In Which folks are probably not really 'Simple' (except maybe the simple ones)

Today, a friend of mine shared this article on twitter:
http://blog.okcupid.com/index.php/the-real-stuff-white-people-like/
which I encourage you to read, because seriously, you guys, this stuff is so fascinatingly ridiculous. For those of you who haven't seen it, it's basically an analysis of the dating site OkCupid with regard to what people list as their interests and how people describe themselves, as plotted against their self-identified race. And also, to some extent, their literacy, gender, and religious creed.

A lot of it is pretty fascinating, naturally, but the bit that really caught my attention was the "people describing themselves" trope. Apparently black dudes often use the phrase "I'm cool", whereas the latino dudes want you to know that they're "funny" and asians "simple".

I love the idea of bothering to say any of those things. Is there anything much less funny than someone earnestly telling you that they are a funny guy? I, uh, I'd have thought not. Surely you'd be better off just, oh, I don't know, being funny. Or better still, just writing how you normally talk and letting the reader judge how funny she thinks you are for herself? I suppose this is difficult if your particular brand of funniness is a response-type thing. Like you're quick with conversational banter or whatever? I don't know, I just think "I am funny" as a deadpan descriptor is unconvincing. Everyone knows that everyone wants a "good sense of humour" (but they all have different ideas about what that means, so just suggesting that you'll appeal to everyone is always going to be unconvincing), so it seems like it's on a par with "I am goodlooking" or "sensitive" or "like walks on the beach". "I am an oldfashioned romantic who likes giving flowers and thinks hand-holding is underrated". This sort of thing sounds like you just read an article on "what women want" and copied it out, a bit. (Although I do in fact like handholding and flowers and wordplay, I should mention. Also goodlookingness and sensitiveness, I guess?)

Next up: "I am cool". What. Who says that? (Well, I mean, black dudes apparently) This is like the "funny" thing, but turned up to 11. "I am cool" is only marginally cooler than "my Mum says I'm cool". I'll go further; it's even less cool than that, because "my Mum says I'm cool" has a higher likelihood of being an ironic joke. It's so earnest and foolish sounding, again. Plus, what the hell do you mean by "cool"? Do you mean "hip to the latest trends"; "I have an asymmetrica haircut"? Do you in fact mean "I wear a lot of Ed Hardy clothing"? Do you mean it as equivalent to "chilled" or "calm"? "Unheated"? Or do you mean it like you might say "Oh, Steve, sure, bring him to the party, he's cool"? "He's a cool guy, is Steve". (Note: no Steve I have ever met ever was this sort of cool in my opinion. Sorry if you're reading, anyone named Steve.) Like, he's a nice guy who is pleasant to be with? Doesn't "cool" essentially boil down to three completely distinct meanings?

If you are cool, you either
(a) share many of my interests: and are pleasant ("He seems cool")
(b) are trendy and fashionable ("look at that girl's cool boots")
(c) i: are calm and composed ("it was a bit hectic, but I stayed cool")
ii: are coldly dispassionate and frigid ("relations between North Korea and the US cooled this week...")

I guess we might conceivably add (d) literally cool; "I am an Edward Cullen type, cool to the touch, with icy lips and marble fingers", but that's just so deperately uncool according to all the other definitions that I'm not even going to think about it.

The problem is that the type (a) cool people are, in my case, practically the opposite of the type (b) cool kids. I think things that are a bit dorky are cool. Sometimes I worry that my appreciation of kitschy things is insufficiently ironic.

Anyway, what I'm saying here is: saying that you are cool conveys no meaningful information to me except that you probably aren't.

Lastly, the most complex one to broach: "simple". What does it mean to say that you are simple? I think we can discard the possibility that they mean it in the mental sense, like Forrest Gump is simple. Especially since it's mainly said by a demographic who rate "being a software developer" highly on their list of interests. But what does that mean, then? That they are simply a software designer, and have few or no other interests? That they have old fashioned, "simple" ideas (men should work, women should cook), the values of "simpler times"? Perhaps that you are caveman-like and are operating at a low level on Maslow's hierarchy of needs: "I'm a simple guy, give me food, shelter a lack of immediate danger, and I'm content"? Maybe it's like "crude", like toilet humour is "simple"? Maybe these people just can't handle "complicated" women, relationships, etc? I mean, that's understandable, folks are complicated and that crap can be tiring.

Maybe this is the thing; people describe themselves as "simple" either because they don't like the fact that people (including themselves) are actually complicated, or because they fear that they look boring on paper. (As an aside, I think that the more interesting people probably all look boring on paper. I am suspicious of people with a a super-diverse and super-exciting range of interests and activities. What are they up to? I suspect them of taking up wind-surfing and cliff-diving and merenge and safe-breaking just to look interesting.)

And this brings me to perhaps the most worrying part of this whole thing: what's the go with this contrariness on my part? Why is it that the more emphatically someone insists that they are simple and cool and funny, the more convinced I am that they are just the opposite? It seems a little harsh, really. And fairly unfounded, I mean, people haven't been attempting to obviously and systematically deceive all my life, or anything. My life has not been filled with betrayal or similar. It makes no sense that I should be so distrustful. I mean, yes, there are all the institutionalised deceits that we all deal with, like ads and stuff, but that hardly counts.

Maybe I'm just extrapolating from the people you meet who insist that they are "weird" and usual and "crazy"? I mean, those boring, predictable, ordinary folks are everywhere, and they are just deadset wrong almost all the time, because they've failed to notice that everyone else is all those things too.

Maybe this is the problem with Interesting Looking Girls? Like the love interest in 'Scott Pilgrim vs. the World', such girls are instantly and easily identified as different and interesting (and "cool") but this relies on the fallacy that everyone whose hair is a naturally occurring colour is totally uninteresting, which is clearly untrue.

I saw a poster the other day that said "A little bird told me that if I looked like the other girls, you might come back to me. I don't want you that badly" (or words to that effect) which is great and all and probably includes excellent subtext about body image and self worth and so on, but what is this implication that all the other girls look the same? Speaking as a girl other than the writer of the poster, I'm going to have to go ahead and say "way harsh". I mean, it was appealling, but it was obviously sort of wrong in its assumptions, and you can tell it's wrong precisely because of it's broad appeal. Also it had a cartoon of a dead bird, which seems like maybe an excessively aggressive response. Don't shoot the messenger lady! Especially if it's a talking bird, those things take ages to train!

Hmmm, I've ended up a bit off-track here, and I've run out of break in which to blog, but the important thing is that I've written something again, having been totally at a loss for what to blog about for ages. Sorry if you've been waiting on tenterhooks, obsessively refreshing or similar!

In Which it seems reasonable to conclude that the Apocalypse would probably suck

Have you ever read a book by John Wyndham? Surely you must've done, Day of the Triffids, The Chrysalids, The Midwich Cuckoos (which they made into the rather melodramatically named movie Village of the Damned). They're usually sort of quasi-post-apocalyptic end-of-the-world stuff, where the heroes have to try to fight off/survive the ravages of terrifying monster plants, alien possessors, and people who've got completely the wrong end of the stick eugenics-wise in post-nuclear worlds of mutations, extra toes and explosions.

The thing is, they're sort of fun, yeah? Same as zombie movies and disaster movies and such. Sort of an 'Oh no! The end of the world as we know it! How awful! So, uh... so what you're saying is that I don't have to go to work on Monday?' kind of thing. Like, secretly, we all believe it would be a little bit awesome. And that's sort of great, really. It would be a brief comfort to us if it ever did, as well as being a pleasant way to pass a rainy afternoon in the meanwhile.

Because the odds of the world ending during our lifetimes are pretty slim, right, so there's not much risk of us having to face the reality of how it would actually be if everything and everyone we liked caught fire or drowned. Or both! At once! (See this is the problem, if you think about it too superficialy, it sounds like a Michael Bay movie, all exciting and explodey, rather than like being terribly uncomfortable and distressing, like a Michael Bay movie that you have to watch more than once, while completely sober.) Conversely, if it does happen, then as long as we don't get distracted by our awareness of our own terrible hubris for long enough for the zombies to get us, then there's really no harm done.

Unless, of course, we somehow get carried away with our enthusiasm and accidentally bring about the end of the world just because it sounds like a laugh, I guess. I think, though, we can probably avert that particular brand of disaster if we all just pinky-swear right now to definitely not, in any way, bring about the end of the world in any way shape of form. This means you especially, Dear Reader. You guys are both smart enough and excitable enough to accidentally-on-purpose set a bunch of velociraptors loose just to see whether your house meets the standards set by International Secure Your Home Against Raptors Day. (For Science!)

But the problem is, right, that last week I went skiing. (Bear with me, this gets relevant, I swear.) At the snow, the place where we stayed had really good central heating (and heaters AND an open fire! From my shivering vantage point here in my chilled flat, this seems like unimaginable luxury, as indeed it was), and it's not that I would miss that sort of thing in the event of an unscheduled return to a pre-civilised world (although I sure as hell would). The thing is, I failed to keep my week's worth of thyroxine (that's my anti-hypothyroid medicine for those of you playing at home) in the fridge while I was away, like I was supposed to. Usually, n my aforementioned chilled flat, this wouldn't be a problem, but in that toasty snowside apartment, the warmth straight-up denatured the whole lot. I didn't actually realise this until this week, when I was back to being all slow and morose unexpectedly, and I realised rather late what had happened. Obviously, this is not a serious long-term problem, because I have the rest of my medicine here at home, and it's been kept in the fridge.

