What next?

I’m fat. And I hate it.

I’ve been fat for years. I think there was a time, when I was young, that I wasn’t fat. At least, I remember a time when I didn’t feel fat. I didn’t live a fat life.

Now I do. I choose clothing that doesn’t cling, feel guilty about eating, suck my gut in all the time, avoid mirrors, obsessively calorie count and wonder why it doesn’t work. That’s how I live. That’s what I do.

Except recently, things have started working. A complex mix of lifting weights (finally an exercise program that I enjoy!), walking everywhere, and three reasonably sized meals a day has meant that I’ve started to see changes. I have biceps for the first time in my memory, I weigh less than I have in years. I’m 95% of the man I used to be. I’m still clinically obese, but it’s a step in the right direction.

Part of me, the academic part of my brain, laughs nervously at all of this. “BMI is only useful on a population level,” it says. “You can’t possibly lose a further 20% of your body weight healthily.” “Fitness is more important than fatness.”

All of this is, of course, true.

But the body hate, honed by years of abuse and expectations, is always louder. “No fats, no fems,” it says. “It’s just calories in, calories out.” It wrinkles its nose as I take my shirt off. “Don’t you want to be healthy?”

I know my body hate well. I know it personally, as an integral part of me. I know it from the perspective of those who love me, who tell me that I’m attractive and who I tell the same, even though neither of us believes the other. I know it cognitively, as well – I’m no idiot, I’ve read the research that shows that it’s unconnected to actual body shape. I know the signs of body dismorphia far too well.

I’m not afraid of failing. I’ve been failing at being a thin person, or a fit person, or (to my mind) an attractive person for years. That’s an incredibly comfortable place for me to be, it’s one I know implicitly.

What I am afraid of is, if I succeed, what next? What happens when I lose the weight and I have toned muscles and a healthy amount of body fat and I look in the mirror and I still don’t like what I see? Will I know to stop? Or will the temptation to just keep going, lose one more kilogram, restrict calories for one more week, be just the same as it was the previous week?

More than that, will I know to be happy?

Now, I’m not anywhere near a “healthy” weight yet, and I’m not expecting to be in the near future. But I realise that I don’t know what being fit or not being fat feels like. I have no concept of how to know when I’m there.

And then, what next?

A Peculiarly Perverse sort of Violence

Voting is a peculiarly perverse sort of violence.

We perpetrate incredible crimes against ourselves. Men who maim are not to be trusted or treated respectfully but reviled, buried and burned from the subtle sensibility of society.

We mourn the murdered, the raped and abused. We long for lives where scars of trauma no longer track down our arms. We long to heal, to hold our hearts in our hands and whisper soft that “nothing’s going to harm you”. We watch time tick from the past we survive to the future we conceive and we hope for no more pain, no more hurt, no more blood. And there has been blood. Oh yes, we have seen blood of our family in these crimes against humanity.

Today you talk of choosing who’s going to refuse my reality; my life, my love, my hope, my family and friends because your faith is in your self and not the scared man staring you down. I get a choice, a vote, a pencil mightier than the sword you can fall upon: “the will of the people”, your “mandate” to do whatever you want because you played the game better, grubbing for one above the line.

Voting is a peculiarly perverse sort of violence: the power to choose who will make us powerless.

Killing little by little

Cross posted from Facebook.

The latest breathless addition to the increasingly desperate media coverage regarding the terror in Orlando has been that the perpetrator (who I won’t name because I don’t believe that he should posthumously have the satisfaction of being world-famous) attended Pulse regularly, and that he spent time on gay dating apps, and so clearly he was a “closeted homosexual”.
A couple things.

Firstly, chatting guys up on Grindr or its ilk does not make you gay. I can’t believe that I have to point this out, but bisexual people exist. Just in case you were wondering. So let’s avoid erasing that particular wonderful and colourful segment of our community, shall we?

Secondly, so what if he was? Sometimes it feels like the only reason media outlets have to report this gutter-delving drivel is to try and fill in the gaps in an abysmal game of Mad Libs: “he killed [noun]s because he was [noun].” I see all these smugly satisfied talking heads saying “well of course he shot up a gay club, he was a closeted gay himself, it’s all violence with these gays, you can’t trust ’em” which is basically the same shit they’ll say about Muslims or refugees or Mexicans or whoever the minority is that we’re shitting all over this week.

