Not much time; it's great to be so busy, and yet a bit taxing. I felt misanthropic today, but I think I'm pulling out of it. I also developed a wonderful idea for my novel, but I won't spoil it for you since it's great comedy. You'll just have to read to find out hehe. Hope you're all doing well, I've got homework to do. Ta-ta!
(Oh, and thanks to everyone who came to Cardboard. Hopefully you'll keep on dropping by, I'm certainly enjoying it!)
Thursday, August 26
Tuesday, August 24
Salt
A wound has been reopened that I was sure had healed over. Questions I considered answered no longer appear to have the previously accepted doctrines I had pushed into the void I knew couldn't be filled, just temporarily dammed. I can't ignore the cascading waters at the moment, but I'd better learn to float because I'm sure not going to drown this time.
They say it's your birthday...
As I've been reminded a few times today, it's my 18th birthday. No more angsty existential quandires, no more childish irresponsibility, no more dull perpetual nonsense on a melodramatic epic scale. Haha! You and me both, sister.
But today I thought I'd try something different. I'll tell you a harrowing tale so loosely based in fiction you won't even know a minute fraction is true. Yes, you read right. Here is my life story as it has never been told before...
I was born a poor Austrian mountainman(boy) living in the Rockies due to a mishap in customs. It was all very confusing. My mother was so concerned that I was being born early, she forgot to include postage and when you only weigh 3lbs, 15ounces you can get lost in the mail pretty easily. Nevertheless, Henrietta I was named.
Ah the scarring memories. It didn't occur to me until 6 years later that I was named after a girl. By then I had a firmly ingrained love for dresses and all things pink. My parents were eventually swayed by my daily brutal beatings at the hands of school administrators to have my name altered to the more popular "Dylan", a warping of "Dillon", the man who devised "Dillon's Rule" as a method of dramatically limiting municipal governments. No one got the reference, but that was fine; it was better than Glenda or Gladice the Gregarious Garden Centipede.
Thus christened "Dylan" (and by "christened" I mean to say annointed in the unholy blood of 99 dead virgins and one skank who decided to repent but got lost on the way to the STD clinic) I embarked on my quest to overcome all opposition in all areas of academia. Then I realized I had the brain capacity of a frog in heat; a rather irrate frog, but a frog nonetheless. Thus I had to be content pounding my head against the wall in a futile attempt to recall why, exactly, I had to "remember that bathrooms are for waste, not taste." I should have known that the curtains didn't match the interior; oh what I fool I was in my youth.
I graduated Kindergarten with the Honor of being top in my disability. That disability being lack of amibition and, I suspect, lack of money shoved down a gyrating 50 year old's shinguards at the local roller skating S&M ring. It wasn't a pretty place, but you're all too young to remember it.
My earliest memory was shoving my arm into a blender. The smoothie was worth the immense pain, but I think the reconstructive surgery on my cybornetic replacement was a bit overpriced. It's a good thing I always only sold 90% of my soul because in that way you can never truly lose it all. Well, you can, but the spiritial "lost and found" department is in desperate need of visitors (they work off commission). So I'm fine.
Then I remember numerous punishments including but not limited to doing taxes, reading modern poetry, tangoing with the elderly without their knowledge, and the dreaded pipe organ of DOOM. Oh how I loathed that repetition. "DOOM DOOM DOOM KARL Ra-ra- ra- ROVE." It would have been like a verbatim prediction of my future, if it wasn't completely wrong and misguided.
Speaking of wrong and misguided, this is about the time I first encountered Muhammed. He was getting high in the attic I no longer ever had, and I had the gallbladder to ask him why he bothered shaving. He responded in a trill of supersonic proportions, lacerating my almost perfectly disfigured face.
The next few years were uneventful as all epic wars deciding the fate of existence often are, though I did knit a nifty sweater in the interim. A very nifty sweater. It was rather colorful and had some beautiful patterns of sheep and raccoons and at least one machete, but I had to sell it to make bail. Now THAT was a funny story. If only I wasn't drunk...
