It was indeed great while it lasted, until about three weeks ago. Churning out little posts, coming up with fun tidbits, roaming the streets of Eindhoven with a little noteback. Getting feedback. Compliments. Your mother’s cousins’ daughters’ coworkers are reading your blog. And then university life begins. And there is time for nothing.

So here’s a change of strategy, and of pace.

This website will be featuring different forms of content from now on. No more updates on my general well-being, college achievements, and peculiar trains of thought. Sure, there’s enough happening, but the focus isn’t where it should be: on a white piece of paper. Instead of feeling shame about my lack of commitment, I will simply change the contents.

I’m not one to dwell on the negative, but let me just come right out and say it: I fucking hate summertime.

Like, “I hate Brussels sprouts” hate. “I’d rather be eaten alive by a shark” hate. Whatever you hate most, times 70. That kind of hate.

If I had a gun, summer wouldn’t live to tell the tale.

April showers bring May flowers, but in my world those flowers take the unpleasant shape of anxiety. I need a summer job, because I’d like to start off university with a buffer, but I also want to do fun things because it’s so warm. A morning job would be perfect, but mostly if it’s indoors. Not on some farm. Also not in a shop. Also not in some sad warehouse. After such a long, sanctimonious list of Things I Don’t Want, I’m left with two options. This is how I become a postal worker. The other option would’ve been morning prostitution.

It’s Gay Pride today. Yesterday, as N and I were on our way to the cinema, somebody yelled “DYKES!” at us.

I dislike such antics as much as the next gay. I don’t like the words “dyke” and “fag” and the stigma surrounding homosexuality. Since we’re alive in the modern world of 2009, I always fervently hope that people know better by now.

I’m lucky enough to live in an environment with friends and family who support me. My choice to walk hand in hand with N, and not Nicholas. I rarely encounter homophobia.