The laziest blog post what I ever done wrote.

14 Nov

I’ve resorted to just writing down things that strangers say to me on the phone now because I haven’t been outdoors since 2003.

“Hi Heather, I’m calling from the World Wildlife Fund. Thanks so much for your donation like 700 years ago or something when you were ambushed that one time by an intimidatingly enthusiastic gap year student. Could you sponsor a tiger for just £12 per month?”

“Look I’m really sorry but I don’t have an income right now so that’s not really prudent. I’m unemployed and haven’t signed on.”

“Oh that’s fine Heather, totally understand. How about for just £10 per month?”

“Mate really I appreciate what you’re doing but I’ve got no money coming in right now. Can’t do it.”

“I understand what you’re saying Heather. £8 per month?”

“Yeah, look tigers are ace but I really can’t commit to anything right now. Sorry to waste your time.”

“Okay Heather, I’ve listened to everything you’ve said and you’ve made some really good points. How about £24 next month?”

“I don’t think this is working out.”


The greatest threat to rational thinking and scientific progress is Heather Stevens.

6 Nov

I didn’t even know Jimmy Savile was dead.


On Saturday I spent more time than time itself writing an email for the Oxford Skeptics in the Pub mailing list and then hit send and when I looked at the email that it had sent out to 500 people it was definitely not the email I wanted it to send out to 500 people. It was the antithesis of the email I wanted it to send out to 500 people. It was the email that I wanted it to send out to precisely no people. And so, having realised that 500 people had been emailed with something that I didn’t want them to be emailed with, I decided that I should write a blog post about how I’ve taken over the running of Oxford Skeptics in the Pub and I have no idea what I’m doing and I’ll probably have accidentally annihilated atheism within the year because OH MY GOSH YOU GUYS I AM SUCH A KLUTZ WHAT AM I LIKE?

Like most things that happen, I don’t really understand how this happened. Last year nerd-hero Andy Lewis, co-founder of Oxford Skeptics in the Pub, said that he was looking for people to help out with the group. And I figured that it would be cool to be one of those people that does something in their spare time other than Internet and crying, so I said I’d be up for helping. I don’t really know how I thought I’d be able to help, aside from “in a really minor, undemanding and inconsequential way”. Looking pensive and drinking beer in a more authoritative manner than usual or something. But then I got a message from Andy being all like “Hi I’m about to have a baby organise the next meeting please thanks” and so I was all like “well this is unexpected” and now 12 months on I spend one day per month on the verge of mental collapse and heart failure for the good of science and reason.

Ahead of the first meeting that I ran, Andy had been pretty firm about the fact that I ought to do the MC duties myself. “Put your stamp on it,” he said. Turns out my stamp looks a lot like an ageing child cowering in a corner a long way from the microphone and trying not to have a seizure, 1990 issue. I’d started out with good intentions. Alex Gabriel got in touch when he heard that Oxford Skeptics in the Pub was going to be relaunched, and I’d asked him to come along in case I bottled it because I knew that he’d put on similar events in the past, but I was pretty keen on not bottling it. I’d written some jokes on the train to Oxford that I was going to do at people and everything. I was feeling pretty good about the meeting. I mean, I felt sick and hadn’t been able to eat anything that day because of how disproportionately nervous I was, I was in a weird, numb funk because my grandmother had just died and it hadn’t really sunk in, and I was inordinately tired because I’d spent the previous weekend attempting to be helpful at the inaugural Winchester Science Festival and all available hours since at work to deflect my thoughts from familial death, but apart from all of that I was feeling pretty goddamn excellent. I got a text from Alex saying he’d managed to pick up the new PA system that my friend Philip had taken delivery of because the organiser of Oxford Skeptics in the Pub lives 90 miles away from Oxford and didn’t really think very hard before taking on such a geographically-specific role, and felt at least marginally reassured that everything was on track.

When I got to Oxford, it was about half an hour before shops were due to close. This was important. I didn’t realise this was important until 25 minutes later when Alex and I opened the box of the brand new PA system and found that it wasn’t designed for UK plug sockets. I responded by shutting down all thought processes except for the one necessary to set Marche Funèbre as my new internal soundtrack, but Alex responded by suggesting that I go to the shops to buy an adaptor so I went to the shops to buy an adaptor. The first two shops that I tried were closed, and a shop assistant at the third was locking the door but let me in to buy an adaptor out of pity because I had the look of someone that had shut down all thought processes except for the one necessary to set Marche Funèbre as their internal soundtrack. I took it back to the venue and Alex finished setting up the PA system whilst I paced uselessly and looked agitated and decided that all of my jokes were terrible and Alex should do the MC duties whilst I sat at the back of the room and tried not to break anything.

