here is distant

brains thrown up living room walls

Two youths approached me as I locked up my bike. They warned me how easy it was to break locks and that the city centre isn't a safe place to leave your bike. They demonstrated the ability of their feet by dislodging some wheels that were apparently better than mine, due to their suspension.

Not one for aggro, I smiled and engaged in some banter, jokingly asking them not to steal my bike. I was trying to mix mature poise with some youthful cheek. Of course, they could outdo me on the latter. After all, I was undeniably the owner of a midrange commuter bike.

I should have just hopped back on and parked it somewhere else. Pride is a strange thing, I thought as I walked away from my locked bike, almost certain that they would soon pleasure in its demise.

I was meeting a girl at the pub, intending to break up with her after a couple of months of seeing each other. “If my bike dies, so be it, I deserve it,” I thought as I avoided the pressing subject, and her eyes.

This is horrible, I thought as we hugged on the street. It was cold and there was potentially a long walk home. “This girl is hurt because of me”, I thought as we walked in opposite directions away from each other forever.

The good news was I soon found my bike seemingly untouched. I felt relief cycling home, on two counts. As I showered before work the following day, I thought about crap like upsell and cross-sell. It was a big day coming up in the office.

True story.

#Diary

I have been a blogging for a year now and I can see myself continuing for years to come. In the coming year I will continue to deep dive into today's challenging issues, and I'll of course keep up the life hacks and easy-to-follow advice to make you the best YOU. Here's some of my favourites from the year just gone:

Ways to save money WITHOUT BUDGETING

Tips and tricks to make blogging effortless and fun: how to blog for big cash in 2019

Fake fake news is the new fake news: finding post-post-truth has never been harder: 3 truths you'll know is real news

#Drivel

You can catch me exhaling in the foyer or saying supposedly something to an elsebody. My line between thinking and speaking can sometimes be dense, like the passing thoughts I have about you. Saying without thinking's vice versa is tantamount to rolling eyeballs up walls, and back down again. My self assurance is growing quickly, at the expense of a whimsiness drowned out by adults keenly performing poise. If we liaised soon, I could try to show you what remains of my wit.

#Narration

Is my phone vibrating or narrating? A lousy story of itself or something more, like the making of plans that sit me on Thursday evening trains. The seat behinding me is reminding me I'm awake and have been all day. Let's tell each other what we dreamed when we were nine. Since then I've been being and thought thinking until one day, when neither shall be done.

When percentages get boring, my thoughts get rude. About eighty percent of the talk I do, bores me. To put it another way, I'm not a chronic worrier. Reading my scattered mind on the web, the lack of hidden depths could surprise you. I've no dark secrets although I must disclaim this post was sponsored by the winter rain.

#Narration

Your room once was the deep forest and still wants to uncurl itself.

That's what my mother once told me before she wrapped me up in bed. I asked her what she meant and she replied with a level of assurance I had yet to see outside of her.

It doesn't really matter. The most important thing is that I'm already thinking about watching some more television.

All I could see was the ceiling and all I could think about was the hole in my head. No one else had one, why did I? I'll ask my mum tomorrow, I thought as I closed my eyes. But tomorrow never came. I passed away peacefully in my sleep and so avoided all the joy and pain of years to come. The lows wouldn't have scared me as much as the interchangement and hassle of everything arranging itself into recognisable form.

It's better that I died. The last thing I'd want to do years later is watch two policewomen accost a homeless man for sitting alone on a high street. I wouldn't want to watch it play out like a film, as I sip a cup of tea. The man telling a stern face of the law he doesn't want to move, that he shouldn't have to.

A police van arrives and two policemen get out, relaxed as if browsing for furniture. They're chatting, presumably about how they should exercise their power. A passer-by starts shouting at the homeless man, calling him a fucking junkie, whilst another films the scene on his phone.

The first becomes less a passer-by and more someone who's chosen to get involved. The police lead him away so he can pass by somewhere else. On departure he shouts at the cameraman, asking why he's filming the police with this fucking junkie. If the question wasn't so rhetorical, the answer might have been

politics

One policeman puts on a blue glove because he thinks it will protect him from disease. The footage shows the homeless man being put in the back of the van but ends before the policepeople convene on the curb to chat. The women patrol off and the men drive the cage away. Fortunately, I died long before this could take place.

#Narration

Prawn Cocktail Cheese and Onion Salt and Vinegar Smokey Bacon Tai Sweet Chilli Ready Salted Frazzles Chipsticks Hula Hoops Kettle Chips Pom-Bears

#Drivel

I'm not your friend. I've dressed pixel ducks. Giving a goose hid inside my Valentino white bag.

It's quite nothing. Just a spare tired. Honeygry as fuck because my Valentino white bag.

