Man, I missed out on that blog award I was nominated for that only gets offered to blogs with under 200 followers. I feel bad about that; it was very cool of the person to nominate me and I just never got around to it. I guess with the year I’ve had that’s pretty reasonable, but I still wish I’d found the time.

And now I have 202 followers and that window of opportunity has closed forever.


Thanks guys. This is amazing. I don’t think I’ve had 202 people paying attention to me at the same time outside of the theatre, so seriously, thank you. Aside from the “how to improve your web business model” blogs that are all exactly the same, never like comment or reblog anything I do and are just pumping up my follower count to an artificially high level. You guys can suck it. But the rest of you are awesome and dope simultaneously, and I am deeply grateful for your patronage. Even though it doesn’t involve any money for me. I mean, if you wanted to give me money I wouldn’t say no, I am a starving university student after all …

No seriously, thank you all (the above exception does stand, but seeing as they never read this blog anyway it’s kind of a moot point). This is a fantastic way to close out a year where I’ve had a lot of ups and downs but have also been going from strength to strength, discovering my limits and then discovering not only how much farther I’m able to go, but how rewarding it is. And at the same time it’s been a year where I’ve gotten comfortable with my limits, accepted them for what they are and eased up on selling myself short or criticising myself for not being able to do things I, like, can’t do. All around, a pretty good year.

And despite the relative lack of work done on creative projects, I do think this has been one of the best years in my writing career. I’m slowly rediscovering how to write things for fun rather than as critical essays on social issues; don’t get me wrong, I still want to write critical essays on social issues, but I am also excited to feel the permeation in the boundary between them starting to solidify, feeling the spillover from my academic habits into my creative processes beginning to leak back into its proper channel. I don’t think you can be moral without being critical, but I don’t think you can be healthy without having fun. And while being critical can be very fun, when it’s not, you’ve got to admit that it’s not and seek something else. Honesty is the best policy and all that.

It really is.

And I am honestly looking forward to 2015. I felt like a lot of seeds got sown this year, not just in my life but in our culture as well. I am anxious, hopeful and neutrally excited to see what will have happened by this time next year.

But whatever happens – I may no longer be a Writer, but next year I am gonna finish a fucking book. Because why the hell not.

Safe home.


New words written of a novel draft today, that is. Awesome.

am enjoying it; thanks for asking. I may have gotten rid of the capital initial on my “writer” label, but damned if I don’t still like doing the actual writing when the mood takes me. Or, in this case, when I make myself sit down and actually do it. Both can work, as it turns out. If one isn’t working for you – just try the other.

This is the gender-bent Twilight project, and no it’s not a straight-up gender-flipped version of Twilight; the story is (at least superficially) different and there are no vampires or werewolves. The specifics are different. Though like Meyer I am taking inspiration from A Midsummer Night’s Dream. I think I’m doing it slightly better.

Best of all, while the specifics came out differently on the page than how they were arranged in my head, the core structure came out the same and works just as solidly as I hoped it would, and that’s the main thing. I can’t help but write my every protagonist as an introspective sad bastard when I begin writing – well, anything, and that does things to the tone that don’t necessarily work. It also means that if I ever change the characterisation because the character isn’t meant to be an introspective sad bastard it’ll be jarring and come out of nowhere, or be because of a random piece of character-development that won’t make it into the final revision because it’s only there to disguise the first draft’s inconsistent characterisation. But that’s for revision to take care of. Right now I can gleefully weave in and out of characterisation to my heart’s content – or, more specifically, not give a damn about whether I’m doing it or not and just write sequences of words in accordance with an overarching structure to organise them by. The words themselves don’t necessarily matter, so long as they convey that overarching structure.

I might finish this in a month; I might never finish it. At this juncture, I hope I do. 2249 words isn’t much to judge a book by, but this could easily become very enjoyable to write, even without the intention of finishing it. I’ve never tried writing a book like this before, but I do have a few writing projects that I intermittently come back to and continue without any specific end goal in sight. The thing is, one day I may well actually finish one of them, reach a point that feels like a good cut-off point and … cut it off.

We’ll see. Right I’m happy to just see.

And so this is Christmas

Or rather it was Christmas, because I live in New Zealand and we get every day first. Time begins in New Zealand. That’s a little depressing if you actually live here, but oh well it’s nice to have something.

