you know you are a dreamer…

31 Aug

I had a funny dream last night.

I know this is a socially unacceptable opening gambit (unless the dreamer reveals they dreamt of having sex with their interlocutor), but it illustrates a point, so be patient.

In my dream I was tasked with teaching an alien about the idiosyncrasies of modern life. It’s not clear whether this was an alien in a cultural or planetary sense, but in any case, I was explaining how various colloquialisms were used. At the point when the alien asked why there were two instances of the word “epic” to refer to a situation that seemed anything but, I woke up laughing.

epic comment thread is epic

I’m obsessive about language, the way it shapes our thinking, the way it transmits meaning first and a rich set of semiotic data second and the way it changes and evolves.

But when marketing people get a hold of it, bad things seem to happen. I think it’s time to say that we are losing touch with those with whom we seek to communicate.
Watching 4chan founder Christopher Poole painfully and painstakingly articulate the in-jokes and slang that make up the fabric of a world built in text,

“It’s a joke?”

“Yes.”

…I’m reminded of my own attempts to explain my own work to my parents and friends.  To say “I work in digital” is as meaningless as “I work in analogue,” unless you’re a watch maker.
We’re privileged to work in this industry, but we need to reconnect with reality: in the real world, barely anyone has read the Cluetrain Manifesto; Cory Doctorow is not famed for his bedtime stories;  people watch a funny video their mate sent them, not “a viral”.

You’re dreaming if you think your preoccupation with Insanity Wolf or Julia Gillard’s belatedly conversational use of Twitter is shared by your non- industry peers.  My non-digital industry friends are architects, film makers, journalists, teachers and rocket surgeons; they spend plenty of time on the internet for business and pleasure but online meta-subcultures pass them by, and what’s more, they’re not wishing they were in on the joke; they find it – brace yourselves, Digerati - faintly risible.

All tribes need their own language to define themselves, particularly those nascent groups who seek to firm up their identity; people who work in what’s ultimately still an emerging industry gain strength and a sense of belonging through shared slang.  So what?

So perhaps we need other ways to define ourselves: a code of conduct, agreed-upon professional standards of practice…? Just a thought.

By describing the work we do with jargon and obscure terminology, we’ll lose the ability to reach the people it’s our job to talk to.

By that I mean clients and punters alike: if we don’t talk human, we can’t talk to humans. And if we refer to our professional practice in arcane buzzwords, we can’t expect the true value to be understood.

A client said jokingly in a meeting recently “can we have all that Web 2.0 shit?” He was making an astute observation; piling on buzzwords for their own sake does no one any favours.  Flogging  mechanisms and tactics that aren’t relevant and won’t achieve specific objectives inevitably discredits the whole industry.  You can forgive people for thinking social media is a magic bullet when we obfuscate its meaning.  But it’s our job as communications professionals to create clarity.

At times it seems as though the whole industry is in the grip of a shared hallucination. Just because a conference your boss went to impressed upon her the need to have a corporate blog, a YouTube channel and a set of the finest vestments cut from fabric only very clever people can see doesn’t mean we shouldn’t challenge that. Your responsibility is to advise and consult on the best course of action for your clients’ needs.  Regardless of whether other chartered accountants give tax advice via Plurk, your professionalism requires you do what is needful and effective.

It’s time to wake up.  Let’s restore some perspective, stop using gibberish and call what we do what it is. We communicate. Do that. 
Better still, do it brilliantly.

Alternative ending: In the 1972 film Death Line, an inbred tribe of mutants roam the London underground croaking the last vestiges of human speech they’re capable of. “Mind the gap” they gasp in a hideous mockery of the words they had once mastered. Let’s not be those guys…

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enlighten me (it’s the twenty-first century)

26 Aug

Every now and again I come across something so wise, so resonant and so much in harmony with my own beliefs but expressed with such eloquence that I’m left awestruck. This beautifully illustrated speech by the RSA’s Matthew Taylor is just such a thing, and I wanted to share it, along with those comments that stirred me most.

