Calling it Quits

The time has come to end this vicious cycle of abuse.

I'm struggling with this.  You might have noticed my, shall we say 'absence'.  Clearly things are not the same here in the land of Next Tuesday.  What was at first so satisfying is now, well, just fucking difficult.  It use to be easy.  It use to be fun!  I don't know when the effortlessness lost the lessness, becoming more than it's fucking worth, but it did.  And now it's done.  And here we are.

Grieve for my cynicism.  I barely understood how to spell it. 

I'm what leading behavioral psychologists working with the world's top tobacconists refer to as, 'an addict'.

Like many of us lucky enough to be leading a life of comfort, privilege and circumstantial good fortune, I've made a habit of completely fucking myself (un-fun style) with excessively unhealthy lifestyle choices.  The super-fun ones that are carefree and sophisticated, as well as other forms of irony.

Let's consider a dumb idea:  Conditioning.  This happened 'to' me.  It was out of 'my control'.

I had all of the basics of survival handed to me on the most silver plated of platters and enough of a brain to recognize not only my good fortune, but also an awareness that what I was doing was bad for me.  And I responded by rejoicing in addiction with a level of enthusiasm likened to true believers at the Church of Sing-A-Long Gospel.  Each inhalation was a mission to draw more of the comforting poison into my being.  After all, it felt good and filled in all the gaps.  Exhalations ignited a sense of accomplishment, achievement - I did it!

Gradually I was transformed.  I became my own empowered representation of the awesome thing that I was doing.  It was who I was and I was proud of who I was and I understood who I was and what I was doing and - thank you for your concern - but it's okay, ok, 'cause I know, you know?  I'm me.  I'm a smart person and I know and it's okay because I'm a smart person and I know.

And then years went by.  And then one day it occurred to me that more than half my life had gone by.  And my intellectualisation continued and my ability to use words to make my stupidity seem like all sorts of poetic beauty was as easy as lighting up another cigarette.

Did this happen to me?  Is addiction something I learned how to do?  Was it simply an example of how my genetic code hardwires my personality?  Because, of course, I'm not in control of the who, how or what I do, done and am....am I?  Would I love to believe that so I could live a life that was without accountability?

The mind is melded by more than the abilities of parents, the quality of schools, the variety of the feathers it rests on and the people responsible for the 'getting busy' that got me here.  And none of these questions have answers anyway.  So let's pivot perception and ponder that perhaps explanation is found in how I made it stop (If indeed that's what I did do).

One day, not too long ago now, I breathed in the wrong spot on the train and inhaled something that for once was to my benefit - an illness that knocked me out for around about 30 hours.  During this time I was incapable of, well, anything really.  It was that variety of sick that was all fever and shakes.  I could barely dress myself let alone muster the energy to consume a cigarette.  In fact, for that 30 hour window it didn't actually occur to me to have one.

And then I recovered.  I could enjoy delicious solids once again.  They tasted better than usual.  I had been given my first day without a cigarette, without exercising any effort at all.

Recognising that opportunity exists has always been easy.  Making a choice and committing myself to an idea is a different story.

The choice in front of me was about change.  Change is something I was use to - it was that inevitable thing that was going to happen to everyone and everything.  But few and far between was the choice to change.  The opportunity the illness afforded me was a chance to control the change.  Instead of having it forced upon me or happen around me - this time it would be a conscious decision, from the inside, executed deliberately.

"Today I won't smoke."

Cravings were surprisingly minimal.  Seriously.  I'm actually a little weirded out by how few there were.  They were just thoughts.  Poking at me and trying to get my attention like some sort of outdated Facebook functionality.  They kinda sounded like this:  'I WANT TO SMOKE  I WANT TO SMOKE I WANT TO SMOKE NOW NOW NOW NOW NOW FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK'.  Like a child throwing a tantrum in the supermarket.  I embraced the child as needed.  His little tantrum made sense.  I gave him a hug and told him it would be okay.  I knew it was temporary and true to form the tantrums didn't last long.

I understood that my triggers weren't going anywhere - there would always be a reminder of the habit, something to be annoyed at, bored by - or whatever 'thing' that instigated the action.  Those things (the ones that are not me) weren't going anywhere, so part of the choice was to make room for them.  Triggers became reminders of the choice I had made.  Reminders became meditations.  Meditation made my thoughts stronger and eventually it evolved into a resolve that could be sent into battle against the dwindling urge to smoke.  After a time it became obvious that winning these battles was very easy, so I gradually upped the anti by re-introducing things like 'alcohol' and 'being social'.  The short story is, it worked.

