This is a busy week.
Tomorrow, I have forms to print, check, and compile, and more forms to ensure get delivered to me on time.
Wednesday, I need to post those same forms to the US embassy because I work late on Tuesdays and can’t make it to the post office.
On Thursday, I need to print the manuscript for the first draft of my book because it’s the only time I can get away with printing 150 pages on the college’s dime; I also need to collect a certified copy of my birth certificate, again for the visa.
On Friday, I’m planning to work a little more on a short Twine thing that I’ve been making for Arden’s birthday (that you will never, ever see), and I’ll also be beginning an inventory of most of the things in my room that aren’t books or clothes. You know. So I know what I’m leaving behind.
It’s only struck me recently that I am actually nervous regarding my upcoming medical exam - not because I think I’ll somehow fail, or because of the sheer fucking expense, but because as part of it I need at least three vaccinations, and I don’t like pain. Well. I don’t like the pain associated with vaccinations. Best to cut this train of thought short.
On the heels of the release of Grand Theft Auto V, it’s hit me how little I want to play it because of how my ideology’s shifted in the last couple of years. Maybe, also, part of it comes down to the fact that I now follow video games journalism, which is a fucking joke at best and harbours truly evil people at worst. (Not that good people aren’t video games journalists. They just tend to get fired for being right, or work independently.)
I think this has maybe been a month for meltdowns tied to not being able to process complex thought.
Case in point: GTA V is either a masterpiece or a shitshow, but rarely an ugly concept shrouded in a technical wonder. (I would say that reviews challenge this notion, given that a few highlight the game’s glaring misogyny, but those reviews have still given scores of nine or higher. Apparently being genuinely unpleasant doesn’t matter as long as you get particle effects right.)
And here’s another: this stupid, stupid notion that Miley Cyrus is somehow either a) a representative for an oversexualised generation of mindless morons (despite her latest video being shot by a middle-aged man), or b) the actual Destroyer of Worlds, summoned by some ancient prophecy predicting the total breakdown of society as we know it.
The problem with doing this sort of thing is that you first get the backlash of people claiming that no, actually, Miley Cyrus is literally Jesus; second, everyone misses the more subtle problems with the video for Wrecking Ball - that it depicts an extremely young woman as the willing participant to her own objectification as part of a wider culture that generally doesn’t have any problem with doing exactly the same.
And even then, the moment someone says “willing participant” Miley Cyrus either becomes vacuous and stupid or cynical and malicious. Even down to the wire, people hate thinking in shades of grey. Blame E.L. James for that one.
All this said, this might be coming from somewhere altogether more personal. My personal life has had a few bumps lately - without going into much detail, I’ll say that the process of applying for a visa and gearing up to move to another country can throw your heartstrings into a banjo in a bluegrass metal covers group. And maybe that’s made me a little moodier, and a little more susceptible to seeing the worst in people.
Still trying not to, though. No-one can fault me for trying.

I am watching Breaking Bad this evening and a show like this stands in stark contrast to the current furore over a girl barely out of her teens stripping down to her underwear (like an endless line of girls barely out of their teens before her) and singing a shitty, shitty song (like an endless line of shitty, shitty songs before it) on stage at an event that purports to celebrate music videos but has instead been at the mercy of corporate bullshit for at least a decade.

Breaking Bad is a ridiculous show. New Mexico is the perfect setting for the heightened reality within which it operates, and it adds this sheen of weirdness that makes the narrative neatness plausible. But it’s valuable watching this sort of thing because the things that are front and centre are motives, aspirations, the quirks of each individual character. Something insane like this show makes me think about my own thoughts, how I view the world, that sort of thing. It’s fiction doing its job.

You don’t get this sense with things like the VMAs. I was going to put “media portrayals of real people”, but that’s far too wide - there are plenty of documentary filmmakers, and podcast hosts, and so on that do a pretty good job of representing real people. But there again is the fact that a single stupid act by a stupid 20-year-old girl, backed up by dozens of people older than her, sparks a frenzy of blog posts and news articles and GIFs (oh, the fucking GIFs. Seriously. I have seen so many, and I do not follow the sort of people who would usually post this) that burns quickly but also absurdly brightly.

On the news this morning, there was all but concrete confirmation that chemical weapons have been used in Syria, and that nearly 3,500 people are currently being treated for related injuries. If confirmed, the use of those chemical weapons would violate the so-called “red line” President Obama mentioned when he first started responding to calls for involvement in the conflict. Which isn’t to say that the US will step into yet another warzone - just that they might, and that if they do it should be cause for concern.

And okay, this is heavy stuff, and an equation of this with a story about how you can probably see Miley Cyrus’s anus if you look close enough is disingenuous at best. And I’m not even making a point about “high” and “low” culture - because mindless lightness is something I need from time to time. I know as much as anyone else that constant immersion in heady, intellectual, pretentious stuff doesn’t make for a balanced outlook.

But stories like that don’t feel light to me. They feel hollow and cynical. I don’t come out of this feeling uplifted - the best I get is a smug sense of satisfaction that by 20, I had a better grip on my life than she did. Honestly, the strongest thing I feel is pity and loathing - pity for a girl who has never had to hear “no” during some crucial years of development, and loathing for the people who never said it.

There’s this image of Will Smith and his kids gawping at Cyrus’s performance in horror, because it’s a glib way to characterise that shitshow. A sort of “what am I watching” moment for everyone to connect with. Never why. That question’s far too scary.