But this really brought it home to me: I'm sort of reliant on modern technology a bit, now. I mean, obviously I always was, I probably couldn't live a week without recourse to things that were invented in the last 150 years. I certainly never have so far. But I reckon that I could probably take a crack at post-apocalyptic living on a good day. I'm pretty good in a crisis, and once I've resigned myself to a life without caffeine (which would take a while, what with the crippling caffeine-withdrawal headaches I'd be having for the first week), I think I could probably scrape together a coping strategy, as long as that's actually in some way possible. (So, obviously I don't expect to beat a world covered with lava, or something. I just think I could give fighting-off-giant-alien-spiders a shot, y'know?) But really, I'd only be at my best for maybe a month or so before I ran out of medicines and just wound down, like one of those battery-powered rabbits that the Energizer Bunny is always owning. And I'd like to see me fighting off man-eating killer plants while running at one-fifth speed and angsting about how now that 98% of the world's population was dead I would probably never get to live out the plot of a chick movie.

(Actually, I kind of would like to see that; until the bit where I inevitably get supped on by the agents of Armageddon, it might make for an amusing 8 second vignette.)

It's a pity, really, because if we discounted the thyroxine bit (and while we're at it, we'd probably better discount all the charming conveniences of modern medicine; I think we're likely to die of something pretty rapidly, otherwise, what with the Death, War, Famine and Pestilence that'd be going about) it could be a tiny bit neat. If nothing else, there'd be fewer delicious Maltesers, and probably a great deal more exercise, so I figure that after a little while we'd all be looking svelte and terrific. It would sort of level the playing field: those of us who usually keep in shape by baking cakes and watching Doctor Who would shrink, and those unsporting types who go to the gym all the time and take supplements and whatever it is such people do would lose at least the more pointless muscles. To keep it fair and reward them for their hard work, they'd be in much better zombie-outrunning condition, but on the other hand, the chubbier amongst us have reserves of energy to allow us to survive post-apocalyptic famine. Like camels, living off their humps! (Sorry, Skinny Nerd Readers, the only consolation for you is that you're brainy enough to outthink the zombies and contain little enough nutrition that they're unlikley to try that hard to eat you.)

Plus, like I said, very little to do by way of paperwork. The entirety of federal and state politics, as well as pop-up ads, telemarketing and The Twilight Saga would be things of the past! We would look back nostalgically and be all "remember public transport? Man, I miss those times".

Still, do not let such considerations tempt you into bringing about the end of the world, please. Remember, we Pinky Swore, and that, my friend, is a sacred vow.

In Which the Reader is deflected rather than actually addressed, per se

You guys, I was going to write this whole thing before I go away for the week, but I've run out of time, and also I've found this video on Youtube. It addresses almost exactly what I was going to blog about, in a more succinct and fantastic manner than I'd've been able to do. Also, almost all of this series are just as good, and just as much things I totally dig/agree with.

In Which most people keep it to themselves

Amazingly, it's taken me until now to wonder about something really obvious. As you are doubtless aware, I say a lot of things. I write a lot of things. Like, a lot of things. More than a lot of people. And sometimes I say something unusual and then either I or someone else opines that everyone thinks/does whatever that was, but most people don't say it out loud.

So someone says something nice to/about me and I'm all "Really? Truly? Awesome! Yessss!" etc. Then I get just a smidgin self-conscious and say "sorry, I just get so excited, I love it when people say nice things" and sort of metaphorically twirl a toe on the ground. And people always (well, often. Sometimes. When I haven't gotten too disproportionately pleased) say "no, I'm the exact same, but secretly. I think everyone thinks that! Most people just don't say anything."

Same goes for the overthinking. Like I said in my last post, I totally bet that everyone, or at least almost everyone, does that. Most people just manage not to say anything to other people, and cunningly hide their crazy. Also, they usually manage not to write thousand-word blog posts about it. Presumably they just don't have my mad typing skills or something.

So, here's my point: why not? Or, to put it another way, why do I? Why am I different to everyone else? I've never been real good at feigning indifference when people are nice, and I've never known why you would. Maybe it's a coolness thing. But why is it cool to pretend that you like things less than you do? Is it part of the original "cool", being carefully unenthused about everything? Is it a self-protection thing, like if you admit that you have a strong reaction to something, then others have power over you, or something? Is that really how you think about people? Surely not. Surely. Most people are alright. And this way you weed out the jerks who think you're weird for saying things like "Wow!" nice and early, before they can kill your life buzz.

I mean, I guess it is sometimes inconvenient, in that on a similar basis, when I like something, I say so, which probably comes across as insincere sometimes. It's bad when I run into a few people at once, and all of them have something nice going on in their outfit. If you say "Wow, I love your earrings!" to one person, they're pleased, but if you then like the next person's shoes and the next's hairdo, then you look like you're just making it up. "The eyes, the hair, pick a feature!" But I really only say those things when I mean them. Firstly because people so often have something great about them which is pretty obvious if you're actually looking at them at all, and secondly because I really like it when people say nice things to me. Also, because I'm so aware of how suss it often sounds that the idea of further muddying the waters with insincere compliments just terrifies me, so of course I would never say these things when they weren’t called for. If I sound foolish mentioning the things I do like, imagine how much worse it would be if I started adding to that, and mentioning more things! Especially if they were clearly rubbish, I suppose.

Anyway, the question is: why do I say these things naturally, when everyone else seems to naturally hide them? It's not that I don't like the idea of playing my cards close to the chest and seeming mysterious, it's just that I can't pull it off. I always want to talk to people about how my new play-the-cards-close-to-the-chest-and-be-mysterious thing is going. Tell them how intriguingly difficult I'm finding it not to tell them things. That sort of palaver.

Well, at any rate I assume that everyone else thinks things all the time, but is just heaps better at playing it cool than me. But then, every now and then, this happens. This is the facebook status (about Doctor Who, in case you’re out of the loop) which a Friend of mine made the other day, and the comments on it (or some of them):

TB says: "Vincent Van Gogh with a Scottish accent...sorry but no."
RW comments: "Ach laddie, mah fookin' ear!"
Ang comments: "It's the Tardis translating, buzzkill! Besides, I don't speak Dutch, so it had to be some kind of accent. Unless you want to get all Mel Gibson pseudo-realism, and use subtitles, in which case we have bigger problems.
TH comments: "Yes because the Dutch sound so Scottish, it hurts...
And why are the French from Somerset?
Ang comments: "Again: because they have to be from somewhere other than France, and it should be all the same place so you can tell who's different, so it might as well be Somerset as anywhere else. You can't hire actors who have no accent whatsoever, they sound foreign to EVERYONE. Or would, if they existed."
TH comments: "Wow, clearly you have put a lot of thought into this."

...what? I mean, isn't that just the obvious answer to the question at hand? I didn't put any thought into it at all, I just answered (which is why my answer reads so oddly, in retrospect). I mean, I appreciate that maybe the dude was being deliberately facile and whatever, and that's fair enough, maybe I shouldn't've gone "I will try to answer the question you are begging but not asking", because that's just me being a bit socially odd (which is still a mystery), but what is this thing where people imply that you had to be up late into the night, tossing and turning as you ponder the question or whatever? I mean, it leaps to the eye. And in this case, it has been leaping to the eye, no thought required, essentially ever since we were old enough to watch movies and TV. This issue is the same for every story ever set in a place where they don't speak English. Surely we all nutted it out when we were about 11? I just... I just have no idea what the go is with this sort of interaction.

Leaving this aside, I still have no idea why it is that I seem to be sort of full of words compared to everyone else. It worries me a little, since "pressure of speech" is a symptom of mania and schizophrenia and heaven only knows what else besides. It does sort of seem a little like that, doesn't it? Like some person or event scratches the surface of my mind and words just spurt and spray everywhere, like the blood coming out of the limb-stumps of that knight in Monty Python's Holy Grail.

It's pressurised enough that I have to carry a whole notebook for it. It turns out that you're not allowed to just talk out loud to yourself or others (and yes, I do talk out loud to myself. It's rarely silent in my car when I'm driving alone. If I'm not singing along, I'm talking to myself. I think maybe it's a habit I got from driving when I was tired, trying to keep myself awake) during lectures and stuff, you're supposed to sit quietly. So I carry a little notebook to vent words, and relieve the pressure, so to speak. It's full of disjointed half-thought phrases and song lyrics and lists and so on. Which is weird, because I also use it for passing notes in class, and it's a strange thing to hand to a curious friend a repository of your half-formed thoughts and absent-minded musings. It makes me nervous when people flip the pages back (because they don't want to waste paper, people often do this; as if an 800-page "Fat Little Notebook" is not already wasted paper, a sunk cost) because I usually have no recollection of what things I've written in there disjointedly, and how they will seem when strung together.

I particularly always want to write down nice things that I remember, (and they look especially mad when read back out of context, I assure you) to sort of crystallise the memory. There are so many things that I can only really remember once they've been said out loud a few times, or written down. And it makes me sad to think that I won't be able to remember how it was when that nice boy in my class said that he thought I was really really cool and had impeccable dress sense, or that lovely girl said that she thought I was so funny that when we became facebook friends she went and read all my old statuses on my profile page. Because without crystallising, those sorts of things get lost, filed vaguely under "Oh, how nice!". And then when you have a rough day and you need to access that sort of memory, you're out of luck.

Obviously it's difficult, because putting a memory into words is like trying to put something soft into a box. It's protected there, and you can find it, but it's changed. The bits that don't fit get squashed in, some of the shape is lost faster, squished into the shape of the box, formed and deformed by the words which protect it. Or maybe it's mosre like hanging a coat on a skeleton? Anyway, like a metaphor which isn't quite right. Exactly like that.

Anyway, I don't really have an answer to my question of what makes me respond differently, maybe it's just that once you start thinking like that, once you start, it sort of snowballs. I mean, you can tell it snowballs, look at this blog. Since I started Medicine, I've been told a couple of times by lovely, apparently perfectly sane people, that they never read books because they don't have the time. (Lovely, apparently sane people who get much much better marks than I do, obviously). In that time, just since I started this highly intensive etc. course, I've written about 70,000 words of blog alone. (Never mind emails, facebook statuses, notebook, etc). That's about the same length as the novels my compatriots don't have time to even read.