To any smoker who might be reading this looking for advice, it is without a doubt a mind-game and like our good friend Dr. Seuss understood, "you play against you."  This game can be only be won by transforming your mind.  At it's core the task is simple: disgard the idea you have committed to and commit to what is essentially the opposite idea.  (Side-note:  Simple doesn't mean easy!)  The way you play is up to you.  The way your mind works, the logic you have, the opinions, beliefs, values, what you like, what you don't, your favourite fucking anything and everything else - all of this is who you are as an individual (and it's beautiful).  Consequently, the way you commit to/disregard an idea is going to be different to how I do it.

But I do know one thing about you:  You can have, be or do anything you want.  The trick?  You just have to believe you can.  It's annoyingly fucking simple.  Like lighting a cigarette...

There's a new unit of measure in town and it's called loss.  It is perhaps the mightiest instigator for change that I am aware of.  It breaks through the most stubborn of genetic hardwiring and erodes the most violent of conditioning.

For the first time in as long as I can remember, my senses work properly and everything that I have lost can be tasted, smelt, and indeed felt.  My dead dad, my first love, my puberty, my cat buried in the backyard, my virginity, failed career attempts, failed friendships, failed value systems  (wait, did I just suggest that I can smell my lost puberty?  Ponder that one, Internet.)  Everything that I've ever defined myself with, drawn comfort from, or was influenced by; essentially those things of 'value' that are no longer present.

You know that annoyingly chipper phrase that has all made us want to punch someone in the face, "what doesn't kill you makes you stronger"?  Well, what's your choice?  Did you realise you had one?  Did you realise you were making one?

Choice A:
The shit that you go through and reach the 'other side' of (or whatever) made you stronger somehow.  You have gained +5 "I'm an Awesome person" points.  Congratulations!  You may continue being alive.

Choice B:
You reach the 'other side' of the shit you were going through (or whatever) but it affects you in such a way that you're less Awesome than your were, or whatever characteristic you care about, that makes you the difference between 'you' & You.  You have lost +5 "I'm an Awesome person" points.  Congratulations!  You may continue being alive.  

Clarification
In no way do I mean, nor endorse, the act of deflecting feeling the 'shit you were going through'.  Au contraire, I wholeheartedly endorse the act of feeling the 'shit'.  I further more advocate that it is important you do so.  This 'choice' I refer to occurs on the 'other side' of the feeling.  Embrace the shit.  

I can now recognise that the best of me seems to be tethered to something shitty that has changed me.  Something shitty, or fucked up, or unfair, something I've lost, something taken away, something painful that caused a trauma.  The ones that I've embraced and 'got through' make me better.  The most obvious example is that I'm a better person than before my dad died.  Embracing this very painful loss transformed me for good.  

Do we need trauma to change?  Nope.
Can we use it as opportunity?  Yep.
Is it gonna happen whether you like it or not?  You bet cha.

Now for the piece de resistance:
My cynicism and my smoking are tied together.  My cynicism and my smoking have always been methods for deflecting the shit instead of embrace it.  As much fun as it is to point out that Chris Brown and Rihanna's relationship is fucked up, I think what I was really doing is just distracting myself from the greater problem, namely, problems.  With the nicotine out of my system, cynicism just feels like I'm consuming the product exactly how I'm meant to.  I'm meant to be distracted by it.  I'm supposed to pour my energy into disliking it.  Preventing, perhaps, something constructive?  A nap would be more constructive.
I, along with the rest of the world, face legitimate issues that are deeper than illegitimate journalism.   And these problems need to be embraced for what they are.

So this is goodbye, old pal.  To everyone who has encouraged and supported me in this process,  thank you.  Sincerely and dearly!

You will hear from me again.  It just won't be Next Tuesday.
Dx

The Grief of Bikram

There are times when the world does an okay job of not being a big bag of fucked-up crap.
Let's get sincere for a moment.

I've been what scientists call "content" lately.
....yep.
As such, I've been struggling to be super cynical.  (Gasp!)
Cynicism, we've learnt, fuels Next Tuesday.
Contentment overshadows cynicism and forces Next Tuesday into hiatus.
So with sleepy Valium eyes and matching lobotomy smile, I stare at our world and take in all the beauty that surrounds...FAIL!
How will I ever maintain relevance if I don't have a strong opinion about Rihanna?
Or some kind of emotional crisis about being a slut?
Or the emoticon thing?

