I turned tail and ran. Some may think that cowardly, but I knew I had to warn the rest of the flat! I managed to make it back to my computer safely and quickly jotted out a message to Belle.

“The ants are attacking! Too many to hold back! Request backup!”

I prayed that she was awake.

I took a moment to remember my last confrontation with the ants. It had not been that long ago, less than a year in fact; yet it felt like a lifetime. I marched determinedly into the bathroom and grabbed my trusty spray bottle. I might not be able to defeat them, but I’d take as many of the son’s of bitches down with me as I could!

It was brutal.

I sprayed the stove top, and when they ran to hide under the elements, I turned them all on. Nothing quite compares to the satisfying smell of roasting ants. The waves of attackers were endless though, and my already tired body was threatening to give into exhaustion.

Then I spotted it. Their line of reinforcements.

I followed the line, frantically spraying every ant dead. Finally I came to a large huddled group, maintaining control of the breach that allowed them through the walls defending our lands. I knew what I had to do.

Without regard for my safety, I charged forward. Bottle spraying, a war cry echoing from my throat. It was a short and vicious battle, and in the end I emerged victorious. I trapped the breech should they ever attempt to re-use it, and returned to my room.

The following morning I received news that Belle had encountered a scout force in the kitchen, and had defeated them soundly. There was also mention of a cockroach being found in her bedroom hiding under her iPod. What nefarious schemes it had for the device I do not know, but the idea that our two greatest enemies may have allied continues to concern me even now.

It was during my breakfast patrol of the kitchen that I discovered a second invasion force. Though not as large as the first, they had evidently learned from their prior mistakes as they spread out far and wide across the bench top. Rejuvenated after my sleep, I leaped straight in to the fray. The battle was quick and decisive, though exhausting. And as the final few ants attempted to retreat through the now spray-soaked crack they had entered through, I called out a taunt. “Give your Queen my regards!”

If this is war, then let history show that we only did what was necessary to protect our own. Tonight I am to be dispatched on a mission of the utmost importance. Poison. Poison from an expert apothecary, targeted specifically at the vile fiends we fight to protect our home from. The ants have a reputation for scavenging and raiding food during their invasions, and Belle has developed a cunning strategy that will be their end. We will leave poisoned food for them to find.

Some may consider it a barbaric move on our part. But we were pushed to this. We did not start this war, but we WILL end it.

It ends tonight! May god give them the mercy I shall deny them.

Belle Kelsall had been an online friend of mine since around a decade ago, and it was only last month that we met for the first time when I moved to Auckland to be her flatmate.

Despite her many warnings that she was an awful friend in real life, and that she was a bitch and that living with her would be hell, she has been nothing but awesome to me since I got here. Picking me up from the bus stop, she didn’t make a single comment about how hellish I looked (and after 2 hours sleep and a 9 hour bus trip, I did look hellish). She immediately lent me her PSP, and then in less than a week had retrieved her old laptop to lend that to me. She’s been incredibly thoughtful and giving (if a bit awkwardly distant) the whole time.

Couple weeks ago I ran into some problems with Studylink and WINZ. It’s a long story, and most of you already know it so I wont go in to details here, but the short of it is that I was $20 short for rent that week. Belle covered it (in spite of the fact she herself is a poor student aswell). The following week the issue apparently hadn’t resolved yet, and there was a bill due. Belle covered my half. That thursday night Belle bought me a pizza (which is good because I was kinda short on food). This week? Well, it looks like the problem STILL isn’t resolved, I’m borrowing money from my parents to pay my share of the rent. And Belle is patiently waiting with a look that says ‘It’s fine, i know it’s not your fault. But if you could pay me back as soon as possible that’d be great’ on her face (well, she’s not home right now, I’m only guessing) while she has a series of bills and expenses of her own that have gotta be straining her finances to the limit. And still, in spite of all that, she’s being all kinds of understanding.

I was all prepared for Belle to be completely different when I met her in real life. And she kinda is. But where I had feared that she might turn out to be an awful person, she’s actually a much nicer, sweeter, and more down to earth person than I ever could have expected.

