Sunday, 4 June 2017

Let's talk about regrets

It’s been just under a month since I handed in my final university assignment and I have been in a somewhat…pensive mood, to say the least, since then. There is, for me anyway, a sense of reflection needed in such circumstances and because I am who I am, I tend to focus on the negatives, that is, on the regrets. Things I would have done differently, and the reasons why, and so, let’s get on with it.

Number 1: Journalism

In my first year of university, I was studying Journalism. In some ways, I wish that I hadn’t dropped it. Though in other ways…Well, there were a few reasons why I did and I’ve not really gone into them before but…fuck it, there were four main reasons. 1) I wasn’t good at shorthand. Entirely my own fault, I never practiced it. The fact is this, I’m lazy…lazy but intelligent…and that’s been enough to get by in pretty much every other aspect of life thus far experienced, but in such a practical aspect? It was essentially learning a new language and that’s something a person simply can’t ‘fake’, or perform innately. Funnily enough, it was actually acknowledging my failure at shorthand that has made me into a decent student of Japanese, so, at least there’s that. 2) One of my tutors told a story about how they had, when being a newly hired journalist way back when, been forced to remove a story about the dangerous practices of a local business because said business had an advertising contract with the paper. A contract which would be terminated if the story came to light, and so taking with it the money they brought to the paper. I remember listening to this story and the tutor explaining it away as a necessary evil of the business, and you know, I could understand it…but it did dishearten me. Journalism was supposed to be about informing the public but this, this was just advertising, which leads me to 3) Stories are just advertisements. Not all of them, of course not, but the majority? I look back at the stories I submitted for my final module, tate gallery exhibits, beatles auctions, local council saying ‘we’re great us, ignore the mess’, it wasn’t informative in the sense of it being things people need to know, it was advertising. It was placating nonsense, adverts disguised as news. And as for reason number four….I thought someone else was going to be there. That she wasn’t was heartbreaking, at the time, but it worked out for her so I’m not too down on that point. I was crushed though, at the time I mean, but (plays the self loathing card) it probably worked out for the best. I hope, right? Anyway, it did make the whole year harder to get through.

Number 2: Creative writing

I want to preface this, I really, really, really fucking enjoyed creative writing. Most of it anyway, there were a few parts I disliked, (I swear, if I have to hear how ‘great’ Chekhov’s short stories are ever again, it’ll be too soon) but overall, it was good.

Having said that, however, the marking system is ass. Subjective…subjects…..are always going to be difficult to assess, but the ‘system’ used in creative writing was ill-defined at best and deliberately obtuse at worst. I wrote a story which the other people in my class loved. They loved it so much they showed it to other students, ones not even on the writing course, and they loved it. It, apparently, was good enough to cause nightmares in one student and prevent them from sleeping after they’d read it and, despite that, they re-read it again and again. The story got a mark of 62. What I’m getting at here is not so much that 62 is a poor mark, or that my work was a masterpiece which terrified people, what I’m getting at is that if my work had been marked by the students….I’d have received a much, much higher mark. And not because they’re colleagues or peers or whatever, but because it was a story much more in tune with that audience. My regret, essentially, is that I didn’t drop Creative Writing and focus entirely on English because even though that subject is also quite subjective, it isn’t nearly so as much as Creative Writing is. I’m pretty much nailed on for a 2:1, had I dropped Creative Writing, I’m certain I would be looking at a comfortable First.

Number 3: Friends (or lack thereof)