If this guy did like dudes, and if that’s why he decided he needed to die and to take out a bunch of innocent people with him, that has nothing at all to do with his sexuality or the sexuality of those he killed and everything to do with the way sexuality is treated in our society. Think it through for a minute: if that was his motivation, then he learned as he grew up in America that it was easier to die and to destroy a whole bunch of other people’s lives than to tell his family and friends and community the truth about his sexuality. And that is not the fault of a community that would have loved him if he had come to us, that is the fault of the fucked up world that teaches that two men kissing is justification for mass murder.

I grieve for those who died, especially our queer latin@ brothers and sisters who have a whole extra pile of shit to deal with just surviving in our world where there are two reasons to hate them.

But I also mourn and grieve and scream into the wind for the children who will grow up in exactly the same community and being taught exactly the same lessons as this guy was.

Hate kills. Fear kills. Intolerance kills. Sometimes it kills a lot of people all at once, and everybody takes notice, and sometimes it kills little by little as innocent children grow into bigoted adults.

This is what I am angry about. This is what I grieve for. And if you are not angry and sad and hurt, why not?

A tiny boat

In ancient times, we gave faces to our gods. Aphrodite, goddess of love; Ceres, goddess of the harvest; Ra, god of the sun. Gods to give sadness, gods to give joy, gods to give life and gods to take it away.

I wonder what I would expect their faces to look like. Would the goddess of love have a beautiful face that you couldn’t help but desire, or would she be plain and unassuming, the sort of person that you look past every day of your life but couldn’t imagine being without? Would the goddess of the harvest have hair as yellow as corn and feet that sprung flowers where she walked, or would she have rough hands and an apron dusted with flour above sensible work boots that trod the mud?

I don’t think that grief has a face.

If there is a god of grief, they are an ocean surrounding a tiny boat, laden heavy with all the most precious things in the world. The currents are strong and the skies are dark and the waves break over the sides of the boat, and all who sail in her are scared. The waters beat at the sides without ceasing, the joins creaking and threatening to give way at a moment’s notice.

If there is a god of grief then they have no face, for to look them in the face would be to know them and predict them and take the measure of them and grief is endless, unfathomably deep, and colder than you can imagine. To look on it is to feel as though it will last forever, and that all that is left in the world is bailing and rocking and sickness and cold.

Somewhere in that tiny boat, however, there is a memory. A thought, faint and warm, of land somewhere through the storm. A hope that the cold will not be forever.

There has been a lot of grief in my life lately. Someone who I loved dearly passed away after a long illness, and then the horror that was perpetrated in Orlando. I have a life to live and sometimes it feels like I cannot breathe with the anger and the hurt and the grief that threatens to overwhelm my tiny boat.

Tonight I was attending a vigil here in Brisbane for the victims of the Orlando shooting. Politicians and community leaders stood up and spoke passionately and eloquently on the horror that our community has experienced, and the love that buoys us up, and the hope that we must hold to, and on that moment a wave crashed over my tiny boat. I could not speak, I could not breathe, the grief was too great.

As I walked away, as I ran for safety, a place where I could be in control, the crowds parted little by little and I could see that the mourners stretched far further than I had thought. I was at the fore of hundreds of people who were all doing their best to hold their course. A flotilla of tiny boats, as it were.

And knowing that mine is not the only boat does not help me keep from foundering. The winds are still strong, and the sea is still rough.

But we will travel together, and for that I am grateful.

Today was a day just like any other

I woke up early this morning, rolled over and checked my phone. Like many around the world, I read what had happened to the people of Orlando, read the names of those who were confirmed to have died, heard the first impressions of horror, and mentally reminded myself of my own personal 48-hour rule: that little of what is written about a tragedy in the first couple of days is likely to be accurate or nuanced.

I looked over at my fiancé, who was sleeping, and decided against waking him to give him the news. He was sleeping, and looked so still and peaceful that I didn’t want to burden him with a tragedy on the other side of the world. Even when I was getting dressed and he woke and blearily peered at me from under his uncharacteristically unruly hair, I just said good morning, told him that I loved him, and wished him a good day. Just like any other day.

I spent my breaks through the day on Twitter, reading my friends’ reactions to the deaths, to the stories and the names and the snippets of lives that flooded out of Orlando, to the unfeeling, unthinking reactions of bigots and homophobes and Islamophobes across the Internet. I reached out to some who seemed particularly affected and offered my love and support where I could, and I retweeted interesting pieces of information and things that I found particularly thought-provoking or heartfelt. Just like any other day.

