on blogging: transitions and flow

this is a little orphaned post that pertains directly to my tumblr, and as such cannot be published on my tumblr (that's just how I work, shoo).

If anyone views my tumblr blog these days (and when I say these days I mean anytime in the last year or so), I'm hoping very dearly that they see smooth transitions between the many posts. I know the common method is to post a certain category of posts in blocks, so you get a plethora of [insert X fandom] posts one afternoon and many [insert Y genre] posts in the night. Despite enjoying this style of blogging from others, I have the tendency to go in a different direction when I post: I pick colour as the main element in my visual hierarchy.

To elaborate: I feel like most bloggers, whether consciously or not, usually produce some form of transitioning on their blogs; their blogs, when viewed, flow post-to-post without the reader really noticing it. There is a smoothness that posts need, especially short ones (i.e. the one-picture ones). In most cases, when there is a whole continuous chunk of, say, SnK spam, because the subject matter ties it all together, it matters less that the colours and forms don't match from one post to the next.

Mine, however, is a multifandom and mixed blog, meaning that a random sample of three consecutive posts could be something like this: Hirunaka no Ryuusei mangacaps, photos of the sea, and a selca from Lee Jungshin. Because I rarely post the same subject matter for more than five or six consecutive posts, I can't work towards the more effective form of visuals - I have to find a different bow to wrap my blog in. What I go with: colour.

I don't reblog something if the colour and gradient clash too violently with the post I just reblogged. I won't post a photo that starts dark on the upper half  and fades to lighter shades below if I've just posted a dark one. I don't mix warm tones with cool ones except where the transition is kind and doesn't jar the eyes. The one thing I've always been particular about, in writing and in other things, is flow. I get very fussy about transitions, which is a shame because it's not something you would notice; because you only notice bad transitioning. But you know, it takes effort all the same, so I wanted to get it out just because.

Disclaimer: I'm not trying to sound all hipstery and "oh I do something unique and different" because I know I don't, but I wanted to just... say something that might make it clear that I spend just as much time worrying about the flow of my posts as anyone, despite the broad, rapid variation of my content (that I think might give the impression of haphazard reblogging).

I should really go to bed.

On introversion: why I hate humankind

I hold no delusions about this post being unbiased - it will be biased, because I'm writing as myself: a snarky cynic who thinks of the human race as a nasty wart on the nose of existence. Now, I'm fairly certain that it comes as no surprise to anyone who knows me that I hate people and all that jazz, so why this post now? Because of this and this and this.

Read them? Good.

Now, I get that it's easy to get irritated at people who glorify introversion and pretend to be one in order to seem deep and sensitive, but this kind of wholesale slamming of introverts downright enrages me. Are the extroverts (or ambivert, in Ms Waldman's case) who wrote these articles really so indignant about extroversion being "uncool" that they felt the need to insult introverts to reassure themselves about the ways in which extroversion is still the standard to strive for?

Addressing the first two articles first, I take issue with the level of personal offence these two ladies have taken at the attention introverts are receiving.

Just because introverts are glad that they're finally being recognised as something other than socially deficient, it doesn't mean that they're touting it as THE standard to attain, which is far more than I can say for society's traditional belief in the superiority of extroverts. Introverts over the years have spent their lives being misunderstood, teased, bullied, and denigrated - and just as they're beginning to find some semblance of representation via the Internet, along comes a bunch of butthurt extroverts that claim they're being attention whores. Really, people? Really?

I feel the need to respond to some of Ms Weaver's points directly.

1. You do not justify your social impediments as charming quirks indicative of a secretly brilliant personality.  I don't; I justify my quirks as indications of being an individual. As for my brilliance, it needs no justifications.

3. You seem OK; those around you do not constantly feel the need to ask, “Are you OK?”  People around me are concerned about me and check on me when I'm down; perhaps you should reevaluate your relationships if no one ever asks if you're alright. 

7. You don’t ruin camping trips, birthday parties, Christmas parties, office parties, bachelor parties, bachelorette parties, murder mystery parties, anniversary parties, bonfires, sleepovers, vacations, group projects, brunches, lunches, bridal showers, baby showers, concerts, and road trips simply by being yourself.  This is a horrible way of putting down billions of people in one sentence; your parents must be so proud (I know I would be). After all the effort society has put in trying to convince people that being themselves is fine, along you come and shut all that waffle down. Bravo. Slow clap. 

