quote:Originally posted by His Life And Crimes: Either of them are welcome, really - all are welcome! - well, everyone who isn't just going to pop over to troll for outrage by being a terrible cockfarmer.
Mmm. See, the thing is what you call 'trolling for outrage', I just thought was sending myself up; playing the idiot, but you chose to apply specific readings in order to justify feelings of antagonism, like you were really defensive. I dunno. I thought it was obviously a joke directed at me; you assumed I was trying to wind you all up. Also, I suspect the whole mess originated because people didn't actually know what The Story of O was.
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Well, I may have misjudged you, Thorn. I think my thoughts were "I started the day trying to be nice about TMO and not get the thread about it on Barbelith shut down, and look where it's got us!", 'cos I thought this was another "Let's wind people up and then say how easy it is to wind them up!" moment.
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not...
You reached over with your hand and knocked my Jap over
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I think we have learned that on the internet it is easy to get the wrong end of the stick.
quote:Originally posted by Dr. Benway: Fish who had been gone for YEARS before that. Was Ben a direct result of Roygate? I assumed it was a more general lack of enthusiasm as his authority waned. It was probably like, Kovacs had got in so much trouble and caused so much distrust over time that he wasn't able to interact properly here anymore. He needed to start again without the kind of taint that he had developed. As a result, norton lost interest, as he had got off on believing himself to be in some way the intellectual nemesis of kovacs, or at least, he was gratified by being around him. With norton gone, ben lost a toy, and more than that, a means of maintaining moral and intellectual leadership. And all three posters had seperate groups who only really posted when they were shielded by one corner of the triangle.
...is the bollocks. Benway's got a talent for that, hasn't he? Well done, Benway. (APPLAUSE)
quote:Originally posted by New Way Of Decay: The thing I don't understand was that any suspicion was treated with some kind of theatrical disgust...
...is absolutely true. It is the reason I still believe that Roygate was a hoax. Much as I liked Roy. Much as I liked and admired kovacs. It still keeps me up nights and I don't see why the question marks in my head should cause anybody outrage or ill-ease.
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When I start my new! exciting! job which lets me look at the internet in work time I will be able to post during the day! Then you will all rue the day you asked people to post more, mwahahah.
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I don't want to post on Barbelith becaue I'm not anywhere near to being an expert on any subject whatsoever. Y'know, I think I'm quite perceptive, but it doesn't strike me as the kind of place where a deep understanding of human emotion is either necessary or encouraged.
Also I can be a terrible **** at times and I don't want to bring about complete rejection over a mere misunderstanding. i just couldn't cope with that right now.
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quote:Originally posted by Ringo: I don't want to post on Barbelith becaue I'm not anywhere near to being an expert on any subject whatsoever. Y'know, I think I'm quite perceptive, but it doesn't strike me as the kind of place where a deep understanding of human emotion is either necessary or encouraged.
No, you'll find that each and every one of us has been upgraded, Cyberman-style, and views that sort of thing solely in terms of weakness. It's non-perceptive, anti-emotional experts only on Barbelith, I'm afraid.
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Nah to be honest I just think it's far too much effort. I'm light hearted at best and I think that Barbelith kind of expects a little bit more from its members than I'm really prepared to give. I suppose if you enjoy it enough then you'll automatically put in the effort like people used to around here, but I just don't have it in me to make that kind of a personal investment to be honest. Plus I'm happy enough with the forums I use at the moment, there's not really much that's lacking aside maybe from speaking freely with people who share my nerdy passion for driving.
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Why don't we all take a week off from TMO and go and post over there? Just for a week. And we try, we really try... but not too hard, in case they get the wrong impression. But hard enough. One week. I'll see you ever there. My name is 'London'. I used to matter.
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I mean, everybody says 'I'm happy with the forums I post with right now!!!!!!!!!:DDD!!!111" like that's not a problem. Hello? ForumS? Forum plural??? Fora???? I remember there were threads about notions of community-infidelity whenever anyone even raised the notion of peeking at another board (unless purposes of said peeking were either mockery (Handbag) or trolling (faintinggoats, etc). Now it's seen as totally fucking not a problem to be utterly board-polygamous, and frankly... I feel betrayed.
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You know that feeling when you arrive at the office party an hour after everyone has left? The taxi came too late; some unlooked for family disaster kept you back? You know you are too late as you enter the empty building but you go into the room anyway, to where it all happened, without you.