See? Takes but a scratch and there's pools of words all over the place! Whoa.

In Which it may or may not be appropriate to care what people think of you

The idea in my last blog post (what is morality blah blah blah) sort of links in with another conversation I had last week. My Delightful Friend Belinda was singing quietly (and endearingly, naturally) to herself in a corridor or something, and so we struck up a discussion about Caring What Others Think Of You. She, she said, does not much care what anyone thinks of her, and therefore does not object to singing in a corridor. She reckoned that she thinks maybe even too little about what others will think, and that I probably thought too much of such things. (It may have been me who said that I was an overthinker, I do not wish to give the impression that she was being critical). This is something movies and such are always advising us: Be Yourself, and Who Cares what Anyone Else thinks? This strikes me as maybe being a bit of a trap, just like Dream Big and Follow Your Heart (regarding which, see previous posts). Well, not as much of a trap as those two, obviously, because those are either actively pathological or just meaningless, in my opinion, whereas “Don’t care what others think” is more just a matter of striking a delicate balance, rather than being just completely stupid to even think about in the first place.

Note: I am now engaging with the Moral of so many parts of our culture: “Don’t care what others think (of you)”, not with Belinda’s very sensible unselfconsciousness. So if you’re reading this, Belinda (and hi Dave), I am not arguing at you. I am arguing inspired by you. It’s totally different, honest (no, really!).

Because, right, you have to care a little what others think of you. Otherwise you’re a sociopath. Or something. You’d act without consideration for others all the time (unless maybe you didn’t care what others think of you, but did care what they thought/felt otherwise? This seems a trifle elaborate). And what would be the point of ever saying anything? I mean, why do you talk? To get your thoughts into other people's minds, essentially. It'd be silly if you didn't care what was in their minds, or if they didn't care about your thoughts.

On the average day at uni I talk in fairly predictable ways, we could go through them systematically if you don’t believe me. The first thing I say most days is “Good morning” (Or just “Morning”, often, because I’m a rebel that way, and variety is the spice of life, yeah? Also, my flatmate gets up at a different time to me most mornings, so it is totally not tragic that this is usually the first interaction of my day) and then about 45 minutes later “Thanks mate” to the bus driver. And if I didn’t care what he thought, then I wouldn’t bother saying that, because it’s not a conversation which does anything for me, I get nothing out of that, so what would be the point? So then the first thing would be greeting people at uni, and why do that if I don’t care what they think? (Actually, it’s almost completely pointless, since the sole function of the interaction is to say “I have seen you and acknowledge your presence/existence”, which could technically be achieved with eyecontact, and which is again pointless if you don’t care what they think. If it was just me not caring, then maybe their feelings would be hurt, but if neither of us cared what the other thought, then why would either bother? They don't care that I like that they eixst.) So we skip ahead to tutorial, where you might legitimately say things to further discussion, but again, why bother engaging if you don't care what your classmates think? You know what you know, you can learn from them, you don't need to contribute. (You know what, this is getting a little dull, but you see what I'm saying. Possibly I am wrong to conflate "not caring what people think of you" and "not caring what people think at all" and "not caring about anyone at all, who needs those jerks". But if I am, then so are thousands of teenagers across the globe even as we speak. Millions, maybe! Millions of grumpy hormonal little misanthropes). Plus, in a sense, you could read it as being madly arrogant to ever contribute to academic discussion, implying that everyone else is less knowledgeable than you are and so on. But I wouldn't recommend going too far down that line of inquiry, because that's one of those things where if everyone does it then it ends in tragedy. Like Living your Big Dreams, in that sense.

Anyway, what I'm saying is; it's pretty clearly possible to care too little what people think of you. People (not Dear Lovely Belinda, obviously, Other People) who claim not to care what people think of them usually fall into one of two categories. People who do not care what anyone at all thinks of them, and people who claim not to care about people whom they dislike or do not respect think of them.

The former are usually the people one does not meet, but does come across, in public spaces, like on buses or in art galleries (especially small artist-operated art galleries, somehow). Even though you do not know them, you know that they do not care what you think, because they are usually saying so loudly to someone. Which does rather beg the question, I've always thought, why they feel it so important that people know that they don't care. Like "I don't care what you think unless you erroneously think that I care about what you think. It's important to me that you do not think that". Anyway, this tends to manifest itself as just being rude and inconsiderate. You know, talking on the phone really loudly about personal things (usually the personal things of their interlocuter, people tend to especially not care what people think of them when it's someone else who is the one likely to be embarrassed), or smoking next to someone who is holding an asthma puffer in their hand, or loudly talking about how unattractive someone or something is. The explanation that they do not care what others think is often in response to the look of acute embarrassment on the face of their acquaintance when they say or do something which might be perceived as rude or thoughtless by others. Acquaintances and their sympathisers all think "you may not, but I do, and so I suspect does that woman who just heard you refer to her as 'painfully unattractive'".

The second type, who do not care about the opinions of those whom they actively dislike, are more likeable. Because usually the people whose opinions they "don't care about" would otherwise make them sad. Because 80% of the time, they're right to dislike people, or they have a good reason not to respect the thoughts of the person in question (like who cares what a girl wearing jeggings thinks of your sartorial choices? She is already wrong before she even says anything). Maybe that 1 in 5 leftover would surprise them, but really, once you try to get that ellusive last skerrick of niceness out of the opinions of the world, you get more of the negative too. Still, this sort of thing is difficult if for instance you're trying to introduce a new love to cantankerous parents in any movie ever, or more pressingly if you're a mutual friend of the two folks who do not care what the other thinks.

Plus this is the one that has any real relevance to me. You may have picked up in your time bein' aquainted with me, but I tend to sort of overanalyse things. (Don't feel bad if you missed it, it's totally subtle and hard to tell. But if you reread, for instance, the post in which I "considered" that innocently friendly comment in late May, or, I don't know, any other post ever, you might start to pick up the tiny telltale hints.) Which is fine. Because I genuinely just do it for kicks. I may sound like I'm angsting to death about the tone of someone's "hello", but really, I've got to think about something, so t may as well be that, and it's sort of a hobby. Also, it may have taken me more than a thousand words to say "here are my initial thoughts on hearing that someone said something nice about my blog", but I didn't spend hours on it. It took maybe 45 minutes to type out, but I thought all those things within 2 seconds tops. I'm systematic that way. Problem is that sometimes I forget myself and say these things out loud to people, or write them on my blog too obviously or whatever, and then people get all concerned about me. They worry that I care too much what others think, and they earnestly explain to me that they don't care what some Cool Kid or other thinks of me, and neither should I. Which I totally appreciate in that it shows that they care and all that, but which is often not where I was really going with my line of thought. (Although, fair's fair, sometimes I really am just having a moment of crazy).

I don't know, though. I can't possibly be that bad. I reckon I just articulate what a lot of people do all the time without realising it (or with realising it, but secretly). Also possibly most people haven't crafted it into an actual hobby of thought-experimentation. I mean, if I was really paranoid about what people thought about me, would I really post thousands and thousands of words of blog post about it? Wouldn't I be more likely to sit quaking quietly in the corner? Similarly, I have repeatedly dressed up foolishly for uni for no good reason. Either I don't mind when people look at me and go "that girl is totally odd", or I care what they think so deeply that I need to show them my inner pirate or whatever. I choose to believe that the former is more plausible. (Note: show-off attention whore is not one of the options, so tough bikkies.)

Mind you, I was talking to Easily Amused Matt a few weeks ago (you remember him, Dear Reader), about that thing from post a few weeks ago, about how the Cool Folks sometimes Look Through people a trifle, and he said that it would be worse for me because I have insight into it. Which seems strange; surely everyone notices these things, most of them just maintain the Code of Silence about it? Surely. Most people, at least, notice these things.

Which is not to say that I don't then go away and totally overthink things. Like it only occurred to me hours later, after the conversation I talked about in my last post, that there was a whole other thing to overanalyse. Dude claimed superiority because of being a Christian Virgin, fine. But only way later did I suddenly wonder what the heck made him so sure that I was neither of those things. The fact that he was right is esentially beside the point. Either he has exactly as much "insight" into the little things people say and do as I do, or else I've come up in conversation or he reads this blog. Any of which is odd, frankly. Unless, of course, I just have the look of an irreligious floozy, I suppose. I mean, I was wearing a corset at the time. Still. So, having waited until so much later to overabalyse that totally gives me not-overanalysing-things points, surely? Plus I was totally succinct.

Whoa, this has gotten really long, as usual. But one last paragraph, and then I swear I'll go to bed. One last little overanalysis. A little one:

This is the other half of the argument, essentially ("think less about what others think"), and I'm affording it way less space than the "think more" because all of popular culture essentially has this covered. You can't let what you assume others might think, especially when you don't respect their judgements anyway, govern how much you enjoy your life etc. etc. etc. More specifically, I'd say it's worth exercising caution because sometimes overthinking things gives you displeasure where there never needed to be any. So the other day at uni, I was talking to 3 young men, or rather standing there vaguely while they talked, about girls. One of them described a girl whom he knows, a friend of his girlfriend, as "really nice but not at all attractive. Totally not hot" (or somthing like that). At this point, all of them glanced slightly guiltily at me. The same way you might when someone tells a blonde joke and you glance at the blonde in the group to make sure she's cool with it, or something. In my overthinking mind, I instantly went "Oh yeah, so 'nice but unattractive' as a phrase makes you think of me, huh? Thanks, jerks. Although thanks for the 'nice' bit I guess. Huh." (although I'm a bit of a Psych geek, so what I actually though was more about being Primed with that phrase making me more Salient, but whatever). Which is crazy, because in retrospect it was clearly not a glance of "oh no, Ang is nice but unattractive, what if she's offended on that other unattractive girl's behalf?" but rather one of "this is a pretty dirrspectful way to talk about a girl, I hope the girl who is here is not offended on the basis of feminine solidarity or something". Or so I choose to believe. Otherwise, I stand by my "jerks" asnalysis. Also, it's always worth bearing in mind the vicissitudes of casual eye contact. It could be that they were all just doing that thing where you look at everyone in the conversation in turn, and the timing was just unfortunate.
Anyway, it's probably the "girl" thing, yeah?