8. Sometimes you do things alone without tweeting “OHHHH MY GODDDD I LOVE TO DO THINGS ALOOOOONE!!!!!!!!! #INTROVERT”  Oh, but, but... Miss Weaver... have you perhaps considered that people tweeting such things might not be actual introverts?

Maybe she has. Maybe her crass listicle (I hate that word) is an attempt to be ironic, or to throw a sarcastic curveball at the extroverts posing as introverts. I doubt it, but there's that possibility - to which I would say that she still does a horrible job of it, because her phrasing covers all introverts, and offends every last one of them.

As for Mr Hudson's frightfully shallow piece on what makes people interesting, I have just this to say:
You are not my dentist, therefore you are not entitled to pull my teeth. I have no desire to share with you any of the interesting things I think about or experience, and I can see why the "boring" people you've met didn't want to either. Also, your listicle is incredibly uninteresting, not least because of your terrible choice of photos; to judge by the images you used, apparently only semi-naked white people are interesting. How boring.

I'm sick and tired of people either hating on or idolising introverts. Why do people on the internet only ever tend toward the extremes? Here's a tip: the average introvert doesn't appreciate either. The average introvert would probably much prefer not being labelled and defined simply by one dimension of their personality.

等天地梅花开

So you know (as you might) that feeling I've explained before, the one I call bogginess?

I've got to the stage in which I'm definitely boggy; my mind is 80-90% filled with the content I consume. Unfortunately, this is the stage that feels most uncomfortable. It feels rather like writers' block, but for the reader (except in this case I'm watching, as opposed to reading - but no matter, the metaphor will hold).

My head is largely filled with what I've been watching with zeal, but all of a sudden I've hit a block. I took a step back, thinking I would maybe check Facebook, check Tumblr - but when I went back to my paused video I couldn't bring myself to hit play. I'm torn between wanting to continue watching and wanting to give my brain a little time to absorb (and quite possibly recalibrate, if I may be so honest).

I'm aware that I'm writing in order to calm my mind; to settle the buzz. Oddly, I'm noticing the annoying indecisiveness and capriciousness that shows in my writing - don't you think I use the words "rather" and "somewhat" a little too often? I do. It sounds like the speech of someone who hesitates to commit to any one adjective or verb, trying to carefully pull punches. The writing of a coward. But it's proving quite difficult to write decisively; it takes so much more conscious effort than writing like a coward, and even then I find myself slipping up here and there. How strange.

Really, now. Watch as I spin in circles, never quite reaching the point (if there was one in the first place), trying to assuage the bogginess in my head. It's possibly more entertaining than watching paint dry, though I would hazard less so than watching a monkey dance. Should I bid you adieu, or should I phrase my salutations in a language I actually understand?

introspection

I may or may not have read excerpts of someone's diary in the last day or two, and I may or may not have felt some moral conflict there. I know all too well how private, how personal a diary is; there was a part of me feeling extremely uncomfortable with the whole encounter.

Having said that, I confess to some level of cruel amusement at the things I read, and I tamped down the unease by telling myself, "Well, there's always this risk, when you keep a diary, that it will be found and read. This person should have taken more care not to get it found."

Immediately after I thought that, I hated myself. I genuinely did. It was just as good as saying to a rape victim, "Well, you should have taken more care not to get assaulted." And regardless of any other moral issues in my nasty core, I've always detested, despised the societal norm that blames victims for being too "easy"; the same societal norm that has evidently wormed its way into some horrible part of me that desperately tried to avoid blame or guilt.

I won't deny my interest in finding out more, reading more. But neither will I deny that I am doing something wrong. This person is by no means a good person, and has proven to be someone I can no longer respect, but it does not change that fact that my being wronged is no justification for this breach of integrity. I've never denied having a decidedly slanted (not twisted, just...bent) character. So... yeah.

I don't know anymore. A part of me wishes that I'd never discovered this person's true character, that I'd be able to stay in blissful ignorance. Yet another, perhaps the larger, accepts it, and burns for more revelation — more retribution, even.

People are multifaceted. People are endlessly fragmented. I know that well. I also know how easy it is to pick the more comfortable way out, ascribing a character or personality to someone and then neglecting all the inner and outer conflicts that make up the important parts of the person.

