So I’m going to get back to updating this blog as often as possible, but I still need to think of things to write about. I’ve been gaming more often, so I’ll probably be doing something with that, maybe a review or something. A lot of music, learning to play guitar, studying programming and sociology again. So much to write about, so little time when I actually don’t get struck with writer’s block.

Speaking of writer’s block, I update my poetry blog quite often, and if you’re interested, you should check it out here: http://www.blpoetry.com

Follow me on Twitter (http://www.twitter.com/VirInvictus) or on Facebook (http://www.facebook.com/larocque.brandon) or just follow me home. Whatever takes your fancy, you know?

Anyways.

Just a small update for y’all, for whoever actually reads my garbage. Welcome to the year 2011, and I hope yours is going to be good.

Cheers.

We gave up our personal information to Facebook (and if we didn’t, then we put fake information (which is really against the whole point of social networking) or we just didn’t subscribe to it, thinking that something else will come along and kill it in the near future), and now we’re upset because they want to make a little money with it. You know, the services they offer are free – and they don’t necessarily have to be.

The point is – we shouldn’t be afraid of our privacy. Unless we’re giving up things we don’t want people to know – just stop adding people on your list that you don’t know or trust. Simple as sin, amirite? I don’t get how some people get caught up in the race to get as many friends as possible. I usually wax & wane in between 100-200 friends, and usually prune it once every two or three months. It keeps my social circle clean and simple. There are some people who will stay, regardless of interaction (family, old friends that I don’t see no more but like to keep in touch with, etc), but for the most part – I don’t really get attached to my little circle.

I don’t see how anybody does, really. And I’m a very private person, to a point. I don’t let people know my passwords, I don’t let people see every single side of me (I used to, until one Englishman helped get me over that (<3 Silas)), and I don’t give up anything about myself that I wouldn’t want anyone else to know. That’s the right way to go about social networking – because now I’m not concerned about the privacy that Facebook may or may not offer / take away. I’ve accepted the fact that Facebook might want to make a little bit of scratch funds with my information, so I try to be as honest as possible – because I want advertisers to advertise the shit I want instead of the shit I don’t.

That’s just the way I see it, though. How about you? What do you think about privacy and social networking? Should it stay or should we care? Hit me up in the comments!

Follow me on Twitter or identi.ca!
or check out my mini-blog, The Second Cup!
-Brandon LaRocque

I did drugs, because I thought the system couldn’t handle it (turns out my system couldn’t handle them, lol!). I drank because it was the punk rock thing to do, and I wrote anthems against the people who made more money than me (ie – everyone). It was funny, because the government were the people supporting me (Foster care, and then welfare after the system dropped me because I wasn’t doing what they wanted me to do). They gave me my beer, my drugs, and my rebellious fashion statement. But I didn’t even think of it like that.

I played the part of the rebel, and embraced it as my own. I was a poseur, but I had fun while it lasted. Before I matured, and realized the mistake I was making.

To be honest, though, it was actually a book that opened my eyes. The Rebel Sell (different name down below Canada, but I don’t know what it is). Great read. You should read it, too. There is no selling out, because we’ve already bought in. Just embrace it, motherfucker.

I used to write. A lot. Stories, poetry, songs – it really didn’t matter to me. Something happened down the road and I stopped writing, I lost my muse. I guess my teenage angst was a good enough outlet for my creative abilities, but now that I’m no longer a teenager, I don’t have that fuel – that anger, that sadness, that over-exaggerative view on anything that happened to me - to fire my writing. It’s sad, really. I miss it.

I went through so many phases, when I was growing up, it wasn’t funny. And every phase had its own writing style. When I thought I was a thug, my writing was packed with urban language and a swagger that I don’t have anymore. When I thought I was emo and goth, my writing was painful, metaphorical, and horribly swamped in adjectives and adverbs. When I thought I was punk, my writing was purely leftist thought, anti-corporate, and I was always claiming to fight the system.

I don’t write like that, anymore. I don’t know how I write, really, these days. I guess I’ve accepted that capitalism is a good enough system for me (anarchism and socialism just don’t make enough sense to me, really, although I think they sound really good on paper, but we’re just not a mature enough people to handle such a drastic change in our way of living), that the government is alright (even if I don’t agree with everything that happens in parliament), and the swagger disappeared with my self-esteem when I realized I was not the hottest dude out there (although some people seem to think I look pretty alright, but I really can’t see it).

Growing up is fascinating, especially when you sit back and watch how you developed throughout the years. To read something I wrote when I was 16 is depressing, though it showed me the person I was then. To read what I wrote when I was 14 is laughable, but it makes me miss the days when I wasn’t afraid of anything (whereas I’m afraid of everything now). To read my anti-social rants of my 18th year – ha – they make my day every time I decide to open up that journal.

People ask me the point of life, sometimes, and I look at them and I never know what to say – offhand. Hours later, after I’ve thought about it enough, I have a good enough reply that won’t be used because the conversation dissipated into a conversation about movies or music or books and what makes them good or bad.

The point of life is to experience it, to enjoy it. You don’t live your life for somebody else, you live it for yourself. If it makes you happy to make somebody you love happy, so be it – make ‘em happy, motherfucker. However, if you are killing the person you are for the sake of somebody else, then you’re doing it wrong. You really are.

I made myself sick trying to be somebody somebody else wanted me to be, and I didn’t realize it. It wasn’t until after we broke up that I realized that I was hurting myself because I thought that the person I was wasn’t good enough for the person I was with. That was horribly stupid of me. Now, I’m healthy, I’m happy, I’m in love with a beautiful woman, and everything is going for the best.

How does that happen? I don’t know, but things have went from horribly wrong (I was agoraphobic, stricken with panic attacks, eating disorders, and anger problems) to perfect (I am social again, I leave the house, eat what I want, and have a control on my anger).

You can see it in my writing, if you look close enough.

I think everybody should write, because it’s therapeutic. It allows you insight into the person you really are, so long as you don’t edit it beyond recognition. The one thing about this blog is that it’s all written off-hand, with no second though, aside from the first sentence. I do not edit anything to my posts after I post them, because I can’t help but feel that if I edit what I’ve written, I’m hiding what I feel behind fear. It isn’t good enough, they’re not going to like me, this post won’t even get read. So what if you don’t read my posts? Just writing this out makes me feel good.

And that’s the point of life.

Feeling good.

And you can see yourself feeling good by reading what you write when you write it. Fuck psychologists. We all have problems, but we don’t need medication unless you’re severely mentally ill. I don’t need Xanax to control my anxiety. I’ve beaten it without a single prescription, though I do have a prescription for Xanax somewhere around here should I ever find that I can’t beat my anxiety on my own.

Do you know what I mean?

What do you think the point of life is? What do you think of evaluating yourself through your own writing?

Follow me on twitter and identi.ca.
and check out my mini-blog.

I can’t stand these better-than-thou motherfuckers who can’t help but tell you how little they have. You know what? I have what I have and it’s enough right now. If I think I have too much, I’ll get rid of something. If I think I need something, I’ll buy it. Fuck off. You’re not better than me, you condescending prick.

When you can stop shoving your shit (or lack thereof) into everybody’s faces, we’ll be on a level playing-field – but until then, I can’t help but feel that I’m far better than you, because I’m not trying to shove my beliefs down your throat. Fuck you – don’t link me to ZenHabits (or any of Leo’s other sites), don’t link me to Unclutterer, or any other fucking site that you think might make me a better person with less things.

I’m a lower class white guy who, despite his lack of constant funding, manages to have everything he wants in life. Is that so wrong of me?