A little over a year ago now, I stopped being friends with a group of people I’d known since school. It wasn’t that anything dramatic happened, there was no fight, no big fallout or argument or whatever…In fact, that was the issue, I was lowkey pissed off with how static the relationships were. Not every day has to be this huge deal, every day at Disneyland or whatever would turn sour pretty fast I would imagine, but by the same token, doing the same boring thing every meet up….sit around in a dirty house, barely talk, play videogames, watch movies, go home. Every weekend. The same thing. For over a decade. My regret here is twofold. On the one hand, I wish I could have actually got these people to do something. I tried, you know, to get them out to play sports, to go the cinema, restaurants, football matches, and it’d work for like three, maybe four weekends and then…back to routine. I should, perhaps have tried harder. On the other hand, maybe I shouldn’t have tried at all. The fact of it was that a few years back (actually, longer now….jeez, like, 7-8 years ago…), I actually had a group of friends who were basically all that and I slowly removed myself from that group to make the other group more like….them….Jesus, I knew I’d done something stupid, but actually spelling it out like this just makes it even more….and then there was another group who were also better…and I didn’t hang with them because of the first group I mentioned….Goddamn it all, I change this regret, this regret is now about how late I was in kicking them to the kerb. I should have done it years ago whilst I still had the other groups instead of tying myself to that rock.

Number 4: Japanese

This one is a faux regret. I don’t regret my ongoing lessons in Japanese, I don’t regret my goal to get work in Japan and hopefully live there for many years, what I regret is my trip to Tokyo last year. Not because it was a terrible trip, or that it didn’t live up to my expectations, no, it was the complete opposite. It was the best trip. It shattered expectations. My fear was that thing where, have you ever been really looking forward to something, maybe a holiday or an event, or hell, even something like Christmas, and you hype it up and hype it up and then it arrives and it’s good, yeah, but not as good as you’d hoped…and so you deflate a little bit, and you get increasingly miffed because it’s just not exactly what you expected? You know, spoilt brat syndrome (I kid, I jest, it’s not limited to just spoilt brats….petulant princesses get it as well). Japan wasn’t like that. I hyped it up and hyped it up and hyped it up and it met that hype. Met it and demolished it. My regret was ever having to leave. For a few month after the journey, I was just wandering around in what was essentially a fugue state. Not really doing anything. I legitimately thought, at one point, so apathetic and listless I was, that maybe I’d contracted some disease over there, maybe eaten something I shouldn’t have and was now at the mercy of a parasitic mind-worm with a penchant for gloomy moping, but it wasn’t the case at all. I was homesick for a place that wasn’t home. And, I still feel that way. I want to get back there, any way I can. So, I regret my trip to Tokyo because had I not gone, I would never have known just how brilliant a place it is and I wouldn’t be longing for it so much.   

Anyway, I think this is a good place to start wrapping up, because, by the time I’m finished, this piece is going to be over 1500 words, could I do a number five? Sure. Of course I could, there are literally hundreds of things I regret, thousands even, and that’s just in the last year or so, let alone any time period before that, so, I think it’s best to keep it to just four. Actually, there is one last thing. Today, June 4th, is my birthday. I got a card and a cake from my mother, and a card from my sister (both cards had a little money inside), but other than that, it’s just been a normal day. This is not a plea for remembrance, or a chastisement for forgetting/not knowing/caring, I’m vain but I’m not that vain and besides, I know that this bed is one I made myself. I guess there is a fifth regret in this piece. I regret not being able to talk to people. I just naturally assume that if people aren’t talking to me that they don’t want to be talking to me at all and so I don’t, generally, impose myself upon people.

Anyway, if you’ve read all that, thanks for reading. If not, well, doesn’t really matter what I type here then, does it. I hope you non-readers, the ones who saw it, sighed and moved on because hey, Terence is talking shite again, I hope you drown in your own snot. Not the readers though, you guys and gals are cool, may you all acquire cool hats that actually compliment your appearance. (This is actually a really thoughtful wish, have you seen it when people wear cool hats that don’t suit them? They look like right pillocks, don’t they. You won’t though, not anymore, thanks to my wishfulfilment. That’s right, I put those two words together, gaze upon it’s magnificence! GAZE UPON IT! Anyway….bye.)     

Monday, 1 May 2017

Sometimes, a title is just a title

I don't know what to say. It's an odd thing, being me. Now, you probably don't know what that is exactly like, (unless....could I be like John Malkovich in that movie, Being John Malkovich, with some kind of portal that allows people to experience the 'thrill' of being me....I put the word 'thrill' in quotation marks to assert some level of dubiousness....I have, after all, spent at least half an hour today just staring at the ceiling...not drunk, or on drugs, or anything like that, though, maybe i should be....but this aside is getting way ahead of itself, and is also running on way too long, so I'm going to close the parentheses now) so, let me give you a close approximation by giving you some ingredients. Cliché, I know, but that is the way of things. First, take a big ol' bag of....actually, I'm not going to do that, let me tell you something, two things, as a matter of fact.

