theferrett: (Meazel)

You can’t write something that people like without writing something that people hate.  For every fan you acquire, you’ll get some idiot going, “God, why does anyone listen to this jerk at all?”

God forbid you write about political or cultural issues.  As Gamergate has shown, writing bad reviews of videogames is a crime that some feel is properly punishable by rape threats and personal, targeted, we-have-your-home-address attacks.

And I have some folks who hate me.  Like, really hate me.  They bitch about me in comments, write osts talking about what a toxic fartbag I am, feel that I am everything that is ruining men/women/culture/ponies, and in general spend some nonzero portion of their week seething that I exist.

These people aren’t my enemies.

They’re not important enough to be my enemies.

And that’s a distinction I draw for my own personal sanity.  The Internet is a nice place, but when you’ve got 400 comments raining down on your head, there’s this tendency to go oh my God, this is so huge, it swells to fill the world like Jörmungandr, the snake that will strangle the world come the end-times.

Then you go get a fro-yo, and not one single person putting sprinkles on their banana yogurt shakes you by the lapels and screams, “Hey, are you the person who wrote that awful post?” and you remember: hey, nobody gives a shit.

Mostly, this is just words on the Internet, and gossip, and people you’ve barely met disliking you.  And I’m not discarding the importance of Internet buddies – I remind you that I met my wife online – but so much of the chaos that gets caused any day is like a Facebook status.  You post it, it gets a zillion comments, and two months later it’s pretty much vanished.

The Internet has the memory of a goldfish.

Now, people: people have the memory of a vindictive elephant with sawn-off tusks and the scent of an old hunter in its nostrils, fetishing the day that elephant will hunt down its own enemy Liam-Neeson style and crash through it’s window and IT’S ELEPHANTING TIME, BABY.  So you have people who’ll never forget.  And they’ll remember all the horrid things you said (whether “what you said” was justified or not), and they’ll bring it up again, and they’ll leave snarky comments everywhere.

Truth is, though, most people read your post, and forget your name immediately thereafter.  There’s a billion squawking heads on the Internet.  You are one of them, and chances are good that the world has forgotten about your awesome (or horrible) post in the same way you don’t remember the name of the person who wrote that article on Buzzfeed.

But me?  I refuse to let some snarky comment from a single elephant-hunter-hunter replace the goodness of, say, an actual hug from my genuine wife.  Or a face-to-face conversation with my daughter about life.

I have made a decision that my Internet life isn’t that important, and while I do actually have people who would prefer I died horrifically in a grease fire, I’m not going to call them “enemies.”

Enemies are people who do more than bitch about me.  My enemies hurt the people I love, undermine my relationships, cause me unwanted physical pain.  To call the author of a nasty blog post my “enemy” is granting them a power over me that, frankly, I don’t feel like giving.

They’re the opposition, of course.  They’re racist, misogynist, backwater scumholes who I will work to my best extent to stop in their goals.  But at the end of the day, I can put that down and snuggle in with my wife to watch another episode of Agents of SHIELD, because in the end, they’re background noise.

That’s how I function.  Because I get exhausted by constant conflict.

But there are those who get energized by battle, and for them, I say, “Go get yourself some damn enemies.”  Because they could be enemies; if they had their way, they’d certainly ensure you were second-class citizens in every way, and if that’s not enough to paint someone with the “enemy” targeting reticule, then I don’t know what is.  (Not to mention that, as the Gamergate has also shown, “being a guy” is like a superpower on the Internet in that if you’re a woman, douchebros will go to great lengths to attempt to dismantle your life in ways that go well beyond insults.  Which would make them my enemies.)

If being filled with seething hatred is what slaps a sword in your hand, then I say drink deep of rage, my friend.

But if – if – you’re like me and find all of this strife to be an effort that you push past in order to try to make change in the world, then you might try stuffing your so-called “enemies” in a box.

Me?  I have the pleasant happiness of knowing that my not-caring drives the opposition mad.  I’m cheerful to them.  I wave hello when I see them trashing me.

And when I finish the day, there I am cuddled up with friends, the haters tucked neatly away, concentrating on what matters to me.  There’s my wife.  And my friends.  And the things I love to do.

Those guys are HTML code somewhere on a server.  They’re not this sweet kiss from my sweetie.

I wouldn’t let ‘em get in the way of that.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

So.  A couple of hours before the convention.  That’s usually when I stress out.  All my social anxiety hits me in one ball of DON’T WANNA GO, and I curl up for a bit by the suitcase and pretend like I’m packing.

Gini comes in.  She hugs me.  I tremble.

“You love me even though I’m a total wreck, right?” I ask.

I hear her silence.  Hear her considering all the ways I’m wrong.  And then she finally says the right words:

“Yes,” she tells me.  “Yes, I love you even though you’re a total wreck.”

And I hold her tight and thank her.

Other partners would tell me that I’m not a total wreck, that I go to conventions all the time and I do well, that I’ve managed to eke out some mild fame out of being a writer even though I’m a neurotic and a depressive and a cauldron of anxiety.  But I didn’t ask, “Am I stronger than I think?”

I asked, “If I’m as bad as I think, will you still love me?”

And she would.

She would.

I’m gathering my things right now.  I’m printing off the chapter I’ll read at the con. And by the time I get there, I’ll be okay.

But if it’s not okay – if I’m not okay – she’ll still love me.

She loves me if I’m a total wreck, and that gives me the strength to be more.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

So I’m currently planning on getting a tattoo, and as such have been mainlining Ink Master – a reality show where ten tattoo artists show up and permanently mangle people’s flesh as part of a contest.  I find it interesting, as I do most reality shows based on a profession, because I haven’t thought about all the challenges involved in tattooing before and now I get to see people fucking them up on a weekly basis.

But it occurs to me that there are two ways of deciding who gets kicked off this week on a reality show, and both of them suck.

You can do the “who did the worst job this week?” vote-off, and that’s unpredictable but frequently unsatisfying.  MasterChef does this, and quite often it takes a chef who’s been kicking ass all the way and tripped.  Whereas a less-adventurous cook can keep chugging along, because maybe he didn’t win but he didn’t fuck up badly enough.  So you often wind up with some more-talented people getting kicked off prematurely, leaving the dregs behind.

Sometimes the dregs make the top four.  And that’s inevitably enraging.

