I don't like to pad things out.

To those who will laugh at me and point out the fact that my blog posts are generally quite long - I did notice the length quite some time ago, thank you very much. Part of it is because they're written like informal essays and part of it is because I like waffling in my introductions.

However, the main points I make are generally quite succinct and waffle-free. Why? Because I like my points to be understood and recognised for what they are.

Evidently, this isn't a very good writing style when trying to comfort people and...oh darn it, it's happened again.

The few readers of my blog (hello there) may be wondering what the hell's up with my writing today: it's disjointed and not as snarky as it usually is. Without revealing any more about myself, it's because I'm bloody miserable and annoyed right now due to family troubles. I'm bloody annoyed for a couple of reasons, which end up forming a story which I'll recount here, and if my family descend on me like harpies for potentially revealing anything...well, they can go to hell in a handbasket, because 1) these are my honest feelings on the subject, which I'm not changing for anyone, political correctness be damned and 2) I've blanked out most of the details.

Names, as always, have been changed.

It all started with me wanting to talk to a relative of mine who we'll call Boilerplate, as I'm unlikely to ever see him again for various reasons which are (for privacy) left to the reader's imagination. Originally I was just going to call him on the phone, but I was dissuaded from doing that because he can barely hear and persuaded to write a letter instead.

Now the problems start, because I didn't actually have that much to say to him - mainly I wanted to say goodbye. Originally I wanted to write in Latin, because 1) both he and I understand it and 2) it's one of the cleanest and most economical languages around (it may not look that way, but frequently things like pronouns are left out and there are no articles in the entire language). For some reason, my suggestion ended up being flatly rejected. Ah well, we both understand English...

...So I set about composing a letter in English and trying to put in the requisite amount of meaningless babble, whilst also keeping it nice and happy-happy (most people's egos are fragile things, and though Boilerplate's a formidable man, I wasn't sure if he would be fine with my full-on honesty - had we had a phone conversation, I would have been able to lie or speak honestly as fitted the situation). Still, I didn't have that much to it ended up being quite short.

Fast-forward to today, when I asked my dad to read over it. I could see him struggling with what to say, so I politely asked him to cut the crap and just tell me what was wrong.

He said it was too negative.

Too negative?! I'm likely never going to see him again! How do you expect me to be positive and not lie through my teeth?!

Especially after I'd self-censored most of the negative (for which read honest) stuff which I was going to put in...

All the same though, I hunkered down and frantically tried to edit it while keeping the lying and insincerity to a minimum, after which I was told it was too short.

Well, did you seriously expect me to bullshit and lie through my teeth just to make the letter a little bit longer?!
Did you seriously expect me to throw in a bunch of insincere crap in the name of convention?!
What was the point of writing a letter in the first place, then?!

I would have said as much to my dad, but fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on how you look at the situation) I'm a lily-livered coward and thus tried to resolve the situation "diplomatically" (read: I backpedalled at several thousand revolutions per minute) by suggesting that just maaaaaybe I could try phoning him instead...

...Saving me yet another chapter in this unholy saga, he agreed.

And the moral of this story? I don't do insincerity. I'll be a bitch, I'll backstab you, I'll tell you the awful truths your mother kept from you for a reason, but I won't fake sincerity, ever. I say as much to everyone. Nobody seems to get the memo.

Some say it's for a good reason - that an ounce of honest insults does more harm than a pound of lying compliments and platitudes. I say I'd prefer the ounce of insults, and maybe our society would be a better place. I thought, and I still do, that Boilerplate was like me and could face up to it like I did.

I just wish, just once, that I could have an honest and sincere conversation with him. Where I could tell him what I really thought and he'd take it with no ill will, because I never wished him ill will in the first place and because we both know what's happening.

I'm sorry that this turned from an essay about padding into a complaint-fest about my family into an inane speech about the virtues of sincerity, but that's just the way my thoughts are going right now. I've already mentioned the family troubles. They're messing around with my thoughts.

Good evening.