Whatever you’re celebrating around this time of year, I hope you have a wonderful time surrounded by loved ones and good food and all that jazz. I myself marathoned the original Star Wars trilogy with the siblings and then watched The Dark Knight for the first time in a few years – still good, but I am hella disillusioned with Christopher Nolan’s storytelling chops. Also how he writes women. Or woman, as is the case for the most part in this trilogy. I am also of the opinion that while his Batman trilogy was what we deserved after the campy ridiculousness of Joel Schumacher (which, let’s be honest, is still pretty enjoyable), it’s still not what we need. It’s so clinical and “smart” and just kind of … rigid. The symbolism is heavy-handed, the two huge plot-hinging-upon moments in The Dark Knight make ZERO sense, and while the ensemble is possibly the most impressive to be seen in a Hollywood franchise this side of Harry Potter, the original Star Wars and Lord of the Rings, when you get right down to it, they mostly don’t have an awful lot to do. It’s not bad, but it’s not brilliant. I’m not too sad losing that illusion, though. Holding out for something better gives me something to look forward to.

I mean not with Zack Snyder in DC’s cinematic universe’s cockpit, but y’know. After that.

There will be an after that, right?

It’s Christmas after all.

Batman is, in my mind, a gritty, Gothic noir thriller. It’s not Imax and explosions; it’s not about action and choreography, but about psychology and the line between sanity and insanity. That’s what the whole Batman/Joker thing hinges on; that’s what the whole Batman/Bruce Wayne thing hinges on for that matter. And it’s not like that wasn’t explored in these films, but it just wasn’t done my way.

Yadda yadda. I still like it. You can only harbour so much resentment for something with Gary Oldman in it.

As I try to force myself to work on this gender-flipped Twilight project for some reason, after all those realisations I’ve had about how fucking unproductive and generally awful it is when I try to force myself to do creative things, I decided to go read through my Christmas-themed novel first draft, completed way back in April 2008. It’s … actually way better than I was expecting. I mean it’s still a first draft, but that’s a moot point; there’s good stuff there that I’d actually want to use, and surprisingly clear and well-developed given that this was me writing seven years ago. At that point I was still surfing the waves of emotional upheaval in the wake of parting ways from Wickham, so I guess that could be where the clarity comes from – you get pretty real with yourself at times like that. This is vintage stream-of-consciousness earnestness here, albeit far more refined and, like, narratively sound than one might expect. As I did. I exceeded my own expectations seven years ago; imagine what I’ll do tomorrow.

I dunno. I can imagine quite a bit.

MAN Star Wars is good.

The storytelling, as in the clear-cut, tightly-knit structure and lack of gimmicky crap does certainly take a dive after A New Hope, but it’s not really noticeable until Jedi. I think Lucas wrote my favourite of the three screenplays (A New Hope, although he did have some uncredited help with the final draft), and it just makes the failure of the prequels all the more – bah. It’s 2014, almost 2015. There’s about to be a sequel trilogy. It looks really flashy and not anything like the Star Wars I know and love, but at least it’s something new to occupy the portion of my brain devoted to fandom business with.

This has been a busy year for me, and I barely remember most of it. I moved house. Like, holy crap, six-ish months ago I was still living in the cramped, messy house I’d been living in since I was 3. I can’t imagine being anywhere but here now. It’s got room. It’s so welcoming it makes me want to remember it. I also had, one right after the other, the absolute worst and absolute best semesters of my student career this year. In that order, happily. I discovered that I could, absolutely make plans and stick to them. I discovered that sometimes you have to scrap all of your plans because they’re absolute fucking shit and start over from scratch. I discovered that I could write the story I’d been trying and failing to complete for 13 years. I discovered that I could do no such thing and, well, it’s really not a big deal. I discovered that I still love being a writer, despite all the setback. I discovered that I am not and never have been just a writer and that I’ve been holding myself back for the sake of clutching onto a stable identity label. I discovered that it’s a bad idea to try and force creativity. I discovered that sometimes you have to force creativity, not because it’s a good idea but because otherwise you might not get any momentum from anywhere else. I learnt that momentum is a bad word to use to justify your actions, because you can apply momentum to all sorts of things, not all of which are good. Some balls should never be gotten rolling.