But if you do the “Who’s done the worst job over the course of the contest?” then the endings become pretty predictable.  After the first five shows or so, where everyone’s still learning the craft, most contest shows boil down to two or three frontrunners.  As you kick out the dregs, the frontrunners continue to shine, and the top four are, well, the folks you thought would make it in.

I’m not sure if there is a way to have judges vote off people that doesn’t lead to either talented people getting kicked off for dumb mistakes, or talented people being predictably good at their jobs.  The nature of reality shows is that upsets occur – in that, they’re like sports, weirdly addictive because anything really could happen – so it’s not a guarantee either way, but I am curious if there’d be a way to structure such things to strike a balance between the two.

I can’t think of one.  But y’all are bright.


Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

“I wonder what it would look like if we drew up a chart of who slept with who?” said someone terribly unwise in our social group.  And because we were all stupid, we agreed this would be a fantastic idea.

Now, we were all in our mid-twenties, a bunch of slutty punks, and infamously incestuous.  Also pretty gossipy.   But we loved each other, a wide circle of probably about thirty friends of varying levels of friendship, and we all hung out to mosh at concerts and drink to excess and watch this new “Simpsons” show, you’ve gotta see it, it’s the fuckin’ bomb.

So one of us put up a piece of posterboard on the wall and wrote each of our names down: the “central” members of the group floating near the center, the people we didn’t see that often hovering towards the edge.

We decided on colors to connect these names: blue for dating, a broken blue for dated-but-broke-up, red for a single hookup, green for FWB.

Then we started drawing lines.

It was easy, at first: everyone knew I’d dated Jennie for years, and everyone knew that Bryan had once dated Gracie.  Then again, Gracie was infamously trampy, and proud of it, so when she stormed into the room and drew what seemed like a firework of connections to all her past lovers, it was with a tinge of pride.

And after a bit, the board looked like this:


Which is to say, a fair number of lines, but… comprehensible.  You could see the scope of things.

But after the page had been up for a week or two, people had gotten wind of it, and decided to drop by to see if their personal nexus was accurate.  So we had more visitors to the apartment, and each of them made clucking noises with their tongue.

First, they’d correct their own chart, adding a few lines that we hadn’t twigged to.  And then, invariably, they’d smirk, saying, “Oh, you hadn’t heard about Debbie and Clyde?” and then proceeded to add a few more bits culled from gossip that hadn’t wended its way to our ears.

This happened over and over again, until the chart started to look like a spirograph:


And in that tangle of lines was madness.  We weren’t that slutty, were we?  We couldn’t have been this hungry to fuck, collectively.  I mean, each of us liked having sex, and we’d been friends since high school, but… this couldn’t be a typical social group, could it?  It was like Robert Chambers’ Yellow Sign, a sigil that teased out madness the longer you looked at it… and yet none of us could look away.

The madness grew, because of course there were buried resentments embedded in the chart.  Dayne had slept with Lynn when she was on a temporary break with Phil, but Phil hadn’t known that.  Mike had outright cheated on Liz with Jennifer, and whoops, we’d remembered that Mike had slept with Liz but had forgotten when.  Happy couples who looked at the chart did so at their peril, for their past history was laid out for all to see: all you had to do was hunt down your lover’s name in that tangle of threads, place your finger on them, and follow the lines to every bit of sexual history they had.

Shoving matches broke out.  Couples broke up.  Friendships took huge dents as past betrayals bobbed to the surface.

And I?  I hid, happily, because though being a slut I was a major focal point in that web, I also knew of at least two women I had hooked up with under dubious circumstances… and those connections were mercifully absent on the chart.

If I was missing connections, then others doubtlessly had to be.

This chart, crazy as it was?  Was incomplete.

After enough psychodrama had been churned up, someone – we never found out who – threw the chart out in the trash before it could cause any more trouble.  The people who had yet to see it moaned a little, sad that they’d missed out on such a treasure trove of gossip, but they didn’t complain overmuch.  I think they knew what would happen, and in that they were way wiser than we were.

But I’ve been talking a lot about cheating lately, and all the people who’ve said, “Well, if you sleep around, you’re sure to get caught.”  And I don’t know, man.  A lot of affairs don’t ever come to light.  We shined an dim and guttering lantern upon our own social circle – which was, as noted, admittedly incestuous – and turned up a lot of cheating incidents that would have remained successfully buried for, like, ever, if we hadn’t stupidly decided to open-source our own gossip.  And I had at least two regrettable events in my past that, despite that, never were revealed – and, years later, have never been revealed – which means that others might be so.

When I think of affairs, and cheating, I think that they’re actually pretty easy to do.  And I think that while the consequences of being discovered are dire, the actual number of people who get away with it is far higher than anyone knows.

I think of charts.

I think of madness.

I think that chart was incomplete, and Lord knows that we’ll never get a full picture of anything.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

A weird thing:

Sometimes I write an essay in response to feedback.  And people go, “Well, I didn’t see that feedback!”

You wouldn’t.  Because I post to my blog at, which gets mirrored to Dreamwidth, which then cross-posts to LiveJournal.  And for most essays I then Tweet a link to it, and my Tweet gets auto-posted to Facebook.  And if it’s a relationship advice post, I often cross-post it to FetLife, which often takes on a life of its own if the essay hits Kinky and Popular.

I think I’m the only person who sees all the feedback I get.  Because I’m scattered across the damn Internet in fragments.  Which is fine, I enjoy it, but it is a little weird realizing that any given post of mine can spawn six different threads.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

“People who cheat lack morals. Ethics. A soul. Legal rights. They strangle kittens at pet shelters. Cheaters are as loathsome and repellent as worms, and should be left to drown in the street whenever their dark crimes are discovered.”

…which is an only slightly overblown summary of what some people told me in response to yesterday’s post on why I don’t date cheaters.

But I think branding cheaters with a red letter doesn’t actually help.

Let me be clear: Nobody should cheat. If you think I am espousing cheating in any form as opposed to, you know, being honest with your partner, then refer back to those three words in bolded text.  But I consider “cheating” (defined here as “breaking the agreed-upon rules of your relationship, usually via some form of violated intimacy”) to be merely one form of potentially-dealbreaking stupidity that people shouldn’t undertake, but frequently do.

