Ah, the holidays, a time of celebration, relaxation, and consumption. Christmas gives us a reason to be with friends and family. Hanukkah is incentive to kick back and chug some eggnog, and Kwanzaa is why we spend so much money on crap we'll never use. And it just so happens to be my favorite part of the year.
The cold weather and jolly holiday spirit validates my slothful lazing around, doing absolutely nothing, not that I needed a reason. I should be working on apps right now, but fuck it! It's Christmas, I deserve to unwind. The holidays give us something to strive for in our pathetic day-to-day lives, a short-term purpose.
But the holiday season also reeks of hypocrisy. The purpose of Christmas or any of the aforementioned holidays is to give, goodwill and love to all. Giving usually implies presents, fueling the absolutely unstoppable behemoth inundation of consumerism. While we clamor and gibe about giving to the less fortunate, about how "giving is better than receiving," it's plain to see that at the back of everyone's mind is a simple and irrevocable desire to have more stuff. And because we're a species of followers, once everyone decided to follow this pattern of behavior, everyone does. But this is one of those hypocrisies that are relatively harmless. What does it matter if little Timmy says one thing but really feels another? It's the holidays! Nobody cares if you're a hypocrite because they're too busy engorging themselves on turkeys and trips to the mall.
One of the most tragically humorous things about me is that while I'm shamelessly cynical and pessimistic, my tasty nougat center is composed entirely of romanticism. I'm a big huggy-wuggy teddy bear at heart, if by teddy bear you mean ferocious polar bear defending her cub. But in all seriousness, there are things that make me melt, like the movie Atonement, polar bear cubs, and corny romantic gestures. It provides a nice balance to my personality. The holiday season should also be on that list. It's a time of togetherness, love, and happiness. A time where we should all set aside pointless bickering, grudges, and ill-disguised animosity. You can resume that shit after New Year's, I don't have a problem with that. But somewhere around this time, I feel myself smiling a lot more (which is like once a day as opposed to the perpetual grimace I have on most of the time), prone to outbursts of Christmas songs, and just generally jolly and jovial, like a big fat Santa Claus. If you want to see an anomaly, just look at me during Christmastime. If I'm willing to brush off hypocrisy, then you know something's going down.
So dismiss the usual message I give out through this blog. Forget contemplating the meaningless of life, forget pondering the futility of being nice to people, forget musing the benefits of staying true to yourself and loving only what truly matters, forget wondering whether unconditional love exists or not, forget ruminating the downfalls of a capitalistic society.
Forget it all and just enjoy the holidays. One love, bruddah.
PS. The holidays make me hornier than a rhinoceros with genital warts.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Friday, December 19, 2008
Peepz
Geographically, in the greater sense of the universe, human beings have been around for a few thousand years, effectively surviving and thriving in the time it took Jason Biggs' character to have an orgasm in American Pie.Isn't it remarkable, then, that in that extremely short amount of time, we've caused so much degradation, destroyed so many habitats, and ruined the lives of so many other species on earth, along with ourselves? We are capable of so much more than the wildebeest living in Africa, and yet we have consistently, time after time, done just as much bad as we have good.
The 'good' I speak of, of course, refers to what we've done to propel ourselves up the ladder in the animal kingdom - what inventions we've made to prevent us from being lion food, the weapons we've forged to fight off the Megalodons. In other words, all that we've done as a species is ensure our further propagation. I suppose you could call that a success, and indeed that's what animals use to mark their success in the world, whether or not they can survive. The only things we've done are entirely self-serving, and utterly meaningless in the scope of the universe.
Everything is meaningless in the cosmic sense. Nothing ever holds significance because it's all going to be gone when the Big Crunch happens. Armed with that knowledge in mind, wouldn't it be ideal for everyone on earth to just get along? The wars, the conflicts over oil and energy and money are all futile because you're all going to die. That's just the reality. I believe the phrase "Make love, not war," applies about ten times over in this situation. Life is what you make of it, and when you fill it with war, self-righteousness, and hypocrisies, one would think you're doomed to a life of misery, but they somehow manage to still believe what they're doing is right.
People are vain. They're susceptible to making rash decisions based on impulse and floods of hormones. That's what makes us human. What else makes us human? The ability to make rational decisions and exercise judgment. That, in my opinion, is what we should pride ourselves on. But history shows us that the average human is more likely to act impulsively, aggressively, fearfully, and without reason. See: the Crusades, the Spanish Inquisition, the Holocaust. Whatever we can't control, we actively seek to destroy so that the issue of not being able to control it no longer bothers us. But look at what rationality and reasoning has brought us. Democracy, the notion of liberty, business, and countless other things. There's almost a perpetual split between absolute pants-on-head retarded impulsiveness and stalwart rational thought. We humans, we're in a permanent state of drifting between PMS and normality. And when it's that time of the month, our periods are so bad we need to control it with medication.
In all seriousness, this whole, very rambly and inarticulate entry was just to show how my misanthropy has kind of tempered. Mankind is capable of the worst things you can imagine. We will commit atrocities without a second thought, all in the name of some abstract cause. But in the rare instances where we aren't indulging our impulsive whims, like juggling breadsticks, we're capable of so much. We can improve our world in so many ways, we just have to take our birth control pills and start taking the initiative. Because when the time comes, we'll want to have something to show to the Tralfamadorians. And I believe we're fully capable of that if we just try. The Greeks did it, our Founding Fathers did it, and our economic prosperity speaks volumes of our success. Just gotta pull our heads out of our asses and stop yapping about terrorists. There are more pressing matters, like building hovercars and colonizing Mars.
PS. I expect absolutely no one to get the jokes I made in this entry. And by no one, I mean stupid people.
The 'good' I speak of, of course, refers to what we've done to propel ourselves up the ladder in the animal kingdom - what inventions we've made to prevent us from being lion food, the weapons we've forged to fight off the Megalodons. In other words, all that we've done as a species is ensure our further propagation. I suppose you could call that a success, and indeed that's what animals use to mark their success in the world, whether or not they can survive. The only things we've done are entirely self-serving, and utterly meaningless in the scope of the universe.
Everything is meaningless in the cosmic sense. Nothing ever holds significance because it's all going to be gone when the Big Crunch happens. Armed with that knowledge in mind, wouldn't it be ideal for everyone on earth to just get along? The wars, the conflicts over oil and energy and money are all futile because you're all going to die. That's just the reality. I believe the phrase "Make love, not war," applies about ten times over in this situation. Life is what you make of it, and when you fill it with war, self-righteousness, and hypocrisies, one would think you're doomed to a life of misery, but they somehow manage to still believe what they're doing is right.
People are vain. They're susceptible to making rash decisions based on impulse and floods of hormones. That's what makes us human. What else makes us human? The ability to make rational decisions and exercise judgment. That, in my opinion, is what we should pride ourselves on. But history shows us that the average human is more likely to act impulsively, aggressively, fearfully, and without reason. See: the Crusades, the Spanish Inquisition, the Holocaust. Whatever we can't control, we actively seek to destroy so that the issue of not being able to control it no longer bothers us. But look at what rationality and reasoning has brought us. Democracy, the notion of liberty, business, and countless other things. There's almost a perpetual split between absolute pants-on-head retarded impulsiveness and stalwart rational thought. We humans, we're in a permanent state of drifting between PMS and normality. And when it's that time of the month, our periods are so bad we need to control it with medication.
In all seriousness, this whole, very rambly and inarticulate entry was just to show how my misanthropy has kind of tempered. Mankind is capable of the worst things you can imagine. We will commit atrocities without a second thought, all in the name of some abstract cause. But in the rare instances where we aren't indulging our impulsive whims, like juggling breadsticks, we're capable of so much. We can improve our world in so many ways, we just have to take our birth control pills and start taking the initiative. Because when the time comes, we'll want to have something to show to the Tralfamadorians. And I believe we're fully capable of that if we just try. The Greeks did it, our Founding Fathers did it, and our economic prosperity speaks volumes of our success. Just gotta pull our heads out of our asses and stop yapping about terrorists. There are more pressing matters, like building hovercars and colonizing Mars.
PS. I expect absolutely no one to get the jokes I made in this entry. And by no one, I mean stupid people.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
We don't need no education
In the time it took for me to read this article, plus however long it took for me to start giving a shit, I've had the time to ponder whether a college education is truly crucial to getting ahead in this world. It's not complete, however, without a rant on how this article rings true in almost every regard. And about how it applies to me, of course.
In this day and age, a college education is practically required to get anywhere in life. You want to be a lawyer? Go to law school. You want to teach? Gotta earn a Postgraduate Certificate in Education. The job scene is so competitive and dog-eat-dog that a post-secondary education is the bare minimum for getting a job. You'll need leadership experience, the ability to perform well under pressure, to able to work with other people, and have creative ideas and a drive to succeed. College prepares you for all that while bolstering your knowledge. Anyone who can graduate from college is practically guaranteed a job, unless they decide to go flip rocks on the corner instead of meeting with a lawyer.
But success is what you make of it. Someone could be working a minimum wage deal at a coffee shop or book store or something for several years, get promoted to manager and continue working there for the rest of their life. They didn't go to college, didn't major and excel in a competitive field, but they're just as happy as the person who secured a lucrative position at a law firm. Likewise, someone could be begging for money in a college town for thirty years and they could be just as happy. People who get college educations can hardly look down on them and judge, "Man, why don't you make something of your life, like I did?" because you don't know what their situation is. Also, someone like that is a really big douchebag.
I suppose another reason why you go to college is for the experience you get alongside whatever education you pursue. You meet people, do exciting things, learn about yourself. And in a way, that could be more important than any silly psychology major. Is it necessary? Probably not. Is it enlightening? Absolutely. And it is my opinion that knowledge and self-enlightenment take precedent over anything else in life. You could take ecstasy and achieve the same thing; college is just another tool with which "to discover yourself."
The aforementioned article is interesting and thought-provoking, to know that the world's elite, this nation's top students are not only as messed up as the rest of us, but also probably going to do even worse than we are, in the long run. The advantage of a big, public university versus a small, tiny one is just that - the size. In a public university, it's a dog-eat-dog world; the professors, students, and system will chew you up and spit you out if you so much as sneeze, whereas in a school like Harvard, hell, like Claremont or Swathmore, there's individualized attention, as the teacher-to-student ratio is quite small, compared to the veritable crowds that you would see at UC Berkeley. According to the article, once you get in, it's a cakewalk - extensions are abound, you can miss class with impunity, and clemency is available if you ask for it. In that sense, then, you can make the argument that public universities, the schools were the crowds will eat you alive, prepare you better for whatever is out there in the workplace.
I guess a sense of superiority is festering in me when I think to myself "Public school is going to brutalize me, but I'm going to be much better prepared for whatever is lurking under the surface than those Ivy League scumbags." But that could just be the fact that I can't get into an Ivy League even if I mailed them a certain appendage in tribute.
What's life like for the kids that graduate from an Ivy League school? They become rich and famous? Practically swim in the piles of money that their jobs afford them? Live cushy, comfortable lives? For some reason, that just doesn't appeal to me either. Again, this may be because I'm seething in jealousy, but it's also because that kind of life is terribly predictable. Wake up, go to work, do absolutely nothing because you're set for life. I want to be a lawyer, sure, but I'm not just going to go to the office and review briefs every day. I'll dabble in various aspects of the law, maybe go to court, criminal law - I'll make and ensure my life is about learning different things and loving everything I do. Mr. Millionaire from Yale may be able to squeeze in sky-diving and having sex with Gisele Bundchen in between his lunch meeting with Donald Trump and those guys from Saudi Arabia, but that's never the case. You're not living when you do the same thing over and over.
To sum up, I'm not worried about not going to an Ivy League school. I can still get an excellent education from the schools I've applied and am going to apply to. To me, getting an education isn't just learning things that are important to whatever field you want to go into - it's preparing for the next big step. And while I would love to party down at Colombia some day, it wouldn't be giving me the toolset I need to survive in the next life. I do need an education somewhere though, God be damned if I start begging for change down at Telegraph Avenue near Rasputin's.
God, I can't wait for college. Probably will be the most terrifying journey I'll ever take, but I have a distinct feeling it'll be very much enjoyable.
PS. Thanks for the article. Also, thanks for nothing. And for chlamydia. You're supposed to finish your course of antibiotics!
In this day and age, a college education is practically required to get anywhere in life. You want to be a lawyer? Go to law school. You want to teach? Gotta earn a Postgraduate Certificate in Education. The job scene is so competitive and dog-eat-dog that a post-secondary education is the bare minimum for getting a job. You'll need leadership experience, the ability to perform well under pressure, to able to work with other people, and have creative ideas and a drive to succeed. College prepares you for all that while bolstering your knowledge. Anyone who can graduate from college is practically guaranteed a job, unless they decide to go flip rocks on the corner instead of meeting with a lawyer.
But success is what you make of it. Someone could be working a minimum wage deal at a coffee shop or book store or something for several years, get promoted to manager and continue working there for the rest of their life. They didn't go to college, didn't major and excel in a competitive field, but they're just as happy as the person who secured a lucrative position at a law firm. Likewise, someone could be begging for money in a college town for thirty years and they could be just as happy. People who get college educations can hardly look down on them and judge, "Man, why don't you make something of your life, like I did?" because you don't know what their situation is. Also, someone like that is a really big douchebag.
I suppose another reason why you go to college is for the experience you get alongside whatever education you pursue. You meet people, do exciting things, learn about yourself. And in a way, that could be more important than any silly psychology major. Is it necessary? Probably not. Is it enlightening? Absolutely. And it is my opinion that knowledge and self-enlightenment take precedent over anything else in life. You could take ecstasy and achieve the same thing; college is just another tool with which "to discover yourself."
The aforementioned article is interesting and thought-provoking, to know that the world's elite, this nation's top students are not only as messed up as the rest of us, but also probably going to do even worse than we are, in the long run. The advantage of a big, public university versus a small, tiny one is just that - the size. In a public university, it's a dog-eat-dog world; the professors, students, and system will chew you up and spit you out if you so much as sneeze, whereas in a school like Harvard, hell, like Claremont or Swathmore, there's individualized attention, as the teacher-to-student ratio is quite small, compared to the veritable crowds that you would see at UC Berkeley. According to the article, once you get in, it's a cakewalk - extensions are abound, you can miss class with impunity, and clemency is available if you ask for it. In that sense, then, you can make the argument that public universities, the schools were the crowds will eat you alive, prepare you better for whatever is out there in the workplace.
I guess a sense of superiority is festering in me when I think to myself "Public school is going to brutalize me, but I'm going to be much better prepared for whatever is lurking under the surface than those Ivy League scumbags." But that could just be the fact that I can't get into an Ivy League even if I mailed them a certain appendage in tribute.
What's life like for the kids that graduate from an Ivy League school? They become rich and famous? Practically swim in the piles of money that their jobs afford them? Live cushy, comfortable lives? For some reason, that just doesn't appeal to me either. Again, this may be because I'm seething in jealousy, but it's also because that kind of life is terribly predictable. Wake up, go to work, do absolutely nothing because you're set for life. I want to be a lawyer, sure, but I'm not just going to go to the office and review briefs every day. I'll dabble in various aspects of the law, maybe go to court, criminal law - I'll make and ensure my life is about learning different things and loving everything I do. Mr. Millionaire from Yale may be able to squeeze in sky-diving and having sex with Gisele Bundchen in between his lunch meeting with Donald Trump and those guys from Saudi Arabia, but that's never the case. You're not living when you do the same thing over and over.
To sum up, I'm not worried about not going to an Ivy League school. I can still get an excellent education from the schools I've applied and am going to apply to. To me, getting an education isn't just learning things that are important to whatever field you want to go into - it's preparing for the next big step. And while I would love to party down at Colombia some day, it wouldn't be giving me the toolset I need to survive in the next life. I do need an education somewhere though, God be damned if I start begging for change down at Telegraph Avenue near Rasputin's.
God, I can't wait for college. Probably will be the most terrifying journey I'll ever take, but I have a distinct feeling it'll be very much enjoyable.
PS. Thanks for the article. Also, thanks for nothing. And for chlamydia. You're supposed to finish your course of antibiotics!
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Another list of people I admire
With the prospect of six weeks of absolute freedom from anything and everything, I've decided to return to regular blog updates. I wouldn't want my skills atrophied over this exceptionally long break. Without further ado, here's the exciting sequel to a list of people I admire.
Alan Moore: I would go so far to call this graphic novelist, comic book writer, a visionary. Author of amazing works such as Watchmen, V for Vendetta, Batman: The Killing Joke, and The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, all of which are imaginative, exciting, and well-drawn, Moore also manages to combine adult thematic material with fantastical settings and characters. The juxtaposition of the two makes every one of his works utterly flawless. Leo Tolstoy and Fyodor Dostoevsky be damned, Alan Moore can bend your mind with naked blue men contemplating the misery of man's existence while building a gigantic palace on Mars. That's just as awesome as it sounds.
Natalie Portman: She isn't just the ideal woman, beautiful, talented, and Jewish; she's the ideal human being. Smarter than most of you, more beautiful than the skinniest supermodel, and an extraordinarily talented actress, Ms. Portman is just perfection. Furthermore, she's done a lot of things to alleviate poverty in other countries, namely the promotion of microfinance. While it hasn't taken off yet, the fact that she's actively pursuing it, by lecturing at various college campuses and such, means she's leagues above those superficial bitches you see on The Hills or something. Marry me, Ms. Portman.
Man, what is it with me and Jewish girls?
John F. Kennedy: I used to think he was the most overrated president of all time until I looked closely at what he's done. JFK was the manifestation of the emerging youth/hippie culture that was emerging at the time, and every one of his policies reflect a move towards peace and love. While he still had the Cold War to contend with, he didn't openly condemn the Soviet Union and risk mutually assured destruction. Impeded by a bunch of warmongering douchebags and a bullet to the face, he could've done so much more for the world. Imagine if he'd handled the Vietnam War instead of inciting it like Lyndon B. Johnson did. On second thought, if JFK had handled it like he handled all foreign crises, I'd probably be living in Vietnam right now, and not blogging. Probably de-mining the rice fields.
Nas: His catchy beats, excellent rhymes, and deep, thought-provoking lyrics, Nas is easily one of the greatest hip-hop artists of all time. It was a toss-up between him and Lupe Fiasco and Immortal Technique, but Nas' debut album was called Illmatic, and that, in a word, is ill. This man speaks from the heart, and the glorification of the ghetto, "hoes," and drug use are not the main attractions. Rather, gritty, first-hand experiences with the dark side of inner cities and urban desolation is what this guy talks about. Combine that with his clever plays on various words and vocabulary that would make me blush and you've got a recipe for one damn good rapper and musician.