I discovered that I hate laptops with a burning vengeance, but that they started it. I discovered that I am terrible at university. I discovered that I am am a baller-ass bad motherfucking boss at university. I discovered that I was right when I thought I’d been treating myself unfairly all these years for my teen angst, that that angst was a lot more than just being grumpy and impatient and that I actually had severe mental issues, and that no matter how hard it was for me to treat myself well, it was what I deserved. I discovered that I know how to Go To A Counselor, and that it is a skill. I discovered that it’s a really fucking bad idea to borrow exercise routines off YouTube performed by somebody who looks like they could benchpress six of me, when I myself can hardly do 30 pushups in a row. I discovered that I remember how to ride a bike, and that yes, you can actually forget – a bit, anyway. I discovered that I really enjoy writing snarky, ad-hominem critiques of crappy YA paranormal romance novels, and that I feel really bad about it afterwards. I discovered that I could never write High Fantasy again because it’s iterative and dry and boring. I discovered that I fucking love High Fantasy and can’t wait to get that Great Story rolling, just as soon as I actually know what it is. I discovered that I’m becoming more like my parents and that it bothers me a lot. I discovered that 27 years old is fucking nothing and angsting about how old and decrepit and socially irrelevant I am since I was 17 years old is hilarious, not sad, because seriously, 27 is NOTHING.

I’m sure I learnt more than that and, much like everything I learn, I’ve misplaced it somewhere in my memory banks. Perhaps it’ll come back to me. Perhaps not. But hopefully if it doesn’t, it’s because I don’t need it yet, and it’ll come back when I do.

Mostly I’ve learnt that I don’t know who I am or who I want to be, and that the habit of insisting that I do is really hard to shake. And to make sure you remember what your automatic payments are so you’re not paying for random crap. And I have learnt that, no matter how much you discover about yourself, the important thing is that you’re doing what you can in the moment, because memory is a fickle thing. We don’t remember things that seem like priorities; we cling to unhealthy half-truths that only look convincing because we don’t see the scaffolding holding them up at the back. And yet we also remember that we were happy Then, what happens to us for the next few years, all the lines to The Fellowship of the Ring (extended edition). We remember. It’s a function. There isn’t much we can do about it either way. And, well, that’s just how it is.

So live in the moment, because it never ends. Do what’s right to do now. Be aware of the worst, hope for the best, and just be here. It is, in the end, the only thing that’s certain, whether we like it or not. May as well do it as well as we can.

May your days be merry and bright, and may you discover all, and then discover it all over again.


That could mean all sorts of things. It doesn’t, but it could.

After realising that I’m not a Writer, I got a whole ton of great story ideas. That tends to be how it goes, for whatever reason – I guess a release of tension from giving up certain restrictions you give yourself on what you are and are not permitted to do within the guidelines of whatever identity you’re trying to sustain the life of. Anyway, lots of ideas, and the ones I’m the most interested in right now are ones I came up with at about 2am, wrote down because that’s what I do, and then didn’t really look at again. Well, I went and looked again, and my interest has been re-piqued.

And they’re not particularly good ideas; one of the ones I’m the most excited about exploring is a gender-swapped Twilight – so Beautiful Creatures, basically, only this time actually written by a man about a man. Because that’s never been done before. This highly original premise will undoubtedly lend renewed credibility to the woefully underrepresented straight cisgender Western male experience in popular literature. And also it’s a well-known fact that any and all media produced by men contains no problematic issues concerning gender roles and sexuality, so if anything it’s my moral duty to write this book.


I think the reason I like this idea is because it’s not clever, it’s not subversive, and it’s not something I have to think about in order to get a handle on it, nothing I have to question myself about to make sure I have all the fact straight. It’s pretty dry, to be perfectly honest, and after failing to write my designated Nanowrimo project even though I had what I thought was a solid grasp of what it was about, I think this story may be what I need for whatever metamorphic identity transition I’m currently going through. It’s such a simple, clear, self-explanatory premise that it’s almost not worth writing – but that’s kind of why I want to write it. I want to reconnect with the part of me that is happy to tell stories I already know, because I already know them, and want to hear them again.

And also it just feels like it would be fulfilling.

So this is my new writing project, because I may not be a Writer, but I do still wanna write. I may give it up after a few hours and never touch it again; I may write it through to completion. I don’t know, and I don’t want to try and predict it. It’s easy, it seems entertaining, and I have nothing to lose by trying it out.

