Because y'all wanted to know:

Once upon a time I went to study poetry in Northern Ireland.  A couple weeks before I left, my father said to me, 'Seth, you will probably run into some girl over there and find her attractive.  Therefore you should decide before you go whether or not you will do anything about it, because international relationships are difficult'.

I said, 'Yes, Dad, you are very wise, and I will think about that'.

And, being the cautious and timid person that I was, I decided that I would go to Northern Ireland, study poetry, and in no conceivable event would I study women.

Then I got to Northern Ireland and discovered that it can be a nasty, lonely place for a poor, sober, thoughtful person who loves sunlight and good conversation, especially in a month-long Christmas holiday when everyone goes home except the poor, sober, thoughtful person and his Chinese flatmates who do not speak English.  During that Christmas holiday, I read Paradise Lost, watched hundreds of BBC reruns of Murder She Wrote, and even became desperate enough to go on a scavenger hunt with people from my church.  That, my friends, is wild, unbridled desperation.

For this scavenger hunt, we got bonus points for appearing in a photograph with a two members of the opposite sex previously unknown to us.  As you might guess, I fell madly in love with one of those two members of the opposite sex, and her name was Julie.  So much for my response to my wise father's question.

But, being the cautious and timid person that I was, I took a long time to actually fall madly in love, and a much longer time to admit that I had fallen madly in love.  I tried not to, I promise you, but it didn't really work; Julie was simply too pretty, too inquisitive, and too interesting for me to ignore.  There were all sorts of minor flirtations and cups of coffee that we wouldn't admit were dates, and we sat next to each other an awful lot, but we certainly weren't going out.  In fact, we merely enjoyed each other's company and the uncanny amount of things we had in common.  Besides, things wouldn't work out anyway, because my student visa was up in June.

Until things became too obvious for even a mature and experienced denier such as myself to continue to deny.  One day I even thought a thought I had thought about no other girl: I could imagine myself marrying Julie.  This thought, of course, I stomped underfoot and then swept it underneath my mental rug.  Then two wise and infuriating people said sage things to me.  'Seth', they said, 'you're a blithering idiot.  If you like her, tell her and then write emails'.  This was the week that we were to part.

So I said, 'Julie, if I were going to stay in this country, I'd try to talk you into being my girlfriend', and she said, 'Well, isn't that nice?'  And then she sent me text messages saying 'I miss you'.  She also called me on my mobile phone the week I got back to the United States, and I answered the phone, despite the fact that I was watching an enormously important soccer game in the presence of my entire family.  After that we sent numerous emails and letters, and God did a miracle on our behalf and he called it Skype.

Then we said to each other, 'We are on opposite sides of the stupid Atlantic Ocean, so how are we supposed to work things out?'  And we said to God, 'Hey, we want to be in love with each other, only there's this big, stupid ocean between us'.  So God did another miracle on our behalf, and he caused my funding for my PhD to be delayed for a year so that I could not start.  Therefore I returned to Belfast to work at a church (which I actually wanted to do, Julie or no Julie) and to woo Julie (which I unquestionably wanted to do, church or no church).

And we saw each other every day, and I walked Julie home every night, and we said to each other, 'It is nice to see you every day.  Much nicer, in fact, than being on opposite sides of the stupid Atlantic Ocean.  We must make this last'.  And then we realised that if we did not get married, we would not continue to see each other every day.  Visas will make people realise such things.

Accordingly I spoke with my parents on Skype, and Julie went home to talk with her parents, and I stayed up very late one night (much to the shock of my flatmate Andrew) writing a poem.  Also I went unto the city centre and purchased a ring.  And then one night as we were making a cup of tea in the ever so very romantic setting of my kitchen, I read the poem to Julie, and the last line said something to the effect of, 'Will you marry me?'  Then I slipped the ring onto the appropriate finger (which, sadly, was a size too big for the ring), and she gave me an exuberant hug and said that she would indeed marry me.  And there was much rejoicing.

Finis.

Here is the rest of the story of my life: Last night I proposed to Julie, and she said yes, and so we are going to get married next summer.

