Someone whos wisdom I will forever cherish (and forget and reremember until I get it tatooed into my sweet grey matter) once told me what I am, and why I feel forever uncomfortable with what counts for socialising as it is understood and practised in the early 21st century. To wit: I am an 80s nerd, one of the very last. Had I been born fifteen-twenty years ago in Manchester or Detroit or Glasgow or somewhere, I would have been a comfortable misfit with likeminded malcontents, hunched over 303's and 808's, diligently pre-programming beautiful 8bit synth cascades and trying to make the most inhuman sounding, unlistenable riffs we could. We'd get stoned and watch ghostbusters and dr who and cack ourselves, wear really tight jeans and talk passionately about how much Thatcher and Reagan suck and how we're all going to get fried tomorrow in a glorious nuclear dawn to bored chicks with massive perms. It'd be beautiful.
Ech. There's no crying over what never was (and probably wouldn't be as good as I'd like to imagine). Instead, you (meaning me. this blog is about me, not you. unless I tell you otherwise) can only go forward, vaguely comfprted by the notion that you're a wonderful unique 80s snowflake stuck in the fucking horrible 21st century. Because, really, if I took the time to collect data on what I felt and how Ifelt ever second of the day, woth special focus on interacting with strangers, the results would come in overwhelmingly on side of a constant sense of being really out of place, unequipped, not cool enough, not sharp enough, lacking in everything, but mostly confidence. I act loud, I pay people out and crack really nasty jokes, but that's a distraction, trying to create some heat and light, draw some attention, anything to stave off the creeping fear of fading into a shadow and just drifting out of everyone's memory
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To: "banezor3" (if that is your real name!)
Dear sir:
Make your own blog before you bring it upon yourself to deride the efforts of other hard working bloggers! By your crude commentary it is most apparent that you do not know the effort, the pain, the tears I put into this weblog, and I shall'n't have an uncouth ruffian spray such tedious verbiage on my 'web-site'. You, sir, are bounder and a cad, and are to Consider Yourself Warned: I demand no less than a full written apology delivered to my mailing address or presented in person at the Billiards Club by noon tomorrow, or I shall write a letter of complaint to the relevant authorities (in this case the INTERNET POLICE).
yours,
Sir Horace Percival Smythe-Windowlicker (OBE, esq.)
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