  • We need to live differently, and to live differently means to think differently, bring to bear powerful new insights into human nature.
  • We must resist our tendencies to make right and true that which is only familiar, and wrong or false that which is only strange
  • Fostering empathic capacity is just as important [as education] to achieving a world of citizens at peace with each other and with themselves
  • Rationality can tell us how to get from A to Z, but without ethical reasoning, we cannot discover where Z should be. What we aim for can be as important to our well-being as what we achieve
  • Creative people who want to make a difference have a million and one opportunities and distractions. To engage them means an ethic which is intolerant of negativity, rigid thinking and self promotion

In the words of the anthropologist Margaret Mead:

Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful committed citizens can change the world; indeed, it is the only thing that ever has.

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with friends like these…

30 Jul

Twitter. Its detractors are fond of painting a picture of an echo chamber; all narcissism and no real value. I had a slightly bleak moment earlier which I immediately bruited on Twitter:

Oh god. The realisation that it’s my thirty third birthday tomorrow has just hit me like a truck. Console me, Twitter.

Out of the thirty-ish replies, twelve of them contained sage counsel, I got one piece of bad advice, five generous and charming compliments, three insults, the possibility of a marital spat and a birthday card from a robot. I couldn’t have asked for anything more…I may be bidding my youth a fond farewell, but as usual, Twitter serves to remind  me that I’m not alone; all human experience is understood and shared in a way that’s really quite humbling. Thanks, chaps.

I’ll be taking the bad advice, naturally.

@acatinatree you’re not dead. yet. (happy birthday x)

Lyndon Sharp lyndons
.@franksting @acatinatree If you cope with your “Album” birthday (33-and-a-third), great! …but wait for your “Single” birthday at 45 :)
Sarah Peacock SarahPea @acatinatree didn’t ya hear that in 2010, u get to minus 10? Happy 23rd birthday!!

William S. Burroughs BurroughsBot RT @bimyou_bimyou @acatinatree you’ll be the same age as William S. Burroughs when he died? (I was never very good at the consolation …

franksting franksting @acatinatree wait until you hit thirty three and a third (I had a birthday party for that), btw ;)

Mel hopeinhell @acatinatree i’m 38. so shut up. do you feel consoled? :D

Helen Perris helenperris @smperris And you say you don’t know how to flirt. (cc @acatinatree)

Mick Attard MetalheadMick @acatinatree Hey, we share a birthday(tomorrow’s my 23rd) It’s a proven fact people born on 31st of July in a year ending with 7 are awesome

bimyou_bimyou bimyou_bimyou @acatinatree you’ll be the same age as William S. Burroughs when he died? (I was never very good at the consolation game…)

Shane Perris smperris @acatinatree 33? Pretty young thing like you? Surely not.

Karalee Evans karalee_ @acatinatree oh sweetie, was going to cheer you up with this: http://bit.ly/aXIeN6 but then realised you’re 2 years past your peak ;)

Lucie Snape LucieSnape @acatinatree it will be a good 364 days until you have to think about it again! ;) Hope u have a wonderful day! Embrace being 33 yrs young!

Kate Taylor shoes_off @acatinatree you’re hotter than Jesus.

Andrew Barnett andrewbarnett @acatinatree When you’re my age, you won’t remember your 33rd birthday…

Joel Pearson JoelyRighteous @acatinatree There, there, would a walking frame help?

TheOtherBernardK bernardk @acatinatree if it’s any consolation, you’ve just made me feel old!

Tom Voirol voirol @acatinatree Spring chicken!

Mandi mab397 @acatinatree when you feel 84 on Sunday, 33 won’t seem so bad

Nathan Burman Bruman7 @acatinatree Haha you’re a day older than me ya old boiler!

rambn rambn @acatinatree technically, I think you can’t be upset until you hit 40 :-P

Mana damana @acatinatree My god! I am 33 and 11 months and wish i was as fabulous as you on my 33rd. You are brilliant, witty, articulate and gorgeous!

