vitriol

I am filled with a malice before unbeknownst to me. My only means of describing it is, once again, and unsurprisingly, to use the words of another. In this case I shall use the words of Camus to describe my schadenfreude. The Fall, the O'Brien translation at page 48:

From that moment onwards, without really intending it, I began, in fact, to mortify her in every way. I would give her up and take her back, force her to give herself at inappropriate times and in inappropriate places, treat her so brutally, in every respect, that eventually I attached myself to her as I imagine the jailer is bound to his prisoner. And this kept up till the day when, in the violent disorder of painful and constrained pleasure, she paid tribute aloud to what was enslaving her. That very day I began to move away from her. I have forgotten her since.

Ahh, but it wouldn't be unintentional for me. No, I intend and moreover I would relish perpetrating such torture. Not that I am or would or could. But for some reason this disgusting possibility is to me right now most appealing. I know not from whence or wherefore this malice arises but it's here, hidden just here beneath the surface. Disguised by flowery words, mostly not my own; concealed by my claim of nicety, my actions to support it. Am I a judge-penitent? No. I'm just a man, just like every man. My selfloathing is moderated by this thought; all men are this and worse. I don't just loathe myself, therefore, but all of mankind.

The masculine reference here is not limiting, but nor is it coincidental. All people are this, but men the worse, it would seem. Even if not, unbridled and indiscriminate hatred needn't be justified to you, Gladys. Fuck you.

good days and bad.

I had a small nervous breakdown earlier this evening. I fucked up my moot, totally failed at it. But it's not the failure that bothers me. I can handle failure.

Take for example another small failing today: this morning I had my administrative law tutorial and it was terrible. The submission I made had almost no meaning at all. It certainly wasn't an accurate reflection of the law or a valid argument to make. I had be buoyed by the return of my second briefing paper (86% or a high distinction, plus a request to put it up as an example for next year's class) but this wasn't why I was ok with doing such a shitty job. I was ok with it because my preparation involved reading the question as I was getting dressed.

The moot was different. I spent five hours in the library today. Admittedly not all of it was preparing for my moot - some of it was sleeping and I also talked to Nikki (Rogers, old school friend) for a while... but I spent quite some time preparing. Reading cases, taking notes, underlining important sections. I spent $2 on printing. I wrote and rewrote. I worked at this. I didn't work exhaustively but I was prepared. I knew what I was doing. I was ready. I was going to kick arse: smash it, as they say.

But I didn't. I failed dismally. My presentation was poor, I gave bad arguments, I didn't have the cases to back up what I was saying. It was terrible. This is the problem. I don't mind failing. What sent me into shock and made me cry (well, I didn't cry about it until I was home and watching sad DVDs, so we can blame them) was that I'm not as good as I think I am. That's the great travesty here. If I work really hard and still can't do it - well, that's incapacity. I know there are things I can't do. But none of them involved using my mind. Anything that required thought I could do. Anything. Give me enough time and I could learn about Puritanism in Elizabethan England or electrical engineering or organic chemistry or gender studies or finance. This was my strength. This is what made me feel good about myself. I was capable of learning anything I put my mind to. But if there are things I can't do... that bothers me greatly. Especially if it's advocacy, precisely what I'm training to do, what I want to do. It makes life difficult.

This then triggered a massive round of self-hate and Nikky-angst and such. And the die alone business. Great fun all around.

the inevitable question

What's wrong with me?

Here are a few great date ideas I've just stolen from the intarwebs:

• Build forts out of furniture and blankets, and wage war with paper airplanes.


• Write a piece of fiction together. Outside at a cafe. Ask strangers when you get stuck.


• Try and visit as many people as you can in one night, and turn as many things inside their apartment upside down as you can, without them noticing.


• Hide and seek in the park


• Go around the city with sidewalk chalk and draw hearts with equations inside on random things


• Dress up as pirates, commandeer shopping carts, and have a war upon the high seas.. er, parking lot.


• Go on a search for as many good climbing trees as possible, climb as high as you both can in all of them, compile photo evidence


• In the middle of the night, drive to the beach, so you arrive just as the sun is rising. Have a breakfast picnic, then fall asleep together. Bring a sun umbrella.

And despite these I would never get such a date. Not because they're not wonderful ideas but because I'm me, and nobody wants to go out with me.

