July 24, 2010.

My style has changed quite a lot and so has my fluency. Nowadays I cringe at my old stories, but I'm not taking them down because there are people who have liked them, and thus would be discourteous to break the links.

I'm still writing.

June 8, 2008.

I know I'm likely the slowest writer on planet Earth. I'm working on my stories, but real life doesn't leave me but a few minutes a day to do anything hobbie-like.

Anyway, don't you even think that I have put my stories on hold. As of this day, I just added a fractional story outline that I have already worked into one and have a prologue and a first chapter ready for me just to add a decent title.

You haven't really had an accident until:

You have seen light right through a part of your body.

You have hobbled back to camp and people have nearly fainted at the sight of you.

You have seen your own bones, or have at least seen a part of you bent where there are no articulations.

You have spent goodness-knows-how-long just reeling in pain, unable to coordinate your movements enough to even try to crawl away.

You have lied on tarmac, completely terrified at knowing that you can't even crawl away and that some speeding motorist could do you in any minute.

You have had serious philosophical thoughts about paralysis versus amputation while you were sprawled on a hard surface.

You have been in enough pain to be unable to scream.

You have scars that you consider medals.

You have completely totalled a bicycle.

You have felt weightlessness under very unpleasant circumstances.

You have developed a highly specific phobia, such as not being able to feel connected to the terrain.

You don't actually remember the accident: you only remember the terrain rushing to hit you in the face...

(2013/03/17 Update) A surgeon has removed asphalt from your body.

You aren't really tough until:

You have seriously bent your ankle, yet you stood up, continued on your way and, after a while, you weren't really sure which ankle you bent.

Trudging through knee-deep fresh snow has you sighting in happiness.

You can't stop having guilty feelings of disappointment whenever a hurricane misses your city.

As you were hand-stitching through some really tough material and managed to get a needle right through one of your fingers, you felt more annoyed at the bloodstain than dismayed at your torn flesh.

You have stood up and kept walking on a broken toe.

You can go barefoot in snow.

You have worn a kilt in countries where everyone sees it as a skirt.

You hurt yourself halfway down the marathon, yet you finished it.

You have stared down someone who was trying to rob you.

(2013/03/17 Update) The very first articulate though you had after regaining consciousness over a puddle of your own blood had to do with your schedule.

(September 2017) During the Mexico City earthquake, your first instinct was to run, rather than to pick up a stitch of clothing.

(October 2017) One of your toe nails is about to fall off. And you just don't know what did you do to damage your toe enough for the nail to have buckled up.

And about the nail itself: you know it will regrow within some four to six months, so you fail to feel something stronger than mild annoyance. Especially considering that it will likely fall off while you're doing something strenuous, thus forcing you to stop and fish it out of your sock.

You aren't creepy until:

People think they know you know where they live, despite you barely caring enough to know their names.

You have come to notice that your female friends always meet you in public settings, despite that a few of them swear by your honour and chivalry.

The people around you expect you to have been listening in on their conversations.