Faitheist

I'm an atheist, but I don't tend to talk about it very much. It's not really a big issue, since you either agree with me or you don't. I'm not trying to convert anyone, because the argument for atheism is one of logic and science, whereas the argument for religion is one of emotion and belief. You can't disprove religion because proof is not what defines religious faith.
Not to mention, most people like to argue religion on the internet, and until very recently acting nice to other people on the internet wasn't common practice, so talking about religion was just a way of starting a fight. I've seen people on adorable kitten videos start arguments about religion, it's just stupid.
Usually, when I see one of those religion vs. atheism arguments, I comment merely to say "stop arguing, you're wasting everyone's time". But there's one thing that religious people say about atheists that really bugs me, because it's severely untrue: "You have no faith."
It's often used as an insult, but even when it's not it's just taken for granted that atheists are faithless. This pisses me off, because not only does this prove that religious people don't know what "faith" actually means, but it's unfair, untrue and unkind. Let's start by explaining what faith means.
The Word of the Day is: 'FAITH'

Faith /fayth/ n. 1. Confidence or trust in someone or something. 2. Belief which is not based on proof. 3. Belief in the teachings of religion. 4. A system of religious belief: Christian faith; Jewish faith. 5. A duty or obligation of loyalty (to a person, promise, engagement, etc.): To keep or break faith with; To act in good faith; Act in bad faith.

If you call yourself a Christian and you don't agree with that definition, then you're not a very good Christian, because a similar definition can be found in the Bible itself:

"Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen."

- (Hebrews 11:1)

I don't believe that faith is necessarily a bad thing. That's not to say that I think it's a good thing either, it's just kind of a thing. Because, as the dictionary says, faith is "a belief which is not based on proof". Believing in something without proof isn't a good idea most of the time.
I mean, when I was a kid I believed that stars didn't move in the sky. It's not that I was taught wrong or that I didn't understand the idea of the Earth spinning. But because I used to watch cartoons as a kid, and to save on animation, when they transitioned day to night they'd show the moon and sun spin around like a roulette wheel, but the stars were stuck in the same place, never moving. So, I believed that to be an accurate picture, with no real proof, just an assumed understanding from what I’d seen on television. Now, I know that’s just silly, the truth is that the entire sky turns, and it’s absolutely beautiful.

So faith isn’t all that impressive a thing, and it’s quite frustrating that people flaunt it like it’s something to which we should all aspire. Especially when they don’t understand what it means. See, the kind of people that use “you have no faith” as an insult - in my experience - tend to be the same people that believe they can prove God exists. To those people I say: “No you can't.” For two reasons:
One,  you can’t prove something supernatural with natural methods, as it assumes that supernature can be observed and defined. Two, proof denies faith.
I’m sure many of you have heard the “Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy” argument that proof of god would deny the existence of god. It’s just a bit of funny rhetoric, but it’s appropriate in the sense that religion so oft relies on believing that your god is the one, true god because you are made in their image, you follow their morals and all kinds of other things I don’t understand. It’s a matter of faith, and without faith, then religion is meaningless. I have no problem in being told “Yes, the universe was created by this dude, over here, his name is Paul and he likes crackers” (so long as it’s proven scientifically), but that doesn’t mean I have to pray to it.
So, congratulations, you’ve proven that your faith is meaningless.

But more importantly, in fact most importantly, as I said before “I don’t believe that faith is a bad thing”. I do have faith. In fact, I would argue that I have a great deal more faith than religious people. Allow me to explain . . .
I believe in people. I have faith in humanity. You religious people, you believe in God and have faith in Jesus and for you it’s easy. God doesn't exist have any flaws; because gods don’t get things wrong. Even when they do get stuff wrong, gods “work in mysterious ways” or they really were benevolent, it's just that someone else got in the way (the devil, the gays, the feminists, the liberals, etc) and made God look like a total dickhead. It wasn’t God’s fault, it was everyone else!

But me? I have faith in people, and people have a tonne of flaws. They let me down all the time. They keep killing one another, they keep hating one another, they keep raping, dehumanizing, disrespecting, destroying and annoying one another. But I still have faith in us all, because we do good things a lot of the time as well, and there are good stories in the world, and even when we do the wrong thing, I have faith that we’ll learn from those mistakes and disappointments and be better people tomorrow.
I believe this, despite the lack of evidence, because it gives me hope for tomorrow. And because sometimes - though not often enough - it pays off.

The thing is, People stereotype. We think we can know people from these small, defining characteristics. But you can’t just a person for being atheist, hell, you especially can’t judge atheists because we all have only one thing in common - just one - we don't believe in a god. That's it. There's no system, there's no rite or rituals, there's no common gathering of atheists. I mean, there are some groups of atheists that group together and do stuff as atheists, but fuck those people. One of the benefits of being an atheist is that I don't have to go to church or read a book written by some douchebag, so by gathering together you're just ruining the fun of it.
But anyway, atheists have a wide array of beliefs. Some of us believe that the Harry Potter movies are better than the books; some believe that different brands of batteries are provably better at powering our devices; some believe that Jesus Christ did exist, but that he was just a dude & some even believe that My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic is a really cool show with good story and characters.
We have all kinds of beliefs, it's just that we don't believe in that one.

And the same should be said of religious folks. Faith isn’t a bad thing. I mean, I do honestly believe that these bible thumpers are wrong, as in morally wrong, especially when they're trying to impose their beliefs on us or force innocent people to suffer for their stupidity. But, this isn't a big deal, because everyone knows they're wrong. Even the good, honest Christians know these people are wrong because when people use Christianity as a weapon, they're not real Christians, that's not what the religion is meant to be about at all.
Here, I think George Michael said it best:

"I know for a fact that many devout Christians . . . are truly wonderful, kind-hearted men and women who take the best parts of that religion and live admirable, generous and loving lives . . . But in my opinion . . . there are others who use their twisted interpretations of ancient scriptures as a pathetic excuse to be totally fucked up cunt-sucking bastards."

- George Michael, on hearing that some Christians prayed for his death

So while there are some bad eggs, I have hope for you all. As I said, I have faith in humanity, that includes all of you Christians as well - and there’s an awful bloody lot of you - so I have faith that you’re not all the kind of people that want to make the world a worse place. Please, please, please, don’t let me down.

I'm the Absurd Word Nerd, and until next time, I might be a while for the next post. I'm working on my next Duke Forever chapter a little bit earlier than usual, since I'm trying to get them written with more frequency. I'm also looking for a job, so things might get shuffled around a bit. Rest assured, I will keep posting here as often as I can, and I have faith that you'll all get my next blog post sooner rather than later.

It's the Pits

A very long time ago, I wrote a blog post called "Haven Sent", it was one of my few "meta-posts", back when that was a thing, but more importantly it was a list of my personal havens. Those little things that I absolutely love and which make life worth living, in my opinion, and that I like to indulge in, whenever I get the chance.
But ever since I wrote that, I have been working on trying to write the opposite. Because those were moments that I enjoy that make me feel good inside, so I was hoping to write a list of the moments that I despise which make me feel sick to my stomach. These are the moments when you just want to say:
  "Oh, for fuck's sake."
Moments, concepts or activities that I feel like I am just not suited to dealing with, moments that put me out of sorts or make me angry, frustrated, upset or all three.

For a while I was looking up the antonym of the word 'Haven'. But it's not easy, because there's no real direct antonym, so I had to get creative. For a long while I'd settled on 'Hellhole', which made sense to me - Haven is to Heavenly as Hellhole is to Hellishly. But Hellhole is used to describe a place, but I needed something that could describe an ephemeral concept and a feeling, so I believe a closer approximation is 'Pitfall'.
The Word of the Day is: 'PITFALL'

Pitfall /'pitfawl/ n. 1. A hidden pit prepared as a trap for animals or people to fall into. 2. Any trap or danger for the unprepared.

Havens are those moments of safety, whereas a pitfall is unsafe. Havens are a place of ease, pitfalls make your stomach jump into your throat. It makes sense to me, especially because the moments I am about to list are moments that I feel very much unprepared for, as the definition lists, moments where I feel like I'm very much out of my comfort zone. But I still do have a fondness for the word 'hellhole' in this context, since many of these situations feel like I'm in my own personal hell. So, if you wish, you can imagine that this list of 'pitfalls' entail falling into a literal hellhole.
So, in order from least frustrating and/or unsettling to the most, this is:

The Absurd Word Nerd's TOP 10 PERSONAL PITFALLS

Number Ten: Depressed People
How can I talk to these people? There's no logic there. I can't solve a problem. Have you ever spoken to someone who WANTS to be sad? You're like "Hey, cheer up buddy?" and they're like "What's there to be happy about it?" Then you tell them, and then they change tact: "Yeah that's true but did I mention my partner left me?"
At this point I'm like. Dude, Stop moping! I have given you a reason to be happy. Fucking TAKE IT! Don't keep dragging me down into the depths of your despair. Wake up and smile, for fuck's sake . . .
But I don't say that - I can't, because I've been there. I know what it's like to be depressed, you can't just snap at them since it's not their fault. I understand what they're going through, I feel like I should help, but it's just so difficult because I know that as much as I can offer to help, these people need an intrinsic motivation to be happy, and that's not something an external force can offer.
So, when I'm around depressed people, I am stuck in a paradox of obligation and impotence, and all I can do is watch and hope they can help themselves. At least I'm doing what I can and it's good to help those in need, but I can't help but be frustrated by it, so that's why this is on this list.