Anyway, this post has gotten ridiculously long even for me, so the TL:DR version of this post is "watch that movie Stardust". It's supergreat and also the moral of the story is not to care what people think of you if you do not share their values and ideals, because you don't respect their ideas about other things, so why let them influence your ideas about you?" Also the moral is "all boys look better with slightly longer hair and a sword". Or that was what I took out of it, anyway.Plus, there were Sky Pirates and Dexter Fletcher was in it a bit.

In Which 'Morality' proves to be too big a topic for a blog

Have you ever wondered about how much of an effect the people you know and talk with have on your lexicon? Obviously we all try to talk in a way which is appropriate for the situation (so we wouldn't always choose the word "lexicon" for instance), but it's weird when you notice those things that you and your friends say and always take for granted. This happened to me on Friday. I have a friend who used to always describe his team's soccer losses as "moral victories". In his case this was almost fair, since the other teams had the unfair advantages of talent, training, being-Sydney-FC-that-one-time, etc. Problem is, I never even noticed that I'd absorbed the use of the word "moral" as an almost meaningless adjective until Friday. I claimed (obviously spuriously) that my hat was "morally superior" to some other hat. Which is clearly stupid. Problem is that this had become a thing I just say without my even noticing it.

Naturally, this then devolved into an argument as to whose hat was superior and more specifically whether it was possible for a hat to be "morally" superior to any other hat not obtained by crime or similar. I don't know how it happened, but I managed to end up arguing the clearly untenable position that they could, and mine was. (Note: it really is a pretty awesome hat, you guys). This was difficult on the grounds that it's difficult to have a bantering argument when you have absolutely nothing to argue because you are absolutely wrong.

The problem is that in this situation, the only thing is argument ad hominem, basically. So it ended up in a possibly even more foolish debate as to which interlocutor was the more moral person. That's pretty much not somewhere you ever want to go, conversationally. Either you're arguing that you or that your opponent is in some way a genuinely bad person (so as to be "morally" not superior), and then the fun wears off about as fast as you'd expect.

So that was pretty silly.

But even though it was yet another case of attempted social suicide by yours truly, it still raised an interesting point: how can you judge the moral worth of a person? What, in fact, is morality per se? (Now seems like a good time to note that I'm aware that greater thinkers than I have thought about this, this is just an idle musing, because that's what we do here. And also, a girl's got to think of something to write about, and I went with carefully not thinking through the obviously innocent hyperbolic humour of emails and suchlike last week, and that wasn't really super successful). The dude I was arguing (for want of a better word) with claimed that he was the more moral person because of being Christian and virginal, and I wondered: is morality an external thing, bestowed by religion and an honour code handed down from God or the gods, or is it more an adherence to your own standards? (Obviously, given that I was busy wondering these things, we can take it as read that I had no better counter arguments than "Oh yeah, well... ha." Neither of these issues proposed as the lynchpins for morality are points on which I can make these sorts of sweeping claims. Also, I have an allergy to making the sorts of personal remarks it takes to really commit to arguing against that sort of thing. “Well, I think, from what very little I’ve seen, you have some dubious attitudes about people in general and also sometimes you seem just a trifle thoughtless. But I do think that on the whole you’re a good guy” is both much too strong and much too weak, all at once. And I can’t just argue pro-myself instead of arguing against him because “Yeah, well I try to be nice to people, even if it is not always particularly successful because sometimes I am accidentally thoughtless or carried away. Also someone told me I was ‘cruel’ that time, so maybe it’s just wildly unsuccessful. I guess that could be a thing. Anyway, I like to think of myself as someone who tries.” is desperately weak.)This at least is an advantage of religion and black-and-white sweeping claims. You don't feel that you need, in good faith, to qualify them to death.

I suppose the whole point of religious faith is that you basically have your answer to that point (the one before those brackets: “is morality internal or external?” who those of you having difficulty keeping up). But are personal values not still important, even if not, according that viewpoint, as vital? I suppose that Holy Writings of various kinds have been thorough enough that that there really are official positions on what the Right Thing is in most situations. Still, I would argue that there are always new situations, so that some degree of autonomous decision always has to be undertaken. There are no Biblical writings dealing with how to deal with Facebook dramas, for instance, except maybe analogously. And then you have the problem of interpretation. So everyone is, to some extent, a law unto themself. Plus, it’s maybe worth acknowledging that once you have accepted the precepts of your religion as your personal moral framework, you still need to make the effort to adhere to that, so it’s not just free “morality” points. Folks get at least as much cred for doing right by their external frameworks as their internal ones. Maybe more, since a lot of those things will tend to be more challenging to what you might personally prefer to do, either on the basis of moral dilemmas or on the basis of that-chick-is-totally-slammin-maybe-it-would-be-ok-to-have-just-a-little-bit-of-sex-now.

Plus, if you think that moral frameworks are internal (as I think we can agree that they must be, to some extent), then where do they come from? A lot of that is just acculturation and the ideas of your society and possibly the Disney movies and Sesame Street viewing of your childhood. (I read a thing once about how watching Sesame St really does make small children better people, if by better people you mean “people who try to accept differences and be nice to people and suchlike and also people who can recognise the letter F”.) Looks like it’s a combination of factors. Like any 5 year old (especially a Sesame St viewer) could have told me 300 words ago.

The problem is that even if you decide to go with an internalised moral framework, lucky is the person who can claim never to have broken their own rules. There are things which are absolutely part of my moral framework and standard which I've been hazier on than I ought, and there are points where, although I can categorically state that I have never wavered, I've hardly been challenged. (Like, I’d never cheated on anyone, and never would, but I guess I’ve been complicit in others’ cheating. By accident, I hasten to add. Also, I’ve never really had anyone try to seduce me into cheating on someone, so maybe it’s cheap of me to be smug about something I’ve never had to try hard to achieve.) So, for instance, it’s difficult for me to say “I may not adhere to a specific religious code, but I make it a very definite point to try not to judge people on the basis of their beliefs and religion (or age/sex/sexuality/creed)” without, in all honesty, having to add “unless their beliefs are ‘obviously wrong’ or mean or I don’t like them.” Which makes it a difficult point to argue. So sure, I think that most of the modern religions, as generally understood, are pretty good. But I’m not in favour of people who like the idea of female circumcision, or stoning homosexuals, or Nazism or whatever.

I guess that’s sort of the central tenet of my “moral framework”. Be nice to people and try not to object to them doing things you would not do yourself if it doesn’t hurt anyone. It’s that second bit where I come into some conflict with a lot of religion, because my idea of what’s victimless is different to the ideas of a lot of those guys’. Plus, once you add an omniscient loving God into the mix, there’s suddenly a whole extra way to hurt someone. If there’s a being who can see/hear your thoughts and who has strong ideas about a lot of issues, then you can easily hurt their feelings by thinking inappropriately lustful thoughts or blaspheming in your mind or whatever. So that’s a bit of a difficulty.

I was going to have a whole second half of this discussion here, but I fear that this post is already a trifle top-heavy. So that’s all for now, and I’ll pick up this line of thought in my next post, probably.

In Which the internet is not such a looker that it should presume to judge.

So, I got a weird email last week. Years and years ago, I signed up to a dating site called OkCupid, mainly because my Strong-Willed friend Sophie said that I ought to because they had a good chat function and we could, like, hang out online or something. Which is fine. Of course, it was rendered obsolete almost immediately by the advent of Gmail as a thing which everyone had, since it had a much better, less annoying chat function. Also, it was in a sense preemptively obsolete, since I actually hate chatting online. I don't know why, I know I liked it in highschool or thereabouts (remember ICQ?) but I've found it strangely clunky and awkward pretty much my entire adult life. Anyway, the point is, I still have this old account that I can't figure out how to properly delete (also, if I'm honest, although I don't actually use it, I kind of love the ridiculous long thing I wrote for my profile for that site, and I don't want to just discard that. I mean, it could hardly be relevant to anything else, since it's essentially an embedded blog post on the subject of one of those stupid profile questions they ask on those sites; "What are 6 things you couldn't live without?". Maybe I should just copy it across to here and properly deactivate my account? It's just very hard to be bothered. Plus, what if I re-read it and it turned out it was a bit lame? Much better to keep in in reserve, thinking of it as awesome and never really accessing it.

I never log in these days except when the email notifications really pile up and I get curious as to what the second halves of all these messages which begin "I read your profile and you seem really interesting although did you know that alligators actu.... To Read More Log In Now!" say. Because I actually cannot imagine a situation where I would ever feel comfortable meeting up with someone I had only met online, so I feel removed from the entire thing, like logging in to my account would not be logging in to my own account but into that of some other girl who looks and writes like me but is in any way whatsoever interested in the idea of “internet dating” as a thing which applies to her. I’ll happily talk to someone online (except that, like I said, I’m not a “chat” fan) but meet up? Oh no, I don’t think so, not at all. It feels like it would be essentially the awkwardest thing ever, and I hate and fear awkwardness. Even thinking about trying to meet up and converse in a deliberate premeditated fashion with someone whom I’ve never actually met, but for whom the standard desultory we’ve-just-met conversational topics have already been used up in emails and so forth, makes me all worried. I get bad enough meeting up with people I actually know after any kind of hiatus.

Anyway, I got this email the other week that was all "Hi, Username! We have data on your attractiveness!" I did not even make that sentence up. They deadset (I keep saying "deadset" this week, also "legit". Apparently I am subconsciously trying to become more ocker by sounding like Ginger Meggs or something. Not that he said "legit" much, as I recall) used the phrase "We have data on your attractiveness", as if that was anything other than desperately creepy.

