Cross a bus and a tram taking away their best attributes you’re left with the engineering marvel that is the trolley.

I just used my computer’s desktop as an analogy to explain why I place things the way I do on an actual desktop. My, how times have changed.

On Jack’s vicarious anguish

It’d been nearly a week and that queasy feeling in Jack’s tummy wasn’t going away. He’d pondered the events of these past days over and over, and it wasn’t clear to him what bothered him more—what had happened, or the way in which she was handling it.

They’d enjoyed a wonderful evening in the park together. She’d lovingly stuffed their picnic basket with a number of delicious goodies, including his favourite snack: praline ice-cream sandwiches. The children playing football in the background, the noisy party-goers at their barbecue grill, the nature-lover meticulously cataloguing different kinds of birds—all the activity around—was lost to them. They were in their own little world. The hours had flown by as they cuddled and conversed, and it was nauseatingly-cute the way she kept insisting on feeding him.

It wasn’t conscious at first, but even through her smiles, Jack could sense the discomfort brewing in her eyes. It didn’t come as a surprise to him when she abruptly told him she’d like to end the evening and go home. By now the agony was apparent in her eyes, and Jack helped her up and cleaned up a bit before they left. Though he had a hunch as to what the problem was, it was clear that she wasn’t in any frame of mind to talk. And so he didn’t ask. She’d always had the most painful periods of any of the women he’d known, and he instinctively gazed at her cute derrière, not to gawk at her as he so often did, but to examine her clothes for spotting. What he saw—the growing blotches of deep red—didn’t leave any doubt in his mind. Unaware of the seriousness of the situation, he wrapped an arm around her and helped her home.

Her blue jeans were a shade of purple by the time they reached.

She wasn’t crying on their way home. She wasn’t crying when she told him. She had an unconcerned look on her face, and as she puffed her 93rd cigarette for the day, she casually tossed out that she’d miscarried. Though he knew that he wasn’t the father, Jack was distraught. The more he attempted to console her (thinking, hoping she needed it), the more she mocked him for his foolishness. She found it rather silly he should care so much for something not his.

He should’ve realised it when she kept up her heavy smoking and drinking even after finding out about the baby. She never wanted it.

I’m going to be in Sweden over the next few days! I think the plan involves some hiking, swimming, boating and a PS3.

If underwear had pockets, we’d never use pants!

Happiness is overrated

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So here’s what I just realised: I’m in an unfulfilling relationship. It took me a long time to arrive at that conclusion, and, quite frankly, I’m still not certain whether I can clearly articulate what the problem is. But here’s me trying.

I’ve come to realise over the course of my existence that happiness and sadness, levels of prosperity or contentment and a host of other things are just states of being. As hard as society has tried to condition me into thinking otherwise, I firmly believe that none of these states are inherently better or worse than any of the others. They’re all little more than strokes in the rich canvas of life; some cheerful and colourful, others deep and morose. And as with any masterpiece that isn’t doused with pretty pastel shades, a life needn’t be filled with joy and contentment for it to be meaningful, moving or even beautiful.

I don’t see why more people don’t see this. Why is there a constant quest for happiness and prosperity and popularity? What’s wrong with knowing fully well who you are and what you have—and being fine with everything, including how you feel about it?

Now, I’m generally a very negative person. (But you already knew that.) I don’t see it as a problem, and I don’t want to fight to change it. And this brings us back to what I was trying to say in the first place. I’m in a relationship where I’m never allowed to be morose without incident. I can’t be bitter or sarcastic, nor can I say mean things about the world which I feel has denied me so much. I can’t peacefully sit in a corner and mope, nor can I hold conversations where I repeatedly bring up past mistakes or revisit bad memories.

But guess what, all that stuff—the queasy feeling that comes in my tummy from all that stuff—feels right to me. I don’t want to constantly talk only about positive things. I don’t want to plan for and “fix” any of these things in the future. I don’t even want to fucking smile sometimes. I just want to be who I be, and not have the conversation topic turn toward the one thing I dread the most: Women and their insecurities. How she doesn’t feel adequate. How she’s not pretty enough to satiate me anymore. How she’s not a wonderful enough aspect of my life to make me cheery.