Indiana Jones: Ah, the three Indiana Jones movies. I'm so glad they decided to leave it be after they made three movies. So glad Spielberg and Lucas didn't milk the franchise for what sweet, juicy milk it had left. Indiana Jones is the ideal that everyone wants to be. A savvy adventurer with the ability to kick ass, take names, and save priceless artifacts that melt people's faces. The "everyman" notion appeals greatly to us when we look at Indiana Jones and kind of makes us feel like even we, the dreary, day-to-day, paycheck-to-paycheck, white collar worker can break out of the ordinary and do something awesome, like swinging over a pit of spikes using a bullwhip and breaking up a child labor ring.
Jesus of Nazareth Jesus, the embodiment of all that is good within the hearts of humanity. Unfortunately for him, he vastly underestimated all that was wrong with humanity, like greed and intolerance. But you have to give him props for being so consistent in his kindness. Healing the poor, turning water into wine, and walking on water, his miracles inspired what goodness mankind can afford to summon, which is sadly not much. Atrocities have been committed in the name of God, of religion, but that's not the fucking point of religion, now is it? The point is to be like Jesus, to be kind, forgiving, and benevolent. Just goes to show you that not even divine intervention can efface the worst mankind has to offer.
I think I may be missing someone...nah. That's probably it. i love you, my three readers, if even that. <3
Alan Moore: I would go so far to call this graphic novelist, comic book writer, a visionary. Author of amazing works such as Watchmen, V for Vendetta, Batman: The Killing Joke, and The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, all of which are imaginative, exciting, and well-drawn, Moore also manages to combine adult thematic material with fantastical settings and characters. The juxtaposition of the two makes every one of his works utterly flawless. Leo Tolstoy and Fyodor Dostoevsky be damned, Alan Moore can bend your mind with naked blue men contemplating the misery of man's existence while building a gigantic palace on Mars. That's just as awesome as it sounds.
Natalie Portman: She isn't just the ideal woman, beautiful, talented, and Jewish; she's the ideal human being. Smarter than most of you, more beautiful than the skinniest supermodel, and an extraordinarily talented actress, Ms. Portman is just perfection. Furthermore, she's done a lot of things to alleviate poverty in other countries, namely the promotion of microfinance. While it hasn't taken off yet, the fact that she's actively pursuing it, by lecturing at various college campuses and such, means she's leagues above those superficial bitches you see on The Hills or something. Marry me, Ms. Portman.
Man, what is it with me and Jewish girls?
John F. Kennedy: I used to think he was the most overrated president of all time until I looked closely at what he's done. JFK was the manifestation of the emerging youth/hippie culture that was emerging at the time, and every one of his policies reflect a move towards peace and love. While he still had the Cold War to contend with, he didn't openly condemn the Soviet Union and risk mutually assured destruction. Impeded by a bunch of warmongering douchebags and a bullet to the face, he could've done so much more for the world. Imagine if he'd handled the Vietnam War instead of inciting it like Lyndon B. Johnson did. On second thought, if JFK had handled it like he handled all foreign crises, I'd probably be living in Vietnam right now, and not blogging. Probably de-mining the rice fields.
Nas: His catchy beats, excellent rhymes, and deep, thought-provoking lyrics, Nas is easily one of the greatest hip-hop artists of all time. It was a toss-up between him and Lupe Fiasco and Immortal Technique, but Nas' debut album was called Illmatic, and that, in a word, is ill. This man speaks from the heart, and the glorification of the ghetto, "hoes," and drug use are not the main attractions. Rather, gritty, first-hand experiences with the dark side of inner cities and urban desolation is what this guy talks about. Combine that with his clever plays on various words and vocabulary that would make me blush and you've got a recipe for one damn good rapper and musician.
Indiana Jones: Ah, the three Indiana Jones movies. I'm so glad they decided to leave it be after they made three movies. So glad Spielberg and Lucas didn't milk the franchise for what sweet, juicy milk it had left. Indiana Jones is the ideal that everyone wants to be. A savvy adventurer with the ability to kick ass, take names, and save priceless artifacts that melt people's faces. The "everyman" notion appeals greatly to us when we look at Indiana Jones and kind of makes us feel like even we, the dreary, day-to-day, paycheck-to-paycheck, white collar worker can break out of the ordinary and do something awesome, like swinging over a pit of spikes using a bullwhip and breaking up a child labor ring.
Jesus of Nazareth Jesus, the embodiment of all that is good within the hearts of humanity. Unfortunately for him, he vastly underestimated all that was wrong with humanity, like greed and intolerance. But you have to give him props for being so consistent in his kindness. Healing the poor, turning water into wine, and walking on water, his miracles inspired what goodness mankind can afford to summon, which is sadly not much. Atrocities have been committed in the name of God, of religion, but that's not the fucking point of religion, now is it? The point is to be like Jesus, to be kind, forgiving, and benevolent. Just goes to show you that not even divine intervention can efface the worst mankind has to offer.
I think I may be missing someone...nah. That's probably it. i love you, my three readers, if even that. <3
Monday, December 15, 2008
Another list of people I hate
As Three Six Mafia once eloquently put it, "All them haters talkin' shit." Or something like that, it's a mainstream rap group, what can you expect from them? So in this exciting continuation of a list of seething hatred and fury, I round off another six people or general entities that fill my rotten apple core of a heart with further cynicism and misanthropy. Some of these people are already dead, so I guess they got what they deserved, but their legacy lives on and refuses to die, much like Jason Voorhees.
Andrew Johnson, the 17th President of the United States: Let's face facts, people. The American South is backwards, ignorant, and racist in this day and age. Andrew Johnson is who we have to thank for that. With the end of the Civil War and the initiation of Reconstruction, Johnson could've done so much to help the African Americans and freed slaves. But what does he do instead? He makes the ex-Confederate leaders kiss his ass and begins to openly oppose the ratification of various amendments that would grant civil rights to all. His resistance to change forces Congress to act radically and gravely, alienating everyone in the South, which leads to the formation of vigilante groups like the KKK. The reemergence of white supremacy spreads like wildfire and leads to the perpetuation of racism in the South. Generation after generation is raised with the mentality that blacks are inferior, and while it's been getting better, the South is still an embarrassment to most third-world nations. If Mr. Johnson had been a bit more decisive in his actions, perhaps we wouldn't have such an atmosphere of hatred and inbreeding.
"Protectors" of Marriage: I recently had the opportunity to yell obscenities at Prop 8 supporters recently, in an act of fury and mob mentality. In what is possibly the bluest state in the nation, gay marriage has been prohibited, thanks largely in part to the collective efforts of nearly every religious organization (though there are a few that didn't openly bash it) and affluent bigots. While I can't bring myself to care about the question of marriage, it's the greater conflict that makes me facepalm myself. It's a civil right, an undeniable freedom and denying anyone that liberty is discrimination. I thought we were past this people. I thought the Civil Rights Act of 1964 was enough for all of us. How is it we can still summon the last dregs of hatred and intolerance and deny a group of people their rights? Furthermore, how can these "crusaders" look at themselves and believe what they're doing is right? You're not protecting children from the harsh realities of gay marriage, you're not preserving a sacred institution, you're being bigots, and no matter what pretty dress you put on your ideals, that what it boils down to. Because all your pretty dresses are flat-out lies.
The Church of Scientology: Lots of religious bashing on my part, huh? But I'm not demonizing religion, I'm demonizing the utterly idiotic behavior it inspires. How people can believe in and defend the acts of an alien warlord whose ships shot souls back to Earth in soul nets is frankly ludicrous. The almost maniacal fervor that their followers exhibit really speaks to the efficiency of their brainwashing. It also quite disturbing to see healthy individuals being preyed on by a near-evil cult. The death of Lisa McPherson is a testament to this: a mentally ill woman brainwashed into only wanting church-provided medical care. She died of a pulmonary embolism, probably preventable had they taken her to a hospital. I hate the organization, but at the same time I'm deathly afraid of it.
Kanye West: Man, is this guy a tool.From the whole "George Bush doesn't care about black people" to the "I'm the voice of the generation, the best and the loudest," or whatever shit that he spews from his craw, the arrogance that he displays is completely unwarranted and the fact that he views and hails himself as some kind of visionary is unbelievably pretentious. The fact that his latest album, 808s and Heartbreak is entirely vocoded, it's not even his voice that's "the voice of the generation." I respect his lyrical skill and talent as a musician, but as Dr. House once said, "Arrogance has to be earned. What have you done to earn yours?" Kanye West will likely answer with a bunch of waffle, followed up by how it's just "haters" talking.
Vladimir Putin: Like the Israeli warhawks, this guy is on his hind legs, rearing for war and hawkish military action against small third-world, former Soviet satellites, so he must be taking a few pages out of the Bush Administration's playbook. The future of Russian foreign policy looks like aggressive expansionism, something that Soviet Russia was known for. So congratulations, Putin, your little puppet Medvedev has proven quite useful for a move back to the totalitarian Communist society. In a few years, you'll be moving missiles back to sunny Cuba, while we move missiles back to Turkey. Terrorism be damned, we'll be seeing Red for the next few years with this guy. South Ossetia was the beginning, Cold War: The Sequel will be the end.
Tina Mosleh: No list would be complete without an Ohlone professor that was so abhorrent and awful that I wanted to stab myself in the hand during class just for something exciting to happen. With an impenetrable accent and an awful and tenuous at best grasp on the English language, Mrs. Mosleh is everything wrong with a professor. She teaches, hell, reads right out of the book, and has very poor wording on all her exams and quizzes. It's no surprise that I cut the class at least once a week, and am probably going to get a B at best, but if you truly want to experience painful suffering and have the interesting subject of economics dulled away, take this lady's class. Don't say I didn't warn you.
And how to end this long ranting entry full of hatred and anger? Wif wuv of course <3.
But no love for you. Yeah, you know who you are, you little Napoleon. AND YOU BENJAMIN FRANKLIN.
Andrew Johnson, the 17th President of the United States: Let's face facts, people. The American South is backwards, ignorant, and racist in this day and age. Andrew Johnson is who we have to thank for that. With the end of the Civil War and the initiation of Reconstruction, Johnson could've done so much to help the African Americans and freed slaves. But what does he do instead? He makes the ex-Confederate leaders kiss his ass and begins to openly oppose the ratification of various amendments that would grant civil rights to all. His resistance to change forces Congress to act radically and gravely, alienating everyone in the South, which leads to the formation of vigilante groups like the KKK. The reemergence of white supremacy spreads like wildfire and leads to the perpetuation of racism in the South. Generation after generation is raised with the mentality that blacks are inferior, and while it's been getting better, the South is still an embarrassment to most third-world nations. If Mr. Johnson had been a bit more decisive in his actions, perhaps we wouldn't have such an atmosphere of hatred and inbreeding.
"Protectors" of Marriage: I recently had the opportunity to yell obscenities at Prop 8 supporters recently, in an act of fury and mob mentality. In what is possibly the bluest state in the nation, gay marriage has been prohibited, thanks largely in part to the collective efforts of nearly every religious organization (though there are a few that didn't openly bash it) and affluent bigots. While I can't bring myself to care about the question of marriage, it's the greater conflict that makes me facepalm myself. It's a civil right, an undeniable freedom and denying anyone that liberty is discrimination. I thought we were past this people. I thought the Civil Rights Act of 1964 was enough for all of us. How is it we can still summon the last dregs of hatred and intolerance and deny a group of people their rights? Furthermore, how can these "crusaders" look at themselves and believe what they're doing is right? You're not protecting children from the harsh realities of gay marriage, you're not preserving a sacred institution, you're being bigots, and no matter what pretty dress you put on your ideals, that what it boils down to. Because all your pretty dresses are flat-out lies.
The Church of Scientology: Lots of religious bashing on my part, huh? But I'm not demonizing religion, I'm demonizing the utterly idiotic behavior it inspires. How people can believe in and defend the acts of an alien warlord whose ships shot souls back to Earth in soul nets is frankly ludicrous. The almost maniacal fervor that their followers exhibit really speaks to the efficiency of their brainwashing. It also quite disturbing to see healthy individuals being preyed on by a near-evil cult. The death of Lisa McPherson is a testament to this: a mentally ill woman brainwashed into only wanting church-provided medical care. She died of a pulmonary embolism, probably preventable had they taken her to a hospital. I hate the organization, but at the same time I'm deathly afraid of it.
Kanye West: Man, is this guy a tool.From the whole "George Bush doesn't care about black people" to the "I'm the voice of the generation, the best and the loudest," or whatever shit that he spews from his craw, the arrogance that he displays is completely unwarranted and the fact that he views and hails himself as some kind of visionary is unbelievably pretentious. The fact that his latest album, 808s and Heartbreak is entirely vocoded, it's not even his voice that's "the voice of the generation." I respect his lyrical skill and talent as a musician, but as Dr. House once said, "Arrogance has to be earned. What have you done to earn yours?" Kanye West will likely answer with a bunch of waffle, followed up by how it's just "haters" talking.
Vladimir Putin: Like the Israeli warhawks, this guy is on his hind legs, rearing for war and hawkish military action against small third-world, former Soviet satellites, so he must be taking a few pages out of the Bush Administration's playbook. The future of Russian foreign policy looks like aggressive expansionism, something that Soviet Russia was known for. So congratulations, Putin, your little puppet Medvedev has proven quite useful for a move back to the totalitarian Communist society. In a few years, you'll be moving missiles back to sunny Cuba, while we move missiles back to Turkey. Terrorism be damned, we'll be seeing Red for the next few years with this guy. South Ossetia was the beginning, Cold War: The Sequel will be the end.
Tina Mosleh: No list would be complete without an Ohlone professor that was so abhorrent and awful that I wanted to stab myself in the hand during class just for something exciting to happen. With an impenetrable accent and an awful and tenuous at best grasp on the English language, Mrs. Mosleh is everything wrong with a professor. She teaches, hell, reads right out of the book, and has very poor wording on all her exams and quizzes. It's no surprise that I cut the class at least once a week, and am probably going to get a B at best, but if you truly want to experience painful suffering and have the interesting subject of economics dulled away, take this lady's class. Don't say I didn't warn you.
And how to end this long ranting entry full of hatred and anger? Wif wuv of course <3.
But no love for you. Yeah, you know who you are, you little Napoleon. AND YOU BENJAMIN FRANKLIN.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Untitled
In an infinite array of vast black sky
Flies a celestial body, of great magnitude, capable of leveling worlds
And on the tiny world of plebians full of discontent we wonder
How the omnipotent, how the immortals will dictate our lives
Will it be fast, swift and purging?
Or slow, destroyed with fire and brimstone?
The spear in our side, the unpreventable wound is that of curiosity
Wondering, perhaps what will happen to us when this journey expires
And the answer, in this vast black sky, simply is nothing.
Our personal world ends with death, peace and joy nevermore.
Flies a celestial body, of great magnitude, capable of leveling worlds
And on the tiny world of plebians full of discontent we wonder
How the omnipotent, how the immortals will dictate our lives
Will it be fast, swift and purging?
Or slow, destroyed with fire and brimstone?
The spear in our side, the unpreventable wound is that of curiosity
Wondering, perhaps what will happen to us when this journey expires
And the answer, in this vast black sky, simply is nothing.
Our personal world ends with death, peace and joy nevermore.
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Reflections
You know those employee evaluation thingies? Like self-evaluation? I think it's time for me to do that, because I have yet to do such a task, in a broader sense. I think I've evaluated my faggotry in specific instances, but 'tis time for a general survey of my life. If it isn't satisfactory, I'm going to have to terminate my employment. Although I'm still a valuable employee. Where's my stapler?
Obviously the most immediate of things have been college applications. I applied to most of the UCs, and am planning on applying to USC, University of San Diego, and Boston University, all very good choices. I think I have a fair shot at getting into my first choices, Berkeley and USC, respectively. Academics and extracurriculars are solid, but I fear my downfall will be my terrible SAT score. It's not that bad, but it's not very remarkable either. My personal statements, which I went to great lengths to embellish and exaggerate, were not welcomed with critical acclaim from others. But it doesn't matter because they're just looking for the best-written cliches anyway.
I have a few apprehensions about the application process, but what I'm most afraid of is college itself. The reality of it is that I will be accepted to some school and I will attend said school. One constant I've always noticed is that college is big and scary. Big and scary enough to induce change in people. Sometimes its for the better, sometimes its for the worse. Change is inevitable, and that scares the living hell out of me. This is something I can't control and like it or not, some part of me will be different once I leave the rosy gates of whatever school I attend. Moreover, the roots I've established here, what friendships, influences, or whatever will also be gone. Maybe less so if I attend Berkeley, but if Boston accepts me, the only thing I'll have left here in California are my smelly, old parents.
When mothers have to let their kids go, it's unbearably hard for them. I can't say I'm a mother, or gone through it, but just considering the looming prospect is enough for me.
School is pretty satisfying, to be honest. But I've found I no longer give a shit about classes unless they're interesting. During my time at Ohlone and just in general, I've realized the futility and stupidity of the current education system. School is an institution for learning, not proving what you've learned. Some kid may grasp the concept of something, and that should be plenty. The only reasons why I have high grades in classes is because I actively want to learn, to become a more informed person, and that in turn, makes me a better person. Economics is plenty interesting to me, but I shouldn't have to take a bunch of stupid tests, listen to god-awful lecture, or anything like that. Bad teachers are like, the worst thing on this planet.
"How's your love life, tiger?"
Short answer: Fuck you.
Long answer: The few excursions I had into this kind of thing, as brief as they were, were loads of fun; the experience and learning from it was what I valued about it most. I convinced myself I was head-over-heels in love with her, which I think to be entirely plausible. I was entirely devoted to her well-being and comfort without any regard for my own happiness. And when things went south, I desperately (and successfully) turned it back to the way it was. I even endured...stories...shall we say, that I didn't want to hear.
Sounds like the fucking definition of "Friend Zone" to me.
But as time went on, I got a little better, didn't mind nearly as much. But it's still at a point where getting over it would be nigh impossible, so I'm not even going to try. The idea of it becoming more than friends, while certainly, appealing, is also nigh impossible, so I'm also not even going to try. The only way that would come into fruition is if the other party initiated it. I certainly still care a great deal about her, which will make the aforementioned switch to college all the harder, but shit happens. I do have to concede I feel like she's a whole other half that I need. A yin to the yang. The House to Wilson, the Holmes to Watson, the Rob Halford to Judas Priest. I could go on. I asked a question, "Why do we keep people who are the opposites of us around? To keep us balanced or because we enjoy their company." That works for me. In the end, I can just take comfort in knowing that the experience, the process I went through over the summer was something I wouldn't trade for the world. Maybe if they threw in some pie with it, I may consider it.
So in the words of Whitesnake, "Is this love?"
Yep.