Firstly, I couldn't leave the house the other day. Secondly, it was the first time that this has been the case in a good, seven, eight years. See, physically, I'm well and capable, I have no injuries, no physical maladies, no deformities, no injuries or the like. There was no physical obstruction, either. That is, there was nothing blocking the doors or windows, no bomb, or bomb warning, in the street, no barricades to stop the flesh eating zombie hordes from busting in and devouring me and mine and spreading the plague even further. No, it was a regular sunny day, the afternoon actually, a little after half six, and I wanted to go to the shops. I wanted some Pepsi. Pepsi Max to be specific (the 'X' makes it sound cool). I couldn't leave the house. I stood there, coat-jacket in hand, and I couldn't move. I was literally petrified. Panic attacks are not new to me, they're something I've dealt with my entire life. The constriction in the chest, the hollowness in the head, the rawness of the signals coming from the eyeballs, the feeling as though the room is suddenly much smaller than it was....I read somewhere that they're actually a flaw in the fight or flight response system, that it's the brain fucking up and recognising a source of discomfort, or an event, or whatever, as being eminently more dangerous than it is, and going full hog, jacking up the adrenal glands, cutting out all extraneous information but what's directly in front and surrounding areas, and just generally, you know, preparing for a fight, or a flight. Of course, the problem is, whilst we humans are animals, we're also so cognizant, so very, very self-aware, and so that primal response designed as a emergency button has us dumb chimps looking at the flashing buttons, listening to the wailing sirens, the klaxons, and asking 'why' and not moving.

Don't worry, it only lasted ten, maybe fifteen minutes, and then I was able to move again and I got my pepsi (max), and there was much rejoicing throughout the land, huzzah! However, the panic attack is not the actually bad thing. See, those hit you over the head with their arrival. There's no subtleness to one, it's BAM! IN YOUR FUCKING FACE! The real problem is the other thing, the thing I mentioned in parentheses at the start. Staring at the ceiling. I've been doing a pretty indecent amount of that lately. Staring at the ceiling. Doing nothing, in other words. And it's not that I don't have things to do, I do. I've not yet technically finished university (I still have one assignment to go...and if I'm being honest, there's probably going to be a deferral on one module....I may go into the reasons, the whys and wherefores on that one, but it won't be here, save that for another day) and there is, of course, the issue of post-grad study/employment, and then there's other more frivolous stuff, like video games and books (and boy, oh boy, should you see my shrine to consumerism, it's fab!), let it never be said that I do not have activities to do. In fact, I would never say it. Still, I lay on my bed, and I stare at the ceiling, and I do nothing. Actually, that's a lie. I think. Of course I do. Horrible, spiteful thoughts. No, that's not quite the right word, spite is something one inflicts on others, I don't know what it is, what I do to myself. It's late as I write this, it's something I have to write though, even though I can't quite think of the right words, I need to get out something at least approximate to them. I think about people. I'm lonely. Really, really, fucking lonely. Yet, I can't do shit about it. All I can do is sit in my room, and look at the ceiling. It's a nice ceiling, off-white, not quite cream, though maybe that's just the lighting, and the cobwebs festooning the thing making it look that way. Talk to them. There's a few cracks in the paint too, where the stresses of time, or maybe water, gods, I hope it's not water, are edging their way in. Organise something, a day out maybe? Is that a spider crawling along there? I don't think it is, I think it's just a shadow or something, see, where the cobweb is moving, it's a shadow. They'll say no. Why do they call it a ceiling anyway? Like, where that word come from. I mean, France, obviously, with the way that sounds it can't be anything other than from the Romantic languages. Why didn't you ask her? I wonder why that bit of skirting is missing? It exists to demarcate the boundary between wall and ceiling, so without it, where, in that particular section does the wall begin and the ceiling end there?

