Hay algo gracioso sobre cómo algunas personas terminan pensando, no imaginaría por qué, que son divertidas. No hay nada ingenioso en terminar una oración con “xD”. Si el enunciado puede ser mínimamente entretenido sin el uso del emoticón, no le veo el sentido a agregarlo. Es la risa falsa del teclado, como cuando uno escribe “jajaja” sin sonreír, y más bien poniéndole una cara de lo más miserable a la pantalla del computador cuando no se tiene nada más que decir.

El tipo de persona que siempre desea “hacerse la graciosa”, termina siendo todavía más odiosa que quien es lo suficientemente honesto de admitir lo desagradable que es. No tiene sentido cambiarle la etiqueta a la lata, si el producto será esencialmente el mismo. No es buen comunicador quien depende de emoticones para hacer amena una conversación. Si uno no puede con palabras, que no hable.

La cursiva significativa es un fenómeno similar que podría ser reemplazado, tal vez, por el uso de la coma. De vez en cuándo es tolerable, pero no en cada párrafo. PERSONALMENTE, HASTA EL CAPSLOCK SE ME HACE MENOS IRRITANTE. Tiene una utilidad: la de dar a entender que uno está emocionado. La cursiva significativa, sin confundirla con otros tipos de cursiva (“La vez pasada estuve escuchando Abbey Road, de los Beatles. ¿Es cierto que el mop top es considerado geek chic?”), da un significado especial a una palabra, el que sea que fuera. Normalmente se sobreentiende la intención del texto. Y si no, es porque no está bien planteado.

Es muy probable que me esté tomando las cosas demasiado en serio. Pero cada uno tiene sus odios irracionales, de la misma manera en que uno como fanático de fútbol detesta al equipo contrario, y como quien desconoce a su grupo musical preferido al enterarse que ha salido en MTV. No hay nada particularmente malo en eso. Son variaciones del mismo sentimiento, y depende de cada uno cómo lo expresa. Uno pintará un cuadro de ello, otro cansará a sus amigos con el tema. Yo lo anoto. Eso es todo.

Ahora para algo completamente distinto:

Adjusting to a queasy belly, I've spent the whole of my morning blending pictures at MorphThing.com. Yes. Of Oscar and me. Our children would be "average".

Not a money maker dice:
jajajajaja
oscar ODIABA el futbol
Sandra {Gambatte!} dice:
me gustaría haberlo conocido, o leer algo de él en esas épocas
Not a money maker dice:
tambien odiaba el cricket
porque decia que jugando cricket uno adoptaba "posiciones indecentes"
Sandra {Gambatte!} dice:
era homofóbico? XD
Not a money maker dice:
no
su primer beso con otro muchacho fue cuando tenia 16
Sandra {Gambatte!} dice:
y lo dijo en clase?
Not a money maker dice:
no
un momento
a quien te refieres?
hablo de oscar wilde
Sandra {Gambatte!} dice:
carajo!
jajajaja fail
Not a money maker dice:
pensabas que calle?
Sandra {Gambatte!} dice:
siempre que dices Oscar pienso en Calle
Not a money maker dice:
jajajajja
yo no sabria si oscar calle se ha besado con hombres
Sandra {Gambatte!} dice:
jajaja yo ya estaba imaginándolo y juraba que era verdad

All of it is filler. The least ingenious lolcat, framed by visually offensive rainbow Impact baby-talk, wouldn't be as useless as this sitting in my hard-drive.

I would be very disappointed if I were part of the undisclosed number of trees bulldozed so I could print out this piece of rubbish. Martyrdom has never been so banal.

Even the Peruvian congress makes itself more useful with its endless paperwork and its "phantom employee" scandals. There is nothing more depressing to me than having The Uneager, its badly formatted forty-or-so pages stapled together, sitting under a week-old tea mug on my computer desk.

One can only imagine the sense of dread that fills me as I realise that someone other than I will be reading it. I apologise, grayhall. I sincerely do.

I also apologise to the aforementioned portion of Brazilian rainforest sacrificed to "the Cause", whatever that may be; to marypriz, couvercle, reichsleiter, agro307, blazekriegg, siliamiga, and to any other upon who I ever happened to impose this piece of garbled text.

(And to my mother's printer, birth mother to my work of ink-vomit. Live the rest of your life in sweet contentedness, Ms Packard.)

On another note, I gave my test today. It is likely that I will pass, as I presumably answered 9 out of 10 correctly. Presumably.

Something in this room smells like barf. I can't place the source. (I just hope it isn't stuck on me.)

If Regulus Black hadn't died in 1979, he'd look like Cillian Murphy. Meaning: very attractive.

Most people should not have children. If you don't have time to care for a child, then don't have one. If you're going to leave the baby with a nanny all day, why are you even having a child? It's the same as when people say, "You don't have time for a dog. If it's going to stay cooped up in an apartment all day, don't get one."

I feel the urge to join a multifandom game and play Bosie Douglas. He'd be irreverent on just about anything. If only I were less lazy.

Today Peanut said that I reminded him of Kurt from Glee. I asked him why. He said, "He cocks his hip and waves his hand when he speaks, like you. He also thinks he's better than everyone." To which I replied, "And am I not?" Alas, I must do something about this hubris before anything terrible happens. It is unbecoming. I am always so terrible to him and MP. Berating my friends has become a habit.

grayhall said my voice didn't sound gay ("...yet," in her words). I am thankful, except that it probably does. Constant venting can make anyone look like a twelve year old homosexual boy. Especially if you happen to be Asian, petite and generally irritating. Is it too late to put a sock in it?

I am greatly disappointed with my voice range. My sound is not off-key, but it is severely limited. Then again, I never wished to be a singer. ("You know what is better than sex?" "What?" "The Beatles. You know what I would like to do? Listen to the Beatles, progressing from their mop-hair days to all their trippy shit, while on acid." "What about listening to the Beatles while having sex?" "Now, that would completely ruin the experience of listening to the Beatles.") I never claimed to be a musician. Any brief stint on the microphone was due to alcohol and karaoke, and done purely for entertainment purposes. Let's move on.

As I write this, I have dropped Nano. The Uneager would not work as a novel. Extending it would ruin it. As a tale for the least ambitious, I reckon Mr Alphonse Llewellyn Juneau should pay due honour to his pompous name and spend the whole of the story sponging and driving a hideous van. There is not much for me to say about Alice. She is absolutely incorrigible and should be deported.

The Uneager: A summary. See the woman in the brown scarf? She's a hack. She should not be going to university. You are in your right to hate her. Someone else deserves her spot, as she reads for pleasure and of course, that is not the path to choose if one wants to be respectable. As any, she is due to fail the school year. But she is not important. Alphonse Juneau, a continent apart, struggles with a similar predicament. Schools do not want him, even if he composes wonderfully. Yet he is a work of art, or attempts to be, which is the same these days, and in his idle youth wishes to live the book he always wanted to read.

Enter Alice and her cardboard sign.

What is a forged signature, a plane ticket and an undisclosed number of trains? An idiot plot. Her lines read like bad Harry Potter fanfiction, but Alphonse shouldn't complain. He's the one vomiting Wildean wit throughout the forty or so pages. Who is he to judge? It is his book. He can do anything. (Alice is both character and co-author. She pressed him to give credit.)

The good folk at TvTropes would say it's so bad it's awful. Young people are pretentious, even when they are uneager. Or perhaps more so.

I said I'd post ten to twenty things I like each month left of the year. Here's the entry for November:

( You'll never fully understand how fabulous all of this truly is. )

Fabulous.