I was going to just pick out the best bits of this email to eviscerate, but actually, on rereading, the whole thing is so entirely despicable in almost all of its implications that I'm just going to copy/paste the thing en masse. Don't worry, it's not long:

"We are very pleased to report that you are in the top half of OkCupid's most attractive users. The scales recently tipped in your favor, and we thought you'd like to know.

How can we say this with confidence? We've tracked click-thrus on your photo and analyzed other people's reactions to you in QuickMatch and Quiver.
. . .

Your new elite status comes with one important privilege:
You will now see more attractive people in your match results.

This new status won't affect your actual match percentages, which are still based purely on your answers and desired match's answers. But the people we recommend will be more attractive. Also! You'll be shown to more attractive people in their match results.
. . .

Suddenly, the world is your oyster. Login now and reap the rewards. And, no, we didn't just send this email to everyone on OkCupid. Go ask an ugly friend and see."

Every one of those sentences is awful in all its implications, good grief. I think my over-all reaction would definitely be a resounding "how dare you!?", and I'm not one to double-punctuate like that unless it's really serious. This is the sort compliment which would earn a ringing slap in an old-fashioned movie. Or any movie with people in it, really. Or, like, reality, if anyone were ever so unwise as to come up to me and say "I thought you were ugly for the last several years, but I think now you're just passable! Isn't that great? This makes you a better person!" in person.

To start with, I've had the same photo for well over 2 years. Nothing about me has changed. Not in that photo, anyway. It's an alright photo, I look dead ordinary, not misleadingly glamourous, but obviously not a wildly unflattering angle or aything. Pleasantly plain, perhaps. But not different, not different to how it was years ago, not at all. The only conceivable change in that unchanged photo is that heavy-framed glasses may now be slightly more trendy than they once were, so that people are looking at it going "eyyy" (like the Fonz) not "ewww" (like Jocks do to Geeks in 80s movies). But the "scales have recently tipped in my favour"? Oh really? Sod right off, website.

Because, right, I’m reasonably ok with not being in the officially “more attractive” category (warning: may be pernicious lies), but when, at the end of the email, they make it clear that the dichotomy is ugly vs. attractive, suddenly what they’re saying is no longer “I’ve just noticed how attractive you are” but “you are only now only just scraping in above the ‘ugly’ mark. Last week we thought you were definitely ugly, now we do not”, which, let’s face it, is unreasonable. Even if you ignore this ridiculously binary idea of physical attractiveness. I mean beauty is subjective and photos are not a reasonable gauge of physical attractiveness as a whole, often, and all that, but also, I am not, in fact, ugly. And I wasn’t ugly last week or any time in the last year or so. At worst, I have been merely not-actively-attractive, and that, I choose to believe, was only on my off-days (why yes, I do respond to a challenge by becoming filled with vain bravado, why do you ask?). I have my flaws, yes, we all do, and I’m not such a fool as to try and list or analyse them here, but they are not serious disfigurements, they are the sorts of flaws which are endearing in loved ones, mainly, I would think. Like the ones most people have.

(I suppose part of the problem here is that there are few people if any whom I would describe as ‘ugly’. Anyone so seriously unattractive that I couldn’t find something nice about them would inspire more pity than name-calling, and before I got to the point of calling a person ugly, they’d have to be pretty much a jerk for me to feel comfortable saying something so mean about them. And then, if they were both very ugly and a really-jerk, I would probably be all “it’s unfortunate for them, being so entirely unattractive, no wonder they’re embittered and jerkish. Still, what a jerk”. This is essentially just not a concept or word that I really ever use. Kind of like how I make an effort not to find bits of people “disgusting”, because again, bits of people are either just ordinary and natural or inspiring of sympathy or pity or whatever (Like innards and ladybits or horrible painful sores, respectively). “Disgust” sounds judgemental and shaming. Same as “ugly”.)

Anyway, moving on, the next paragraph informs me that “my new elite status comes with one important privilege: I will now see more attractive people in my match results”. Ok, how is being in the top 50% of something “elite”? That’s a full half of all the people involved. That’s not elite. 5% is elite, Top 10 is elite. 50% is not elite. 50% is only as elite as a Federal government in a 2-party preference on Election day, and everyone always hates those guys. (This is like the oft-misspelled and constantly misused “stunning” or “divine” on ebay and etsy. “Elite”). More importantly, though, what the hell is with this eugenic business of only showing officially attractive people to officially attractive people? It wasn’t cool when the Nazis tried this, and it’s not real cool now (although obviously this is rather less bad as a whole, I think we can agree). And even leaving that aside, what about individual taste? There were certainly people who they showed me the pictures of before who I thought were pretty attractive. Will I just not be shown those people again unless I drop back below the pass mark somehow, due to random fluctuations in “clik-thrus”? If I do, will I get another email that’s even worse (“Bad news, kid, you’ve been relegated back to the Ugly Corner! The world is neither your oyster nor miscellaneous mollusc nor any other tasty foodstuff. Sorry”)? Or will I just get this same email again if I happen to go down a grade and then back up? Has anyone in charge of anything even thought about this?

The next bit seems much like more of the same, just with some added “don’t worry, we don’t think attractiveness is a personality trait”. But what the hell, has it been keeping the “attractive” geeks to itself, not telling me about them or them about me? This does not bother me per se, inasmuch as, like I said, I don’t actually use the site, but there are people who definitely do. Attractive and unattractive people who may (gasp!) not have the same ideas of attractiveness as the people who are in charge of this crap. I mean, I’ve been shown a lot of people (they send you emails with collections of thumbnails of people you might like) more than once, it’s not like the pool of people the website thinks I might like is infinite. Why would you bother with this sort of wedge politics and not just show everyone to everyone? Especially if you already have “match” algorithms which suggests people who might get on?

Lastly “no, we didn’t just send this email to everyone, go ask an ugly friend and see”. Seriously, what kind of person does this website take me for? ‘Oh, alright then, I guess I’ll just go and ask passive aggressive manipulative questions of one of those friends of mine whom I consider to be ugly. Because that’s how I think about people I like.’ This especially makes no sense given the policy of attractive-people-should-only-have-to-know-each-other-and-not-be-burdened-but-the-unaesthetic-visages-of-the-less-beautiful. Why would the sort of person who want a website to only show them pictures of people who are statistically deemed likely to be attractive have friends they consider ugly? Actually, on consideration, I guess it makes sense. They’re describing there the sort of jerks who probably deliberately hang out with people they consider less attractive than themselves so that they look better in comparison. The sort of jerks who would prize a compliment based on “click-thrus and analyses of other people’s reactions to you” when shown a tiny thumbnail of a self-selected portrait.

Ultimately, it’s a good thing that I have no particular urge to in any way use this site, because man, an email like that gives me a strong distaste for the whole sorry thing. Like 2,000 words worth of strong. Oh my.

In Which you can't drink less coffee than no coffee, no matter how hard you try

You guys, it is now officially winter. And suddenly it has become much colder (so much so that my fingers keep going numb as I try to type this, so it may have a higher-than-usual number of typos). Which would be fine if this was a book, or one of those montage sequences in a B movie (Twilight: Eclipse, anyone?), but which is definitely odd in real life. Since when does the weather change in line with the seasons? Usually everyone spends the whole first month of each season discussing how "if doesn't feel like Season X at all!" and so on.

I'm, uh, not really going anywhere with that, I just wanted to mention it, mainly because I'm typing at about half my usual speed, what with the aforementioned finger numbness, which is making it it strangely hard to write. Usually I just more or less type as I think, which not only gives this blog that wonderfully unstructured stream-of-consciousness thing you all know and love/tolerate-with-mounting-exasperation, but also means that I don't have to stop typing and try to figure out where I was going, or indeed had got to, with the line of thought I've written down. But mostly typing as slowly as this makes it feel clunky and ungainly. Like by the time I get to the end of a typed sentence, I've forgotten what I was going to say next. Like my thoughts get bored waiting for my hands to catch up and just wander off.

I wonder if this is why I talk so fast too? Surely it must be the same thing. It's odd, because I can never tell when I'm doing it. I'm just innocently talking to someone at what seems like a perfectly ordinary speed when suddenly they go "For the love of all that's holy, will you please just slow down! I haven't heard anything you said in the last 3 minutes, but at that speed, it could easily have been the complete works of Tolstoy! In the original Russian, for all I could make out!" And I'm all "Gosh, really? Uh, sorry. What was this last bit you actually understood?".

Usually at this point I make the spurious claim of having "drunk too much coffee this morning" (which is what you might uncharitably call a bald-faced lie, since usually I have drunk no coffee at all. Although it's almost true, in the sense that any coffee at all is usually too much coffee for someone as excitable as me. I tend to get so hyped that I actually bouce. Literally, not figuratively. Well, both. So in that sense, I've had "almost too much coffee" since any additional amount would be "too much".) Anyway, that seems easier than saying "sorry, I just talk quickly, would you mind trying to listen rather faster?". Because that inevitably leads to the question of why I don't just slow down.

But really, have you even tried that? It always sounds really strange and unnatural to one's own ear. I used to have an Ancient history lecturer, many years ago in the Good Old Days of lectures in the Quad and tutorials about things which were actually exciting and involved swords and so on, who had, I suspect, taken this advice at some point. Probably, when you spoke at a speed which seemed natural to him hesoundedlikethistoeveryonewhowaslisteningtohim. So someone had told him to slow down. Problem is, he didn't then talk normally, like this (with spaces between all the words as standard) or even in that deeply annoying way of many lecturers who talk ... like ... this, ... so ... slowly ... that ... you ... lose ... focus ... between ... every ... word ... because... it ... is ... impossible ... to ... pay ... attention ... at ... that ... speed (which is my most hated thing for lecturers to do, it makes them un-attend-to-able). Oh no, not this guy. He always talked as if each sentence had been caught spying in the First World War and had been marched out of the Tower of London at dawn, stood against a wall, and then shot full of punctuation at random by a firing squad. So strong in,, fact was, ,,, this impression that I ,,, oftencompletelylosttrack . of what was happenening,,, in the lecture because ,, all I could ,,, think about was rifles loaded with 22 cali...bre commas, ,,, and sentences asking to face the squad without,,, a blindfold. It was good times.

