SEE EDIT DOWN TOWARD THE BOTTOM

People have wondered why I bother with all of this anonymity nonsense, when my identity is pretty freaking clear to any who know me. My reasoning is thus:

I'm some kid with a high school education. I know absolutely nothing about anything. On the basis of my very limited knowledge and gut intuition, I dare to choose, pronounce, and vigorously defend various opinions.
Based on my basic, undeveloped ideas of right and wrong, I know roughly where I stand on many issues; there are, however, people more knowledgeable than me who have put more thought than me into these issues, and until I am as one of them, I'm not going to pretend I have some intuitive link to the ultimate viewpoint.
With that in mind, it is conceivable, nay, likely, nay, inevitable that as I do learn more and think more about stuff in general, my views will change.

The first time you meet somebody and discuss something with them, you think their ideas through, consider them, weigh them carefully. In any subsequent encounters, however, you will to some degree or other view what they say as something that this person says. In many cases, this is so extreme that one's views are subconsciously discounted immediately by the plain fact that they came from a given person.
What sense does it make to wear out my credibility on the silly, rash, uninformed, undeveloped viewpoints of my silly, rash, uninformed childhood? Even later in life, however, I think I'd like to keep publishing anonymously. I lack the blind conviction and singlemindedness to fully 'believe in' any one given viewpoint, and I think I would suffocate in a typecast.

Well, there's that. This isn't a definitive reasoning; my thoughts about things like this (where by "things like this" I mean "everything") change significantly from day to day, and I cannot stand to be associated with basically anything I have done until I have achieved sufficient detachment to view it as the work of someone else. This, I suppose, is further explanation for my 'anonymity'.

Cheers,
He just goes on an' on An' onymous

EDIT:
Upon rereading, I figured out that I had forgotten to make my key point. The viewpoints I express here or pretty much anywhere, since I realize they are intellectual runts, are impermanent. For the sake of a discussion, I'll advocate basically whatever I feel like advocating, often the devil. Even if I seem to be earnest, candid, and stubborn, chances are I'm making it up as I go along, and it will change within a week, or a day, or perhaps an hour.
Deal with it.
I basically don't have opinions at the moment. I just have conversations and a vague view of roughly where I might decide to stand. It's tremendous fun. If you want to join my cult, give up all your worldy possessions and also buy me some milk at lunch.

It is my philosophy that a drink or two in good company are a healthy and harmless way to enjoy yourself. Part of a well-balanced weekend.

I arrived, and the good company was playing some sort of a game involving cards and alcohol. The rules, as I understood them, were that whatever happened I took a drink. About eight or nine things happened in the first twenty minutes.

Well, I felt like crap for about thirty-six hours afterward, but now I'm actually feeling sort of refreshed. By comparison. Perhaps it's because I slept like a baby.

Exactly like a baby.

Curled up in the fetal position, like a baby.
Fitfully, like a baby.
Utterly helpless and insensible, like a baby.
And with occasional breaks to vomit.
Like a baby.

I think that my philosophy for the next few weeks will be reactionary in its moderacy.

On the bright side, I didn't do anything too stupid. Except getting shitfaced fucking plastered.

(apologies to all involved)

The horse won.

Requiescat in Pace.

Edit:

You remember how in the second act Tinkerbell drinks some poison that Peter is about to drink in order to save him? And then Peter turns to the audience and he says, "Tinkerbell is going to die because not enough people believe in fairies. But if all of you clap your hands real hard to show that you do believe in fairies, maybe she won't die."

We need to clap as hard as we can for as long as we can, until our palms are red and raw.

Edit again:

That means that it's still kicking. So go and clap and stuff. If you wanna.

My blog crashed.
It crashed screaming into a wall called technical difficulties.
Please remind me what was here before, because it's all gone, and I must restore it.

Edit:
My blog was in one fell swoop cleansed from the internet. More specifically, my template was wiped out except for a bit at the beginning, leaving you looking at garbled nothingness.
I have managed through my 31337 skillz to remake it entirely. If you remember something that was here before and no longer is, tell me, and I will thoughtfully consider restoring it.

