So I've been working though a bout of serious depression that sort of crippled my ability to do anything significant for the last nine months, give or take a month.
Huh, perhaps I've just been gestating a second time, and some time soon I'll come forth, pink and noisy and ready to get back into the business of growing and doing things.
I'm actually doing really well on all fronts save employment, and even that's looking likely to change in the near future.

These last few months have been.... interesting.
I'm feeling pretty damn lost, overall. Unsure of what I'm doing, what I'm supposed to be doing, and having an impression that there's something that I'm missing.

Text to allow a post.

Bruce stands on a dock, looking out on the water. He appears to be lost in thought. Michelle approaches quietly and taps him on the shoulder.

Bruce: Oh dammit, you're on time.

Michelle: Pardon?

Bruce: I mean, it's good to see you, but I've been wracking my brain for almost half an hour now for some sort of witty opening line to impress you. As you've probably noticed, I've got nothing.

Michelle: Perhaps I'd be impressed that you had spent half an hour of effort for me.

Bruce: No, I'm sure that a lady like you would be much more interested in results. Besides, I could easily be lying about that, there's no way to prove that I wasn't just staring at the clouds.

Michelle: You could tell me the ones that you came up with but rejected as not being good enough.

Bruce: Perhaps, but I didn't write them down, and now have forgotten them all.

Michelle: Every one? What about the most recent one? Surely you had something that you were working from.

Bruce: Ahhh, no, I don't think that would be at all appropriate.

Michelle. Now you've got me curious.

Bruce: I assure you, your curiosity is misplaced. It's dull and uninspired, and I've so many other things that I could impress you with.

Michelle: If it's so dull and uninspired, I'd most definitely like to hear it. People so often try to be witty, some mundanity would be refreshing.

Bruce: Well, it's not that mundane. If it were, it would be interesting in it's blandness. As it is, it's just clever enough to be disappointing.

Michelle: All right, if you're so determined to be a disappointment, you've succeeded.

Bruce: Let's wast no more conversation on feeble witticisms.

Michelle: Why not? Are you trying to deflect my interest? Is there something that you're hiding?

Bruce: No, I have nothing worth hiding.

Michelle: That must be an unusual phrase indeed, to be bland enough to warrant not mentioning, but interesting enough to not warrant mentioning due to otherwise total blandness.

Bruce: You're overanalyzing this.

Michelle: No, you are, I'm simply making it apparent.

Bruce: Very well, very well. The best that I'd come up with as an opening line was: Dammit, you're on time.

Michelle: Pardon?

It has just come to my attention that I've managed to miscalculate my entries, and I am in fact one entry behind where I should be. I'll accept this and make two entries in a day. My word count is good, since I'm close to 3000 words in ten days.

Another late offering.

How to quit:

Quitting is easy. Just stop and walk away.
Sitting out and letting other elements to come and play
Their fitting role in whatever situation where you may
Not have the time and the resources for to see it through
But the problem's not resolved and there's nothing you can do
It may be hard to accept and seem in some way untrue
To the commitment that you made that was more than just some words
Shot out into the world and if the universe
Props up some obstacle that cannot be traversed
And you impact this bloody wall at high speed blindly head first
Dropping you on your ass making you swear and curse
Because then and there you know that your bubble's burst
You have a choice.
You can quit and you can stop and you can give up and it's done.
You have no need to force the issue, struggle on.
Look elsewhere in your life for your victories and fun.
Or.
You can choose this is what you want and here you will succeed.
And work out what it is that you have and what you need.
And the cost is not too high even if you have to bleed
You are ready to lose some battles if that will let you win the war
With enough time anyone can even up their score
Unless they decide that they just won't play any more
Which sometimes can be harder than continuing to pour
Energy and effort into what's simply made you poor
For the cost's not worth what's lost, you're no longer your own boss.
Your objective owns you and you've somehow now been tossed
Into a place where now it's become you inside a vice
Being cut and torn and made into a sacrifice
For your ideals which at the start seemed all so very nice
And it wasn't 'till too late that you learned the hidden price
Now is paying it too dear for the profit's that you'll clear?
Be clear and aware knowing your priorities
And with those on the table you'll be able to see
What is appropriate to accept in terms of fees

Rhyme and rhythm but almost no poetry.

So very very late. Like, eleven hours late.
Nonetheless, I've not slept, so I shall simply do this now.
A poem.
The furnace is making an odd little noise.
I wonder just what can it mean.
Perhaps it'll make heat for me to enjoy.
Perhaps it's just trying to recover it's poise.
Without making a startling scene.
Whuf, that's terrible. This is the sort of thing that happens when sleep deprivation is taken to this extreme. Really bad poetry. Take note, and beware.
Wretched. My feet are really cold. I think there's some sort of circulation thing going on here. It's quite uncomfortable.
That's about half my goal. And I'll have to do this later on today. Lost participles. I'm not sure what a participle is. I think it has to do with verb conjugation. I was right. I don't really understand the definition though.
Fading fast. Not sure what the hell to write other than stream of consciousness. Just forty or so words to go. Not counting that sentence, of course. I swear, this is bleeding insane. I'm utterly sparking mad. Bent mentally off kilter. It's not a matter of loose screws, it's a matter of someone using bent nails in place of screws.

