Hello everyone,

This is Mark’s mother. Although I suppose he was ‘Dirk’ to whoever is reading this.

Mark was found dead in his apartment on April 16, 2015. His father and I are trying to notify any friends that we don’t know. In his browser this was one of his most used sites, it took us a while before we realized that ‘Dirk’ was our Mark.

We had no idea he thought of taking his own life so often. We didn’t know that there were ‘voices’. We know him better now from reading this, and there can be no worse feeling.

If you knew the real Mark, please contact us.

Erica, please please contact us.


Some I Can’t Un-know

It has just been pointed out to me that saying something like “we’re on call, 24×7, 365” makes no sense. Surely you’re just on call “24, 365”. Or maybe “24×7, 52”. This phrase pops up all the time in my job (I clean the cages of four legged animals at a zoo) and I know this will now bug me for the rest of my life career, even as I progress up the corporate ladder to two legged animals. All I can do is share my pain with others until the whole world becomes so upset that we descend into a state of anarchy and/or general grumpiness which will cheer me right up.

In other news, I’m starting a charity for children with mothers who have neck tattoos. These children need your support.


Break In

Someone broke into my house, I think a few weeks ago. They didn’t take any valuables, but they replaced my good pickling vinegar with water.

Now I have a whole batch of wet cucumbers. What on earth am I going to do with wet cucumbers?


Cancel (guest post)

He cancelled on me.


And again, that dull humiliation. Ripped off. Pissed off. But this time that too-familiar brew brought with it a fresh realisation. This man does not belong on a pedestal. This is not someone special, not a once in a lifetime anything. I’m worth more than this. I’ll try not to go too far and say he’s worthless, he isn’t, he’s a wonderful man. And I certainly won’t say pathetic, but the word and its kin have flashed in my mind more than once before being guiltily dismissed.

It’s with a light heart that I abandon the idea of us. It seems eerily easy. I feel like I’ve quit smoking and realised how easy it was all along. What the fuck did I ever smoke for?

It might get harder, and that’s fine.

This is good.

I feel good.



I wonder if guide dogs brag to the other dogs that they have a person?

On another note, people who raise guide dogs, only to give them away once trained, truly are some of the unsung heroes of this world. I choke up a little whenever I picture them handing over their 18-month-old best friend to help someone else for the rest of their lives.



It was a sunny Thursday; an ordinary day. I sat at my desk, chatting with a mostly nice lady in charge of design for a website.

She is from Cameroon.

It was while explaining something about user interaction that the following took place:

“…we just need it to do a slide thing when the user clicks here. I don’t understand all the technical terms”, she said with a smile, “just do what you nerds do.”

Jesus. Christ.

“Excuse me?” I pretty much shouted. “Oh no you did not just call me the N-word.” I smacked my hands down so hard on my desk they stung, I tried not to flinch.

“But”, she stammered “I heard you call yourself a n…”

“Oh” I shrieked, “don’t you dare say that out loud again. That’s our word. I’m a nerd, I’m a proud nerd, but you do not get to call me that. For decades our ancestors fought to sit in the office with all the other people. Not out back in the server room. Do you know how fucking cold it is in the server room? We kept the milk out in the open.”

She was shaking now, the poor dear. But I was on a roll.

“We have come too far to let you take it all away by calling us” I paused for effect, “nerds to our face. For shame.”

She started crying. “It’s just … I always heard my daddy talking about the n… the n-words … at his work. I guess … I guess I thought it was OK. But I see now. I … I’m so sorry Dirk.”

God dammit if it wasn’t my turn to cry. I stood up and put my arms around her. “It’s not your fault.” I whispered. Unfortunately I had a mystery hard on and I think she felt it. Bad timing, but still, it was a magical moment.



I’m thinking of starting a two-step programme for people addicted to dance.

For people that have lost a leg in some sort of accident I might have a 12-step-rehabilitation-programme. Naturally there will only be six steps.