And it went really well. Mark Henderson, the speaker, was fantastic and extraordinarily forgiving, the room was packed, people bought a bunch of books and I wasn’t sick on anyone. And the unnecessarily kind Chris Richardson, who’d driven down from Tamworth, gave me a lift 90 miles home to South Derbyshire at the end of the night so that I could go to my grandmother’s funeral the next day, where I was also not sick on anyone.

There have been two events since that first one, and in both cases I started with similarly good intentions that predictably evaporated. I’m just not sure that I’m capable of standing in front of a room full of people and talking at them. I’m so meek. I’m so meek I’m not sure people even realise I run the group. Last month I was walking up to the room where we hold our talks and I saw a couple of people approaching some way behind me, so I stopped to hold the door open for them – in “Look at the Birdie”, a collection of short stories by Kurt Vonnegut, there’s a guy who’s described as “standing on the edge of the mainstream of life, smiling and saying, “Pardon me,” “After you,” and “No, thank you”” and that character is totally me apart from the bit where he kills his wife with a tiny spaceship – and when they caught up they thanked me and asked if I was new to Oxford Skeptics in the Pub as they’d not seen me before and I’m not sure what I said in reply because my voice can only be detected by hyperacutic dogs.

It’s going all right. I think it’s going all right. All of the speakers have been fantastic, and if you get chance to see any of them – Mark Henderson, Alom Shaha and Liz Lutgendorff – then frickin’ do. Our next talk is tomorrow and it is Professor Stephen Curry and it will be great and you should come so that you can learn about viruses and stuff and then watch an unemployed 22-year-old that used to have prospects trip over wires and accidentally set fire to things.

Andy, I am so sorry.

My life is like a terrible sitcom.

12 Sep

The Olympics, huh? What was that all about? AM I RIGHT? HAHA!


I can’t write topical jokes so I’m going to tell you about a farcical situation that I put myself in at considerable expense and for no reason whatsoever last week.

Also by “last week” I mean “the week beginning 23rd July” but I am terrible at blogging and also IT’S CALLED CREATIVE LICENSE I’M AN ARTIST SHUT UP.

Last week – LAST WEEK – was pretty full-on. I spent the previous weekend at the thoroughly excellent inaugural Winchester Science Festival organised by the also thoroughly excellent James Thomas, and then I went back to London for two days to work, and then I went to Oxford to relaunch Oxford Skeptics in the Pub which I seem to have inexplicably taken charge of without, so far, destroying. Actually it’s going really well – I haven’t accidentally started a brawl or made a speaker go on fire or anything. And then I went back home to South Derbyshire so I could attend my grandmother’s funeral after which, in a state of significant sleep-deprivation, residual panic and subdued grief, I made a decision that was comically ridiculous.

I had never applied for a job before 5th July. I am 21 years of age and I had never applied for a job. I’d had jobs. I’d had a job in London since April that I kind of fell into. But I’d never applied for jobs because I’d always assumed that I wouldn’t get them. I wouldn’t even apply for vacancies in the local supermarket, so convinced was I of my unemployability. But after I kind-of-accidentally got this job in London, I think I finally began to accept that it was my own convictions about how unemployable I was that were, at least partly, ensuring my continued lack of employment. So when I saw a vacancy at the beginning of July for a role throughout August – which was when I was due to be leaving my London job – at the Fringe Shop in Edinburgh – which is where I quite like spending my Augusts – I thought, “fuck it, why not?”

And then I thought, “LOTS OF REASONS WHY NOT” so I was all like, “STOP SHOUTING IT WAS RHETORICAL” and applied anyway.