I've also resigned myself to the fact that finding female companionship while I'm still here will also be nigh impossible, not going to try, etc, etc. The fact of the matter is that it takes too damn long for me to get close to someone, which I feel should be the basis for any relationship, faggoty as that sounds. I'm not too miffed about it; maybe I should get a dog.
I've always felt like a cultural heathen. Never seen enough movies, read enough books, listened to enough albums. I've started up a process of watching a fuckton of movies, reading all kinds of books, poems and plays, and listening to good music. I feel like I'm compensating for something while also feeling like it's a separate education of some kind. I'm enjoying it greatly. Maybe I'll use the blog as a record of shit I've done. You know what? That's a pretty good idea...
It's been a very comfortable, amusing ride. But in about eight, nine months time, the slate is wiped clean? The next great adventure? Certainly. But even Indiana Jones was scared when he recovered the Ark of the Covenant.
PS. I can't believe I ended all that meaningful rambling with an Indiana Jones joke.
Obviously the most immediate of things have been college applications. I applied to most of the UCs, and am planning on applying to USC, University of San Diego, and Boston University, all very good choices. I think I have a fair shot at getting into my first choices, Berkeley and USC, respectively. Academics and extracurriculars are solid, but I fear my downfall will be my terrible SAT score. It's not that bad, but it's not very remarkable either. My personal statements, which I went to great lengths to embellish and exaggerate, were not welcomed with critical acclaim from others. But it doesn't matter because they're just looking for the best-written cliches anyway.
I have a few apprehensions about the application process, but what I'm most afraid of is college itself. The reality of it is that I will be accepted to some school and I will attend said school. One constant I've always noticed is that college is big and scary. Big and scary enough to induce change in people. Sometimes its for the better, sometimes its for the worse. Change is inevitable, and that scares the living hell out of me. This is something I can't control and like it or not, some part of me will be different once I leave the rosy gates of whatever school I attend. Moreover, the roots I've established here, what friendships, influences, or whatever will also be gone. Maybe less so if I attend Berkeley, but if Boston accepts me, the only thing I'll have left here in California are my smelly, old parents.
When mothers have to let their kids go, it's unbearably hard for them. I can't say I'm a mother, or gone through it, but just considering the looming prospect is enough for me.
School is pretty satisfying, to be honest. But I've found I no longer give a shit about classes unless they're interesting. During my time at Ohlone and just in general, I've realized the futility and stupidity of the current education system. School is an institution for learning, not proving what you've learned. Some kid may grasp the concept of something, and that should be plenty. The only reasons why I have high grades in classes is because I actively want to learn, to become a more informed person, and that in turn, makes me a better person. Economics is plenty interesting to me, but I shouldn't have to take a bunch of stupid tests, listen to god-awful lecture, or anything like that. Bad teachers are like, the worst thing on this planet.
"How's your love life, tiger?"
Short answer: Fuck you.
Long answer: The few excursions I had into this kind of thing, as brief as they were, were loads of fun; the experience and learning from it was what I valued about it most. I convinced myself I was head-over-heels in love with her, which I think to be entirely plausible. I was entirely devoted to her well-being and comfort without any regard for my own happiness. And when things went south, I desperately (and successfully) turned it back to the way it was. I even endured...stories...shall we say, that I didn't want to hear.
Sounds like the fucking definition of "Friend Zone" to me.
But as time went on, I got a little better, didn't mind nearly as much. But it's still at a point where getting over it would be nigh impossible, so I'm not even going to try. The idea of it becoming more than friends, while certainly, appealing, is also nigh impossible, so I'm also not even going to try. The only way that would come into fruition is if the other party initiated it. I certainly still care a great deal about her, which will make the aforementioned switch to college all the harder, but shit happens. I do have to concede I feel like she's a whole other half that I need. A yin to the yang. The House to Wilson, the Holmes to Watson, the Rob Halford to Judas Priest. I could go on. I asked a question, "Why do we keep people who are the opposites of us around? To keep us balanced or because we enjoy their company." That works for me. In the end, I can just take comfort in knowing that the experience, the process I went through over the summer was something I wouldn't trade for the world. Maybe if they threw in some pie with it, I may consider it.
So in the words of Whitesnake, "Is this love?"
Yep.
I've also resigned myself to the fact that finding female companionship while I'm still here will also be nigh impossible, not going to try, etc, etc. The fact of the matter is that it takes too damn long for me to get close to someone, which I feel should be the basis for any relationship, faggoty as that sounds. I'm not too miffed about it; maybe I should get a dog.
I've always felt like a cultural heathen. Never seen enough movies, read enough books, listened to enough albums. I've started up a process of watching a fuckton of movies, reading all kinds of books, poems and plays, and listening to good music. I feel like I'm compensating for something while also feeling like it's a separate education of some kind. I'm enjoying it greatly. Maybe I'll use the blog as a record of shit I've done. You know what? That's a pretty good idea...
It's been a very comfortable, amusing ride. But in about eight, nine months time, the slate is wiped clean? The next great adventure? Certainly. But even Indiana Jones was scared when he recovered the Ark of the Covenant.
PS. I can't believe I ended all that meaningful rambling with an Indiana Jones joke.
Monday, November 24, 2008
Independence
I always ponder the question - would I be able to live on my own? Earn a wage at a decent job to pay the bills in some apartment? Pay for school with my own money, pinch pennies and spend whatever time I don't devote to my job to studying? Could I be entirely self-dependent at the moment? Could always get that English Tutor job, and the one at Blockbuster while I work around my classes. Could take the bus to school everyday from my shithole apartment. Could I? Is it possible?
No. I'd choke on my tongue within the first 20 minutes.
No. I'd choke on my tongue within the first 20 minutes.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
It's an entry about nothing
I fucking hate how stupidly profound and accurate The Breakfast Club is. Struck a chord though.
I figured why I was averse to watching it was because I don't like watching or reading about people who echo eerily similar personality traits or problems. I'd much rather be one of the characters from the other movies I watched yesterday - a gunslinger from Unforgiven or a gangster from Snatch. Just goes to show you, we'll do anything to avoid issues or something of that sort. In this case, aspiring to be a cowboy or a diamond thief.
Corny ass ending though, but I'm very glad I watched it. Reminded me of RYLA, to be honest. The whole, pouring your heart out to strangers thing is just as therapeutic as it sounds. What I wouldn't give to relive that week. Guess I gotta settle for the next best thing, this stupid John Hughes movie.
Damn The Breakfast Club. I hate it because I love it.
I hope the rest of the movies on my queue provoke more shit like this. That's why I'm looking forward to The Matrix.
PS. John Bender is one cool dude.
I figured why I was averse to watching it was because I don't like watching or reading about people who echo eerily similar personality traits or problems. I'd much rather be one of the characters from the other movies I watched yesterday - a gunslinger from Unforgiven or a gangster from Snatch. Just goes to show you, we'll do anything to avoid issues or something of that sort. In this case, aspiring to be a cowboy or a diamond thief.
Corny ass ending though, but I'm very glad I watched it. Reminded me of RYLA, to be honest. The whole, pouring your heart out to strangers thing is just as therapeutic as it sounds. What I wouldn't give to relive that week. Guess I gotta settle for the next best thing, this stupid John Hughes movie.
Damn The Breakfast Club. I hate it because I love it.
I hope the rest of the movies on my queue provoke more shit like this. That's why I'm looking forward to The Matrix.
PS. John Bender is one cool dude.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Conditions
No long entry because I have a throbbing erection-headache. I just want to pose the question that I hope somebody can elucidate for me.
You "unconditionally love" your family, whatever. They haven't done anything exceptional to earn your love, your admiration, yet you do anyway. Why is it this occurs? It seems a bit irrational to me to love a table because it's rectangularly shaped. You love a table because you've had a lot of dinners on it and it hasn't collapsed over the weight of your pot roasts.
I sound like a pretty cold bastard, but this question has been posed since man was capable of thinking. Share thoughts, plz.
You "unconditionally love" your family, whatever. They haven't done anything exceptional to earn your love, your admiration, yet you do anyway. Why is it this occurs? It seems a bit irrational to me to love a table because it's rectangularly shaped. You love a table because you've had a lot of dinners on it and it hasn't collapsed over the weight of your pot roasts.
I sound like a pretty cold bastard, but this question has been posed since man was capable of thinking. Share thoughts, plz.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Justifications
Perhaps I've been too harsh. Perhaps I've been too ironically intolerant and hypocritical. Religion, for all it's irreconcilable beliefs and blatant contradictions, when taken as a larger value, is incredibly useful to society, versatile in delivering on people's needs, and provides the support and faith that people need to get on with life. But all this is ruled by a predominant veil of hypocrisy and irrationality. Is it justified that whatever benefits we get from religion are wrapped up with a contract that will perpetuate irrationality?
Religion provides the support people need when that support is taken away from them. Someone who's been trodden on their whole life, diagnosed with cancer, and simply overlooked in society is more likely to turn to religion than someone who's been pampered, educated, and encouraged to find their own way. Religion allows the weak, those who have been ragged on for all their lives, to find their way, through God, through the idea of heaven, and through purpose. People need something, the belief that their higher power will provide it will certainly be enough for them to continue their lives, to live it to the fullest.
It's nice to have encouragement, to have that certainty. Some people just aren't strong enough to stand on their own two feet, to buy into the belief of the absurdity of life and the construction of our own purpose. But if you've been down in the gutter all your life, isn't it also kind of hard to believe that a greater power is looking out for you? People are diagnosed with terminal diseases all the time, I would believe that it's very hard for them to maintain a steady belief that their higher power is doing the best it can for them. While it's nice to have that steadfastness in life, it also seems quite hard to justify its existence.
The main problem I have mostly with religion is mainly that buying into it promotes irrationality. The very concept of an abstract, almighty being unconditionally loving every person on earth, even the scum like child molesters or murderers and allowing forgiveness is absurd. I haven't even belittled it, Straw-Manned it, if you will (Logical fallacies don't fly with me), that's the concept. It is inherently absurd when you take into consideration the logical rationalities that rule the earth and heavens. Quantum physics and astronomy and astrology govern how the stars and planets and neutrinos and the like behave. Evolution dictates animalistic behavior and adaptations. All of this is supported with evidence and verification. I cannot believe in something that has absolutely no proof whatsoever. But I digress. With the acceptance of religion comes the acceptance of its tenets, and its tenets are, like I just said, inherently irrational. As more and more people begin to accept the irrationality and the hypocrisies and contradictions, they're perpetuated. They're made permanent and integrate themselves into society, as plainly evidenced by the progression of society over the past thousand years. The belief of a God is so commonplace now that atheists and agnostics are now the pariahs and are not accepted. It's an unfortunate trend.
So while I fully believe that religion is useful to the people who need it, we really could do without it. Existentialism, the school of thought I subscribe to (and the best, hell yeah!), isn't for everyone. Not everyone can self-enlighten and realize what it is that makes them happy. Some people need help to bring about this realization. And that's absolutely fine. The problems I have with it, however, are the fact that the help that comes, the cavalry if you will, stays with us. The baggage isn't going away any time soon. The backwards and oftentimes hateful passion that it inspires really could be directed at something else - something useful. But I suppose its the price we have to pay to maintain a society that can function after being beat down throughout its life.
Religion provides the support people need when that support is taken away from them. Someone who's been trodden on their whole life, diagnosed with cancer, and simply overlooked in society is more likely to turn to religion than someone who's been pampered, educated, and encouraged to find their own way. Religion allows the weak, those who have been ragged on for all their lives, to find their way, through God, through the idea of heaven, and through purpose. People need something, the belief that their higher power will provide it will certainly be enough for them to continue their lives, to live it to the fullest.
It's nice to have encouragement, to have that certainty. Some people just aren't strong enough to stand on their own two feet, to buy into the belief of the absurdity of life and the construction of our own purpose. But if you've been down in the gutter all your life, isn't it also kind of hard to believe that a greater power is looking out for you? People are diagnosed with terminal diseases all the time, I would believe that it's very hard for them to maintain a steady belief that their higher power is doing the best it can for them. While it's nice to have that steadfastness in life, it also seems quite hard to justify its existence.
The main problem I have mostly with religion is mainly that buying into it promotes irrationality. The very concept of an abstract, almighty being unconditionally loving every person on earth, even the scum like child molesters or murderers and allowing forgiveness is absurd. I haven't even belittled it, Straw-Manned it, if you will (Logical fallacies don't fly with me), that's the concept. It is inherently absurd when you take into consideration the logical rationalities that rule the earth and heavens. Quantum physics and astronomy and astrology govern how the stars and planets and neutrinos and the like behave. Evolution dictates animalistic behavior and adaptations. All of this is supported with evidence and verification. I cannot believe in something that has absolutely no proof whatsoever. But I digress. With the acceptance of religion comes the acceptance of its tenets, and its tenets are, like I just said, inherently irrational. As more and more people begin to accept the irrationality and the hypocrisies and contradictions, they're perpetuated. They're made permanent and integrate themselves into society, as plainly evidenced by the progression of society over the past thousand years. The belief of a God is so commonplace now that atheists and agnostics are now the pariahs and are not accepted. It's an unfortunate trend.
So while I fully believe that religion is useful to the people who need it, we really could do without it. Existentialism, the school of thought I subscribe to (and the best, hell yeah!), isn't for everyone. Not everyone can self-enlighten and realize what it is that makes them happy. Some people need help to bring about this realization. And that's absolutely fine. The problems I have with it, however, are the fact that the help that comes, the cavalry if you will, stays with us. The baggage isn't going away any time soon. The backwards and oftentimes hateful passion that it inspires really could be directed at something else - something useful. But I suppose its the price we have to pay to maintain a society that can function after being beat down throughout its life.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
The Burden: Entry 2
March 25, 1991.
Mood: Curious.
My client had hired me to tail his wife, to see if she was up to some funny business, which I could only infer to be her fucking some nigger cock or freebasing. It's money, but shameful money. I fucking hate this job.
I'm wearing some very nondescript clothes. Those detectives you see on TV and read about in books, they're nothing like the real deal. Sam Spade, Phillip Marlowe, Sherlock Holmes, the archetypal private eye, they're awesome. Hardboiled, gun-toting, cynical P.I.s. The reality of the matter is much simpler. We provide a service for paranoid husbands and wives, to give them information they don't want to know. Curiosity may have killed the cat, but it might as well have killed some humans like some goddamn plague.
Anyway, this client of mine, a real schmuck. Short, little guy with glasses and a stutter contacted me and asked me to tail his wife. Apparently she claims she goes running in Golden Gate Park, but he doesn't buy it. I told him it'd cost four hundred greenbacks, which he forked over pretty quickly. All cash too. I had two suspicions, insights that the guy wouldn't like to hear. Rich, wealth, affluence leads to nothing but boredom. Where do you go when you reach the top? I figure if he can spare four hundred for a few hours of what amounts to stalking, he can spare some cash to drive that Maserati he has. To afford that Armani suit. Ironic how the man who has everything can lose everything over so trivial an issue.
It's an easy job. I just walk behind her, no problem. Get in my car when she does. Stay three car lengths. She ends up in some place in the Tenderloin. The guy who answers the door looks real happy and real suave. That swanky Latin charm. I fucking knew it. Tell the client what he probably already knew. This is how all of my cases go, and it's fucking abhorrent. It's easy, it pays alright, and I don't have to do much, but so is managing a liquor store.
He doesn't take it very well. I offer some insight, to which he responds violently. Those guys, Phillip Marlowe, whatever that I mentioned earlier. They carry a piece. I can't. So what does the big bad Private Eye do when his client takes swings at him? Fucking runs. Runs away like a pussy.
I hate this job.
Mood: Curious.
My client had hired me to tail his wife, to see if she was up to some funny business, which I could only infer to be her fucking some nigger cock or freebasing. It's money, but shameful money. I fucking hate this job.
I'm wearing some very nondescript clothes. Those detectives you see on TV and read about in books, they're nothing like the real deal. Sam Spade, Phillip Marlowe, Sherlock Holmes, the archetypal private eye, they're awesome. Hardboiled, gun-toting, cynical P.I.s. The reality of the matter is much simpler. We provide a service for paranoid husbands and wives, to give them information they don't want to know. Curiosity may have killed the cat, but it might as well have killed some humans like some goddamn plague.
Anyway, this client of mine, a real schmuck. Short, little guy with glasses and a stutter contacted me and asked me to tail his wife. Apparently she claims she goes running in Golden Gate Park, but he doesn't buy it. I told him it'd cost four hundred greenbacks, which he forked over pretty quickly. All cash too. I had two suspicions, insights that the guy wouldn't like to hear. Rich, wealth, affluence leads to nothing but boredom. Where do you go when you reach the top? I figure if he can spare four hundred for a few hours of what amounts to stalking, he can spare some cash to drive that Maserati he has. To afford that Armani suit. Ironic how the man who has everything can lose everything over so trivial an issue.
It's an easy job. I just walk behind her, no problem. Get in my car when she does. Stay three car lengths. She ends up in some place in the Tenderloin. The guy who answers the door looks real happy and real suave. That swanky Latin charm. I fucking knew it. Tell the client what he probably already knew. This is how all of my cases go, and it's fucking abhorrent. It's easy, it pays alright, and I don't have to do much, but so is managing a liquor store.
He doesn't take it very well. I offer some insight, to which he responds violently. Those guys, Phillip Marlowe, whatever that I mentioned earlier. They carry a piece. I can't. So what does the big bad Private Eye do when his client takes swings at him? Fucking runs. Runs away like a pussy.
I hate this job.
Monday, November 3, 2008
The Burden: Entry 1
March 11th, 1996.
Mood: Purgative.
I see you're reading my diary. Peering into the depths of my mind, the inner sanctum of my mental machinations. That's good. Shows either you're interested or perhaps just flicking through. My money's on the latter, you're probably thumbing through this as you go through my belongings. Just like everyone else - I'm of no consequence. Pawn this rant, cast it aside for those sparse few cents you need to pay off your drug dealer. Go on. Maybe the pawn shop owner will be more interested in what I have to say, or perhaps the sad chap who sorts through the recyclables, discontent with life. I have more in common with that guy than anyone else, but you'll never know because you're not reading this, are you?
Still here, are you? Still indulging in my miseries? Are they intriguing to you? Do I write well? Are my problems of interest? Well, if you've stuck around long enough to read this, maybe I'm doing something right. We'll see how it goes. So I guess I'll talk about some of my problems.
I recently lost someone, though not in the conventional sense. She was very dear to me, we were very close. And one day, she was gone. Taken away from me in a flash of thunder. At first, I felt nothing but anger and vengeance at those who abducted her. Nothing but seething hatred for her and her kidnappers. Then I realized she left of her own accord, abandoned the life she led here, the glories of the mundane and comfortable to stake her own claim in the world. My blindness could not see past the selfish fact that she left me. I didn't want to be happy for her successes. I just wanted my hatred to be mollified. And I harbored it for a good while, kept my feelings close to my chest. I drowned them in alcohol, marijuana, and the company of others, but nothing could quite fill the void left in her wake.