Even as we scheme against this person, each fueled by our own hurt and betrayal, I can't help but feel a twinge of guilt. I've seen enough to realise that this person is, at the heart of it all, a confused, pained young adult whose life has been a sorry tale of lie after lie — a shoddy defence mechanism. The schemes we concoct are harmless enough, and serve only to covertly prove our theories. If it gets any further, though, I have to wonder if I'll be strong enough to put my foot down.

If there's one thing I know for sure, though, it's that I will never keep a proper diary. Not only because I would never be able to commit to near-daily entries, mind you. I suppose one might argue that I pour a lot of personal content into blogging, but while I agree that blogging is as close as I would get to writing diary entries, I must say a lot of it is carefully screened. Most posts I make in fits of emotion don't make it past the Drafts page.

Exams in a week. What joy.

screencaps

Because I can, that's why.

Also because I felt the urge to point out how few posts I made in all of 2012. I'm so sorry, dear old blog. I guess you've just fallen out of favour with me. Possibly because Blogger has fallen out of favour with the world in general, to be honest.

Yep. 

Also, I figured while I was riffling through my screen capture folder I might as well include this: a little demonstration of the horrible number of tabs I had open during the writing of last semester's company law coursework. And this was during the writing, mind you - the research and readings were much worse. Meh. I know I'm just being a terrible student and a complete lazybones, but ugh I hate dry reading. Like now, because I'm writing this as an excuse to look away from International Business.

That's a highly-recommended playlist, by the way.

Toodles.

in which the author finds her attention drifting

Theoretically, there shouldn't be any reason for my inability to concentrate. I'm holed up in my room with tea and biscuits and music. Nothing's missing from my usual studying needs. And yet there's something writhing and wriggling in my head that won't let me sit still and focus - something that pokes and prods and won't leave. I've never had a great attention span, but this is ridiculous. Even now, I'm listlessly writing about it because I can't concentrate on my notes. Ugh.

on dangerous thoughts

(mirror to my tumblr post)

It’s three minutes to six and I just considered self-harming.

I don’t even know what brought that on. I’ve considered suicide in the past — nice and painless, if possible — but I’d stated quite flatly that I believed self-harm to be the one thing I’d never do. And yet I find that I just did, less than a minute ago. How odd, is the main sentiment that comes to mind. I don’t feel any strong emotion right now, so what brought that on? I’m quite sure I’m not depressed. I’ve been there before, and I’m not there now. How odd.

Up until the moment itself, I’d been engrossed in the usual mundane things I amuse myself with on the internet. I got up to go to the bathroom. I had scarcely closed the door behind me when the thought came to my mind. For something so dramatic, it sure happened at an incredibly undramatic location. If it had to have happened in the bathroom, I’d have imagined it at the very least to occur while I mournfully stared at myself in the mirror, or while I took a long, contemplative shower. Having such thoughts while standing right in the middle of the bathroom, not thinking about anything in particular and hands halfway undoing my belt, is somewhat perversely disappointing.

How odd.

ennui

Why does it feel like I've titled another post exactly like that before? I suppose it's because I have no imagination. Whatever.

^ Image by arbebuk on dA.

What I was trying to say is that I am in another of my moods. (Well, that actually sounds incredibly stupid, because I'm technically always in a mood, whether good or bad or even neutral. But the phrase lends itself so readily; let's not mock it.) I'm in holiday mood, which has been rather ambiguous for me since I've started my studies here in the UK.

On one hand, holidays are great. They really are.

But on the other, they're just excellent for highlighting how alone I am. Away from friends and family, alone in a cold room with nothing but the dwindling attraction of the internet to distract me from acknowledging the pathetic flop that is my life.

As I write, I am slowly awaiting the deletion of my thousands of tweets, born of a mistake I made in linking my Twitter to my Tumblr account. My room is a mess of random packaging from random parcels and clothes that refuse to dry properly (I still haven't begun packing for the trip on Tuesday - which, if I might mention, is beginning to lose its appeal for me). My tea-stained mugs sit accusingly to my right, a reminder of the many dishes I have yet to wash today. My bedroom smells of my dinner, because I didn't want to eat alone in the living/dining room. No, I wanted to eat alone in front of my computer, so that I'd have less time to mull over my sorry state. Now I'll need to check if my drying clothes smell of food. But again, whatever.