I didn’t expect to hear anything back. And I didn’t hear anything back, for a while. And then last Tuesday – don’t pretend like you’re not on board – last Tuesday I got a call inviting me to an interview at the Fringe Shop that Thursday. That’s the Fringe Shop on Edinburgh High Street. That’s Edinburgh in Scotland. And I thought, “Well I’m not working, but I’m not working because I’m going to my grandmother’s death party. Also, Edinburgh is FAR.” So I said I couldn’t make it and they asked whether I could make Friday and I said it was probably a no, but that I’d call them back. And on Thursday – the morning of my grandmother’s funeral – I called back and I said no. And then immediately after the funeral I think my brain had temporarily forgotten what “rational” meant and I called them again and said yes. Yes, I will get a train to London in 3 hours in order to get on a coach for 9 hours to come to Edinburgh to be interviewed for a poorly paid job that I have little-to-no chance of getting. SEE YOU TOMORROW!

Most of the next 36 hours merged into an indiscriminate fuzz of regret and bafflement. By the time I got into London, the megabus that I’d planned to get had sold out and only the expensive decadence of National Express remained. It was at this stage, having already resigned myself to the fact that I definitely wouldn’t get the job even if I did travel to Scotland, that I should have cut my losses and given up. But no, in for a penny, in for £40; I was determined to see this one through to its inevitably dispiriting end.

I’d spent so long pissing about trying to find a cheaper coach that by the time I’d booked, I had no time left to eat anything before I had to run for the coach. The coach was half an hour late leaving London, so I could have eaten something before I had to run for the coach. I could have eaten something and then walked to the coach. I wished I’d walked to the coach. My leg was hurting because I used to be a cripple and I’d ran for the coach. There was a woman talking into her phone at an unnecessary volume in the seat in front of me and I started to worry that I’d been naive to think that a 9 hour overnight coach journey could just be spent sleeping, but after a while the vehicle settled into silence and I was finally overwhelmed with the exhaustion that I’d been doing my best to fight for the past week.

I’d been naive to think that a 9 hour overnight coach journey could just be spent sleeping. I must have slept for a good 3, maybe even 4 minutes before we pulled into Milton Keynes, where Captain Cockwash boarded the coach and decided that he should sit next to me. He was with a group of friends celebrating a 30th birthday, and when he sat down he pulled out a pack of Fosters and said, “ALL RIGHT LADS? HAHAHAHAHA!” and then something about breasts and it just continued like that, really. It continued like that until about 2.30am, at which point the coach broke down. The coach broke down and we were stuck on the hard shoulder somewhere in the East Midlands – somewhere frustratingly close to where I’d started out 8 hours ago – for two hours. I already had a residual, if mostly-subdued, fear of motorways from when I was 10 and my brother’s two best friends were killed by a lorry on the M5, so by this stage my thoughts had drifted from “WHY AM I HERE I AM UNEMPLOYABLE” to “WHY AM I HERE I AM GOING TO DIE.”

We started moving again at 4.30am, in a new coach, and this time I was sat next to a woman who kept falling asleep on me and then looking startled and vaguely offended every time she woke up. As the sun started to rise, I tried to work out whether I’d be able to make the 11am coach back to London. My interview was supposed to be at 10am and I’d lost all motivation to gain the job or make the most of the fact that I could spend a day in Edinburgh. I’d forgotten to bring a jacket, I hadn’t eaten for 12 hours, I was tired, my grandmother was dead, it was 6am on my eldest brother’s birthday, my whole family was at home for the first time in months and I was on an uncomfortably cold coach two hundred miles away from where I wanted to be in order to do something that I no longer wanted to do. And I think that lack of enthusiasm positively shone through when I did eventually find myself on Edinburgh High Street, 2 and a half hours later than planned, and walked into the Fringe Shop.

The interview itself, looking back, was an adorable clusterfuck. I had absolutely nothing left to give, desperately wanted to go home, and my tone throughout was what can only be described as apologetic. That’s something that is reasonably easy to cover up in writing, but in person it’s much harder to disguise my relentless feelings of guilt. So my internal monologue of “I know this is awful and I’m sorry” when I’m filling in an application form is much easier to temporarily suffocate than my implicit external monologue of “I know this is awful and I’m sorry” when I’m sitting in front of someone and trying to talk to them. When they started the interview by asking me to tell them about myself, I looked baffled for a few seconds and then quite bluntly told them that I’d never had a job interview before and didn’t really know what I was doing. When they asked me why they should hire me over the other people they’d interviewed, for a fleeting moment I considered actually answering the question like a normal human person but then I realised that I was absolutely incapable of that and was all like, “Uh, well I guess you should hire me over the other people you’ve interviewed if if I’m better than the other people you’ve interviewed? I don’t know who else you’ve interviewed. Don’t hire me if I’m terrible” because I’m terrible. I told them that I was “quite good” at sales, and I think that my use of the descriptive term “quite good” when attempting to sell myself indicated clearly enough that I was not at all good at sales. I think I might also have used the phrase “laid-back” when asked to describe my character, but by then my internal monologue was screaming too violently for me to commit anything to memory.