And one night, while intoxicated, I found myself violently assailed by an inebriated stranger, his fist knocking me out cold in the middle of Golden Gate Park. I was unconscious for some time, waking up to a beautiful and vast blue sky. And lost in that infinite blue I was woken up. Snapped out of my trance, realizing my hubris and folly. If she were here, she'd want my support, whatever I could offer. What she didn't want in her time of need was venomous thoughts of poison. But she wasn't here anymore. What did it matter? I could improve myself, but if there was no one to judge, why change?
I moved towards the final step, acceptance. It's what those new-age doctors call the last step of dying. And in a way, it was true. What is death but the passage of another person to another place? She left, went to another place, effectively dying. She was dead to me. No contact, no calls. But what happens after the death? Mourning. Remembrance. And that's what I did. I didn't linger on her metaphorical death. I remembered and honored it. But maybe she's still out there. Alive. Doing well. I hope that's the case. And I hope she hasn't forgotten about me.
Still reading? Well, good man. I didn't think I could captivate you. A rant on a lost woman who may or may not be alive, I suppose, is somewhat interesting. Have I hooked you? Is my writing perhaps exude an aura of intrigue? I hope so. But you know what I've realized in writing this entry? It's a very nice way to get things off your chest. Burdens. Onuses. I'll see you next time, if you care to read.
Peace and Love, Captain Jeremiah First, former Second Infantry Division.
PS. Thinking of doing this as a serial. What do you think?
Mood: Purgative.
I see you're reading my diary. Peering into the depths of my mind, the inner sanctum of my mental machinations. That's good. Shows either you're interested or perhaps just flicking through. My money's on the latter, you're probably thumbing through this as you go through my belongings. Just like everyone else - I'm of no consequence. Pawn this rant, cast it aside for those sparse few cents you need to pay off your drug dealer. Go on. Maybe the pawn shop owner will be more interested in what I have to say, or perhaps the sad chap who sorts through the recyclables, discontent with life. I have more in common with that guy than anyone else, but you'll never know because you're not reading this, are you?
Still here, are you? Still indulging in my miseries? Are they intriguing to you? Do I write well? Are my problems of interest? Well, if you've stuck around long enough to read this, maybe I'm doing something right. We'll see how it goes. So I guess I'll talk about some of my problems.
I recently lost someone, though not in the conventional sense. She was very dear to me, we were very close. And one day, she was gone. Taken away from me in a flash of thunder. At first, I felt nothing but anger and vengeance at those who abducted her. Nothing but seething hatred for her and her kidnappers. Then I realized she left of her own accord, abandoned the life she led here, the glories of the mundane and comfortable to stake her own claim in the world. My blindness could not see past the selfish fact that she left me. I didn't want to be happy for her successes. I just wanted my hatred to be mollified. And I harbored it for a good while, kept my feelings close to my chest. I drowned them in alcohol, marijuana, and the company of others, but nothing could quite fill the void left in her wake.
And one night, while intoxicated, I found myself violently assailed by an inebriated stranger, his fist knocking me out cold in the middle of Golden Gate Park. I was unconscious for some time, waking up to a beautiful and vast blue sky. And lost in that infinite blue I was woken up. Snapped out of my trance, realizing my hubris and folly. If she were here, she'd want my support, whatever I could offer. What she didn't want in her time of need was venomous thoughts of poison. But she wasn't here anymore. What did it matter? I could improve myself, but if there was no one to judge, why change?
I moved towards the final step, acceptance. It's what those new-age doctors call the last step of dying. And in a way, it was true. What is death but the passage of another person to another place? She left, went to another place, effectively dying. She was dead to me. No contact, no calls. But what happens after the death? Mourning. Remembrance. And that's what I did. I didn't linger on her metaphorical death. I remembered and honored it. But maybe she's still out there. Alive. Doing well. I hope that's the case. And I hope she hasn't forgotten about me.
Still reading? Well, good man. I didn't think I could captivate you. A rant on a lost woman who may or may not be alive, I suppose, is somewhat interesting. Have I hooked you? Is my writing perhaps exude an aura of intrigue? I hope so. But you know what I've realized in writing this entry? It's a very nice way to get things off your chest. Burdens. Onuses. I'll see you next time, if you care to read.
Peace and Love, Captain Jeremiah First, former Second Infantry Division.
PS. Thinking of doing this as a serial. What do you think?
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Decisions, decisions.
The package deal you get with life is decisions. Maybe you'll buy Fallout 3 instead of Fable 2 over the weekend (like me!). Maybe you'll choose to go to UC Davis instead of UC Berkeley. Maybe you'll become a lawyer instead of a big-shot movie director. Maybe you'll be miserable instead of happy. It all hinges on the choices we're confronted with in life. How you go about these decisions determines everything. Effectively, our lives are nothing more than a compilation of decision and effect. One thing leads to another, in a chain of consequences. But all of it is played out by us, the actors on the stage of life, pardon the incredibly cliched metaphor.
And the path you walk is never certain. You may abandon it and choose something else. The comforting certainty behind life is that you will always be uncertain, in a cruel twist of irony. Always will you wonder "what if?" But I find that pondering the alternate consequence is a waste of time. It will never happen, unless you go back in time and make it so. Abandon what you're doing, perhaps, and maybe you'll change and gain the alternative. Half of life is wondering what life is, but it's not about wondering what life could be. If it could be something, go out and make it that way. Summon what energy you have to achieve what you want.
We all make stupid choices in life. "Oh man, I shouldn't have robbed that old lady." "Oh man, I shouldn't have shot down that sexy Asian dude." "Oh man, I shouldn't have thrown my puppies into the washing machine so I wouldn't have to wash them." Our lives shouldn't revolve perpetually around them, which is evoking the "don't think about what could be" argument again.
I guess my entire point is simply this: contemplate your choices. Weigh the risks and benefits. And if your call was wrong, don't linger on it. Move on. Move past it. If you killed someone, repent. That kind of thing. Bad example that may be, but it conveys my point adequately enough. A life of regrets and wonder is, in the words of Eddie Vedder and the awesome band that is Pearl Jam, "LIFE WASTED!"
PS. Do we, do we know when we fly?
And the path you walk is never certain. You may abandon it and choose something else. The comforting certainty behind life is that you will always be uncertain, in a cruel twist of irony. Always will you wonder "what if?" But I find that pondering the alternate consequence is a waste of time. It will never happen, unless you go back in time and make it so. Abandon what you're doing, perhaps, and maybe you'll change and gain the alternative. Half of life is wondering what life is, but it's not about wondering what life could be. If it could be something, go out and make it that way. Summon what energy you have to achieve what you want.
We all make stupid choices in life. "Oh man, I shouldn't have robbed that old lady." "Oh man, I shouldn't have shot down that sexy Asian dude." "Oh man, I shouldn't have thrown my puppies into the washing machine so I wouldn't have to wash them." Our lives shouldn't revolve perpetually around them, which is evoking the "don't think about what could be" argument again.
I guess my entire point is simply this: contemplate your choices. Weigh the risks and benefits. And if your call was wrong, don't linger on it. Move on. Move past it. If you killed someone, repent. That kind of thing. Bad example that may be, but it conveys my point adequately enough. A life of regrets and wonder is, in the words of Eddie Vedder and the awesome band that is Pearl Jam, "LIFE WASTED!"
PS. Do we, do we know when we fly?
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Pride
"Fuck Pride. Pride never helps. It only hurts." - Marcellus Wallace, Pulp Fiction.
How right is a fictional gangster? In this unforgiving world where nobody cares about you, how important is it to be proud of your accomplishments, to make yourself feel good and valid? Do our achievements even mean anything in the long run, in the scope of the universe? How much pride is too much? These questions and more in the following entry!
Being proud of your accomplishments is certainly important, if only for your own happiness. But we all know that pride leads to arrogance, ethnocentric tendencies (as evidenced throughout history, manipulation of nationalism can lead to some horrifying results, such as the Reign of Terror and Nazi Germany). I suppose that one has to strike a balance, to stay proud of oneself, for that little bit of confidence, to know you're doing well, but keep it on the downlow enough for it not to blindside everyone else with arrogance. Pride certainly helps, it doesn't hurt, but too much of it and you've got a recipe for fuck-ups.
But how can we truly ever be proud of our achievements? They have no meaning. A kid who gets an A on his spelling test doesn't matter to the rest of the world. To the universe, he's just an ant crawling on the sidewalk, we all are. Our accomplishments are meaningless. The only exceptions are the ones that do affect everyone - the scientists at CERN and their hadron collider, the expeditions to new planets: the ones that impact the universe are ultimately the only acts of consequence. But there's the thing. An achievement that is meaningless to the rest of the world holds a world of meaning to the person who accomplished the feat. That person may feel good about what they did, and who cares what everyone else thinks? While nothing we do ever matters in the eyes of Mother Nature, it matters to us. And that's how we build our happiness.
Sounds like a bunch of existentialist bullshit, right?
Yeah, that's because it is.
Ultimately my rant boils down to the simple fact that too much pride leads to bad things. Hubris, nationalism, what have you. Be proud of yourself, but don't be too proud. Don't catch the arrogant and be irredeemable to the world. Don't be Adolf Hitler. Don't be Napoleon Bonaparte. Don't be George W. Bush. Shit sucks that way.
How right is a fictional gangster? In this unforgiving world where nobody cares about you, how important is it to be proud of your accomplishments, to make yourself feel good and valid? Do our achievements even mean anything in the long run, in the scope of the universe? How much pride is too much? These questions and more in the following entry!
Being proud of your accomplishments is certainly important, if only for your own happiness. But we all know that pride leads to arrogance, ethnocentric tendencies (as evidenced throughout history, manipulation of nationalism can lead to some horrifying results, such as the Reign of Terror and Nazi Germany). I suppose that one has to strike a balance, to stay proud of oneself, for that little bit of confidence, to know you're doing well, but keep it on the downlow enough for it not to blindside everyone else with arrogance. Pride certainly helps, it doesn't hurt, but too much of it and you've got a recipe for fuck-ups.
But how can we truly ever be proud of our achievements? They have no meaning. A kid who gets an A on his spelling test doesn't matter to the rest of the world. To the universe, he's just an ant crawling on the sidewalk, we all are. Our accomplishments are meaningless. The only exceptions are the ones that do affect everyone - the scientists at CERN and their hadron collider, the expeditions to new planets: the ones that impact the universe are ultimately the only acts of consequence. But there's the thing. An achievement that is meaningless to the rest of the world holds a world of meaning to the person who accomplished the feat. That person may feel good about what they did, and who cares what everyone else thinks? While nothing we do ever matters in the eyes of Mother Nature, it matters to us. And that's how we build our happiness.
Sounds like a bunch of existentialist bullshit, right?
Yeah, that's because it is.
Ultimately my rant boils down to the simple fact that too much pride leads to bad things. Hubris, nationalism, what have you. Be proud of yourself, but don't be too proud. Don't catch the arrogant and be irredeemable to the world. Don't be Adolf Hitler. Don't be Napoleon Bonaparte. Don't be George W. Bush. Shit sucks that way.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
100th post
Surely it calls for some kind of special post, but I'm not up for that, so I'm just going to make a normal post on some abstract subject, namely depression and dealing with it. In the course of a few weeks, I have been plagued with it, but like the knickers of an indecisive whore, it's been coming and going. The combined stresses of school and the looming horizon of everything else have contributed to this, as well as mania. So maybe I'm bipolar, I don't know.
You know those Zoloft commercials that say "depression hits you like a brick?" They're only partially right. It does hit you like a charging bull, but it's also like a parasite. It attaches itself to you, slowly begins to drain you until you do a damn thing about it. That's a tall order, being depressed prevents you from doing things that you would ordinarily otherwise do. Something drastic has to happen in order to break you out of this cycle, or you could take the low road and take antidepressants. But I find it more of an experience if you can cure yourself of your ailments. It' a learning experience, and you learn how to deal with it next time.
What contributes to this? Looking at my plate, it's just the ordinary stresses of a high school senior, isn't it? Not entirely, no. If that were the case, I'd just be taking the challenge in stride, glad of the distraction and experience. It's what the completion of the challenge entails. What happens when I've been accepted to college? I'm yanked out of my cushy, comfortable, complacent existence and tossed into a dog-eat-dog world. That was kinda the case with Ohlone, but I still lived comfortably, everything was fine. On the other hand, if I get accepted to my first choice, or, God forbid, my first out-of-state choice, I'm fucking gone.
I'm gone. I've lost everything that's established. The things I've done here, my writings, my GPA, what I've done through Interact and whatever, the few friends I have, it's all gone. The slate is being wiped clean, and that scares and depresses the living hell out of me. It probably won't be the case that that will happen, but my inherent pessimistic nature automatically assumes the worst, and that makes me miserable. I know I should think more positively, but that's like asking a turtle to stop being such a slow motherfucker. It's just in my nature, and while I can certainly try, it's not exactly easy or anything.
There are other things that have made me blue as well. I look at myself, and then I look at everyone else and they are clearly superior to me. Superior in their motivation, their execution, and dedication. Comparatively, I might as well be sleeping all day. Someone who can juggle a job, a club, school, and prowl for assholes is more dedicated than I am. Someone who can have more extracurricular activities than you can shake a stick at is more motivated than I am. Someone who can keep a girlfriend, be extremely sharp, all while dealing with the same crap I have to plow through is obviously cooler than I am. Maybe I'm not giving myself enough credit, but again, I can't help but compare myself to others. Maybe it's some sort of mechanism to make myself a better person, but at the moment, the only purpose it serves is to depress me.
Lastly, I feel as though I am being excised from other people's lives, the ones that matter. I'm usually quite selective about the people I like; most people I deem douchebags, but the ones that escape my harsh adjudication are usually quite special. So it sucks when I begin to assume that I'm no longer relevant. That being said, it's probably not true. I'm probably being a paranoid idiot, and it's just temporary, which has already been evidenced. It's most likely my awful pessimism rearing its ugly head again.
It's unfortunate to see this. My pessimism and cynicism has safeguarded me for years against disappointment, time after time. But maybe now it's that parasite I mentioned earlier - the root of all my sorrows. Being sad really damn sucks, I'm not gonna lie. I lose all appetite, all I want to do is either drink or smoke cigarettes, and sleep. I really don't want it to be the case and I don't want it to be permanent. On my friend's blog, there was a very appropriate line: "Enjoy everything, so that you can miss it appropriately when it is gone."
The truth of those words are unbelievable. Life shouldn't be about brooding and misery, but it's all that I can muster at the moment. Something needs to change for the better. I can't afford to be like this. Living in misery isn't living. It's the opposite, and I need to get out of this rut.
PS. I'm coming home again. Maybe we can start again.
You know those Zoloft commercials that say "depression hits you like a brick?" They're only partially right. It does hit you like a charging bull, but it's also like a parasite. It attaches itself to you, slowly begins to drain you until you do a damn thing about it. That's a tall order, being depressed prevents you from doing things that you would ordinarily otherwise do. Something drastic has to happen in order to break you out of this cycle, or you could take the low road and take antidepressants. But I find it more of an experience if you can cure yourself of your ailments. It' a learning experience, and you learn how to deal with it next time.
What contributes to this? Looking at my plate, it's just the ordinary stresses of a high school senior, isn't it? Not entirely, no. If that were the case, I'd just be taking the challenge in stride, glad of the distraction and experience. It's what the completion of the challenge entails. What happens when I've been accepted to college? I'm yanked out of my cushy, comfortable, complacent existence and tossed into a dog-eat-dog world. That was kinda the case with Ohlone, but I still lived comfortably, everything was fine. On the other hand, if I get accepted to my first choice, or, God forbid, my first out-of-state choice, I'm fucking gone.
I'm gone. I've lost everything that's established. The things I've done here, my writings, my GPA, what I've done through Interact and whatever, the few friends I have, it's all gone. The slate is being wiped clean, and that scares and depresses the living hell out of me. It probably won't be the case that that will happen, but my inherent pessimistic nature automatically assumes the worst, and that makes me miserable. I know I should think more positively, but that's like asking a turtle to stop being such a slow motherfucker. It's just in my nature, and while I can certainly try, it's not exactly easy or anything.
There are other things that have made me blue as well. I look at myself, and then I look at everyone else and they are clearly superior to me. Superior in their motivation, their execution, and dedication. Comparatively, I might as well be sleeping all day. Someone who can juggle a job, a club, school, and prowl for assholes is more dedicated than I am. Someone who can have more extracurricular activities than you can shake a stick at is more motivated than I am. Someone who can keep a girlfriend, be extremely sharp, all while dealing with the same crap I have to plow through is obviously cooler than I am. Maybe I'm not giving myself enough credit, but again, I can't help but compare myself to others. Maybe it's some sort of mechanism to make myself a better person, but at the moment, the only purpose it serves is to depress me.
Lastly, I feel as though I am being excised from other people's lives, the ones that matter. I'm usually quite selective about the people I like; most people I deem douchebags, but the ones that escape my harsh adjudication are usually quite special. So it sucks when I begin to assume that I'm no longer relevant. That being said, it's probably not true. I'm probably being a paranoid idiot, and it's just temporary, which has already been evidenced. It's most likely my awful pessimism rearing its ugly head again.
It's unfortunate to see this. My pessimism and cynicism has safeguarded me for years against disappointment, time after time. But maybe now it's that parasite I mentioned earlier - the root of all my sorrows. Being sad really damn sucks, I'm not gonna lie. I lose all appetite, all I want to do is either drink or smoke cigarettes, and sleep. I really don't want it to be the case and I don't want it to be permanent. On my friend's blog, there was a very appropriate line: "Enjoy everything, so that you can miss it appropriately when it is gone."
The truth of those words are unbelievable. Life shouldn't be about brooding and misery, but it's all that I can muster at the moment. Something needs to change for the better. I can't afford to be like this. Living in misery isn't living. It's the opposite, and I need to get out of this rut.
PS. I'm coming home again. Maybe we can start again.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
What's happened?
It's been a while since I've made a purgative entry on my life. Dreary and boring as it may be, it's nice to let loose every so often with every typical high schooler banality you can think of. But that's okay, because unlike you, I am cool. You're just like Fonzie's friend who he ignores but keeps around to make himself seem even cooler. Or something like that.
So college is coming up, the prospect of leaving this place and starting up what is essentially a new life terrifies the piss out of me, but at the same time it's also exciting. I view it as a challenge, but I'm still scared of it. I'm scared of adapting to change, of losing people here, of becoming something different. That's me, the pessimist. I suppose the only thing I can really say about this is that I'll cross that bridge when I come to it. And it's looking to be like the Golden Gate Bridge, not the sissy Dumbarton Bridge. Sigh.