What I'm saying here is that it sure is difficult to "just talk more slowly!". Which would be fine if I ever remembered that sometimes I talk so fast that people can't quite hear everything, and tried to be less randomly allusive all the time. I think this may make the task or understanding me near-impossible some times, especially when I blithely assume that people have the same background knowledge as me. It's ok when I talk to patients or people on the bus, or whatever, because then I remember not to assume that they're the same as me. But with people whom I perceive as being similar to me, I fear that I can become dangerously obtuse.

I was at the doctor the other day trying to explain what the symptoms were that I was getting with this crazy hypothyroidism thing (did I tell you about that, Gentle Reader? Apparently I have hypothyroidism. Go figure) and I said "I feel like my mind is falling away like wet cake. It's like Macarthur Park in here!". Honestly, I'm just lucky that the guy happens to be in the right demographic and know his Richard Harris or he would have put me down as having 'clang associations', which are totally a schizophrenia thing (and that I definitely do not have, which is for the best). This is in stark contrast to the time when, when asked in a tutorial what my suggested management would be for a baby of low birth-weight, I answered "washing in a jug". Yeah, turns out that maybe about 7 people in the world are familiar with the last song on Cream's Disraeli Gears album, "Mother's Lament". Everyone probably thought I was a callous fool. Still, that's a nil-all draw there, because I might not be able to guage my audience, but they're missing out on a pretty rad and random song.

All this meta-thought is brought on, in case you're wondering, not only by the numb fingers (although seriously, does there need to be another reason? It's really really annoying to try and keep track of what I was going to say while waiting for the typing to catch up. Especially since I keep having to retype things because of the typos. I spelled "meta-thought" "meat-thought" about 6 times in a row just then) but also by the fact that I foolishly read a bit of that other Med student blog I mentioned back in the day; Sharp Incisions.

Reading that sort of thing always makes me feel terribly self-conscious. It's not bad, it's quite good, even (and hello and sorry for that turn of phrase, if you're reading this, Incisive Blogger). But she refers to her cats as the Feline Incisions, and talks about "shifts" at hospital (I will charitably assume that she actually moonlights as a nurse or something, and doesn't mean her lessons at Clinical School), and she just seems so... so incredibly, wholesomely inspired by her clinical experience. It's a sensation not unakin to watching someone singing a very sincere song with their eyes closed on stage in a small venue.

I read things other people have written within the genre of blogging-about-the-quotidian-minutiae-of-one's-life and I wonder; is that how I sound? If you glance to the right you will see a Blogroll of other blogs friends of mine write, and strangely, I never have that experience reading their stuff. I'm interested, or amused, or pleased, or whatever, but never do I feel self-conscious. Maybe it's because it's so different to my stuff? Spencer's is more a collection of "Works" than a blog per se (and if you haven't read it, do) and Catie's is always really well thought out and articulate (and concise), and usually about something deliberate, and Jordans and Alex's, when they update, which is never, are specific rant-sorts-of-things about politics and philosophy of that wonderful take-no-prisoners-men-this-is-the-internet variety which must be so surprising for the unwary newcomer. Most of the others are travel blogs or similar. Maybe that's all there is to it. The Incisor is just so like me in terms of subject matter that it just throws me into contrast? Plus she makes medicine-themed in-jokes, and I know I should stop making so many in-jokes that no-one could possibly understand, myself. Maybe noticing the speck in her eye makes me more aware of the plank in my own. (Also, man, I hate that translation. "Plank" cannot possibly be the word in the original Hebrew or whatever. That always makes me think of this image and that's not good in any circumstances (it's nothing awful, in case you're worried about NSFW-ness, just that old picture of the moon with a rocket in its eye). Oh my goodness, in the middle of a sentence about how I need to stop making references that not everyone gets, I just did it again. Sorry to all those of you who didn't go to a religious school and are therefore not down with your Matthew 7:3).

Probably the thing is also that I feel condescending and slightly critical of her blog, despite the fact that she (presumably) doesn't know that I might be reading. Which is guess is something that it would disconcert me to actually know (rather than just strongly suspect) of my own writing, again. I deal poorly with criticism, as I think we've established. Or maybe it's just the "Feline Incisions" thing. I mean, it could definitely be that.

It's a good thing I don't have a cat, is all.

In Which only one Event can be Attended.

This evening, I have been invited to go and see my dear old friends Patrick, Spencer and Tim perform their musical stylings slash poetic readings in Kings Cross. This is all terribly exciting, naturally, since this is terribly Big Time for a bunch of lads whose usual gig is Monday night at Name This Bar on Oxford St. Problem is: Kings Cross is really far away from anything remotely resembling "places conveniently accessible by public transport from my flat". And in none of the Kings Crosses in the world, I suspect, is parking cheap or easy. Also it is horribly rainy, which makes going anywhere by public transport pretty aversive. Still, it is bound to be a super-great performance and all of that sort of thing. And I wish to say in advance that despite the tone of this post, I am genuinely excited about going. I like those guys and their stuff, and it's always a pleasure.

The real problem is that they're performing between 9:15 and 10 at night, at the same time as being on the opposite side of town to everything else that's happening tonight. Now, I don't know about you, but in my experience, any Saturday night when one is invited to one thing, one is invariably invited to two. It's not that I'm some kind of dazzling social butterfly, don't get me wrong, there are many Saturday nights when I spend a charming evening not invited to anything, cozily in my own home watching Midsomer Murders or something. It's just that some Saturdays are apparently more attractive to the event schedulers of the world than others. Usually what one does in this situation is either go "oh well", and just go to whichever event you were invited to first, or else try and juggle events by going to the first half of one and the second half of the other.

Now I won't deny that I'm clumsy at this, and I usually end up dividing the night into two grossly unequal portions, rather than properly halving either. I end up leaving the first event offensively early or else arriving at the second so late that the party is in the winding down phase and it seems faintly pointless. I think this is because of that generalised inertia I have. When I'm at one place, I tend to want to stay there (the same as the reason I stay up too late at night and have difficulty getting up; when I'm awake, I want to stay that way, when I'm asleep, ditto). The problem specifically is that even if I was fabulously adroit at all this and mingled between parties as effortlessly as I do between people at those parties (and, in fact, I essentially am equally good at mingling on both those levels. I'm a very poor mingler across the board. Maybe it's that inertia thing again?), not all the social skill in the world would make it easy to divide an evening neatly in twain when one of the events occurs smack bang in the middle of the evening, a 45 minute commute from the other.

I suppose this is a sign that I ought to just commit to one event or the other. But I really don't want to. You see, on the one hand, we have 3 dear old friends, one of whom is going overseas for a year pretty shortly, whose event is pretty important to them, who have very few confirmed attendees, and one of whom specifically clarified that I was planning to go, (because when your act is equal parts talent, charisma, poetry and injokes, it's good to have a certain quorum of people in the audience guaranteed to start clapping at the actual end of the poem/song, not just keep looking expectantly at you as if to say "Tetris? What's your point?"). Plus, I have an honour code about RSVPing. Once you've said you're going to something, even on facebook, you really ought to go. You're committed. Sadly, this event involves going very very far, largely on foot in uncofortable footwear, and a cover charge, and also foregoing the other event, which is this:

On the other hand we have a housewarming party in Newtown, being thrown by Tall Nice Marcus, a guy from uni. This, on the face of it, is the more easily jettisoned event. Except that I really like house parties, and more pressingly (and tragically?) it always seems terribly important to go to these things. Because it is only by going to an event with these people that you are invited to the next event. And it is only by going to the events that it is possible to in any way socialise with those crazy cats at my uni. It's that fabulously cliquey year 7 vibe all over again. When you're in, it's lovely, and people talk to you, and are charming, and add you on facebook (is it sad that it sort of excites me when folks do that?). Also, I really enjoy hanging out with those people when it works, because they are all terribly lovely and pleasant and so on. Also, apart from my obvious social-climbing, I am facinated by the way the uni folks interact.

It's almost anthropological. Their ways are not our ways, and it's intriguing. Apart from the fact that they all casually touch each other so often that it's fun just to try to figure out who's dating whom (if anyone) (and I like that as a game, anyway, because I like to live vicariously through others), there's also the spotlight phenomenon. When you're in the light, talking to them, attending their events, they welcome you, they are lovely, etc. But if you take a step back, out of the spotlight which illuminates them, you fall into the darkness, and the glare in their eyes makes them unable to see you at all. It's amazing. I have stood in a circle of people and seen some of the Stars of our year group flick their eyes around and make eye contact with all but one or two people. It's as if they literally cannot see the people who don't matter. I don't think they even realise that they do it. And it's confusing to try to figure out who does or does not matter, and why. Beautiful people often fail to make the visibility cut, which throws me, because I tend to assume that that sort of thing will be the heuristic in these cases. Which is nice, I guess, since it means that if you also fail to make it, then you don't need to angst like Kasey Chambers about it. But which makes Staying Visible a very attractive prospect. Otherwise, it's existential angst for all.

Of course, maybe writing this sort of creepy stuff about these people may be why I don't get invited to stuff all that often, really. Sorry dudes and dudettes, if you're reading. Like I said, I don't dislike you, I just find you fascinating and attractively alien. Which, yes, is weird of me.

Also, I really want to go, because this is a bunch of nice people who I would like to get to know better. But this sort of annoying clash keeps happening. The problem is that in my mind, this is essentially one of those stories just like every teen movie or TV show, where a character has to choose between doing something small and a little dorky with their old friends, or going to the party with the Cool Kids. Problem is, once it's framed that way, the Right Choice is obvious. A Good Person does not sacrifice their old friends for the chance at social betterment or a pleasant houseparty in Newtown or whatever. A Good Person treks through the rain to Kings Cross to see the same poems they saw last week, foregoing Michael Jackson costumery (!) and new friends.