Well calm the fuck down already.
Really, calm your mind.
Check-in with your breathing.
Steady your heart rate.
Readjust the way you're sitting.
Lift your chest.
Lengthen your spine.
Engage your core.
Distribute your weight evenly across your feet and press into the Earth.
Do it.
With confidence.
Be still.
Be strong.
Be a fucking Tree.
And with purpose and clarity:
Breathe.

I'm one of these people who heard about the torturous practices involved in Bikram Yoga and said,
"My eventual career as a Backstreet Boys Tribute Band backup dancer could benefit from this.  Sign me up."

Bikram Yoga (the hot one), like much of what we work for in life, makes you sweat.
For those unfamiliar it's a 90 minute session in a space heated to 45.6°C (105°F).
Participants perform the same 26 postures and 2 breathing exercises each class.
It's kind of smelly.
It became popular in the 1970s.
It doesn't let you leave.  (Well, it does, but, just don't.)
It makes you question some of the basic shit you believed you did well.  For example: laying down.
It forces you into positions that explain why the expression "What the fuck?!" was reduced to three letters.
It consistently pushes you beyond the limits of what you understood to be your physiological and psychological thresholds, lengthening and strengthening these states of being....not to mention your spine.

Also consistent with much of life are the various opinions of Bikram, specifically the debate about it being good for you or not.  I'm not going to contribute to this.  Should this be what you're after, Google can now be found on the Internet.  I'm going to talk about something far more (get ready for it) cynical.

In a life both plagued and progressed by the doubled-edged sword of excessive and unnecessary word use (see), Bikram manages to achieve something previously thought impossible: shut me the fuck up.  Even more amazing is the lack of train-of-thought!  For 90 minutes, Bikram simplifies existence to my breath and the posture.  

That was until my last Bikram session.

She was one of these teeny-tiny people who, due to a tragic case of spatial-unawareness, had no fucking idea how much room she was taking up.  Bikram studios are rectangular, wide enough for two rows of humans.  Naturally she lay her mat down in the mid-space between the rows, consuming that which four participants would usually inhabit.  And of course this was next to me.  And of course I was bothered by her continually interrupting my view of the mirror with her incessant need to exist.

I didn't know it, but I had just begun one of those 'Journeys of Self-Discovery'.

I knew I was in trouble when I started providing the voice for the stupid babushka doll tattooed onto her shoulder.

"Hi!  Wanna hear a secret?  There's nothing inside me.  It's like a metaphor for this bitch I'm attached to."

I couldn't help but project all my rage toward the babushka.  It symbolised everything my inflamed perception of reality needed to rationalise feeling shitty about something stupidly trivial.  In an effort to achieve some version of serenity, I immediately started denying that I had a problem with Ms. Babushka at all.

"I enjoy finding people obnoxious.  It makes experiences better.  Like super-eager shop assistants who don't know how to back-off."

As the class continued it became apparent that the spatial-unawareness extended into a form of auditory-unawareness as well.  Groans, heavy breathing, the occasional chuckle - are all common place inside the Bikram studio.  However, the sounds permeating from behind the Babushka were similar to what crows would sound like if they were forced to have sex underwater.  This got worse as we transitioned from the standing postures to the floor postures, Ms. Babushka started actively trying to engage those around her, including me.  My eyes rolled so far into the back of my head that I was momentarily blinded, falling out of the posture and collapsing into a pool of failure on the mat.  I believe I landed head first (for maximum foreshadowing effect).

There was no denying my rage at this stage - and yes, I rhyme every-time - but surprisingly my anger deflected off the Babushka, rebounded against the mirror and hit...myself.

"Congratulations on letting this impact you so severely   It must be relieving to know that your undoing becomes done by standing next to someone mildly annoying.  This class that you paid for to achieve a meditative state - money well spent, dumb-ass.  Prepare to fall again cause you're not concentrating.  How's the ground?  Comforting?  It's better for you down there, isn't it.  Exhausting yourself by RAGING like some skinny gay Hulk.  You suck.  Go write a blog about that one you fuck nut."

No matter how angry I got with myself, Ms. Babushka didn't miraculously dematerialise.  And I was right, I had misdirected too much energy into being annoyed and barely had any stamina left to complete the class.

