Honest Blogging

An honest blog is an entertaining blog. It sounds easy, but over the past two months I have been trying to write an honest blog, and trying in vain. There is always a sentence or two, invariably the funniest sentence or two, that I am forced to omit at the last moment.* Why is it so difficult to fully commit, and be honest in ones writing?

A large percentage of people, in my opinion, are afraid to expose themselves out of a concern for their reputation. No matter how funny a particular paragraph may be, if you read it and think “I come across as an awful pervert here”, there is a strong possibility that that paragraph will get cut. The weird thing is that it probably isn’t overly perverted, but society has taught us not to take that risk. The fear that people won’t say “Yeah, I do the very same thing” is so great, that you simply can’t take the chance.

In my limited experience, there are three reasons why I feel I can’t fully commit to certain blogs:

1. If I were to come on here and genuinely speak my mind, there isn’t a broad in Ireland who would look sideways at me. 
2. I would cease to be professionally employed. 
3. The thought of my Dad reading stories about me running wild on College Road back in the day worries me. Running wild on his dime, I might add.

Unless you plan on being a professional writer, doomed to a life of bachelorhood without the support of your family; my advice would be to omit the parts that make you sound like a dirt bag.

*Ironically, the best part of this article got cut. 

Moving Away From Bebo

Social media has been a rollercoaster ride ever since it reached the masses some years ago. From the madness of Bebo, to the freedom of Twitter and the professionalism of LinkedIn, it's been a journey. And like every journey, we all learned what was ‘socially acceptable’ along the way.

Bebo was where social networking started for me. I heard someone talking about an online quiz that I had been referenced in and I can remember immediately thinking, this sounds dangerous. These quizzes were getting lots of people in trouble, good, honest church-going folk even. I decided that the only thing to do was to apply the theory of attack being the best form of defence, and sign up.

I had just started college when Bebo hit, and when I look back on it as a whole, it represents a reckless time in my life and everything about the platform embodies that era. I recently went to the trouble of deleting my profile, but not before reading through the lion’s share of the old comments. It was quite difficult to comprehend how dumb my friends and I were, talking about drinking and “women” and whatnot, in front of whoever wanted to hear. The photos were the worst part; people, myself included, voluntarily uploaded pictures of themselves asleep on pavements, vomiting into pint glasses and shifting birds in the corners of murky night clubs. But then again, we were young, it was new, and I can’t say I regret one bit of it.

Everything changed when Facebook rolled around. It served an older demographic, and in doing so it curtailed the ridiculousness we had previously enjoyed under the Bebo regime. Older family members were active on this medium; there would have been a certain awkwardness at dinner on St. Stephens Day if Auntie Mary had seen the photo of her favourite nephew wearing nothing but a kebab on College Road. All in all, this meant we had to be a little bit more diplomatic, and present a certain air of dignity and civility. Although, to this day, you will still see the odd renegade on Facebook who just won’t let go of his Bebo heritage.

Personally, and I’m sure the same can be said for many of my peers, the move to Facebook coincided with a period of certain maturity in my life. I had two years of college under my belt, and it was time to sober up. There was no place for Bebo in my new life, and a clean break was needed, much to the delight of Mark Zuckerberg, who rolled out the red carpet.

Bebo closes down every other week these days. Hopefully it will disappear permanently sometime soon, and take with it, those horrific, yet incredible memories.

A Single Valentine

There is a school of thought that suggests Valentine’s Day was invented by men for one simple reason; to give women the impression that they are romantic and compassionate by offering this solitary, meaningless annual gesture while they spend the other 364 days sniffing at the tail of every dog in the street. It’s genius really. But what of the single man, how does this romantic holiday affect him?

Many single women tend to get their knickers in a twist around this time of year, but it seems that the same does not apply to men. If there does happen to be any self-respecting male out there who feels an impending doom about being single on 14 February 2012, please announce it now and the Repo-Men will be called for your testicles.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a Valentine hater, I genuinely enjoy the day and all the trimmings/nonsense that goes with it. I love breaking out the old crayons and stencil art to make the ultra-romantic card. Hell, I even love writing the odd poem or two. I won’t be doing any of that business this year however, unless Rooney Mara responds to my mails, so what can I look forward to when that crazy Tuesday rolls around?

The answer is unlimited opportunity, as many single women tend to lose all sense of dignity and decorum as the day draws to a close. In the early evening, they gather like a pack of wolves sipping cocktails, lying to both themselves and each other about how “I don’t need Tommy, he can have that skinny bitch. She’s not even good-looking.” Later on, however, things will start to go south as soon as one of the pack lands a victim. That familiar smell of desperation will begin to linger, like a fart trapped beneath a duvet, and each member of the pack will make the conscious decision that they will not be spending the night alone, no matter what. This decision will bring the woman full circle, from proud and independent to insecure and loose.

I remember “my friend” recalling a single Valentine’s night from his University days. He and his buddies did absolute wreck, if the stories can be believed. He claims to have said outrageous things to women that would usually have earned him a firm slap in the puss and watching them lap it up like a Christian on a Sunday. College Road was like a Women’s Mini-Marathon with the shame walks the following morning, by all accounts.

All jokes aside, Valentine’s night is notorious for guys landing girls who, on any other night, wouldn’t even allow him enough face time for the poor fellow to be able to include her in his bedroom solo-missions. One night per year boys, it’s all we get and you can be sure “my friend” will spend it whispering sweet-nothings into the ear of some little haunt, or two. 

The Fear

Your only friend is your duvet, and there are moments when even it won’t co-operate. It’s Sunday night and the world is against you.

You had originally planned on staying in for the weekend as finances were a little tight, and a weekend away from the beer would have ‘put you in good stead’. However, you went for a few handy drinks on Friday, just to take the edge off, and it turned into a riot. You woke up the following morning with that carefree attitude that only a man who is still half cut can possess, and made arrangements for another big one.

You did consider, for a moment, the repercussions that this would bring, but quickly dismissed them, thinking “I’ll worry about all that tomorrow.” And you went all out; buying drinks like you were Puff Daddy. You stayed out until the early hours of the morning drinking red wine out of a mug, subconsciously knowing that, as soon as the madness ended, reality would have to be faced.

That brought you to where you are now, Sunday night, caressing your duvet in the hope that it will be as kind in return. Running through your mind are 1001 things, none of which are positive. The uncertainty of your financial situation is crippling you and you have no idea as to how many dollars you may have forfeited throughout the weekend’s debauchery. You have online banking, alas; The Fear won’t allow you to check it.

Your memory is a bit slippery from Saturday night, also. You know that you met your ex-girlfriend at some stage, but you can’t remember what you might have said to her. You worry that you may have text her, or anyone else who you shouldn’t have been texting, and again it is the uncertainty that drives you to the edge. You have a sent items folder in your phone, of course, but The Fear also prohibits the reading of such messages.

No matter what you think about, negativity is the underlying theme. There are moments when it feels like there is no way out, and there isn’t, you just have to deal with it. There is no cure, just hang on to that duvet and ride out the storm.

The good news is that you will be okay by Tuesday. The bad news, however, is that you will be perfect by Friday and The Fear will have slipped past your radar, lulling you into a false sense of security and encouraging you to do it all over again. It’s a f*cker like that.