Although my former domain, lkvy.com, had been killed off by 2009, I switched to LiveJournal for a few years. When I realized that the last of my friends had abandoned their LiveJournal accounts, I started using Flickr as a photo journaling platform, adding titles and descriptions to every photo uploaded. That is until Flickr changed their layout to hide the titles and descriptions. I agree that the current layout is more aesthetically pleasing, but it was hiding all the work I had put into curating my life. Fuck!
Oh, and, despite uploading atrocities like this, my Flickr collection has more than half a million views. It’s baffling. But! I’m finally uploading the rest of my 2019 Patagonia trip photos. I think all the photos from the Valdes Peninsula portion of the trip are up now. So, you can ohh and ahh at them after you read something I wrote on my LiveJournal eight years ago.
We are the Champions has taught me that if you’re a yoyo legend, you could monetize your face by printing it on t-shirts to sell online, and your merch shop would be so popular that things sell out!
I would not want to see my face on someone’s shirt; thus, I won’t be picking up this under-appreciated hobby. For royalties, though, I could accept my face being printed on underwear, assuming I won’t ever have to see it. Do whatever you want with my face as long as it’s out of my face.
I don’t know when I’ll receive the new bike or whether I’ll have all the parts ready to build it once it arrives, but I thought it’d be fun to post my Masi for sale online and watch the fish nibble. I don’t see myself doing any major rides until the spring, and I’d still have my Ridley.
Unfortunately for potential buyers, bargaining with me is like bargaining with The Soup Nazi.
Why do people think I should lower my asking price because the bike isn’t exactly what they were looking for? Want a bike with disc brakes? Then you’re looking at the wrong ad! I don’t go to a coffee shop, buy a cookie and go, “Actually, I really wanted a donut. Could you give me a discount on this cookie to compensate for my disappointment?”
NO MASI FOR YOU!
This bike is more cultured than you.
I already need a break from those people, so I’ve deleted the ad. I’m personally using the “you get what you pay for” approach with a handbuilt frame, custom paint job, and individual components so that my bike will be exactly how I want it. The Horse will make the Masi redundant, but I still love the Masi enough that I’d sooner keep it than sell it below my asking price to some annoying tit.
When I sold a bong via Craigslist years ago, I had no qualms about selling it to a teenager as she was prompt and polite. I hope she’s had wonderful times with that bong and that it didn’t lead to a life of indecency or asthma. All that’s to say, I’m just not cash-hungry.
In further impending news, the landlord has requested entry to inspect the bedroom window, as the seals might’ve gotten damaged from the neighbouring fire. This means someone’s going to see the hunk of plastic (climbing training board) above the doorframe and think, “What the fuck?” Then they’ll paddle us, as landlords are wont to do, for Swiss cheesing their building.
I may provide distraction by placing nudes along the baseboard. Or does it matter? The melted window seals are the issue here.
To polish off today’s post, I have a Throwback post that was requested by Gator after she re-read the one I posted two weeks ago. Although I hadn’t edited any of the previous Throwback posts, this one made me feel embarrassed 17 years late. I don’t think I like who I was pre-2005, but I’m glad Gator did and that I didn’t die inside her gothy 1984 Grand Prix.
A week ago, I composed the most uncomfortable email I’ve ever had the displeasure of sending. This has been the year of awkward family confrontations. My grandparents were the recipients; in this email, I confessed–with attempted tact–that I had disowned their son. I was squirming with discomfort after I hit send, then I kept squirming for seven days because that’s how long it took for them to respond.
During that time, I asked myself the questions I thought they’d ask so that I could best prepare my answers. I believed I could role-play my grandparents in my head, which is impossible because they’re so old that Opa told me how he no longer sees Napoleon as a figure from a long time ago. Yet, I still obsessed over my grandparents’ anticipated response.
I considered pointing out that my siblings and I all moved out long before we were legal adults. I’d perhaps point out that we also all lived far away from our parents at one or more times in our lives, and it wasn’t to pursue a post-secondary education nor a career. I could mention how kids don’t put a thousand-kilometre buffer between their loving parents willy-nilly.
Also, I was to point out how it would make the most sense that, up until now, I was the one who appeared to have the healthiest relationship with Dad, especially considering how I’m also the child who’s lived outside his area code for the longest. After all, he’d been mostly wholesome during our epistolary relationship.
What disappoints me the most is how I didn’t realize the problem with him sooner.
For one week, I dealt with this all-consuming worry while things were slow at work, not granting my brain any distractions. I drank bottomless green tea and held back tears. A few days ago, I asked one of my superiors if I could help elsewhere, knowing that I’d be tucked away in the basement, out of public view. The list of people who have not seen me cry at work is… short. Who wants to be known as the person who cries at work?
At last, my phone notified me of a new email in Outlook from Opa. My heart started pounding. I had spent the week setting myself up to expect the worst. Was all that mental preparation going to pay off?