In an act of desperation I attempted to bargain my way out of the situation.

"Dear Gods of Bikram.  Please lift the roof off the studio and with your giant God hands, pluck this bitch from my sight.  I promise I won't be such a dick to my Mum anymore."

Surprisingly, this didn't work.
I was out of ideas.
That's when the depression hit.
Everything I had achieved leading up to this moment no longer mattered.
Everything that was waiting for me after this would be characterised by my failure.

I sat out for a posture and gulped at my water bottle, aimlessly searching the walls for a clock I already knew wasn't there.  I put on my humble face and got into position to begin the next posture.  For a second my eyes closed and I made a silent request - the request I usually pretend I don't have a use for:

"help"

I honestly don't know who I was asking.
I don't believe in God.
It's possible I was asking myself.
Surprisingly it was my late Father's voice that offered a response:

"You don't need help right now.  Let it go."

...yep.
So, long story short - I did.
With each exhalation I released the judgement I had been directing at Ms. Babushka and myself.
I did this until there was nothing left but quiet.
With each inhalation I reminded myself that commitment, be it beneficial or not, is a choice that I make.

Just as my mind and body found each other and figured out how to work in unison, the teacher switched off the lights and left us in Dead Man's pose (laying down).
The class was over.
I smiled and let the tears stream down my cheek.

"It's okay to miss your dad."

I decided to walk to the train station instead of catching the tram.  My endorphin high made everything seem beautiful and it felt like a good time to appreciate the simple things.  Even the faint garbage under tones that lingered in the air, delicately balanced against a harmony of urine, vomit and over-ripe banana, reminded me that life is series of choices.  Everything that can fuel my satisfaction, my anxiety, my equilibrium, the things that just fuck me off - at their core, are just choices I make.

The universe then sent me a drunk homeless guy who required first aid.  He tripped on the footpath and landed on his head.  He accepted my assistance getting onto his feet, but was defiantly against an ambulance.  He was insistent that he didn't care if he died in his sleep from the concussion I feared he had attained.  Reasoning with him wasn't working, so I choose to change my tact.  I got a bystander to surreptitiously call an ambulance whilst I kept him talking.  All I needed to do was capitalise on my excessive and unnecessary word use.  The conversation flowed as steadily as my breathing.

While we waited for the ambulance he told me about the meaning of life.
It's hard to explain but it had something to do with Next Tuesday,
Dx

I Turn to Emoticon

I've been having issues expressing myself lately.
As such, I predict this entry to be disheveled at best.   

(inhale)
It's little things really.
I'll accidentally, ever so delicately, let slip something like, 'You sir, are a waste of the valuable resources it takes to maintain your idiotic existence and the planet would be less burdened without you in it.'
When what I meant to say was, 'Wearing a backwards baseball cap & sunnies at the gym is an interesting choice.  You must have a thing for skinny jeans given your upper body is so impressively wide and your legs are so impressively...not wide.  This girl you appear to be courting looks stunning with a full face of make-up. She's smart to avoid breaking a sweat whilst exercising, lowering the intensity of the stair master to its Geriatric Hill Climb program.  You're both awesome examples of human beings.'

Those familiar with my (let's call them) turns, understand that this behaviour should be considered a warning.  Back the fuck off until I've figured 'it' out, whatever 'it' is.  Random douch-bag behaviour from the likes of Captain Backwards-Cap and Lady Maybelline (maybe she's just fucked in the head.) should simply be opportunities for me to either 'unearth the funny' or dismiss.  But when humour shifts into cynicism and my inner bi-atch takes the over, shit turns CRAY until I figure what the fuck my actual problem is.

As I sit in a rut of irritation, I turn to the Internets in the vain attempt to achieve what I know I cannot:  Connect.  The flashing cursor on my blank Facebook status mocks me, daring me populate it with Taylor Swift lyrics, impromptu poetry or the sad emoticon.  I instead consult Google for a fix of Cat Memes.

It was around page three that I remembered how to smile.  At the same time it occurred to me that the sad emoticon was probably (almost) a good choice.  Emoticons provide us with a way to communicate without the need for anything that would constitute regular standards of human conversation and ultimately the best get-out-of-conversation-free card for when all you want to say is, "Go fuck yourself."

The only problem with using the sad emoticon is how uncomfortably literal it is.