Cheating is something bad that needs to be addressed in a relationship.  And a relationship that has constant cheating cannot sustain itself well.  (For one thing, if you’re constantly cheating that means you’re not getting some pretty fundamental needs met back at home, and that’s usually bad, mmkay?)

But relationships can, and do, recover from cheating partners.  And not in that sense that people bandy about of “Oh, he cheated, and she’s pathetic for staying, this tattered shamble of a relationship stumbles on,” but with partners actually acknowledging the mistakes on both ends that led to this horrendously stupid incident, and becoming stronger than ever.

Some of the best relationships you know may well have endured some cheating in the past.  When I’ve asked around, I’ve been surprised at who’s been through what.  It’s just, you know, that happy couples don’t typically share their experiences with you, in part because you probably consider it to be such a damaging thing that no one could possibly recover from it.

And again, let me reiterate: Cheating is bad.  It hurts like hell when you find out about it, it forces you to question everything about the relationship (because if they lied about what they were doing, maybe they’re lying when they say they love you), and surviving a relationship that involves cheating is a hellish, hellish time for everyone as you take stock of everything that’s left and decide if you want to stick around.

I would not blame you if you left.

But I would not think less of you if you decided to stay.

And I think the people who go, “Cheaters are amoral scum who have nothing good about them!  Nothing!” are simplifying life a little overmuch.  Yes, some cheaters are habitual scumbags who will fuck anyone over in sociopathic ways.  But others are people who got in over their heads, and did something horrifically stupid and for a long period of time, thinking they could have it all, and now – perhaps unwillingly, but still – they’ve realized the error of their ways.

Some percentage of those people stop.  They arise from their mistake.  And they become genuinely better people.

I’m not going to discuss how you can tell the difference, mainly because I’ve written about that before.  If you’re curious, you can read about The Four Types of Cheaters and the followup piece Infidelity: A Deeper Analysis of the Desperate Housewife (Or Husband).

If you’ve been cheated on, and are considering continuing the relationship, then I’d encourage you to read both those pieces.  Because figuring out what kind of cheater they are is key: some you can heal from, and others will just keep shredding holes in your self-esteem.

And I’m going to close by making a fine distinction here, because this is the sort of tricky thing where people who’ve been hurt jump to stupid conclusions.  If you’ve been cheated on and left, that’s perfectly fine.  If you’re reading this as me saying “You were wrong to not forgive more,” then you are misreading me.  Being cheated on is a tremendously hurtful thing.  It is not wrong to look that in the face and go, “I do not want to deal with the pain this is going to cause me, continually second-guessing myself on whether s/he is still being faithful to me,” and just get the fuck out of dodge.  That’s policing your boundaries.  I support that.  I always support that.

What I am saying is that people make dumb fucking mistakes.  And while I don’t disagree that cheaters lack integrity and purpose and ethics, I think that everyone lacks integrity once in a while.  I think that people all too often get off on the moral superiority of going, “Well, I would never commit that moral failing!” and forget all of the other stupid shit they’ve done in their past.

And most importantly, I think that people can often transcend their darkest mistakes.  That doesn’t mean you have to stay with them when they do, of course.  It just means that you shouldn’t say that redemption can’t happen, and shouldn’t imply that those who stay with those it happened to are living lesser lives.

Some people who cheated can become not-cheaters.  And given how harshly you judge them, well, I don’t think it’s all that surprising you wouldn’t have heard about the success stories.  And that’s all.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

My wife regularly gets emails from men who want to have a relationship with her.  But it’s a special relationship.  They have wives or girlfriends, but they’re combing OKCupid for someone who can keep a secret.

My wife usually doesn’t bother to respond.  Even though we’re polyamorous, cheating partners are a no-go for us.

And that’s not necessarily a moral issue.  It’s just damned good advice in general.

Now, for full disclosure, my wife and I are very pro-other-people’s relationships – even the people we don’t know.  Far as we’re concerned, if we meet a couple, then we treat them like we’re camping in their area and want to ensure the grounds are usable well after we leave – leave nothing but footprints, take nothing but pictures.  (Lots and lots of pictures, wink wink, nudge nudge.)

But even if we weren’t concerned about that, we still wouldn’t start up a relationship with someone who was concealing us from his or her other partners.  And why?

Because we think honesty, open communication, and bravery is the way to do polyamory.  And a person who’s chosen to cheat is already shown that they’re willing to lie to at least one person in a relationship in order to get their needs met.

Chances are not good that it’ll go much better for us.

“But Ferrett!” you cry.  “I’m trapped in a loveless marriage where my partner will get the house and children and my truck and my dog if I stay, and so I’m driven to cheat due to various factors!”  And yeah, there are some people in abusive relationships who can’t leave for a bunch of pretty decent reasons, and some people in alternative sexualities stranded in extremely hostile cultures, which is why I’m not quuuuuite willing to write off cheaters in general.

But regardless, a cheater has stated clearly up-front what they think of you: “You are not as important as the rest of my life.”  And of course every cheater will tell you how deeply they love you and how much you mean to them and how vital you are to them, but the fundamental truth is that when you enter into a cheating relationship, you have agreed on some level that yes, you’re not as important as all these other factors.  And that if something threatens those other factors, you can expect dishonesty.

For a one-night-stand?  That can work.  If you don’t give a shit about the person on the other side of the equation because you don’t know them, sure, I think less of you for what I consider to be a fairly sociopathic outlook, but it’s not fundamentally unwise for you to do so.

But a relationship with a cheater?  Oh, man.  What you’ve got is someone who’s already stated that they’re perfectly comfortable lying if they think it’ll get them what they need.  And they’ll tell you that no, you’re different, you’re the one they’re being honest with…

…and maybe they are.  Sometimes it works.  There’s billions of people out there, and no matter how dysfunctional it is, some group of people made it work for them.  Someone’s always going to go, “Hey, I dated a cheater and now I’ve found true love!”

And if I was saying you’d never make it work, I’d agree with you that this was a fine rebuttal.  But I’m not saying that.

I’m saying the odds aren’t good.

And if someone’s lying to their partner about their STI status, and their emotional state of mind, and what they’re doing, that’s a gun that more often that not eventually gets turned upon you.