Day in, day out. Punctuated by.....see, I don't know what's the interruption in my life anymore. Is it the feeling of drawn out, apathetic malaise that is the norm and the everyday activities, reading, exercising, video-games, etc. that are the interruptions, or is it vice versa. I...think I'm done for now. This isn't helping nearly as much as I thought it would, which was already a pretty low estimate, in fact, it just made me realise how bereft I am of....people....fuck it, I'm out.

Monday, 7 December 2015

In which I waffle on about language, part one: Random thoughts


Heavily indebted to and YesJapan (website and book series) for this. I've officially been learning Japanese now for around 14 months, though in reality, it's been more like 11-12 because of one thing or another (like, I've not done any Japanese this week because of this whole crippled arm thing I've had, like a pinched nerve or a tendon strain or something, I don't know, whatever it is it's bloody painful), but I'm getting there. Slowly but surely, bit by bit, I'm clawing my way to something resembling basic proficiency. At least in written Japanese, speaking is much harder to do and not just because it requires a more instantaneous response/less thinking time, but mostly because I have very little practice at it. I don't know of any other Japanese speakers/learners (funny little sidestory, there was this one guy/acquaintance who I thought would be into learning it, he went to the same JET (this teaching English in Japan thing) seminar as me, so I went up to him after the fact and asked if he was learning/knew Japanese (my cunning plan being to use him, as a fellow student, to practice speech), but he said he wasn't planning on learning Japanese, any at all, prior to going to Japan on the JET program...was like 'whaaaa', now, he could've just been fobbing me off, which is cool, but I'm certain he was being sincere (he's a bit of a tit tbh), which just boggles my mind...anyway) but even there I'm making some headway by watching Japanese videos/dramas.
Not anime, btw, I mean, don't get me wrong, I love anime, but it's not great for learning Japanese. An example of what I watch, and f you've got the time watch this show, is it's bloody heartbreaking, about a single father who's diagnosed with alzheimers and it's just...all dem feelz....but also, I watch news programmes and Japanese documentaries, mostly without subtitles. I don't understand much, my vocabulary is...not great...but, and I don't know if this is just me, but foreign languages in general....have you ever paid attention to them? Actually, I think it's true of native language too, but if you aren't actively listening, words and conversations just sort of blend together? In the native language though, it's easier to unpack, we can spot the patterns, in a foreign language though, it's much harder and is initially far less defined. I think it's a universal thing (i mean, barbarians are called so because their language is just like the braying of sheep, right?....terry deary ruined history for me), but the more practised the ear becomes, the easier it is to distinguish. For me, like I say, my Japanese vocabulary isn't great, but my grammar is fairly decent, so I can use that to differentiate words and context between's not foolproof, because native Japanese speakers tend to drop particles (which is perhaps the main reason anime is so bad for learning Japanese, the other reason being the language used is often terribly informal, which is something else we need to talk about later) and said particles (and conjunctions, etc.) also have multiple meanings (is that は simply marking the topic? the subject? indicating a contrast? or emphasising?), every language has this though, or something like this, especially when spoken, and that's even without getting into dialects....Anyway, yes, so, incredibly, the more you listen, the better you get at hearing. That's, I mean, who saw that coming, right? And who would write a lengthy, convoluted paragraph about it, probably some weirdo right? Pfft, imagine....
I love it though....I really wish I had started learning it sooner. When I was in school (going back about twelve years ago now), I bought this Lonely Planet Japanese phrasebook. I had a plan to learn Japanese from a phrasebook....I was a dumb kid (and now I'm a slightly less dumb, but still pretty dumb, adult, yay!) and not just because I spent like two weeks when I was fifteen or whatever, copying down phrases like 'わたしのなめえはTerenceです.' (which is sort of correct, but not really, it makes sense, but it's very touristy...iono, like going to Nice, France and calling it so it rhymes with ice, or something) and completely misunderstanding the sentence structure (what do you mean, わたしはたべてすし is wrong, everythings in there, 私は, I am, 食べて, eating, すし, sushi, I am eating sushi, it's perfectly fine!), and actually, this has all been a lie, because I didn't even use hiragana...I used romaji exclusively...I put it aside for the next ten years. I mean, literally. Every so often, I'd find that phrasebook and be like 'huh...guess I'll give this another go', last about two days at most and put it aside again. Curse you past Terence! It's said that Japanese takes six to twelve years (on average) to become truly fluent....we could've been fluent by now, you prick!
Anyway, I'm going to bring this to a close now because, originally, this was a post on facebook and was just going to be just that little introduction/basic facts thing which I did at the start, and then adding a plug for the actual blog thing which I'm going to be writing later today (or maybe now tomorrow) on languages (though it'll be more about languages in general than specifically to do with Japanese or English, how it shapes our perception of the world and such, you know, fun stuff :D)...things got out of hand pretty quickly, I just don't know what went wrong....I blame the fact I couldn't write for a week, so now, verbiage! verbiage everywhere! Good day to you!

