Note to self: While there is much that is admirable about a pursuit of the dark, there is a more fulfilling reward for spreading the light. Joy may not, by my definition, be beauty, but it is a beautiful thing.

Sunday mornings are the most depressing mornings of the week.

Back to Reality

Tonight was Caitlin Bibb's surprise party. It went well. And, of course, it reminded me of a queer trait of mine when put in such party situations: I get depressed. Mainly it's when the party-goers are conversing, looking for subjects to entertain in lieu of some movie or activity. It would seem, at least to me, that it's one of the more real activites one can participate in. Yet it generally seems to make me depressed.

I have some rationales for such an emotion. I've been deprived of such interaction with other people for most of my youth, so when it finally occurs I'm reminded of how wasted my life has been so far. The entire practice of "hanging out" always strike me as rather absurd and existential (to use those accursed catch-phrases). There is no purpose to it. It is simply "done" for lack of anything better to "do." That's not to say I dislike it or would like to avoid it, but it brings out that "adrift in a sea with no path or direction" feeling.

I look at my peers and think, "These people all have stories, tragedies and triumphs that I'd find quite interesting. I don't know them. I recognize them, I know how they generally act, I know a bit about their families, but I don't know their true histories. I don't know them." I feel like I'm wasting oppurtunities to experience the lives of others. I breached the subject tonight, and while Caitlin seemed enthusiastic, no one volunteered any information. I couldn't think of anything suitable. All I can remember is either depressing/harrowing or comic in a had-to-of-been-there way. I have no "good memories" (aside from parts of last semester), probably because when I really cared I was always stressed or escaping and now I seem to lack the ability to relax and truly enjoy myself. But I want to know the depressing stories of others. I want to know the drama, the type of environment you were raised in, the momentous events of your life. It really intrigues me. I sometimes see seas of people at a ballgame or in traffic or another situation and think, "Every one of them has a story. Every one of them is an epic in the making. It's awe-inspiring, the magnitude of years and experiences all these people much have experienced."

And yet, I don't really know much of anyone. Elizabeth and partially Kelly seem to be the only ones. Perhaps other people don't really have the dramas that I'm imagining. I like to Romanticize conflict, as you may have noted above. But I truly think it's interesting. The events that shape one's life and being are worthy of such epic treatment. Certainly few individual events can make a monumental impact, but stories can tell of a trend or give an example of a pervading mood that helped to mold you. My father, for example, took $20 from me when I was around 5 because I drew on the family vehicles with sidewalk chalk (I wrote ZOO because my sister and I were playing zoo and needed cars to carry food to feed the animals). It was the most money I'd ever had, the culmination of a recent birthday, the bill was the composite of my life's savings up to that point. And he took it. I believe I received a quasi-guilt trip as well. And that's the earliest memory I have of my father.

It's stories like that. The kind of stories that would depress others or seem trivial, but actually prove to be quite influential. I'll give another. I was older, probably 10(maybe a bit younger) , and my sister put a lot of paper in the toilet so when I flushed it it overflowed. I, being the stressed, hyper-imaginative child that I was, considered this a risk to the entire household because the water could theoretically keep coming until the entire house was bombarded by a toilet tsunami. I shut the door, and to add that extra bit of force so the door could hold longer against the onslaught, I locked it. My father was not pleased. To have a toilet overflowing and the bathroom door locked is not a pleasant experience. So I was spanked and then my sister was, "just to be fair." We lived in fear of my father, and that intimidation remains to this day.

Stories like that. They help explain my guilt and fear. I don't blame my father, he's done quite a bit that's been good too, but I'm still distant and, subconsciously, scared of him.

Party killers, I suppose, unless you're drunk and have a desire to get even more intoxicated.

The subject of my novel came up. Caitlin made some crazy comment about me taking her to the Oscars if one of my works was ever adapted for a movie someday. Comments like that seem rather mocking, for a novel is not the sort of endeavor most teenagers take up, and it does seem rather pretentious to believe you have something to say or the talent to say it. With Caitlin I can't really tell, although her sincerity in wanting to be my date seemed to imply she took the subject rather seriously. (This is one of Caitlin's greater fears, for me to write about her in my blog. Hopefully, if she does read this, she won't have a panic attack. No one will think any less of you for this, trust me Caitlin. I think rather favorably about you still hehe). At any rate, again I'm reminded of how far behind I am and how foolish it seems to spend so much time in the pursuit of mediocrity.