The problem is, of course, that in a movie, this only happens once. The character either passes and realises that their old friends are their true yada yada yada or else fails and then has some kind of comeuppance later. And then they're done. But this seems to happen every time, and I end up trapped my my own black-and-white reading of the situation. Regarding which, bugger.

As a coda, I wish to again emphasise that I do actually want to go to the Kings Cross thing, it's just that I'm frustrated that I can't have it all. If this was a twitter post, I'd give it the hashtag #firstworldproblems. Also, again, if any of the uni people are reading this, sorry for overanalysing your social interactions, I realise that it's a bit creepy, but hey, everyone needs a hobby.

In Which an Innocently Friendly Comment is considered to within an inch of its Life.

So, today I was talking to someone at uni (at one of those casual social events that happens on a Friday evening, which I attend because of being Cool. That special sort of Cool where you go to casual outdoor pub-based events but nonetheless apparently do not have anything better to do with your Fridays) to someone whom I'd met once before, 3 weeks previously, (and hello if you remembered the this URL and are reading, Easily-Amused-Matt) (Good Lord, I hope his name is Matt, otherwise how embarrassing. But you really can't refer to someone as "The Easily Amused Guy Who Was There That Friday That Time Wearing An Icebreaker Shirt And A Hamas Scarf, Presumably Not Politically, Who Said It Was A Good Thing That He And I Were At Different Clinical Scools Because I Would Be Tiring To Talk To More Often Than Weekly Or Whatever, You Know The Guy, I Think He Had Glasses"; it's not snappy at all, and it would be tiring to hyphenate, and also it totally wouldn't work in the vocative. Plus I'm really pretty sure his name was Matt). Anyway, he said that he remembered me, which is nice, if sometimes a smidgin unconvincing, and then said "so I hear you have a blog which is hilarious?".

Leaving aside the "Gosh! How nice! How flatteringly hyperbolic!" and the instant urge to disclaim any pretentions to hilariousness, this... this always surprises me. Firstly, because, seriously, you mean you actually do remember me? A part of me is always surprised, possibly because it so often fails to happen, especially among the Uni Folks, who are often hampered in their attempts to remember who I am by their own overwhelming indifference on the question of my existance. (Possibly this is unfair, and this is actually a thin veneer of Faux-Indifference masking a core of Really-Caring-A-Lot-ness, or something. Possibly this is just how they roll, sort of barring people until it's been over a year so that they've proved themselves worthy by virtue of persistence. Most likely, of course, is that this, like so many things, is all in my mind, and that people are actually being perfectly friendly and I'm merely failing to process that. I bet that happens some of the time, if not most. A bit of unfair prejudice, a bit of shyness on my and or their parts, a soupçon of misinterpretation, and before you notice it's all "huh, that chick, she has no idea who I even am, and we've totally spoken a bunch of times". In my defence, in my undergrad, I was often exposed to the ravages that are social occasions with SUDS people (Sydney Uni Drama Society! Solipsism for all!), so I'm probably overinclined to think that people are deliberately not seeing folks, because man, that was definitely the de rigeur way to interact with the non-thespians.) Anyway, when someone really remembers me when we've only met once, it always seems nice. Maybe this is odd in me, since obviously I remember meeting him (possibly mainly on account of that slightly odd remark about me being tiring), but to be honest, that's largely random, sometimes I remember meeting people with crystal clarity (that sort of crystal clarity where you remember that someone likes Thing X and would notice if they'd changed their hair, but have not the faintest idea what their name is), other times, I just fail absolutely to remember people at all.

Secondly, it's always awfully flattering to be discussed in your absence. Like, it's already pretty neat when people remember you and talk to you and give the impression of thinking you reasonably likeable when you're there, but it's another thing entirely to have people discussing you when you aren't there to remind them that you exist. My Ever-Flattering-If-Occasionally-Inclined-To-Overdo-It Friend James said the other day that someone else had mentioned that I was a fan of the band Broken Social Scene on Saturday. Which, now I come to think of it, was a bit of a non sequitur anyway, given that I don't know what context there was for him to be all "we were discussing your music tastes the other day!", and also that I would describe my relationship with that band as being more towards the "Oh, I think I've heard of them, that's a band, right? They, uh, they sound... good?" end of the spectrum than otherwise. Nonetheless, the important point is that it somehow seems disproportionately flattering. Sort of "aw, you guys thought about me when I wasn't there? That's so nice!" Which, well, may be a little bit tragic, but hey, it's victimless tragicness, more or less. (Except for those of you who've been around for long enough that you've read blog posts about this same concept 3 times already. Sorry dudes.)

I'm always ridiculously curious about in what context it occurred, this alleged discussion of me (or "mentioning me at all"). Was it good? Were you playing some kind of game called "who is the niftiest person you can think of"? Presumably it's more that the band (or whatever) has come up and someone's gone, "I think Angela likes them, a lot of people do!" or similar. Although now I come to write it down, even this seems strange. That example, for instance, reads as if my putative opinion were the terribly important last word on the matter. Like "well, Angela likes them, so I think we'll all just have to face facts: they are clearly objectively good. I defy you to gainsay that girl's opinion!". This is just my writing, though, and should not be allowed to cause you to think that this is how I really imagine my friends behave. And thank goodness, you would rapidly come to resent someone always referrred to like that. Those of you who really like sad books and movies about torture would always be all angsty, for one thing.

I guess it must happen to everyone a lot of the time (being discussed, not being angsty because someone questions the validity of your liking of the Saw movies). I mean, what is there to talk about, really, except the people one knows? Or, in the case of magazies and so on, doesn't know? Sure, you can discuss yourself (cf. this blog), your interlocutor, the weather, and maybe current affairs if you're really brave and foolish enough to open the can of worms that so often is, but after that, all that's left is other people. Because mainly the landscape and so on is not all that eventful, so you can really only address the topic of "check out those crazy rocks, and what nice trees we've been having recently!" once or twice before people start being all "dude, what is it with you and the rocks? They're rocks. More interestingly, have you heard that a girl in our year is pregnant? You know the one, the one with the hair!".

Obviously, that would be marginally less desirable, that particular sort of being discussed, but don't even pretend that you don't sort of love the idea of being discussed too. The Aforementioned James always gets excited when I even so much as mention him on here (remember that one time I called him On-The-Ball James? Yeah, of course not, but he sure does, it took him most of a week to come down after that one. Clearly the world-wide fame of being read about by possibly up to 10 people went to his head). Similarly, Lovely Jenny checked whether I had been talking about her (because if so, how exciting!) one time I made a veiled reference to her. Obviously there's a bit of a downside, in that when I say things which are foolishly hyperbolic and abstract like "you would have to be naive to be totally unambivalent about anything really important and complex", people tend to read that as "you, Reader, personally, are naive, ha!", which obviously was not how that was ever meant to sound.

This is reassuring, now I think about it, since these 'ideas of reference'(which is a symptom of schizophrenia, but also, one suspects, of "being alive") are apparently a not-just-me thing. People are always concerned about how others talk about them. Surely. I suspect that this is a lot of the appeal of social networking sites like Facebook and Twitter, which allow us to enjoy the excitement of being talked about, and talking about people, without the hassle of first having to have a shower and change into something other than your pyjamas. I would mention here that Oscar Wilde said that "A life unexamined is not worth living" and that "the only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about", but Oscar Wilde said of lot of thing like that, I think he was just a fan of that sort of pithiness. Also it didn't work out all that well for him, what with the whole scandal/imprisonment/destitute-but-witty-death-in-exile thing.

Thirdly (yes, we are still talking about that original conversation), mysterious and flattering is a great combination. So "some unnamed person told me that you were funny" is sort of ideal, in a sense. Especially when people are all "no I don't think it was Hyphenatedly-Entitled James, I think it was someone else talking about your amusing blog". Because, seriously? Who else would be reading? It's kind of like the mystery around this time last year, about the time of the Incident, except, y'know, good. I could understand if any of the last few posts had been of particularly high calibre, or if, conversely, they had maybe been shorter than usual, but as it is, I just still have difficulty picturing the hypothetical person who goes "my, I don't talk to that Angela girl all that often, but I sure do want to read 1,000 words of her overanalysing something that someone said to her at a pub this evening!". The harder I try to imagine it; the reader (not you, Reader, we're like this, you and I, some other reader) maybe settling in with a tasty beverage and a couple of hours of their life they have no further need of, just whiling away some time with a little benevolent stalkiness, the less convincing the whole picture becomes. (Possibly this is because I went overboard and gave the Hypothetic Reader there a Hugh Hefner-style dressing gown in my mind, but that's perfectly legit, since I know that at least one of my readers (which is to say, about 15% of my total readship) totally owns one of those.

I know I write long things, you see, so I'm just always surprised at the idea of anyone getting so far into one routinely enough that they think of it to talk about.

It's awfully nice of you, whoever you were!

In Which actions have consequences. Sort of.

This weekend, I managed to chip my tooth. Not badly, it was a pretty tiny chip, barely detectable to people whose mouths did not contain my tooth, but still in a way which was pretty obvious to me. Also, not in any exciting sort of way, such as in a brawl with a sabretoothed tiger, or catching a bullet with my teeth, or even just the more traditional but always classic getting-very-drunk-and-falling-down. Actually I just bit a fork on a weird angle at a wedding reception. (Yeah, I know, you'd think that after all these years I'd be passably adept at fork usage, but I'll have you know that forks are considered newfangled and classy and intimidating in the book I'm presently reading, so, uh, so there's that).

