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[homme-in-um]

The Thomas Lawson, a seven-masted schooner that was wrecked in a storm off the Isles of Scilly in 1907

[homme-in-um]

Jesus Christ Superfan

‘’Yeah it’s been great, so good to see you again! We’ll have to meet up again soon!’’. He glibly bid farewell to his dead childhood best friend. More of an acquaintance really, at this stage anyway. It had been so long and they’d both changed so much, one by the vagaries of life, and the other by the long reflection of the afterlife. Made him a bit boring really, but then he had lost his interest in religion early on into their teenage years, so Jonah had little to say to him. Obviously, heaven is great, Jonah thought, passing by clouds and light and sky. So happy to be here. A lot of catching up to do though. Checking in, sating curiosity, announcing his arrival, following up on teary-eyed deathbed promises with mildly pleased meetings over cups of heaven-coffee. As rewards go, this was pretty great. Jonah had spent hours,days and months sitting in Churches or in quiet contemplation fantasizing about the heavenly kingdom. He had lived the life asked of him by the Lord of creation and his son, and was reaping the rewards of his faith. In life there had been moments of doubt- the missed romantic opportunities, the friendships allowed to wither on the vine due to moral differences, the general struggle of being a true died in the wool Christian soldier in the modern , Godless world.That was the life of the faithful though, and it felt so so good to be right after all. If the authorities at the gate knew how relieved and smug Jonah felt when he opened his eyes after closing them in the hospital bed that he was in fact looking at a big, opalescent portal in the sky , they were good enough to let it slide.

Natural to be relieved really, you never know till you know, he reasoned to himself as he got acclimatized to his new plane of existence. Once he settled in though, his neurosis , his constant companion in life, seemed to take root again. How should the truly religious carry themselves in heaven? Where did he stand? ‘’How did you feel when you got here?’’ Jonah asked Tilly, his childhood golden retriever, the only old friend he had exchanged anything other than small talk and pleasantries with upon re-meeting. ‘’Pretty pleased as I suppose you can imagine, frankly it’s all been a real upgrade. Lucky too I suppose, in infinite terms I really just edged the time-frame of that Papal Bull that confirmed that all dogs go to heaven. The transition was a sticky-trick though, going from an animalistic survivalist thought pattern to not only comprehending the idea of mortality but also the idea of a life after death as it was experienced in real time, and the nosebleeds never really stopped but I find that…’’.

There’s no small measure of guilt in realizing that , on getting to know it better, you don’t really care for your pet’s personality. Jonah only really wanted to understand if he was alone in the niggling feeling of bother he felt in finally getting what he wanted. A less existential, but frankly more irritating bother was how un-hyped his heavenly peers seemed , for the most part. A sort of placid pleasure permeated the air. Most new arrivals were, of course, grateful to find their consciousness was not lost to the void on expiration , but few seemed to share the vindicated relief that initially swept through Jonah. Did they let everyone in here? Homosexuals embraced after decades apart. Infamous gamblers, drinkers and all round sinners swanned about with no sense of gratitude.There were tattoos and piercings everywhere. As a man of faith, who strove to take the scripture as gospel, Jonah knew he ought not to begrudge who was saved and who was not. He was proud to have lived a life according to the Bible. It just seemed there should at least be some recognition. Wings or something.

Heaven’s open door policy did seem at least logically sound, and the real assholes and monsters of Jonahs life seemed mercifully absent, so everyone must have passed some standard to get here.There was one person, more than his parents, more than his wife, even more than his dog, that he’d really been waiting to see. With all of infinity he might have kept putting it off on account of nerves, but the niggling feeling was getting the better of him. The Lord and Savior Jesus Christ would set his mind at ease, he would definitely recognise a true disciple in Jonah. In the quiet part of his mind Jonah played out this scenario many times. What he would say, what The Lord would say back, how he’d act. What knowing, witty , Gospel based joke Jonah would close on. When he found Christ, he was eating butter sandwiches by a rain cloud with some of the more notable saints. Their chatter died as they noticed Jonah approaching; the sound of friends stalling their fun to deal with an interloper rung true in any language or time. Jonah clammed up. Overcome with joy and adulation , he fell to his knees before them.