It's not a new feeling though. Perhaps it's an example of what another potential cause of me getting depressed at parties. I'm no longer detached. There's nothing else to focus on but real issues like my novel, like not knowing other people, like wasting the "best years of my life." They're the sort of thoughts that would plague me constantly if I didn't focus my life around escapism. When we're playing board games, I don't get depressed. Not only do I have purpose, I also have something to divert my attention. When I'm "hanging out" my subconscious is in full swing.

Hmm. A possibility. I don't seem to get depressed when I take walks, and I'm not detached then. I have no stress, and that's probably the main reason. I can relax. When "hanging out" I feel pressured to make some purpose for myself, be it listening, speaking, or just listening to music. I need to learn to relax. For all my proclaimed apathy, I really do care about matters of emotion and time. I feel so much pressure to not waste oppurtunities I'll never have again. To get my life on the right track and make the most of it. Then I sit on the computer for hours and hours on end. Escaping. I'm addicted to fantasy. Given reality, who wouldn't be?

I'm too verbose, yeesh. If I did train of thought writing for my novel I'd have twice as many pages as I do. Speaking of the novel, I've noticed my writing style is a tad detached itself. I think that's because most of it's in third person. First person always seem more emotional, but less comical. Food for thought. Pleasant Dreams everyone.

Mmmmhmmm! They may say an internet addiction is on par with drugs, and I'm inclined to agree. Staying up til three and getting up at 8 will produce an internet hangover like I've never had before! Oh the joys of escapism. Why you treatin' me like this, baby? I only curse at you because you hit back!

I'm getting delirious. I apologize. Good... afternoon?

Today in Loaded Questions:

Question:"What three adjectives come to mind when you hear the word 'white'?"

My answer: "Not David Sugue."

Ah, Junior Year. You've grown up! We're regressing a bit in our old age, though. I'm remembering shades of my youth. Youth, of course, meaning a year ago. Except this go around I've got my wonderful escape. Oh yes, the fruits of our 35 hour+ binge this weekend were not only unholy, they were downright monstrous! In other words, either I escape or the depression catches up. Joy! Or lack thereof. Oh existentialism, you're a wily foe. You're an old wound that you constantly tear open so you can add more salt for just that hint of angst. Despair, though, is blissfully absent. Count our blessings, eh?

It's really not that bad. Most of the time. I'll be fine when distracted. I think. I think too much. Entirely too much. My game requires no real thinking, so that's good. Mmmm....mindless....

Existentialism, how I Meh thee.

(Note: This might contain some 'spoilers, so if you plan on watching the movie you might not want to read this. This also verges into a rant a whole lot, so it'll be hard to read. Not that that's anything new.)

Last night I watched "Lost in Translation." Guess what? It was existentialist! Not only that, it did a beautiful job. It was existential and romantic, thus my kind of movie. (Let's see if I can make the summary as painless as possible). Bill Murray, the main male character, plays an actor who travels to Tokyo to shoot a whiskey comercial. Of course he cannot speak or understand Japanese, and the culture is quite odd and... flashy. I know if I went I'd be overloaded and burst by all the sensory input. At any rate, he is going through an existential/midlife crisis. He's isolated in a world that literally doesn't understand him, and he feels unneeded (and justly so) by his family that he left behind. The main female character, Scarlet someone I believe, plays a low-mid twenties newlywed who travels with her ditsy husband on business to Tokyo. Of course, he doesn't pay attention to her and has a rather stoned, superficiality about him that makes him rather annoying. She too feels isolated and unneeded.

So, of course, the two meet and befriend each other. I really liked the parity involved between the ~50 year old and someone half his age. He's been married 25 years, he knows how life is. She's been married 2 and is still lost and confused, still learning how it feels to be truly disconnected. I guess it goes along with the "major turning points" of one's life, when things truly change. When you're born, when you start school, when you choose/go to your college, when you enter a "serious relationship", when you graduate college, when you get a real job, when you get married, when you have kids, when those kids go through all the phases, and when you die. In each stage you gain more responsibility and freedom, but you also become more vulnerable and isolated. Disconnected.