Long story short, I'm addicted to orange jello. I need your help. Please send me a self addressed, stamped envelope full of tacks and silly putty to hurl at squirrels. Thank you.
And now, part of a poem I thought onto a screen so mean as to portray my play on words. Possession is an ambivalent present for one's adult birthday. Hooray.
The days have treaded down the path and now I delight under time's wrath;
I feel so old, but still I'm new, and I'm now certain I have no clue.
I peer into the murky deep, afraid to jump but still I leap;
A hop, a jump, a skip away, and soon I arrive at my last day.
A coffin decked in silken pearls of spider lace and cobweb curls,
Forgotten, lampooned, loathed, and worse: training wheels bedeck my hearse.
It totters to the cliff and then I'm thrown into the abyss I "yen."
You old stiff fool, with bumbling polls; you look at parts, I perceive wholes.
Wholes of lives not yet fulfilled, for fulfillment is all but killed.
Death becomes the dieing yet we all sneeze love as years we fret.
These meters, rhymes, and steady march dry joy from life and souls do parch.
Bouncing along, up, down, up, down, down, plummetting, falling, calling, calling "Help!"but no one hears my yelp in time to save the one who's lost the flock of dawns never to come from boring yawns. Yawning, tired, yet hungry still for piles of mundane holes to fill. Joy, yes, joy, oh boy oh boy oh boy oh boy I do love joy, though it plays coy as I try to catch its fickle whims it plays with girls on torn dress hems
I shall not see.
The young laugh and boast, the middle coast, and the old only lament the host
Of folly this life never was, for folly implies fault because
One cannot be a fool and succeed and rule a modest tool
To hammer in the nails of fate and build a house of tarnished plate-
Mail the letters, hear the plea, answer the call from you to me,
Follow not the preferred path, taunt the Gods, enjoy the wrath
Of time that blindmen cannot see, nor deaf can't hear, nor dreamers be
Uncomfortable silences of madmen saner than their peers for years whose seers know
Me.
Say "Yes" my love, my hope, my fate, let's make-up on our final date.
Joy her name, footsie her game, I don't play around til married, yet I'm harried to be buried
In the Southern way of loathing play all live long, sing song dieing day.
Why taunt with nettles, burrs, and playful titterings of hems and hearse.
So I dance my merry dirge, I binge and purge on life in joys and strife of epic magnitude to paltry offerings I dare not throw into the air without a care on a dare of conscience deluded into thinking it does not exist. "Persist!" I scream for in this dream of things that seem to never beam light into the darkness of the end I merrily defend that never ceases
to amaze the craze of cycles.
18, 19, 23, how much larger can you be? 30, 40, 50 hence I straddle the chain-link fence.
60, 70, 85 clapping along I jive and fall into useless 90's, 99 is fine to be a vegetable of a man that never was because what is a man but a can of peas opened and thrown into a recycling bin reused and used again by cans and can nots who never know you have no clue of who or whom the "you" could ever was, is, will not be.
Stop. Breathe. A man, a plan, you don't understand my cries for guidance you can't give except to point out the directions with flashlights I provide you in a slight of hand. Find them, point them, use them until the batteries fall out, empty shells of hells I look and laugh at time's wrath
Full fury of a meek whimper.
Dance! Dance! I may can-could to Orpheus's wood
In groves of trees guiding but not directing.
I leave with "hooey", all I began with and shall end in a triumphant salute.
But today I thought I'd try something different. I'll tell you a harrowing tale so loosely based in fiction you won't even know a minute fraction is true. Yes, you read right. Here is my life story as it has never been told before...
I was born a poor Austrian mountainman(boy) living in the Rockies due to a mishap in customs. It was all very confusing. My mother was so concerned that I was being born early, she forgot to include postage and when you only weigh 3lbs, 15ounces you can get lost in the mail pretty easily. Nevertheless, Henrietta I was named.
