Here is what I mean by squirelly. At age 22 I was earnest. So I sat in a grove, to meditate. In this grove was a comfortable 3 walled cabin on stilts. A squirrel nested in the eaves. As I sat perfectly still, he would poke his head out, explaining what tentative means. A tentative step, then a dash back. Each try he’d advance an extra step, until after ten minutes he’d scurry out to expose his full body length on the beam. Then dash back! I never moved.
I never moved.
Squirelly is getting all excited about your own emotions and fears, building up big stories, dashing forth and running back, while nothing at all is going on.
So I hate Brit men. English Premier Football? What the fuck is that? What are you getting all worked up over?
But I have come to see that there is some strange bizarre and sickly twisted humor in how Brits keep hitting each other over the head with insults. The movie Quest for Fire was set in Britain. One tribe that was doing well enjoyed chasing any male outsider into the marsh, slinging arrows at him, dragging him into a circle of people who laugh and point, and then watching him have sex with the fat chick. Brits are supposed to be all about Guvenor This and Lady That, but they are all about taking the piss.
The picture is congealing that personal development requires tests and hardships.
Most traditional cultures have rite of passage ceremonies, for men at least, that are grueling.
There is mounting evidence that these actually help adolescents grow up.