It's when we become more disconnected that we question our purpose. At least, those who think about such things and are able to identify it. I think that's where this movie shines, although "shine" for this implies some sort of brightness which is far from the truth. Murray isn't needed. He states as much. His wife doesn't need him, his kids miss him but don't need him, he's essentially expendible. That's how I feel, and I think it's the root of the horrible depression I often suffer. I feel expendible. I'm interchangeable. It's not so evident now. My mother needs me, it's why I didn't commit suicide when I was dead set on it. My grandfather needs me, he's been living a life of isolation and loneliness for over 25 years since his wife died. And there are others, who miss my presence. If I died tomorrow, there would be plenty of mourners. They'd all move on, some would become closer to fill up the gap, some would meet new people, some would be crushed but heal in a few months. Only my parents would really be affected, because other than Carrie and their parents they don't have much of anyone else.

There is the counter-argument. Each life is valuable, a thread in a majestic tapestry. Although one string can be torn asunder, with each thread the tapestry unravels and loses its grandeur. Think of voting. Everyone has to think their vote counts in order to be motivated to vote. It's the same with life.

It's a delusion, though. Each vote is not important. Each life is not substantial Yet I think of Austin and Elizabeth Gilliam from last year, how when they left a silent hole was torn inside me and each day seemed a bit more empty than it had before. Perhaps as people leave your life these holes form. That's what drains the soul through adulthood. They're replaced, certainly. I've found Erin and Lauren and Meredith and Brie and Andy. I've become better friends with Lee and David. And Cory, moreso because Austin left. But I've also become distanced from Rachel, Kelly, Amy, and Elizabeth. There is an ebb and flow. The additions raise you up, the detractions take you down. I don't have the energy to pursue the ones who leave. Therefore, I'll end up with no one. Except my family.

Both my parents live quasi-unhappy lives. My father also feels unneeded. He considers himself someone who pays the bills and that's about it. He's worth more than that, but it's easy to see where he gets the idea. My mother keeps the house running because she's the only one who cares. If she didn't clean or wash I'm rather convinced no one else would. She's been on anti-depressants for years and has a hard time emphasizing with those who are depressed. It's somewhat of a foreign concept for her, I think. My father drinks for his anti-depressant, and while I'm sure he could recognize depression, he's too self-oriented to be of much use (meaning, I ask him one question and he answers it for 5 minutes. I say one sentence and he responds for 5 more. I don't mind, but his idea of communication and mine are a tad different). To sum up, they're who I don't want to be.

Murray and Scarlet's characters are what I don't want to be: unneeded, disconnected, and unloved. At the same time, though, I don't want to be them. I don't want to depend on another person for my fulfillment, because as I mentioned in a previous post, I don't trust human nature enough to believe that other person needs me for a very extensive amount of time. I need constant reassurance. And while it's not so bad supplying it for a month, a year, five years, it eventually wears on you. The need drives the person away. And you're left unneeded again. It's a losing battle. Either way, I end up unhappy. I can find temporary fixes, but there's never a permanent one. If only I was religious, I know faith would give me purpose. I want it to be real, though, and I don't see that as real.

That's the beauty of the movie. Murray and Scarlet, two unloved, unneeded people fall in love. It's sort of an awkward thing, Murray makes jokes and ostensibly doesn't take it seriously, but just by their manners you can tell it means a lot. He's in a cab driving away from the hotel at the end of the movie, after leaving the one thing the viewer thinks might be able to give him happiness. Then, he sees her on the street walking away. He has the cab pull over, he rushes too her, they embrace. She speaks in that tremulous voice where you're trying not to cry, and it's more real and painful than if she did. He whispers into her ear. What is he saying? That he loves her? That everything will turn out fine? That there is hope? They unlock and kiss. In the midst of hundreds of Japanese obliviously walking through Tokyo. He's too tall, or she's too short, but there's real passion in it.