Nick Spurway nickspurway @acatinatree QUICK. TO THE VODKA

Mijanou Zigane Opheli8 @acatinatree I’m older than you!

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stranger in a strange land

5 Jul

IMG_1266

Feeling like a stranger in one’s motherland is a discomfitting experience, but like more or less anything that disrupts the way you ordinarily view the world, you can learn a lot from getting a new perspective…

It’s been nearly a decade since I lived in Britain in a permanent, full time sort of way, and much has changed since then. Like any interesting and passionate relationship, we’ve had some shining golden moments and some ghastly ones, but things have moved on and we’re now cordial and tender of one another; trying to juggle the familiar and the foreign.  It’s awkward yet charming; like drinking tea with an old lover.

It’s hard to tell, now, whether it’s me or it that’s changed most.   Probably both.  It does make being here somewhat tense and surreal but rich in possibility and education.

London is wonderful in summer – say what you will about the absurdity of  British people in hot weather, but we have such gratitude for these dog days; you’d never see an Aussie dancing in a municipal fountain to celebrate the simple joy of a day that’s not grey.

My interaction with the city is charged; the fact I’m home for such a short time imbues this encounter with the feverish flush of a holiday romance. And the odds are good that it’ll leave me broken at the finish.  But falling in love with a city anew is a lovely thing (to stretch the metaphor to breaking point); London’s quick to share its well-worn erogenous zones and discover new ones with all and any comers.  Successive lovers have left their mark upon it and it always has some unexpected tricks up its sleeve.

One of the most intoxicating parts of a new relationship is the part when you tell each other the stories of who you are, the moment when you see yourself in an entirely new light through the eyes of your lover.  I’m hungry to explore, to hear these stories and add my own.  It’s greedy and unsustainable but by christ it’s fun while it lasts. It’s extraordinary, exhausting, turbulent, fabulous…but by being curious and putting aside convention and expectation, I have lived and learned much.

While you’re in it, London feels like the centre of the world – and Soho’s its heart (though its heart’s broken, albeit temporarily, by the recent loss of Soho gadabout and dandy Sebastian Horsley). There’s so much to see, do, be.  As there is anywhere; the difference is motivation and inclination. The world is infinite in variation, and yet we cling to the familiar, narrow definitions and habits we’ve formed – and of course that’s sensible and necessary – how could anyone function if you had to re-imagine everything every day? but it also risks complacency and predictability. Maybe once a year we should all throw off the trappings of our former lives and let ourselves start afresh…

I’m starting small. I’m going to let myself be a tourist.  Be open. Explore, discover, without agenda. I’m resolved that when I get back to Sydney I’m going to pick up a map and a copy of Time Out and go forth with my eyes wide open, let it tell me who it is all over again.

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how to understand what women want

15 Jun

know thyself

My response to Mark Pollard’s piece on getting a man to open up – apologies for the crass generalisations and largely hetero bias.

highly scientific Venn diagram

highly scientific Venn diagram

Some of my best friends are men, clever and inspiring fellows all, but even they sometimes struggle with what might seem very simple: communicating with the women they love. The specious logic of the “men are from Mars, women are from Venus” hypothesis starts to seem seductive – why should something this fundamental be so difficult unless we are, in fact, speaking different languages…?  Men, this post is for you…

He said, she said…

Women, by and large, are operating on a higher emotional plane than men; we’ve long since accepted complexities that you men are still grappling with. We don’t mind too much; we’re waiting patiently for you to catch up, and then what a joyous world it will be.

We’ve skipped lightly over the blatantly obvious and are dealing with the abstract.  Unfortunately, what this looks like to your average man is that we are saying one thing while meaning something completely different.  It leads to what can appear bewildering semantic hair-splitting.