Number Nine: People Singing over Music
I don't have a problem with people singing. I mean, if they sing well it can even be enjoyable, because is's not singing that really annoys me. I think Karaoke is fun, and I think my girlfriend sounds like a Disney princess when she sings,I love people that love singing. No, what annoys me is when people sing along to music which already has someone singing.
I don't mean when people sing to music, that's a given. I mean people that sing to music that already has a singing component. Now, I understand that I'm in the minority. Hell, you just try to listen to "Bohemian Rhapsody" by Queen and not sing along to that, most people can't do it. But that just makes it more difficult for me. See, when I listen to a song it's because I want to hear that song. If I wanted to hear you sing, I'd ask you to sing.
I actually listen to the lyrics of songs. So, if you sing over music that I'm listening to, you're hindering my ability to listen to the song that I was listening to. To me that's the same of standing in front of the TV while I'm watching a movie, and going "No, I can act better than those jerks, look at me instead". It's not that you sing poorly, most of the people that sing to music do so because they can sing well but I'm not trying to listen to you sing right now, I'm trying to listen to this song, and you're fucking it up. I recognize that this is just a personal, pet peeve, though, but that's enough to get it on this list.

Number Eight: Capitalism
It may seem like a weird one, but capitalism is  something that just pisses me off. I don't mean capitalism as an economic system - I'm not trying to create a political uproar hear, because capitalism does tend to work - rather I mean captitalism as a political system and social mindset.
See, I have found that in every instance when I am walking around, in an urban setting and I see something ridiculous, dangerous or stupid - like bad roads, dumb signs, unintuitive directions or poorly made buildings. Whenever I think: "Why would anyone do something that STUPID!" the answer is always "To save money" or "To make money" or some other bullshit taught by capitalism. Now, I'm not a communist. I'm not any kind of -ist, except maybe a realist. But has anyone considered that this money first, logic later approach is hurting the world? I'm not saying you have to stop making money, but can we add a moment of hesitation before we act out these ideas? Computers stop us to ask before we empty the recycle bin or delete System 32 & our conscience stops us before we punch strangers in the back of the head. So can these people just stop for a second and before they act on their capitalistic tendencies could they ask themselves:
  "Am I sure this isn't making the world a worse place to live in?"

Number Seven: Going Home
I don't like missing out on stuff. I never got to see Frozen in the cinema, and I regret that, but it's not a huge issue. It's not my fault that I missed it, I didn't have the money or time to do so, it happens. I missed it, but it couldn't be helped. I don't mind so much if I miss something through no fault of my own
But, that's not always the case, and I hate that.
For me, this usually takes the form of going home, either after going to a party, or to a friend's house or to a family outing. When I go on outings, I like to use them to their full potential, especially when I'm out drinking with my mates, since those outings are so few and far between. But there will come a time in the night (or during the party) when arises the question of whether or not I will be going home, and I won't want to.
I will feel like, if I go home, I've missed out on the night. It's like, "But what if Luke is about to get here" or "what if they put on a movie?"
Missing out is one thing, I'll get over it. But knowing that I missed out because I essentially chose to? That's just unadorned regret, that is, especially if other people were hoping I would stay with them. It's not that I dislike my home, but I spend an awful lot of time at home, home will always be there when I go home, but the opportunity of a party won't be, so I don't want to go home unless where I am is less interesting than going to home to sleep, which is unlikely because . . .

Number Six: Sleep
This may be weird for some of you. A lot of people really like sleep, and there are those that think it is the best part of the day. But not for me. Fuck sleep.
Sleep, to me, is the whiteout of my day. As in, if you were to imagine that my life were a story, and as things happened I wrote them down; every 16 hour or so, it's like someone comes down and just fwipt! blanks out a good third of my day. I like to do things, I plan my life around doing things. I never plan to NOT do something, so it's like I have this huge section of my existence I have to shift my life around to get my required 8 or so hours of doing fuck all. So I have to decide what I do before and after sleep, and figure out if something is worth doing now, or can wait till tomorrow. I hate it.
But worse than that, the mechanics of sleep, to me, are all wrong. Because for some reason, I can't go to sleep. I can fall asleep, just drop unconscious after wearing myself out. But I can't go to sleep. If I try to sleep, I will just end up lying on my mattress being bored, no matter how tired I am.
Because the thing is, sleep happens when you STOP thinking, and there's no way to consciously stop thinking. But you can't think about nothing, because that actually takes concentration. You have to let you mind think on it's own, and that's so goddamned confusing that the only way I can do it is put on some sound in the background, I tend to use Let's Plays, comedy stand-up routines or TV show that I've downloaded, and just zone out to the familair sounds of it. I reckon, if there existed a pill that could make you stay awake 24/7, I would probably kill for it. Fuck sleep. Seriously.

Number Five: Remembering that I have Forgotten Something
I am quite forgetful. The only reason I can be the writer that I am is because I write all of my story ideas down. The only reason I can write long stories is because I organize ideas into notebooks and in computer documents beforehand, because my memory is a fickle thing, and I can't possibly retain all of my ideas in there at one time. Hell, I'm only writing this because I had the idea ages ago and wrote it down.
But I can't write everything down, because until I forget it, I don't know what kind of things I'm going to forget (unless it's numbers, I always have trouble remembering specific numbers).
So I'll often let an idea slip to the back of my mind, but that's okay because usually I'll remember it later. When I do, I'll do it then, unless I can't in which case I won't. I tend not to get upset about the things I cannot possibly change.
But that's the thing, that's reliant upon me remembering what I've forgotten, but that's not always the case. The absolute worst thing that my memory does is when I come across the space in my mind where I was supposed to be storing a memory, but it's blank. The worst case is when the forgotten thing is an activity which I've scheduled, because I'll get to that moment in my schedule and draw a blank; and as is the way with memory, you won't remember the specifics, but you will remember the importance of that memory, and the anxiety associated with it. So on those occasions, I'm left with nothing to do but try to re-remember the thing that I've just remembered that I've forgotten.
And most of the time, either I never recall that forgotten thing or, much worse, I'll remember it, but I'll remember it and have not enough time to actually do anything about it, which sucks because . . .

Number Four: Not Having Enough Time
I don't care much for deadlines. When given a deadline, I usually ignore it, and I'm better for it, since I don't like being rushed. But there are those moments when you can't ignore it, and I find that it's those moments when you're perfectly capable of the task you need to do, but it's time that stops your plans dead. The most common example of this is going to the shops. For some reason, the shops in my area all seem to close at five o'clock. So, it becomes a real pain in the neck when I want to buy something and it's four-thirty, because the shops are thirty minutes away.
I am perfectly capable of driving to the shops, but by the time I get there, the store will be closed. The only way to get there on time is if I somehow shorten the amount of time it takes to prepare to leave, but I can't leave the house without locking up the doors and putting on my shoes. Then if I get there, I'd need to park the car, and I need to have a coin or I can't unlock the trolley bay - there's just not enough time.
As I said before, I have no problem with being late. If I have to be somewhere at six, but the time is six-fifteen, there is literally nothing I can do, and I can accept that, because there's nothing I could possibly do. But when there is time available, but just not enough, I freak out, because there conceivably is something I can do - I can stress myself up to eleven and panic and get somewhere just in the nick of time, but only by skipping steps and rushing through everything.
Or, I can choose to ignore it and pretend that the opportunity has already slipped by, but that rarely works because I feel responsible for every second that I'm not using to do the activity at hand, and by extension, everything I was doing before now becomes another nail in the coffin of guilt; because if only everything that had occurred already had begun just an hour earlier, then I would be happy. But because the series of events started a little later, I can't be happy. Fuck you, time. You ruined my day.

Number Three: Retracing my Steps
This is related to the whole forgetting thing, but although I sometimes retrace my steps to remember stuff, that's not what this item will be focussing on. The thing is, I don't like repeating myself. This isn't something that I consider a pitfall of mine, however, because, when asked to repeat myself, I don't. I either rephrase what I said in a condescending way, or I quote it back to them with the minor adjustment of replacing all of the words with: "Fuck you."
But I am not forced to repeat myself, so I just don't. Unless, of course, I come to a dead end. I like to walk and until very recently that was my main source of transportation, and so sometimes on my little ventures, I get lost. It can be fun, it's how you learn to explore, and sometimes it leads you to new and interesting places. But when I run into a dead end, I just get mad.
What the fuck is the point of this shit? Someone decided that when people get here, that's all they'll want. Sometimes they even put up walls and fences around these little cul-de-sacs to make sure they'll be safe and secure in this new habitat that they've come across. Seriously, why don't more dead ends have footpaths that lead out? Give me an out!
Because otherwise, when I get to a dead end, all I can do is turn around and head back. I just wasted energy getting here, now I have to double my wasted energy to get out. But if you really want to piss me off, you need me to come across what I call the "Dead End Fractal". For some reason, some suburbs like to organise their houses in these little twisted communities, like an expanding snowflake. Where Streets get shorter and shorter before ending in a cul-de-sac. And they never seem to have footpaths out. Fuck you, town planner, I need a way to escape!