Friday, 4 December 2015

Thinking about pain

I injured myself about a week ago. Actually, no, it was exactly a week ago, last Friday, the 27th of November, that's when it happened. That is the when, as to the how, I've no idea. That's the perplexing thing. I went to bed fine, and when I woke up my right arm felt a little dead, you know, that kind of feeling you get when you've slept on your arm? That's what it felt like. So, I thought nothing of it. I went about my day, I did normal, everyday Terence things (we are an industrious folk, us Terences, so long as that industry involves being lazy, watching cartoons, and playing video games we can go all day), all the while with that little twinge that should have had me worrying.

The next day, Saturday, it was really quite painful. The pain had bloomed during the night. I went around to a friend's house and did normal friend things, like being lazy, watching cartoons, and playing video games (for they are Terencian in those ways), and....I don't know....I never let on or complained about the pain. All day and night, I was surreptitiously moving my arm about, putting it behind my head or something (really weird thing, putting the arm up and behind the head gave some relief from the pain...I figure it must be something to do with the pressure on the muscle or something, but then, I don't know, because surely gravity would also be acting on it....or maybe angels were high fiving the pain away...I don't know! You come up with a theory then, looking at me like I'm crazy, pfft, it is not I who am is I who am mad!), which made it okay for like a moment or two, then the pain would come back with it's bigger brother and kick my ass for chatting back. 

Then, Sunday morning. Oh boy, was that fun. I couldn't get out of bed. I couldn't move. When I was a kid, I was ran over by a car. I think i've talked about that before, I nearly lost a a foot, it had to be literally sewn back on....that didn't hurt half as much as Sunday morning. Well, maybe it did, I don't know, pain is weird in that sense. Like, you can imagine pain right, someone puts the visual in your mind of being stabbed in the eye or whatever, with a needle, you go 'ah, wtf, bleugh' and shiver, right? But remembering pain? That's much harder. At least it is for me, and I assume it's a universal thing because I've not met anyone who can actually remember physical pain. Mental pain, sure, but physical? Not so much. And I talk about this a lot with people, because I'm weird like that....anyway, it was pretty bad, I couldn't move for the pain. At least for a good half hour anyway, I just kind laid there and cried. Then I remembered my ninja turtle training, rolled off my back, and got a taxi to the A&E.

Here's where I could go on a rant about the NHS. Because they didn't examine me. No scans, no poking, no prodding, nada. Just, 'you're in pain,' 'yessum,' 'is it really bad?' 'yessum,' 'cool, here's a prescription for some pain meds strong enough to kill a small elephant, go have fun.' 'aye sir!' Because....and I know that it must be awfully disheartening to be a doctor at times, especially in a shithole of a city like Liverpool, and it's hard to believe when there's a real case because of every arsehole scouser who comes into the clinic with their 'aw, but lad, i've got this like, real pain, giz us some meds like', but iono, it just seemed really unprofessional to sign off on something like that without an examination. But then, that's the NHS for you.