‘’Christ, son of God, forgive me, your humble servant Jonah, for approaching you, but I wish to offer my thanks and praise. I have dedicated my life to your word, and lived by the writ of your most Holy Church. I want to thank you, Lord, for the strength, guidance and salvation you have given me!’’. He decided that came off pretty well for an off the cuff adulation. ‘’Oh , not at all, you’re welcome, thanks! Sorry we were just leaving actually, see you around!’’. Jesus ushered the disciples hurriedly into the stormclouds. Things were kind of awkward between Jonah and Jesus for the rest of time.

[homme-in-um]

Game-changer

Thousands were drawn to the plains at the brown mountain. The battle promised spectacle, and news of its predicted size alone fueled its growth. It seemed to many that this would be a far cry from the barely organised clashes that normally settled...this sort of thing. Actually what the root cause of this fight was was lost in rumor, but it didn’t matter once word had spread enough. Normally the chieftains struggled to motivate their clan members to leave their livestock and families and fight for them , but the stars had aligned, it seemed, and the right conditions had been met to summon two massive hosts of tangentially related men and women to one spot. When bands of warriors reached the plain and caught sight of the encampments, all knew it was not normal, or ordinary, it was extraordinary; legendary even. The promise that what would happen that day could pass into the Annals brought bold spirits to the crowds. The mood was high, speeches and promises of massive reward echoed and buoyed up the combatants, and all readied themselves with familiar excitement.

Every man and woman that ran across the wet uneven earth towards each other that day knew violence. It was in their family life, it brought food to the table, it burst into life is hot short flashes and dissipated. They expected to encounter the same violence there, to display their dominance and right to victory by fist and by nail, by rock  and tooth, and, for the lucky or wealthy enough, by fire-forged iron.

Goaded on by excitement and the weight of numbers behind them, many fell in the impact and press of bodies when the two hosts broke upon each other. Some were crushed slowly beneath feet and fallen bodies, some crawled away. As the sides mixed and formed one great mass of humanity it became next to impossible to govern or lead. Many found themselves fighting only for themselves, and quickly , fighting only to escape the fighting.Lead by this impulse or, conversely the courage supplied by being surrounded by their comrades, combats formed and ended quickly. Arms rose and fell in attack and defence, and once vanquished most had the good sense to stay vanquished. It didn’t take much to put someone out of the fight. A blow to the throat, a torn ligament or mutilated fingers would be enough to drive the fight out of most. Many died to blind swings that opened their veins, or blows that set hemorrhages in their skulls or stomachs. Their killers didn’t stop to check what they’d done, their eyes were up, they were wary of who was next and closest and most dangerous, and so they lived.

There was then as there always has been men and women for whom violence was more than just a part of their life. Some had a higher capacity for it, or a lower capacity for compassion. Others found delight in it, and sought it out. They came to offer expression to their passion and skill. They were dotted throughout the combatants and took to their work with a ruthless coldness that allowed them to cut down scores of enemies.They became the first legends that day , because none who saw them and lived could ever forget what they were willing and capable of doing to their fellow man. Some felt such horror that they felt the need to increase their own ferocity. They in turn spread horror until by the end of the day, when everyone had either escaped or was utterly spent , nearly all who had been there had seen such horror that it was all they could do to forget it, or had taken out such actions that they would never see themselves the same again.

As the din lessened , the sky darkened and the vanquished, who could, picked themselves up craftily and slinked safely home, many were unsure why they had come that day. Much like the smaller battled the land was used to seeing, most who arrived that day to the field left it, even if irrevocably changed in some way. Some bones would never set properly, fingers would never be quite as nimble with thread, wounds would fester and their bearer could be dead within days, but many lived on the rest of their time. They knew that what they had been part of on the plains could not naturally happen easily again, and they were thankful.

