Love.

She’s not interested. Graciously accepting my intense interest in her as compliment, which it should always be, I mask just how much the rejection grips me.

So there I was sitting on the train home, lump in throat. Involuntary quivering lip, I shed a few tears. I’m conscious of at least one girl on the same train watching me, clearly itching to know what was wrong.

How can the maintenance of the status quo — i.e., “just friends” — initiate a reaction so similar to that of the breakup of a long relationship?

I have always said that it’s important to tell people if you’re interested in them. Keeps everything above board. I just wish that in this case the feeling had been mutual.

Off to cry.

Cold.

The cold frost glistens under the warm orange sunlight, each contradicting the other in both temperature and colour. Underfoot, grit keeps the roads safe. The weekend’s drunken vomit lies frozen near to bus stops. Scarfed drivers hop out of their cars to dump piles of hastily-written Christmas cards into the post box to allow, doubtless, their only communication with some names in that pile to arrive on time.

Proper winter temperatures are finally biting. All I want for Christmas is snow.

Fucked.

On Sunday, I was hungover. Hungover means one thing: The hangover horn.

I got up late, probably around noon. I turned on the computer. Straight for the porn. A nice way to start my day.

I start browsing. I start stroking myself. Very often I’m not in it for the quick orgasm. I appreciate the build-up.

An hour passes. Not much longer. I’ll finish the job soon.

Another hour passes. I realise I haven’t eaten or showered. So I go and cook breakfast; naked of course, and pre-orgasm. I eat in front of the computer, resuming my hard-on. I still haven’t showered.

In the back of my mind, I’m thinking about all the reading I wanted to get done today. But nudity and fucking is captivating.

Another hour passes. By this point, I’m at the stage where I can barely touch myself without almost climaxing. This just adds to the fun. The pre-cum dribbles down the side of my dick in sometimes alarming volumes.

Another hour passes, and I’m still going.

Another hour.

I decide to cook dinner. Again, naked. Again, pre-orgasm. I eat, and watch some TV to allow myself to calm down. So to speak.

I go back to the computer, and resume from where I was previously. It never takes long to get back into it.

Another hour passes. And another.

And at this point, I climax unintentionally. I would probably have kept going for another couple of hours, and just spent the entire day at it if I could have. I found myself longing to have my tongue buried between an intelligent woman’s legs when I accidentally let go. The accidents are never so much fun, scrambling to avoid the inevitable mess as I was.

Fucked self.

Since it was accidental, I quickly have another one.

Fucked self again.

The Sunday alone with my thoughts in front of my computer seems prompted my RSI to flare up.

Fucked wrist.

Fuck.

Loss.

The boys did well.

But they deserved this game.

Games.

Just announced, Glasgow has won in its bid to host the 2014 Commonwealth Games.

Thank goodness. I thought the other guys could have gotten quite far in the panel’s estimation with their “first African games” argument.

Now all Glasgow council has to do is get its collective finger out of its collective arse and get on with some fairly fundamental things: building the facilities and the infrastructure to support the event.

What’s the money that they fuck up? GCC often do.

I got a blue bag in which to store recyclable rubbish recently, with instructions to empty it into the blue bin in the shared back garden. Except … I don’t have a blue bin yet. And the list of things I can’t recycle is astonishing. It’s a start, but it’s a typical Glasgow City Council half-measure.

Idiocy.

This, is idiocy, through and through.

Will we never be able to fly sanely again?

Crotch.

This guy was talking to the audience having just arrived back in town. A mere couple of hours on land, he’s in front of us all talking about his work.

And yet, I can’t ignore a few things.

He’s a confident guy in person, but he falls apart in front of a crowd. He starts babbling.

He’s nervous. He’s sweating like a pig … and runs his hand through his hair exposing those moist patches on his shirt where his armpits have been releasing as much sweat as they possibly can.

He keeps fiddling with his crotch. Yes, he seems to be repeatedly fixing his penis. I’m not sure how much maneuvering he felt he had to do down there, but he definitely did too much.

Ensuring you’re sitting correctly and are comfortable is an immensely important thing. It’s very difficult to concentrate if you’re not sitting comfortably, so to speak. So I can understand perhaps a discreet nudge to sort things out (in so far as it’s possible to be discreet while your hand pushes your genitalia around in front of a crowd).

Insane. I don’t often go to a talk and find myself thinking not about the content, but instead about where to avert my eyes.

Roundup.

It seems I’ve been included in some “Scottish Roundup” of late. But for why?

I’m not sure, actually. My posts focus on vulgarity, genitalia, and sometimes my amateur analysis of social interactions. I focussed in particular on Scotland during election season, but quickly gave that up once business had resumed as normal. I live in Scotland, as I have all my life.