Clown and Man-Eating Shark walk into a bar.
“I should warn you, I taste funny.” Says Clown as they push through the doors..
Shark grimaces. “That's bloody terrible.” He says, gesturing to the bartender for a drink.
“Ah, did it drive you into a frenzy?” Chortles Clown, settling into a stool next to Shark.
At this, Shark leans over and bites deep into Clown's thigh.
Clown jerks violently, but is unable to move, pinned in place by Shark's heavy jaws. He screams and beats on Shark's head with his fists.
Releasing Clown, Shark sits up again and cleans his mouth with a bar napkin. “You do taste funny.” He remarks casually, pouring his drink on Clown's bleeding thigh.
The alcohol seeps into the brightly coloured cloth of Clown's pants, and Shark orders two more drinks. As the bartender serves them, he slides one over to Clown. “Here you go,” he says, “drink it straight back, and it'll dull the pain.”
Wincing, Clown raises the cup and gulps down the liquor. He coughs and sets the glass down forcefully. “That was totally over the top.” He rasps.
Shark grins, and Clown shudders at the rows of white teeth stained red. “Actually, it was more low and to the side.”
Shark orders another drink for Clown, who consumes it as quickly as the first. On his leg, a large red stain grows quickly.
Clown's next drink is taken shakily, but he finishes it. “Hey, I don't feel much pain at all.” He remarks. Almost all of his thigh is a deep red by now.
“That is truly excellent news,” Shark remarks, eyeing his drinking partner with interest. “did you know that sharks are great opportunists?”
“Not... at all.” Clown responds weakly. “Say, I'm feeling awfully dizzy.”
“Then you should lie down.” Shark advises him. “Better than falling over and hurting yourself.”
The sound of Clown hitting the floor is softened as Shark quickly moves to catch him and ease him down.
As Shark drags Clown's limp form back out of the bar, the bartender yells at him. “Hey! What are you doing there!”
Shark replies while shoving the door open. “Finishing off a bad joke.”

Sirens echoed in the distance as a solitary figure shambled out of a dark alleyway and made it's way to the centre of a deserted parking lot. The figure was hunched and shivering, it's gait deliberate and halting. Points of light were all around it in the distance, but the the lot itself was illuminated only by a feeble moon.
In the centre of the open space was a table and two chairs. One was occupied by a thin man dressed in bright colours. His flesh was pale, and in the moonlight his hands had the semblance of marble spiders. They danced together, manipulating a deck of cards. The soft flutter of paper was audible, the only other sound being the scrape of rubber on concrete as the dark figure approached.
The empty chair jerked back from the table as the figure approached, shoved outward by the thin man's foot. A thick arm rose from the dark figure's side, the end so wrapped in tattered cloth that no hand was visible. The chair was arrested in it's motion nonetheless, and the figure leaned on it heavily.
“You're early.” The figure drew back it's hood as it spoke, revealing a mass of dreadlocks that obscured it's features. It's tones were gravelly and weak. It coughed.
“No, you're late.” The thin man's voice was hoarse as well, but strong and confident. He continued to shuffle the cards, his movements sure and precise.
“Let's compromise. We're both on time.” The thick figure settled into the chair and leaned on the table, one blunt limb propping up it's head.
The thin man dealt the cards, five of them flying like small arrows to sit at the elbow of his opponent. “That's not a compromise. You are late. Don't think that you can pretend otherwise.” He picked up his cards. “I don't really care. I just want that to be clear.”
A grim chuckle issued from the dark mass of hair, quickly becoming a cough. The cards by it's elbow were scooped up by the mess of cloth at the end of it's other arm and haphazardly held up by the front of it's head. “Sure, let's be clear.”
The thin man drew a card, then picked another from it's hand and lay it down beside the deck.
The figure opposite him lowered it's hand of cards to the table and left them there as it reached for the deck. It turned over the top card, then casually flipped it onto the discard pile.
A crow silently landed on the pavement near the table, eyeing the game curiously.
“You don't really want that.” The thin man pointedly ignored the bird as he drew a card, added it to his hand, and discarded another.
A wheeze issued from his partner, and he looked up sharply. It was almost like laughter. The ragged figure wheezed again as it drew a card, still having not picked up the others after depositing them on the table. “Perhaps I've changed.”
A second crow descended next to the first, and started preening it's wings.
With a negligent flick the figure dropped the card on the discard pile.
“I find that unlikely.” The thin man said. “But, for the sake of politeness, I'll take you to your word. I am Style.” He methodically shifted his cards about in his hand.
“Dregs.” The other figure muttered.
Style regarded his opponent as he discarded a card. “Dregs. That is an interesting choice.”
Dregs shrugged and picked up another card from the deck. It dropped this card in the pile of cards in front of it, then picked up a different one from the same pile and turned it over. It grunted and discarded the second card.
Style's hand leapt to the pile, swiftly pulling the top card to the table in front of him, then placing three cards from his hand next to it. He then picked up the discard pile, sifted through it, and returned one card to the table next to the deck. He grinned triumphantly.
Whispering soft wings announced the arrival of a third crow.
The game continued for some time in silence, each player drawing cards, sometimes discarding them, sometimes discarding others. The pile of abandoned cards grew, and it was Dregs that took it next.
Crows continued to descend, and as the game progressed they surrounded the table, then grew outward. As the draw pile grew low, the players were surrounded by a black rippling blanket of feathers and bright eyes.