To put myself in an even less favourable light, I feel compelled to mention that I actually do have plenty of things I could do right now, the aforementioned washing-up being one of them.

• I could complete my applications for a placement next year. 
• I could start revising for the January exams.
• I could draw up a revision plan for the January exams.
• I could read my many books.
• I could finish the themes challenge.
• I could take a long, indulgent, hot shower.
• I could clean my room.
• I could clean the house.
• I could start packing.
• I could sleep.

Do you see what I mean by "sad, lonely, introverted existence" right there? I assure you, it has nothing to do with it being half past two in the morning. Even if it were two in the afternoon, there'd be nothing I could do outside of this house. And it'll be like this for the next three weeks - the whole of Christmas break. While the festive cheer is heartwarming in its own way (especially since the people here obviously take the holiday far more seriously than most people back home would), it also grabs the heart and twists it into a pretzel of pain for depressingly depressing people like me.

I have nice friends, ones who think me better than I actually am, and without them I'm just... sinking beneath their expectations of me. I become the disgusting version of myself, because I don't feel the need to reward anyone's faith in me. I rot.

But writing helped. Is helping. Will hopefully help.

I can't say for sure that my mood will take a turn for the better in the weeks to come, but I'll man up about it all. I might write again, or I might not, but for what it's worth, it's made me feel a tiny bit better. Probably because my guilt about abandoning this blog (and long posts in general) has been assuaged, but I'll take what I can get. Beggars can't choose, yeah?

Boo.

Super quick post, just popping in because the prospect of BM(A) is absolutely terrifying.

I haven't actually abandoned you yet, my old bloggie. You know full well I'll always turn to you when I have a lot to write about that doesn't go well on my tumblr, because, well, you're the safer option. Tumblr is a great place to explore and to make quick connections, but it's a bit of a fair weather friend, if you get my meaning.

That having been said, I haven't been reading or writing much in the last year or two - definitely a lot less than when I was in school. It's a sad realisation. It feels rather like losing a part of myself that I was proud of. My vocabulary is shrinking, and my enthusiasm to grow it has pretty much shrivelled up and disappeared. I may be sort of making up for it by learning more Japanese and picking up Hangul, but that really isn't much of an excuse.

Sigh.

what am I doing wrong?

I'm lonely. There you go, it's a nice, cold, hard fact. I'm emo and homesick and tired and moody and evasive all the time now because this loneliness is growing and growing and it's eating me up and I can't stand it any more than I already have. I can't tell if I'm lonely because I have self esteem issues and feel as though no one could love such a person, or because I'm (ironically, in the opposite direction) an arrogant being who looks upon humankind as a whole as a flaw beyond help?

Perhaps I'm just over-thinking everything as a self-defense mechanism because I need to drown out the nasty voices in my head. I need to not hear the truth, whispered to me in my own mental voice, that I am just a really nasty person who will never let enough of herself be known to anyone to feel wholly accepted. I have beautiful friends who care, who want to know the reason behind my mood swings. But I don't want to tell them, I don't want to release into the world any more filth than already exists in it. All these negative thoughts should stay locked up in my mind, where at least they would damage only me.

I just don't think I could be poisonous enough to let anyone in on this unhappiness, especially not when so many of the people who care seem so happy. When someone is that happy, and that happiness is so well-deserved and so overdue, you can't honestly expect me to tell them that their happiness makes me feel lonelier than ever. That the happier they get, the further I feel my world is from theirs. That I am tired and miserable and terribly jealous of them. That I can't help the bitterness even if it disgusts me more than it would them.

And then I switch perspectives again and consider a different possibility. Could it be that I am not, after all, a vile creature who casts a pall on a friend's joy? Maybe - maybe I'm being too arrogant in assuming that my black vibes would even remotely affect that friend's happiness. Maybe I'm too nice, too careful, too conscious. Maybe I'm being a fool and keeping everything to myself when all I need is to open up and stop assuming things. Maybe I need to stop trying so hard to make something change when all I need to do is let things flow as they should. Not to strive for light or dark, but to get comfortable with the grey area and just - chill.

Mother of god, what do you do when someone suddenly tells you the most intense life story you've ever heard?

Especially since all I thought they were going to say was, "Oh, it's a silly nickname that stuck..."