Baby steps. That’s the thing I’m trying to teach myself right now; I have big ambitions and huge conceptual structures, outlines and ideological overlays, but there’s a lot of doing that goes into getting shit done. And maybe I can’t do as much as I feel I should be able to. So I’m gonna try and train myself out of being such an overreaching perfectionist, and write a really horrid Twilight ripoff. And if I can get that right – and I can – then I can most definitely only go up from there.

Still looking

I’m not sure what the longest I’ve gone on this blog between posts is, but five days is probably up there.

I did one productive thing this week and I’m very proud of it: I made myself wake up – as in get out of bed and stay there – at 1pm today, as opposed to the 2:30-3:30pm bracket I’ve been occupying for the past, I dunno, month or so. It felt good to do. I’m gonna do it again.

I’ve gotten really bad at sleeping. Who would have thought sleeping was a skill? Apparently it is, and it’s one I don’t really have. But if it’s a skill, I can get better at it, right?

Writing Things has not been happening, and I do think this hiatus is now an official Thing as opposed to merely constituting a part of my vague end-of-year epiphany drive. I wanted to read one of my old stories – Christmas-themed – because it’s one of the only stories I’ve written through a full first draft of, revisit it and see what I think some 6 years on. That Great Story that’s been telling me it wants to be written is still kicking around, not revealing itself except through its effects on my emotional state, making me feel like something’s missing while not knowing what the hell that missing thing is. I hate my brain sometimes.

But I’ve been exploring options. Last night I stumbled upon a random and quickly-forgotten idea I had last year that sparked my intrigue, and then that idea led on to others, my eternal attempt to recreate the sense of all-consuming belonging and desire to belong that the Harry Potter series still holds over me, although I think perhaps if I managed to get through it all again now the effect may have lessened as my arts student skepticism has grown.

That doesn’t mean I don’t want that feeling anymore, though. And I think maybe that’s actually a piece to the puzzle of this Great Story I can’t seem to get a handle on; just as I more or less shoehorned myself into Being A Writer from age 13, I’ve had this unofficial but very consuming side-agenda of trumping Harry Potter’s wish-fulfilling coup with my own work. I want to be able to do it for myself rather than have somebody else do it for me; I want to fulfill my own damn wishes. And perhaps the fact that I haven’t stopped pursuing this goal of, essentially, trying to find a really good disguise for some hardcore fixfic action, is what’s keeping me from seeing my own stories clearly, and why I don’t have the energy needed to bring them to life.

I definitely think that I’m running up against a wall as to what constitutes my voice, my style, my kind of stories. So much of it is devoted to these kinds of ambitious but hypothetical passion projects of taking something that had a huge, positive, lingering impact on me and trying to one-up it, usurp its place in my heart with something of my own making just to prove that I am beholden to nobody or, I dunno, something. It’s not particularly clear to me, though being still in the process of emerging from a decade-long stupor of cripplingly low self-esteem and automatic deference to the agendas of others, I suppose it’s probably that I’m still in the process of trying to regain balance. You think you’ll have an effect on me, external stimuli? Well guess the fuck again! It’s all me around here, see? From the window to the wall, oh no not this song that’s not mine I can make a better song I’ll have two fucking windows YOU HEAR ME YOU GODDAMN HACK TWO FUCKING WINDOWS AH-AH-AH WHAT SAY YOU NOW


And in the meantime, what internal stimuli I do have is being diverted outwards towards these remixing projects; the passions and beliefs and values that I have and that are ready to be used for fuel for my own stories are getting more and more diverted. Tallulah – looking at it now, even only having been on a break from it for a month, it just seems less and less like something I can write, at least in the form I feel it should be. But that’s got the same problem as every other story I have nowadays: there’s a leak somewhere, and precious fuel is being diverted into another engine, one dedicated to Putting Things Right. It’s my Justice Machine I guess; I see a lot of problems with stories I engage with and, like a good arts student, wish to de-problematise them. But I also am pretty sickened by the thought that my storytelling has become so co-opted by my critic’s ideology. I think you have to be critical to be creative, never mind a moral person, but there’s a difference between being critical and being a critic. A critic is like a writer: one small piece of what could make up a person taken and magnified to disproportionate levels, blotting out all other possibilities and narrowing the world into its specific, specialised spectrum.

I want to get to the stuff I like. And that’s not new. I’ve just uncovered another layer, seen how much deeper there is to dig before I hit – well, I don’t know. Something I’m looking for, which I’ll only know when I find it.