“it’s not that I want you to do the laundry / watch this Balkan arthouse film with me / call your mum, I want you to want to do it”.

To which you may reasonably enough reply “but of course I don’t – I’ll do it because it must be done, but don’t expect me to be overjoyed about it.”  On a practical level, this is fine, because the outcome has been achieved, the problem solved. But then why is she sulking, sobbing or zipping off down the street with an ominously loud clickingclacking of the high heeled shoe?

Now hear this…

What’s wrong with this picture? You’ve tried to solve an emotional issue with a practical outcome. You haven’t listened to what’s really being said.

We’re speaking in poetry while you’re more prosaic; it’s a high art form where the spaces in between are as important as the words.

I heard a story about a woman married to an autistic man; she was tired and exasperated beyond measure by his inability to read her emotional responses. Having to rationally explain during the heat of the moment that she was upset or angry was proving difficult, and she feared that it would ultimately lead to a cooling of both negative and positive sentiment, leaving her an automaton in a marriage without passion.

Her solution was to hold up cards with the name of the emotion on them; this seemed less disruptive than vocalising and she was able to express herself and be understood.

Women need to give clearer cue cards; men need to work harder at reading them.

We understand intuitively that things (events, tasks, objects) often represent deeper concepts. You’re confused because we asked a friend’s advice about that thing at work and you can’t figure out why you’re annoyed about something which has ultimately nothing to do with you; we already know that you’re hurt because by not asking you, we seemed not to trust you.
Incidentally, the reason we didn’t ask you is because we just wanted to vent, and you have this insistence on solving problems; we need the space to be heard more than we need the answer: listening shows you believe the speaker to be worth hearing.

When we ask you to do something, spend five seconds figuring out what that thing might stand for. Is it demonstrating how much you value us? Is it your commitment to our family, the kids, the dog?

Essentially, this is the blueprint to get out of any onerous task. Figure out what the deeper issue is and solve it in a way that makes you happy too.  Demonstrate that you love the home you share and you’ll never have to go shopping for soft furnishings again (unless you want to).

I’m not saying it’s easy; I’m saying it’s an effort worth making. And you might just find it helps with other stuff too.  Whether you prefer this wisdom to come from the Matrix or from Plato, above all things, know thyself.

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Animal Kingdom: a rare beast

26 May

animal-kingdom-poster

Last night a movie changed my life.
I saw Animal Kingdom at the Sydney premiere (thanks to Time Out Sydney) and I can’t recommend it enough. Go see it! Now! Don’t even read my review…Read my review, then go.

Watching the film felt almost like a physical ordeal, such is the intensity it maintains. It’s a lean, spare, hungry movie that demands and rewards your attention.

From start to finish, there’s a dramatic tension that keeps you engaged, at times appalled, always on the edge of your seat; by the time the credits rolled, there were crescent moons in the palms of my hands.

It’s a rare thing to see a film with such a clear sense of itself, so at home in its milieu. Just as the central character J is entirely the product of his upbringing, this film is completely at ease in its setting. I had fears that an Australian crime thriller would make the overblown mistakes I’ve seen from others in the genre, but there’s a sparseness and honesty about the grinding tedium of crime and suburban life which gives the whole piece its sinewy strength.

When Pearce’s character (Leckie) talks to Josh about his belief that everything belongs somewhere, he could be speaking about the film as a whole; it’s impeccably positioned in its time and environment. Not a hair out of place. There isn’t a moment or a line of dialogue that’s excessive, and you have that pleasing sense of a film producer doing an exquisite job of fitting budget to project. David Michôd’s years as an editor on InsideFilm might have helped; complex elements are combined with ease. The script is pared down with a poetic understanding of the use of silence. The sets were finely observed, the actors delivered taut performances, and there was no sense of a budget blow-out on props, epic chase scenes or stars less interested in the script than the dollar.  Frecheville’s performance as Josh is exceptional, understated but raw – begging, for me, comparisons with Brando’s early work portraying “the taciturn but stoic gloom of those pulverized by circumstances”.

