Yes, I’m still alive. It’s getting stale that I have to remind you every time I post (but as the third and fourth website birthday posts are both on the main page I feel I have no choice). I’ve been busy, sure, but not too busy to avoid looking at cats. I suppose I’ve not found much to talk about, at least to a large audience where most of whom have not met me and know nothing about me except that I’m a past paper pirate who likes moaning about things. So what have I been doing lately? Well take a seat, the news might be disturbing.
A large part of university is experimenting. Students are young, a lot of them have emerged from a sheltered existence, and the appeal of new things that don’t instantly reveal their dark side seems nothing more than an innocent temptation. Students question once firmly held beliefs and ideals. Consequences are for people with jobs and families. I am no different. I have been experimenting as well. I have my own dark secret that came to being as harmless curiosity. I don’t want you to judge me, but accept me for who I am.
It started with seeing what the fuss was about, thinking a small investigation couldn’t hurt. Yeah, sure, the Bible was against it, but the Bible is against a lot of things. This is [insert year here], get with modernity. I liked it. It was something new. Behaving as a man in such a colourful fashion seemed unacceptable, unconventional, unnatural. But natural was the only word to describe my true feelings. Although I kept it from friends and family, I accepted my true self. This true self dressed to impress, took up personal grooming, even got fitter. I was even a platonic shoulder to cry on for the fairer sex. I knew there was no turning back when I went to Blackpool in another man’s arms.
But what about my friends? Sure, homophobia is as extinguished as smallpox. But no number of Facebook red equals signs could quell an unaccommodating reaction from what used to be my dearest friends. It taxed what was left of me when I finally told them the truth. The truth…that I dance.
Yes, I dance. I’ve been dancing for exactly one year. I put on a waistcoat and move around a fancy floor, keeping a rigid frame with the crack of a whip, or I half-arsedly do some suave-looking arm and leg movements. Being old fashioned (and tall), the former is my preference by far. I do find it funny how the sport (yes, sport!) with the most favourable gender ratio is considered gay[citation needed], but the bottom line is that I love it. It’s a skill that’s only practical at weddings and at gunpoint to impress a deranged former dance coach, but practical skills are boring. I’d highly recommend it, a lot of universities have their own dance club (and Warwick’s is amazing!).
I won’t leave it this long between posts, I assure you. Turning twenty was my punishment this time.
A large part of university is experimenting. Students are young, a lot of them have emerged from a sheltered existence, and the appeal of new things that don’t instantly reveal their dark side seems nothing more than an innocent temptation. Students question once firmly held beliefs and ideals. Consequences are for people with jobs and families. I am no different. I have been experimenting as well. I have my own dark secret that came to being as harmless curiosity. I don’t want you to judge me, but accept me for who I am.
It started with seeing what the fuss was about, thinking a small investigation couldn’t hurt. Yeah, sure, the Bible was against it, but the Bible is against a lot of things. This is [insert year here], get with modernity. I liked it. It was something new. Behaving as a man in such a colourful fashion seemed unacceptable, unconventional, unnatural. But natural was the only word to describe my true feelings. Although I kept it from friends and family, I accepted my true self. This true self dressed to impress, took up personal grooming, even got fitter. I was even a platonic shoulder to cry on for the fairer sex. I knew there was no turning back when I went to Blackpool in another man’s arms.
But what about my friends? Sure, homophobia is as extinguished as smallpox. But no number of Facebook red equals signs could quell an unaccommodating reaction from what used to be my dearest friends. It taxed what was left of me when I finally told them the truth. The truth…that I dance.
Yes, I dance. I’ve been dancing for exactly one year. I put on a waistcoat and move around a fancy floor, keeping a rigid frame with the crack of a whip, or I half-arsedly do some suave-looking arm and leg movements. Being old fashioned (and tall), the former is my preference by far. I do find it funny how the sport (yes, sport!) with the most favourable gender ratio is considered gay[citation needed], but the bottom line is that I love it. It’s a skill that’s only practical at weddings and at gunpoint to impress a deranged former dance coach, but practical skills are boring. I’d highly recommend it, a lot of universities have their own dance club (and Warwick’s is amazing!).
I won’t leave it this long between posts, I assure you. Turning twenty was my punishment this time.
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