I saw it as duty to my future self to create a set of emoticons that I could turn to when I next turn. Emoticons that could clearly communicate my state of being, better than any words ever could, yet somehow were devoid of 'sad'.  I share these with you now.

"That sounds grrreeeeeeeeaaaat"

"Backwards peace sign, front of mouth,
tongue sticks out between fingers" or
"here's an alternative suggestion"

"I accidentally shit my pants" or
"I'm in an uncomfortable situation"

"Let's blow off our responsibilities and get drunk."

"Hi!  I can't remember what your name is...again"

"I'll have what she's having."

"Would you like to share my lunch?"

"Botched facelift"

Time will tell if these work or not.
I give it til Next Tuesday.

Dx

Failure Island

If I were trapped on an island and could only bring one thing with me, that thing would be Jeff Probst.

Reality TV show Survivor has once again cast off (get it?) for what I believe is the forty millionth season.  My knowledge of geography has also expanded to encompass Caramoan, which according to Wikipedia is in the Philippines, apparently.  They've again gone with the Fans vs. Favourites format.  This is awesome because the previously played players playing means that as viewers we have to spend less time waiting for them to become vengeful, manipulative little fucks to each other.  Television at it's finest.

As I looked up from my Mac that was playing Survivor and spotted My Kitchen Rules on the TV in front of me and heard Masterchef recapping from a different point in the house, I got to thinking about reality TV.  More specifically the contestants of these 'programs' and how these 'people' come to be selected for these highly noble, advantageous voyages.

MKR is a show that I'm relatively underexposed to - I've only seen the stuff that's impossible to avoid, ie: the giant billboards, the home page of your local Fairfax publication, the free homeless people blankets they give out at the station - but if I understand this show correctly, eventually hosts Mr. Manic Smile and Le French Guy poison everyone for being completely useless.

Masterchef, which is now based in Melbourne, further elevating our sense of foodie-entitlement (it now wears a cravat), seems to be about watching confident personality types speak to camera about being impossibly awesome then epic-failing under the pressure of a challenge which relates to the thing they said they were awesome at.  Nice follow through, motherfucker.

If I had to (let's say at gun point) compare my life just to contestants who signed themselves up for cooking shows I'd feel pretty good about myself.  I appear to be sane.  I'm not 100% egotistical to point of nausea.  I understand that bones don't disintegrate if you boil the fish for a brief amount of time.

As I pondered the glorious relativity of it all another thought feel out of the sky and hit me like bird shit:  Thats the point!
These show's purposely hire contestants who make us feel some vague sense of good.
By 'good' what I think I mean is superior.
By 'superior' I mean, not epic-failing.

We live in a culture that cultivates failure for it's entertainment value.  Let's face it, failure is pretty much the best thing ever, when it's not you - and watching people fail to the point of epic, makes all your failures seem like successes!  It's a win win! (actually, it's a lose lose - double negative - becomes a positive - BAM!).  There's just something beautiful about watching someone's soufflé collapse after they've applied themselves to some extreme level that it brings them to tears.  Or the awkward stance a contestant adopts when a judge cuts into an undercooked piece of meat, then pushes the plate back towards them.  To me, nothing confirms that my life is on track more.

MKR & Masterchef are perfect examples of the failure-security-blankets reality TV provides.  Best of all it's not just limited to cooking shows.  Often all we need to do is watch people standing around in order to feel that beautiful sense of 'at-least-i'm-not-them'-ism.  This expands our horizons to things that end in Kardashian, Housewives of Guys Who Have a Thing for Girls Addicted to Plastic Surgery,  and Big Brother for the generation born post 1984.

The reality of reality TV reveals that us westernised humans will make successes out of failures.
And there art goes again, imitating life.

Someone should make a show about that.
And call it Next Tuesday,
Dx.

1000 Words: the road trip

As promised this entry shall have something to do with the world being a beautiful place, or whatever the fuck I said.  Let's do this.

It's friday and for us people with jobs that keep the machines of business hours running, we're all about ready to snap.  Violently overturn our desk, throw the computer out the window and tell our bosses they can 'suck it, I quit!'.  But the salvation of a sunny Melbourne evening reassures us that in just a few hours time, we can start drinking.  Then we have two whole fucking days to do whatever.    

Weekends are Awesome.  

Weekends that involve road trips are even more Awesome.

A few weekends ago I went on a road trip and took a fucking fuck ton of photos.  