In any case. I just wanted to say thank you to her. For her understanding, her patience, and her trust.

Belle Kelsall, I am lucky to have you as a friend.

PS: If anyone wants to buy my virginity, asking price is $73

PPS: You can find a link to Belle’s blog in the right hand column. I find it an interesting and entertaining read, but maybe that’s just because I know her.

As we were walking out she turned towards me and queried “Do you have a foodtown card?”

I simply shrugged and responded “Nope.”

Apparently unsatisfied with this answer, she gestured at the wall “Go grab an application form, they’re over there.”

I glanced where she was pointing and frowned “Nah, I’m alright.”

Before the words had even finished leaving my mouth she had started walking towards the wall where the forms were, an exasperated expression on her face. I turned to follow her progress “Wait.. why are you.. you don’t have to… why would I want a foodtown card?”

She thrust the form into my hands and turned on her heel, briskly departing the store with me trailing in her wake. “This is a posh area, so everything is expensive” she explained.

Apparently I’m getting a foodtown card.

The title is somewhat misleading, as I really don’t have a passion for pashin’. A recent blog post by Belle got me to thinking “What AM I passionate about?” and I was a bit dismayed when nothing came to mind. My dismay was furthered when I asked a few friends and they didn’t have any idea either. One went so far as to say “I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you be passionate about anything.”

Were they right? Am I a giant ball of apathy?

I continued to think about it. Fiddled with the wording a bit, and asked myself “What makes me really happy? And what makes me really angry?” It’s a bit sad that the list I made was so short. The conclusion I came to is that I am most happy when my friends are happy, or successfull, or good things are happening for them in general. And I am most angry when my friends are hurt, or wronged somehow. Apparently I’m really passionate about the happiness of my friends, and woe unto any who dare threaten that.

As wonderful and selfless and ‘nice’ as that seems, that answer left me feeling a bit unsatisfied. Is that really how I define my life? I mean, it wouldn’t be so bad if I had anything else, but it just seems a bit empty if all I am is a reflection of other people’s feelings.

One last time I went back to the drawing board and fiddled with the question, eventually asking myself what I have done that I am really proud of. The first answer (my move to Auckland) was a bust, I’m certainly not passionate about Auckland. But then looking back a bit further I struck gold: Those first few chapters of my NaNoWriMo novel that sit in my harddrive, abandoned but not forgotten. I remember being full of so much excitement and pride at the time, I felt like I was bubbling with it. While I may not have spent much time actually writing, I spent most days agonising over plot details, and how characters should interact. And along those lines I started realising other things, like the dungeons & dragons character I have never even used but for who I spent literal weeks fleshing out a back story; doing research on what families lived in what cities, and which cities had the appropriate nearby geography. Heck, even when listening to music I find myself mentally crafting scenes to go along with it. So it would seem I am passionate about story telling. It might seem a bit strange then that I don’t spend much (any) of my time writing fiction then. But now I think of it, you all must have experienced at least one time where I was telling you something that had happened, only embellishing it and making it sound like some epic encounter.

And I suppose for now, that will do. One day I’ll come up with a story idea that my perfectionist self wont be able to pick full of unfillable holes before the first chapter is completed. One day I’ll really travel the world and live my real adventure while using the experiences to fuel an entire series of novels. But for now I’m content with simply pretending my life is far more adventurous than it really is. And my anecdotes also serve a second purpose of making my friends laugh; catering to my other passion.

There once was a time when I would never have even imagined doing it. But I guess, maybe, I’m finally starting to grow up. For the longest time I had this idea of just living some simple life with little money in some small town, and that was enough. But, while I do like peace and quiet, and it’s nice to able to just relax and reflect sometimes, I’ve slowly come to the conclusion that my life lacks adventure.

I’m not sure if my new found desire for adventure is a result of me beginning to work past my many anxiety issues, or whether it is the cause of the progress I’ve been making. Maybe it’s a bit of both. Years ago, if you’d asked me where I wanted to live, I’d shrug and say nowhere. Now my answer is the exact opposite. Everywhere. I want to travel from place to place, spend a few years here, a few years there. I want to experience the world. That in itself is an adventure, but more important I hope that in my travels I find a place to settle down (because traveling your entire life would get a bit exhausting) where there are plenty of local adventures to be had.