What made it riveting was the sheer mundanity; the absolute lack of glamour; from Josh’s mindless viewing of Deal or no Deal in the opening scene to the limp-looking sausage sandwich in the last, assignations with corrupt cops in malls to the tracksuit-wearing lawyer; all were woven into the shabby tapestry of amoral lives lived without remorse. Jacki Weaver (Smurf) brings a matter of factness to evil deeds that’s genuinely chilling, accepting the casual savagery of her boys as her queenly tribute.

For me, the eye of the duck moment is J’s impassive face in his final encounter with Leckie. “I’ve figured out where you fit,” says Leckie, the realisation bringing despair instead of comfort.

In the animal kingdom, even the most enlightened leopard cannot change its spots.

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my blog post brings all the boys to the yard: on self-promotion and vanity

22 May

vanity

It’s a rainy Sydney Saturday and my beloved has just left the warmth of our bed to trudge off to TEDx. As I expressed dissatisfaction with this turn of events, he said to me “well, if you had done a better job on your entry form we’d be there together.”*

On the scale of one to douchebag, going on a date to TEDx has to rate pretty highly, but that aside, he was absolutely right. This seemed of significance because it struck the same chord as a conversation I’d had the previous day with my chief co-conspirator at work who pointed out that while I may be excellent (I said may be) at promoting goods, services, the work we do, bluntly, I suck at self-promotion.

While it’s clear to me that one must, at various times put one’s best foot forward and sell oneself, I can’t rid myself of a slight squeamishness. I’m frankly rotten at job interviews, first dates, public speaking, appearing on camera.

It’s not that I lack confidence in my talents.
I have an ego the size of the planet.  There’s just something about pimping oneself I find a tad gauche.

Amongst some of my friends, one of the most damning indictments of a person is to say of him, archly, “of course, he’s an excellent self-publicist.”  Layers of sneering elitism are contained within this, of course – centuries of entitlement and privilege. One need not be good at self-promotion because one is who one is. It’s essentially bullshit, and I acknowledge that, but I’m still struggling to get past it.  We live in a world where ‘maintaining a personal brand’ is a real consideration, and those who fall behind get left behind.

So how do you sell yourself gracefully?

The people whose self-selling skills I admire are all bound by a common thread. They  communicate their intense passion and love for what they do in a way that leaves ego at the door; creating a separation that suggests it’s almost incidental that it happens to be “me” that did this – the accomplishment itself transcends the personal. Of course, go too far down this path and you’re in all kinds of Messianic trouble; next thing you know god’s writing your next album and whispering secrets in your ear about who might most enjoy a lovely glass of Kool-Aid…

My family instilled in me the notion that boasting is vulgar, and I’ve largely chosen to hang on to this belief. Even the brashest of my friends retain the saving grace of self-doubt and criticism.  But there are situations where that’s simply not appropriate or relevant; your potential employer or new client doesn’t want to hear of your battles with the Muse; dark moments of soul-deep self-loathing; waking in the night wondering if it’s all worth it: successful navigation of these inner crises is what makes us good at what we do.

Silence those inner demons and your talent would suffer, become smug and lumpen, but amplify that turmoil and you begin to sound nuts.

There’s nothing inherently graceless about holding deep-seated self-belief. It’s not necessarily horribly vain to be proud of one’s achievements, but it’s certainly a hard act to balance.  I think it makes a huge difference what those achievements are – bragging about your recent discovery of a cure for cancer is excusable, gloating about your yacht is not.

What do you think? Where do you draw the line? Does it depend who you’re talking to? Is it ever good form to be triumphant about material wealth? Should your achievements speak for themselves?

postscript: I’m off to Cockatoo Island to see the Biennale with one of my dearest friends and her delightful daughter. Art and puddle jumping, gumboots and good times. And the sun’s coming out! I’m pretty pleased about it. Forgive my showing off.