Then, he walks away. He looks back and continues walking. He doesn't stop. He doesn't turn around. He goes home.

That's the tragedy. The beautiful tragedy. They need each other. They could have made each other happy. He's twice her age, and they're both married, but that doesn't matter. Technicalities. Yet he leaves her.

I find it beautiful. Painful. Remarkable. And I can see myself doing the exact same thing. Forsaking potential happiness because it's too hard, too elusive, too uncertain. I can see it for the rest of my life. Coming home from work, grading papers, getting on the computer, going to sleep, doing it all over again. The only way I'd be able to maintain contentment is if I meant something to my students. If I was a part of their lives, an influence upon them. Because I can see myself not being a part of anyone else's. I can see the opposite as well. I can see too much.

That's Life ™

We (Derek, Zaq, Caitlin, Rachel, and I) played Life tonight. It's a rather silly game, what with the whole purpose being to try and accumulate the most wealth. At any rate, I decided to go against the norm and not get a wife. I was an accountant who wanted to go solo! So you can imagine my surprise when I ended up with 7 children by the end of the game. Ok, so two were adopted, that's besides the point. My theory is that I was the type of accountant who is really a disguised demon with tentacles and horrors too terrible to describe to mortal man. Hence, I spawned my evil children of Hell and subsequently won the game. An accountant winning at life. And me, of all people. Life never ceases to surprise me.

Edit: Oh, and congrats to Derek for winning a round of Apples to Apples by putting down MLK for Idiotic. Zaq was the judge, if you didn't already assume.

That's how they knew. I've always been curious how the people in AP USHistory thought I was The Cynic amongst them last year. It bothered me, because I didn't really think of myself as much worse than anyone else. I wasn't insulted, I was just intrigued. I've heard it before from Rachel's mother when she said "He doesn't trust anyone" at the magician's show. How could they know? What would give them the idea?

Maybe it's because I am cynical. I don't trust people. But that's not true! I trust people. I just don't trust human nature. I know people change. So I believe them when they say something, I just don't trust the thought or feeling to continue indefinetely.

Oy. Why bother? I'm a flawed human being. We all are. One "improvement" leads to another flaw. It's all about perspective. And at the moment, I've stopped caring. Leave me to this warded shell, this flatline. It has fluctuations, true, but I accept them. They're smaller. Smaller than me. And that's saying something.

FYI

Stabilization achieved. Detachment in progress. Systems functioning at normal capacity.

Temperature when I started this morning: 29F
Time I started this morning: 7:35
Time I stopped this morning: 8:55
Having Jennifer Lamine get called an idiot for not wearing earmuffs or mittens by a creepy old man: Funny and Disturbing
Waving at almost everyone and getting more of them to wave back (especially the ones with cell phones and coffee in their other hands): priceless

Samuel Barber: When Gay means Sorrow.

Happiness is a fickle thing. It has to be worked for. It doesn't come easy. At least, unless you know how to obtain it. It seem theoretically simple enough. Just "be happy." Why need a reason? Happiness is, in and of itself, its own reward. One would think it could simply be "summoned up" on a whim and then enjoyed.

However, that doesn't seem to be the case. We need items, people, activities to keep and make us happy. We depend on outside sources, and since we have little control over these factors, happiness wavers. Th control is maddening, mindboggling, sometimes frustraing to the point that one gives up even the pursuit of happiness. It's tempting, to stop. The grapes are not sour, they're just too high to reach. Why keep jumping?

And yet we jump. Often we catch a grape, perhaps two or three. We enjoy them. Then we begin to take them for granted, and the grapes rot. We're forced to jump for more. And the cycle continues.

Then again, the "we" doesn't mean everyone. Some people seem to be "happy" almost all the time. Is it true happiness? I certainly don't know. Everyone could be miserable, putting on a front to avoid confrontation and the pity/concern of others. It's like that quote by Thoreau "The mass of men live lives of quiet desperation." Are you all happy? I have been. I hope I will again. I hope I won't give up and recede into an escape that deludes me into having a purpose even more than my excuses in real life.

My already malnourished, weak legs are sore from hopping. Maybe I need to recouperate so I can make bigger leaps in college. I'm too lazy. Ah well. Here's hoping.