When I stop to think about it, I guess I’ve always felt this way. I’ve always been a huge romantic. And in a way, isn’t love another adventure? Being the romantic prince charming come to sweep a girl off her feet is not so different from being the heroic knight in shining armour come to rescue the damsel in distress. Of course it’s not easy, there’s plenty of risk, you’re putting yourself on the line, there’s ample chance that it’ll all go pear shaped. But maybe it doesn’t, maybe you manage to make it work, and you get the best reward of all. Sounds like an adventure to me.

I’ve always been the kind who gets a little depressed at the end of a good book, or film, or video game, or whatever, because of the knowledge that the real world isn’t really like that. But I’m starting to think that maybe life is what we make it and maybe we can all be the hero of our own stories, and some day marry our prince or princess.

So what does this have to do with moving to Auckland? Nothing, and everything. The move to Auckland simply marks the start of a new me. It’s taken 24 years but this is where my story begins.

Hopefully when I’m long dead and gone someone will find it a good read.

Then I remember that I never have anything interesting to say anyway. Just a whole lot of ranting. Rants far too long for the twitter character limit. Not that said rants ever see the light of day anyway. I’m very wary of ranting in a public forum, almost invariably someone will think it’s targeted at them (and sometimes they are right).

I guess though that before I worry about twitter I should find a use for this blog. It’d be a bit of a shame if it just sat here forever more, never updated.

Elin died January 1st, 2007. It was painful for me, though not as painful as it could have been. I’d had a bit over a year since she admitted to me she had cancer and that that was why she had been so upset lately. Far longer than anyone expected we’d have. I had ample time to come to terms with it. It still wasn’t easy though.

They say that it is better to have loved and lost, than never loved at all. I think I’m a lot more qualified to have an opinion on it than any heartbroken twentysomething who’s highschool sweetheart just dumped them. It’s a hard decision to make, but I just need to simplify it a little. Do I regret loving Elin? Never. I feel blessed simply for having her in my life. I often joked with her that her cancer was just the final test she was being put through before she could become an angel. “It’s a bitch of a test, but they have high standards you know, and it’s okay because most people don’t even make it this far.” “Be serious!” she would tell me “This isn’t a joke”. She never liked it went I joked around about her illness. I guess she felt like I was trivialising what she was going through. I was just trying to make things a little less dark, but in the last year of her life it seems that’s all it was. Darkness. In any case, when I made those comments about her becomming an angel, it wasn’t entirely jest. She was the kind of person who always had a kind word. She cared so much I’m not sure how she had room inside her heart for it all. She was the single most incredible human being I’ve ever known, and I’m still not certain what the hell it was she saw in me. The cancer might have killed her spirit, crushed her soul, stolen her happiness, and ultimately finished her life, but I still remember her as that bright and bubbly girl who always seemed excited by every little thing the world had to offer her. If there was anyone who I could imagine becoming an angel, it is her.

Cancer is an awful disease at the best of times. Lung Cancer is one of the worst. Lung Cancer is a lot like a ninja. You don’t know it’s even there, and by the time you do notice it, it’s too late. You’re dead, it’s just a matter of how long you have to set your affairs in order. When I first found out about Elin’s cancer, I had asked her what was wrong, and she had told me it was her father who had cancer. I didn’t actually find out the truth until months later. I was sitting there, happily talking about our future together. Marriage. Children. And out of the blue she starts crying. She tells me she needs to tell me something. I’m sure anyone would have gotten a sinking feeling right then. All she said was “My dad doesn’t have cancer…” and I knew. It all started making a lot more sense. She explained it all to me, how she had gone to get chest x-rays because she couldn’t stop coughing, and they’d discovered lung cancer. It was too large, completely inoperable. Over the next year we were off and on. She would feel guilty about relying on me so much and leave me so it would hurt less when she died. Then it would get too much and she would come back to me, and I would tell her I loved her, and she would cry because she had been scared I would hate her.