Since then, life's been shit. I had to actually stay off university because I couldn't get dressed (literally couldn't put my pants, shoes and socks on, because it hurt far too much, even with the meds, even with my left hand). I'd not missed any education or work thing since I was fourteen or least, not for a legitimate reason....I mean, I've stayed off plenty of times because laziness or dropping out of college and whatever, but that was always my decision. It was somewhat galling to be forced to the sidelines. That a physical impairment kept me out of the action, as it were. I don't like being reminded of my own mortality, and that's happened a lot this past week. When I was in my late teens, early twenties, it used to keep me awake at night. Again, I think this is something I've talked about before, something that I'd mostly gotten over, but it's been back this week, because I've not been able to read books, play video games, go to university and what not, and also, the pain in the arm has been keeping me awake at night and that's when the thoughts creep in. When the shadows curl and twist around the silence...

It's still hurting now. The arm, I mean, it's still quite tender and the hand's numb. I tried writing before and well, my already messy handwriting is even messier because I can't hold the pen right....even typing this out has been kind of a chore because, and I don't know why this is the case, but my co-ordination is, I keep hitting the keys above and/or to the side of the one I want to hit....I don't know if it's just because I've not typed anything in over a week (with the right hand anyway) or what, I don't know...that's kinda scary in itself though....that it's a skill that can be 'lost', as it were, in just a week....I'm hoping it's just the meds and the fact that the muscle's still kind of twinging. 

Anyway, that's all I have to say right now....and jesus, how many words did I have to use to not say not really much of anything at all...

Sunday, 1 March 2015


Salt is weird. Like, thousands of years ago, salt was super important so much so it was basically currency but it came from the ocean. Specifically salt encrusted rocks...what happy accident was that then?! Some caveman family was at the seaside, one of them accidentally dropped their mammoth sandwich (in that it was big and also made from a mammoth) on one of the rocks and, being an unfussy eater, ate the sandwich then turned around to the others "Okay dudes, you're not going to believe me, but this rock, this one right here, this rock is delicious!" and so, sceptical at first, they all started wiping sandwiches on seaside rocks and found that they loved it.
Or the other explanation is that salty tasting meals exist naturally, ancient humans went on quests to find more accessible salts. Which would be fun to imagine. A caveman scientist, "Day 1, just invented numbers, very happy side effect of quest for salt. Tried licking a porcupine...porcupine seemed to enjoy it, but my tongue did not for varying reasons. Will update log again tomorrow." The next day, "Day 2. Just invented linear concept of time, very happy, though now also somewhat aware of own mortality which is rather uncomfortable. Mission for salt continues, got grandmother to try sucking eggs as per Jeff's suggestion, she said they could use some salt. Will update log again tomorrow." The third day, "Day 3, decided to take a break today with the family, went to the beach. A good time was had by all until Jeff dropped his sandwich on the floor. He caused a scene until I offered to give him my sandwich and I'd eat the one off the floor because it's the stone age and who really cares about germs, apart from Jeff. Found that the sandwich now had salt on it, rocks make salt, fellow salt hunters very happy with my discovery." "Day 4, Jeff suggested salt was actually in the water and that we could harvest it by boiling said water. Crazy Jeff, salt is a solid, not a liquid, he'll never be a scientist like me if he continues to think like that."
I did originally have an ending for this, but I forgot, erm, lets talk about dinosaurs instead. Now dinosaur means "terrible lizards" which is a fantastically inaccurate name as they were neither at all terrible nor lizards. But that is a story for another day, smoke bomb! *flees in confusion*

Monday, 29 December 2014

Zeus, am I right?

Zeus was doing his usual Zeus thing, chatting up a mortal priestess (ancient greek devouts were so much open to seduction) named Io, when Hera came along and was all like "Zeus, you better not be hitting on some human again?!"  and so Zeus, being that he was the king of the gods, was crafty and quick enough to change Io into a cow before his wife could catch them together. 

Hera though, being that she was the Queen of the gods and also, you know, knowing what Zeus was like, was suspicious when she found her husband with his arms wrapped around a cow and so, using her wit, proclaimed "Oh, what a fabulous gift you've got for me there, I've always wanted a cow!" and Zeus was forced to give over poor Io to Hera.