Number Two: Absolute Silence
Okay, okay, considering that things like depression and capitalism are on this list, I understand that it might seem weird that something like the absence of noise is so high on this list. Well, if you've read the previous list about my Personal Havens, you will know that I have mild tinnitus, and to quote myself:

" . . . in a seemingly silent room, I will often hear a persistent high-pitched whine, like a bee is screaming in agony."

- The Absurd Word Nerd, "Haven Sent"

See, a persistent, high-pitched whine is more than just "a little bit annoying", it can be almost deafening in silence and more often than not can give me a headache.
But more than just the tinnitus, in silence I get lonely. Even when I'm driving in my car at night, the sound of the engine means my tinnitus isn't a problem, but I feel so alone in such a stark, dark silence, so I usually turn on the radio. As I said above, I listen to Let's Plays when I go to sleep so that I don't go to sleep in silence. It's not just the tinnitus, I like background noise.
To me, absolute silence means a headache, inability to think clearly, loneliness and discontent, that's why it's so high on this list.

Number One: Talking to Children
I am a pretty genuine guy. I mean, I don't put on a persona for any of this, these blog posts are my actual opinion. Even in real life I am always honest, and sometimes that pisses people off because I don't play the social games people play and I don't always hold my tongue. My mate Sean says of it that I "don't give a fuck", which is partially true; I don't care if people hate me for who I am, because I would rather that than have them like me for who I'm not.
And for that reason, I have trouble with children.
I don't watch my language, I don't lie, I don't put up with people's bullshit and I don't concede to idiocy and ignorance - but with children I am expected to do all of those things. I mean young children, like 2-6 years old, because you can't always be honest with kids; you can't answer all of their questions and you can't tell them to bugger off when they're being annoying - because they're kids, it's what they do. Children are boring; children are selfish; children are (often) dirty & children can be really annoying.
It's basically that I don't like talking to idiots, and this does apply to idiots and close-minded people as well; but it's worse with kids because I can insult an idiot if they're being a pain in the arse; but it's not a child's fault that they're dumb, they need time to learn, so I can't do anything about it.
But the real reason this is number one on this list is because I don't like dealing with parents. I don't mind children, even though they still have a lot to learn, I would put up with that if it was my kid. I'd love to raise one of my own one day, but only on my (and my Beloved wife's) terms. Yet with other parents, I have to do things on their terms. Hell, even if they're raising their children wrong, I can't do anything about it, I'm expected to raise them their way even if that way will result in the kids growing up to be a massive douchebag. It means that I have to walk on eggshells around other people's kids, because even if the child is a little shit that's misbehaving I can't reprimand it - it's not my child - but I'm still supposed to be on my best behaviour, put on the persona of a patronising television presenter and talk down to them, and I hate it.


I'm the Absurd Word Nerd, and to sum things up nicely, I don't like it when people: sing over music; are depressed; put greed before others; tell me to sleep; tell me I've forgotten something; give me a deadline; make me repeat myself; leave me on my own or make me to talk to their children. So if you'd all stop doing that, then that would be lovely.
Until then, I think I might go write a story . . .

(Supervised) Driving Me Insane

Last week, I earned my Provisional License. That means that I can finally drive a car whilst unsupervised. I'm "P1", and in a year, I can get my P2 and not long after Opens (Full License). But it doesn't matter, because P1 is basically open license, it's just that I can't drink alcohol at all while driving and I can't drive at night with people younger than 21 in the car that aren't my relatives. But my friends are all over 21 and I don't like drinking before driving anyway, so I feel like I'm on my open license already.
But, while I was still learning to drive a car, I paid a couple of different people money to supervise, assess and correct my driving, and some of them were alright. But now that I have my P1 license, I think that I have the right and authority to talk about the stupid things they've said to me and judge them terribly for it. That's right, I've finally got my license and the first thing I'm going to do is slag off the people that hindered me along the way.
The Word of the Day is: 'LEARNER'

Learner /lernə/ 1. A person who is learning; student; pupil; beginner; apprentice; trainee: She's a fast learner. 2. A person who is learning to drive, has not yet passed the official driving test, and must be accompanied by a qualified driver and display L-plates on the car; a learner driver.

Some people are fucking idiots, which is understandable, but some of those people are getting paid to be idiots, and that annoys me. Particularly when those people are being paid by me.
So, here are some of the absolute dumbest things that driving instructors and testing officers have said to me:

"No, this has a lot of power, it's a diesel."

I don't know which is better, I'm not going to enter into this debate, because apparently the internet goes geeky when it comes to diesel vs. petrol, comparing compression ratios; calorific value; heat content (btu/lb) & a whole lot of other stuff that I neither understand nor care about. However, when one of my driving instructors showed up with a diesel car that was as big as a van and sounded like a garbage truck, I was driving it around the road and I made what I thought was an uncontroversial comment: "It's heavy. I'm used to a bit more power than this."
My instructor reacted oddly - I think he believed I'd directly insulted his manhood - because he responded by saying with the line above that it had a lot of power, with his evidence being that it was a diesel. This was also an instructor's car, so it had a secondary set of pedals, and he took the opportunity to put his foot down to "show" me the power. The vehicle proceeded to make a brmmm noise, and it accelerated from 20 to 30 kph in about four seconds.
Wow(!) Feel the power(!) Am I in a car, or bareback riding a rabid cheetah, I just don't know . . .
I didn't want to hurt the instructor's feelings, so I didn't reply to this unimpressive display of power. I don't mean to sound arrogant, I get that a diesel has torque, but my car has a lot of torque also, as well as the ability to accelerate faster than a garbage truck. I bought my car secondhand from my mate, Sean, a second-generation mechanic; my car has as much power as an inexperienced driver can legally drive, and a history of love and care from a devoted owner that has not only the compassion but the capacity to keep it up to the top notch. My car is leaps and bounds above a turbo-diesel minivan, don't be stupid.

"You should engage the clutch with the brake on, so that you don't slide backwards."

When I was preparing for my first driving test, I got a real dingus of an instructor. I told him on the phone and in person "I just want to prepare for my driving test, give me a practice run for the test". So, of course, the first thing he teaches me to do is check the mirrors . . .
I don't know why. I know how to check mirrors, I've already told this guy "I have 100 hours, I'm legally ready for my test", yet he's telling me how to do up my seatbelt and check my indicators? I thought maybe he was double-checking my abilities, so I went along with his bullshit.
But then he tells me how to start the car. Not only does he feel the need to teach me to start a car, despite the 100 hours of experience I've had driving, but he teaches me wrong. He said that I should start the engine; put my feet on the brake and the clutch, pedals to the floor; put it in gear; disengage the handbrake; engage the clutch until I could feel it catch on the 'bite' & then release the brake.
I asked him "do you want me to do a hillstart?", I know that I didn't need to do a hillstart, because the street I was on was at a five or ten degree angle, very slight; but that's essentially what he was asking me to do, only using the footbrake instead of the handbrake. But he said "No, this is how you're supposed to start the car". I said to him "I've never done it like that", but he insisted "I teach all of my students to start the car that way, because if you don't, the car will roll backwards, and they might panic" and that's when I knew he was a moron . . .
Now, I will concede one thing, if I start the car on a slight incline, yes, the car will roll backwards . . . about three centimetres. But that doesn't mean you need to wear down your gears engaging the clutch with the brake on every single time you start the car. That's just dumb! If you're on the flat, you won't roll backwards, but if you are at a slight angle (to the point that you might roll backwards) you'll probably need to apply power to the engine (via the accelerator), so that it doesn't stall, but you can't do that if you're foot's on the brake!
Oh, but it doesn't stop there . . . this moron offered three stupid pieces of advice that I've put on this list.

"You can't turn the wheel unless the car is in motion, because you'll pop your tires."