Right.  So this is the story of my life.  For the last two hours I've been sitting in the office of Fisherwick Presbyterian Church in Belfast, Northern Ireland.  I've been doing absolutely nothing, by which I mean emailing people and leaving messages on Facebook sites.  Oh yes.  I've also been tending our dutiful, ancient copy machine.  About an hour ago I got up to leave, and the blooming thing jammed as I crossed the threshold of the door.  It was like a prisoner hearing that they'd miscounted the exit date by a week, or like a scene in one of those dodgy movies when a tentacle of some deep-sea creature soars out of the sea to wrap around the heroine's leg an instant before she could've been out of danger.

Oh yes, I love my life here.  If you've never worked at a church before, let me tell you about the sort of things that could happen to you.  You might sometimes have to play music in front of hordes and hordes of people, the average age of whom is above fifty, with less than a days' notice.  You might sometimes be used as an example by the minister, and he might occasionally make you stand in front of such hordes, for periods of time exceeding fifteen minutes, with your backside facing the hordes.  You might also miraculously fling your glass of water across the room while coming into a staff meeting.  That is to say nothing about the old women who might keep trying to set you up with your coworkers, in defiance of basic Christian principles saying that a man who is dating a woman ought never to be set up with quite a different woman who is dating quite a different man.  You might also be required, as cultural necessity, to drink tea and coffee by the gallon.  I'm not joking about this; I've heard about a minister in a wee town called Ballymena who took his tea through an IV on Sundays, just to save time.

I've also decided to invite all my friends -- including you -- to a massive house party in my house.  Well, if you like, we could just call it a bacchanalia, and hang the expense.  We won't even mess with beer; we'll just get a keg or two of whiskey and vodka.  If you drink too much, puke it out on the street and come back for more.  If you need to fight someone, go yell at the neighbours and scratch their cars with your keys.  If you feel like taking your clothes off, feel free to go outside and do so.  And -- never fear -- we will play the worst possible 80s music at the loudest possible volume.  But we'll be considerate and not wake anyone up.  You can't have such parties at night-time, because they're too loud.  So we'll start about 7:30 on a Saturday morning as soon as the sun comes up.

No neighbours were either harmed or satirised in the preceding paragraph.

This is a shout out to my friend Karen who told me to write about my life.  Hey Karen!

Beyond that, life is good.  The neighbours aren't usually too loud -- only on a Thursday night.  They are mostly students who go back home on a Friday night and get drunk there.  Working at a church is usually not too embarrassing; in fact, I rather like it, although it takes an awful lot of energy.  There are loads of very interesting people to talk with, and some wise and godly people to learn from.  Also, I'm trying to write books, watch soccer sometimes, and spend time with Julie Henderson, who for my money is the prettiest girl in the world.

That is why I don't write on Xanga very much anymore.  And the copy machine just finished.  I'm going to make like a tree and get myself out of here.  Cheers, Seth.

I'm beginning to think that the weather when I first came to Northern Ireland two years ago was a dreadful conspiracy against me.  I don't think that I actually saw the sun for the first two weeks I was here, starting the moment the shore came into view from the Stranraer ferry.  The clouds crouched the city like a giant wearing grey trousers.  The image of the preceeding sentence is not meant to be taken overly seriously; it is to be burlesque and a bit overboard.  I still felt overwhelmed and threatened -- what if the giant clouds won the contest and chewed the sun to bits before swallowing to their foul stomachs?

This time has been different.  It's only rained two or three times in the last three weeks, and it's only rained at night.  The clouds have been innocent, harmless little things that can hardly cover a small town with their shadow.  I've worn t-shirts more days than not.

The deep question then is -- which version of weather is real, and which abnormal?  People here would certainly say that the first oppressive weather was the real typical Belfast weather, but then people here certainly have never been noted for their optimism.  Maybe they're all wrong and Belfast isn't such a nasty place.  Maybe it's a half-way pleasant city with half-way decent weather.

Or maybe the place just likes me and salutes my return with a barrage of sunshine.  Who really knows?