So yeah, things are pretty vague at the moment. “Things” being “specific goals”. But the journey is clear enough. And I guess that’s what counts.

But I do think if I can learn to appreciate what the stories I love have done for me and not feel like I have to remain in them or reinvent them for a new age, I’ll be two steps further along.


This post-Nano project is still “going”; I’m still thinking about it and worrying about it, and that’s pretty much all it takes for it to be official that I am Writing Something. The actual writing comes and goes sporadically; it’s part of the syndrome.

I don’t regret not powering through it like I had planned. I’m good with this break. But I do regret not finding out if I can power through the first draft of a story in a month. I mean one way to look at it is that I can’t, because I didn’t finish Nanowrimo. I didn’t come anywhere close to finishing Nanowrimo. I think I’ve got like 10k words written, and the last time I wrote was the Friday before last. Another way to see it is that I didn’t finish this first draft in a month, and perhaps that was how it was going to be from the start. I have so much history with this story and this world, and while I’ve done a lot to bring ideas and concepts together into something that feels like the backbone of a solid story, there’s nothing like a finished concept to really show you what you’ve been working with. So far, what I’ve been working with is an idea that I wish was more fleshed out but that I don’t want to get stuck in by expositing the details and putting obstacles in my own way while I try to get through to the story, the part that I want to write.

Another problem is that, having rediscovered my love for high fantasy, I now have too many ideas again and don’t want to commit any of them to this project when they might work better in another one. I think that’s pretty much the death knell for me: too many ideas that I like and no clear way to allocate them to particular stories and stick with it, no system in place for doing so. I mean there’s thematic resonance and shit, but then I have to think about what the theme is and I just don’t like doing that, at all, if it’s not the first thing I think of already. If I was inspired to write a story for some reason other than theme, then trying to force theme to be important in my estimations of that story later on in the development process just annoys me and makes me feel alienated.

So maybe I just waited too long before I started writing, even though I didn’t wait very long at all anyway. This doesn’t mean I can’t write this thing anymore, just that getting started requires me to reach back into my memories for that spark of inspiration and try to fan it into a flame again. What was so damn exciting about the idea? Maybe I didn’t explore it enough before beginning. Maybe that’s why it’s been so hard to make myself write now that I’m sans writing-buddy. Or maybe it’s the writing-buddy thing itself; maybe having one has made writing alone unbearable by contrast.

But no. I know that if I had the right story I would be writing it right now instead of blogging about more or less nothing after several hours of playing computer games. And I mean that’s okay. I don’t feel guilty about not writing, and I don’t think I should feel guilty either, because it’s just writing. But at the same time I have this really strong feeling of wanting to write, but I just don’t know what it is that I want to write so badly. It’s like an unfinished draft, this psychoemotional state I’m in: I have the emotional response but not the cause. Perhaps this is an echo of how I felt long ago when there was a story I really wanted to write, but an echo that does not come with said story.

Then again, I’m writing now. Maybe I just want to write, not Write.

Actually this does feel pretty good, so maybe there’s something to that.

And I think: “Hey, now that I have this feeling, I should put it to some kind of Productive use instead of just letting it sit there Doing Nothing”. But nah, fuck that. I really want to write, so I guess I’ll just do that. I’ve always expected that when I felt moved to write that feeling would come because of an idea for something I wanted to write. But apparently this is not the case.


This post-Nano project … I now don’t think that I ever actually wanted to write it. I liked the idea of writing it though. A lot. Mostly I liked the idea of not just writing it, but finishing writing it in a month’s time from when I started. And that was a big goal of mine, perhaps too big and too bold to compensate for the fact that my heart wasn’t as into it as my head; this was a Prize, something I could win, and the thought of winning was where all of that excitement came from. Not the thing that I was winning at. The story itself – I think about it now and, yeah, sure, there is stuff that I find really interesting and thought-provoking, but not much feeling-provoking. I do think that the line between thoughts and feelings is much more of a social construct than anything scientifically objective (and because I’m not a scientist I can keep right on believing that), but what I mean is that I like the thought of having written this story in a short amount of time in order to serve as evidence that I am a badass much more than the story itself. There’s a lot of clever ideas and not much in the way of a visceral connection or drive to actually delve into this story, explore it and get to know it really intimately, and act on its behalf to write it into being. This isn’t the kind of story that urges me to write it, that came to me and wants to be told and just happened to choose me as the one to tell it, nor the kind of story that I feel somebody should tell and, since they haven’t yet, I’m not gonna wait for them. It’s the kind of story that matters less for what it is in and of itself than how it could reflect upon me for writing it, in a certain way and for a certain reason.