I guess school's been doing okay. I'm not doing exceptionally well in my math and econ courses, but I just got an A in my online music course (not much of an accomplishment though, to be honest). I can probably pull up those grades if I tried, but I've been afflicted with early-onset senioritis, you could say. I am, however, kicking ass at the personal statements. The first few drafts were awful, but I'm having so much fun with them. Without an English class this semester, this is all I can hope for to keep my skills sharp. And it's made even better when I actually get some damn criticism on my work too. So that's nice.
I've gotten back into gaming, kind of. I've changed what I've been looking for in games now, I have a greater appreciation for single-player stories and campaigns. In terms of multiplayer, all I need is COD4. Still addictive as ever, and the upcoming and vastly improved Gears of War 2. That's going to be the shit.
Anything else? Missing people, hating people, loving people (Stephanie Bui oh my Jesus), failing at things, it's all good. Well, some of it is good, but some of it sucks. Here begins the descent into hell.
So college is coming up, the prospect of leaving this place and starting up what is essentially a new life terrifies the piss out of me, but at the same time it's also exciting. I view it as a challenge, but I'm still scared of it. I'm scared of adapting to change, of losing people here, of becoming something different. That's me, the pessimist. I suppose the only thing I can really say about this is that I'll cross that bridge when I come to it. And it's looking to be like the Golden Gate Bridge, not the sissy Dumbarton Bridge. Sigh.
I guess school's been doing okay. I'm not doing exceptionally well in my math and econ courses, but I just got an A in my online music course (not much of an accomplishment though, to be honest). I can probably pull up those grades if I tried, but I've been afflicted with early-onset senioritis, you could say. I am, however, kicking ass at the personal statements. The first few drafts were awful, but I'm having so much fun with them. Without an English class this semester, this is all I can hope for to keep my skills sharp. And it's made even better when I actually get some damn criticism on my work too. So that's nice.
I've gotten back into gaming, kind of. I've changed what I've been looking for in games now, I have a greater appreciation for single-player stories and campaigns. In terms of multiplayer, all I need is COD4. Still addictive as ever, and the upcoming and vastly improved Gears of War 2. That's going to be the shit.
Anything else? Missing people, hating people, loving people (Stephanie Bui oh my Jesus), failing at things, it's all good. Well, some of it is good, but some of it sucks. Here begins the descent into hell.
Friday, October 17, 2008
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Relativism
The notion that nothing is ever concrete - everything depends on the perspective of the viewer is a load of crap. While it's true that many things in life can be differently interpreted by others, relativists (though perhaps not all of them) believe that everything holds a different value depending on how the person in question is looking at it. For example, religion is viewed as useful and helpful in providing purpose in one's life by the religious, obviously, and the weak-willed. How do I view religion? Completely worthless, the cancer of society.
Yes, in this case, a relativist's point of view is correct. But there are solid, established fact that are indisputable. I personally believe that religion is worthless and causing the slow decay of society with its suppression of intellectualism and self-expression, and I also personally believe that it's also an undeniable fact. The religious will counter my argument claiming it provides purpose, structure, and comfort, but that dances around the issue. You can't deny that the key tactic of religion is to quell any opposing view points.
Before this brief tangent devolves any further, I would just like to state my one and only point. The purpose of relativism is only to straddle the fence, satisfy both sides without stepping over to one side. Of course, I am only speaking of the most serious case - a total relativist will never have an opinion on anything. I can understand that it's all relative, but there are things that need to be considered, and you must take a side. Dodging the issue satisfies everyone and everyone's you're friend, but you need opinions. Pick a side. Join the Dark Side. We have cocaine and tacos.
Yes, in this case, a relativist's point of view is correct. But there are solid, established fact that are indisputable. I personally believe that religion is worthless and causing the slow decay of society with its suppression of intellectualism and self-expression, and I also personally believe that it's also an undeniable fact. The religious will counter my argument claiming it provides purpose, structure, and comfort, but that dances around the issue. You can't deny that the key tactic of religion is to quell any opposing view points.
Before this brief tangent devolves any further, I would just like to state my one and only point. The purpose of relativism is only to straddle the fence, satisfy both sides without stepping over to one side. Of course, I am only speaking of the most serious case - a total relativist will never have an opinion on anything. I can understand that it's all relative, but there are things that need to be considered, and you must take a side. Dodging the issue satisfies everyone and everyone's you're friend, but you need opinions. Pick a side. Join the Dark Side. We have cocaine and tacos.
Friday, October 3, 2008
A Novel: Serialized
Provocateur: An Autobiography by Nick Washington
ONE: THE SAD LIFE
People are always talking to me, rambling, asking silly questions. What do they ask, you ask? Shit, there you go again, asking questions! Christ. Suppose that’s the point of an interview. No, but seriously, they ask me a lot of shit. “What’s it like being a gigolo?” “Are the working conditions hard?” “How do you cope with stress?” Well, I have some very simple answers, almost one-word replies. “It’s cool.” “No.” “Pretty girl named Mary Jane waiting for me at home.”
Honest to God, I’m not different from anyone else, they, everyone, the media, my goddamn sisters, everyone I meet except for my clients, treat me like some ultra-fertile savior of the human race, destined to bring the moisture back into the barren vaginas of old spinsters. I do an interview, just not like this, say some tabloid magazine, National Enquirer and I’m bombarded with a bunch of inane inquisitions. They put me up on a pedestal I’m not sure I deserve to be put up on, you know? And if having sex with women and getting paid damn well for it is something to idolize, I think some rescrutinization, is that a word? No? Some re-examination of our morals and culture needs to kick in. Nah, but it’s pretty annoying, I’m not going to lie to you. Maybe you need to look at the other side of my life to fully understand why.
My name is Nicholas Washington. That’s my actual name. No alias, no nickname. Well, I do have a nickname, but we’ll get back to that later. Named after the guy in red himself, jolly old Saint Nicholas, my parents had a sick sense of humor, they used to throw my sister in the pool just to make dead baby jokes. Anyway. Nicholas Washington. Born and raised in Los Angeles, the City of Angels, a desolate wasteland of superficial culture and ignorant hero worship of even more superficial celebrities. Everyone I knew, everyone I grew up with was obsessed with that life; glitz and glam. Never enough brains to fill an eggcup.
We were pretty wealthy; I lived in Beverly Hills with two sisters, both of whom decided to fall directly into the trap that was Hollywood. Didn’t deviate in the slightest from the goddamn masses of shallow, phony bitches that roamed the streets of Rodeo Drive searching for the chic, the popular, and the beautiful. It was enough to make someone vomit.
Judging from my tone, you obviously can deduce that I hated it all. I was inspired, somewhat, by my father. Hardworking, raised from the gutter, never a silver spoon in his mouth. I say somewhat because he did all this, made a fortune defending innocent men and prosecuting despicable paedophiles and homicidal catamites, but ended up marrying my cheap floozy of a mother. Yeah, I’m going to say that right now. My mother was just a whore, not quite on the level of a professional escort, no, that would be giving her credit. She just batted her batly eyelids at the right person. My father, Mickey Washington.
Mother was never around much, Dad was always working. I was practically raised by our butler, Dane. Nice fellow, he was. British, little sarcastic, just like how you see in the movies. He always had snippets of wisdom for me when I was in trouble, and yet he would never get mad at me when I was actually in a pickle. I looked up to Dane, both as a second father and maybe even an older brother. Emphasis on old. His staunch rationalism, biting wit, British behavior reminded me of a fictional character I had seen on TV somewhere. A doctor or something. But the important thing to remember was that Dane was the inspiration I had for not only pursuing my own interests, but making sure I did well in the not-so interesting things that would serve to further…my own interests!
I was a great student in school. By age 16 I was doing multivariable calculus, writing essays and pieces that brought tears to the eyes of stolid old businessmen who hated their wives, spoke four languages, Spanish, French, Russian, and Latin, and excelling in a variety of sports. I was the archetypal pinnacle of humanity. Arrogance aside, I seriously was an impressive specimen, perhaps they wanted to clone me. Not only that, but I was blessed with rugged good looks and a wit that matched, if not surpassed, Dane’s. He was my sensei after all.
High school was boring for me. I had finished all my classes, and more, laughably by the end of my sophomore year. But what the hell right? Even though I was a brainiac, that didn’t mean I had to leave high school, miss out on two years of fun. So what did I do? What would any kid do at that age, given that freedom, money, and prestige? Sex, drugs, and…that’s it. Sex and drugs.
Oh Jesus…if I were to tell you how many fucking girls I slept with or how many lines of blow I did, you’d need every single sheet of paper of the Congressional Library to document it all…Shit. Wild years. And that’s probably what motivated me to become what I was, a gigolo. I loved it. Sex was wonderful, liberating, and more often than not anonymous. I would just hit up a party, find a drunk chick, talk her up for a few minutes and away we would go. Of course, this was spread in between sessions of blow going right up our noses, sometimes we ate it. Time of my life. I would often have some really clingy girl who would always want to cuddle afterwards, but man, that wasn’t my thing. I wanted to get it on and get it out. That was my philosophy. Never had a girlfriend, mate. That’s for damn sure. It was Hollywood, it was Rodeo Drive, Beverly Hills. Did you seriously expect anything less?
Consistency was the name of the game. Every night I was out, partying, drinking, snorting, fucking, you name it. But I always kept a cool head, even in spite of all this. I somehow managed to transcend the stereotype; high people do stupid things, I didn’t do stupid things. At least, relatively anyway. Some of the kids I was with decided one night, while on speedballs, to pretend to surf on top of a moving car. Let’s just say the poor bastard who tried to do it, Lenny, was lucky his dad was rich. Imagine if a kid from South Central lost half his face. Parents would just euthanize the fucker right then and there. Me? No. I never did anything stupid, paradoxically, while on drugs. If I had a bit of blow or dope, I would just sit there and chill the fuck out. It was my scene, but not my movie.
This shit went on for a long time, and it was the most fun I ever had, I’m not going to lie to you. Sure, you needed a fix every few hours, or minutes, in some cases, but nobody was ever around to watch me shoot up. Dane might’ve walked in on me a few times, but he never brought it up. I adored the lifestyle, I felt like a goddamn Rockstar. I was happy with it, yes. But I was stupid for drugs. Brilliant in other areas; I could translate Candide, The Aeneid, Don Quixote, and The Brothers Karamazov in three weeks, but I couldn’t go more than four hours without shooting up. It was okay though, I was never short of dope. I was fine. I was fucked up, sure, but relatively speaking, I was fine.
So for about two years, I was embedded in this shit. And then, during a guest pep speak, or whatever the fuck they call them, I suddenly realized my follies, ironically, while high out of my mind. The guy was up there on stage, impeccable suit and tie, crisp and clean, beautifully shaved, smooth composure, and suave presentation. He wore glasses, giving off an air of confidence and power. And then he spoke, his voice a powerful and compelling mixture of a bit of James Earl Jones and Martin Luther King Jr. He spoke with conviction, authority. But the thing is, he spoke mostly about bullshit, nothing really important, it was all waffle to me. But then he got the audience involved, and that’s when I began to start paying attention.
At first, I was only paying attention because I thought if he called on me, the whole school would know I was blitzed out of my mind. So this guy, this flawless, Aryan specimen points straight at me, his perfectly trimmed fingernail pointing directly over my heart, as if he was stabbing me there and hoping to steal the grams of coke I had in my pockets, asked me boomingly and clearly, “What do you want to do with your life?”
Now, Twisted Sister was pretty popular back in the day, and the situation reminded me exactly of that. Hell, that’s how the music video went. So, in my heroin-infused mind, pondering an answer to get the heat off me comes up with a perfect response. “I wanna rock!” And the shit hit the fan. Proverbially, anyway.
What this made me realize was that I was screwing up my young, nubile life. Here I was, humping away. Here I was, snorting grams of coke and shooting up heroin, forcibly conquering my liver. I wanted to rock. I wanted to be Dee Snider. But I wasn’t. There was no way I was going to be Dee Snider if I kept on doing what I was doing. Sure, Dee Snider was humping away, snorting coke, shooting up heroin, and forcibly conquering his liver. But the man worked hard before he could afford these luxuries. I hadn’t done shit. I haven’t rocked. And I didn’t deserve anything until I rocked. So back to our story.
The speaker kinda just laughed slightly and walked on, continued to talk about leadership, what have you. Admirable it was, sure. But this guy was preaching to the wrong crowd. Kids back then, most kids these days, with a few exceptions, they’re not interested in that shit. They don’t want to help the impoverished in Peru, they don’t want to build schools in Panama or deliver desks in Ethiopia. Hell, I’d go so far to say they don’t even want to read. What’s popular these days? MySpace. Jonas Brothers. I grew up in the 80’s, so you know I’m saying something when I say the music these kids listen to is just noise.
I may be a bit off topic here, tangential, but I feel it has to be said. I was part of that demographic, part of the uncaring teenager, the kind that only wants to fuck and snort. And I’m here to say I thoroughly regret that. Yeah, I educated myself, I learned a lot. But that doesn’t mean I’m ashamed at what happened afterwards. The phrase “O How the Mighty have Fallen,” immediately comes to mind. But kids will be kids. I’ve accepted that. I just wish I spent more time reading Nietzsche than going to parties.
But like I said, that speaker, man. He had some kind of power, some sort of sway over me. So obviously, I decided to clean up my act. It was just a little bit at a time, baby steps. Let me tell you that there’s nothing quite worse than going through withdrawal, it’s something I don’t want to relive any time soon. I tied myself to my bed, locked the cellar door, put out the air in my tires to prevent myself from going to see my dealer, Mitch. Mitch was a slimeball who operated out of a boutique in Rodeo. I could overdose on his floor and he’d be too blitzed to even raise a finger. Take my word for it when I say that self-rehab is almost never successful. I’m the only exception (that I know of).
Like I said, I was done with high school. I was just sitting around for the parties. But now that I wasn’t going to them any more, the gathering of massive anonymous crowds, I dedicated myself to more wholesome activities. I read some foreign literature, The Master and Margarita, The Count of Monte Cristo, Inferno, and Lolita. All in a week. I was hungry for knowledge. I lose dependency on one thing, I gain an addiction to another. Information. Stories. Themes. I ate it up.
I wrote several papers detailing key events in ancient history and their repercussions. The Sack of Rome. The Enlightenment. The American Revolution. Unrestrained capitalism in America. Contained communism in Russia. The Cuban Missile Crisis. The Oil Conflict. Not quite, ancient, more modern, but it served its purpose. It was all a distraction. Distraction from the abhorrent life I led. Distraction from the past I was trying to put behind me. I claimed to have a purpose. I claimed to want to be a smarter person. But I didn’t. I only wanted to divert myself from my problems. I didn’t want to think about it.
It helped, but it wasn’t enough. I enrolled at UCLA. With my father’s connections and pull, it was remarkably easy. My first class was something like “Sex and Sociology,” an intriguing topic. It put things in perspective, why we have sex, what elements compel us to have carnal relations with another person. Having spent a lot of time humping and dumping, learning the machinations that drive us to do what we do. I loved learning, man. I seriously did. But the thing was that while it helped me understand all of it, it made me ridiculously horny. So I was conflicted; trapped between my desires to hump and my desire to form a real relationship with someone. In the long run, it probably would've been wiser to go with the latter, rather than the former. How I managed to fall back into something I had yearned to escape, I don't know. That's the problem with trying to break your own habits. You just find a substitute habit to supplant your original. Sort of like how that guy kept collecting rocks instead of masturbating in that one Chuck Palahniuk novel. I remember that because it was funny, but outside of that, Palahniuk is an untalented hack. Sorry, lost my train of thought.
While I was at school, I cut off all friendships, relationship, connections with anyone I knew. I was a ghost. My dad knew I was at school, but he was so busy, he didn't even visit. The only contact I had with other human beings was swooping into parties and taking advantage of the drunk chicks. Yeah, it's bastardous and a dick move. But I didn't care. I needed something to occupy my spare time. I was ironically, and tragically, lonelier than I had ever been for those four years. The root of all my problems stemmed from human beings - human beings giving me coke, human beings giving me heroin, human beings giving me booze. I might as well do something natural, something God intended instead of getting high as a kite. It was the only solace I could find, to know that I was doing something relatively normal, even if my method of acquisition was less than gentlemanly.
I decided to go after my master's degree in psychology, attaining it with no problem, and then my pHD. Also no problem. I found if I put my mind to it, I could do whatever I wanted. Corny, taken-straight from an after-school special, sure, but it was true. I was one determined motherfucker. I was desperate to prove myself, to prove that those years of drunken debauchery wasn't representative of the real me. Everyone goes through that. Others judge on preconceptions, others judge based on a sole event in life, I wanted to be viewed past that. I would be getting a doctorate, subsequently allowing people to judge me by that. I was a hypocrite, but this hypocrisy tasted a lot sweeter. As long as my other hunger was satiated, I could function above normal capacity. I could go above and beyond the call of duty, and that's what guaranteed success. It was good. I could psycho-analyze people. Combine that with a sharp deductive ability and I could learn all about a person just by the way they talked, from the clothes they wear. You see that shit on TV a lot, few can actually do it. And those who can actually do it only learned so they can study the human being. And why would we study human beings, study animals, whatever? We consider them lower than ourselves. Certainly was the case here.
What did I do? Where did I go after I got my degree? The piece of paper that said I was qualified to make an exorbitant sum of money? Based on something some people saw in me? Nowhere. I stayed right there, went back to Beverly Hills and stayed in our old house. No one cared. I was a specter. So where was I going to go after this? After the massive amounts of sex, after the years of education, after the binges?
On a road trip, of course.
ONE: THE SAD LIFE
People are always talking to me, rambling, asking silly questions. What do they ask, you ask? Shit, there you go again, asking questions! Christ. Suppose that’s the point of an interview. No, but seriously, they ask me a lot of shit. “What’s it like being a gigolo?” “Are the working conditions hard?” “How do you cope with stress?” Well, I have some very simple answers, almost one-word replies. “It’s cool.” “No.” “Pretty girl named Mary Jane waiting for me at home.”
Honest to God, I’m not different from anyone else, they, everyone, the media, my goddamn sisters, everyone I meet except for my clients, treat me like some ultra-fertile savior of the human race, destined to bring the moisture back into the barren vaginas of old spinsters. I do an interview, just not like this, say some tabloid magazine, National Enquirer and I’m bombarded with a bunch of inane inquisitions. They put me up on a pedestal I’m not sure I deserve to be put up on, you know? And if having sex with women and getting paid damn well for it is something to idolize, I think some rescrutinization, is that a word? No? Some re-examination of our morals and culture needs to kick in. Nah, but it’s pretty annoying, I’m not going to lie to you. Maybe you need to look at the other side of my life to fully understand why.