Control the Rage

My face drives me crazy. I get these zits or pimples or what have you, but instead of letting them go their natural way, I always try to destroy them as soon as I see them. However, this usually results in me making my face full of scabs that I won't stop interefering with because I want them gone so badly. It's a lack of control that I can't stand. These... imperfections, uncontrollable blotches upon me that mar the simplicty of the human face... Oy. I mean, I'm already taking medicine that dries me out (especially my face, hands, and lips), makes me depressed, and causes who knows what else. You'd think that it would actually have the decency to work.

On another note, "Old Man" seems more and more a suitable title for me. Not only in comparison to the company I keep, but also because I think about the future and the implications of actions more than the present and the actions themselves. I stress out over situations that will probably never arise. I skip ahead years into the future and make assumptions that I know are simply not rational, given the dynamic nature of one's personality. I just can't enjoy the present if the future isn't taken care of to my satisfaction.

*sigh* I suppose there are worse curses, but sometimes I really do wonder.

Depression seems to be a recurring to disease for me. And, strangely, instead of embracing a cure, part of me believes complete, permanent emotional quarantine would be a better idea.

Tuberculosis would be a lot more romantic, no?

For Mr. Markman

((This is a short story I wrote one year ago. I thought I'd post it for old time's sake. Enjoy!))


Well, here we are at yet another V-Day. No, that’s not “Victory Day” or even “Veterans’ Day”. It’s that infamous day once a year that we celebrate the thing we call “love.” Now some of you may be thinking, “Where did this strange day come from and why are we celebrating it?” Some people might tell you it originated from the Roman “Feast of Lubercus.” Others might tell you that it’s in tribute to Saint Valentine. However, neither of these really explains the way Valentine’s Day came to be what it is. So gather round children and I’ll tell you the real story…

Many years ago there was a wealthy merchant. He wasn’t a particularly interesting person, but when you’re the one of the richest people in the land, being devoid of personality isn’t really that much of a hindrance. His business was the most important thing to him. All day long, it was “Sell This”, “Buy That”, “Enslave That”, and “Don’t Touch That, It’s Infested.” But he was certainly successful.

He could have anything he wanted. Except, of course as the case often is, love. Love is one thing that is quite difficult to buy. The merchant was even married, but over the past few years he and his wife had grown distant. He just didn’t understand it. He heaped gifts on top of her for her birthday in June and gave her everything she could desire on their anniversary in October, but still something was missing. She just didn’t laugh or smile or pay attention to him as much as she used to.

So he decided to sacrifice ten minutes from his busy schedule to figure out exactly what the problem was. He started walking around town and came upon a poet. The poet did nothing but write of the woman he was hopelessly enamored with all day. The merchant thought this was quite a waste of time, especially since the woman wasn’t much to look at in the first place. When he mentioned this, the poet said, “But sir, she is the most beautiful person I have ever seen! Every small facet of her personality and divine countenance is but a fraction of her combined magnificence!”

Obviously the man was daft. Who would waste their life on something so trivial? So the merchant continued on his search. Then he came upon a gardener. The gardener had never been very successful, probably because he always saved the choicest flowers for his wife. Also because he was a gardener, and who wanted smelly, dead sticks to rot away in a crumbling old vase? The merchant asked the gardener why he sacrificed even his slim chance at success to give a paltry offering to his wife, even when the thing crumbled and died soon anyway? The gardener replied, “She is me life’s work! Wihout ‘er, I’d be lost and alone. Coin comes an goes the same as a flower, but ‘er smiles last me forever.”

Another fool. A man can’t live off smiles. But what he could live off was food, and conveniently there was a quaint little bakery quite nearby. The baker was deep in debt, but always kept a smile on his face. The merchant went in and bought a pastry or two and was quite impressed. “These are quite delicious! Why is a man of your caliber so impoverished?” the merchant asked.

"Well, I’m afraid I don’t spend very much time baking for customers. I absolutely must make every meal for my wife and our children the best possible. It costs a bit more time and money, but one can get lost in a delicious meal. I should know, I’ve had quite a few!” the baker laughed. The merchant thought that was rather obvious by the girth of the baker and his wife, but he politely did not mention it.