They told me that they aimed to let people know if they’d been successful by lunchtime and that I should keep an eye on my phone. I knew that I didn’t need to keep an eye on my phone. Satisfied that I had once again secured my continued lack of employment, I walked back to the coach station to see if there were any seats left on the 11am coach back to London. There were no seats left on the 11am coach back to London. I wondered how so many people could be taking a coach out of Edinburgh at 11am on a Friday and imagined that it was full of jobless 21-year-olds and their broken minimum-wage dreams. I asked when the next coach that I could get was and they said 9pm. I wished I’d brought a jacket and eaten something and not ran for that coach 12 hours ago.

When I got back into London the next morning I realised that I’d lost my Oyster card so I sat on the floor of Victoria Coach Station lamenting my existence for a bit but it didn’t really help so I bought a new Oyster card. And then at 6.30am I stumbled out of King’s Cross Station and, staring at my phone and trying to think of something witty to say on twitter so that I could glean a modicum of affirmation from strangers on the internet to fill the gaping hole of need that the past 36 hours had torn, I almost walked into a tall man. We did that awkward pavement dance thing where you both flail your arms and try to walk on the opposite side of the path from the other person, and when I looked up at the man to apologise I realised that it was Gordon Brown. And that it was absolutely perfect, necessary and inevitable that on the day that I crossed paths with a former world leader, I would be smiling meekly and apologising for being in their way.

I didn’t get the job. I did spend August in Edinburgh. I volunteered at a venue for the month and they gave me a free room. I was doing front of house, so mostly I spent my time being told how appalling I was by people who turned up too late to be allowed into the shows they wanted to see, and learning that poor time-keeping does not preclude excellent judgement of character.

The year out‘s going pretty well so far.


12 May

I just watched my dog throw up by my feet and then eat his own vomit and it was about 30 seconds into that that I thought, “I really need to update my blog.”


I’ve had a lot of texts and emails and tweets and whatever those face-to-face meatspace interactions are called asking me to blog again. It’s been over 4 months since I last wrote here. 4 months is a long time. A lot can happen in 4 months.

Very little has happened in 4 months.

Things should have happened in the past 4 months. But the vast majority of my time has been occupied by an overwhelming lack of thing. I left Oxford. I should have been leaving Oxford a few weeks from now anyway, but I left in January. For a while. For a year. I’m on a year out. I guess that’s a thing, actually. That’s a pretty big thing. But the direct result of that thing has been a gargantuan thing-dearth.

I am bad at making decisions. Taking a year out was a particularly bad decision. Taking a year out might have been my worst decision to date, apart from that thing in 2006 with the goat and the Vaseline and the plunger. Both left me overwhelmed with guilt and shame and covered in ruminant faeces.

I think maybe it’s misleading to call it a decision. I had to take a year out because I was irreparably behind with work. I was irreparably behind with work because, as I wrote before, I am a small, weak and emotionally fragile child that failed to cope with the basic concept of human mortality. People that I liked got sick and died and metaphorically sprawled their rancid corpses all over my lecture notes, and I didn’t tell anyone until it was too late to salvage them.

I’m pretty embarrassed. I haven’t even been back to Oxford to visit my friends yet because I’m pretty embarrassed. Most people manage to finish their degree without any significant difficulty. I sometimes used to tell people that I shouldn’t be at Oxford – that I only got in because I got lucky on a few exams and because the admissions office probably needed a not-quite-white kid from a single-parent, welfare-dependent family to make up their stats – and they’d say that I was being silly, or that it was false modesty. And now I’ve proved myself right and I don’t feel as happy about proving myself right as I usually feel about proving myself right. Being right is generally nice, but not when its cost is the vast disappointment of everyone who thought you were wrong.