I might be moving away from Scotland soon. Do I still qualify for this Scottish roundup? I suppose I could have a moan about the lack of jobs in the fields of IT/software development/computing science research, which would certainly bring the focus onto Scotland. What’s the government doing about this? Or is the current government whining about Westminster having control over much of the UK and therefore we would have more of these jobs if we were independent? More importantly, why do we not have a minister in the parliament dedicated to boosting this enormously important field? IT is but at the start of its lifetime; why aren’t we rushing headlong into the field as a strong world contender, rather than complaining about how much money we didn’t get directly from the North Sea oil reserves while they were still plentiful?

There’s plenty to blog about on Scotland directly. But I generally don’t blog about Scotland (often). I can rant and moan, but it’s only as good as the politicians when they rant and moan: nothing changes.

So by living here but not by talking about Scotland I qualify for the Scottish roundup. Why? This seriously confuses me. There are a lot of Scots bloggers out there. Many of them don’t advertise this fact. We are not a small geographically located community in need of that helping hand up into the larger apolitical world of the internet. Scotland already has a pretty good representation on the internet. On an idealogical level, the internet does not follow geographical boundaries.* The worry is that we’re not forging ahead on the technologies which run the internet, not that we’re not able to see enough Scottish bloggers.

It strikes me that a Scottish roundup would do well to focus on important matters in Scotland, and important areas in which Scotland could be doing better. Highlight the people’s concerns in a meaningful, thoughtful, and targetted manner, and suddenly the Scottish roundup becomes a lot more relevant. It’s also naturally becomes a lot more political. Why?

Because it’s focussing on a geographic area bound by the rules and laws of the governments which act upon it. Generally if something matters to somebody, it means that either those governments aren’t doing a good enough job, or that any changes many by the government will affect that matter. For so long as a blog of any sort is going to actually focus on one nation, it’s probably going to be at least partially political. I don’t see any way of stepping aside from that.

* I realise this is naive for so long as governments attempt to exercise control over how their populace uses the internet (hint: it’s not just China who filter your browsing habits), but the point is largely accurate.

Swearing.

I love it. Cursing, cussing, whatever you call it. I call it swearing.

There’s nothing quite like the simple pleasure of exclaiming “fuck!” when something goes wrong. Nothing quite like muttering “balls!” when you’ve forgotten something. Nothing quite like quietly whispering “bugger!” when you’re running late.

1. Fuck! Bugger!
2. Shit! Crap! Shite! Pish!
3. Bollocks! Arse! Balls! Tits!
4. Fucker! Bastard! Dick! Dickhead! Cunt!

Let’s analyse these. I realise that there are a lot more, but they seem to follow the same trend.

Category number 1 is often used in the “something has gone wrong” setting. So why do we associate “something bad happening” with sex (formerly) and anal sex (latterly)? Surely, perhaps based on your level of participation and which genitalia an accident of genetics granted you, both are good things?*

Category 2 this time focusses on waste matter. This is at least a little easier to understand: while the act of passing waste is, generally, a fairly enjoyable experience (especially if you have something to read while you make your way through the process), I do understand that for most people, waste is waste. It’s rejected by the body, and should be disposed of.**

Category 3 focusses directly on body parts. But why, in particular, do we use bodily features which are essentially secondary sexual organs, those parts of the body which define our shape and who we should be attractive to, as swear words? Surely, they may dangle or wobble a bit and be unsightly at times, but everybody’s dangles, wobbles, and sometimes looks unsightly.

Category 4 targets an individual, perhaps an arch nemesis. These are highly varied, but so often concentrate on primary sexual organs. I happen to like (and, dare I say it, enjoy) my penis, so why should I call somebody I dislike a “dick”? It’s brought me much pleasure over the years.

I find it all rather curious. If we’re using body parts, why do we never exclaim “arms!”? If we’re using waste, why do we never shout “bogies!”

It just seems odd to me.

* For the record, I’ve never really understood anal sex. Why would I want to put my winky into somebody’s bumhole? No thanks. That said, if somebody really wanted to … it would surely be impolite to refuse. A caveat of being male: I like putting my penis into things. 

** I don’t understand watersports, etc. Nope, sorry. If the hottest girl on earth wanted to pee/shit in my mouth, I’d politely try to sway her opinion toward something I found palatable.

Reading.

I have become a voracious reader. So much so, that I’m shocked I didn’t finish a book in 2006, 2005, 2004 … probably going all the way back to High School.

Why did I neglect this simple, but fair, pleasure? I have read 16 books so far this year, and I don’t consider myself a speed-reader.

Reading is good.

Read more.