Ah the scarring memories. It didn't occur to me until 6 years later that I was named after a girl. By then I had a firmly ingrained love for dresses and all things pink. My parents were eventually swayed by my daily brutal beatings at the hands of school administrators to have my name altered to the more popular "Dylan", a warping of "Dillon", the man who devised "Dillon's Rule" as a method of dramatically limiting municipal governments. No one got the reference, but that was fine; it was better than Glenda or Gladice the Gregarious Garden Centipede.
Thus christened "Dylan" (and by "christened" I mean to say annointed in the unholy blood of 99 dead virgins and one skank who decided to repent but got lost on the way to the STD clinic) I embarked on my quest to overcome all opposition in all areas of academia. Then I realized I had the brain capacity of a frog in heat; a rather irrate frog, but a frog nonetheless. Thus I had to be content pounding my head against the wall in a futile attempt to recall why, exactly, I had to "remember that bathrooms are for waste, not taste." I should have known that the curtains didn't match the interior; oh what I fool I was in my youth.
I graduated Kindergarten with the Honor of being top in my disability. That disability being lack of amibition and, I suspect, lack of money shoved down a gyrating 50 year old's shinguards at the local roller skating S&M ring. It wasn't a pretty place, but you're all too young to remember it.
My earliest memory was shoving my arm into a blender. The smoothie was worth the immense pain, but I think the reconstructive surgery on my cybornetic replacement was a bit overpriced. It's a good thing I always only sold 90% of my soul because in that way you can never truly lose it all. Well, you can, but the spiritial "lost and found" department is in desperate need of visitors (they work off commission). So I'm fine.
Then I remember numerous punishments including but not limited to doing taxes, reading modern poetry, tangoing with the elderly without their knowledge, and the dreaded pipe organ of DOOM. Oh how I loathed that repetition. "DOOM DOOM DOOM KARL Ra-ra- ra- ROVE." It would have been like a verbatim prediction of my future, if it wasn't completely wrong and misguided.
Speaking of wrong and misguided, this is about the time I first encountered Muhammed. He was getting high in the attic I no longer ever had, and I had the gallbladder to ask him why he bothered shaving. He responded in a trill of supersonic proportions, lacerating my almost perfectly disfigured face.
The next few years were uneventful as all epic wars deciding the fate of existence often are, though I did knit a nifty sweater in the interim. A very nifty sweater. It was rather colorful and had some beautiful patterns of sheep and raccoons and at least one machete, but I had to sell it to make bail. Now THAT was a funny story. If only I wasn't drunk...
Long story short, I'm addicted to orange jello. I need your help. Please send me a self addressed, stamped envelope full of tacks and silly putty to hurl at squirrels. Thank you.
And now, part of a poem I thought onto a screen so mean as to portray my play on words. Possession is an ambivalent present for one's adult birthday. Hooray.
The days have treaded down the path and now I delight under time's wrath;
I feel so old, but still I'm new, and I'm now certain I have no clue.
I peer into the murky deep, afraid to jump but still I leap;
A hop, a jump, a skip away, and soon I arrive at my last day.
A coffin decked in silken pearls of spider lace and cobweb curls,
Forgotten, lampooned, loathed, and worse: training wheels bedeck my hearse.
It totters to the cliff and then I'm thrown into the abyss I "yen."
You old stiff fool, with bumbling polls; you look at parts, I perceive wholes.
Wholes of lives not yet fulfilled, for fulfillment is all but killed.
Death becomes the dieing yet we all sneeze love as years we fret.
These meters, rhymes, and steady march dry joy from life and souls do parch.
Bouncing along, up, down, up, down, down, plummetting, falling, calling, calling "Help!"but no one hears my yelp in time to save the one who's lost the flock of dawns never to come from boring yawns. Yawning, tired, yet hungry still for piles of mundane holes to fill. Joy, yes, joy, oh boy oh boy oh boy oh boy I do love joy, though it plays coy as I try to catch its fickle whims it plays with girls on torn dress hems
I shall not see.