In the grand scheme of things, this isn’t a big deal. But in the me-sized scheme of things, this is a fucking huge deal. I’ve left all of my friends. Leaving my friends was quite high up on my Massive List of Reasons to Not Take a Year Out – right next to near-certain unemployment and having to live more than 5 minutes away from a kebab van. In a few weeks most of the people that I spent more than 2 years living and studying alongside – the people with whom I made the dubious transition from adolescence to pretend-adulthood – will have sat their final exams and left Oxford for good. I knew that not being in the same city as them would be isolating, but once I’d left I perpetuated that by curling up into a tiny ball of shame and failure and hiding in Burton-on-Trent. I didn’t know what to tell my friends and I was worried about how they’d react, but I think that I was so scared of being ostracised that I ostracised myself.

It’s difficult. Or, I’m finding it difficult. But it’s only as difficult as a year out from the University of Oxford can be. And I think that when the most difficult thing that you have to deal with is taking some time out from your glorified boarding school, you’re probably okay. You probably shouldn’t complain too much. I’ll be all right, I reckon. I just need to get my shit together.

It’s not procrastination if it has a word count.

2 Jan

A couple of weeks back I got to do a really cool thing and I didn’t even have to dress as a robot or risk kidnap in a giant pink limo bus with disco lights.

I should be writing about it. The really cool thing. But not here. I interviewed someone and now I have to turn it into an article for one of Oxford’s student publications, but you can draw a reasonable conclusion about how well I’m doing from the fact that I’m writing a blog post about how I should be writing an article.

I’m not really sure how this happened. I don’t even write for this publication. Well, I didn’t think that I did. I guess I must do. I got as far as downloading an application form before deciding that I didn’t stand a chance against any of the other people who would be applying, and that my time would be better spent doing work towards my course or watching hilarious videos of ketchup-dispensing robots. Mostly watching hilarious videos of ketchup-dispensing robots. But about 2 hours before the application deadline I ran out of hilarious videos of ketchup-dispensing robots to use as a means of avoiding doing work towards my course. So I applied. And I didn’t hear anything back. Not even a polite, “thanks for your application but OH MY GOD ARE YOU SERIOUS? HAHAHAHAHA!” Just nothing at all.

Nothing at all until about two weeks later, when I got an email from the editor with the subject line “Urgent interview” asking whether I knew anything about physics because he’d booked a phone interview later that week with Professor Jeff Forshaw. Or Professor Jeff Fo’ Sho’, to give his street name. I figured it was just a generic email that had been sent to all applicants because he needed to find an interviewer at short notice. And fair enough, I thought, but it would be polite to reply. So I did, briefly and taking care not to commit myself to anything, just asking whether he’d found someone and whether the interview was about the Higgs update earlier that day (the Higgs update was earlier that day) and he responded by copying me into an email to Jeff Forshaw explaining that I’d be in touch to confirm the time of the interview and I think it was at about that point that my internal monologue started screaming.

I got a lot of nice emails and texts from people telling me not to panic. I even got these from people that I hadn’t mentioned my heightened state of panic to, which says a lot about my ability to disguise my heightened state of panic. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to do it. I just didn’t think that I should. In fact, I vehemently believed that I shouldn’t. I recognised that it would be a really good thing for me to do, but also that it would be cockish to take the assignment just on that basis when there were heaps of more capable and experienced students who could do a better job. I hadn’t interviewed anyone before. I hadn’t even written anything before. Not properly. It seemed a bit unwise to interview Professor Jeff Forshaw for my first assignment instead of, like, Big Keith that owns the local kebab van or something. I felt like I was being thrown in at the deep end. With sharks for armbands.

As it turned out, the interview went better than I expected it to, in that I didn’t burst into tears or vomit or say anything overtly racist. I was nervous and awkward and I severely misjudged the timing, but I guess that knowing how to structure and pace an interview properly is something that’s learnt. I’m not sure that it was fair on Forshaw that I had to learn it in his, but he was very forgiving. Actually, he was ace; he even offered to answer some questions that I ran out of time for by email, which was dead nice of him. And despite the fact that I was wholly inept, it was one of the coolest things that I’ve ever been given the opportunity to do. I got to listen to a frickin’ professor of theoretical physics – and not just a professor of theoretical physics, but someone that became a professor theoretical physics when he was still a foetus – talk at some length and with extraordinary clarity about stuff that I only had a very rudimentary understanding of, and there is something brilliantly inspiring about hearing someone speak with raw enthusiasm about the thing that they’ve chosen to dedicate their life to. In a Wigan accent.

How I felt by the end of the interview.

