SO MANY BIG WORDS OHGODOHGODOHGODOHGODOHGOD

Just to counteract the sheer verbosity of the wall of text below, I titled this somewhat simplisticly.

It would be a gross understatement to say that I know a lot of people, and that a lot of people know me. It would be similarly insufficient to say that I have a lot of friends, and a lot of people are/like to think they are friends with me. Well connected? Good God, I'm well connected! But if you'll bear with me through a little more wild pretension, I'll share a little personal revelation with you.

There's always been affectation surrounding me. Always. Putting on airs is a laugh, and maybe I do it sometimes to manipulate/irritate people, maybe that's the case; I've been prone to an affective manner all my life, and I've begun to question why that is. I can see myself doing it too, there isn't any ascertainable problem with it as far as I'm concerned. It does tend to lead to some sticky situations, and in the past dramatic and compulsive lying, but the affectation helps me deal with people; it's what I do to take myself down/up to other people's levels. And if I can do that, I can get along with anyone (except the particularly horrible and/or stupid), something I had trouble with as a child. It seems only natural that I would seek out a method of communication expansion as it were in my developing years. So that question is somewhat taken care of: I go about with an affective manner because it's easier to relate to more people that way.

All this flowery prose is hurting my brain, oh well, just a little more to go, I think... maybe.

And the revelation? It relates to the recent ability I've uncovered to distinguish between the true me and the affective me, the difference between who I am and who I turn into. In the recent past, I met a boy with whom I felt no affectation was necessary: there was a wonderful level of comfortability in his company. I could let fly a truly bare-faced, unadulterated me, something normally reserved for my family. Hopefully, I/we will pursue this friendship further in the future. Two or three years ago I befriended a boy at school with whom I felt comfortable (though in the very recent past this has lessened somewhat) simply being myself. It's sad that our rapport has deteriorated, partially due to his incessant shouting of 'fag' as a term of endearment and greeting, and doesn't seem to understand why this upsets me even as I explain to him. Our friendship was interesting: there was affectation, maybe a lot even, but it was a shared willingness to indulge in a powerful alteration of ourselves from time to time that made us socially compatible. We enjoyed being haughty snobs together even if it wasn't really who we were. I still do, as long as he doesn't call me 'fag'. Finally, there's a girl. My perhaps on-and-off best friend for several years now. I love her, dearly, but our geographical distance makes it difficult to maintain contact, since I really do hate talking on the internet to most people even if I enjoy their company in the flesh. She's wonderful. We're wonderful together. Despite the vast chasm of difference that separates us, we soldier on and make silly noises at each other across the room, just because we can. I love her.

It's with these three people, and perhaps one or two others that I cannot discern as of yet, that I haven't detected any subconscious affectation. And that's a wonderful thing to realise. I don't need to alter myself to get along with them perfectly well, not in the slightest.

That's longer than I expected it to be. Note to self: stop using the word 'somewhat'.

GET OUT OF MY HEAD, FLORENCE WELCH, YOU BEAUTIFUL, FABULOUS WOMAN!

Hammer on this coffin roof,
Fighting claw, fist, nail, tooth,
With bloodied hands I fight the fear of sleep,
Surely a death in here,
Howl,
Through soil, the moon it shines,
A haunting call through my confines,
Another strike against the wood,
Until my thoughts align,
Howl,
Right here at death's door I knock,
The creaking of that ancient lock,
A bony hand, a hooded thing,
Death now seems so welcoming,
Howl,
Howl.

Bitch just got incepted.

I actually have yet to see Inception, but it's probably best to wait until the fanboyism settles down so I can be completely objective. Objectivism is my bitch. The reference is relevant. Just wait and see.

The internet was down for a week. A whole mother-flipping week. Fixed now, doubled the download limit, like a boss. It was... it was... well, it was rather nice. Quite lovely indeed. Yeah, sure, crucify me, cover me in Kate Moennig and throw me to the lesbians, but that internet-free week-or-so was filled to the proverbial brim with upsides and fringe benefits. One, the most prominent of course, is fit for elaboration. There were more, but they're not worth the trouble of typing. I swear: there were more.

It happened before as well. The very same symptom has arisen of the same situation, that being technology deprivation, once before. I was on holiday (not to say it really carried any of the usual connotations one might associate with holidays, like, I don't know, fun, but, well, let's just say 'holiday') with little to no access to social technology, and exactly the same thing happened. It was wonderful. There was no doubt of the correlation, even after careful analysis of the variables in question because I'm just like that. It seemed, and seems again, that frequent internet use inhibits my ability to dream. Completely, inexplicably.

A valid argument against my hypothesis of sorts might go something like: "Maybe it just inhibits your memory, your ability to retain information pertaining to your subconscious." but this would not be as valid as it seems. We're all aware of the acute and irritating sensation of a fading dream. It's there, we can sense it, but it just escapes the memory boundary. That can't be it, you berk. I told you Inception was relevant, even if only slightly.

I had dreams, wonderful dreams, dreams I can't remember but am faintly aware of the presence thereof.

Is this enough to drag me away from my virtual chains?

In the words of my mother: go fuck yourself.

Neobedouins.

Two posts in two nights? No, just no. Never. How could I? You consistent bastard.