Because, for me, this is just like any other day. Not because I think this tragedy is unimportant, but because I have reached a point in my life where I expect violence against my community every day of my life. Where an event like this is not senseless, it makes perfect sense; it is a necessary sequela of the rhetoric that is used about my community, my life, and my family. Nothing about this tragedy surprises me.

I read Rebecca Shaw’s incredible article Gay bars and safe spaces: Why Orlando has impacted me so much, and I watch Owen Jones’ reaction to insensitive Sky News hosts, and I understand the isolation and the hurt and the anger and the frustration and the aloneness but part of me just can’t bring myself to feel that emotion for myself. I have none of it left. I have given up on the idea that I could live in a world where I don’t expect to be hurt, denigrated, treated like a curiosity at best and an abomination at worst. I am at peace with the reality of my life being a political plaything, suitable for meaningless, dangerous boondoggles and vacuous “arguments” proposed by those who hide behind religion to give a thin veneer of acceptability to their bigotry and hatred.

What I am not at peace with is the thought of someone else seeing the world fresh and coming to that same conclusion. I do not accept the danger posed by this divisive rhetoric to the young and emerging members of our community. I believe that while I may feel like violence and hatred are an inescapable consequence of my living openly and honestly, this is not a necessary condition for living an authentic queer life. We can change our culture for the emerging members of our community.

Over the course of the day, friends of mine have been sharing vital support resources for those who are affected. Organisations like QLife and Same Same are phenomenal for those on whom this tragedy has had a direct and personal effect. The effect that violence like this can have on our feelings of safety, security, and happiness, even across the globe, can not be understated, and I do hope that no-one reading this feels that I am saying that it should be.

However, for me, these services are not enough. A vigil is not enough. A Twibbon or a Facebook profile picture is not enough. No one thing that I can do will be enough to make me feel like I am creating a world that I would have my children grow up in. And so, I will do my best, each day, to live. I will be a strong queer person, openly and honestly, in my community. I will be an example to the generation that follow me that hatred and bigotry are not useful or necessary parts of our culture. I will, even when I am resigned to experiencing homophobia every day of my life, do my best to act as if I do not expect it, I do not accept it, and I will not tolerate it, and neither should anyone else. Whether you are a bystander, a friend, or a fellow DiGS Australian, you do not have to tolerate this.

Most of me doesn’t think that living this way will make any difference beyond making me tired. Part of me hopes that it will. But I know that we can change our culture and our communities and create a better world for our young people.

We must.

It’s not a Question

As anyone who has read my blog (like the last entry) or spent much time with me will know, the constants in my life are something as follows:

  • I’m unashamedly queer, professional and geeky.
  • My family are more important to me than just about anything in the world.
  • Someday, when it suits me and my family, I will be a dad.

This last item has had greater significance this week, with a decision in the NSW Supreme Court that the gay men, who with the assistance of a surrogate had a child, were in fact the parents of that child.

Two years after the fact.

And where the alternative was two years in jail or a $110,000 fine.

This is based on a New South Wales law that makes the use of a surrogate in exchange for payment, locally or overseas, illegal. This law, while strictly peculiar to NSW, is one of a series of laws around Australia and the Western world that restrict the access of couples (like the one I will be in when I start a family, but by no means limited to gay couples) to assistive reproductive technologies and techniques.

Generally, these laws assume that families will consist of a man and a woman, legally married (or in a marriage-like relationship), who can not have children for some medical reason, and who therefore must access certain medical technologies deemed permissible by the legislature. Alternatively, if such technology fails them, they must acquiesce to their failure, safe in the knowledge that it is the verdict of the Almighty that they are unfit to bring up children simply because they are unable to bear them. 1

I could, here, launch into a rant about how not all families look like that, or how assistive reproductive technologies do not work for all couples; how reasons for infertility are sometimes not medically curable, or how the ability to bear children does not imply the ability to raise them in a healthy, loving family. I could point out that it is those couples who have had to fight the hardest for their children who would arguably be the most inclined to raise them in such a fashion.

But I won’t. There are plenty of articles out there that say exactly that. 2

What I will say is that for me it’s not a question.

will have children. I will raise them as best I can, to know that there is a good way to behave and there is a way that is not good. To know that they are loved and that loving those around them will bring them and their world joy.

To know that all families are equal, no matter who is in them.

And to know that the most important thing, when they come to be parents, is to love their children and to fight for them, and God help anyone who would tell them otherwise.


  1. Apologies, my sarcasm is showing.
  2. I refer you, good reader, to the back catalogue of Joe. My. God. and Towleroad. Good luck!

