Let me paint you a picture. It's a pretty dark one, so parental guidance is advised. Of course, there are some things that children simply cannot know. People whose intellect is still growing get huffy when they're told this. There's about as much we can do about that as we can do about being called a brain, getting told to wear spectacles, and then getting cross-questioned as to why we show no symptoms of attraction to a perfectly adequate face.
We cannot tell the difference between those who are still growing and those who are deliberately resisting the getting of a fucking clue.
But so that you may see that this isn't the kind of pointing hand that may be described as unidirectional, I might have started this website twenty years ago, which I cannot say I didn't receive a plain clue or a fucking one, because I recall that it was suggested to me, but not when. But I had lost my self-confidence. So that instead of stating in plain language that I don't believe what every fucking Tom, Dick, and Harry believes, but I still don't call myself a Christian, and thereby save myself the hassle of having to tell every fucking Mary, Jane, and Sue the difference between lessons well learned and the teaching of them, I shut up fucking tight.
Very, very, very fucking tight.
That meant people continued fiddling with brushes for the feeling it gave them. Which is none of my business except when it comes down to imputations that we as programmers must do something to reduce the carbon footprint of our toys so that users--meaning non-programmers--can sit all day in front of a computer giving themselves a feeling.
It's risky business. Someone might have an idea which is not entirely new but they think they'll be able to do a better job; the idea might suggest that their heart is in the right place for being devoted, if not to the mother country, to the primordial continent. But the easels and the brushes and the paint must be imported. And programmers see the word canvas fucking everywhere. I better mention that I met the devil a very long time ago, and she couldn't make up her mind how best to enslave me.
True story: I was fooled into believing that I was a husband.
Do not allow a woman to convince you that she's everything you ever wanted. She might be faced with having to be your serving wench, who praises her husband for being able to work out how rectangles appear when reflected off the surface of a sphere, or otherwise to just be a serving wench who has a husband trying to clarify what is and what is not technological progress.
When do I get to hear your voice?
Someone got me interested in history and memory loss without using words such as destitution and impoverishment.
I would like it if someone made me a cooked meal. I would refuse it if someone told me I had to rate the cook other than by their culinary prowess.
My advisors don't know how to leave me alone: it drives me to drink. You think I want someone in my house telling me about the mistakes I've made? Or am making?
Soon after I completed my last university exam a little voice in the back of my head said, 'why not write to inspire African children?'
Which I did, but I was somewhat lacking in the experience department. I took photos which I might have posted on a website; they were intended to demonstrate that experience we can't gain all by ourselves is only the experience of misery.
But, while I was watching the road carefully, I wasn't watching it at all, if that makes sense.