The battle was remarkable enough in size to be recorded in the annals of the monks hundreds of years later, but few even then would really believe the numbers involved. As so often happens, the recorders would miss the true significance. The numbers were in matter of fact just as big as was recorded, bigger even, if anyone had cared to actually count. That was not why that day mattered. What mattered that day was that that many warriors had seen and understood violence on a scale they hadn’t witnessed before that. Many took it home with them, took it to their next battle, but turned away from conflict , or at least tried to. There was not a battle of such scale between the clans for many many years after the battle at the plain of the brown mountains. Not until the generations who had gone that day to see such battle were dead and gone, and their horror at it forgotten. By then , soldiers went to battles for duty, loyalty or necessity, in such numbers that these impulses could create. They cannot turn away.

[homme-in-um]

Unsubscribe from the Honeymoon Phase

I definitely bought into the idea of ‘’the friend zone’’ as an adolescent. I know why so many do, it’s a comfort to those of us who didn’t realize that they weren’t mac-daddy’s, surrounded by their own personal harem, they were just alright at making friends with girls. A sad and probably unsettling fact for many of my close friends is that I began our friendships by pining over them and getting real into lingering hugs. As we get older our faithful teachers; television and cinema began to teach that the friend zone is (A) not a thing and (B) an awful way to interpret human relationships. We move away from this view, and learn to accept our romantic failures with a little more grace. Part of this comes as we learn to see rejection as not so world-ending a phenomena, and part of it comes from experiencing the truth of it first hand. There is admittedly, a common moment in new interpersonal relationships( heretofore described as ‘’relationships’’, whether it be parent-child, customer-shop clerk, and friend-friend , as it’s too easy to think of romance as something other than two people’s interactions with one another), where one person feels the need to define what they’re angling for. When you’re 15 and interaction with your particular gender of infatuation is very much life and death , it does feel like failure when you swing for the fences and get struck down. The older I get and the longer my relationships go on, the more I realize that it’s easier to roll with the punches, as the roles people play in your life change, swap and repeat as they please.

Romantic relationships have been probably my number one obsession since I started having them at 15. I don’t necessarily love being in a relationship, and I certainly don’t want to be defined by being in one, but I can’t deny that since 15 , the acquisition, retainment, or recovery from romance has been my number one passion and obsession, which I’ve already mentioned, but such is obsession. I fall for people quite hard, and it takes me what I consider too long to get over heartbreak, so I suppose my brain is prioritizing my interests based on that. I’m in a new relationship, so I spend a lot of my time thinking about relationships in a broad sense. As i take another dip into my own neurosis, another phrase used to define important moments in human relationships, but generally in romantic relationships ’’the honeymoon phase’’ comes to mind. Like ‘’The friend zone’’, this phrase oversimplifies our understanding of the complexities of relationships, and can even harm those relationships.

Scientifically, there’s plenty of grounding for the phenomena we call ‘’The Honeymoon phase’’. https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/24643282?report=abstract%20

There’s one, cards on the table though I’m not going to read it, it’ll only depress me I’m sure or, God forbid, undo my argument, but dammit man I’m a doctor* not a scientist. Point being, I’ve heard that before, and like anyone who’s been in a relationship or, particularly, come out of one, I can personally attest to the sensation. Now after a breakup, there’s a natural tendency in all of us to rewrite the story of the coupling, to trace back the seeds of separation that caused the unthinkable inevitable. My last relationship was very happy, but I became worried early on about how it would feel a few months down the road. In a way I became a little obsessed with this thought.’’ Sure it’s good now, has been for quite a while, but what's this going to be like in 6, 12. 24 months?’’. When that relationship ended I searched and searched for where the break began, looking for the end of the honeymoon. I found plenty of contenders. A snappy moment, a cold kiss, an unreturned smile, scattered throughout the relationship. I’m happy to get very ahistorical and ignore any and all other possible factors with these moments because when you seek, you will find. ‘’The Honeymoon phase’’ is predicated on this thought process. It comforts us by reinforcing that relationships get harder and less fun as time goes on, it gives us somewhere to trace the decline. The friend zone helps us cope in that heart sinking moment when it’s made clear you’re barking up the wrong tree; but as this coping mechanism stunts our understanding of the multi-faceted, complex relationships that we constantly interact with, the honeymoon coping tool stunts both our ability to fully understand relationships in the past and, dangerously, can affect how we approach them in the future. Obsession and desire , two things that we’re told go into decline after time, are not the only valuable facets of our relationships. Look to how time enriches our friendships, our relationships with our parents , or co-workers.  We don’t necessarily recycle any of these purely based on the passing of an emotional expiry date. Romantic relationships by their very nature demand a higher level of involvement , and it can be hard, at least for me, to stop dissecting my past relationships for a moment where everything went wrong , to stop it happening again. This is where this tool stops helping me to cope with past trauma, and starts to impair my present happiness. Relationships are not stories, they’re not entertainment, their mechanics are not readily legible even for those involved. They enrich us, hurt us and change us, but for all their importance, I think the best way to deal with them is to let them grow and change unchecked and naturally.