Anyway, leaving that aside, it was funny, because although it happened to be a mere tiny chip, it could so easily have been a crazy huge big-deal type of thing (although probably not as a result of poor fork angling. It was a wedding, though, anything could've happened, there was dancing, so I could easily have been spun into a pole and done some much more serious damage). But the point is, I was all "damn, that's a bit of a bugger, I'll have to get that sorted out early next week", not "oh man, this will sure change the way my face looks for the rest of my life, damn". When did this happen? Presumably before I was born. But definitely these things haven't always been fixable.

I mean, back in the day, tooth damage was it. Game over. You will now look like a hillbilly boxer for the rest of your life. I hope you enjoyed the last time you smiled at someone unselfconsciously, because that's it for that activity ever.

And it's not just teeth. Sometimes I catch myself going "dang, I feel like I've messed up my life/health/youth/whatever (not often, for those of you reading with a view to telling me that I'm too self-deprecating, this is a thing everyone does. If you do not ever ever do so, you are either very lucky or possibly a sociopath. I'm looking at you here, Always-Promptly-Friendlily-Critical-And-I-Guess-Conceivably-A-Sociopath James {Backstory for other Readers: James keeps telling me that my last posts have been too self-deprecating. Attempts to explain to him that they've really been more Tutor-Deprecating and Jack-Nicholson-Deprecating have been bizarrely ineffective}) and then going "oh well, I guess it's a write off, I'll do better next time". Like my life or health or whatever is a dress I plan to take back to the store after wearing it out of an evening, hoping they won't notice where I spilled something on it, and exchange for something more flattering, maybe in a nicer colour. (Note, I have never done that. I'm much too acquisitive. I want to keep all the dresses. All the nice dresses in the land. Also it seems Wrong.)

Is this that "Entitlement" we hear so much about, do you think? Do all of us, individually, and as a culture, expect for the consequences of all our actions to be reversible? (Like the Omega Thirteen in Galaxy Quest!) Seems plausible.

I spilled wine into my phone only a couple of weeks ago and had a very similar response, as if I were demanding restitution from the universe. "It was an accident, and therefore it is unfair for me to have to deal with the consequences." I went to get it fixed, because this is something you can just Do in this miraculous and consequenceless day and age, whereupon the dastardly repair guys charged me $90 to get it fixed. And here's the weird thing, even though that's a fortune (for me) to spend on something which isn't even fun, which doesn't add anything to your life except to bring you back to baseline, I handed it over serenely, because it was clearly not my fault (note: actually it clearly was), and therefore I would not be expected to bear the cost. (Obviously this was subconscious. I didn't really expect my parents or someone to magically decide to "pay me back" for the costs incurred. I have no idea what I thought was happening here.) And although the serenity was clearly some kind of unique one-off weirdness, I'm pretty sure that this is sort of how everyone feels.

Apparently this is a serious problem for people who narrowly avoid death. They feel like they've been saved for some higher purpose, and then feel gypped when they get to deathbed time without ever having the chance to dramatically save a small golden-haired child from an oncoming car/train/lion/Nazi. And people who have bad things happen to them feel like they've done their time and deserve things. I'm sure you do this too. Everyone seems to. You have a crappy day and feel all indignant if the next one is bad too, because you already had your bad day for this section of time. I definitely do that. Same thing as the phone and the tooth: I didn't mean for that bad thing to happen, I don't deserve that! (Ridiculous especially given how minor are my troubles in this instance. Oh no! Slight inconvenience and speedy restitution? You poor thing!)

This is weird, because I don't think of myself as someone who thinks of life being inherently or necessarily fair. Still apparently on some level I resent it when my accidental actions have consequences that actually affect me.

The book I am reading at present is called "The Name of The Rose". Reader, I beg you to suppress the urge to say whatever it is which it occurs to you to say when I say this, because it seems that everyone who doesn't respond "I've never heard of that book", has this overwhelming urge to spoil it as soon as you tell them that you're reading it. Apparently I'm leaving it too late to read for the first time, like some kind of literary equivalent of the Sixth Sense. Which I have also never seen. Even when my sister Alex was supposed to read it for a High School English text, but hadn't quite finished it over the holidays, her teacher began the first (first!) class on the text by describing it basically as "the book where Character X did it" or words to that effect. It's meant to be a mystery, but it seems sort of like the Scarlet Pimpernel (although not to that extent yet, mercifully, I'm managing to suspend what knowledge I was unable to avoid). The Scarlet Pimpernel is a wonderful book with a central mystery/twist which is spoiled on the cover of almost any copy of it printed in the last 50 years. It's a great pity, this sort of thing, because it means that we can never really experience classics the way they're meant to be read.

Which kind of sucks, but which is totally not where I was planning to go with that paragraph. What I was trying to say was that the bit I was reading on the bus this afternoon was about heretics and the inquisition and extracting confessions under torture. Back in- the day, it was totally a big deal to say that you thought that maybe Jesus laughed at some point in his life, just not, as it were, on screen. I mean, people would be set of fire for that crap. (Obviously, this would put Dan Brown and The Da Vinci Code in serious danger, with all that Scion business. Which leads us to conclude that sometimes progress is a bad thing, because, man, we could have just avoided that entire ridiculous fad if there had been red-hot pincers in the offing.)

The crazy thing is how hard people tried to root out even the more apparently harmless bits of heresy. And obviously that made it all the worse. It's like the whole Middle Ages was like one of those Whack-A-Croc games in Timezone, and the harder the Church whacked the people who said things like "God may not actually be 100% in favour of setting folks on fire because of trifling differences in belief", the more heresies popped up to replace them. People are funny that way.

Anyhow, it's the torturing thing that's obviously the worst bit. Once you use torture to extract confessions, you don't get any new information, all you get is what people think you want to hear. Extensive data (although presumably not double-blind randomised control trials. Stupid ethics committees taking the fun out of Science) exists to show that torture straight up doesn't work. (Dear America, this means you too). So we can probably agree that it's, uh, bad. And that's the difficulty, because the jerks involved in doing it to people, the ruthless, merciless, callous, cruel, etc, dudes who either wound the rack tighter or ordered others to do so, really tend to think that they're doing it for the greater good. Which is something about which they and I will simply have to agree to disagree.

But here's the thing: according to the inquisitors torturing people for very-good-reasons/their-own-good/kicks, they were headed for heaven. Now I'm not only irreligious and vague about my mediaeval dogma but also a bit vindictive, so I find myself hoping that those guys woke up dead one morning to find the devil looking humourously at them over the top of his glasses, shuffling the papers in their file on his desk and saying "Seriously?" in a hurtfully ironic tone before showing them where their rock of Sisyphus was. Because yes, intentions are important, but so are other factors, such as "not hurting people for what eventually becomes the sheer love of power" and "bringing more hurt and suspicion and distress into the world than was strictly necessary".

And this is sort of where the binary afterlife falls down: it's annoying enough to spend all weekend writing an essay which turns out to be pass/fail, then wondering how much of your effort was wasted. It seems ridiculous to have your whole life be pass/fail. This means that as soon as any one factor becomes the sine qua non of eternity, as soon as that becomes "all you need", then why bother with all that unecessary gilding of lilies which you get with being nice to people? Likewise, once you do something really bad, why bother not killing everyone else too? (Incidentally, this is why I am 100% against the death penalty or maximum prison etc. for rapists and suchlike: if someone rapes me, then they're more likely to get caught and punished if I'm alive to testify against them, right? So I want there to be powerful disincentives to stop them doing the logical thing and killing me as well. Like worse punishments if they get caught having done that as well. "In for a penny, in for a pound" is not the philosophy I think we should ideally be instilling in the poeple who do bad-but-ultimately-recoverable-from things to folk).

Of course, this is not a problem you can really solve. Dante had circles of hell for levels of sin, but that's really just varieties of Fail on the pass/fail dichotomy, it's still an absolute thing. It still doesn't seem to solve the ultimate problem: really an eternity of anything seems like an overreaction to any finite amount of either good or bad behaviour.

Even reincarnation, which at first suggests itself as a solution, really seems to sort of just magnify the problem: the thing where you just try again and again, getting scaled upgrades or downgrades on your life until you finally get it right and graduate to Nirvana, as if the afterlife were basically just that Bill Murray movie Groundhog Day, sounds good at first. Graded solutions! Possibility of ultimate reward! No unsavoury eternal-damnation per se, mitigating all the good things you did apart from those things that were just bad enough to tip you into the Fail category!

Except, right, you don't necessarily carry the lessons from one lifetime to the next. So say I'm a scumbag in this lifetime; next time it's ant city for me. So I reform, I live a good ant life, and the next time I'm upgraded to 'person' again. But I lack the proper knowledge of the process, so I'm a scumbag again. Education won't actually solve that, we know; folks've been trying it for thousands of years. Some people just enjoy being scumbags.

Conversely, if I'm superfoxyawesomegreat, I eventually graduate to Nirvana, unlike those sucker scumbag types, right? Which means that essentially the good souls are constantly being decanted out of the world and the percentage of the population who are just dyed-in-the-wool jerks, willing to do their ant time if it means they get to spend more of eternity alive and kicking puppies, steadily increases. Plus, eventually, everyone sort of settles to their level, and you have a population of not-quite-good-enough rich people, less-good-humbler people and so on (maybe this whole thing was designed like this deliberately; to support the aristocracy? Surely not) and increasingly, as you get humbler, the animals are more and more inclined to be jerks. This sort of thing can only lead to crap like that scene in the newest Indiana Jones movie where a whole bunch of ants just up and decide to kill a bunch of dudes horribly as a team. I really don't fancy the idea of actually evil insects and animals all over the place. Ugh.

Ultimately what I'm saying here is: my word, I'm glad that if it's anyone's job to sort out this mess, then it's someone presumably omnipotent and omniscient, because this problems looks like a completely unsolvable bugger of a thing to little old me. I'm going to file this squarely in the "I feel pleased and privelaged that this is not, on a grand scale, my problem" file. Gosh.