#ifdef BORING_SELF_DEPRECATION
So obviously this isn’t a good parody and the song is ancient (under
some “pop” definition, which is probably not a very discriminative
label), at over four years. Just randomness that finds its way onto my
iPod. And the words are not very creative, and there are even two lines
that survive unscathed because they fit reasonably and I can’t think of
anything better (and I don’t even know if this is supposed to be bad, I
just want to ensure nobody expects otherwise).
#endif
Whatever, this has been sitting in my draft box for at least one
month.
Note: My 2012 self wrote this. It is preserved for historical interest and amusement.
Two months ago for some random reason I noticed that somebody had found this blog by Googling for the Freedom Writers contest page. Shortly thereafter, the school went ahead and held it for the second time, two years after the first contest, and even more people have started searching for some combination of “ibsh freedom writers”, resulting in an anomalously large number of hits to a certain just-over-two-years-old post.
Written for the new year of 2012.
(janko.at applet)
A new year. A new start. And just a chance to abuse the phrase “See
you next year!” It’s hard to get tired of using it once every 365.24
days.
So, I have decided to open up my other blog to people.
There are a few reasons for not doing so previously. Firstly, there’s
a lot of silly writing with unexplained LOLs and exclamations all over
the place in the archives, not to mention the countless other sorts of
weirdness linked to the handle I’m using here that’s spread over the
rest of the interwebz. But I like to keep old stuff as some kind of
record that my past self existed, and I’ve given up being embarrassed
about them. And anyway, now and then I’m still performing embarrassing
acts that outstrips any of this stuff by miles.
When I was thirteen*, the world was a different place to me. I
imagined thousands of creepy people staring at computer screens out
there, waiting to kidnap children and sell them to clients halfway
across the globe the instant they figured out their addresses and
statuses as minors. I don’t blame that old me; there has been at least
one computer class devoted to videos of this type.
Note: This post is backdated. I am writing this post
in 2019 because, as part of the Big
2017 Remigration, I have decided to delete most of the posts because
they were too embarrassing and sparse on information, but figured I
might keep a rundown of the highlights.
2011, on this blog:
Note: My 2011 self wrote this. It is preserved for
historical interest and amusement, and does not reflect my current
beliefs or attitudes. Also, it has linkrotted.
Alrighty, if you’re looking for the IBSH Freedom Writers contest
website, its URL is
http://freedomwriters.ibsh.co.cc/.
(2013/03/28: The link is now
dead. I’m not surprised; it’s just more evidence that free websites of
the “do your own html files” type are really fragile things.) I
just tried to help my sister find it through Google, it’s nowhere to be
found, and instead there are hits in ancient archive posts from this
blog.
Note: My 2011 self wrote this. It is selectively
preserved for historical interest and amusement from a lot of similar,
chronologically nearby posts. I am not as angsty any more.
I don’t know where to start.
First there was a headache. No biggie, sleep it off. But it’s easy to
lose yourself
The pain, the random gusts of nausea, confusion, irritation… it’s
another person in this body, speaking a foreign language I can’t even
begin to fathom
playing by his own rules, won’t let you figure them out. his kingdom,
and there’s not even a way to surrender or take the path of least
resistance. Every path looks the same from here
blackness, vagueness, shadows, defying all interpretations
Note: My 2011 self wrote this. It is selectively preserved for historical interest and amusement. It’s just meta enough to be funny, I think.
I can look at the posts I made in fourth grade, and understand how I might get exaggeratedly happy about these tiny things, and write this ramble that goes up and down and all over the place.
Anyway apparently I wrote “to indulge in a colloquialism” less than a year ago in a school essay and now it sounds plain freaky to me.
Note: My 2011 self wrote this. It is selectively
preserved for historical interest and amusement from a lot of similar,
chronologically nearby posts. That’s all. I am not as angsty any
more.
So. I was hoping I could blog for once without predictably explaining
something about how this doesn’t mean anything about future posts or
activity or anything, but apparently I can’t get started without a lame
start like this.
Eight months have passed since I started my fight with leukemia. Yes
it has been a rough eight months, full of unpredictable pain, nausea,
diet restrictions, and freakishly-sized needles.
I’ve been waiting for I don’t know how long for everything to go back
to “normal”, but now that I look back I can no longer imagine the idea.
The world, outside, still seems to be rushing at its insane pace towards
maximum chaos. Economic and natural crises still seem to be always
around the corner. But in here, in the hospital ward, or at home, it’s a
really different feeling. I feel completely disconnected. Nothing
changes; every day is waiting, waiting, waiting for the future, for a
better moment or feeling or achievement.
For what, really?