The young laugh and boast, the middle coast, and the old only lament the host
Of folly this life never was, for folly implies fault because
One cannot be a fool and succeed and rule a modest tool
To hammer in the nails of fate and build a house of tarnished plate-
Mail the letters, hear the plea, answer the call from you to me,
Follow not the preferred path, taunt the Gods, enjoy the wrath
Of time that blindmen cannot see, nor deaf can't hear, nor dreamers be
Uncomfortable silences of madmen saner than their peers for years whose seers know
Me.
Say "Yes" my love, my hope, my fate, let's make-up on our final date.
Joy her name, footsie her game, I don't play around til married, yet I'm harried to be buried
In the Southern way of loathing play all live long, sing song dieing day.
Why taunt with nettles, burrs, and playful titterings of hems and hearse.
So I dance my merry dirge, I binge and purge on life in joys and strife of epic magnitude to paltry offerings I dare not throw into the air without a care on a dare of conscience deluded into thinking it does not exist. "Persist!" I scream for in this dream of things that seem to never beam light into the darkness of the end I merrily defend that never ceases
to amaze the craze of cycles.
18, 19, 23, how much larger can you be? 30, 40, 50 hence I straddle the chain-link fence.
60, 70, 85 clapping along I jive and fall into useless 90's, 99 is fine to be a vegetable of a man that never was because what is a man but a can of peas opened and thrown into a recycling bin reused and used again by cans and can nots who never know you have no clue of who or whom the "you" could ever was, is, will not be.
Stop. Breathe. A man, a plan, you don't understand my cries for guidance you can't give except to point out the directions with flashlights I provide you in a slight of hand. Find them, point them, use them until the batteries fall out, empty shells of hells I look and laugh at time's wrath
Full fury of a meek whimper.
Dance! Dance! I may can-could to Orpheus's wood
In groves of trees guiding but not directing.
I leave with "hooey", all I began with and shall end in a triumphant salute.
Monday, August 23
Musings...
After reading 1.5chapters in Grendel, I thought it necessary to post my anti-existentialist nihilist theory so I won't forget it again.
Basically, I exist. I know this to be true. As Descartes put it, "I think therefore I am." Regardless of the validity of anything else, I exist. The specifics of my existence are very likely entirely false, but the grand picture that I do exist is there, albeit fuzzy.
Now, existentialist nihilists (henceforth just "existentialists) believe existence is meaningless, stressing the individual's plight against an uncaring, futile world. But here's the thing that bugs me: if this is all there is, why do I remember myself? The way I'd imagine memory works is that if you forget something happened, it's as if it never did happen in the first place. However I'm well aware of my existence. That would imply some long term ability to remember, because if we did die and that is "it", we would never be able to realize our existence. It's hard to explain. I dunno, in a coma you often don't remember your previous life. It's like being "born again" in a secular sense. Yet your life gradually returns to your memory and you really did experience it, even though you can't remember it. Awareness is more powerful than a simple chemical reaction. If it wasn't, it surely wouldn't be so strong. Anyway, why am I confined to myself? Why do I only experience my own feelings? Either none of the rest exists, or there's something else out there.
Basically, I think existence must loop. There's an explosion, energy is hurled outward, eventually it becomes spread too thin, it reverts to a ball of energy, and explodes again. My life, somewhere infinitely down the line, must be repeated verbatim. And who better to experience it than myself? So perhaps our lives are just the same thing over and over we just can't remember our infinitely previous experiences. With the way probability works, it's rather feasible. Why does the equation of time have to be linear? It could be circular. It actually makes more sense than the way it is now because circles have no beginnings and ends. It solves both questions. The only problem is the origin of the circle, but perhaps it simply has always existed. It's not too farfetched. So there you are.
Basically, I exist. I know this to be true. As Descartes put it, "I think therefore I am." Regardless of the validity of anything else, I exist. The specifics of my existence are very likely entirely false, but the grand picture that I do exist is there, albeit fuzzy.
