Bah.

I’ve been told by some that the last post doesn’t count.

So.

I hate talking about myself on my blog, which is ironic. I’ve always considered it too easy to turn your blog into a self-aggrandizing or self-justifying platform. When you’re a small blog like mine whose regular readership I can literally count on two hands it becomes an even more pathetic act…and it’s not beyond the reach reasonable assumption that I’m doing just this right now:

Nothing in this universe is perfect or permanent. One of the most beautiful objects in the sky, the Pillars of Creation within the Eagle Nebula was ultimately created by - and is believe to have been destroyed by - a supernova, an explosion of such raw power that it is almost incomprehensible. And what causes a supernova? A star running out of fuel and dying.

Nothing can be perfect, and yet it can be beautiful still.

My marriage wasn’t brought about (rarely, for an Irishman!) by an explosion-related death, but it is still an imperfect creation by imperfect people. We fight, we mis-communicate, we deliberately misconstrue each other, we sulk and we ignore each other, but we still wake up each morning as a couple and muddle our way through another day hack our way through another day with dull and blood-soaked machetes. My real shock is that we don’t wake up each morning screaming through the shock of realization that it wasn’t a dream.

You just know you want her.

There aren’t many of them, to be certain, but that makes the danger all the more keen. Maybe you’ve known some of them at one time or another. This is actually pretty likely as many of them are prolific socialites. Or maybe you’ve just seen them in passing; some bare and hairy knees spotted in a shocking and distracting moment. Car crashes aren’t unknown after these distracting encounters, and indeed it is well-known that several highland clans used this as a tactic: Flash your knees and then slaughter the survivors.

They are the Scottish and they are everywhere.

In the last week I’ve seen a shocking amount of honest-to-god Scots wandering about North Las Vegas, considering where we are. Two on Saturday, three on Sunday and one hairy bastard at six o’clock this morning wearing a plaid kilt. The knees, oh god, his knees. I tasted vomit right then.

Mumbling aside, all the highlanders wandering about have put me in mind of how much of a transient city that Las Vegas is. We all come and go, but only a few stay here, and only a few people whom I’ve met, such as my sister-in-law are actually native to here.

Using Openbox as always.