Finally, we start driving, and I'm struggling because the car was slow like a trundling tank, but then he tries to get me to practice parallel parking. So, he gives me some theory, then we begin, so I turn the wheel and he immediately stops me. He says "no, you can't turn the wheel while the car is stationary", then he starts off on this long spiel (which I suspect he was only doing, because I had paid him for the hour, and the longer he talks, the less actual work he has to do). And he said, if you turn the tire while the car is stationary, it grinds down the tires in one spot, and that spot will be weaker, and later when you drive, that weak spot will be more likely to pop.
I was staring at him for a while, not saying anything. I didn't pay this guy to argue with him, but for fuck's sake! I was parallel parking, I don't ever want to parallel park in my life (especially via reversing, even though that can make it easier), I'm not saying I never will, but it will be very rare. On those, what, five occasions when I do, I'm going to turn my car while stationary. For two reasons one, because my car has power steering which means I can; and two, parallel parking isn't easy, and if I have to go through the bullshit "align nose to wheel, turn, back in, turn, adjust to fit" method, it would be twice as hard if I can't sit still while I'm lining up my wheels.
And the best part? I told my mate Sean about this, and he was explaining that turning while stationary wears down your tires, but not as much as turning a corner. Your tires wear down, that's a fact of life. Sure, you shouldn't sit in the driveway turning the steering wheel back and forth for hours on end, which is why I don't do that, but turning the wheel while stopped on the rare occasion that I parallel park? Go fuck yourself.

"You can't back into a driveway during a three-point turn because drivers will get confused and crash into you."

The rules have changed on 'three-point turns', to the point that they don't even call them three-point turns anymore, since you're allowed to angle yourself around more than three points these days. Which is fair enough, but another rule has been changed, they say that on your driving test, if asked to do a three-point turn, you can't back into a driveway to do so (which is something my Dad was allowed to do on his test). But my dumbshit driving instructor, trying to use the Socratic method, asked me: "Do you know why you can't use a driveway?"
So, I answered with the most logical answer that I could think of:
  "Because, although there's a driveway on this road, there might not be a driveway on other roads I'd turn around on."
That makes sense to me. I mean, not every road has houses on it, if you can only three-point turn into a driveway, you're limiting your experience, right?"
  "No," he replied. "It's because if you back into a driveway, if another car is coming the other way, he'll think that you're backing into the driveway. So if you then drive out again, he'll crash into you."
I just stared at him then. I stared at him like he'd grown three heads, like he'd told me to eat a shoe. I stared at him like he'd told me that you can't park in a driveway because you'd crash your car. And that's the thing, if you use a driveway to turn around and a car's coming, what do you do? Do you go "well, I was doing a turn-around manoeuvre, he should know better", drive out and crash into them?
NO! You wait and let them pass! That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard!!
"You'll crash into them", what kind of stupid shit does this moron believe? Who does he think he's teaching?! I'm not going to drive into an oncoming car you sack of potatoes dressed like a man! Fucking hell . . . I'm glad I was driving and not him, because first of all, it meant I was too occupied to slap him, and secondly, this dumbass would probably stall the engine and drive me into traffic.
That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard . . . at least, it was, until I heard this last one. Oh boy, it's a doozy . . .

"You can't drive around a corner with the clutch in, because the car will lean more than 30°, and tip over."

A man was paid money to sit in a car and assess driving - hell, he was trained to sit in a car and assess new drivers - and he said that to me. When I took my first driving test, I failed, and that's fair enough. I ran through an amber light, I didn't change gears properly and I didn't follow all of my directions. I'm an average to below-average driver usually, but I was anxious as all hell during that test so I was stupidly bad and I made dumb mistakes that I knew I'd made the moment I made them, one of which was that I clutch-cruised around the corner. Now, clutch-cruising isn't so bad if you're doing it while at low speed like 20 kph, while decelerating, in a straight line; but otherwise, it's very poor practice, and you will get an instant fail on your test if you have the clutch disengaged while in motion for more than 8 seconds (which is harsh, but grudgingly understandable, because that's not driving, that's rolling), so alright, I get that.
But when my testing officer was explaining to me why I wasn't supposed to clutch cruise, I think he must've taken a swig of absinthe, because his understanding of physics was closer to Warner Brothers than reality.
I'm not making that up, he said that if I went around the corner, with the clutch disengaged, the car would tip over. I know he meant that, because I asked him "do you mean the wheels would tip over?", I mean, like, would the rubber get pulled off the wheel rim? which makes slightly more sense.
But he said No. He genuinely believed that, because I had swerved around the corner, with the clutch disengaged, I was at risk of rolling the car.
I told my mate, Sean, since he drove me to and from the test, and he just said the guy was a moron, since that goes against physics.
I also asked my Dad about it when I got home and he got annoyed and explained the real truth of clutch-cruising. The reason you shouldn't clutch-cruise around corners is because if the car goes around the corner without the clutch engaged, it's more likely to oversteer and/or understeer, because you're car is basically swinging its weight around the corner, which can change the angle of your curve as you turn. But with the clutch engaged, the engine provides torque to the rear tires and helps to keep you on the straight and narrow, since you're pushing around the corner, rather than swinging around it. I might be explaining it wrong, but that's the basic physics of it, as I understand.
But that's the most important part, I understand. I don't know why my testing officer was making up bullshit, maybe he was in a position of authority and wanted to maintain that by appearing knowledgeable when he wasn't, but I saw right through it, and it made me lose all respect for him.

When I went for my license the second time, I went to a different driving school, and I will never again use either Coastwide Driving Training or Greenslopes Customer Sevice Centre for the Department of Transport & Main Roads, and I suggest you don't either, their testing/training personnel are ratbags, as far as I'm concerned. And the best part is, I don’t ever have to, since the Hazard Perception Test for getting a P2 license is done online.
But not everyone involved is terrible. The officer who let me pass my test just felt . . . professional. He said I had good speed control and I was a natural at road positioning, even though I sometimes drive too fast and he said I need to be more careful since I cut the corner one time (because I was nervous); but I did everything else right and I passed my test. And of course, there’s my Dad, who sat with me for more than three-quarters of my mandatory 100 hours, and who taught me not just to drive safely and efficiently, but also courteously.

I didn't hate my learning experience, I just think it’s crazy how much work you have to do to drive a car, even though that’s something that the majority of people have to do.

And now that I can drive on my own, it’s one of the greatest feelings in the world. A few days after I’d earned my provisional license, I wanted to post a letter to my girlfriend. I was running late and the post office was going to close in 30 minutes. But I didn’t panic, I just got in my car and cruised, on my own, through my suburb. Each shift of gears came naturally, I wanted to go faster and I did, and as I drifted down the street to the main road, I wanted to go slowly and I did, just like I’d practiced millions of times before. I parked my car; dropped off the letter at the post office; paid to post it; got back in and drove home, as easy as breathing. I felt so free, and yet connected to everything, since I could go anywhere.

I’m the Absurd Word Nerd, and until next time, I think I might go for a drive . . .

Yet So Far

Despite the dense clouds, the heat of the desert sun baked the the border road, reflecting sharp, white light off the dark, sweaty skin of Mohamed and Dejen’s backs. They were both teenagers, wearing loose-fitting clothes for playing sport. The two boys looked very similar, both with dirt clung to the sweat on their legs, although Dejen was taller with shorter hair, and Mohamed had a smaller nose.

They walked towards home, chatting and laughing together. Under his arm, Mohamed carried a very old, dirty soccerball. Mohamed wished that more of their friends had come out to play with them, but they were much too busy playing games on their computers these days.
  “Tani waxa ay ahayd fan ciyaarta, saaxiibkiisii,” said Dejen, “Laakiin waxaan u malaynayaa in aad tahay mid aad u cajiib ah.”

