The Bunnies of Ostara Will Have Their Revenge!

You may have come today in anticipation of another of my calenderically-specific rantacitudes. But lo, I come with good tidings (or bad, if you have the questionable judgement or taste to actually enjoy my ecclectic spoutings), for I have nothing to say very much at all about this annual seasonal moment. Easter is ... fine. A little indulgent, perhaps, but not any worse than Christmas or birthdays, and certainly no worse than Obligation Day. It might be nice if it stayed put a little more and stopped jumping about the calendar like the chocolate bunnies it has come to signify in the hearts and stomachs of the young and forgivably gluttonous, but there are enough electronic reminders to prevent catastrophe.
     To celebrate the coming of Spring is perfectly wonderful (though given the view outside we could have held off for a few more weeks until at least a glimmer of sunshine); and as for the good ol' J-man, three high-fives and a pip pip for taking one for the team and coming back with a smile! This is, after all, a time for interesting stories, spiritual reflection, tying up financial ends, scoffing chocolate, and generally living it small, which is everything I can call good and proper.
     Birth. Rebirth. etc. etc. None of this poses anything worth getting all heated and sticky about, and so I feared I would get through this entire season without anything so much as a raised eyebrow.
     Then I saw this:


     Okay. So there doesn't seem to be anything particular worrying about this - nothing out of the festive ordinary - nothing to make the heart revulse with horror - nothing to set the mind aflame with a million accusations of indecency - nothing, to put it splendidly, about which up one should get riled. Just an ordinary plush bunny made to resemble the international Lindt chocolate treat. *ding*
     Now here's the description from their website:

"A beautifully crafted, cute and cuddly Gold Bunny Soft Toy from Lindt is a brilliant gift for Easter! Containing 3 delicious Chocolate Milk Mini Gold Bunnies 10g it’s the perfect gift to put a smile on every child’s face."

     Putting aside the obvious punctuation issues here, there still doesn't seem much to concern. But did you catch the bit about the Mini Gold Bunnies contained within? Well, it wouldn't be the first time a gift or confectionary came with added goodies inside. That's not the issue at all. The issue, my friends, is anatomical.

Those of a sensitive disposition should look away now.









     WHAT THE ACTUAL FUDGE-COVERED BROWNIES?!

     Ladies and gentleman, I present to you Lindt's patented 'My First Bunny Birthing Kit!^TM, because, apparently, one of the chocolatiers thought the only way to make their products more delicious was to force you to zip open a rabbit's underparts, plunge your hand into its well-stuffed depths, and retrieve its newborn young to get at them.
     THIS IS NOT OKAY, LINDT! THIS IS NOT OKAY!
     I have always been a bit troubled by the whole 'confectionary-made-to-look-like-happy-critters' thing, but I consumed enough Freddos in my time to render any objection I might make hypocritical.
     And yet! There is really not anything more I can say about this.
     Happy Easter, everyone! When the vengeful Bunnies of Ostara¹ rise up against us, we shall pay the price for our peculiar indulgences. May Bunny God and his many bunny sons and saviours have mercy on our delicious, nougaty souls!








¹ Ostara


---
A small thank you to Purple Honeycreeper for pointing me in the direction of this nightmarish discovery. If ever I am in want of pictures of plushie genitalia, I'll know who to ask.

Coincidental Arbitrary Astrological Position Day

To risk making habit of reflecting only upon the annuity of occasion (and to further commit to my calendar-led posting schedule), I have something to say on the matter of birthdays. To be specific, my birthday, which, in its own pleasantly demure and uneventful way, was today.
     "Many happy returns of the day!" is something I would say if my pomposity knew no temper, which, as it happens, it does not. And so it is good and right and pleasurable to recognise that I have successfully completed my twenty-second fulfilment of Earth's sidereal period.¹ Earth and its many individual inhabitants have, as a matter of course, largely outdone me in this regard. On any but my own immediate scale, this really stands as no great achievement; and, in fact, the methods of my success can be summed to little more remarkable than the recommended dose of food, sleep, sanity² and good, old-fashioned luck I have acquired by chance.
     Woop - and to a further extent - woop!
     To this end, I have resolved to consider any annual recurrence of a given day a celebration not of survival (remarkably difficult as I may have underplayed) but of time-keeping.
     Time, doing what it is so very good at, has moved on, and, as I have been led to believe, so should we all. Pip pip!
     So I'm moving on. A new year. A new day. A new start. Cut all ties! Sever all bonds! Strike out into the untold and unready with every fibre of spirit set to make in this new future's new challenges, new experiences, new ties, new bonds, new friends, new songs, new new new new new new new. Jamais vu. Until next the day returns and, finding myself tied down again, I shall resolve to move on and on and on and on. Take it off. Put it on. And on and on and on anon.
     Forgive me my babbling, but these false starts for new parts is getting a little old. A bit like me, really. And to examine my position: half-adult, half-student, half-writer, half-teacher, half-dependent, half-made, half-dressed, I'm really struggling to see where this new start is meant to, you know, begin. With everything in halves, any resolution stumbles across the indefinite, and I'm left feeling a tad lost in my trajectory, like a splintering cannonball shot from a misaligned trebuchet.
     I know where I am, and I know where I've been. Two out of three's not bad, right? Isn’t that enough to comment on the year without having to get caught up in all that pesky future business?
     This is all entirely not what I want to talk about today. I apologise for the preramble. What I want to talk about is the following question: “So how does it feel to be *insert age here*?”
     This question, to put it quite simply, is complete bunk of the highest bunkititty.³ No one, in the history of human communication, young or old, genius or twihard has ever answered that question with anything other than “I don’t know, really – ‘bout the same” or “Guh-huh-uh!”.
     There isn’t some magic, fairytale transformation that happens at midnight each year that makes you a twenty-two year old with a whole new set of feelings, ideas, opinions and characteristics. The closest thing to being newly twenty-two years old is twenty-one years, three hundred and sixty-five days old. It’s as if one’s birthday is supposed to come as a surprise, sneaking up on you out of nowhere to shock you into a new age. Seriously – I’ve spent twenty-two years preparing for this. I’ve pretty much got it sorted in my head. It’s okay. I’m all right.
     Please, for the sake of all that is minutely less irritating in the world, don’t be the insufferable barstool who ask that question. You’ll only alienate your friends, disappoint your family, mildly inconvenience your colleagues, and passive-aggressively turn sour your sexual relationships.
     Next time you go to ask someone how it feels to be *insert age here*, stop, slap yourself thrice about the head, apologise for the oddity, then proceed to ask something with a scintilla of remote thought. “What days will you remember of the last year?” “What good things do you think you have done?” “What have you gained?” “Where did you go?” “Is there any cake left?” And, as it turns out, these are jolly good questions to ask most days.
     Many happy returns of the day to ... well ... everyone.


¹ Look it up.
² Debatable.
³ Yes, I did just say ‘titty’.

Obligation Day: One Year On [14/02/13]

A year ago, I wrote this blog post on the insidiousness of Valentine's.
     With certain circumstances of a romantic nature since changed, I feel it necessary to make a statement in reflection, which is as follows:

     "Nothing has changed, and I'm still right."
     That is all.

     To any being with whom I share the slightest scintilla of affection and understanding, on this, the day of Valen's Tine, I wish to express only my deepest gratitude and appreciation.
     Unromantically and unapologetically, I love you.

     See you next year.