I guess what I’m saying is that, while the external motivation of something like Nanowrimo is fantastic motivation, it’s no substitute for actually wanting to tell a story. A story won’t get told if you, the storyteller, do not feel compelled to tell it for its own sake. And a story can be a wonderful prize. But the writing of that story as a prize?

Well, not this time anyway.

And yet I still want to write something. Perhaps it’s not something, though. Perhaps it’s anything.

So maybe I won’t write a whole first draft in a month anytime soon. Maybe I won’t get that confirmation of my abilities and the validation of my ambitions. But I may instead just get a crapton of lowercase-w writing done. Maybe this is the same thing that happens when you’ve been eating health or exercising for a while; all of a sudden and out of the blue your body will actually start wanting to do those things, and if you don’t do them you will feel like shit. Maybe after 14 years of writing a lot, I just want to write a lot.

Wow. I think that’s it. I wonder when that happened.

A decent consolation prize, I must say.

The Great Story

So whoever the person is who gave me 35 of my FORTY VIEWS today – thank you. That’s more than I get most months. This is very exciting. I get to see my monthly stats bar curve shoot up higher than I was expecting, which very stupidly does wonders for my ego.

Much appreciated.

It is currently 5:12 a.m. as I’m writing this, and I’ve done no writing today, unlike most days. It feels fine. I’m still settling into the massive, world-shaking revelation I had the other day and feeling out what’s good to do with this new drive. Today the answer seemed to be playing World of Warcraft, so I did that. It wasn’t a bad move. And yesterday I didn’t even touch World of Warcraft, and that felt good as well. It feels good to have both the desire to sink an entire day into the game and the disinterest that allows me to spend an entire day doing anything but play it. It feels right.

And perhaps because I’m in a liberated kind of mood, the little High Fantasy kick I got a few days ago after picking up a book I bought about two years ago and finding out that it’s actually quite cool is starting to snowball – as so often happens I have no story to go with the ideas I’m getting, but something is taking shape; something, some ready-packaged concept is stalking behind the censor-fence erected out of habit in my mind, looking for a break in the chain-link barrier to slip through and wreak havoc on its complacent captors. And it’s not an innovative or “original” idea in the slightest; it is what Arundhati Roy calls a Great Story. It makes sense to me in terms of the stories I’m the most fond of, the connection that I have with stories like Star Wars and The Lord of The Rings and A Wizard of Earthsea. Predictable? For the most part, certainly. Disappointing? Hell no. So whatever this story of mine turns out to be, I’m looking forward to it breaking out, hopefully in the near future.

This happened a couple of years ago, or something like it: I decided to totally give up on what is now my post-Nano project after “not writing” it for 12 years – I’d written tons, of course, but nothing that “counted”; I hadn’t written the story, just notes that kept growing and changing direction with no clear purpose other than to be something new, something I had just thought of that was, like, really cool, and that’s not good planning. It’s good stream-of-consciousness venting, and I’m sure there’s a ton of ideas I could go back and harvest from those notes now, but you don’t get a story out of it, as I’ve discovered. Anyway, my point is that upon giving it up it was kind of like splitting an atom: all of this creative energy seemed to explode out of the rift and launch me into a storm of ideas that, if I’m being honest, I’ve kind of wasted, and I regret it. I may now be finding my way to a good home for them with this High Fantasy kick and Great Story lurking in the shadows, waiting to pounce – in the best possible way.

Until then, I think this post-Nano project is officially on hiatus. I just can’t be bothered. When I can be bothered, it’ll come back. What I think I’ve realised is that, while writing is most definitely work, it’s only that way if you want to do it for a living. I did up until a couple of days ago – now I have no one thing I want to settle on, so trying to make myself pick something and stick to it just for the sake of having one thing to focus on seems like a complete waste of time. I’m sure something will stick – hopefully more than just one something – and then I’ll stick with it. But until then, I’m just gonna flop around for a bit. Like a Magikarp. And once I hit level 20 I’ll become a Gyarados, and that will most definitely be worth it.