Today I had an epiphany. I became aware of the nature of my objection to makeup. I have no objection with people taking the effort to make themselves aesthetically pleasant. My issue is when that value of the human becomes less significant than their success at being aesthetically pleasant.
So, for example, when someone wears make-up, I will take no issue if they would be just as happy (or happier) to either not wear make-up or to wear a completely different style of make-up. Alternatively, if they are wearing in order to create a sort of look that they themselves value, that's all right. This is based on the ideal that their goal when creating a look is unique and personal. Preferably (in my case) if the look is obviously unique and personal, something that they have created or developed independent of common media imagery.
As well, when aesthetics take priority over function or comfort, I take issue. Function is a variable thing. If something is recognized as being a piece of art, then it's perfectly all right for aesthetics to trump functionality. However, when something is supposed to serve a purpose, there should be no sacrifice in it's capacity to do so. Similarly with comfort. If someone is sacrificing their comfort for an aesthetically pleasing artistic endeavour, and it is a temporary (and ideally one-shot) situation, that's all right. Art is a form of expression, and any expression that is honest and healthy should be encouraged, even if it's uncomfortable. Perhaps especially if it's uncomfortable.

This whole doing the writing on the morning of the next day is getting to be sort of a habit.
Nonetheless, I'm doing it before I go to sleep, so I'll allow it.
There's a number of topics that I might touch on, one that came up today was games, and winning, and losing, and dealing with people who put a lot of emphasis on those.
Another was a call I got from a friend who is going through a rough time. I was glad I was able to help her out just by listening.
And then there's something that ties into that, but had cropped up earlier, which is my need to be listened to, or more precisely, to discuss my emotional state.
November 2007 to November 2008 was a very very significant period of time. It affected me on a very profound and meaningful level.
My challenge at this point is what I do with what I have learned, and the changes that I have undergone as a result of that experience.
I still have a number of challenges to work on, and habits to work around.
I want some comfort. I want it from a non-familial source. I want some validation. I know that I'm a good person, but I want to reaffirm that my concept of a good person is reasonably similar to the concept held by at least a few other people.
I want someone who will listen to me, and be interested in the sort of person who I am.

Technically, this is about three hours late, but since I'm the only one who's really paying attention, and there's no point in beating myself up over it, I'll just ignore that and go ahead.
There are a number of topics on which I'd like to write, the challenge is to decide which one in particular.
Jenny is a great person. She happens to be my mother. So far as I can recall, she has always been supportive of me and my efforts. I can't think of a single time that she has been negative or even reproachful. This positive attitude has left me a little unsure, on occasion. Sometimes I think that it may be better if she would offer some sort of response that was not so positive when I did something that was really stupid, or if there was an aspect of my situation that was not so positive.
On the other hand, I know that consistent positive feedback can be quite useful. I know that no matter how rough my situation becomes, if I discuss it with my mother, I'll get insight into a positive angle.
As well, she provides me with a great example of how someone can go out and make a life for themselves doing what they like.

I consider it quite apropos that the new year finds me where I am, doing what I am.
I'm in Vancouver, having made one of the most memorable trips across the country that I've ever done.
I'm in the process of getting ready to move to Victoria, and start a new chapter of my life there.
I'm at a point where I'm feeling ready to try and work with all sorts of new things.
One in particular is my writing. I'm really ready to start doing that with some sense of serious effort, and see what sorts of interesting things that I can create. I feel that I still have some development to do, but I'm also ready to put in the practice on a regular basis to make that development happen.