*It amuses me to make him sound like a sod. He’s actually a complete darling.

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There’s no place like home: on being a Sydneysider

12 May

If you know me even a little, you may know I am obsessed with the idea of place and belonging. Home. Is it what we do, rather than where we are? Is it where the heart is, or just a decision to put down some roots? A peripatetic existence can become exhausting.

I’m still waiting for a clever person to come up with a composite word to describe the feeling of homesickness for a place or time that never truly existed. Nostoneiralgos? It doesn’t exactly trip off the tongue, does it? I never really loved the place I was born, and other places I’ve lived had a temporary, functional sort of feel. There for uni, for work, for doomed romantic interludes; a sense of home has always eluded me. Until now.

I’ve been around a wee bit of the world but Sydney’s the first place that’s fulfilled almost all of my very long and detailed wishlist (breathtakingly beautiful, contains people I love, sunny but not tropically humid, not too polluted, little likelihood of being stabbed in the kidneys, can swim in the sea without risk of hypothermia or
being choked with plastic bags and condoms, can speak the language to a level that allows me to work in my chosen field…) so I obviously planted my flag here, set up camp and proceeded to marry your women, colonial style.I try to be grateful for all of the many fucking cool things and people in my life as a rule, but I am doubtless remiss at times. So when the lovely Nathalie asked me to write a piece for her (regular readers will know this is actually the third fine mess she’s gotten me into) I thought it might be a way to share my gratitude.
I’m lucky to be here. And so are you.

So many moments in Sydney have been so extraordinary it’s a tough call to pick just one. Partying on Shark Island, naked at dawn on the Opera House steps in the Spencer Tunick installation, moshing at Laneway Festival, watching the sunset over beautiful Bondi from the sun-warmed cliffs… but a recent favourite that encapsulates much of what I love so much about Sydney was just an impromptu decision to go out and enjoy the autumn sunshine. A day of no particular significance, when armed only with a hazy sense of direction and a hastily assembled picnic, my beloved and I battled through the Saturday shopping frenzy and caught the ferry to Mosman.
From the moment we board the ferry and leave behind the madding crowds at Circular Quay, calm descends…

You can read the rest of my Sydney story here…
Thanks @Halans for the photos.

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Notes I made on my iPhone whilst drunk or discombobulated

3 May

Thanks entirely to Matt Granfield for the inspiration… (All art is theft).

This is the stuff and nonsense I’ve recorded of late:

  • Old timey radio
  • Bootlace  – Elliot
  • Peter Watts – blindside – hardcore scifi
  • being in heaven – wtf?
  • the internet as domestic battleground – poor code of conduct, divulgence, boundaries. How can privacy, the right to own virtual space be re-imagined?
  • 11299912&11
  • Contagious
  • Karma chameleon: on integrity and consistency in brands

My, but my brain just whizzes and pops like a cerebral wee firecracker, doesn’t it?
I am already so forgetful now I fear by the time I’m legitimately senile, there will be nothing left but hand clapping and keyboard cat.

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How to break up online: a practical guide for modern lovers

5 Apr

On the internet, everyone is a child, as both Stephen Fry and I have observed (though with differing levels of wit and brio).  Tiring of witnessing Facebook fuck-ups and Twitter twattery, I thought I’d share some wisdom collected and collated from painstaking (and at times painful) observation of online behaviour.  Love and its loss can be hell, but leaving a tear-sodden digital memento only serves to prolong the agony. 
Here are seven steps to clambering back to – if not heaven – certainly Planet Sanity.

If you need a quick visual allegory on the wisdom of separating public from private, click here.