Go therverywhere. It's fucking noisy. Sad hours pm at my Valentino white bag.

Spill farcicles. Pleasure from Pretty. Stuffing skullenvoid into my Valentino white bag.

#Drivel

I call myself an agnostic, but religion has been a huge part of my life. This post shares my subjective experiences, and how they have shaped my opinion and attitudes towards religion.

My mother is a devout Catholic and my father is non-religious. Through my father's passivity and my mother's rigid beliefs, a strict religious homelife was cultivated for my three siblings and I. Catholicism was not super obtrusive to our childhoods, but it was presented as the unquestionable way of life. We were brought up with clear versions of right and wrong, and family prayer was daily. On Sundays we'd go to church, and then to my grandparents' house to gossip about it.

As a child, I'd have no reason to doubt God's existence. At school I coloured in Jesus and sang songs for him. Ideologically, there wasn't much worth thinking about for someone who'd rather be climbing trees. It's handy I didn't overthink the philosophical implications of Catholicism, because the concept of hell would have been fucking terrifying. You will burn for eternity if don't go to church on a Sunday, unless you admit it to a dog-collared man in a box.

Any cynicism as a child would have been quickly quashed by my mother, who viciously feared non-belief as an evil to banish from the mind. She bound tightly together faith and duty, to the point that my beliefs were so unquestionable they weren't worth thinking about. Religion became something to tolerate rather than to enrich. As many millions will know, getting through lengthy religious services as a child requires a handful of coping strategies. Church became a place not express my own thoughts, but to just be with them (they were mainly about football or later, nsfc). I think this is how my over-passivity developed.

The first Sunday I moved out of home to go to university, I didn't go to church. That was my first opportunity to make my own decision, and it was made based on control, rather than on religiosity. I had felt coerced when living at home, powerless in the weekly situation of being woken at 7am for church. Not going to church is a mortal sin, which means that it can lead to damnation if never repented. However, eternal punishment wasn't on my mind as I enjoyed my new Sunday lie-ins. The only unease I felt related to how I was disappointing one of my parents.

My mother's response was a mixture of disappointment and passive aggression. Whereas my father could cohabitate by being passively non-religious, I was made to feel that I still had to be passively religious. I avoided talking about religion, as to do so would be exposure to either information bulletins about how much God loved me, or scathing comments expressing I was weak, blind, or taken in by the devil. My mother often reiterated the importance of religion, but she too wasn't overly keen to open a constructive dialogue. I guess worse than knowing your son isn't religious, is hearing it said out loud, and feeling powerless to change it. I think this is how my fear of confrontation developed.

As much as religion has been primarily an unhealthy familial psychological battle, I have had enough time in pews to give the concept itself plenty of thought. The only outlook that makes sense to me is agnosticism. Science cannot disprove God, because God is not scientific. You can make historical assumptions about religion's main characters, but you can't make a scientific argument for or against their supernaturality. It comes down to faith, which simply some people have, and others don't.

I question why I should believe the one religion I was born into. To submit myself to Catholicism, I'd have to surrender agency, which paradoxically I should apparently be using to get into heaven. The conundrum is between choice and dogma: I now cannot have the latter without exercising the former, and if accepting the latter, I must surrender the former.

But the reality of any personal relationship with a macro institution is vastly more complicated than can be reduced to a logical argument like the one above. What it really comes down to is personal experience and from where one draws meaning. Even within Catholicism's supposed dogma, I have seen people with a variety of beliefs and attitudes. Religion seems to be able to attract people for different, sometimes contradictory, reasons: community or escape; love or fear; passion or repression; learnedness or submissiveness.

In my life so far, God has not revealed himself to me, and quite frankly, I find the whole thing completely uninteresting. If God wants me to change my mind, then it is totally within his or her power.

#Clout

We're on the same page

Different book

Same genre

Yeah, horror

I will never ever jump out on you. I will lie about your sofa, ceilings and mind, if you don't mind. I'll creep in circles for longer than I'll linger under your thumb or arms. I'll say nothing. The only way you can be sure I'm even there, is because I'll consume your toast.

#Narration

Arguing online lacks tone, indifference and commenters who aren't sure about what's right and who's wrong. So I prefer doing it offline, where I've made a hobby of always advocating the hell out of the devil. Having no passionate opinions, I challenge any idea put forward, facetiously switching between viewpoints, at the whim of a desire to get under the skin of anyone exposing that they might care about something. I get no cruel pleasure from upset, only from frustration or blind indignity. Yet my lack of conversational wholesomeness remains unknown to many who know me only as uncomfortably shy. To find out what I actually think, they'll need internet connection to read how my humour is reactive, conversationally redactive and interactionally unattractive.

#Clout

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