The merchant sighed in disgust and headed back to work, his search in vain. When he returned, he was approached by his head scribe. The scribe said, “Sir, I’ve come to tell you that I’m taking next week off.”
The scribe did this sort of thing once a month. In most business’s it would have been preposterous, but the man practically worked himself to death the other three weeks to make up for it,. The merchant thought it was ludicrous to work one’s self to death, but as long as it made him money he didn’t object.

“By the way,” the merchant asked, “why do you always practically kill yourself with work just to gain free time?”

”Well, this way I can afford to travel home and see my wife and family every month. I simply can’t bear being away from them for long, so I make sacrifices in order to return to them. I can’t do anything fancy for my wife, God only blessed me with mathematics, but apparently time is enough of a gift for my wife. Thus I try to return as much as possible.”

”Fine, fine. Scurry home. But I expect you back here bright and early in one week.”

And the scribe hurried home, sparing no expense to get there as fast as he could. This set the merchant to thinking. These men all seemed to have rather successful relationships with their “loves.” What was it that made them work? It must be the effort they applied.

”That doesn’t help me much,” the merchant thought. “I’ve got no time to waste on trifling little things like love, but it seems that these other men have it, so I must have it as well. What to do…”

The merchant, being a fairly intelligent man, decided to combine his business and his problem to create a solution. He’d have the poet write wretchedly mushy poems onto pieces of parchment, he could buy flowers from the gardener, and buy her some delicious sweets (not too much, of course; couldn’t have her gaining any weight). Then he’d take a few hours off of work and spend some quality time with her. But then he might be seen as someone who forsook his duties and become as much a fool as the rest of them. He’d be the laughing stock of the town, especially by those young men who still hadn’t married…

Then he had it. He’d create a “Day of Love.” If placed somewhere in February, that would evenly space the three days a year he had to pay attention to his wife so that she wouldn’t notice how much time he spent away from her. The gardener could sell more flowers, the poet could make a living off poetry, and the baker could sell more food (with the merchant overseeing and promoting, of course). They’d all become wealthy and not have to live like such idiotic paupers anymore. He could even buy his wife a nice dress from the tailor and some pretty stones to stick on her ears or around her neck. She’d enjoy the gifts and they would also serve to divert his view from her unfortunate face that was becoming a bit wrinkled. Not to mention that he could trot her around and shove her in the faces of all those little brats who didn’t have wives. Everyone wins!

And indeed they did. After a few years, the merchant (who had become even more wealthy from “Love Day’s” exploits) renamed the day “Valentine’s Day” to make it seem more religiously appropriate. Thus, one day each February, people would give love, time, and heaps of gifts to their neglected loved ones. And this is how Valentine’s Day came to be.

((That's all you're getting. It's rather childish, but hopefully it gets its point across. It hasn't been proofread, because I've got to go, but I think it'll suffice anyway. Enjoy the rest of V-Day everybody))

Bi the way

1. Last night we started watching "De-Lovely" at my grandfather's house (we generally visit every Saturday night and eat/watch a movie for a few hours). Interesting thing to note, it's not a good idea to play a movie with a main character who is bisexual and doesn't mind having an affair with some blond Austrian dancer when your 83 year old conservative grandfather is watching. "Claire, what is this?!"

2. I weigh 110lbs. I've actually lost weight, even though I get no exercise and I haven't been eating much less than I used to. How did I do that?! And how did my mother know before I got on the scale... Go figure.

Thinking only leads to trouble and genius

" " which is rather annoying since I do believe I'm lacking in the genius department. Ah well. I've had some thoughts floating around in my head, most of which I've forgotten, but I'll elaborate (rant) on the ones I remember. Wouldn't it be easier if this was a journal instead of a compilation of train of thought -pseudo philosophizing? It'd be shorter. But then I wouldn't be able to maintain my steady readership of four and a half people (the half person is obviously David. He thinks he's a real boy, it's so cute!).