Now I find myself back in the saddle of a new relationship. The same thoughts swam into my head again. It’s tricky business trying to ‘’get better’’ and relationships. A relationship is not necessarily something you can succeed at, it’s not a tool for enjoyment, the nuts and bolts of it’s operation often exist solely in the perceptions of those involved. If you take your relationship seriously however, you’re always going to try to nurture them, and maybe the only way to really do this is to understand at least yourself. Ideas like ‘’the friend zone’’ and the ‘’honeymoon phase’’ are catch-all phrases popularized to help us explain common phenomena, but , as with most metaphorical short-cuts, they hold perilous misunderstandings. If we can improve how we interact with others, I think the route of it is navigating our own behavior and understanding what affects the way we think and act, and unsubscribing from coping mechanisms we no longer need as we grow in our understanding of how we interact with one another.

*A lie.

[homme-in-um]

Deposition of The Stag

Irish cinema is a unique and invaluable cultural export. Like many aspects of our culture, it’s hard to define exactly what brings a sense of ‘’Irishness’’ to a piece of art . Irishness in cinema utilizes the tools of absurdity, cynicism, dark-humor, sincerity and a gloomy, fable-esque tone. We are great storytellers, as twee as that sounds; look to Calvary, Young Offenders, Intermission, Give up Yer Oul Sins, The Guard. Don’t look to 2013’s The Stag. The marketing this thing got you’d think it was the first Irish comedy ever made.The horrifying thing is, I’m sure many believed that. Designed , as the many comparisons before and after its release would suggest, as an Irish The Hangover, The Stag seemingly recognizes the many elements that often come together to make a distinctly Irish movie so great, but dilutes and cobbles them together in such a frankenstein-ed manner to leave me sure the driving creative force behind this movie was the suitiest hollywoodian producer who ever produced , or an overeager southside film graduate. It is a vapid , humorless attempt to cash in on the success of its national peers .I do not like this movie, that’s hopefully clear unless I’m generally more curmudgeon than I thought I was. What really infuriates me is how inoffensive this movie seems to have been to everyone else. When I went to find solace in common opinion , I was even more horrified to find that reviews are overwhelmingly positive for The Stag. Mark Kermode of the Observer wrote ‘’A stag weekend gone wrong is the basis for a surprising amount of comic depth, minus the excesses of the Hangover franchise’’. ‘’Perfectly executed, and deeper than you may think’’ writes stuart-comerford of the first imdb review that appears. This thing got 81 percent on rotten tomatoes. The overwhelming response of the public is a ‘’fair play’’ smile and pat on the head , with an over-use of the term ‘’warm’’. Movies that I don’t like are ok, subjective medium and all that. Movies can be objectively bad and still be great- I’m looking at you The Scorpion King- but a movie that fails due to slovenliness and the underestimation of the movie going public's standards deserves bile, failure and angry blog posts.