My name is Nicholas Washington. That’s my actual name. No alias, no nickname. Well, I do have a nickname, but we’ll get back to that later. Named after the guy in red himself, jolly old Saint Nicholas, my parents had a sick sense of humor, they used to throw my sister in the pool just to make dead baby jokes. Anyway. Nicholas Washington. Born and raised in Los Angeles, the City of Angels, a desolate wasteland of superficial culture and ignorant hero worship of even more superficial celebrities. Everyone I knew, everyone I grew up with was obsessed with that life; glitz and glam. Never enough brains to fill an eggcup.
We were pretty wealthy; I lived in Beverly Hills with two sisters, both of whom decided to fall directly into the trap that was Hollywood. Didn’t deviate in the slightest from the goddamn masses of shallow, phony bitches that roamed the streets of Rodeo Drive searching for the chic, the popular, and the beautiful. It was enough to make someone vomit.
Judging from my tone, you obviously can deduce that I hated it all. I was inspired, somewhat, by my father. Hardworking, raised from the gutter, never a silver spoon in his mouth. I say somewhat because he did all this, made a fortune defending innocent men and prosecuting despicable paedophiles and homicidal catamites, but ended up marrying my cheap floozy of a mother. Yeah, I’m going to say that right now. My mother was just a whore, not quite on the level of a professional escort, no, that would be giving her credit. She just batted her batly eyelids at the right person. My father, Mickey Washington.
Mother was never around much, Dad was always working. I was practically raised by our butler, Dane. Nice fellow, he was. British, little sarcastic, just like how you see in the movies. He always had snippets of wisdom for me when I was in trouble, and yet he would never get mad at me when I was actually in a pickle. I looked up to Dane, both as a second father and maybe even an older brother. Emphasis on old. His staunch rationalism, biting wit, British behavior reminded me of a fictional character I had seen on TV somewhere. A doctor or something. But the important thing to remember was that Dane was the inspiration I had for not only pursuing my own interests, but making sure I did well in the not-so interesting things that would serve to further…my own interests!
I was a great student in school. By age 16 I was doing multivariable calculus, writing essays and pieces that brought tears to the eyes of stolid old businessmen who hated their wives, spoke four languages, Spanish, French, Russian, and Latin, and excelling in a variety of sports. I was the archetypal pinnacle of humanity. Arrogance aside, I seriously was an impressive specimen, perhaps they wanted to clone me. Not only that, but I was blessed with rugged good looks and a wit that matched, if not surpassed, Dane’s. He was my sensei after all.
High school was boring for me. I had finished all my classes, and more, laughably by the end of my sophomore year. But what the hell right? Even though I was a brainiac, that didn’t mean I had to leave high school, miss out on two years of fun. So what did I do? What would any kid do at that age, given that freedom, money, and prestige? Sex, drugs, and…that’s it. Sex and drugs.
Oh Jesus…if I were to tell you how many fucking girls I slept with or how many lines of blow I did, you’d need every single sheet of paper of the Congressional Library to document it all…Shit. Wild years. And that’s probably what motivated me to become what I was, a gigolo. I loved it. Sex was wonderful, liberating, and more often than not anonymous. I would just hit up a party, find a drunk chick, talk her up for a few minutes and away we would go. Of course, this was spread in between sessions of blow going right up our noses, sometimes we ate it. Time of my life. I would often have some really clingy girl who would always want to cuddle afterwards, but man, that wasn’t my thing. I wanted to get it on and get it out. That was my philosophy. Never had a girlfriend, mate. That’s for damn sure. It was Hollywood, it was Rodeo Drive, Beverly Hills. Did you seriously expect anything less?
Consistency was the name of the game. Every night I was out, partying, drinking, snorting, fucking, you name it. But I always kept a cool head, even in spite of all this. I somehow managed to transcend the stereotype; high people do stupid things, I didn’t do stupid things. At least, relatively anyway. Some of the kids I was with decided one night, while on speedballs, to pretend to surf on top of a moving car. Let’s just say the poor bastard who tried to do it, Lenny, was lucky his dad was rich. Imagine if a kid from South Central lost half his face. Parents would just euthanize the fucker right then and there. Me? No. I never did anything stupid, paradoxically, while on drugs. If I had a bit of blow or dope, I would just sit there and chill the fuck out. It was my scene, but not my movie.
This shit went on for a long time, and it was the most fun I ever had, I’m not going to lie to you. Sure, you needed a fix every few hours, or minutes, in some cases, but nobody was ever around to watch me shoot up. Dane might’ve walked in on me a few times, but he never brought it up. I adored the lifestyle, I felt like a goddamn Rockstar. I was happy with it, yes. But I was stupid for drugs. Brilliant in other areas; I could translate Candide, The Aeneid, Don Quixote, and The Brothers Karamazov in three weeks, but I couldn’t go more than four hours without shooting up. It was okay though, I was never short of dope. I was fine. I was fucked up, sure, but relatively speaking, I was fine.
So for about two years, I was embedded in this shit. And then, during a guest pep speak, or whatever the fuck they call them, I suddenly realized my follies, ironically, while high out of my mind. The guy was up there on stage, impeccable suit and tie, crisp and clean, beautifully shaved, smooth composure, and suave presentation. He wore glasses, giving off an air of confidence and power. And then he spoke, his voice a powerful and compelling mixture of a bit of James Earl Jones and Martin Luther King Jr. He spoke with conviction, authority. But the thing is, he spoke mostly about bullshit, nothing really important, it was all waffle to me. But then he got the audience involved, and that’s when I began to start paying attention.
At first, I was only paying attention because I thought if he called on me, the whole school would know I was blitzed out of my mind. So this guy, this flawless, Aryan specimen points straight at me, his perfectly trimmed fingernail pointing directly over my heart, as if he was stabbing me there and hoping to steal the grams of coke I had in my pockets, asked me boomingly and clearly, “What do you want to do with your life?”
Now, Twisted Sister was pretty popular back in the day, and the situation reminded me exactly of that. Hell, that’s how the music video went. So, in my heroin-infused mind, pondering an answer to get the heat off me comes up with a perfect response. “I wanna rock!” And the shit hit the fan. Proverbially, anyway.
What this made me realize was that I was screwing up my young, nubile life. Here I was, humping away. Here I was, snorting grams of coke and shooting up heroin, forcibly conquering my liver. I wanted to rock. I wanted to be Dee Snider. But I wasn’t. There was no way I was going to be Dee Snider if I kept on doing what I was doing. Sure, Dee Snider was humping away, snorting coke, shooting up heroin, and forcibly conquering his liver. But the man worked hard before he could afford these luxuries. I hadn’t done shit. I haven’t rocked. And I didn’t deserve anything until I rocked. So back to our story.
The speaker kinda just laughed slightly and walked on, continued to talk about leadership, what have you. Admirable it was, sure. But this guy was preaching to the wrong crowd. Kids back then, most kids these days, with a few exceptions, they’re not interested in that shit. They don’t want to help the impoverished in Peru, they don’t want to build schools in Panama or deliver desks in Ethiopia. Hell, I’d go so far to say they don’t even want to read. What’s popular these days? MySpace. Jonas Brothers. I grew up in the 80’s, so you know I’m saying something when I say the music these kids listen to is just noise.
I may be a bit off topic here, tangential, but I feel it has to be said. I was part of that demographic, part of the uncaring teenager, the kind that only wants to fuck and snort. And I’m here to say I thoroughly regret that. Yeah, I educated myself, I learned a lot. But that doesn’t mean I’m ashamed at what happened afterwards. The phrase “O How the Mighty have Fallen,” immediately comes to mind. But kids will be kids. I’ve accepted that. I just wish I spent more time reading Nietzsche than going to parties.
But like I said, that speaker, man. He had some kind of power, some sort of sway over me. So obviously, I decided to clean up my act. It was just a little bit at a time, baby steps. Let me tell you that there’s nothing quite worse than going through withdrawal, it’s something I don’t want to relive any time soon. I tied myself to my bed, locked the cellar door, put out the air in my tires to prevent myself from going to see my dealer, Mitch. Mitch was a slimeball who operated out of a boutique in Rodeo. I could overdose on his floor and he’d be too blitzed to even raise a finger. Take my word for it when I say that self-rehab is almost never successful. I’m the only exception (that I know of).
Like I said, I was done with high school. I was just sitting around for the parties. But now that I wasn’t going to them any more, the gathering of massive anonymous crowds, I dedicated myself to more wholesome activities. I read some foreign literature, The Master and Margarita, The Count of Monte Cristo, Inferno, and Lolita. All in a week. I was hungry for knowledge. I lose dependency on one thing, I gain an addiction to another. Information. Stories. Themes. I ate it up.
I wrote several papers detailing key events in ancient history and their repercussions. The Sack of Rome. The Enlightenment. The American Revolution. Unrestrained capitalism in America. Contained communism in Russia. The Cuban Missile Crisis. The Oil Conflict. Not quite, ancient, more modern, but it served its purpose. It was all a distraction. Distraction from the abhorrent life I led. Distraction from the past I was trying to put behind me. I claimed to have a purpose. I claimed to want to be a smarter person. But I didn’t. I only wanted to divert myself from my problems. I didn’t want to think about it.
It helped, but it wasn’t enough. I enrolled at UCLA. With my father’s connections and pull, it was remarkably easy. My first class was something like “Sex and Sociology,” an intriguing topic. It put things in perspective, why we have sex, what elements compel us to have carnal relations with another person. Having spent a lot of time humping and dumping, learning the machinations that drive us to do what we do. I loved learning, man. I seriously did. But the thing was that while it helped me understand all of it, it made me ridiculously horny. So I was conflicted; trapped between my desires to hump and my desire to form a real relationship with someone. In the long run, it probably would've been wiser to go with the latter, rather than the former. How I managed to fall back into something I had yearned to escape, I don't know. That's the problem with trying to break your own habits. You just find a substitute habit to supplant your original. Sort of like how that guy kept collecting rocks instead of masturbating in that one Chuck Palahniuk novel. I remember that because it was funny, but outside of that, Palahniuk is an untalented hack. Sorry, lost my train of thought.
While I was at school, I cut off all friendships, relationship, connections with anyone I knew. I was a ghost. My dad knew I was at school, but he was so busy, he didn't even visit. The only contact I had with other human beings was swooping into parties and taking advantage of the drunk chicks. Yeah, it's bastardous and a dick move. But I didn't care. I needed something to occupy my spare time. I was ironically, and tragically, lonelier than I had ever been for those four years. The root of all my problems stemmed from human beings - human beings giving me coke, human beings giving me heroin, human beings giving me booze. I might as well do something natural, something God intended instead of getting high as a kite. It was the only solace I could find, to know that I was doing something relatively normal, even if my method of acquisition was less than gentlemanly.
I decided to go after my master's degree in psychology, attaining it with no problem, and then my pHD. Also no problem. I found if I put my mind to it, I could do whatever I wanted. Corny, taken-straight from an after-school special, sure, but it was true. I was one determined motherfucker. I was desperate to prove myself, to prove that those years of drunken debauchery wasn't representative of the real me. Everyone goes through that. Others judge on preconceptions, others judge based on a sole event in life, I wanted to be viewed past that. I would be getting a doctorate, subsequently allowing people to judge me by that. I was a hypocrite, but this hypocrisy tasted a lot sweeter. As long as my other hunger was satiated, I could function above normal capacity. I could go above and beyond the call of duty, and that's what guaranteed success. It was good. I could psycho-analyze people. Combine that with a sharp deductive ability and I could learn all about a person just by the way they talked, from the clothes they wear. You see that shit on TV a lot, few can actually do it. And those who can actually do it only learned so they can study the human being. And why would we study human beings, study animals, whatever? We consider them lower than ourselves. Certainly was the case here.
What did I do? Where did I go after I got my degree? The piece of paper that said I was qualified to make an exorbitant sum of money? Based on something some people saw in me? Nowhere. I stayed right there, went back to Beverly Hills and stayed in our old house. No one cared. I was a specter. So where was I going to go after this? After the massive amounts of sex, after the years of education, after the binges?
On a road trip, of course.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Poetry Part Deux
Love Rain O'er Me
Be like water, my friend.
And with it, the power to adapt, to live, to the bitter end.
In the rain, the droplets fall, flashing and fleeting bits of coolness.
And happiness it brings, to be misted and kissed by the sky.
But with time, to think, to wonder, to fester, it becomes an unknowable beast.
And the rain will not return.
Destruction left in the wake of the storm is difficult to repair, but must be fixed.
The sudden onset brings about the realization of being tricked.
Water from all high is a two-headed monster.
One seductive and beautiful, if only to feed the other.
Is it possible for the rain to return? The gentle pitter-patter of pleasure?
It can't be measured.
Be like water, my friend.
And with it, the power to adapt, to live, to the bitter end.
In the rain, the droplets fall, flashing and fleeting bits of coolness.
And happiness it brings, to be misted and kissed by the sky.
But with time, to think, to wonder, to fester, it becomes an unknowable beast.
And the rain will not return.
Destruction left in the wake of the storm is difficult to repair, but must be fixed.
The sudden onset brings about the realization of being tricked.
Water from all high is a two-headed monster.
One seductive and beautiful, if only to feed the other.
Is it possible for the rain to return? The gentle pitter-patter of pleasure?
It can't be measured.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
The Tribulations
"Hi, what's your name?"
"John."
"Oh, I like that name. How are you John?"
"I'm good. How are you, sweetheart?"
"I'm fabulous, John."
"That's good to hear."
"So why are you calling, John?"
"I wanted to talk."
"Mmmm, I like that John."
"Yeah. So let's talk."
"What do you want to talk about? What do you want to know?"
"What do I want to know?"
"Yes, John. Do you want to know anything? About me?"
"I would."
"What do you want to know about me, John?"
"What are you wearing?"
"A little nightie. Clothes are always so...constricting."
"Hm, is that right? Nothing but a nightie, you say?"
"That's right John, what do you think of that?"
"I like it. I like it a lot."
"Want to know anything else? Anything you want to know..."
"Yeah, what do you look like?"
"I'm blond, slender...horny."
"That's not something you look like, dear."
"Mmm, I like it when you call me dear..."
"You like a lot things, don't you?"
"Yeah."
"What color are your eyes?"
"What?"
"What's. Your. Eye. Color."
"Oh, why do you want to know?"
"I can know anything I want, can't I?"
"Sure. They're blue, John."
"..."
"John?"
"..."
"John....?"
"Yeah. I'm here. Thank you. Thank you for your time."
He hung up. From the tattered sofa he was sitting on, he hung up his cell phone. He stood up, walked into the nursery, and picked up his crying son. He patted him down, laid him back down to sleep. He walked back through his tiny house and sat back down on the sofa, reaching for the bottle on the coffee table.
And he continued his day.
"John."
"Oh, I like that name. How are you John?"
"I'm good. How are you, sweetheart?"
"I'm fabulous, John."
"That's good to hear."
"So why are you calling, John?"
"I wanted to talk."
"Mmmm, I like that John."
"Yeah. So let's talk."
"What do you want to talk about? What do you want to know?"
"What do I want to know?"
"Yes, John. Do you want to know anything? About me?"
"I would."
"What do you want to know about me, John?"
"What are you wearing?"
"A little nightie. Clothes are always so...constricting."
"Hm, is that right? Nothing but a nightie, you say?"
"That's right John, what do you think of that?"
"I like it. I like it a lot."
"Want to know anything else? Anything you want to know..."
"Yeah, what do you look like?"
"I'm blond, slender...horny."
"That's not something you look like, dear."
"Mmm, I like it when you call me dear..."
"You like a lot things, don't you?"
"Yeah."
"What color are your eyes?"
"What?"
"What's. Your. Eye. Color."
"Oh, why do you want to know?"
"I can know anything I want, can't I?"
"Sure. They're blue, John."
"..."
"John?"
"..."
"John....?"
"Yeah. I'm here. Thank you. Thank you for your time."
He hung up. From the tattered sofa he was sitting on, he hung up his cell phone. He stood up, walked into the nursery, and picked up his crying son. He patted him down, laid him back down to sleep. He walked back through his tiny house and sat back down on the sofa, reaching for the bottle on the coffee table.
And he continued his day.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
The Flash.
She rises each morning, at the crack of dawn, to care for her children. Always at the same time, never remiss in her expected duties. Each morning, she obliges their chirps, petulant and impetuous demands.
Never faltering and certainly never failing.
She looks into the distance, he's nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he went out in the night, although that certainly isn't like him. But no time to worry about that, she has voracious appetites to satisfy, which she already prepared for. After all, she's been through this ritual ever since their birth. She gives them what they clamor for, they chirp less, the morsels they consumed satisfying their bellies and subsequently quelling their neediness. She's a professional, she knows what she's doing.
Never faltering and certainly never failing.
She looks on coldly at them. They're now quiet, mollified temporarily. But certainly not permanently, much as she would like them to be. Abstract, omniscient, obligations ties her to them. Can't be severed even with the sharpest implement. They wouldn't live without her, and she couldn't live without them. A vicious cycle of surrendering your life to others. Selflessness makes others happy, but how much happiness can you really derive from pleasing others? It wasn't bringing her much pleasure. In fact, quite the opposite. Misery permeated everything. But what could she do? Leave them? Go some place else? There was no way.
At the moment, things were idyllic. From where she was, all she could see was vast and infinite green. The beauty and size of nature was truly something to behold. The silence wasn't deadly, as it usually would be, but calming and therapeutic. The follies of life were sudden and unrelenting, but moments like these were to be relished. There's nothing quite like it, and she truly appreciated, loved, the opportunity. There were only occasional flashes of serenity like this.
Suddenly, she heard a rumbling from underneath her. A mechanical monstrosity meandered into the plain, crushing all that stood before it. It came straight for them, knocking over the tree. She spread her wings and took flight in alarm, pausing for nothing, not realizing the nest was destroyed in a flash. They were gone. She didn't have time to look back, just narrowly escaping with her life. In an instant, it was all gone. In an instant, all was shattered. The peace was taken away. It was all over.
She had faltered. She had failed. But it wasn't her fault.
PS. Meditating to Massive Attack makes you write really weird shit.
Never faltering and certainly never failing.
She looks into the distance, he's nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he went out in the night, although that certainly isn't like him. But no time to worry about that, she has voracious appetites to satisfy, which she already prepared for. After all, she's been through this ritual ever since their birth. She gives them what they clamor for, they chirp less, the morsels they consumed satisfying their bellies and subsequently quelling their neediness. She's a professional, she knows what she's doing.
Never faltering and certainly never failing.