(And that’s not even mentioning the issue that frequently arises among cheaters where they don’t see you as a person, they see you as a fantasy to be fulfilled, and sadly people treat fantasies very differently than they do living breathing human beings.  You quite often get treated like the fun new toy, which is awesome when they’re paying money to dress you up like Barbie, but then they get all confused when they pop off your arm at the socket and it turns out whoops, it doesn’t pop back in like you’re a plastic playtoy.)

So yeah.  For us, everyone’s got to be involved, or no one on our side is.  And there is a moral component to that.  But even if there wasn’t, we’d stay away because, hey.  Our business is stability.  And cheating?  Bad for business.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

My wife recounts what our divorce was almost like, in a beautiful essay written on our fifth anniversary, back when we had just gotten out of the worst of it.

Thanks to my blogging, a lot of people sort of idolize the relationship I’ve forged with Gini.  And it is a great relationship.  But there was a time when it wasn’t, and we struggled with everything, and I’m proud of what we’ve wrought and yet trepidatious that people think our love came out of nowhere.

We fought a lot.  We fight a lot.  We steer this relationship hard.  And my wife knows how bad things got, which is why we both cherish what we have now.

Fifteen years.  Damn.  Still a little weirded out by that one.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

So anyone who’s been reading this blog over the last year will know what happened to my goddaughter Rebecca.  A bright girl.  The funniest and sarcastic five-year-old you’d ever meet.  the kind of clever and bright girl who was destined for grand adventures.

Except what she was actually destined for was a brain tumor, which killed her on her sixth birthday.

Fuck destiny.

Right now, there are other kids who are also dying from cancer.  And science, blessed wonderful science, is working overtime to look destiny in the face and go “Fuck you, destiny, we have a child who’s going to live.”

But that magic takes money.

And my wife is raising that money, by doing the annual walk for Rebecca, and asking you to donate.  This is a rough, rough time on Gini; last year, this time, Rebecca was alive and doing well and we foolishly thought we were going to beat this.  And under a purple canopy, in a room full of people who would have sacrificed their lives for her, we found out just how wrong we were.  And that knowledge has eroded all of us, eaten our sanity, knowing that there was nothing we could do but hold her when she died.

There will be fucking other kids who die from this.  But I am asking you to look in the teeth of this fate and say, “Not today,” and donate what you can to take some family with a child who would die without the next breakthrough and make this a literal history.  I am asking you to take a dollar, five dollars, whatever you’ve got to shift the difference from “She died” to “She had a really rough patch when she was six, but look at her now!”

I am asking you to give because thanks to a convention commitment on my part, Gini will be doing this walk alone and grieving, and every dollar you give her will tell her that she is not alone.  That you cared.  That you remembered Rebecca and did what you could to help.

So please.  Share.  Retweet.  Give.  Do whatever you can.

Because there is only one God, and that God is Death, and what we say to Death is “Not today.”  We could not shout loud enough to save Rebecca.  But when humanity shouts it shouts with doctors, and medicines, and hospitals, and I ask you to raise your funds and raise your voices to silence that horrible future for some other set of parents now who, looking at their baby in the arms, does not know what is about to hit them.

Save her.  Fucking save her.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

In 1996, I had become a grownup and I didn’t much like it at all.

If you’d reduced my life to a checklist, it would have appeared I had everything: My first corporate job, with an actual salary, working at Borders Book Shop headquarters?  Check.  My first apartment, living on my own, having finally moved out of my mom’s house?  Check.  My girlfriend, having moved out to Michigan with me? Checkity-check.

But the job was stressful, and my girlfriend and I were tearing each other apart.

My girlfriend and I had matching social anxieties; we were both terrible about meeting new people, and so for two years we never made a friend.  All we had was each other, trapped in an apartment because we didn’t have the money to go out – and the apartment was a hoarders-style horror of comic books and ferret shit and sculpie clay smeared all over the floor, junk piled up in such quantities that we had to adopt a rolling seaman’s gait just to cross the living room.  You could not see our carpet, lost under a sea of things.

We fought all the time.

And when I say we fought all the time, I meant it.  There were daggers in our laughs, in-jokes made at each other’s expense, so even our fun times had boxcutters clutched within soft gloves.  Her strain of messiness stressed me out and mine stressed her out, and we didn’t agree on money, or the lives we wanted to lead – but we had no friends.  And we were both terrified of the other leaving, of being locked up alone with literally no one.

But that’s how couples worked, I thought.  I’d been raised in a welter of psychotherapy, so I believed that if we just aired our grievances honestly enough, for long enough enough, then this abscess would drain.  It had to.

This is where I met Gini.

Because at the end of the day, I had my closet.  The apartment was too small for an office, but there was a walk-in closet where I’d stuffed my computer, and in my retreat I found the Compuserve Star Wars Discussion Forum.

We tell our friends “Oh, we met in a Star Wars chat room,” but that’s actually a lie because nobody remembers BBSes.  I’d call out on my modem, download individual forum threads at an exorbitant rate, and then reply to all my online friends – the only friends I had.

Gini was one of a gang of regulars.  She was married, and lived in Alaska, and we argued about everything.  Everything.  We debated politics, and abortion, and America’s reliance on oil, and I didn’t bother to hold back to tell her when she was a fool because that’s the way this chat room worked, and she schooled me on any number of topics and actively demonstrated how I was an idiot….

…and for four years?  Not a spark of romance.  Just good old-fashioned internet tussling.

But goddamn if Gini didn’t make me smile.  She was smart.  She was cutting.  And she held her fucking own against anybody.

She was one of the dim sparks that held me together while my girlfriend and I slowly tore each other apart.

Then my girlfriend, quite sanely, left.

I was astonished.  We hadn’t been happy in some time, but… we’d been arguing.  And still, I was convinced that if we just analyzed what was wrong, endlessly churning up all the ways we were incompatible, we’d stumble upon a solution.

That’s how therapy worked, you see.  You talked until it worked.

My girlfriend was tired of talking.  And so she moved back to Connecticut.  Where she made herself a much better life without me, and I say Godspeed to you, sweetie, thank God you were smart enough to go.

And I did not die of loneliness.  Driven by desperation, I made some friends.  I dated around in Michigan.  And still, I spent time on the Compuserve Star Wars forum, because I loved the people there, and…

…I loved Gini.