  “It is not that weird . . .” said Mohamed, with a frown. “Why are you never speaking English, Dejen?”
  “Ingiriisi? This is Somalia, I say in Somali,” says Dejen proudly, thumping his chest.
  “But I want to more practice. It’s hard enough talking at all with her.”
  “Ganaax, sidee codka tan? ‘I’m not your woman. Go with your practice to English girlfriend’.” said Dejen, with a cheeky smirk.
  “She is American, not English.”
  “Maxaad leeyahay?” asked Dejen, confused.
  “Iyadu waa ka soo America,” reiterated Mohamed.
  “Maxay sababta doonaysaan inaad saaxiibad Maraykan ah?” said Dejen, pointing at some of the local girls across the road. They were wearing head-scarves as they walked with their familes back along the road. “Waalidku waxay leeyihiin lacag badan, Mohamed, iiyo waxa aad ka heli kartaa gabar kasta ee aagga aad rabto inaad.”
  “Anigu ma aan qorsheeyo taas,” replied Mohamed, defensively. It was true, it would probably be easier if he was to get married with a local girl, but he didn’t feel about them the way he felt about her.
  “Waa hagaag. Laakiin aniga weli u malaynaysid inaad tahay walaan . . .” said Dejen, derisively.
  “Dhici karta in aan ahay . . .” muttered Mohamed.
They walked around the corner, down the road, when they heard a sound off in the distance. It sounded like a distant woodpecker, but the two boys recognized the sound as gunfire.
  “Waa in aan ka heli guriga, si dhaqso ah.” said Dejen, looking worried as he started to jog home. Mohamed agreed and also started jogging to get home quicker. They were almost at Mohamed’s house, when they saw a dirty truck, speeding down the border road. People were racing out of the way as it sped towards them, firing wildly behind them.
  “Orod! Degdeg!” screamed Dejen as they ran for Mohamed’s home. They wouldn’t get to the door in time, and instead hid behind a tall palm tree. The truck sped past, peppering bullets behind them as they drove down the road. The two boys heard, but didn’t see, a second vehicle chasing after it, also firing machine guns. It must have been a glider, as the engine made an electronic buzzing, and they couldn’t hear the sound of tires on the dirt. The cars soon rounded the corner and as the dust settled, Dejen was the first to stand up as they rounded the corner.
  “Waalan Dambiilayaasha! Tani ma aha Sinema Ficil!” he yelled after the trucks as they sped around the corner. Then he turned to his friend and gasped. “ Mohamed! Waxaad waa dhiig!”
Mohamed slowly lifts his arm, to see that the soccer ball has deflated; but sure enough, as it fell away, there was a small spot of red on his hip, that was growing slowly larger as the blood pooled.
  “Tani waa xun . . . Raadi gargaar, Dejen!” Mohamed yelled. Dejen quickly ran into his house to phone for help, and Mohamed leaned on the tree to stand up. His stomach felt warm, but as he stood it felt like someone was stabbing him with a knife, so he instinctively grabbed at his side. The pain wasn’t going away. He looked down at his hand and it was coloured red with blood.
He tried not to panic. He just had to wait here for him to return Dejen would return with a doctor soon. But as he stared at the bloody smears on his fingers, he was horrified. Not at the blood, but something else much more chilling. He quickly turned for his home and limped inside, dripping blood as he slipped out of the sunlight.
Mohamed turned on his computer. And as it powered up, he ignored the startup sequence and turned towards his Virtual~Box, a stylistic, white cube attached to a helmet with a set of goggles. It was a simple simulator - a Japanese knock-off of the Sekaiko Virtüu - but it was very cheap, so it had become popular all across Africa and Europe. Mohamed groaned as he picked up the helmet, then sat in the wicker chair beside it. As he did, Dejen ran in, looking anxious.
  “Ambalaas waa soo . . . maxaad samaynaysaa?”
  “Waxaan u baahan yihiin inay arkaan aan jeclahay,” said Mohamed, blood smearing onto the attaching cables as he reached down and activated the Virtual~Box. “Haddii aan u dhintaan . . . waxaan rabaa in aan u leeyahay nabad gelyo.”
  “Tani waa waali!” protested Dejen.
  “Tag sugeeyso ambalaaska ka baxsan!” yelled Mohamed. Dejen looked unsure, then he walked outside to wait for the ambulance, as he was told. The lights on the modem began blinking and a server opened up as the computer synchronized with the simulator and Mohamed logged on.

Loading . . .
In a flash, the blackness disappeared to be replaced by a perfectly square room with black and white checkered walls. Mohamed instinctively grabbed for the pain in his hip, but his wound was missing in the virtual environment. He was bleeding, but his avatar was in perfect health. He looked down at his clean hands. He couldn’t afford biometric scanning software, so he only had a generic, African-American avatar, with very few distinguishing features, just a plain white t-shirt, trousers and running shoes.
  “Start vChat,” said Mohamed, and a thin, clear, glass pipe suddenly appears in the air in front of him, lying horizontal. A blue-tinged liquid begins filling the pipe as the program loads; once the pipe is filled, it vanishes, and a clean, white door appears on the wall in front of him. Mohamed opens it and steps into the chatroom. It had an immaculate, light wooden floor, with a white, textureless table and chairs sitting in the middle. The walls and ceiling were perfectly white and there was a door on the far side of the room, but on the walls there hung portraits and posters for decoration, but they were all advertisements, all bright and animated: “Win $1000$ daily with Virtual Roulette”; “Play n+Hood today, it’s FREE to Download”; “Lonely? Enter MuslimMingles.room Now”; “Want a Degree in Telecommunications? Register Online”. At one time, he had found them disgusting and greedy, but now they reminded him of the time he and Paige wandered around the room, making fun of them, joking and laughing for ages.
Mohamed headed straight for the table. He sat down, and tapped the table twice with his forefinger. Doing so exposed a menu, with a list of people online:
“.:DoqonIlaah404:.” - Ahmed from school ; “超级☆水手~[◕ω◕]” - a friend from China & “newleaf8691” - Paige, she was online.
Mohamed taps her name to send an invitation, then closes the menu, stands up and starts slowly pacing back and forth. He didn’t know how much time he had. Either before Dejen could get some help, or before he bled out much, but he hoped he would have enough time. But even if he did, what would he say?
After a minute, which felt like an hour, the door opened, and in stepped Paige’s avatar. She was beautiful. It looked just like her, with a pale skin; a peppering of freckles under her blue eyes; cute, button nose & dimples, except that her hair was textured purple with neon pink highlights. She was also wearing what looked like a black catsuit, with bright red sleeves, and a gun-belt with a radio and a complicated looking weapon.
  “Jeclahay,” said Mohamed, walking over to her.
  “It’s good to see you, Moh,”said Paige and the two hugged. “You’re not usually online so soon. I was just playing a game with some friends from school.”
  “I am sorry,” said Mohamed, ”I needed to see you.”
  “It’s alright, I missed you too. I love you, pumpkin.”
  “I love you too,”said Mohamed with a smile. He loosens his arms so that he was holding her shoulders, but could look her in the eye. He opened his mouth to speak, but he couldn’t find the words.
  “I don’t know how long I can stay,” said Paige, “I paused the game, the others will be waiting for me. But I was hoping I could see you today. I mean, I loved that poem you wrote. The ‘guzzle’ poem, what did you call it?”
  “Ghazal,” said Mohamed.
  “Yes! The ghazal. I thought it was so sweet, and it must have taken ages, so I tried to write you a poem in Somali, I’d love to show you. I don’t know if it will translate properly, but it’s quite short.”
  “You are so lovely,” said Mohamed, with a sigh. “I would love to hear it-”
  “Hurry uuuup,” sparked an annoying voice from the radio at Paige’s hip.
  “We can’t hog the server if we’re not playing,” said another voice.
  “Sorry, I’ve got to be going soon, they’re waiting up on me,” said Paige, turning off the radio. “But I could share the document and hear from you later?”
  “I have to talk to you,” said Mohamed.
  “We will, tonight. I promise,” said Paige, she was turning towards the door. Mohamed felt his chance slipping away.
  “I’ve been shot!” he called. Paige stopped. Slowly, she turned to look his avatar in the eye. “I was shot, today. Dejen has called for help, but the . . . the isbitaalka, the doctor, it is far away.”
  “Oh my god . . . are you serious?!” shrieks Paige.
  “Yes. I will probably be leaving very soon,” said Mohamed.
  “Quit Game!” screams Paige. Instantly, her combat gear flickers out of existence to be replaced by a long, black dress without sleeves, with red cherryblossom-shaped detailing around the hem and up the left leg.
  “Are you alright?”
  “I don’t know. It hurts, and it is bleeding a lot.”
  “Then what are you doing here? You need to get help!”
  “Dejen is getting an ambulance. And I needed to see you, jeclahay.”
  “I am flattered, really. But you shouldn’t be stressing yourself out like this.”
  “The computer will put my body to sleep, I will not bleed so much.”
  “Alright . . .” Paige starts slowly nodding. “I don’t know about this, but if you’re sure, do you want me to do something?”
  “Yes,” said Mohamed, as he walked over to the table. “I want you to listen.”
  “Okay.” Paige walked over to the other side of the table, “What do you want to say?” Mohamed looked her in the eye, and frowned sadly. His avatar could not cry, but she heard his tears in his voice.
  “I want to say goodbye.”
  “What?” Paige said, shaking her head “No.”
  “Paige, please . . .”
  “Are you saying you’re dying?!” she screamed.
  “I don’t know,” said Mohamed. “I might.”
  “So you’re dying.” Paige said, confused.
  “I don’t know.”
  “Then what are you doing?” she asked, flustered.
  “Slow down. I need you to listen.”
  “Okay . . .” Paige’s lip quivered, but she nodded and quietly sits down. Mohamed sits across from her.
  “I love you, Paige. You mean so much to me and I am in love every minute that we spend together. But we are so far apart, and when we are apart I worry that, if something happens, I would not get the chance to tell you. I always fear that, if I was hurt, you would never know why I wasn’t here. And if I died, I would not want you to think that I had left you because I do not love you.”
  “I would never think that . . .” said Paige. Mohamed smiled.
  “But, jeclahay, I am here now because I am hurt badly, and I do not know what the doctor can do. I have heard that many people have died from being shoot.”
  “Shot,” corrected Paige. “Sorry . . .”
  “It’s alright,” said Mohamed with a smile. “I do not know what is going to happen. But just in case, I wanted to let you know that I love you. No matter what happens. And, in case I don’t come back . . .”
Paige sniffles loudly.
 “I’m . . . I’m sorry,” she says, her voice cracking slightly.
 “It’s alright, jeclahay,” said Mohamed, sadly. “I just wanted to say goodbye, in case . . .” he grits his teeth to hold back a sob, “. . . in case I never see you again.”
 “Okay . . .” said Paige. She sounded sad, but she nods quietly.
 “Alright. Well, Paige? I just wanted to say that-” Mohamed clears his throat, “I just wanted to say . . . you are the best thing in my life, ever. I am more happy now that I ever was, and I would cross the Earth - I would travel to literally the other side of the Earth to be with you; because, I love you.”
Paige started crying properly, fully sobbing, and Mohamed walked around the table to rub her shoulders. She stood up and cried into his shoulder
  “I don’t want to say goodbye to you,” she sobbed.
  “I don’t either,” he said, solemnly, “I want to live. But just in case, I want it to be pleasant.”
Paige was calming down but she whispered.
  “I won’t say goodbye, though. I can’t . . . couldn’t we just say ‘see you later’?”
Mohamed slowly nodded.
  “Okay. If that’s what you want.”
Paige looked up into his eyes.
  “Moh . . . my Mohamed. I love you, unconditionally. As far as I’m concerned, you are here with me, here,” she places her hand over her chest with one hand. “No matter how far away you are, you’re always with me. Despite what people tell me, I have no regrets about having a long-distance boyfriend . . . except for the things we haven’t done yet,” she started to tear up, so she closed her eyes, shook her head, then continued. “I want you to get better and I want you to come back here with me, because I will miss you every second that you’re gone.”
  “I will miss you too,” said Mohamed. “And, if I can, I will come back as soon as I can.”
  “You’d better,” said Paige. “Because I don’t want you to go . . . we haven’t even had our first date yet; our first kiss . . .”
Mohamed looked down into her eyes, and she looked up into his. He leaned in close, and closed his eyes. But as their lips came within inches of each other, a loud, electronic horn blared, and the two teleported to opposite sides of the room. As they regained their bearings, they saw that a virtual window of glass had appeared in the middle of the room, with red words reading:
Underaged Intimacy Filter -sexual contact between minors is not allowed.
Your room has been locked for:
Underneath, there was an animated, digital timer, counting down from five minutes.
Page ran up to the glass, as did Mohamed. She banged against it with her fists, but it was useless, the virtual glass wasn’t subject to physics.
  “I love you, pumpkin!” she yelled.
  “I love you too, jeclahay,” he said.
Paige kissed the fingers of her right hand and pressed it against the glass. Mohamed did the same, pressing his own fingers onto the glass opposite her fingertips.
  “If I don’t see you again . . .” suddenly, Mohamed stopped and looked around. “Hold on.” He pressed his hands to his head, then disappeared for a second, replaced with the words “d3mb1Hab0n has left the chatroom” floating in mid-air.
  “Moh? Are you there!” Paige screamed. The floating words disappeared, to be replaced by Mohamed’s avatar again.
  “Dejen is coming, I have to go.”
  “Alright. Well, you go and you get better, do you hear me? I’ll be waiting for you.”
  “Okay. But if I don’t come back . . . I want you to be happy.”
  “I want to be happy with you!” she cried.
  “I do too . . . I hope I see you again, jeclahay. I love you.”
  “I love-” she said. Suddenly, his avatar disappeared, replaced with the words “d3mb1Hab0n has Gone Offline”, they hovered in the air for a moment before fading away. “you too . . .”
As she started at the empty room, he lip quivered and she closed her eyes.
  “Shut down!” she screamed, closing her eyes.
Shutting Down . . .