Let's see... On Thursday I went out to eat with my grandfather and mother. We generally do it every week (my grandfather rather enjoys it; living alone for so many years wears on you I'm sure). While there, Logan and some his friends also dropped in and ate dinner together. It was sort of... strange. Here I am, eating with my mother and grandfather, and there's Logan meeting people his age for dinner on a school night, something I can't see myself doing. I assume that other people my age meet friends for activities outside of school on a semi-regular basis, but I don't. I talk online. And that's it. I wonder if I'm missing out on something, getting to know people, becoming a part of their lives instead of blue text on a screen.

And just as Erinelle brings it up, I think about how true it is. There are so many people out there I'd like to get to know better and spend more time with. Then I think about it, and I don't know what I'd do with them. There isn't that much to do that's fun, cheap, and easy. I tried roadtrips, and the one or two I went on were... interesting, at least. I'd like to try again sometime, but since most of the people I talk to on a regular basis have turned into freshmen girls, there's all sorts of "laws" and "parents" I'm afraid to deal with. (side rant, it seems to me there's a severe lack of trust anymore. People seem to be a lot more scared than they used to be. And they also seem more depressed and contained. Or maybe it's just me).

I guess it's not as important, since I'm going off to college where I'll meet hordes of new people who I'll be in close contact with very regularly. It's depressing, leaving all those stories unread at West, but I'll be getting a whole new library, and high school will fade into a memory. If I wasn't so caught up in my escape, I might actually try to make the most out of the people I know in high school. But just like the accordion and studying, I think "that'd be nice" and go back to a fantasy world where the delusion that I have purpose is cemented and taken for granted. Is it negative? Most likely. I think I could help a lot of people and be a good influence upon them, maybe even have some fun myself, but it's hard and uncertain. So I don't.

For some reason I have the delusion that, after college, I'll take an active part in my community (meaning school). I have all these ideas about activities and roles to play, and how I would [briefly continued Saturday night, got busy Friday and now I've rather lost interest] make a difference etc. But it's all so complex. My escape is an easy one with no responsibilities, no chance for guilt. Guilt is the underlying factor, of course. It's one of the most significant factors in my life. Joy.

Meh, now I don't know what I want. Confusion is grand, no? Maybe I'll figure myself out later. My mind is dead at the moment. Joy. Ta-ta!

Cold

When I was sick, I remembered the odd state of the human mind and its lack of perspective in regards to one's present state. What I mean is that it's hard for us to really remember past moods and feelings other than the one's we currently experience. You can say "I was happy yesterday" but you can't recreate the emotion, you only know it was positive. Just like I can say, "I remember when it was warm outside and you went inside to cool off." But really, even though it's only been a few months, I have a hard time recalling what warm weather is like. The same is true with colds. When you're sick, you find difficult recalling what being better is really like and vice versa. It really is sort of amazing when you think about it. I see it as proof of one's existence that the present stands out to everything else in such comparison. Go figure.

You can count it!

Don't ask me, it's a basketball thing. At any rate, today started out rough but my immune system stopped wallowing in doubt and self-pity long enough to make a major push against my cold. My nose may as well just be a raw mound of flesh, but otherwise I'm doing pretty well. So... hooray!

I felt well enough to go to the Tennessee-LSU basketball game tonight with my father (I got free tickets from my mentoring thing), and it turned out quite well. He's an interesting person, my father. He's perceptive, he knows a lot about a lot of things, and he can be a pretty nice guy. And then he can be paranoid, sadistic, and selfish. People, eh?

Aside from that, the game was nice too. There's a certain epic aspect to sports games like that. The crowd is united as one body, standing behind their avatars upon the field of battle. The pain the players feel, the crowd feels. The highs, the lows, the momentum, all can be detected without watching a moment of the game but just listening to the crowd. When I was little and went to football games, I remember knowing if the player made the catch only by the way the crowd reacted (since I couldn't see over the mass that had risen from its idle slumber). It's almost surreal. It makes you feel accepted and a part of something greater than yourself like few things can. I guess one of the things I regret not doing is participating in a sport. I love events where I feel like I'm important and can make a difference. Not something where if you fail you're penalized, like Band, but something like an athletic sport where if you excel you're rewarded. Perhaps, in that escapist environment, I can forget the isolation of existentialism and immerse myself in an atmosphere of unity and comaderie. My computer game is rather like that too. Why do you think I like it so much?