I then dump the photos into Final Cut and set it to music.  

I then upload the video to YouTube and force all my friends look at it and say nice things to me.  

I then can sleep at night.

I do that sometimes.  Pretty much every time I'm in a passenger scenario on a journey that takes a while, I'll set the camera (Canon EOS 5D MII)  to stalker-paparazzi-mode and capture the absolute fuck out of the situation I'm in.  The result it a choppy sort of time-lapse...thing.    

I call it:  

1000 Words: the road trip

(duunt dunnnn dannnnnnnnnt!)

I always choose a song that is significant to the situation in some way.  To me this song feels both chillaxed and a bit chaotic in spots.  It is also one of the best fucking songs ever and if you don't think so then....we won't be going to Ikea together, ever.

I hope you enjoy it and say nice things to me because I was being serious, my sleeping patterns are directly linked to how much external validation I can absorb - psych! - you can hate it if you like. 

If you didn't vomit from motion sickness all over your pretty top and are interested in seeing more, check out my YouTube channel.  And if you did vomit then you're welcome. 

Maybe rub some soda water into the stain. I'll take it to the dry cleaners, should be ready by next tuesday,

Dx

Ethics. And other shit we pretend to have.

The Grammys recently showered their glorious golden syrup all over our eager faces and I am once again reminded that the world is a fabulous place that simultaneously makes me dry wretch with sweet sadness and vomit sugary coated balls of disgust.

Chris Brown & Rihanna.
Is there really a better example of what's wrong with the world?
Take a seat Global Warming.
Step off eons of religiously fuelled violence.
Calm down threat of nuclear war.
Take a chill-pill likelihood of E. Coli super virus immune to antibiotics.
Go home, you're drunk, starving people of....you get the idea.

The problem I have with Chris Brown and Rihanna, (who I shall now refer to collectively as CBR, which makes it sound more like some catchy auto-tuned virus) is they are successful.  This says more about you and me than it does about them.  Let me explain.

CBR each have a limited amount of talent and each was able to achieve a level of commercial success independently prior to colliding into each other.  This in and of itself is okay, they hadn't done anything too bad just yet.  Pop music norms such as auto-tune, inability to perform live (at least singing, but check out that video they didn't want you to see), the overly sexualised film clips, etc will always be the characteristics of this market that are both easy and somewhat redundant to attack.
Easy because it’s true.
Redundant because they're not going anywhere.

'Bad' in this instance is more about their 'relationship' and to be more specific, the way their relationship has played out publicly, how it will continue to play out and how CBR seem to be now purposely capitalising on it.

I'm a little sketchy on the details, but I'm pretty sure this is what happened:
So, these two were going out - or whatever, and like, tabloids were into that, duh - and then like, one time Chris, like totally punched Rihanna in the face and she like, feel down the fucking cliff, right, and then they were doing some like ninja shit all up the dairy section of the supermarket, and the store manager came out and was like, 'get the fuck out of my store' and then she like, called the police and they came, and were like, 'don't hit her', and he was like, 'I love you, I'll fucking kill you', and she was all, 'take a bow, motherfucker', and then like, restraining order and now they like are fucking again.

Whilst most of that was clearly bullshit, the parts that are less bullshit (they were together, there was violence, then separation, now they're back together) is what makes me really question the relevance of human beings, because we (those of us who are not CBR) apparently crave this shit.  We eat it up like heroin flavoured ice-cream.  We rub it all over our bellies and rejoice in the entertainment value.  We tune in everyday to get our fix and this makes us feel awesome and gives us something to talk about.

Meanwhile most people I know, including myself, find it difficult to get through an entire telecast of a news program (real news ie: ABC, SBS) because why?  It's too depressing.  All financial crisis, and terrorism, and starving citizen's of North Korea.  It's fair to say that I feel a slight disconnect with what versions of depressing we are happy to define as entertainment and what is so depressing we can't watch it.

The real kicker for me, what brought the story full circle, turned my stomach and made me fall into a pool of my own bile, is that clearly CBR are utilising the publicity of their relationship, fuelling the machine that pushes their tabloid trauma on us and furthering the gain for themselves.

Now for some home truths...I have to admit that I like some of CBR's music.  Rihanna seems to have an uncanny ability to deliver catchy songs, and Chris Brown's continued success after the public reveal that he smacks around his girlfriend, was kind of hypnotising.