She looks on coldly at them. They're now quiet, mollified temporarily. But certainly not permanently, much as she would like them to be. Abstract, omniscient, obligations ties her to them. Can't be severed even with the sharpest implement. They wouldn't live without her, and she couldn't live without them. A vicious cycle of surrendering your life to others. Selflessness makes others happy, but how much happiness can you really derive from pleasing others? It wasn't bringing her much pleasure. In fact, quite the opposite. Misery permeated everything. But what could she do? Leave them? Go some place else? There was no way.
At the moment, things were idyllic. From where she was, all she could see was vast and infinite green. The beauty and size of nature was truly something to behold. The silence wasn't deadly, as it usually would be, but calming and therapeutic. The follies of life were sudden and unrelenting, but moments like these were to be relished. There's nothing quite like it, and she truly appreciated, loved, the opportunity. There were only occasional flashes of serenity like this.
Suddenly, she heard a rumbling from underneath her. A mechanical monstrosity meandered into the plain, crushing all that stood before it. It came straight for them, knocking over the tree. She spread her wings and took flight in alarm, pausing for nothing, not realizing the nest was destroyed in a flash. They were gone. She didn't have time to look back, just narrowly escaping with her life. In an instant, it was all gone. In an instant, all was shattered. The peace was taken away. It was all over.
She had faltered. She had failed. But it wasn't her fault.
PS. Meditating to Massive Attack makes you write really weird shit.
Monday, September 29, 2008
Materialism
The concept of property has inadvertently caused, all together now, the fall of civilization, the erosion of society, death in the millions, and the corruption of every generation that flourished ever since we evolved enough to be more intelligent than a sabretooth tiger with a cranial injury.
What is it that compels us to seek out property, items, materials? Is it the fact that we need to have things to feel comfortable with ourselves? Has pride of ownership sunken so deeply into us that it is akin to racism? Do we just want to look pretty in our new skirt or intimidating in our new car? A combination of all, to be honest.
This concept of materialism isn't necessarily a negative or limited to just humans, those flawed bastards that I hate so much. Lions and hippopotami are extremely territorial, komodo dragons will share their carrion so long as that carrion is YOU, and chimpanzees will fling their poo at any passerby. Point is, animals are as capable of altruism as I am capable of having sex with supermodels. It's an evolutionary instinct, to seek comfort with what you have. Hell, I can't sleep unless I have my huggy pillow.
But there's a fine line. There's a difference between getting what you need and what you want. And like the wise philosopher Jagger once said, "You can't always get what you want." And I find that to be pretty wise, even if it's coming from a Rolling Stone. Sure, we need a bed, cars, computers, cell phones, TVs. But come on people. There's a limit to how much shit you need. You have a perfectly good TV, Samsung DLP, 42 inches, capable of 720p output. Do you really need to consider updating it to a 58 inch LCD 1080p Bravia, just so you can mount it? Is that shit really necessary? You have plenty of nice shirts, do you really need more? We as a species find comfort and happiness from the things we buy, from the glut of unnecessary bullshit we have. And once the newest bullshit comes out, we trash what we bought earlier in favor of the newest shiny device.
How can we help it? Evolutionary instinct, let's say. Sure. That's plausible. But everything around our society revolves around owning more. Capitalism at its finest - what we want to accomplish is to achieve wealth through business. And what do we do with that wealth once we attain it? Exchange it for goods and services. That's what the American Dream is! Come over to the Land of Opportunity from a dirt-poor nation with absolutely nothing to get a lot of money and then spend it! This goes back to God knows when, probably back to when Grug decided that he needed a new spear to kill a Mastodon with. The media's constant barrage of telling us "You need this new product" merely exacerbates the problem.
But would I honestly call it a problem? Sure, if it's all we can think about. If we're raised believing that the entire point to life is MORE STUFFS, that's materialistic to say the least. If you want me to say more, the words "fucking retarded" and "collapse of society" come to mind. We want more stuff, sure. Acceptable fact of life that everyone wants to buy more shit. But when it becomes a value, a virtue, and something to strive for all your life, you're a slave to plastic, to cotton, to metal. And who wants to live like that?
What is it that compels us to seek out property, items, materials? Is it the fact that we need to have things to feel comfortable with ourselves? Has pride of ownership sunken so deeply into us that it is akin to racism? Do we just want to look pretty in our new skirt or intimidating in our new car? A combination of all, to be honest.
This concept of materialism isn't necessarily a negative or limited to just humans, those flawed bastards that I hate so much. Lions and hippopotami are extremely territorial, komodo dragons will share their carrion so long as that carrion is YOU, and chimpanzees will fling their poo at any passerby. Point is, animals are as capable of altruism as I am capable of having sex with supermodels. It's an evolutionary instinct, to seek comfort with what you have. Hell, I can't sleep unless I have my huggy pillow.
But there's a fine line. There's a difference between getting what you need and what you want. And like the wise philosopher Jagger once said, "You can't always get what you want." And I find that to be pretty wise, even if it's coming from a Rolling Stone. Sure, we need a bed, cars, computers, cell phones, TVs. But come on people. There's a limit to how much shit you need. You have a perfectly good TV, Samsung DLP, 42 inches, capable of 720p output. Do you really need to consider updating it to a 58 inch LCD 1080p Bravia, just so you can mount it? Is that shit really necessary? You have plenty of nice shirts, do you really need more? We as a species find comfort and happiness from the things we buy, from the glut of unnecessary bullshit we have. And once the newest bullshit comes out, we trash what we bought earlier in favor of the newest shiny device.
How can we help it? Evolutionary instinct, let's say. Sure. That's plausible. But everything around our society revolves around owning more. Capitalism at its finest - what we want to accomplish is to achieve wealth through business. And what do we do with that wealth once we attain it? Exchange it for goods and services. That's what the American Dream is! Come over to the Land of Opportunity from a dirt-poor nation with absolutely nothing to get a lot of money and then spend it! This goes back to God knows when, probably back to when Grug decided that he needed a new spear to kill a Mastodon with. The media's constant barrage of telling us "You need this new product" merely exacerbates the problem.
But would I honestly call it a problem? Sure, if it's all we can think about. If we're raised believing that the entire point to life is MORE STUFFS, that's materialistic to say the least. If you want me to say more, the words "fucking retarded" and "collapse of society" come to mind. We want more stuff, sure. Acceptable fact of life that everyone wants to buy more shit. But when it becomes a value, a virtue, and something to strive for all your life, you're a slave to plastic, to cotton, to metal. And who wants to live like that?
Saturday, September 27, 2008
A short story
For several days, she was all I could think about. She didn't even know me. I didn't even know her. Somehow, the sight of her long, fiery hair incensed me, struck up a vast array of emotions, many of which were foreign and disturbing to me. I was ashamed of what I felt, such animalistic lust I had never felt before. I believed if I had just a momentary lapse of reason, this beast would ripple through me, strike me down, control me. A delicate sound of thunder would ultimately be the end of me.
So on that day, as she passed by, smiling her enigmatic smirk, I smiled back, going on my way. She ascended the stairs, I looked back, the darkness creeping back through me again, but this time, I let it go. I moved towards the sofas in the lobby, collapsed, exhausted, dipped into euphoria. Emotions I had never known surged through me, feelings of jubilation. I looked up, into the domed ceiling, a mosaic, a clash of color, a maelstrom of confusion and ecstasy. I let go, I was comfortably numb. Her face appeared in my mind's eye, a specimen of such divine beauty that I felt obligated to kneel, in my own mind, surrender my realm to another God.
And with that, I opened my eyes, returning to reality. I stood up, walked out of the building and stopped at the bus stop, sitting down on the rancid bench. I looked down the road for signs of the bus. There was none. I closed my eyes again. This time, she wasn't there. Instead, I saw a technicolor warp of buildings. These buildings extended into the sky, infinite and insurmountable, stretching higher and higher. And suddenly, without warning, they collapsed. Exploded into a million pieces, raining rubble from the sky, in a manner befitting the most malevolent, vengeful deity. And suddenly, I was there. A mortal man facing the downpour of man's proudest structures. Impact was imminent...
And then I opened my eyes. I saw the bus rolling towards me, braking. I climbed on, and took a seat towards the back. The bus rumbled forwards, driving along a dilapidated sidewalk. I looked up and into the other side of the road. Dozens of cars thundered down the speedway, their motors screaming like banshees. I closed my eyes, saw myself floating above a sea of gazelle, stampeding down a gorge. Their sharp horns glistening in the African sun, I looked down, from high up. The sounds of fear and panic permeated my ears, freezing my heart cold. As I floated above the stampede, I extended my arms, as if on the Holy Cross. I stared back down and dove straight into the rampage.
But then I opened my eyes. The bus had rumbled to a stop, right next to my apartment building. I got off and walked in, climbing some rickety stairs, ignoring the screams of the unhappy couple downstairs. I pulled out my keys and walked in. My apartment was dark, freezing, and foreboding. I sighed, turned on the light and collapsed on the couch. I stared at the coffee table, swiped my bottle of pills. I took down another two.
Next time, I won't take more than I need.
So on that day, as she passed by, smiling her enigmatic smirk, I smiled back, going on my way. She ascended the stairs, I looked back, the darkness creeping back through me again, but this time, I let it go. I moved towards the sofas in the lobby, collapsed, exhausted, dipped into euphoria. Emotions I had never known surged through me, feelings of jubilation. I looked up, into the domed ceiling, a mosaic, a clash of color, a maelstrom of confusion and ecstasy. I let go, I was comfortably numb. Her face appeared in my mind's eye, a specimen of such divine beauty that I felt obligated to kneel, in my own mind, surrender my realm to another God.
And with that, I opened my eyes, returning to reality. I stood up, walked out of the building and stopped at the bus stop, sitting down on the rancid bench. I looked down the road for signs of the bus. There was none. I closed my eyes again. This time, she wasn't there. Instead, I saw a technicolor warp of buildings. These buildings extended into the sky, infinite and insurmountable, stretching higher and higher. And suddenly, without warning, they collapsed. Exploded into a million pieces, raining rubble from the sky, in a manner befitting the most malevolent, vengeful deity. And suddenly, I was there. A mortal man facing the downpour of man's proudest structures. Impact was imminent...
And then I opened my eyes. I saw the bus rolling towards me, braking. I climbed on, and took a seat towards the back. The bus rumbled forwards, driving along a dilapidated sidewalk. I looked up and into the other side of the road. Dozens of cars thundered down the speedway, their motors screaming like banshees. I closed my eyes, saw myself floating above a sea of gazelle, stampeding down a gorge. Their sharp horns glistening in the African sun, I looked down, from high up. The sounds of fear and panic permeated my ears, freezing my heart cold. As I floated above the stampede, I extended my arms, as if on the Holy Cross. I stared back down and dove straight into the rampage.
But then I opened my eyes. The bus had rumbled to a stop, right next to my apartment building. I got off and walked in, climbing some rickety stairs, ignoring the screams of the unhappy couple downstairs. I pulled out my keys and walked in. My apartment was dark, freezing, and foreboding. I sighed, turned on the light and collapsed on the couch. I stared at the coffee table, swiped my bottle of pills. I took down another two.
Next time, I won't take more than I need.
Friday, September 26, 2008
You ever wonder why we're here?
This question has been pondered ever since man decided that getting eaten by sabertooth tigers and killing mammoths with spears was a bad idea. Since the very beginning of critical thought, the idea of the point of our existence as a species has been wondered. And so I ask. Why are we here? Why is this species of ape on this tiny celestial body, slowly poisoning it with their inventions and such? In the grand scope of the entire universe, we're insignificant. So why are we here?
There is no "point" to our existence, strictly speaking. The evolution of neanderthals into what we are today has no specific purpose in the grand scheme of things. The universe and its natural laws didn't direct our evolution so that some day we might accomplish some grand feat. God doesn't exist and he doesn't love all of us unconditionally, as much as we would love to believe that. To the universe, the millions of years lifeforms have been wandering the earth have just been "chillin." Another million years will pass, our species will go extinct, life will begin anew, evolve again, and maybe give way to another species capable of abstract and critical thought.
The religious believe that the point of our existence is to live a full life, die sinless, and go to heaven. And while that's certainly, the least I could say about it is that it is an ideal. The worst I could say about it is that it's a load of idealistic bullshit that's stupid to abide by. So what do I believe?
The belief that you can nail life to one, single, all-encompassing purpose is also a load of bullshit. This is going to sound like relativist propaganda (which I'm sure a few of you are a fan of ;)), but life is simply what you make of it, to borrow an extremely cliched term. You make your own purpose in this universe, and the bigger picture, the framework in which you create this doesn't matter, because none of it affects you, or will affect you. Effectively, you're purposeless once you're born into this world. But as you grow up and mature, learn about the world, about culture, about society, you'll have a clearer picture of what makes you happy. And then you base your life, your purpose on that which makes you happy.
The argument that life's purpose simply is to be one with God is valid to the religious. If you base your whole life around an abstract ideal, once you die, you die happy. That's fine. But have you ever truly lived for yourself? You lived for your beliefs, sure, but does that really qualify? Have you done what made you happy? Do the things you wanted to do? Bring meaning to your own life? I don't know. I'm not religious.
What's the point of life? Why are we here? You ask a hundred different people that question and you might get a hundred different answers. The purpose of our lives is to make our own purpose, whether it's through religion, education, or what have you. We're not here to change the way the universe works (although those scientists at CERN might be), we're here to make ourselves happy. Life is a lot brighter that way.
There is no "point" to our existence, strictly speaking. The evolution of neanderthals into what we are today has no specific purpose in the grand scheme of things. The universe and its natural laws didn't direct our evolution so that some day we might accomplish some grand feat. God doesn't exist and he doesn't love all of us unconditionally, as much as we would love to believe that. To the universe, the millions of years lifeforms have been wandering the earth have just been "chillin." Another million years will pass, our species will go extinct, life will begin anew, evolve again, and maybe give way to another species capable of abstract and critical thought.
The religious believe that the point of our existence is to live a full life, die sinless, and go to heaven. And while that's certainly, the least I could say about it is that it is an ideal. The worst I could say about it is that it's a load of idealistic bullshit that's stupid to abide by. So what do I believe?
The belief that you can nail life to one, single, all-encompassing purpose is also a load of bullshit. This is going to sound like relativist propaganda (which I'm sure a few of you are a fan of ;)), but life is simply what you make of it, to borrow an extremely cliched term. You make your own purpose in this universe, and the bigger picture, the framework in which you create this doesn't matter, because none of it affects you, or will affect you. Effectively, you're purposeless once you're born into this world. But as you grow up and mature, learn about the world, about culture, about society, you'll have a clearer picture of what makes you happy. And then you base your life, your purpose on that which makes you happy.
The argument that life's purpose simply is to be one with God is valid to the religious. If you base your whole life around an abstract ideal, once you die, you die happy. That's fine. But have you ever truly lived for yourself? You lived for your beliefs, sure, but does that really qualify? Have you done what made you happy? Do the things you wanted to do? Bring meaning to your own life? I don't know. I'm not religious.
What's the point of life? Why are we here? You ask a hundred different people that question and you might get a hundred different answers. The purpose of our lives is to make our own purpose, whether it's through religion, education, or what have you. We're not here to change the way the universe works (although those scientists at CERN might be), we're here to make ourselves happy. Life is a lot brighter that way.
Fucked up ways to die
There are many.
But the worst one would be death by Candiru.
Although it is quite rare to encounter this horrifying, parasitic bastard, if you happen to be swimming in its waters, be afraid. Be very afraid.
The candiru, or Vandellia cirrhosa, a fish so feared that the second part of its binomial nomenclature is named after a degenerating liver condition, is most commonly found in the Amazon River and El Rio Negro. Also common to these waters are bloodthirsty piranhas and deadly crocodiles. So you know this thing is lethal when the natives fear it over all else.
The candiru is tiny. The biggest known specimen was only six inches long. What's so scary about it, you ask? This pugnacious little bastard hunts for prey by detecting ammonia and urea expelled by the gills of other fish. Once it locates its prey, it rapidly darts towards it, slips into the gills, and, using its spines, lodges itself in place. As if having a little parasitic fish inside you isn't enough, the evil thing begins to gnaw through a major blood vessel. Omnomnomnom.
Of course, fish aren't the only things this asshole fish feeds on. People unfortunate and foolish enough to urinate in the river are also susceptible to the Candiru. The fish can swim up any orifice, the anus, the urethra, the the vagina, anywhere is possible. As such, it is impossible to remove without surgery. Though it's likely that the resultant infection and systemic shock will kill you before some Brazilian doctor who got his degree over the Internet can touch your genitals with a bladed apparatus.
This has been a public service announcement. Do not piss in the Amazon or Black River.
But the worst one would be death by Candiru.
Although it is quite rare to encounter this horrifying, parasitic bastard, if you happen to be swimming in its waters, be afraid. Be very afraid.
The candiru, or Vandellia cirrhosa, a fish so feared that the second part of its binomial nomenclature is named after a degenerating liver condition, is most commonly found in the Amazon River and El Rio Negro. Also common to these waters are bloodthirsty piranhas and deadly crocodiles. So you know this thing is lethal when the natives fear it over all else.
The candiru is tiny. The biggest known specimen was only six inches long. What's so scary about it, you ask? This pugnacious little bastard hunts for prey by detecting ammonia and urea expelled by the gills of other fish. Once it locates its prey, it rapidly darts towards it, slips into the gills, and, using its spines, lodges itself in place. As if having a little parasitic fish inside you isn't enough, the evil thing begins to gnaw through a major blood vessel. Omnomnomnom.
Of course, fish aren't the only things this asshole fish feeds on. People unfortunate and foolish enough to urinate in the river are also susceptible to the Candiru. The fish can swim up any orifice, the anus, the urethra, the the vagina, anywhere is possible. As such, it is impossible to remove without surgery. Though it's likely that the resultant infection and systemic shock will kill you before some Brazilian doctor who got his degree over the Internet can touch your genitals with a bladed apparatus.
This has been a public service announcement. Do not piss in the Amazon or Black River.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Whine
Despite the rant I'm about to write, I'm actually quite cheerful. No homework, new Prison Break and Heroes in an hour or so (although my expectations are extremely low for Heroes), no work in the foreseeable future, and I kicked my math test's ass. So, time for a little purgative writing.
If the title of the blog is any indication, I'm a misanthrope. I hate my fellow man, for many, many, many good reasons. But recently, some hope has been restored, but I'm not sure why. People with problems have talked to me, and instead of callously ostracizing them, I've actually given advice, comfort, and feedback. I guess I'm softening up, but make no mistake. I am still very much a misanthrope.
We're selfish. We're vain. We're paranoid. We're xenophobic. I'm not just describing America, but all humans. All values that have been so deeply indoctrinated that they're not going anywhere until we evolve into omnipotent beings capable of levitation and shooting thunderbolts from our eyes. I'm guilty of these despicable characteristics. Everyone is, there's no denying it and there's no way to get rid of them (trust me, I've tried and am still trying!). But imagine if we could purge ourselves of them? Would we be happier? Would all the world's ills cease?