A Letter to my Children

Dear Child, as yet unborn;

I just want you to know that I love you.

You aren’t yet, but I love you.

When I fight the laws to allow me to marry your other daddy, so that we can be recognised as a real family, it is because I know that that’s what you deserve. I want you to have what you deserve, because I love you.

When I sit on waiting lists and allow strangers into my life, and I bare everything to the law so that they can be convinced that I am an appropriate daddy for you, I know that when I see you for the first time, it will all be worth it. I will hold you in my arms and I will love you.

When I fight through the bureaucracy with your other daddy and my friend to make sure that her baby will be ours, that you will have two daddies and a mummy who want you and who worked for you and who made sure that you were a legal and legitimate child, of mine and of his and of hers, it is because you are wanted. It is because we will give you the best life that you can have. It is because we all love you.

When you come to me wondering why you have two daddies, and your friends have only one, I will tell you the truth. It is because you have two daddies who think that you are wonderful, and no matter what, we love you.

When you hide in your bedroom, crying, because some little turd at school has teased you for being the child of ‘faggots’ or ‘queers’, I will come, and I will find you, and I will hold you because I love you more than their hatred, and I love your daddy more than their hatred, and we, together, love you more than anything in the world.

And when the last moment of my life comes, I pray that you will be there. I will hold your hand and I will smile, because you are the person that I always dreamed that you would be. You are my child, whether any of us know it yet or not.

And no. Matter. What.

I love you.

– Dad

Could SOPA be just bad grammar?

In response to Evan Brown’s recent blog post on how to read the text of SOPA, I couldn’t help but pick up on what I can’t help but see as an odd gramatical quirk.


Dear Evan,

I have listened with great interest to your recent discussions of SOPA and PIPA – although as an interested observer and “netizen”, as I am Australian.

I was especially interested to read your recent post on the reading of SOPA, in which you parse the text of the bill – namely that

[a] site has to be:

  • primarily designed or operated for the purpose of offering goods or services in a manner that engages in, enables, or facilitates infringement, circumvention or counterfeiting,
  • have only limited purpose or use other than offering goods or services in a manner that engages in, enables, or facilitates infringement, circumvention or counterfeiting, or,
  • be marketed by its operator or another acting in concert with that operator for use in offering goods or services in a manner that engages in, enables, or facilitates infringement, circumvention or counterfeiting

However, I disagree with your reading of the first part of Section 103 of SOPA, on a grammatical point.

If the ‘manner that … facilitates infringement’ refers to the design or operation of the website, then you are correct – Facebook would not fall afoul of this provision. This could be otherwise written as “primarily designed or operated (for the purpose of offering goods or services) in a manner that engages in, enables, or facilitates infringement, circumvention or counterfeiting”

If, however, the ‘manner that … facilitates infringement’ refers instead to the goods or services offered, then Facebook would come under fire – it is primarily designed for the purpose of offering sharing services that happen to enable infringement when used in a particular way. The primary purpose is not the facilitation of infringement, but this is not a stipulation under this reading of the law. It could be written as “primarily designed or operated for the purpose of (offering goods or services in a manner that engages in, enables, or facilitates infringement, circumvention or counterfeiting)”

The sentence as written is highly grammatically ambiguous – and, if read one possible way, does indeed seem to be far more wide-reaching than your reading would suggest. Perhaps this would explain why so many people are concerned about this grammatical way of reading the law as it stands.

Yours Sincerely,

Evil, Crazy, Broken, High

I’m a 24-year-old healthcare professional with eight ear piercings (five on the left and three on the right, five of which are through cartilage), three healed facial piercings, ongoing thoughts of a tattoo and long shaggy hair that my manager not only likes but requested.

As my work involves a lot of ears, and I use my own to demonstrate things on a daily basis, the piercings come up in conversation regularly – mostly starting around my work, but then usually veering off in another direction. The conversations are usually fun, and I don’t mind because I love my piercings and my general ‘look’, and I love that I can be considered ‘alternative’ simply by the job that I do and the jewellery that I wear.

The other day, someone asked me what it was that drove me to get my piercings.

In general, the reasons vary significantly – in more than one case the best answer is ‘I was bored’, and in at least another serious mental health issues played a part – and so the conversation tends to become more of a silly storytelling exercise than anything else.

However, the underlying question remains – why have I changed my body in such an obvious and permanent way? What was it that caused me to want that change, and how do people see me for wanting it in the first place?