However, thinking quickly, Zeus burst out "Ah, but we live on Mount Olympus, can't take cows up a mountain, they're very terrestrial, scared of heights, don't you know."

Hera conceded the point but insisted that the cow be kept in her sacred olive grove (somehow not a euphemism) and watched over by her friend, Argos, who was a giant with like, so many eyes, just, freaking, so many, it was weird. Hera knew that loyal Argos would keep an eye (or two, or fifty, or a hundred) on Io at all times because he never closed them all at once.

However, she had not banked on Hermes, who Zeus sent to kill Argos because that's the logical reaction to being cockblocked by your wife. Send your son to kill her friend. Anyway, Hermes went there and tried to get Argos to leave the cow unattended, but no matter what he did he couldn't get the giant to close all his eyes at the same time. He tried spells and hexes, he tried playing soothing lullabies on his lyre, nothing would work until he started spouting on about the history of musical instruments ("Hey, did I ever tell you how I made the first lyre? First, I got this turtle right...." and on he goes, oy) which knocked the giant out. Then, Hermes lopped Argos' head off with a sickle because fucker was hardcore.

As it turns out, Zeus had kind of moved on by this point and didn't really care anymore. He went off to do Zeus things. Argos' eyes got put on peacock tails because they were Hera's favourite bird. Hermes got no comeuppance. And as for Io, well, she eventually got turned back into a human, after being cursed by Hera to madness by gadfly (just one, that couldn't be gotten rid of, just stinging her, all the time, to induce insanity you see), meeting the titan Prometheus and swimming across a whole fucking ocean (as a human that's tough, as a cow...yeah). But it was all worth it because in the end Zeus had his way and she ended up giving birth to some of Zeus' kids (sure, he had given up on her, but Zeus is Zeus), who then had kids of their own, who then had kids with other Zeus babies because looking at the family tree of ancient greeks myths is a lot like reading a rednecks family tree (oh my mother is my brother, is my fathers aunties uncle, is my grandpa, is my nephew is my son! and so on, seriously, zeus hit up his own grandchildren multiple times, who then procreated with each other, and don't even get me started on Herakles and the Danaids, 1 Zeus male descendant, 50 Zeus female descendants, and all 50 were impregnated, and then started marrying each other, and all the ancient greek rulers pointed at shit like this and was like "we is descended from this union, this is why we're more specialler than you!" and you know, they weren't wrong)....

....anyway, where was I...oh yes, the moral. I guess the moral of this story is don't trust Zeus. If you're a woman, he'll probably turn you into some kind of animal...and then fuck you....or turn himself into an animal...and fuck you...either way, he's going to fuck you. If you're a male, don't get in the way or he will have you killed...and then probably fuck you.  


When I was a kid I used to do these voice imitation things. Like, I'd put on different accents, imitate celebrity voices or whatever. One time, I went about a week or so changing my voice every day. I'd spend one day speaking in a cockney accent all day, the next, an Arnold Schwarzenegger imitation, the next I'd do a hoarse Glaswegian voice. Anyway, it got to the point where I forgot what my actual voice sounded like. Have you ever had that? It's a surreal moment of depersonalisation. It was kind of like that thing people get when they hear themselves on a recording, the "do I really sound like that?" moment where they're not entirely certain it's them because they're hearing their own voices without the differing timbre and such created by their own skulls. It was like that but taken to the extreme. "Do I really sound like that? Hang on, what do I actually sound like?" 

It was genuinely terrifying, like losing a piece of the self, or rather, not knowing it at all. Never told anyone about it either, never wrote it down anywhere, but people (randomers as well as family and friends of) would always say that I don't sound like I'm from Liverpool (sadly, I do sound more Scouse now, which is a shame as I cannot stand that fucking accent...thinking on it, probably some psychosomatic thing that caused the change in voice in the first place...hmm) and of course, that just fueled the fear that I had done something to my voice. That it wasn't *my* voice, if that makes sense.