Paige sat up in the simulator, as the visor and controls receded, and she wiped her eyes. There were tears streaked all down her face and neck, hidden in the night’s darkness. It was almost midnight on her side of the world. She sniffled as she stood up and walked over to the desk beside the Sekaiko Virtüu‘s physical, user interface and grabbed her mobile phone. She unlocked the keypad, the screen lighting up her wetted face, but before she could open up her contacts list she realized that it was pointless. There was no one that she could call. She didn’t have his number, but even if she could find his number, no one able to answer could speak English. She dropped the phone on the desk and walked towards the balcony.
She felt so trapped, so helpless, she needed fresh air; so, after sliding open the balcony door, she walked out onto the dark terrace. The wind stirred her long, red hair as she looked out at the Long Beach seaport under the star-speckled sky and said to herself.
  “He’s coming back . . . I know he’s coming back.” but as she spoke, fresh tears fell down her cheeks and knelt down and wept.
As she did, she whispered his name, crying lovelorn tears for a boy that’d she’d never met; she was the picture of misery. After a few minutes, she stood up and looked out at the ocean, Eyes red and tears dried into salty lines on her face.
  “I’ll find you!” she screamed at the sea. “And I’m going to kiss you, even if I have to come all the way over there, myself . . .”

Drabble Rouser

I must admit, I'm a bit old-fashioned when it comes to the evolution of language. I'm not against it, per se, but I've found that most new language that enters the zeitgeist tends to be crap. The one that always comes to mind is "bouncebackability", which is the measure of one's ability to bounce back after going through some kind of difficulty or setback, particularly in sport. The fact of the matter is, we don't need this word, because it's a foolish word, and we already have the word "resilience", which is the same word, only more appropriate and less redundant. Or words like "pansexual", which is the same word as "bisexual" only structured so as to misgender transgendered people & further ignore bisexuality.
The same redundancy and ill-necessity can be observed in many new words, such as with the certification of nonce words; colloquial misspellings and a huge number of portmanteau neologisms (noob, vajazzle, frenemy, etc).
To me these words are little more than a joke, and the punchline is that you all have the vocabulary of a stoat, and if you spent less time trying to make up new words, you'd know that most of our old words suit perfectly fine for the task of communicating your thoughts, notions or intent.
On the other hand, I'm not a Frenchman, so I don't think we should refuse all linguistic change and retain an archaic, stagnant language. Rather, I like it when language evolves. But I prefer it when language grows outward rather than inward. Words like those mentioned above are just an etymological cul-de-sac, we already have words for these meanings, and they just leave language festering in its own ignorance to repeat the definitions of the past.

But when language grows, it gives us meanings that allow us to express concepts we otherwise couldn't. Words like "cisgender", which is relatively new, and now allows transgendered people a way of expressing their difference from the majority, without othering themselves. Also words like "gription", which allows people to distinguish between surface friction and surface traction caused by friction. Or, hell, even "jeggings", which are leggings which have a denim jeans texture printed on them, because leggings which have a denim jeans texture printed on them takes eleven more syllables to say.

Sometimes, language evolves to make it easier for people to express themselves, or allows intellectual headroom for more ideas. And in that sense, today's W.o.t.D. is one of my favourite, new words (or at least, new usages of a word) because it relates directly to my second favourite thing ever--stories. The Word of the Day is: 'DRABBLE'

Drabble /drabəl/ v.t. 1. To wet or dirty, especially by dragging through mud; draggle. ♦v.i. 2. To fish with a long line and rod: To drabble for barbels. ♦n. 3. A fictional story (typically fanfiction) that is exactly one hundred (100) words long. 4. A fictional story only a few hundred words long.

Of course, since I think fishing is about as boring as golf and getting muddy wouldn't make for a good blog post without pictures to illustrate, I'm more concerned with the definitions of drabble as a noun. I like the word for a few reasons, firstly because it's not too pretentious. If I named such a thing, I would use a word like centifiction or hectofable or something else that advertises my knowledge of Greek prefixes and Latin suffixes, but there's no need for such pomposity. Drabbles are meant to be fun, so the word itself is fun with only two syllables, easy to remember and with a meaning that's lots of fun.

One of the best things about a drabble is that if I were talking about feature length films or epic poetry of best-selling novels, then I couldn't just show them off, because it would outlast my self-imposed word limit. But since drabbles are so small, I can actually pop a few into my blog post here to show them off to their full potential.
But first, a little run down. See, a drabble is exactly 100 words, but there are a few more details. For one, although the rules can vary, as I was told them hyphenated words count as a single word, so ticket-seller is one word, as is upside-down and tête-à-tête, to make things a little easier for writers.
Another rule is that the title doesn't count in the 100-word count, but as a consequence it also should be no more than seven words, so that writers don't cheat and put more of the story in the title (although some people are more lenient on this rule).
And the final rule is that it has to be a story, and that is the hardest part. It has to tell someone's story, but only in 100 words. Let me give you an example. Here's one I wrote a little while ago, a funny little drabble I wrote in an online discussion using story prompts. The prompt for this had a picture of a cute, little hamster:

HAMSTER

Alarm bells ringing. Dogs barking, cats screeching. The sound of chaos, echoing hallways. A rodent listened quietly, from his prison. Suddenly a man bursts into the office; runs to the phone and hits speed-dial. The hamster licks his paws and cleans his whiskers as the man paces.

“This is Hartford, it’s an emergency . . . it’s the animals, they’re escaping! Someone broke all the locks! . . . I don’t know, it’s impossi- . . .”

Then he sees the cage. Defiantly, the hamster glares back at him, nose twitching.

I am a hamster, and my name is Justice.