That was a slow revelation, of course.  I got a flicker of it when she mentioned she was getting divorced.  And another when she was flirting with someone else in the chat room and I got jealous.  And I emailed to tell her that I’d never flirted with her only because I was “half a heartbeat away from falling in love with you,” and…

…she loved me too.

This was, of course crazy.  I still credit my mother for keeping a straight face when I told her, “I’m quitting my job to move up to Alaska and marry this divorced woman I met on the Internet, and take care of her two kids.”

But damn if that’s not what we did.

And Gini and I moved in together, and in a beautiful world I would have learned all the lessons from my ex-girlfriend and she would have learned all the lessons from her ex-husband, and the story would be over.

But as it turns out, Gini and I argued all the time.  Over a lot of the same issues.  We had screaming arguments over money, and jealousy, and messiness….

…but there was one difference.

I still remember that beautiful day dawning – and it was literally dawning, because Gini and I had fought all night.  Ten hours of debate over who was fucking up more in this relationship, that kind of agonizing argument that continued because we both sensed the other was almost reachable, just a few inches away from seeing our point, and so even as Gini washed up for work I sat by the tub and we fucking kept arguing.

And the light dawned.

And she turned to me and said, “You’re right.  I’m being shitty here.  I shouldn’t do that.  I’m sorry.”

And a miracle happened.

The thing was, she was being shitty and I was being shitty and our relationship was this feces-encrusted tangle of unforgiveness.  And I could have fucked up badly at that point, so badly, if I’d crowed and said, “Yeah, goddamned straight, you are fucking up, see what a horrible person you are?”

But when Gini saw her faults…

…I saw mine.

And I apologized, too.

I don’t even remember what the fight was about, which is terribly stupid, considering it ate an entire day for both of us.  All I remember is the golden light of the sun playing across our bathroom, Gini with shampoo in her hair, us holding hands, feeling like something tremendous had changed.

And it had.

And that was when I learned there were two kinds of arguments: the kind that just keeps knocking you down, and the kind that knocks over the rotten parts so you can rebuild.  And with my ex-girlfriend, I had made the stupid mistake of needing to be Right so often that I was dead-set on Godzilla-stomping her dreams to prove my point, and she dug in deep trenches and gave nothing because she wasn’t wrong…

…but when Gini admitted she was wrong, everything changed.


I don’t think we could have survived without that single moment in the tub.  Because of the two of us, only she had the strength to be wrong.

And here we are.  Today is our fifteenth anniversary.  Fifteen fucking years together, and we have grown to support each other.  We are a construction project continually in the making, investigating what’s not working, knocking down the bad parts, finding ways to bolster the weak parts.  Remaking.

What we have made is beautiful.

We’ve endured heart attacks, and death, and more death, and the inevitable fractures that come with polyamory, and financial stress, and job stress, and all of that has been accompanied with, as Gini wisely said during our vows – because even then, she could see things far better than I – us “cheerfully bickering our way through life.”

We argue.  A lot.  Continually.  Fiercely.  Sometimes angrily.  But that works for us because we are passionate, and we are builders, and what I didn’t understand back in 1996 was that the arguments only work if you’re willing to be wrong.

In 1996, I had become a grownup and I didn’t much like it at all.

In 2014, I had become a husband.  And I loved it.  I loved every moment of it.

As I love her.

Happy anniversary, Gini.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

I’m never sure why I write about depression.

I mean, I know why I’ve written about depression – it helps other depressives to feel normal, knowing that other people have gone through it.  But I’ve written enough entries on being depressed that frankly, you can go look it up.

And the big secret to being depressed is that it’s repetitive.  It’s like writing about breathing.  It’s a fact in your life, and not much changes when it arrives: Woke up depressed.  Again.  Didn’t feel much like getting out of bed.  Again.  Pondered calling in sick to work.  Again.  Went to work and did what was required.  Again.  Hated my novel.  Again.  Wrote 800 words anyway.  Again.  Felt guilty for not writing 1,500 like I’d promised.  Again.  Did the bare minimum of socializing so as not to worry people.  Again.

It’s not that I’m sad this time around, exactly, I’m just… unmotivated.  I appear to be a functional human being because I have accreted tons of habits to keep me going until such a time as I’m loving life again, and I am working on the novel (which I hate, which will take longer to finish now, and I really wanted this fucking thing done by October but I don’t think that’s happening), but I’m feeling very dead inside.

Gini tells me it’s probably Rebecca.  Could be.  Could also be that my Seasonal Affective Disorder, which usually strikes in the spring, has finally flipped and people will stop annoying me by saying, “You know, SAD happens in the fall, not the spring!”

But the fundamental problem with depression is that as a writer, it doesn’t give you much to work with.  You have no strong motivations except, perhaps, to dissolve into nothingness for a time.  You have nothing interesting to discuss because you don’t find much interesting.  I can fake passion in my essays because they’re reflexive now, but even so I feel a sort of Oh, that’s what I should write about instead of the solid Yes! that pulls me out of my chair.

There’s but one thing I’m looking forward to in life right now, and that’s tomorrow.  I’ll write about that then. That’s important.

But today, I’m writing about my depression because – well, I don’t know why.  It’s not like you don’t know I get depressed.  It’s not like I’m desiring support – honestly, I feel overwhelmed by all the social interaction as it is.

I think I’m writing it because it feels vaguely dishonest to be writing semi-daily entries about life and to pretend this isn’t saturating everything I do.  I’m working.  I’m writing.  I’m talking to people, albeit sporadically and in fits.  But inside, I’m just this gray numbness, waiting in life like you’d wait in line at the bank, waiting for something to change so I can feel again.

Right now, I’m just a mass of old habits, ticking along, more clockwork than man.  If I were in a better mood, I’d write about how habits become a survival trait when you’re depressed, but that would require energy I have.  But at the moment, I’m on auto-pilot, a degrading collection of learned behaviors acting in sequence.  Maybe it’s not important that you know that.  Maybe it is.

But now you know.  Take whatever you can get from it.  And move on.


Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

…I recommend Critical Hit Games, in Cleveland Heights.

They were a complete surprise to me, as we had driven to dinner on that side of town and I saw a gaming shop out of nowhere.  “GINI!” I said, grabbing her sleeve.  “A NEW GAME SHOP CAN WE STOPCANWESTOPCANWESTOP” and I kept yelling the words over and over and over again until she pulled the car over.

