Twenty-seven

It feels like I'm living in a box when at work or at home, wearing blinders when I'm actually outside. Yesterday's road trip was, really nice. At one point Z, J and I were sitting on top of a high, rocky hill overlooking the sea at sunset, and there were clear-cut sunbeams slicing through the heavy clouds right over the water. It was a moment in time I hope to never forget.

"My mother used to say that when the light shines through like that, God is talking to someone," J said.

I like J's mom.

Tim Minchin's Hilarious Insights on Life

Twenty-six

At work, I often come across some pretty shitty copy written by businessmen whose mother tongue is not English and whose appreciation for the rules of grammar is as negligible as their choppy grasp of the language. That being said, I have never had the misfortune of editing copy that is so warped, so senseless, so weak it practically crumbles under its own weight, as I have over the past few days while helping a friend proofread his LGBT e-magazine's articles.

Why? Why do you write if you clearly can't string a single coherent sentence together? I get so frustrated working on pieces like this. It takes time out of my life that I'd rather be spending reading slash, gaming, being chewed and shredded by the Flatmate, taking out the trash, vegetating in bed, ANYTHING. Just not this. Not this.

But here I am, editing article after article of utter crap. There are good pieces in there, of course. Many of which I've enjoyed reading. But it's those handful of pointless quagmires that are making life miserable at the moment. I've tried recommending scrapping them, but apparently "they're important".

Sure. Whatever. FML.