I guess I'm done for now. Enjoy the second half of your weekends!

I am Batman!

I am misery. I am pain. I am downright pathetic. I mean, a cold? "Icky" is the best phrase to use, I believe, despite its childish roots. My illness is not something romantic like tuberculosis or dramatic like throwing up til tears pour down your horror-stricken face. No, it's just fluids pouring from your nose forcing you to rub the blasted thing raw every 5 minutes. It's terrible. I'm so glad school was called off, it would have been torture today. Ah well. I hope all of you are doing well. Enjoy your surprise break.

Twixt: 26 for me, none for you

I made a Quiz for you! I've made a Silly Personality Quiz. Why? Because I can! and then Here Are the Results.

Hopefully you learned something. And if you didn't, you might know me too well.

I read an article in last week's "Time" about twixters today(which appears to have been taken down from the internet). "Twixter" is a new label Time has created, most likely trying to create something catchy and stir debate. The failed miserably in the former, but the latter seems to have occurred, in many respects. "Twixter" means a person who is about 18-29 who is legally an adult, but does have the responsibilities/lifestyle of what is generally considered an "adult." Thus, they are "betwixt" being an adolescent and being an adult.

It's easy to be defensive or cynical about the article (as I've read from some responses when I googled the term). But I must say I felt a tad relieved. I've felt rather old, I generally have for awhile, since I'm legally an adult and older than the majority of my peers. College is leering its ugly head at me, and I keep thinking I have to get everything right so the "sins of the father" won't be repeated by the son. In that, Time hit the nail on the head, for me at least. They wrote exactly what I felt, that I wanted the perfect relationship, the perfect job, and little to no compromises on such a front so I wouldn't end up like my parents. It's nice to try, of course, but in theory everything works out. This is reality, nothing's going to be perfect. Thus, in retrospect I think my expectations have been too high. It's good to think about, though.

However, I don't want to turn out like some of these people in limbo. I don't know, the other blogs I read aren't generally as expressive in terms of views (being more akin to journals than areas to just rant), so I can't tell how others feel. Chances are, many feel the same. And it makes sense. There's an idea that there will be some person, some occupation that will satisfy everywhere if I(we) just look and think enough. It's too unrealistic though. Mer once asked me if I'm looking for a goddess (I think those were her words), and she was quite right. Since being in a relationship, I've learned I was right about myself in my many regards. Many of the fears I had have come to light, but I've also learned new things as well. I don't regret it at all.

I have to go, but a thought I need to remind myself of is that most changes bring goods and bads. The idea that things are not forever makes one less apprehensive about commitment, but also cheapens the quality. The idea that we're still children, especially compared to the supposed 20% of 26 year olds who live with their parents, as opposed to adults and maturing adolescents lifts burdens of responsibility, but entices us to not want to grow up at all or to delay it inevitably. Don't even get me started on escapism. That's for another time. Too much to think about... Good thing we've got Friday and Monday off, eh? Cheers!

Interesting Quotes

"And then they ate my food. That means they trust me!" Kathryn "Not Jennifer" Van Eenam

"Today would be a good day to do heroin." David Duncan

"I hate you infinity plus one, No Hatebacks!" Martha Reddick

You've got to Admit He's Getting Better

I'm making my recovery, thank goodness. I was prepared for misery, but only discomfort showed up to the party. That's good. I had to miss a "Wednesday", but I can only hope many more will follow. Such is illness. We have school tomorrow, unfortunately, but at least it's not going to be torture like some previous semesters. At any rate, not much new to add. The Mikado was good, everyone who hasn't seen it ought to if they ever get the chance. And I made a new poll because the old one had been up there for ages. In summary, THE ELEPHANT KNOWS WHAT YOU DID AND HE'S AMBIGUOUSLY ELATED! Thank you.

Well, I too am ill. I fear I'll actually go to school tomorrow though because I am one stubborn person. That is, if I don't faint driving there. I certainly hope school is cancelled Thursday and Friday. I may not even stay for Cardboard tomorrow, I'll play it by ear. Or nosebleed/dizziness as the case may be. Cheers!