This is a movie that falls sub-par from even professional quality on almost every count. Even those who sing it’s praises seem to recognize that lambasting these complaints as snobbish and high brow to the point that I got suspicious this was bought advertisement- a claim which I’m still pretty sure of in spite of being too lazy and bereft of evidence to back up. When I first saw The Stag in the cinema, within the first half an hour my defences were already way up. The movie, rightfully, supplements its run-time with establishing shots aplenty. No complaints on that score. The more time spent looking at Irish countryside or rainy Dublin streets the better, especially if it’s less time spent cringing through Andrew Scott careening between phoning in his performance and chewing the scenery in an attempt to make up for lost acting ability. The tricky thing about the admittedly beautiful use of Ireland as backdrop is that it jars with almost every interior scene, the lighting options of which seem to fall somewhere from 80’s soft-core porn to (poorly produced) internet sketch comedy videos in quality. This might seem pretty snobbish, but I guarantee you’ll notice it if you ever watch the film. Lighting is one of many fundamentals that this movie seriously drops the ball on, and as with any fundamentals, if it was done right, you’d never notice it.

No one goes into a movie to hate it. I consume media, cinema in particular like digestive biscuits. Most of us, whether we know it or not will give the benefit of the doubt for quality, story, performances and humor because we want to hear the story out. There’s no ‘’in’’ here, not a single likeable character to follow through the story although they all jostle desperately for position.

Finnán, Protagonist; spineless, unlikable, irrelevant lampooning of a ‘’metrosexual’’(we’re onto hipsters now surely, and even by 2013 that was getting old).

Davin , Protagonist?Antagonist?; Basically a rehashing of Finnán. Gets most of the jokes that would I suppose help the audience connect but for the smugness of it all.

The Machine, Antagonist?Probably?; Over the top , on the nose caricature of a grown up D4 head. Maybe I have a soft spot for the character but Peter McDonald, co-writer of The Stag, does an alright job. The faux-wisdom pumped out of The Machine is a pain, but there are real moments of emotion and comedy of which he is the linchpin. Does require an awful lot of shite-talk to get to ,which would be pretty unbearable but then a lot of D4 heads are that ridiculous, so fair dues.

The Rest?, ? ; I dunno, you watch it and tell me anything about any of the characters.

The script is chocked full of jokes so weak the cast trying to laugh together at them provide some of the best performances. It’s a masterclass in exposition. These two factors combined give the impression this movie went through several iterations of everything from actual comedy to drama to indie- any of the above. Then there’s the finale. Tacked on about three scene’s late after an over emotional punch the finale features Peter McDonald-the co-writer and comedic locus of this piece, giving a monologue about OIRland, how we’ve lost our way ( ‘’The Money, The Church’’- spare me) and, to finish this faux-Irish resolution, sings U2 to a delighted wedding party. Now, I understand that our constant U2 abuse as a contemporary nation is a trope the film attempts to lampoon in one of it’s unconfident , unfunny running gags, but even that is only tangentially relevant to Irish culture. Part of the viewer , if they’re anything as jaded as I am, has to find this ending oddly satisfying; a truly woeful cherry on this rum raisin ice-cream*.

*Insert your least favorite ice-cream here, I don’t want to pigeonhole all of us.

It frankly shocks me every time I sit through The Stag how no one person working on this mess of a project stopped what was happening. The actors are all Irish actors- one of their fathers is one of our most well respected. The crew , it being an Irish feature, are part of the amazing culture of cinema made here. How this turkey got signed off by any of them is beyond me. It did though, it did it’s stint in cinema( where yours truly paid actual money to see it)and now sits inoffensively online for consumption. And consume it I do. I’ve seen this movie probably about 4 times now. It makes me physically angry each time but I persevere to better understand exactly how to make and spot a hot turd of a film. It is of course, easier to critique than to do , but even the critics have failed us as an audience on this score. My crusade is to correct this. I will not let go of how terrible this movie is, and I will study it and rage against it to anyone who will listen to set the record straight. I’m watching it so you don’t have to. Or at least, don’t pay for it.

[homme-in-um]

Theeeere’s the experience.

