Pumping iron

Seemingly impenetrable miseries aside, it would appear that I've discovered the ancient secret to happiness; going to the gym. UCSB's recreation center is touted as second to none, with facilities jam-packed with all sorts of machines and weights. It's a rather comforting thought to know that there's a place I can go to to pretend like I have a modicum of strength. Cool, if exhausting stuff.

Today was the first day I hit that place up, so I started lightly by going over seven miles on an exercise bike and over two on a Stairmaster, both of which murdered my loins and caused me to have a massive heart attack. But I miraculously recovered and am now swimming in a pool of good-feeling and happiness, no doubt brought on by a flood of endorphins.

But yeah, it cheered me up real nice. Almost to the point where it makes me forget I have to miss House and go to places tonight, augggggghhhhh.

PS. There is officially no shame in panting like a dog with lung cancer on a Stairmaster. That thing is brutal.

What can I say

Well, the situation is improving, albeit at the pace of a moving glacier. My copious insecurities have led me to believe that my entire floor despises my guts, but I pray to Christ that isn't the case. Giggling at them annoyingly for a few minutes shouldn't result in complete ostracization, right? It's all I can hope for.

Still, I'm beginning to hammer out a semblance of a routine. I have a few assignments for the week, all of which look incredibly simplistic, and I have a bit of housekeeping to finish (Get Xbox Live running, somehow convince the floor to focus their undying hatreds elsewhere, getting textbooks, cleaning the biological weapons that is my dirty laundry). But for the most part, it's mostly go to class, stave off starvation, come home, go to the gym, watch a movie, do work, watch TV. Like the lifestyle I used to lead before I came to this sunny bastion of insecurity and rivers made of alcohol, this one is inherently hedonistic and self-centered, just the way I like it. Of course, there will be occasions when cosmic rays will affect me and compel me to hang out with people. Plus, there are certain quotas that must be fulfilled, which is what Isla Vista is for.

My continued inability to relate to other human beings out of sheer disgust and disappointment has still contributed to a feeling of homesickness so thick, you could make a nice curd out of it. But we all must pay the piper and condemn ourselves to a nice fat plate of misery before we get a nice trifle for desert. Somehow, this metaphor still fits in the context of what I was talking about, but at this point I don't quite care any more.

PS. Man, this jungle juice sure is good AUUUUGGHH VOMIT

First impressions

How does one communicate what amounts to nothing more than festering, hateful, bile? Crying themselves to sleep? Cutting their wrists with a broken Smirnoff bottle? Indecent liaisons with live stock? I suppose acting out would be a good way to convey the general unhappiness that descends on you like a homicidal vulture descending on a straggler, but then again, so is writing about it on a blog like some sort of depressive, whiny twat who's only met a few people on his floor and, even though is trying to be more outgoing, is failing miserably, or at least to a degree where an onlooker would say "Man, that kid is socially retarded."

It's not that I'm socially retarded, I'm merely introverted. Most of my favorite fun-time things to do are usually activities one pursues alone. Writing scripts. Watching old movies. Dancing naked down an empty road brandishing carrots. The usual. I do enjoy the occasional party or kick-it, wherein I'll become so intoxicated or crossfaded, I start vomiting vulgarities at houseplants, but an existence based solely on casual sex, copious imbibing of alcohol, and smoking an entire forest is not a fulfilling one; it is vacuous and exhausting, and I don't understand how anyone can enjoy it.

I'm sure extroverts will vehemently declare it's just because I'm reclusive. But I know extroverts who would rather go hang out at a movie theater or strip club or something, with absolutely no desire to die of alcohol poisoning. Parties are fun, but too much of a good thing is always bad.

Maybe I just need the quarter to start, which would at least give me a justification as reclusive and antisocial as Dr. House under house arrest (LOL GEDDIT). I really want to start writing some damn papers, reading some interesting literature, and discussing (read: obnoxiously dismissing other people's interpretations) themes and symbols and whatnot. An existence without work is a bleak one indeed.

PS. OOOOOOH I'M SO CLEVER

Untitled

Hey look, it's this blog I update every seven years or so. How's it hanging, chimps? This is incidentally the last blog update coming from this fetid cesspool of boredom known as Fremont, California. In three days time, I will descend upon Santa Barbara like some sort of demented Santa Claus, bringing with me an unfettered desire to rip shit up. While I certainly value my intellectual pursuits and other silly flimflammery, there comes a time when you must pay the piper and drink enough beer and consume enough ecstasy to make Richard Lewis blush. I speak metaphorically, of course.

In all seriousness, casting aside the moronic fratboy attitude for a moment (I'm quite sure fratboys don't even know what a metaphor is), I am quite pumped to move down to Santa Barbara, to pursue what I view as a new adventure, the next frontier to borrow a Star Trek analogy, which in turn nulls all credibility. The intriguing classes, the classmates who actually know what the hell they're talking about, the beautiful beach that's two seconds away. What more could ask for, aside from a jacuzzi that spurts melted chocolate liqueurs.

Some might think that such a party-fueled milieu will bring about horrific changes to the ornery bastard you know and love, like a pedophile afflicted with lycanthropy. But like a pedophile with lycanthropy, the changes only occur for a single night, once in a while, before reverting back to indecent liasions with a catamite. This tortured metaphor has probably run its course, so let's just say the hateful misanthrope you know and love is still going to retain what makes him so irresistible. It'll be a frigid and rainy day in hell before I stop watching movies in favor of shotgunning a kegger. No matter how much I'll enjoy running around half-naked and declaring my love for statues, watching a movie, reading a book, writing crappy fiction will always be my true loves.

So to wrap up this entry, shit's about to get real. And I can barely contain myself. Seriously, I think I just whizzed in my bed.

PS. I can't think of anything clever to put here, so please enjoy this asterisk: *