I caught myself actively wanting to write something here in class today. In a daydream, a thought wandered by: "I'd really rather be blogging." Rather be blogging? What kind of rubbish is that? I couldn't possibly enjoy this that much. It fulfills the same function as a journal really. I have journals, I have scores of journals, veritable scores. Why should this be any more satisfying? I can always go fill up tens of pages with flowery prose and verse, but it wouldn't be the same, knowing that this will be here forever. And better yet, strangers can peruse through it and draw conclusions about my character. How cool is that? Oh man, what an age we live in.
Does it worry me that complete strangers can attempt amateur psychological profiles of me based on my blog posts (because really, a professional psychoanalyst would not be lurking my blog), and should it? After all, there isn't some kind of rigorous filtering process to control the content. I quite literally just take a stream of consciousness approach, and look at it flow. No, of course it doesn't worry me. Sharing my thoughts with strangers is second nature to me. It's something that's grown up alongside me, and at that, who better to utilize such a wonderfully narcissistic tool than me? Nobody, that's who!
I really do need to get this down. I want to look back here in years to come and realise that I've grown. Hopefully there'll still be some sense hidden among the chaotic babble, and I'll be able to learn from my younger self.

Intensive shark therapy.

"A shark in the water!"

They scream overhead,

"Go get your daughter! No,

She's already dead,"

"A shark in the ocean!"

That blood-curdling warning,

Legs fly into motion,

In prevention of mourning,

"A shark in the shallows,

Right up to the sand!"

Thy name, is it hallowed?

Just guide her frail hand,

"A shark in the water!"

I heard what you said,

Far too late now, the slaughter

Makes a watery deathbed.

One day I'll write something nice. I swear.

FIDELitous in consistency.

So many good dictator puns.

Oliver: Further maths? More like FUHRER maths!

Thomas: The great thing about methods, we're all LENIN each other a hand. Let us strive to achieve equally, comrades!

Oliver: It doesn't matter how much help you get, you'll keep STALIN when it's homework time.

Thomas: Not true! We'll all pull our own weight together and get the MARX we need.

Oliver: I have no more dictator puns.

Thomas: You are weak. You make me feel KIM JONG IL.

Oliver: You should be ashamed of yourself.

Thomas: I feel as though this conversation has rather (napoleon )BONAPARTE.

Oliver: I think Napoleon Blownapart would be a good drag name.

Thomas: I agree with HU (JINTAO). Perhaps it is time to stop making these jokes MAO.

Oliver: The abstract nature of your puns increases as a linear progression.

Thomas: They've be-CROMWELL harder and harder to think of.

-

Question 4: Who will be affected by the story and what does Dickens mean by 'something wonderful'?

Mr. Johnston explain in class his idea that the 'something wonderful' is the revelation of the reader in understanding the text, and that in that regard the reader is affected. But, well, no, no, that's not what the wonderful thing is at all. Certainly, Dickens hopes the story will affect the reader, as do most (if not all) authors; this comment is justified. But he really hasn't thought into the meaning of 'something wonderful' at all. We must first consider the context (that being the date in which A Christmas Carol was written) and understand the changing nature of the English lexicon. We can assume that the word wonderful has somewhat changed in meaning since the early 1800's, in exactly the same was that awesome has: it has broadened. I will take awesome as an example. It's quite clear that the original meaning of awesome is somewhat removed from the modern definition, which is really just a more powerful synonym for good. The meaning is in the morphology: awe-some. Awesome: inspiring awe. With this correct, if not archaic, meaning many modern situations seem almost bizarre: no, that coffee is not awesome, it does not humble you and simultaneously grant you a heightened appreciation for it's existence, it's just coffee. Skyscrapers are awesome. Redwood forests are awesome. The fucking universe is awesome. But that coffee is not. With that example of the broadening in meaning of common words, we'll take a look at wonderful. Wonder-ful: inspiring wonder. So what does wonder imply? It implies deep thought, perhaps in pursuit of understanding, understanding of something perhaps confusing. With this we can infer that the original meaning of wonderful is something not merely good, but something that defies understanding, something that makes you wonder.

Circling back, we see that the 'something wonderful' mentioned by Dickens refers to the fantastic events of that evening: Marley's face in the knocker, his ghost, the three spirits, all that. "It is important to remember [Marley's death], or else nothing wonderful will come of what happens next". Even in this we see that we must remember that Marley is dead for his visit to Scrooge's house to be wonderful, implying that should Marley be alive, there should be nothing so strange or paranormal about him paying Scrooge a visit. 'Something wonderful' is nothing to do with something pleasant that happens, it refers to the fantastical, ghostly events Scrooge endures.

Fuck off, Mr. Johnston.

And the little things...

Will likely stay the little things. I really don't think typing out a full "qu'est-ce que c'est" when people mention Psycho Killer on Facebook will rate highly in my metaphorical photo album.

-

A mutt, it seems, had strayed away,

To a tile-roofed cottage that showery day,

He sniffed the grass, he sniffed the air,

He sniffed without the slightest care,

Concern arose from within that place,

And from that window arose a face,

A face most grim, lost hope for sure,

That set itself scurrying t'ward the door,

The mutt now looked an excitable chap,

And jammed his head into the small cat-flap,

And though the man seemed unfriendly to boot,

He was rather partial to a bit of free 'loot',

The door swung forth, with a hiss in the rain,

And the dear little mutt was never seen again,

This man, who we had thought so meek,

Then enjoyed fresh meat for the following week!

--

Oh, the whimsy! One needs to keep up small exercises, just to maintain oneself.