I like to think of myself as a calm person. I imagine I deal well with stress and hard times and come out well from stressful situations with reasoned responses; at least that’s what I tell personality quizzes. I’m in San Diego about 4 days now; it feels alot longer and shorter. I don’t feel ready yet to give my feelings about it to my future self, so another time. Right now I’m just feeling somewhat defeated. Being an adult is hard graft, it seems to be a lot of bleeding your money out to strangers. The last few days have been apartment hunting; something we always knew was going to be incredibly stressful. I’m so happy I’m here with my friends, we make a great team, and everyones pulling their weight trying to get us settled. 

We’re all in this together , so the man says.

Through hard graft and some severe stretching of the truth with leasing offices, we have a neat little place to move into in a week. So that’s one more week of bleeding money into staying in a hostel, money that I needed to cover first months rent and deposit. I’ll borrow off my friends but I’m already so in debt to my parents that the fact really defeats me. I’ll be out job hunting tomorrow. That’ll be a whole new stressful saga but at least in that case I’m hoping to find someone to give me money as opposed to hoping to find someone to take all of my money. In Ocean Beach, where we’re moving from downtown to, that someone is a kooky middle aged lady called terry. Is it? It might be. I’m sure i’ll either love her or grow super tired of her. Well I’m not exactly sure of that, I’m generally pretty ambivalent towards most people, if i don’t just judge them straight away. So i’m stressed because I’m poor, but sure look, if I can pay my friends back asap I can go back to just being utterly in debt to my parents, which feels way more natural. Once I have a job, and we’re in a place of our own, I’ll feel alot more settled, even if I’m still durt poor.  And if nothing else, I have the support of my friends.

[homme-in-um]

Just one word after another

When I was wee, I was quite the reader.

 I think it was more a symptom of staying up very late rather than a love for literature, seeing as once the lamp was replaced by a television and subsequently a laptop, my interest in books dropped off.  When I was wee . I was also super confident; a real drama-kid. I figured I could read anything adults could- sure it was just words after all- and I was fluent in English. If you just keep staring , eventually you’ll have had a read. grand. So I picked up Ulysses by James Joyce, classic of Irish literature I was told, but more importantly, the end-boss of reading. The Mecha-Hitler of written word. A very very hard book. The Mother was chuffed, needless to say. I’m sure it went in the newsletter. So I started it, got about 3 pages in, thought ‘’Ah here what? What? WHAT??’’ and so on, and stopped. It sat on my desk for about a year before I hid my shame somewhere else.

The first 3 pages of Ulysses

In an attempt for betterment, I've recently gone back to reading with a new energy, and decided to give Ulysses another whack. I've gotten a bit further this far, and am almost finished. It’s been a hell of a ride. It’s interesting trying to formulate an opinion on this book. There’s times that it seems clear why its such a landmark text; it’s insightful, hilarious, beautiful, poignant. But so often its just incomprehensible to the point that I feel like It’s being pretentious just to fuck with me.  Having said that, I wouldn't put it past it, that’s the mischievous thing about this nebulous work. It seems to celebrate its artistic freedom, relishing changing styles and perspectives, challenging its reader to keep the intellectual pace. I’m currently on page 694 for example, and the past 20 pages has been a bizarre morality play. I have no idea if its satire, if its absurdist, if it’s a fever dream, but God do I hate it.  There’s always the chance that I really just don’t ‘’get it’’- I see as I’ve gotten older that reading is not just taking in one word after another. I love to do it , but when I hear someone critically deconstruct something like The Great Gatsby or The Catcher in the Rye I realize I might as well have been filling in a colouring book while reading them. Sure what’s the point of reading if the meaning is lost to most readers incapable of taking it in? There’s still a reason of course; the beauty of it, my own interpretation!

When it comes to Ulysses, I frankly don’t have an interpretation, I feel like I very often don’t understand whats happening at all. What I will say though is that hell if it doesn't stick with me. I’m not always sure how or why it’s trying to change how I think, but I get the sense that it drastically is. If nothing else it’s been the most trying book I’ve ever come across, given me a new respect for the art of writing, and Jesus if it doesn't put hairs on your chest.

Edit: While reading, I just came across this exchange.