So, there you go. I did a thing. I stopped telling people how incapable of doing things I was for a few minutes and actually went ahead and did a thing. And I ended up really enjoying  it, although the nerves were disproportionately intense enough for that to probably count as some kind of masochism. And now I have to go back to writing about it properly, which so far has mostly involved mashing my keyboard with my fists and crying. Happy 2012!

Next Christmas I will punch an elderly relative so that I have something interesting to write about.

28 Dec

Originally posted at Three Blog Night.

Last year I was drunk when I tried to write a post-Christmas blog post so I only really had the capacity to recycle three jokes that I’d written 12 months before. This year I am not drunk because it is 8am.

Not very drunk.

I’m still at home. I was only supposed to be home for Christmas Day and Boxing Day, but staying here instead of going back to student accommodation means that I don’t have to shower in cold water or live on pasta and toast and dust. I’ll probably go back today. I’ve run out of stuff to wear. I couldn’t carry any clothes when I travelled home for Christmas. Good thing my mum had me covered.

I am 21 years old.

Did you have a good Christmas? I had a good Christmas. It was quiet though. I don’t want to sound ungrateful, but getting on with your family and not having any fights or arguments or throwing their terrible gifts in their stupid fucking faces is all well and good until you’re trying to write something entertaining about it on your blog a few days later. Saying that, there was a moment when I thought it was all going to kick off. My eldest brother, Iain, was watching a film and Doctor Who was on and my mum said, “didn’t Heather want to watch Doctor Who?” and Iain said, “I don’t know” and I said, “it’s okay, I can watch it on iPlayer.” So that was close.

Iain gave me a DVD. Sharktopus. Apparently he wanted to get Mega Shark vs Giant Octopus but HMV didn’t have it. Sharktopus was a joke present but my mum forgot to give me my main present from him and his girlfriend, so I thought he’d just got me Sharktopus. I was really happy with just getting Sharktopus. Rightly:

When I first watched that trailer about a year ago I thought, “this is ridiculous. Sharktopus would never be able to use its tentacles to walk on land like that” but a few weeks ago I saw this video and now I realise that actually the whole thing is entirely plausible and realistic that is what makes it a horror.

This year is the first year that I’ve had shit eyes, so I was given two glasses cases. One for each glass. One has Pac-Man on it and the other says “@AbrasiveShrub” in fluorescent green letters because I am a brand now. I also got a bag with Daffy Duck on it and two Disney hoodies and two novelty hats and some lego jewellery and a Spongebob SquarePants calendar and all sorts of other things that accurately reflect my wants and, by extension, the fact that I am having a mid-midlife crisis. They’re not supposed to be ironic statements or anything. If I wear a Disney jumper and a novelty hat and a lego bracelet then I am still a kid because I can’t be an adult because LOOK AT THE HAT YOU GUYS AN ADULT WOULD NOT WEAR THIS HAT.

An adult would not wear this hat.

I am wearing that hat.

I never know how to end these posts.



25 Dec

Originally posted at Three Blog Night.

I am at home. Not my Oxford pseudo-home. My actual proper Swadlincote home. It’s 5am on Christmas Day and I think I fell asleep on the sofa some time around 12.30 and my dog just woke me up with his incessant barking and now nobody else is up and I can’t get back to sleep. He never barks like that unless there’s someone at the door. There wasn’t anyone at the door, but THERE ARE PRESENTS EVERYWHERE YOU GUYS SANTA MUST HAVE BEEN WHILE I WAS SLEEPING I AM SO EXCITED!

I haven’t finished wrapping presents yet. Also, when I say, “I haven’t finished wrapping presents yet” what I mean is, “I started trying to wrap presents at about 10.30pm and had managed to do four and cover my room in cellotape by 11.15pm and then I got my mum to do the rest for me because DIFFICULT and I still haven’t put gift tags on any of them and now I can’t remember which are for whom because THEY ARE DISGUISED BY WRAPPING PAPER WHAT A TERRIBLE INVENTION.” So Christmas will be a surprise for everyone this year. I hope my gran likes Skyrim.

This is very brief and I don’t have anything interesting to say. I’m mostly writing it because people keep complaining about how bad I am at keeping this thing updated. So here is an update. And now I am going to take my dog for a walk and then wait for my family to wake up and give them their presents and watch awful television and play with novelty gifts and eat too much and get drunk and probably break at least one ornament. Maybe before noon. Merry Christmas!

Christmas, exactly as it should be.

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