suicide, and actually seeking advice on how to go about it. This isn't a new thing either, most of this year I've felt completely alone, utterly hopeless. What good is polyamory if nobody will love you in return? Why be open about your capacity to love multiple people if not even one person will hold your hand?

And this is the great irony of my life. I've constructed my whole abult life around promoting love and letting people be sexual in whatever way is most true for them, and yet I personally hate my romantic and sexual impulses. I want to mutilate my genitals more than what my parents already have by circumcising me, I want to tear at and scar my body to hide the physical scars left by my ambivalence toward food ands exercise, to hide my ugliness. I want to take apill to forever erase my passions, but more tah that I just want to leave the world I can never be part of - I want to just die.

Because this is me, I'm an all or nothing sort of person. If I can't love you, and that person, and that one, then I want to love no one. If nobody wants to have sex with me, I want to be completely invisible and blind, so that I see no one and no one sees me. I either can't stop eating or I don't eat at all.

Why am I talking about this? Why haven't I just swallowed a bottle of bleach or slit my wrists?

Because that's also who I am - I'm scared. I'm not scared of what's on the Other Side, because I no longer believe there is one. Death is just a blessed release, the end, the light going out. But I'm scared of getting it wrong, of failing and ending up crippled or incarcerated. I'm scared of the pain. I wish someone would do this with me, or for me.

I await oblivion.

Remembrances and Recriminations: A Year in the Life -- CHAFF 26 2008

So, the last Chaff for the year already!! Wow… the year has just flown by like so many flying monkeys off to terrorise dopey little girls in shiny red shoes and their irritating yappy dogs.

I don’t know about you lot, but for me 08’s been a bit of a rollercoaster… there’ve been plenty of highs, a few lows, some terrifying plungey bits in between and perhaps a bit of puking along the way. It’s got me looking back on the ride, and thinking that a fair bit of what we learn at university isn’t actually in our textbooks and tutorials, it’s what we learn outside of lectures and assignments, in our everyday lives.

So what have I learned this year? Anything??

Well I learned what a Quick Fuck is. The drink, I mean, and how to pour it.

I found out there are dictionaries of sign-language in the library. Seriously – it had never occurred to me that deaf people might occasionally need a dictionary. We live and learn.

I learned the surest way to tell if a guy likes you or not is also the simplest. Girls and homos, listen up. If he likes you, he’ll be physically near you for some reason… he’ll find excuses. If he’s not, he’ll stay away. You can pine and moon over him as much as you like, daydreaming about how perfect he is blah blah, but if he’s not actually around you, it’s a sure bet that he’s not thinking of you the way you’re thinking of him. Guys mostly suck at verbal communication, they avoid it. So if he isn’t sweet on you, or worse, actually doesn’t like you (i.e.: he thinks your breath smells, he draws pictures of you in the back of his books that involve various sharp implements and quantities of blood etc), it won’t come out in his words, he’ll just avoid you. On the other hand, if you see him often, like nearly everyday, if he shows up where he knows you’ll be and grunts, mumbles or stares at you, and if his reason for being there seems really random or silly, that’s almost a guarantee. If he blushes and stammers and stutters around you, that’s another good indication.

I learned that Sarah Silverman is f*cking Matt Damon, that Sarah Palin can see Russia from her house and that that constitutes ‘foreign policy’ for Republicans, that you should never trust a unicorn who wants you to visit Candy Mountain and that penguins can’t really fly, despite what David Attenborough would have you believe. Ah, YouTube, solace for the weary and fount of wisdom for the ages…

I’ve learned that people treat you the way you tell them to treat you. You tell them by your body language, facial expression and tone… what you think about yourself comes out in your non-verbal expression, and people pick up on that. If you don’t like you, you can’t expect anyone else to. And if you go around whining, saying “I can’t do this and that,” or “I’m not clever/brave/popular enough,” in a bid to get sympathy, then you shouldn’t be surprised when people accept that at face value. If you don’t look like you believe in your, nobody else will.

What else?? Making sure you get outside for even ten to fifteen minutes, for a walk or whatever at least once a day, does wonders for your stress levels. Even in winter, just taking the time to forget your schedule, your workload and that essay that was due last Thursday, and getting outdoors for some fresh air, can really help alleviate the anxiety. I’ve started walking through the Esplanade on my way to Massey, even though it’s five minutes out of my way, just so I can hear the breeze in the trees, see the flowers (or in winter, the mud) and just forget all the hassles for a few minutes, and it really lifts my mood. I recommend it to anyone – and if you can’t do it on the way to Massey, there are some nice gardens on campus to have a wander through.

I learned that Bebo is soul-destroying and encourages Obsessive Compulsive tendencies.

I discovered that lecturers are people too, not scary ogres hiding away in their offices who will rip your head off and shit down your throat if you dare to ask a question or ask for an extension (well, MOST of them aren’t). A lot of them actually like students coming to see them. Weird, I know.

I’ve learned that if you don't learn to say 'no' then you end up being expected to do everything, in your flat, your club, even with your family and friends. They just assume that you haven’t got anything else to do, or that you’ve got everything else under control. Rather than take on extras which you can’t handle, overwhelming yourself and inevitably letting other people down when it all turns to custard, it’s better to just say ‘No’ from the outset, explaining why, and if they don’t like it then tough. Your mental and emotional well-being is more important.

What’s more, there are people here at Massey to advise and support you when it all goes pear-shaped or gets out of control… the Student Counselling service is great, even if you just need someone to have a good ol’ bitch to, about flatmates, assignments, work, family, whatever. You don’t have to feel that you gotta do it all by yourself. Then there’s the Student Learning Centre too, they can be really useful at the start of a long or difficult assignment, they’ve got tons of helpful tips and they’re pretty friendly. I got some awesome handy tips from them for studying towards my exams last semester.

I learned that The IT Crowd is the most fuck-awesome British sitcom EVER.

I learned that getting past years’ exam-papers off the library catalogue to see what you’re in for is a REALLY good idea. Best to do it near the start of the semester, though, it puts you in the right frame of mind for your assignments and classes, and it gives you a fair idea of what is and isn’t relevant.

Getting people in your classes together to study really helps too… you can go over stuff you’re not clear on if you’re too shy to ask the lecturer, it’s a good way to make friends, and if you’re like me and don’t live with other students, it’s a great way to stay in study mode after classes are done for the day. AND you can use it as an excuse to talk to that girl/guy/ambiguously gendered person that you’re sweet on.

I’ve learned that writing for CHAFF is a great way to spout off poorly-thought-out opinions and be publicly obnoxious, and get away with it (mostly). Good times…

I think I’ll leave it on that note, actually. If you don’t hear from me next year, it’ll be because William has murdered me and buried my body in a field somewhere. In that event, I leave my Furby collection and Britney Spears albums to Cassie.

Peace y’all,

DannyR.

Did It Again...

Ok so there's this guy, let's call him E.He has a partner, T, they've been together seven years, they seem really stable, and they obviously love each other a lot.I can't stop flirting with E, he's really sweet and smart, and I think he's pretty handsome. I'm not trying to break them up, I don't think I could compete with T, and I don't want to. E seems to like me a bit though, or maybe I'm just reading too much into it.I have to stop doing this. I just want to be asexual... so why can't I be?