I wasn’t expecting much.  Most game shops are surly places, warehouses for a meager supply of stock, and since it was 8:00 I expected a single clerk to glare at me balefully as I wandered around a mostly empty place.

But no!  I was greeted by not one but two people, both of whom made eye contact – a rarity akin to platinum coins in the world of gaming shops – and unbelievably, on a Wednesday night, the store was filled with gamers.  Two roleplaying games going on, each with at least five people, a pretty rousing game of Dominion, and some third card game I didn’t know.  And the store was – hold your breath – clean.

I talked with one of the owners, and they’d only opened up two months ago.  But they’d made the very wise decision of reaching out to local gamer groups and saying, “Hey, come play here, you don’t have to buy anything.”  (Which is a really smart strategy for game stores, as it gets people trained to go to their store and makes them look successful when strangers like me walk in.)  So they’d contacted the Cleveland Pathfinder’s Group – there is one, apparently – and gotten people in the door, and they’re already sold out on their Khans of Tarkir Magic prerelease tournament.

So that’s going well.

Still, any gaming store needs a little love to thrive in this day and age, and so if you’re interested and on that side of town, I’d check it out.  Their stock is more weighted towards board games than RPGs at this point, sadly – that’s standard, these days – but they’re well organized and super-friendly and they have a signup board for games where if you’re interested in, say, playing Hero System or Vampire, they’ll put you on a list and notify you when they find a GM.  That, I kinda like.

(And I bought the new D&D Player’s Guide.  Because I am a goddamned sheep, my friends, I am a goddamned sheep.)

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

This was too awesome to sum up on Twitter, so I’m just gonna point you to this awesome fucking web page on The Occult Dangers of Pokemon.  Your highlights!

What if [children] carry their favorite monsters like magical charms or fetishes in their pockets, trusting them to bring power in times of need?

What if?  What if?  I remember the Tamagotchi plagues of the 1990s, when children routinely walked into the dens of rabid lions and trusted their plastic pets to shield them from danger.  Those children are now lion dung.  Can Pikachu be any less harmful to the feeble-minded?

He told her that during recess on the playground the children would “summon” the forces on the cards they collect by raising sticks into the air and saying, “‘Spirits enter me.’ They call it ‘being possessed.’”

Dude, you’re – you’re not playing according to tournament rules here.  Put the stick down and fucking tap your Mewtwo.

Share your observations. Spark awareness in a young child with comments such as, “That monster looks mean!” or “That creature reminds me of a dragon,” along with “Did you know that in the Bible, serpents and dragons always represent Satan and evil?”

Now I want to go to the Prerelease this weekend and just say this during every goddamned match.

The last line, the Pokemon mantra, fuels the craving for more occult cards, games, toys, gadgets, and comic books. There’s no end to the supply, for where the Pokemon world ends, there beckons an ever-growing empire of new, more thrilling, occult, and violent products. Each can transport the child into a fantasy world that eventually seems far more normal and exciting than the real world. Here, evil looks good and good is dismissed as boring. Family, relationships, and responsibilities diminish in the wake of the social and media pressures to master the powers unleashed by the massive global entertainment industry.

This is literally how I think of the Internet.

…Any child exploring the most popular Pokemon websites will be linked to a selection of occult games such as Sailor Moon, Star Wars, and others more overtly evil.

I wish I had known which overtly evil games they were discussing here.  Aside from “Fuckmenace: the Gathering,” which encourages you to remove your pants for gain.

Oh wait.

Anyway, it’s an awesome read for any Magic player and I can’t recommend it highly enough.  It’s like The Room of Collectible Card Games.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

So as it turns out, I had a database that was missing critical data.  It was possible to “fill in” that data from other sources, as this was a rarely-used database, so I did what programmers since time eternal have done: I whipped up a script to fix the problem.

But after running the script, I discovered that the quick-fix script had only filled in about 90% of the necessary data.  Investigation showed there were edge cases that needed some special handling – and so I changed my script to handle those special edge cases and ran it again.

That got us to about 97% completion.  But – you guessed it – there was a tricky 3% that needed to be handled with an entirely different method, so I changed the script to handle those edge cases, reran it, and got us to 100% completion.  Awesome!  We fixed the problem!

Now, months later, the database has grown, and once again it is missing critical data.  Normally, this would be a trivial fix.  After all, I’d already filled in the data!  I can just take the logic I’d created in that quick-fix script, apply a filter so that the critical data is filled in whenever a new row is inserted, and have things up and running within an hour or two!  We’ll fix this lack of data forever!



I didn’t actually save that first script.  I just kept saving the old script, modifying it to handle the current edge case, and re-running it.  So what I have now is not the script that fixes 90% of the data in one run, but some messed-up tangle of code that handles a 3% edge case.  What happened to the 90% fix logic I created?

Well, I saved over it.  Basically, I deleted it in stages.  So I’m going to have to recreate all that logic from scratch today.


Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

Some people sleep on soft mattresses. I sleep on a hard mattress, and that makes me better.  In fact, I sleep fitfully on an Olympic-grade mattress, a cold and merciless sheet of titanium, a pillowless place where only most-trained slumbernauts can find any rest at all.

And my only meal is the ortolan, a crunchy bird literally drowned in alcohol, which I devour whole a bite at a time, my face draped in a towel so you can not see my bloodied gums sharded with tiny, needlelike bird bones.  This is Olympic-style eating.  It is the best -

- oh, drop the bullshit, can we?

This essay’s inspired by another essay on FetLife titled Double black diamond sex, which ostensibly has the positive (and correct!) message that you have to find the sexual partner who loves doing what you do, but is sadly wrapped up in the bullshit idea that there’s a style of sex that is superior simply because it is difficult.  According to that essay, there’s “beginner” sex and “intermediate” sex and then the dreaded double black-diamond super-ski magnate sex, which not anyone can aspire to.

(Guess what kind of sex the author of this essay has?  G’wan.  Guess.  It’ll be totes surprising.)

And let me say here that difficulty is not goodness.  Unless the only music you enjoy is the tweedliest of prog-rock where the musicians play in time-signatures that don’t exist within human thought.  Unless the only movie you like is Primer, a time-travel movie so complex that even Wikipedia seems vaguely confused about what actually happened.