The very last time we got back together, only a month of so before she passed, she told me that the cancer had stopped growing, and that she was hoping it would start to shrink and she would get better. It wasn’t until afterwards I found out it was a lie. The cancer was too large, had always been too large. It was all that was holding her lungs together. If it got any smaller, her lungs would collapse, if it grew, it’d put too much strain on her heart and lungs. If it stayed the same size, it was already too big and she was extremely likely to have a heart attack even if someone just so much as gave her a fright. She was fucked. She knew it. She was using me, and whenever that knowledge made her feel too guilty she’d force herself to leave me, but then when it got hard enough to overcome her guilt, she’d come back. Maybe I should resent her for that. Maybe I should feel used. I feel nothing but regret that I couldn’t do more for her. Anger that she had to go through that. That someone so pure and happy would be reduced to that. I love her, I would have given my life in her place in a heartbeat if I could have.

That’s love for you I guess. Even when things are at their worst it still shines as brightly as ever.

Three years later, I rarely think of her. I forgot the anniversary of her death. I had been concerned that I may have stopped loving her. But after writing all this out I think I understand it. Elin will forever be a part of me, and everything I do. There is a place in my heart that will always be hers. But she is dead. Gone. I’ve come to terms with that. I’m allowing myself to forget about her because, ultimately, it allows me to move on. To try be happy again. To maybe try find someone new to love. It allows me to do what Elin wanted of me. To continue to live my life after she was gone.

So I’ll carry on, like I always do. Trudge on through the bad times, hold my head up, force the little smile to my lips, and refuse to listen to the negative thoughts. I’ll try to give a kind word to everyone, I’ll try to be there for my friends, care for them, and do all I can to make them happy when they are sad. It’s what I’ve always done, and it’s what Elin did too. If I can manage that, then maybe a certain Angel worriedly watching over me will be able to rest easy and get back to work. I’m sure she has more important things to be doing anyway.

I’m sure most guys have had experience with a woman who says one thing and means another. It’s part of the stereotype, we joke about it, but there are a lot of subtlties to it that we completely miss.

A few years back I did something really awful to a female friend of mine (I wont go in to details). Eventually we hashed it out, I apologised, and on the spot she smiled and said “Don’t worry about it, I forgive you.”

“I still feel really bad about it.”

“Really it’s okay! Honestly. Just forget about it.”

That seemed pretty clear to me, and our friendship did get restored back to where it had been before the incident. So I thought nothing more and just continued on like nothing had happened.

It was recently that I had a similar situation in the novel I’m writing, and upon talking to a female friend about whether the female character Daphne in the story was acting appropriately, she said to me “I think she’s forgiven him way too easily”. I partly agreed, but told her of my own experience and how I had been forgiven on the spot. My friend then said to me “Did she actually forgive you? Or did she keep making jokes about what happened afterwards?”

“Wait… so… if she’s making jokes about what happened, that means she hasn’t forgiven you?”

“That’s right. It means you’re on probation.”

Now, I had to check that, so I asked around a few other female friends, and they all confirmed that yes, that’s exactly what that means. And so I guess now it’s here for you guys reading this, so now you know.

If you’re told that you’re forgiven, and she brings it up again even just to tease you or joke about it, you might need to sit down and talk it over with her, because there are still sore feelings there.

But it made me wonder: What’s the point?

Why the subterfuge? Obviously it’s not a sneaky woman only secret, because it was women who told me and confirmed it for me. Do women feel like they HAVE to appear forgiving? Or is it just a way to make the guys stew in the guilt? That is something I’m not sure about yet. I really don’t think it’s an intentional effort to be confusing and drive guys nuts. It seems almost like just an automatic thing they do without thinking about it. It would be interesting to know the why of it all.

To any women reading this though, if you notice yourself doing this it might be best to sit the person down and talk it out with them. You’re under no obligation to forgive them instantly, or even ever, but I imagine getting your feelings out in the open is a lot healthier than continuing to stew over them in silence while pretending everything is okay. Especially when the person in question believes you and so no longer acts obviously contrite.