So hypothetically, is pirating their music furthering their career?  A friend asked me and I was like, I only just got into blogging, like 10 years after everyone else, I don't know who Torrent is...

I promise that the next thing I post will be about how the world truly is a beautiful place.
But I can't escape from the fact that, sometimes, it's just not.

Sometimes it is on Tuesdays.
Dx

Old Tom Cat, New Tricks

I've spent much of my adult life being what 'not-gay-people' would term: Whore.

Oh, I've had the odd relationship here and there (please note the word 'odd'), but dating wise my history consists of casual sex encounters, buddies that require the word 'fuck' for clarification, friends with the added benefit of regular STI checks, and hook-ups where you actually get down.
(say down, like it's dooooooowwwn, and arch your back - yeah you got it)

Even my mum describes me as a 'tom cat'.

But this isn't about complaining about how gays are promiscuous.  And, really, no-shit we're promiscuous.  Who isn't aware of that these days?  I don't think people are surprised anymore.  Also promiscuity is not a bad thing in and of itself, in my opinion.  Also not all gay people are promiscuous.

I feel the need to add the following disclaimer at this time:

GENERALISATION ALERT
I'm gonna make a some generalisations.  I own this and accept the fact generalisations are not a true reflection of the complexities of our world and human behaviour and the characteristics of our various groups and subgroups and individuals.  I shall do my best to word my sentences with the grace and respect to the fact that I am generalising.  I'm still gonna say fuck a lot.  Like that.  And like this: fuck.  Now shut the fuck up about it.  

In my opinion gays are lucky that we're more inclined to be able to treat sex casually.  Sure, it has its draw backs (I'll get to those) but the amount of straight friends that have expressed jealousy at my ability to achieve the casual bow-chick-a-wow-wow suggests that it's something to appreciate. 

In fact making straight guy friends jealous of the version of 'tale' we're 'tapping' (ew) is one of the more common characteristics of the gay-guy/straight-guy friendship.  As is gym, drinking beer, and discussing how fucking confusing girls are.

The way dudes are wired, with the penises (penis-i?) and the testosterone, and the need to not be emotionally attached to stuff cause it's like a weak thing (yeah, Gays can also behave like emotionally repressed Donald Drapper types.....mmmm Jon Hamm) makes us more inclined to be open to the idea of tom-cat-like-behaviour.

The other obvious factor is that Grindr has replaced the word 'hello' with 'show me ur cock'.  The age of social-media and hyperconnectivity as made casual sex so accessible that promiscuous-ness has noticeably shifted into the standard Gays' default mode of operations.

The troubles associated with casual sex only really come about when participating in casual sex but not treating it 'casually' - ie: you're emotionally compromising yourself by having casual sex.  And this is a whole other fucking thing (hehe, 'fucking thing') that is not for this entry.

To end the waves of generalisations and bring it all back to me (S Club. yeah I went there), I have completely emotionally compromised myself before - and let's face I'll probably do it again.  I've gone through phases of 'promiscuous-healthy' behaviour, to 'promiscuous-I-need-to-feel-validated', to 'self-imposed-nun', to 'dear-fucking-god-when-will-this-drought-end'.

I recently decided that I had become bored of casual sex.  At least the versions of it I was having and how it was making me feel.  It was an unfortunate statistical rarity when the sex itself was ever any good.  And even when it was there appeared to be something missing.  At some stage sex had become predictable - like a movie that's ending was obvious by the time you were done watching the opening credits.  And unfortunately Sidney Prescott just never fucking died.

I faced the harsh reality that sex couldn't be as casual for me as I was allowing it to be.  That I need to start making different decisions in my adventures through the confusing land of single Gaytown.  These decisions were bound to achieve different results...potentially no better than what I was getting before, but at least less predictable.

I think all this fucking yoga I'm doing lately has really shifted my motivations around.  It's not like I don't want to have sex (fish gotta swim, bird gotta fuck - note, I am the bird), but it was time enough to recognise that change needed to occur.

So I'm seeing this guy for a second date.
We meet on Grindr (is there any other place to meet people anymore?) and were able to have screens worth of correspondance without ever sending each other our penis-i.  Stranger still, after meeting him in person and feeling relieved that he was as easy to converse with as he was to correspond, I still don't know what his penis looks like.

This is new territory for me and I have no fucking idea what's gonna happen.

I'm seeing him Next Tuesday.
Wish me luck.
Dx