In the case of my piercings, I’m reasonably certain that it’s put down to youthful indiscretion or a desire to be ‘different’ or an appreciation for the associated aesthetic. 1 In any case, it’s highly unlikely to be a negative connotation. 2

However, metal is not the only change that I desire for my body. I want to be thinner, I want to be fitter, I want to be more tanned. In general, these may be seen as sad reflections of my adherence to a societal view of bodily worth that glorifies the slender, muscled, bronzed bodies that glorify the pages of every GQ Magazine that I never bought. Alternatively, they may be seen as reflective of a genetic impetus to be considered a strong and capable mate, probably through hard work and exercise or somesuch.

Either way, the desire to be closer to a Platonic ideal of Photoshopped beauty is no negative in today’s society. Indeed, it’s so common as to be practically required for functioning in any job that requires regular in-person customer contact. 3

However, certain things that I might like to do to my body would not be considered appropriate. For example, I take very good care of my hair, which is reasonably long for a professional man, and very curly. Some time ago, I had considered dreadlocking it, as it’s a look that I particularly like, and have always wanted to wear.

A lecturer to whom I mentioned the idea was less than enthused.

Such a change, they said, would be tantamount to telling my future patients and employers that I really didn’t take them seriously, as I couldn’t even be bothered taking care of personal grooming properly. 4 As such, it would be considered a crazy decision, sabotaging my future career prospects for, as far as they could see, no possible gains.

However, a mere desire to change one’s appearance pales into significance next to the struggles of those who live with any of the various psychiatric disorders where a person’s body does not match what they know it should be. This may take the form of disorders of gender identity (GID), bodily integrity (BIID), bodily appearance (BDD) and so on. These various disorders are treated in many different ways, but with limited success, and few exceptionally effective treatments exist for them.


See what happened there? We went from an idea that seemed like it would be crazy to actually calling someone crazy and giving them a diagnosis because we as a society believe that their desire to change their bodies to fit with their inner awareness of themselves is not only crazy but broken, something to be fixed.

Now, I’m not saying that we should simply allow people to do whatever they like to their bodies. I do believe that in certain circumstances body modification may be considered so severe and is so permanent that significant justification is not only desirable but required, and I would like to think that were I to find myself in this situation, I would appreciate being forced to ensure that my desire was a true self-knowledge and not a symptom of something else. 5

However, I do think that when we label people as ‘crazy’ for wanting to do something, we really, really need to come up with a decent justification for why it is so. Insanity was used as a reason for restricting the rights of women 6, of gay and lesbian people 7 and of minorities across the world 8.

If we are calling people ‘crazy’ because we don’t agree with their own self-assessment and self-determination, surely we need to take a step back and decide whether our attitude really is congruent with the kind of society that allows us to self-assess and self-determine.

To the limit that we are to be restricted, let us restrict others. To the limit that it affects others, let us be concerned with their behaviour. But no more.

Because otherwise we become that crazy Christian woman who informed me that I was going to Hell because the holes in my ears let in Satan.

Instead, let’s be like the young boy at the tram stop with whom I had the following conversation, a few weeks ago:

“Did those hurt?”
“A lot?”
“Not too much.”
“I don’t think I’ll get any.”


  1. Similar to an alliterative aesthetic I admire and abhor…
  2. Unless you’re that one crazy Christian who once told me that they were holes for Satan to get in through. Seriously.
  3. I’ve heard body type referred to as the ‘condition of employment’ in one particularly upmarket retail outlet.
  4. Seriously, do people have any idea how much work goes into dreadlocks?
  5. Although I’m pretty sure that I wouldn’t appreciate it, having seen the hell that some of my friends have been through.
  6. See ‘Hysteria’, or ‘disease of the uterus’.
  7. And still is in many ways, see ‘corrective’ treatments.
  8. A lovely passage is available at http://books.google.com.au/books?id=EC5pdKPXIG0C&lpg=PA149&ots=aZJE-CRo0g&pg=PA149 

Coming Out Conservative

Uh, Mum?


*shuffles feet*




Yep, that’s right, I’m coming out of the conservative closet 1.

So, why (I hear you cry) am I suddenly making such a declaration? One that is surely going to see me shot by the Pink Mafia, or lose my subscription to GQ Magazine, or get unceremoniously booted off the secret gay Intarwebz 2. 3

Well, it comes down to a conversation with a friend of a friend recently.