So, this year, I'm going to make a serious commitment to write every single day. I'll probably post my efforts here, but even if I don't, I'll keep them recorded.
I'm going to make a very conservative minimum of two hundred words for my efforts. I have every confidence that I'll be able to manage that goal if I take it seriously. I will also make that a minimum increase, rather than just an average. If I write more on one day that won't be an excuse to write less on another.

So, last night I got drunk spontaneously.
That's the first time that has happened. Normally my utter revulsion of the taste of alcohol prevents me from consuming it. However, last night Dusty invited me to share a portion of cider (I think it was cranberry) with her. My distaste of the alcohol was mild enough that I was able to consume it regularly through the evening. I didn't really sense the stages, but I did end up being quite drunk.
I had fun, as well as being drunk.
I reinforced my theory about alcohol making people more honest. The theory is that most people, when drunk, will say and do things that they want to do while sober, but social or personal barriers prevent them from doing and saying these things. Alcohol, in lowering their inhibitions, allows them to do and say these things, and often afterwards pass it off as the effects of the alcohol, rather than something that they had wanted to do or say.
For myself, I'm quite honest, and so when drunk, my behaviour doesn't change dramatically. I may find it easier to do some things that I'd normally find challenging, but I am very doubtful that there's anything that I'd be willing to do while drunk that I would be unwilling to do while sober. In fact, the opposite is probably true. While I'm sober, I have confidence in my judgement, and can carefully consider the ramifications of my actions. While drunk, I don't have that confidence, and so would more likely not do something risky. I remember quite clearly doing a number of responsible things very deliberately while I was drunk.
I'm also pretty sure that I was able to recite the alphabet backwards and Pi while drunk.
In the end, I did get sick, but I wasn't significantly hung over this morning. I do have a headache, but it's more my fatigue (having slept only four hours last night) that is limiting me.

Today I had a really good day.
There were three things in particular that happened today that made it thus.

I had been suspended from work pending a meeting with my boss and manager. The meeting went really well. I'm working again. Even did a big ol' tour this evening, and it went fine.

I did my first tour in a week and a half, for just under 40 people, and it was a complete success. I kept track of the group, told my stories, and was generally very entertaining.

Finally, I tanked Sethekk Halls on Heroic. This is only meaningful from a World of Warcraft perspective, but it felt really good to succeed at it.

I've been asked on a few occasions to justify my continued existence.  I've come up with various answers, but today the right one occurred to me.

I continue to draw breath.

Anyone who thinks that is insufficient reason is welcome to try and revoke that prerogative.  Until this happens, it's enough reason for me.

Of course, that's how I justify it to others.  As for justifying it to myself, since I'm the one that makes the choice about whether or not I continue to draw breath, that's a little more involved.

There are a variety of reasons.
One is inertia.  All in all, it's just easier to continue breathing than to try to stop.
I also have the impression that stopping would be pretty darn inconsiderate as well.  There's the company that I work for, who would have some difficulty replacing me.  There's a few people for whom I provide useful feedback on their various projects.  There's my landlord, for whom I provide income, and who'd have to deal with the stuff I'd leave behind.  There's the various other people who would have to deal with the things I've left in storage.  Oh, and some people would probably miss me.
As well, I'm pretty sure that on average, I solve more problems than I create, on a day to day basis.
There's the fact that if I were to stop breathing, I've got this impression that it would be very difficult, if not impossible, to start again.  I don't think that I'm quite ready to make a long term commitment to not breathing just yet.  It is a pretty enjoyable thing to do, every now and then.
Finally, I've got a stubborn streak in me, a tendency to push back against perceived pressure, particularly when that pressure is towards doing things I perceive as unhealthy.  Not breathing definitely qualifies as unhealthy.

It's survival for it's own sake.  For now, that's enough.

Learning new information and having new experiences are two very powerful events for me.

I need to be careful in my efforts to create these events that I do so responsibly and carefully so that they do not cause me too many difficulties elsewhere in my life.

I've been feeling various degrees of bad over the course of the last several days.  Today I went and looked over my journal.  I wanted to see how much recent events are responsible for my depression, and how much is just stuff that I've been working through over the last few years.  It turns out that the latter is the case.  While these issues may have been amplified recently, they are not new, or different.  My life is actually getting simpler, not more complex.
I also learned that some of these entries have some nice grains of wisdom in them, and I would do well to heed my own good advice.

I have two financial states; enough money, and not enough money.
When I have enough money, I do what I can to keep it that way, but I don' t go to significant efforts to increase my income.
When I do not have enough money, I try to increase my income.

I don't want more money, I just want enough.

I suppose that it should be no surprise that I have a fear of lust.  But I do.  Mine in particular.  More precisely, it's ability to cause people (or me) to do stupid things.
In response to that fear, I've established a level of control that surpasses my self-discipline in just about any other area of my life.

It's been just about two weeks since my last post, and I'm doing very well.  No news being good news, so to speak.