Short answer: No.
Long answer: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
There's no such thing as utopia. It's just an ideal to strive for. We can come close to it, but we can never attain it. It's just in our nature, our behavior as human beings to be imperfect. But that doesn't mean we can't change ourselves. We can change ourselves to not be so xenophobic. To not be so materialistic and vain. Hey, a whole generation of kids in the 1960s pulled it off; they didn't want to embrace the backwards, racist ideology. In just a few years, all that paranoia, hatred, selfishness, fear of change was just cast out the window, raising a new generation of kids. It's very much possible.
Time after time, I've been let down, disappointed, offended by the stupidity and folly of mankind. All of the aforementioned manifested in their absolute worst. Everyone's guilty of them. Some people are just more guilty than others, and I've had the misfortune of having to deal with them. Cunts. That's how this way of thinking flourished.
That being said, I think I'm becoming something of an optimist. My human interactions have been fairly limited - I haven't been forced to mingle with a cornucopia of morons like I was a few years ago. I can pick the people I want to spend time with and cast aside the ones that I hate. Great system, because I've known nothing but great people for the past few months, hell, even years. I guess that's where the newly rooted optimism comes in. I've kinda given people the benefit of the doubt, that kind of thing I mentioned earlier. I wasn't really aware of it until I stepped back and thought about it. It's nice...I think.
I have no idea what the freaking fuck I'm talking about. Cheers.
If the title of the blog is any indication, I'm a misanthrope. I hate my fellow man, for many, many, many good reasons. But recently, some hope has been restored, but I'm not sure why. People with problems have talked to me, and instead of callously ostracizing them, I've actually given advice, comfort, and feedback. I guess I'm softening up, but make no mistake. I am still very much a misanthrope.
We're selfish. We're vain. We're paranoid. We're xenophobic. I'm not just describing America, but all humans. All values that have been so deeply indoctrinated that they're not going anywhere until we evolve into omnipotent beings capable of levitation and shooting thunderbolts from our eyes. I'm guilty of these despicable characteristics. Everyone is, there's no denying it and there's no way to get rid of them (trust me, I've tried and am still trying!). But imagine if we could purge ourselves of them? Would we be happier? Would all the world's ills cease?
Short answer: No.
Long answer: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
There's no such thing as utopia. It's just an ideal to strive for. We can come close to it, but we can never attain it. It's just in our nature, our behavior as human beings to be imperfect. But that doesn't mean we can't change ourselves. We can change ourselves to not be so xenophobic. To not be so materialistic and vain. Hey, a whole generation of kids in the 1960s pulled it off; they didn't want to embrace the backwards, racist ideology. In just a few years, all that paranoia, hatred, selfishness, fear of change was just cast out the window, raising a new generation of kids. It's very much possible.
Time after time, I've been let down, disappointed, offended by the stupidity and folly of mankind. All of the aforementioned manifested in their absolute worst. Everyone's guilty of them. Some people are just more guilty than others, and I've had the misfortune of having to deal with them. Cunts. That's how this way of thinking flourished.
That being said, I think I'm becoming something of an optimist. My human interactions have been fairly limited - I haven't been forced to mingle with a cornucopia of morons like I was a few years ago. I can pick the people I want to spend time with and cast aside the ones that I hate. Great system, because I've known nothing but great people for the past few months, hell, even years. I guess that's where the newly rooted optimism comes in. I've kinda given people the benefit of the doubt, that kind of thing I mentioned earlier. I wasn't really aware of it until I stepped back and thought about it. It's nice...I think.
I have no idea what the freaking fuck I'm talking about. Cheers.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Free Will and Acceptance
I've recently read a few things that made me wonder about the individual human and his development. The stages of life that he goes through are dictated by the laws of sociology, physics, and psychology. Chuck Palahniuk's Lullaby really made me ponder the issue, as did a blog my friend wrote. So let's get right into it.
From the moment we take our first breath, our first steps, crawl for the very first time, we're bombarded by a garish assault of ads, expressions, norms, and values. You grow up in a Christian house, you'll learn to confess your sins, never to have sex before marriage, and to say a prayer before you eat. You grow up in a Russian household, your parents will put you through a rigorous training course so that you're badass like your distant relatives in the Motherland. My point is, form every angle, we assimilate values of our culture, develop a way of thinking that is in harmony with our way of life, and express values that sync up with what we were raised to believe.
In that sense, is there ever such a thing as free will? Is there such a thing as true originality? What we perceive to be free will is just choosing between brands. What we believe to be original is just adapted from an earlier work with a few variations and spins. I am reminded of Bioshock, a brilliant video game that brought up one of Ayn Rand's classic themes. "A man chooses. A slave obeys." But what is there to choose? We can choose between American cars or Japanese cars, we can choose between an Alfani or an Armani shirt? The point is, we're all subjected to the same stuff, the only choice we have is to choose which one, which company, which style to abide by. We're all slaves. Slaves to the norms, slaves to the culture, and slaves to the values that have been instilled in us since birth. We may try to break the chains, try to become unique, but there's no such thing. We're all the same underneath. It's just a mild variation on what might be different.
What else are we? What separates us from the beasts? We're self-aware. We're conscious of our own decisions, we know the consequences of our actions, and we can think critically. And yet, we are a herd. We're herded along, swindled by the mighty and their impressive rhetoric (irony!). You can claim your beliefs are unique, sensational. But chances are, someone else has already thought of it. We can never truly be original. Even the Constitution was adopted from various other historical documents and other values. The Magna Carta perhaps? Maybe Protestantism? I laugh at the emo kids trying to be "cool" by dressing up in all black, pretending their poetry is self-expressive of their "pain" (I can say with some certainty that at least my poetry isn't as lame as theirs).
That brings me to another point - acceptance. We do all these things, going back to the emo example, those kids dress like that, behave like that, listen to the crappy music to gain acceptance among their peers. Acceptance makes us happy, it lets us know that we're doing something right, it's just "invisible positive reinforcement," so to speak. And that's fine. We all want to be accepted, pretending you don't care what other people think about you is a load of bullshit - even if you claim that, on some level, you will always yearn for more.
What I find funny is that everything we do is to gain some small sum of acceptance from someone. I believe the sociological concept was the "Looking Glass and the Generalized Other." The Generalized Other is the vast accumulation of other people's opinions on us, and we consult it unconsciously. When you look at a mirror to determine whether an outfit looks good, and we ask ourselves "Does this look alright?" we aren't asking ourselves. We're asking the Generalized Other, the opinions of people, of everyone else. If it looks good, that means it's acceptable to others.
I suppose my point is this: we cannot avoid being conditioned by the values of our culture and we can never stop yearning for the acceptance of others. They go hand-in-hand, I suppose. Hell, I am definitely playing by those rules, despite my vehement declarations otherwise. Well, that was cathartic.
From the moment we take our first breath, our first steps, crawl for the very first time, we're bombarded by a garish assault of ads, expressions, norms, and values. You grow up in a Christian house, you'll learn to confess your sins, never to have sex before marriage, and to say a prayer before you eat. You grow up in a Russian household, your parents will put you through a rigorous training course so that you're badass like your distant relatives in the Motherland. My point is, form every angle, we assimilate values of our culture, develop a way of thinking that is in harmony with our way of life, and express values that sync up with what we were raised to believe.
In that sense, is there ever such a thing as free will? Is there such a thing as true originality? What we perceive to be free will is just choosing between brands. What we believe to be original is just adapted from an earlier work with a few variations and spins. I am reminded of Bioshock, a brilliant video game that brought up one of Ayn Rand's classic themes. "A man chooses. A slave obeys." But what is there to choose? We can choose between American cars or Japanese cars, we can choose between an Alfani or an Armani shirt? The point is, we're all subjected to the same stuff, the only choice we have is to choose which one, which company, which style to abide by. We're all slaves. Slaves to the norms, slaves to the culture, and slaves to the values that have been instilled in us since birth. We may try to break the chains, try to become unique, but there's no such thing. We're all the same underneath. It's just a mild variation on what might be different.
What else are we? What separates us from the beasts? We're self-aware. We're conscious of our own decisions, we know the consequences of our actions, and we can think critically. And yet, we are a herd. We're herded along, swindled by the mighty and their impressive rhetoric (irony!). You can claim your beliefs are unique, sensational. But chances are, someone else has already thought of it. We can never truly be original. Even the Constitution was adopted from various other historical documents and other values. The Magna Carta perhaps? Maybe Protestantism? I laugh at the emo kids trying to be "cool" by dressing up in all black, pretending their poetry is self-expressive of their "pain" (I can say with some certainty that at least my poetry isn't as lame as theirs).
That brings me to another point - acceptance. We do all these things, going back to the emo example, those kids dress like that, behave like that, listen to the crappy music to gain acceptance among their peers. Acceptance makes us happy, it lets us know that we're doing something right, it's just "invisible positive reinforcement," so to speak. And that's fine. We all want to be accepted, pretending you don't care what other people think about you is a load of bullshit - even if you claim that, on some level, you will always yearn for more.
What I find funny is that everything we do is to gain some small sum of acceptance from someone. I believe the sociological concept was the "Looking Glass and the Generalized Other." The Generalized Other is the vast accumulation of other people's opinions on us, and we consult it unconsciously. When you look at a mirror to determine whether an outfit looks good, and we ask ourselves "Does this look alright?" we aren't asking ourselves. We're asking the Generalized Other, the opinions of people, of everyone else. If it looks good, that means it's acceptable to others.
I suppose my point is this: we cannot avoid being conditioned by the values of our culture and we can never stop yearning for the acceptance of others. They go hand-in-hand, I suppose. Hell, I am definitely playing by those rules, despite my vehement declarations otherwise. Well, that was cathartic.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Run, Forrest, Run.
Fun times. Highlights:
Starting the morning off with a healthy bit of diarrhea.
Finding a cowbell and growling at passerby
Yelling the word "shitty" to Nina in front of her Christian friends two seconds after she tells me to behave myself.
Trying (and failing) to start a mosh pit in the little concert hall.
Screaming "Fucking fuck fuck me fucker fuckity fuckshit" while going on Flight Deck.
Crushing Nina on the Centrifuge ride.
Crushing her hand during Drop Zone.
Swearing extremely profusely on rides with small children present.
Watching Austin and Kyle and some other girl swing back and forth like a horrifying human pendulum. I got it on video, whoop.
Talking about how Benjamin Franklin was an asshole to keep Austin awake as we drove back. Reasons: He dropped his Grandma's turkey and kicked it, choked their dog with a bone, flew an electrified kite into my house, force-fed me peanuts, spit on Martha Washington's food, and ordered a cease-and-desist on Chipotle's operations because he found an irregularly colored pepper. What a fucking dick.
Good fucking times. I haven't been this happy in a while :)
And all that shit comes crashing down with school tomorrow. Hopefully Bardell is particularly exciting in lecture and Prateek dies in a freak shampoo incident.
Starting the morning off with a healthy bit of diarrhea.
Finding a cowbell and growling at passerby
Yelling the word "shitty" to Nina in front of her Christian friends two seconds after she tells me to behave myself.
Trying (and failing) to start a mosh pit in the little concert hall.
Screaming "Fucking fuck fuck me fucker fuckity fuckshit" while going on Flight Deck.
Crushing Nina on the Centrifuge ride.
Crushing her hand during Drop Zone.
Swearing extremely profusely on rides with small children present.
Watching Austin and Kyle and some other girl swing back and forth like a horrifying human pendulum. I got it on video, whoop.
Talking about how Benjamin Franklin was an asshole to keep Austin awake as we drove back. Reasons: He dropped his Grandma's turkey and kicked it, choked their dog with a bone, flew an electrified kite into my house, force-fed me peanuts, spit on Martha Washington's food, and ordered a cease-and-desist on Chipotle's operations because he found an irregularly colored pepper. What a fucking dick.
Good fucking times. I haven't been this happy in a while :)
And all that shit comes crashing down with school tomorrow. Hopefully Bardell is particularly exciting in lecture and Prateek dies in a freak shampoo incident.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Every day I'm hustlin'
On top of my regular duties as well, you know.
As opposed to me proposing an issue or something interesting to debate, I think I'll just turn this blog into my new, little diary. I've got no problems, but it's cathartic to write about a load of crap that nobody cares about except me. And maybe a couple others ;)
I'm a bit confused at the moment. There's a whole lot of shit I need to wipe up, or consider beginning to wipe up. But most of it is nestled, tucked away in a forgotten corner of my mind. I need to consider starting up college apps. I need to consider the SATs. I need to consider getting more community service hours. I need to consider the format of my next project. There's just so much I need to do, but have no motivation to even attempt. I mean, once they loom closer, like a homicidal robotic falcon flying in closer to deliver a payload of bullets and death, I'll have more incentive to run away, but I think I've just convinced myself to believe that it's too far on the horizon to worry about. I need to get my priorities in order.
Despite my confusion, I've managed to stay happy, outside of a few nitpicks. My play has been well-received from the people who I've allowed to read, I'm staying on top of my reading list, and I've managed to work in a decent amount of exercise. Football has also been extremely fun to watch, even though the Norcal teams are so unbelievably awful that Joe Montana would be ashamed to even be once affiliated with the 49ners. Go Chargers, even though their defense may be weakened once Merriman goes into surgery. Sorry.
That being said, there some things I could do without. For one, indulging the company of parasitic asstards is about as appealing as clipping my nails with a chainsaw. This is why I hate taking classes with people, though there are exceptions. They gravitate towards me, eat up my notes, and leave, but not before farting in my face as thanks. This time, I get to have all that but also have to sit next to a smelly, greasy, annoying Indian fuckstick. Even after class is over and I hint that I want to be alone to do my work, the twatface insists on following me wherever I go. I can understand if it's a friend, but this guy is not my friend. Never will be. I'm probably making a big deal out of this, but I'm going to have to deal with this for the next fourteen weeks. That's why I'm making it a big deal. I won't have my olfactory sense after that time, man.
I walked into the semester with the following mentality. "Oh man, this semester's gonna be awesome. I'll have an awesome history teacher, a great math teacher, I'll be able to write some ace papers, and I'll learn about economics and music." Turns out my semester is equally counterbalanced and I have no English class.
My history and math classes are awesome. But my econ and music classes are as exciting as playing with toejam. The Persian/Eastern European/Brooklyn whatever-the- fuck-she-is reads right out of the damn book, and the music class is boring to the point where you'd rather learn the Soulja Boy dance or learn how to tie a hangman's noose (like some people).
Like I said, small nitpicks, I just like being descriptive with overlong metaphors.
Fun fact: I'm doing horrifically bad in the Kaplan course. I haven't been completing the homework, and during class, I'm more interested in looking up vocabulary words I don't know the definition to (I've only found one, "obfuscate." Then I realized I knew the answer to it and felt dumb). My actual SAT score has been higher than all the practice exams, it's pretty funny. But also quite sad.
But we are fast approaching the end of the week, which seems to be loaded with fun throughout. Burn After Reading, another Coen Brothers movie, a comedy in contrast to the dark masterpiece that was No Country for Old Men. It looks excellent, and like The Dark Knight, I plan on seeing it more than once. On top of that, a friend (who better be reading this blog) is returning from Santa Barbara for a week up here. So I plan to school him in the art of Soul Calibur 4 and watch the premiere of House.Also, some Forrest Gump run thingy at Great America.
Like Brad Delp of Boston once said, "Takin' my time, I'm just movin' on."
As opposed to me proposing an issue or something interesting to debate, I think I'll just turn this blog into my new, little diary. I've got no problems, but it's cathartic to write about a load of crap that nobody cares about except me. And maybe a couple others ;)
I'm a bit confused at the moment. There's a whole lot of shit I need to wipe up, or consider beginning to wipe up. But most of it is nestled, tucked away in a forgotten corner of my mind. I need to consider starting up college apps. I need to consider the SATs. I need to consider getting more community service hours. I need to consider the format of my next project. There's just so much I need to do, but have no motivation to even attempt. I mean, once they loom closer, like a homicidal robotic falcon flying in closer to deliver a payload of bullets and death, I'll have more incentive to run away, but I think I've just convinced myself to believe that it's too far on the horizon to worry about. I need to get my priorities in order.
Despite my confusion, I've managed to stay happy, outside of a few nitpicks. My play has been well-received from the people who I've allowed to read, I'm staying on top of my reading list, and I've managed to work in a decent amount of exercise. Football has also been extremely fun to watch, even though the Norcal teams are so unbelievably awful that Joe Montana would be ashamed to even be once affiliated with the 49ners. Go Chargers, even though their defense may be weakened once Merriman goes into surgery. Sorry.
That being said, there some things I could do without. For one, indulging the company of parasitic asstards is about as appealing as clipping my nails with a chainsaw. This is why I hate taking classes with people, though there are exceptions. They gravitate towards me, eat up my notes, and leave, but not before farting in my face as thanks. This time, I get to have all that but also have to sit next to a smelly, greasy, annoying Indian fuckstick. Even after class is over and I hint that I want to be alone to do my work, the twatface insists on following me wherever I go. I can understand if it's a friend, but this guy is not my friend. Never will be. I'm probably making a big deal out of this, but I'm going to have to deal with this for the next fourteen weeks. That's why I'm making it a big deal. I won't have my olfactory sense after that time, man.
I walked into the semester with the following mentality. "Oh man, this semester's gonna be awesome. I'll have an awesome history teacher, a great math teacher, I'll be able to write some ace papers, and I'll learn about economics and music." Turns out my semester is equally counterbalanced and I have no English class.
My history and math classes are awesome. But my econ and music classes are as exciting as playing with toejam. The Persian/Eastern European/Brooklyn whatever-the- fuck-she-is reads right out of the damn book, and the music class is boring to the point where you'd rather learn the Soulja Boy dance or learn how to tie a hangman's noose (like some people).
Like I said, small nitpicks, I just like being descriptive with overlong metaphors.
Fun fact: I'm doing horrifically bad in the Kaplan course. I haven't been completing the homework, and during class, I'm more interested in looking up vocabulary words I don't know the definition to (I've only found one, "obfuscate." Then I realized I knew the answer to it and felt dumb). My actual SAT score has been higher than all the practice exams, it's pretty funny. But also quite sad.
But we are fast approaching the end of the week, which seems to be loaded with fun throughout. Burn After Reading, another Coen Brothers movie, a comedy in contrast to the dark masterpiece that was No Country for Old Men. It looks excellent, and like The Dark Knight, I plan on seeing it more than once. On top of that, a friend (who better be reading this blog) is returning from Santa Barbara for a week up here. So I plan to school him in the art of Soul Calibur 4 and watch the premiere of House.Also, some Forrest Gump run thingy at Great America.
Like Brad Delp of Boston once said, "Takin' my time, I'm just movin' on."
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