It's all there; the evidence of a warm, chattering, human gathering; now cold. The tattered paper streamers draped across the picture frames. The sagging balloons displaying the first sad crinkles across their once bright tautness in the light from the street lights outside. The rank smell of stale beer and that elusive and puzzling smell of dirty socks. The stinky little condom curled up and flaccid in the corner by the photocopier.
Your hand reaches to turn the light on and then falters. No, you don't want to cast a bright light on the sordid remains of what had been a fest you are too late for. Slowly you reach out for the door handle and carefully you pull the door to. You turn and walk away. Behind you in the room, unseen, a torn piece of paper streamer detaches itself from a light bulb and flutters to the floor.
-------------------- A day without laughter is a day wasted. In memory of Alastair Posts: 1936
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You stroll towards the lift and jab irritably at the button with your index finger. Some feet below, mechanics whir in reply. It doesn't take long. There's hardly anyone in the building at this time of night. A couple of security guards, a Portuguese cleaner, polishing the bowl out of which Amy eats her muesli each morning. The bowl is clean of course. Amy washes it every day. You know this because Amy's routine is as familiar to you as your own. Entirely unaware of your surveillance, she'll shake out the breakfast cereal in the kitchen then pour the milk (red top, skimmed) into the bowl while she's in motion, crossing the office to her desk. A spoon from the green Tupperware box in her top drawer, a fresh plastic spoon every day, discarded after serving its purpose. She leaves the milk bottle, opened, just in front of her dictaphone and concentrates on her breakfast. Amy eats with a teaspoon, lots of small mouthfuls shovelled into her tight, letterbox mouth in a half spooning/half whisking motion. Some people would probably find it lacking in manners but to you, well, it's just one of the quirks you love about Amy. After the meal, the spoon goes straight into the waste-paper basket, the bowl is cleaned at the kitchen sink. You can only see her legs from your desk but you know what she's doing. You've hovered in there often enough, pretending you like your Earl Grey brewed to the point of stewing. Red hot water, too much washing up liquid. The incredible nape of her neck, its wisps of hair. Her back in that backless thing she wears. Christ you want to touch it. To press your cheek against it. Jesus. More red hot water. Then cold water. Rinsed with cold water. She checks the temperature with a little finger. The water has to run ice cold for the rinsing. Only ice cold water will suffice. Even if it takes an age to cool down, the rinse must be ice cold. Dried with kitchen towel, never the office tea-towel. Polished, once dry, with a final sheet of kitchen roll. The remaining milk poured down the sink and the bottle tossed in the rubbish bin. Why does she do that? Why doesn't she use the milk the following morning? Why doesn't she leave it in the fridge? Why not share it with the rest of the office for their teas and coffees? You've never asked. God her legs look good when she leans over the sink like that. You've never asked her why she pours it away. You've never even spoken to her. You've never told her that her obsessive cleanliness is charming to you. You've never told her that you love her. Somewhere in your open plan office upstairs, a Portuguese cleaner with a complexion the colour of uncooked sausage meat, and a wart like a half-eaten wine gum pasted into the pinkish curtains of her jowls, goes about her business. She hums the first few miserable bars of a fado folk tune, takes up the dirty rag she uses to wipe out the ashtrays and mop up the piss under the toilet seats and smears filth around the clean cereal bowl of the woman you love. She does it every night. She isn't taking time out to use the lift, this cleaner. And neither are the security guards. They're too busy waiting for the next instalment on the CCTV. No one is using the lift at this time of night. It's with you in moments. Just long enough for a seed of doubt to blossom. Something isn't right. You blink into the open lift, your reflection blinking back from its mirrored walls. A ping and the doors close. The lift remains on your floor. It isn't going anywhere. It has no other appointments, nowhere to be. Your reflection waits behind those doors, available at the touch of a button. But you don't press the button. No one presses the button. Suddenly you're back at the door to the office. You don't remember walking there. Your hand hovers over the handle but a voice inside the room stops you. It's her voice. Amy's voice. But...oh. Oh.
"It's OK," her voice says. "It's OK, that was the lift. He's gone."
The security guards don't even notice you leave the building. Marty, the young one is laughing at something on the CCTV monitors. The other one, you forget his name but he looks like Thomas Hearns when he was a welterweight, is speaking – "Fucking hell, look at the size of him! You're gonna be walking like John Wayne tomorra girl."
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