His argument went something like this:

But if we keep refugees here, they’ll just stay on welfare, and be a drain on our resources! That’s why I support moving them on to other countries or not taking them if possible.

At which point, of course, I promptly pointed out that that was a reactionary position, and that the truly conservative position was that they were already here, and so they may contribute significantly to Australian society, or their children may, or their children may, and so why should we act now rather than wait and see?

This, of course, was met by a slightly confused look.

See, the problem here is that we’re dealing with two different versions of the word ‘conservative’.

I, ironically, take a conservative view of the word ‘conservative’:

a: tending or disposed to maintain existing views, conditions, or institutions
b: marked by moderation or caution

– Merriam-Webster Online 4

Applying this, the decision to wait and see what contribution these people and their families may make maintains the possibility of future gains and maintains the status quo, in which the people in question remain in Australia living their lives in peace.

Taking this view into account, let’s have a think, shall we?

If you make laws to restrict the rights of states and territories to legislate on the definition of marriage, you’re not a conservative.

States and territories have always had this right, and to take it away from them marks a fundamental shift in the way that our federal system works.

If you are a supporter of Andrew Bolt, and believe in the right to free speech in Australia, and believe that this should be recognised, and thus the RDA changed to make what he wrote legal, you’re not a conservative.

Firstly, there never has been a right to free speech in Australia 5. Thus, a recognition of an additional right would be a significant and far-reaching change to the way that we live and enforce laws in this country. Secondly, advocating a change in law in response to a high-profile case? Big change off one data point.

If you believe in a smaller Government with significantly reduced power, then you’re not a conservative.

Governments have a particular size. That’s the way it is right now. Indeed, I am tempted to the ultra-conservative position – that is to say that Governments should concern themselves with apportioning taxation and precious little else.

The views that I have espoused here are reliant on the assumption that while the current system may not be perfect, may be far from perfect, in fact, it works, and so playing with it as little as possible is probably the best idea.

Now, don’t get the wrong idea. I’m not advocating a completely static political system. In fact, when people ask me what my political views are, I don’t usually say ‘conservative.’ I’m far more likely to say ‘reformationist’.

For example, I would like to see “gay marriage” 6 in my lifetime. However, I don’t want it tomorrow if that means shoving it down the throats of the Australian populace 7. Rather, I would like to see things happen at their own pace – to see change when it bubbles up through the population and the change is merely a modification of the law to reflect the views of the majority of Australians 8.

I would also like to see changes to the way that race is legislated in Australia – although personally I would more like to see removal of the constitutionally protected right to pass legislation that treats different races differently. I would also like the discussion regarding the ‘bills of rights’ that have been suggested to continue, as I find it both fascinating and informative. However, consensus at the moment seems to be that to properly enforce any such bill would require substantial reform of the Australian parliamentary system, and so I am unable to support the introduction of such a bill at the moment.

I would also like to see the volume of debate in Australian politics, and the ‘politicking’ that is done, reduce. A government is, at its core, a services provision organisation, organised to work for the benefit of the people it purports to represent and their beliefs 9.

I also believe in the conservation of resources, because I do not want the future to be one in which the seemingly inevitable consequences of their squander come to pass. However, this pulls in the opposite direction to my desire for Australia to continue as a prosperous country, driven by the mining that we have relied upon for so long. Ah, well – any complete theory is inconsistent, and so I resort to utilitarianism and stochastics.

But, I digress.

I believe in incremental change. Small, noncontroversial changes that maintain the order that currently exists. Safety in consistency is the ultimate conservative idea, as every change that we make to our system is a chance, however small, of disaster.

Now, I shall abandon my conservatism by turning off my computer, which is currently on, changing my clothing radically and going from awake to that fundamentally different state: asleep.

Because some ideals are made to be broken every day, aren’t they?


  1. Which you would be forgiven for thinking was already occupied by plenty of US Republicans lately
  2. Basically it’s porn and fashion. Sometimes both at once.
  3. NOTE: Two of these things don’t actually exist.
  4. Available here. And yes, I know I paraphrased.
  5. Not even the highly limited right that exists in America, as covered in a previous post
  6. Actually, I’d like to see completely civil marriage, but that’s a topic for another night
  7. Rather like my attitude towards religion, really.
  8. This ‘collective consciousness’ view is usually attributed to Émile Durkheim, the founder of sociology. We don’t completely agree, but he’s a good read.
  9. Not, I hasten to add, ‘the people and the beliefs it purports to represent’. A subtle but important distinction.

Page 1 of 11 >