The fact is that this Saturday, I went to the Velvet Tango Room, literally one of the top five bars in the entire world, a place where I had $18 cocktails using only the freshest ingredients, with ice cubes that tumbled out of a $10,000 ice machine designed to create perfectly-cubical cubes at zero degrees so they wouldn’t melt your drink, everything squeezed and shaken by hand.

Then I went to Old Fashion Hot Dogs, a dive so divey that I’m not even sure they’re aware enough of the Internet to *have* a website, and paid $3.25 for a bacon-and-egg sandwich.

Both were delicious, in their own ways.  Except according to the Double Black-Diamond guy, “a good skier won’t bother with the bunny hill,” and I would never of course be caught dead eating simple food.

Fuck that.

There’s this ridiculous hierarchy assholes keep trying to build, where it’s not enough to have found the sex/food/movie they like to experience, but they actively have to start ranking things so what they like is on the goddamned top.

Sex is about enjoyment.  And yes, I have my “double black-diamond days” where I feel like breaking out all the skill and equipment and the whipped cream and the gimp suit and the team of Clydesdales, and that can be fucking awesome.

I can also have a quick missionary lay.  And that can be just as good.

And it’s not for some people.  I get that.  Some people need all the acoutrement and the seven-hour fuckfest to get off, and I completely am behind that.  They should find like-minded people to swing from the chandeliers with.

But do you have to malign the people who like the quick missionary stuff to do it?

In a world filled with kink, the last thing we fucking need is to take our own preferences and turn them into some sort of objective superiority in order to make people feel like, “Gee, I can’t have the *good* kind of sex.”  The good kind of sex is the one that makes all people satisfied.  That is not the same as complexity, because I know of some skiers who *can* do the double black-diamond but prefer the gentler slopes because they don’t have to worry as much.

We fuck.  We love.  We enjoy.  Let’s not make this complicated.

Or maybe, according to this fucked-up scale some people are espousing, the more complicated we can make it the better it’ll be.  But I think if we apply that logic to relationships, we’ll see how quickly that shit falls apart.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

A friend of mine got some wonderful news the other day: her cancer is in remission.

And she felt a terrible guilt.

Because she is a friend of mine, she knows all about Rebecca, and the brain cancer that took her life on her sixth birthday, and she had the reaction of, “Why did I live when that beautiful little girl didn’t?” And perhaps that reaction is natural, and human – survivor’s guilt is a very real thing – but I said something to her, and I want to say it to all of you:

I am thrilled that you’re alive.

I want you healthy.

I want no one on this Earth to die of cancer, ever again.  Not a little girl, not an old man, not a middle-aged genderqueer, nobody.

That won’t happen in my lifetime, sadly – “cancer” is an umbrella name for a thousand different different kinds of diseases, and we could completely cure breast cancer and still have the astrocytoma that ravaged Rebecca’s brain running rampant – but I am never going to be angry when someone else lives.  I was not in the least comforted by thinking, “Well, other children went through this.”  I would have been far more comforted by the knowledge that this was a unique situation, that in all the billions of humans who lived we were the only ones who were watching a child die of a disease we could not cure, and that all the other families were living peacefully and thriving.

If you live, it is a triumph to me.  It’s a middle finger thrust into the face of a cold biological process that, God willing, one day science will manage to stop.  And in your case, it looks like science did stop it, and good.

I speak for no one else, of course.  I don’t know how my wife feels, I don’t know how the Meyers feel, I don’t know what’s normal.  But if you’ve had some life-threatening disease and you made it when Rebecca didn’t, I will clap my hands and sing your joy and praise whatever powers that be that you will continue to be ambulatory.

I’m thankful you’re here.  Live long.  Live well.  Live beautifully.


Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

A few months ago, on Facebook, I asked people for a recommendation of a good local tattoo artist.  And then, because I am stupid and Facebook is impossible to search, I lost about ten good recommendations from people.

I’m going to be getting a tattoo of Rebecca – a silhouette of a photo taken of her, so I need someone who’s very good at doing photo-perfect work on flabby skin.  My friend Kat will also be getting a tattoo to commemorate Rebecca’s life, but hers will be a design that she needs help with, so I need an artist who can also translate rough sketches into actual beauty.

This will be my only tattoo, I think.  God willing.  So make it good.

And it has to be a local tattoo artist – we have someone good in Pennsylvania, but we don’t want to drive three hours to what might be a multiple-session tattoo.  So while I know there are many fine artists in your town, I’m not interested unless your town is near Cleveland.

(I’m also smart enough to know that tattoo artist > tattoo parlor, so specific names will be weighted better.)

Anyway.  Thanks for everyone who did recommend last time, and I’m sorry I’m sufficiently dumb to forget to bookmark a Facebook post.  If you can recommend here, I will at least be able to Google this post when I find it.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

My friend Geoff Hunt asked a great question: What are you most happy to have left behind from your life as a 20-something?  And my answer was immediate:

That wandering feeling of uncertainty.

Which is to say that my teenaged years were about trying on masks really rapidly – one week I was seriously into prog rock, then I was a punk because I liked Billy Idol, and then I was soooo into reading 17 Magazine and pop for a while before I figured out that it was for girls.  I had no idea who I was, so I kept experimenting – which was totally healthy, of course, because how are you going to know what you really like doing unless you try them all on?

And that’s why a lot of us don’t hang out with our teenaged buddies.  It’s not that they’re not nice people.  But there’s often these distinct and unpleasant reminders, usually in the form of embarrassing anecdotes, that they knew you before you were fully formed, and they keep highlighting these failed trial runs of Who You Might Be.

I thought I’d left that behind in my twenties, but the truth was that I’d left behind the wild experimentation but kept the idea that there was some role I had to play.  I was a Rebel Punk.  I was a Rowdy Drinker.  I was a Guy Who Slept Around A Lot.  I was a Bookseller.  I was an Intellectual. I was a Jokester Who Told Funny Stories.

I spent a lot of time feeling like I was doing those roles pretty terribly.  Mainly because I was an Intellectual but I hadn’t read all the right books – and more importantly, I didn’t want to, but I kept throwing myself at musty classics I didn’t enjoy because hey, that’s what Intellectuals did.  I actually hated going out and getting drunk every night, but everyone else did it after work and it was what Rowdy Drinkers did, and so I did that.  Plus, I had to Tell Funny Stories, so the drinking helped with that, even if sometimes I felt like I was exposing way too much of my life with these stories at inappropriate times, but that’s what my heroes did and so did I.