A man can’t just be melancholic anymore and have it be nothing to do with another.

Meet the new theme

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Same as the old theme.

After some months of idle planning, I finally commenced the process of sprucing up the journal earlier today. It’s not all there yet—I have a list of some ten significant things that are still broken—but when it’s done, it ought not to look too different from what you’ve known to come and love. I’ve just attempted to simplify and streamline the innards while making it look as consistent as I could across different browsers.

Fixes should be cropping up over the next few days as I go through things and run into problems, but you’re free to point out anything that’s particularly bothersome to you.

Happy reading loyal reader!

When you see your gay friend practising his toast for his lesbian best friends’ wedding, you know you’re not in America anymore.

“I’m less unhappy with you than away from you.” Why is it so hard for women to see that that’s a compliment?

Just returned from the new Harry Potter film. While I must admit it was visually gorgeous, the plot was kinda meh.

People I gift cameras to have a penchant for losing them.

Nauseously sweet wedding sweets

I come from a small immediate family, but my extended family more than makes up for it by being exceedingly large and well knit. I come from a community where everyone is overtly curious about everyone else, and consequently does what they do to keep abreast of each others’ lives. I can’t believe I’d forgotten how boisterous they could be, and how much their behaviour got under my skin; my hypersensitive, introverted skin. It’s no surprise that over the years, I’d avoided most of these folk—along with their questions, opinions, judgements and their noise—first blaming the rigours of grad school, and later living far away from them all in some remote part of Europe.

But even that can’t keep their strong tentacles from roping me back in. Here I am, right back in the thick of things: a cousin’s wedding that everyone’s invited to.

As I’d mentioned earlier but did not harp upon, I’ve spent the past few weeks gallivanting across the U.S. And while the first bits of my trip were fun and relaxing—featuring nothing more than tranquillity and intimate moments—subsequent legs of the journey have been steadily spiralling out of control. I’m being overwhelmed by just about everything and everyone, and have this intense urge to flee to somewhere secluded and peaceful. It’s almost as if every bit of news, every offhand remark, every even-if-innocuous question, even the slightest of babels—everything—causes me anguish. I’d spent so long calming down, opening up and realising how it felt to be contended and happy. I can feel it all coming undone.

I really am happy for my cousin. I’m sure it mustn’t have been easy for him to get to this point—is it really easy for anyone?—and I’m excited for him. Sadly, all I’m waiting for is to get back home. Away from all of this and retreating into my own cocoon.

Ineffectual

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It was the second, perhaps the third, time that night. I had that sinking feeling of despair wash over me as I realised how little of a man I was. As I lay over that beautiful woman—wet and ready with her legs parted in invitation—I found myself doing the unthinkable. I was desperately holding my shrinking cock in my trembling hands and stroking furiously: I needed to be hard again. I needed to feel that wonderful sensation of her pussy lips wrapped around me once more. I needed to feel like the strong man towering over that delicate flower rocking rhythmically as I caressed her chest and face with my own.

I needed to be within her.

I am shrinking some more. Panic is beginning to set in. Her annoyed breaths are turning to sadness as she’s trying to egg me on. “Please,” she sighs, “don’t stroke yourself when you’re over me. Just enter me.” I could have died at that instant. I haven’t felt as little or as inadequate as I did right then. All I wanted to do was to show her how much I loved and needed her. All I ended up doing was to struggle to stay hard and convince her there was something wrong with her form.

I don’t deserve anyone, especially not such a gentle loving creature that adores me so. I don’t know what went wrong, but I am terrified.

Hey, wait a minute. That’s not how this story ended!

However the story did end, the moral of the tale is this: Don’t use newfangled muscle-relaxing, cock-desensitising, stay-hard-for-her-longer condoms.