So back to the question: what's wrong with me?

pornography

The whole point of this blog was so I could talk about things I don't admit to except while drunk. So while drunk, here's an admission. First, I cut my toenails today. I love cutting my toenails. I love it more than almost anything else in the whole world. Fingernail cutting just feels weird, but when I cut my toenails, it's so SATISFYING. Massive quantities of nail which take substantial force to remove can be ... removed. I let my toenails grow specifically so cutting them will be more fun. Freaky or what? Pretty freaky. That was actually my postsecret, that cutting my toenails was more satisfying than any orgasm I'd ever had. Possibly hyperbole, but I don't want to actually make a direct comparison, because I'm afraid of the answer. Anyway, that's not what I wanted to talk about. I was going to talk about pornography. See, I occasionally look at pornography. But it's very occasional and never satisfying (though I do like a good story with intrigue, good characters, plot development and the occasional bit o' sex). But I ... I just get bored with life. Massively bored. Like... I want to do something, something important, meaningful, interesting, fun, exciting. Something that's not administrative law or more fucking website coding. So I turn to something 'naughty' - pornography. And it bores me to and I'm not interested and I'm left in the same position as before but with guilt and a browser history to reinforce it [for clarity, I do know how to clear my browser history, so don't worry about that]. This is the state of my life, often. Trying to fill my lack-of-friends(-with-whom-I-spend-all-my-time) void with porn. Not a great idea, even for me.

I was thinking about disabling comments but fuckit.

(baileys + vodka).rating++

I always seem to get drunk at home these days. It's not good. But having to drive causes all sorts of problems.

And I'm not drunk enough to tell (girl) that (thing). So you see the trouble.

Also, admin assignment due monday. Bugger.

Also also, I wish I was a punk rock girl with flowers in my hair.

fucking nikky

That's an exclamation, before the dirtier-minded of you get at the title...

Also, before we start, Hot Fuzz was fantastic. Like, astoundingly good. Go see it. Now.

When I was in Melbourne with Nikky, Gideon needed me. And she dragged me away from him because she didn't want me spending time with him, she wanted to spend time with me. But he couldn't say I needed him, and I knew that, and ... I just wanted to spend time with my brother. And fucking Nikky wouldn't let me. Well, fuck her - and unfortunately, fuck everyone in the future too. Gideon comes first. Always.

I can remember now when I knew Nikky wasn't the one for me. It was at Youth Parliament, at what's known as the FOF. The FOF, or Fire of Friendship, for those not in the know, is a campfire at the end of the week where everyone shares experiences. It becomes, inevitably, quite emotional. I take full advantage of that and cry my eyes out. It's good to do that once a year or so. I knew because crying my eyes out, I didn't want to be around her. I wanted ... I don't know. Someone else.

The FOF raises another interesting point, this time about Pat (the subject of the dream, but let's not mention that, shall we? Though I guess he's the only close-to-close male friend I have since Tully, about whom I also once had a kiss dream... very curious...). At the FOF Pat and I always say "we'll talk later", fully intending it. And we never do. I'm sure there are entire equivalence classes* of people who do this. Astounding.

* An equivalence class is a special set which is equivalent under a specific type of function. I've clearly been doing too much maths.**

** I'm reminded here of a bumper sticker I thought would be funny: 0 - 100 asymptotically. God I'm sad.***

*** I wish I were drunk. Or drinking. I need a good excuse to sometime.

decipher this, fuckers

QW5kIHNvbWVob3cgYnkgYSByYW5jaWQgdHdpc3Qgb2YgZmF0ZSBJIGhhdmUgbWFkZSBteXNlbGYg
aG9ycmlibGUgaW4gdGhlIGV5ZXMgb2YgdGhlIGxhc3QgcGVyc29uIHdobyBsb29rZWQgdXAgdG8g
bWUsIHNob3dpbmcgbXlzZWxmIHRvIGJlIG5vdGhpbmcgYnV0IGFub3RoZXIgc2hpdHR5IGd1eSwg
YXMgaW1tYXR1cmUgYXMgdGhvc2UgYmVuZWF0aCBoZXIsIGFzIGN5bmljYWwgYXMgdGhvc2UgYWdh
aW5zdCB3aG8gc2hlIHJlYmVscy4gR29vZGJ5ZSB0aGVuLCBPbGl2aWEu

Also, if vodka isn't the answer, you're asking the wrong question