Oh, and I was a Rebel Punk!  So I couldn’t enjoy a fine glass of Scotch and a nice meal, I had to be Rebellious and drink crappy beer at clubs that were sometimes fun dives but other times were just fucking uncomfortable pits I couldn’t wait to get out of.

And by the time I got to the end of my twenties, I was coming to realize that roles were like training wheels on a bike.  They might be helpful when you’re starting out to give you an idea of how things go, but soon enough they start constraining your journey and they look totally dorky.

So I cast that off.

And I also cast this idea off, in my favorite Calvin and Hobbes cartoon of all time:


Because I had the idea that I had to be A Grown-Up, and A Grown-Up knew How To Do Things, and when my car got broken into then someone would hand me the Big Book Of Insurance Information and I would be magically gifted with all the knowledge.  And I spent an inordinate amount of time chastising myself for not knowing how to buy a house, or not understanding how the stock market worked, or having no idea how my furnace worked in my apartment.

The truth was, I eventually realized, that yes, it’s all ad-libbed, and the best skill you can have as a grown-up is Investigation.  I don’t know how much about to make a claim on insurance!  But I know that there’s a number, and I can call someone there, and have them explain it to me, and then read whatever forms they send me.  Today, there’s an Internet I can look at, which is also fantastically helpful.

Which is freeing.  I still don’t know much about buying a house.  That’s because Gini had bought seven houses in her lifetime, and I let her be good at what she does, and in the unlikely chance I ever have to buy a house solo, I can do research.  I don’t have to know it all, and in fact the world is too damned big to carry all of this information I don’t need right now with me, so what if I don’t know how to start a fire in the woods or change my own oil?  It’s not relevant.  And if I want to learn it, great – certainly I’ve acquired all this silly info on beekeeping, despite the terrible job of it I’ve done this particular summer – but the point is that I’ve shifted away from the idea of Being A Grown-Up, and so I don’t have to memorize this arbitrary list of Things I Feel A Grown-Up Should Know.

And basically, my thirties and forties have become a journey in leaving roles aside and being me.  I still sleep around a lot, but I do it because I enjoy it, not because I feel it’s some sort of identity I must project.  I know a little more about the stock market, but my investments are mostly simple 401ks and a couple of IRAs, and I am comfortable knowing that my money isn’t completely optimized.  And I’ve discovered I’m not an Intellectual at all, I don’t enjoy many of the great classics, and while I can occasionally be smart in public I’m in no way diminished if I haven’t read War and Peace or if someone knows more about the Scottish independence movement than I do.

Basically, in my twenties, I felt this constant, vague shame that I wasn’t living up to something.  Now that I’m forty, I’m okay with being ignorant, and not fitting into anyone’s conception of me.

That’s a gift.  It’s a wonderful freedom.

I can’t wait to find out what an idiot I’ll think forty-year-old me was, once I get to be sixty.  I think that’ll be awesome.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

I’d take a couple million from my last movie, and hire some very good hackers to set up an anonymous website.  Then I would hire a couple of paparazzi and a private investigator.

This website would be called The Abyss Looks Back At, and its entire purpose would be to:

1)  Pick random users on Reddit who have posted links to, or otherwise supported, nude pictures stolen from celebrity cameras.  Random.  Could be anyone.

2)  Have a hacker trace them back to their home address.

3)  Get the private investigator to spend five days investigating them.

4)  Send the paparazzi to stand outside their houses and take pictures of them.  Only them.  Not their family.  That would be cruel.

Then periodically, I’d just post lengthy exposes of their lives, similar to what the Washington Post did with John Menese, the guy who started The Fappening.  Not outright malicious stuff, of course, though if anything horrific turned up, well, we’d have to post that.  Making excerpts of their Reddit-anonymized persona and linking it back to their real name, their job, their other hobbies.  Posting pictures of them, coming out of their home, eating at restaurants, going to work.  Just making it clear that anyone who decided that celebrities were exempt from the normal rules of privacy because they’re celebrities could be, to a very real extent, turned into a celebrity against their will.

Just a little chill, mind you.  Just so that anyone passing that kind of thing would know there was a chance – a chance – that posting today’s naked pictures might have someone track back their burner account and show them what happens when someone turned that merciless eye back upon them.

I’d do that.  But then again, I’m not a nice guy. And thankfully, I’m neither rich nor famous.

But I’d sure think about it.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

My goddaughter Rebecca wore a rainbow princess dress that we got her for Christmas.  She loved that thing.  I saw her wear that dress more than anything else, wearing it to school, wearing it to play in, tearing around the house in this gaudy, frilly thing.

Last night, Gini and I put the dress in the corner with my dead Grampa’s chair, my dead stepfather’s lumberjack shirt, and my dead Uncle Tommy’s cane.  Our little shrine to the fallen.   And then we drank a couple of glasses of wine and read Cracked articles aloud to each other to laugh and finally, at two in the morning, I realized I needed an Ativan to sleep on top of that.  Now I feel stomach-sick and logy.

I’m coming to realize that this grief is like arthritis, a lifelong condition with flareups.  I’ll have good-Rebecca days and bad-Rebecca days, and… they’re all boring.  It’s the same emotions over and over again, and I don’t want to talk about them because there’s nothing to be said.

So this is not a particularly good morning.  But not quite bad enough to call in sick.

On most days, I keep myself amused through the day by reading comments as they come in (though I often wait until the end of the day to respond).  To do that, I usually have to write an entry.  And I was in the process of writing an interesting one about how you disclose your relationships to your other partners in poly, because that “How much should I tell them?” is one of the trickiest things about managing multiple partners, and… I just fell apart.  I’ll probably do it tonight, God willing.  It’s a solid topic.

But on the days I have nothing to offer, I ask you to give me amusement by asking me questions that you honestly want to know the answer to.  Not bullshit questions like “How much wood could a woodchuck chuck?” but anything else ranging from “So what’s your opinion on curling?” to “How do you manage a girlfriend and a wife?” to “What’s your favorite bit about writing?” to, well, whatever.  I’ll answer honestly.  And you’ll distract me a bit on a day when I could use some distraction.  So it’s a mitzvah.  If you can manage it.




Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.


theferrett: (Default)

October 2014



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