Love it or hate it, that is a complete story. It's comedy and it's a story about a hamster that considers itself a superhero, called Justice. In a mere hundred words, you know the story, even though it's just one scene, because the rest of the story is implied. It's never mentioned that the hamster was the one that actually freed the other animals, but it's implied, and it's that implication which tells the story. I guess you could almost say that drabbles are like ergodic literature in that sense, because the reader is actually writing part of the story by extrapolating key plot elements in their mind to make the story bigger, but maybe I'm reading too much into it.
Sure, drabbles usually aren't a very big story, but it couldn't really be much bigger, I could adapt this drabble into a short story or novella about a heroic hamster, but that wouldn't help it. Brevity is the soul of wit, after all, and this is comedy. Here's another one I wrote, not for a challenge or anything, it's just an idea I had, and so I wrote it and trimmed it down to one hundred words:

WHEN PIGS FLY

It was a curious moment when the research team found the flying pig. For the creature was both perfectly formed for flight, and yet perfect for sausages and bacon. It was astounding.
However, the professor of the group didn't realize the creature was a manifestation of belief, when he foolishly said: “I don't believe it.”
In actual fact he did believe it, due to empirical data, but the flying pig heard him and couldn't believe he could say something like that. This then caused the pig to lose confidence and stop believing in itself, causing it to disappear into non-existence.

I have a habit of writing comedy with my drabbles, but they don't have to be. I'm not a hilarious comedian, but I tend towards comedy because comedy is easier when you're given such a small canvas. Because all you have to do is imply that something is a little unusual and it can be funny. something like:
  "If masturbating in public is so wrong, surely I would have been caught by now."
See, something short and silly and simple. It doesn't take long to be funny. But other genres and other emotions, they often take longer to evoke because you often need tone, atmosphere and language cues to portray them. But they're not impossible.

One of the shortest stories ever told was written as a sad story, and it's only six words in length.

For Sale: baby shoes, never worn.

It's not remembered who wrote it, but from that an entire tale is surmised, one of loss, grief and melancholy distribution of that which memorializes that loss.
But again, the story is all implied. You don't see the story, but we understand it through those six words alone, because our mind takes over where the words left off.
Another instance of a story being told in very few words is an article written by Benjamin "Yahtzee" Croshaw, analyzing the first piece of spoken dialogue in the horror game Amnesia: A Machine For Pigs, which consists of only five words:

"Daddy, please, don't kill me"

I'll leave the analysis up to Mr Croshaw, he  covers pretty much everything in his article.
Although, these aren't drabbles, they are instances of flash fiction (stories written in as few words of possible [less than ten]), but all of this is important when it comes to writing stories. Because even if you're writing a novel, you should know the tricks that are employed in this kind of fiction. Because they come in very handy. Often the first line of a story needs to be pregnant with the potential of your entire story, and the first paragraph can be the decider of whether or not your book gets placed back on the shelf, or instead taken to the front counter to be purchased.
If you already know how to write a story in one paragraph, it guarantees that you have the skills to catch a person's interest in your longer forms of story writing. Not to mention, there's no time to sit back and explain your story to people. So, generally, with drabbles you have to adhere to the "Show, Don't Tell" rule, because there's no time to tell, you just have to show it as you go along.

I have a tumblog, and something I would love is if I could get people to send me "questions" that are just drabbles. The "ask" submission page has a 500 character limit, so it can be done (and please feel free, if you want to), but my tumblr isn't that popular, so I figured I'd stick to this blog for a moment.
So, to all you writers out there - or those that like a challenge - I have a challenge for you: Write me a drabble in the comments section.
I know it's hard to write without inspiration, so here's your Story Prompt.
Three Words: Kitchen, Reflection, Murder.
I know that people hate Audience Participation, so I'll make you a deal. First of all, if no one responds with a drabble-comment, that just means that I win (that's how challenges work, right?) so I don't feel like a jackass for getting no responses.
Secondly, I'll give you a couple of tips on how to write a drabble.

Okay, so, what's the trick to a drabble? Well, for one, be aware of your word count. 100 words is actually quite a lot. Most sentences have, on average, ten words in them, so that's about ten sentences if you're writing regular prose. But you can split it in other ways.
Ten sentences is good for one scene. But if I wanted to have two scenes, I'd split it 50/50. Literally, 50 words each scene. It can vary, if you want to do a scene with an introduction thing but want to spend more effort on the second scene, then split it 30/70 or 20/80 if you want to. One time, I wrote a drabble for a contest, and I wanted it to cover five days, so I split the word count by five giving me 20 words to cover each of the five parts of the story - you'll know best what parts of your story need the most words to be written, so use them wisely.
100 words is a lot, so long as you know what you're writing about, just don't waste them.

That's the second thing, know what you're writing about. For instance, there's no time to mess about with character backstory, history of the setting or the details of a magic system - none of that. I mean, unless the story is one of those elements, but even then, this is about separating the wheat from the chaff. You should only keep what you need for the story and drop everything else.
It's a good idea to start in medias res. You needn't, it's not compulsory, but it tends to make it easier. So just keep in mind, what's the core of your story?
Like, for my Flying Pig story, I spent no time describing the setting, because the story isn't about the setting, it's about the pig. In that superhero hamster story, I never explained who Hartford was calling, because it doesn't matter. The story isn't about them.
So, find your core. And remember, some stories are too big for a drabble. If you come up with an idea but you're struggling to fit it into a story, it might be a good idea to abandon that drabble. Or, just do what my Beloved does, write a small part of that story as a drabble, then write it again as a longer story when you're ready.

Thirdly, proofreading is a precise surgery. Do you think that I write stories and they're magically one hundred words? Of course not. I wrote a little scene, and I either cut words out or put more in. But it's more than just writing a scene 117 words long and cutting off the last seventeen. This is why it's important to know what you're writing about, so you can only cut the fat when you slim the story down. Adverbs are a sometimes treat, use them sparingly (tee-hee); don't use two adjectives when one will do, this is where your vocabulary come in handy (e.g. why say morbid and melancholy when you could instead just say lugubrious?) & ask yourself for every sentence "Does this sentence help to tell this story?", if not, remove it.

Anyway, those are my tips. Now for a final send-off, I've written one last drabble. I wanted to write one just for you and also to test myself and see if I could write a drabble that wasn't a comedy. So here's a drabble that's a little bit sad, I hope you enjoy it.

RUNNING LATE

I shoved aside the other commuters as I ran onto the train. I was late for the end-of-financial-year meeting at work. The doors closed behind me, and I turned to see three faces.
The old woman just stared. She would miss her plane, and couldn't afford another ticket. She missed her daughter's wedding.
The young boy was distraught. He got home after sundown, and his father beat him for coming home late.
The man in the suit looked sad. He caught the next train to the hospital. His wife died at ten past five, and he arrived at five-fifteen.

I'm the Absurd Word Nerd, and I'm sorry for the delay, but my internet died on me; meanwhile, if you want to try out drabbling for yourself, you could try out writing for Alban Lake, they sometimes hold drabble contests, so you could get the chance to see your writing in print.
Until next time, I'm going to write a few more of these little drabbles, poems and stories, and if they're good enough, I'll share them with you here.

What it Means when She says 'Yes'

I struggled to write this post. When I first had the idea, I tried to find another one that I wanted to write about, but this is the one on my mind so I'm going to talk about it, but it wasn't easy. See, I consider myself quite open-minded and carefree, and I like to carry myself with an air of a suave, debonair literato; however, when it comes to sex - as in actual sex, not orientation, gender or sexism, but the actual "birds and bees" of it all - I can't help but revert to a blushing schoolboy, struggling to express my thoughts with genteelism, nervous awkwardness & giggling embarrassment. And sex is indeed the topic I want to talk about today, so I've had to stifle my giggles and act all serious-like.
The second reason I struggled with this blog post is because I am technically a virgin (I'm not inexperienced, but let's not go into detail) so trying to speak with any authority about sexual intercourse means that I'm speaking with the stifled authority of a loungechair scholar - all theory, no prac' - which means that there's a grand likelihood I might be ignored by those that think me ill experienced to talk about this subject. But please, hear me out, this isn't about the ins and outs of sex - if you'll forgive that terrible, terrible pun - but rather the notion of consent, which is something I am quite experienced in talking about.
The Word of the Day is: 'CONSENT'

Consent /kən'sent/ v.i. 1. To agree; assent; yield (followed by to or infinitive). ♦n. 2. Permission; assent; acquiescence; compliance. 3. Agreement in feeling, opinion, course of action, etc.: By common consent. 4. Age of Consent, the age at which consent to certain acts, especially sexual intercourse and marriage, is valid in law.

See, the reason I want to talk about consent and sex is because, it seems to me, that there aren't enough people that understand consensual sex. I know this because of the way I hear people talk about it, on the internet, in real life and on TV and the way people talk about men and women and sex. On the internet, I have seen my fair share of discussions about rape, and one thing that often comes up is the question of consent. For instance, something that is often brought up is what I call the "drunk girl" issue.
Basically, if a man picks up a woman at a bar while she's drunk and they go back home to have sex together, only for her to wake up the next morning and regret that act, is that rape?
Now, many, many feminists say "Yes", which is a point of contention and arguments against feminism because many other people say "No". The arguments for yes are complicated. Because it's about whether or not the consent is informed, there's question of capability and culpability & of course, there's the issue of violation, is it right if someone feels used and powerless?
The arguments against are generally simple: "But she said Yes, so it was consensual!"