‘’Why did you leave your fathers house?  To seek misfortune’’

On the increasingly terrified eve to my Summer in San Diego, this is some serious real talk.

[homme-in-um]

OOOft that really is foul.

[homme-in-um]

Best laid plans of mice and me

Well , I'm not going to Hawaii, so scratch that. I'll have to find a hilariously underwhelming picture of SAN DIEGO now. Am I trying to hype myself retro actively?

Such is travelling with others- compromises must be made. The upshot of travelling with people is I have less fear of being taken advantage of in every which way by an American Police officer. In my mind, and thanks in no small part to the recent atrocities and scandals that have broken in America- I equate their police officers with fascist bogeymen sadistic monsters. I mean good God they carry guns, where's the sense of fair play.

adorable

But sure look, In reality, while I am disappointed I wont be spending my Summer in paradise , it was shaping up to seem like paradise wasn't such a great place to live. While i loved the general idea of living and working in Hawaii, I'm already way more excited about specific parts of living in San Diego. Basically seems easier to play house there.

The visa has been purchased, or at least deposited on- so we're locked in now. CanNOT get the Sand Diego quotes from Anchorman out of my head- which is killing my comedic pride. I really fear that it'll never go away. If playing house gets too much for me they're gonna find me huddled in the corner in a Burgundy suit with whale vagina's drawn in lipstick all over the walls. Ah Jesus I'm even doing it now.

ugh fuck me I'm going to be the worst

[homme-in-um]

Our namesakes ladies and gentlemen. I'm assuming an audience for myself.

[homme-in-um]

Mo Money mo I don't have any money.

I've had the sort of job with good pay and lots of hour, and now I have a job with low pay and not many hours, and I pick this every time. It's far better having more spare time , I never really buy things, I wear my dad's old clothes, my old clothes, have a classic cozy look- grand. The kind of work I do now is also poifect for a student, I only work weekends really, and they're super flexible for all my little jaunts and excursions as I try to use my youth. Aces.

Hooooooowever.

It means I'm pretty much in a state of arrested development. I can't save for anything. I'm well aware I live comfortably, and it's all g it's not the end of the world, but no way can I earn enough to move out or buy a car or a scooter to scoot with or what have you. The jobs so perfect for my studies it'd seem unwise to quit for one with more hours. This is making saving up for my summer pretty intimidating.  It's a pretty small business so there's only so many hours they can give me. I asked for as many as possible in between semesters in college as it's pretty much my last chance to make bank but realistically it's not gonna make a dent. I'm going to need to get a loan either from the bank or the family- I'm lucky that I have that option. I'm glad that I have the integrity at least to realize that I'm uncomfortable asking for money off my family, but at least they won't financially scalp me if there's some sort of monetary mishap on my travels. (I'm noticing the spelling on tumblr is Americanized... or I absolutely can't spell.) Work I have anyway, to at least feign financial independence. I really enjoy my work, working during the week I've realized it's more like working in a coffee shop/ office. I do have to clean up human waste more than I'd like, but then I think we all do as a creature.

Even if something prevents me going , making plans this big, attempting something this ambitious is new for me, trying to get out of my comfort zone. Working , planning something like this- Christ even thinking about either- does give me some sense of pride. That'll do for the moment i suppose. Well that and money, I do still need money.

[homme-in-um]

First of some, second to none.

With wit like that, I hope we're excited. Well I am, Hoping to make this a general diary of my thinky thoughts as I do me this year. The big idea is to do something I've never done before- go off to the other side of the world- namely Hawaii- and work and live on my own ( or with friends, sure I dunno).  I'm also going to write about history things that strike my fancy. Hopefully by this time next year I'll have expressed myself a lil bit, talked about interesting things, kept a record of my trials and tribulations and most importantly, actually gone to fucking Hawaii. About me : 21 year old man ( desperately hoping to live up to the title) living in Dublin Ireland with my family. I study History in Trinity College, work in a children's play center and bop about. I love movies, reading, hiking and music- although I worry my tastes are all blurring into the mean basically meaning I have no personality. I don't write creatively all that much, but reckon I should. And here we go.