One: slice like a ninja                                                                                 

So you’re regretting that giddy moment when you plighted your troth on Facebook. The public reconfiguration is too painful to be borne.
The good news is it doesn’t need to be. Figure out what time most of your network will be asleep. Set your alarm. Log onto Facebook. Go to ‘edit my profile,’ change your relationship status, then immmediately remove the update from your wall.
Three clicks, three seconds.
Stealth and speed is key. You need to act fast to reduce the likelihood of your friends commenting on it. If you’re friends with nerds, you may have a problem; nerds never sleep.  However, if you’re friends with nerds, this entire dilemma may feel somewhat unfamiliar to you.

Two: throw a block party

Starve your inner masochist of the oxygen of constant peeks into your ex’s life.  It’s a masochist; it craves punishment.  You, on the other hand are a healthy, well-adjusted individual who is moving on with your life without continually reopening the wound to season it with salt.  Use a service like Knowem or Username Check to ensure you’ve blocked them in every single possible location, on the offchance you start using the service again. Even Plurk. Much like love, social network usage can be unpredictable. You thought you’d be with your love forever – and that’s how you used to feel about Friendster, too.

Three: PDAs are DOA.

Public Displays of Angst will do you no good at all. Whether the split was acrimonious or amicable;  whether your relationship spanned five decades or five minutes, nothing worth saying about the private affairs of human beings can be adequately expressed in a status update.  By giving in to the temptation, essentially, you’ve let your ex down, you’ve let humanity down, but most of all, you’ve let yourself down. Isn’t that right, Mrs Harbord?  If you must rant and rave, keep it old school: write it in a letter – make it as long and vitriolic as you like – then tear it up.
Eat the pieces, if you like. Feel better?

Four: where is my mind?

Because you clearly weren’t paying attention during point three, and because you think you might feel better if you express your pain to the world, drop by drop, here’s a pro-tip: create a new twitter account. Lock it. Invite close friends or distant ones to view it; just don’t invite your boss or anyone you may wish to deal with on a professional footing at any point in the future, ever. Call it something suitably bonkers to remind your friends not to share your crazed rantings outside your locked network.
Then you can choke up lumps of anguish 140 characters at a time until the heartache goes away or you become revulsed by your own self-indulgence, whichever happens first.

Five: every breath you take

Much like the adage that eavesdroppers hear no good of themselves, cyber-stalking will bring little joy to the stalker. Even after you’ve blocked your ex, it doesn’t take much Google-fu to bring a flood of information about their activities into your sad little world. But like smoking and many other addictive behaviours, it’s a sin of commission, not omission.  It’s genuinely easier not to do something than it is to do it.  Yes, there are photos of him surrounded by a bevy of beauties. Yes, she does seem to be using an awful lot of flirty emoticons when she talks to @thatdouche on Twitter.  So what?  Either they have sufficient self-regard that they’re simply choosing not to post photographs of themselves crying into the gin online, or they’ve moved on. Isn’t it time you did?

(And delete the Google Alerts for their name immediately. That’s just creepy.)

Six: fake it til you make it… (…to the bedlam)

This isn’t really something that should ever need to be expressed, but in this topsy-turvy world, apparently sense is becoming uncommon, so here goes: do not, under any circumstances, create a honey-trap fake profile on Facebook, RSVP or even Second Life in which you create the profile of your ex’s dream lover in order to cyber-seduce them.
It proves nothing.
If the person of your dreams expressed an interest in you, you’d probably take the bait too, and more importantly, your fraudulent succubus / incubus won’t bring your lover back, because it’s not real, remember? If a shared love of pina coladas didn’t keep you together, it certainly won’t reunite you now, unless your ex actually left you because you weren’t crazy or deceptive enough.  In which case, go nuts. Literally.

Seven: don’t blog about it. Oh, wait….

<caveat>You’re so vain, you probably think this blog post is about you…and it probably is, but I mean it with love and respect.
In love, as online, nothing ventured, nothing gained. We’re forging through uncharted waters, and there are bound to be casualties. (I count myself amongst their number).

Still making mistakes, but never the same ones twice.</caveat>

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