Personally, I think the real issue is one of semantics and proof, and it should be taken on a case by case basis, because "having sex while drunk" is not really that different from having sex while sober, and regret alone isn't grounds for accusation.
However, this is just semantics because people often misunderstand 'regret'. Those that disagree with the rape accusations believe that, in this case, it means "oh, I wish I hadn't said yes"; when in this context, what it really means is "that's not what I asked for". And in that instance, it is rape.

I have a perfect example of it, however this is a true story about sexual assault, and it can be quite triggering (as it recounts, in detail, a sexual assault; and I'm going to talk about this, skip to the next block of text if you want to skip this.) but it's worth discussing in detail, because I believe it brings to light the major issues with consensual sex. In response to one man believing rape is a "privilege", one woman recounted her story of consenting to sex with a long-time friend, and being sexually assaulted as a result. It's a painful story, but the point is, this is a case of a woman that consented to sex with a man, and as a result he took advantage of her. During the act, she fell unconscious, and while she was unconscious her partner hurt her to the point of serious bleeding; she had to go to hospital for surgery, nearly lost her life and was permanently scarred as a result.
Now, in this instance, while the woman said 'yes', it's undeniable that she was assaulted, because she was devastatingly hurt from the experience. Although she said 'yes', she never said 'I would like to fall unconscious and almost bleed to death'. Sure, she consented to sex, but she didn't consent to what happened to her, she didn't consent to aggravated sexual assault, hospitalization, trauma, fear & inner scars.

See, this is the thing that bugs the hell out of me. People don't get it. When a woman consents to having sex, she's not surrendering the 'keys to the kingdom'; she's not saying "my body is yours now, do with it what you want". When a woman says "yes", she is generally saying: "I think it would be enjoyable for us to have sex, and I would like to try that together."
Now, I say "woman" because that's the issue at hand, that's the scenario that's often brought up and as a straight man, this is what I understand from my experience. However, I believe the same is true of men, and I believe it's true of every sexuality, such as gay, straight or bi. When people say they want to have sex, it's because they want to enjoy it, we want to do that with someone to experience that pleasure.
So I don't understand this disconnect. Why would any person believe that they want to have sex for pleasure, but their partner doesn't need that? Why would men believe that a woman having an unpleasant experience, one they can't remember and would not have consented to sober, is something that's okay?
And most importantly, why would anyone believe that having sex is more important than having informed consent?

I have honestly heard the argument "For men, sex is a release, they need that release, because it's a biological imperative, so they can't be blamed for going too far."
I don't want to go into a whole rant here (although I easily could), but the matter is simple: That is just sexist, and 'getting off' is not more important than consent. The fact of the matter is, a desire to experience orgasm does not and will never give anyone the right to circumvent another person's rights.
If you don't understand that, try having a jerk instead of being one.
This is what feminists mean when we talk about "sexual entitlement". This is a prime example of Rape Culture (or what I prefer to call Complicit Culture), and it's why I believe that we need to have better sexual education.

In that same post about Complicit Culture, I said that we needed to educate people about sex better, as well as educate people about relationships, because currently, we don't have that. And we keep getting it wrong.
In so many movies movies, when people fall in love, they have sex not long after. For most romance movies or romance sub-plots, the climax - if you'll forgive the terrible, terrible pun - of the storyline is when the loving couple has sex. It happens all the time:
In Mr & Mrs Smith, we know the main characters are on the same side because they have sex mid-action scene; in Titanic, despite only knowing one another for three days total, we “know” Rose truly loved Jack because they did it in the car & even in the award-winning sci-fi romance Her, the relationship between the main characters is considered legitimate only after the two have a sexual encounter.
It's not portrayed as a next step towards intimacy or a way of becoming closer - it's presented as the only way to legitimize love, and the stepping stone between friends and lovers.
I understand why they do it, it's a mixture of old-fashioned "consummate the marriage" values, confused with "sex sells", but it portrays a skewed ideal of love.

Another example of this is with "the baseball system". You may have heard some iteration; the version I heard was, "First Base" is kissing and cuddling, "Second Base" is fondling (under the shirt), "Third Base" is heavy petting (under the knickers) and "All the Way" is sex itself. I like the notion of this, in that there's a gradual progression towards sex that goes slowly, it's a nice idea. However, this isn't treated as a guide to going slow, rather it's treated like a scorecard.
  "Second base! I am only two steps away from sex!"
So I think the attitudes are wrong. Because sex shouldn't be a goal. I know that's a bit of a shocking statement to some people, so allow me to repeat it: Sex shouldn't be a goal.
I prefer to think of sex as a way of expressing intimacy and trust. Because yes, people in love have sex. But it's not because they're in love, it's because they are attracted to one another, and each trusts the other to provide them with intimacy and pleasure.

Maybe it's a little old-fashioned, but I think that sex is meant for two people in love. That's not to say that I disapprove of people that have casual sex with multiple partners without any of the lovey-dovey stuff. It's not wrong, so long as it's safe, fun, healthy & consensual.
But when we're talking about sex between partners (or potential partners), love or no, trust in each participant is more important than anything else. So, the three keys to good sex are: communicate, communicate, communicate.
Love and intimacy are about knowing your partner, so the rules of sex for everyone are very simple.

"If you can't talk to your partner about sex, honestly, then you shouldn't have it."

- The Absurd Word Nerd

The biggest reason why people get taken advantage of, or have regret or have unpleasant sexual experiences is because people don't know what they're doing. They don't know what they want and they don't know what their partner wants and so they make assumptions. Or, they have no respect for the person they're with, so they don't bother to find out what to do, they just don't care.
But with a simple shift in attitude, rather than treating sex as the goal, all you have to do is talk to your partner beforehand, the goal should be to bond with your partner. Or, if you're going the casual route, the goal is the mutual satisfaction of both parties, so either way, communication is key.

The real issue at hand is that there's nowhere we can turn to for this kind of knowledge or advice, none that are made public anyway. Sure, we have education about the mechanics, Slat A goes in Slot B - pregnancy occurs. But sex is still so taboo, we don't give people a chance to learn how to do it right, and I'm not just talking about how to have the most fun. For starters, think about this, we don't teach homosexuals how to have sex. You can be homophobic all you want, but - just like straight teenagers - you'll never stop homosexual teens from having sex if they want to. Most of them are left out to dry, and a lack of education on sex is exactly what lead to stuff like the AIDS epidemic in the first place. And, as to consent, the topic at hand, we don't teach people how to respect their partners. All we ever get on the subject of how to treat your partner is “when a man and a woman are married and in love”, which is so outdated it's laughable.
For those that don't fit that mould we tell them “don't do it” or “just wear a condom”, but nothing else because we don't want to talk about it. We don't want to talk about the important stuff.
I know what I know about this topic because I've inferred from the negative,  I've worked backwards from hearing these tragic stories from women that feel violated - even when their partner had consent, and had no ill will towards them. I've heard stories of thousands of men complaining because their partners don't want to have sex, and not understanding why. I've seen lots of questions on forums asking when is  the best time to have sex, how to seduce someone into sex, what it means when their partner bleeds, all of that - we just don't know.
So to learn, people turn to poor advice like pornography (not a fair example of real intimacy); erotica, like Fifty Shades of Gray, which portrays an unhealthy BDSM relationship & hearsay, like the notion that “gay sex” is always sodomy, which is absolute nonsense.
Or, worst of all, we turn to other people like us. And, in the case of men, we turn to other men, and we talk from our own experiences, which are uneducated. We don't understand that our partners might feel differently towards it than us, we don't understand what they expect of us & as I've already shown, we don't always understand what “informed consent” means.

The bit that's kind of sad is that we turn everywhere for advice but inward. If you want to know how best to treat your partner, why aren't you asking your partner? If you want to know when your partner wants to have sex, ask her (or him). If you want to know what causes pain and how to be gentle; if you want to know if it's okay to try something different; if you want to know what's exciting & you feel uncomfortable about sex, talk to the one you're with.
I know it's embarrassing, it's meant to be, it's a deeply personal thing. But, if you can't talk about sex with your partner, then you don't really trust them. And if you don't trust them and you can't be honest with them, why are you with them at all?

And that's the real truth: When she says “Yes” to sex, what she means is, “I trust you”. That's a privilege, as well as a responsibility. And as I've explained already, if you're not sure what you're supposed to be doing, all you have to do is ask.

I hope that one day men and women will understand “consent” is more to do with respect than permission. Until then, I'm the Absurd Word Nerd, and I want to be the first to say, I am not an expert on sex, that's is why I want better education, so that you don't have to rely on people like me to teach what should be common sense.