Man, I really don't know if this blog is doing it for me. I can't stand my own writing. It's like hearing the sound of my own voice.

I like writing, though, (go figure) so it's more of the same for now. Until in one fell swoop I cleanse the internet of this foul spot.

Here's an original new rule: from now on, if it's in italics, I didn't write it. Alternately, italics can be used on a single word or phrase to denote emphasis. You'll have to figure out which is which. It's like a game you can play by yourself all alone in a secret place.

- - -

"I'm making wheatloaf. It's like meatloaf, only with wheat."
"Isn't that just . . . bread?"

- - -

I am now officially learning disabled!
Despite one's initial reaction, this is fantastic. The way I see it, I'm messed up academically, LD or not; this changes my status, however, from "underachiever" to "noble warrior in a struggle against adversity". As such, I am entitled to every benefit our social democratic state can give me.
It really is a purely academic distinction, too. It doesn't in the slightest change who or what I am, just changes the way I am dealt with.

- - -

There is nothing more fun than name-dropping with psychologists, because they're bound legally and by oath not to acknowledge that they know the people whose names are being dropped. You get sort of a polite laugh and smile with a steely edge.

- - -

I am in the midst of a mid-morning workathon deadline-o-vision, and as such there is no better time to regale you with tales of abroad. Whenever I do this, it will be a disconnected rumination, not a mere mundane rational reportage of mundane rational events.

Dental hygiene aside, the primary difference between Canadian cadets and British cadets is that, while Canadian cadets are dogmatically not taught to be child soldiers, British cadets, well, are. In Britain, with British cadets, we partook in British cadet training, and thus, soldiering.

Lying down on a damp patch of grass and thistle in a damp patch of southern Wales. Your throat claws at the air you breathe. Two concentric circles, a single iron bar, a silhouette, running. You breathe in, air like nails, out halfway. A trigger like shards of glass; squeeze gently with an even pressure. A jolt, a noise, a disconnect, and the silhouette is still running. Tracing its movement, lining up again, breathing, firing. And again. A trigger like shards of glass, stopping, clicking on nothing. Breathe. You lift up your head, neck like an iron gate, and breathe.

I have never killed, and never want to. Yet I have lain on the ground, lined up my sights with a human silhouette, squeezed the trigger. I have sensed the pin strike the bullet, heard the powders ignite, felt the projectile leave the barrel. I have been the projectile, followed the straightest possible line between two places, two people, felt the impact, the penetration. I have watched a man fall. And I have felt the rush, the adrenaline, the power, and I have aimed again, fired until the trigger clicks on nothing. Check bolt, release magazine, replace magazine, ensure it is seated correctly, release bolt, continue firing.

I have never killed, and never want to. I stand up, creaking, and brush myself off. Leaving the field, or leaving the trainer, the other cadets are euphoric. Wasn't it fun, they ask, wasn't it intense? No, I say. I am lying.

I have never killed, and never want to. I feel no guilt over what I did; all I did was play a game in the field, a game in the British army's trainer simulator. I played a war game, and I was exceedingly good at it. I feel no guilt over what I did; I feel guilty about what I felt as I did it. I really can't stand the person who lay in that field with a fearful intensity and an awful satisfaction as they emptied magazine after magazine. I lay in that field, and more than ever I can't stand killing, can't stand the military, and can't stand what we people are in some corner of ourselves.

- - -

This just in -- I'm still a pretty relaxed guy, I'm just a relaxed guy who's never going to join the army. And you already knew that.

- - -
Uch. Rereading that trite crap I wrote in that paragraph above, I'm three-quarters tempted to tear it out. I really think sleep-deprived me and rational me need separate blogs. We really hate each other.
Euch. Don't believe what that sleep-deprived "deep" kid writes. It's hyperbolic, poorly written, and full of pseudo-deep-emotional-shi'ite. Trite as hell, in my opinion.

I guess I should stick to non sequitor witticisms.

My blog doesn't die with a bang; it doesn't die with a well thought-out and carefully worded farewell.
It doesn't even manage a whimper.

My blog dies with a slow relentless fizzle, and then when you know for sure it's dead it sits back up and asks for the time.