Now, existentialist nihilists (henceforth just "existentialists) believe existence is meaningless, stressing the individual's plight against an uncaring, futile world. But here's the thing that bugs me: if this is all there is, why do I remember myself? The way I'd imagine memory works is that if you forget something happened, it's as if it never did happen in the first place. However I'm well aware of my existence. That would imply some long term ability to remember, because if we did die and that is "it", we would never be able to realize our existence. It's hard to explain. I dunno, in a coma you often don't remember your previous life. It's like being "born again" in a secular sense. Yet your life gradually returns to your memory and you really did experience it, even though you can't remember it. Awareness is more powerful than a simple chemical reaction. If it wasn't, it surely wouldn't be so strong. Anyway, why am I confined to myself? Why do I only experience my own feelings? Either none of the rest exists, or there's something else out there.
Basically, I think existence must loop. There's an explosion, energy is hurled outward, eventually it becomes spread too thin, it reverts to a ball of energy, and explodes again. My life, somewhere infinitely down the line, must be repeated verbatim. And who better to experience it than myself? So perhaps our lives are just the same thing over and over we just can't remember our infinitely previous experiences. With the way probability works, it's rather feasible. Why does the equation of time have to be linear? It could be circular. It actually makes more sense than the way it is now because circles have no beginnings and ends. It solves both questions. The only problem is the origin of the circle, but perhaps it simply has always existed. It's not too farfetched. So there you are.
Sunday, August 22
Shock and Awe
I should have seen the signs. Why was I so blind? They were everywhere. Inconsistencies that didn't make any sense. I could have asked, I could have done something! Something to stop it, something to prevent it... It was all so obvious, in retrospect. All the pieces fall into the puzzle once the answer's revealed. But what can be done now? It's done, over, gone. And I just watched it happen, oblivious to it all...
Kinda gripping, eh? Fortunately it was something wonderful that happened, and I'd like to thank yall for participating. But it does make one wonder. What if it had been something horrible? Undetected love, a suicide, a Columbine... I'm too oblivious for my own good! There's that nihilism, not caring enough to ask questions. Heh, it's rather humorous. Ah well.
Some signs I should have noticed:
1. Ellen takes command of Rachel's house and states we'll have a movie night seemingly on the fly. It's almost like it was planned in advance... But it was "forgotten about" and all was normal.
2. Rachel speaks of said night as if Ellen hadn't said anything, though it seems proposterous.
3. My grandfather doesn't do things Saturday night. It was all too convenient.
4. My mother doesn't mend. EVER. And yet, she up and decides to have me change shirts because the one I had on had a hole in it. Crazy moms...
5. My mother also tries to put make-up on my nose. It was insane. She seemed so intent on doing it, I didn't bother to ask why. She didn't succeed though...
6. Mother and Carrie went out but never said where they were going.
7. Rachel's car was pulled into the top of the driveway, making it so I could only park at the top.
8. All the lights were turned out, even though it was clear others were home.
I never asked about any of these things. Thus, it was a success. I certainly enjoyed it, it was beautifully done. The attention to detail, the planning ahead. They even told you not to bring presents since I do dislike them so... Besides a few comments by my father in drunken stupors and hitting the tree, I'd say that's the most surprised I can remember being. It was completely unexpected, but in a pleasant way.
Loaded Questions was entertaining, but I hope no one's feelings were hurt. Ellen had the unfortunate privilege of being the butt of a running joke, but I still think she's a great gal. Sarah's responses were certainly "interesting." I didn't realize calling people gay as an insult was still "in" but there you are. I did rather like her response to the question of what you'd change about high school: "Well, Zack has herpes. So..." I like dark humor as long as there's no real ill will behind it. With Sarah I can't really tell... At any rate, hopefully we can play it again without so many people sometime.
So thanks again everybody. Now I get to focus on how old I am. In a few more days, I can't rationalize all my mistakes as youthful indiscretions anymore. Now they're just regular discretions with a youthful flair. Hoo-rah.
Kinda gripping, eh? Fortunately it was something wonderful that happened, and I'd like to thank yall for participating. But it does make one wonder. What if it had been something horrible? Undetected love, a suicide, a Columbine... I'm too oblivious for my own good! There's that nihilism, not caring enough to ask questions. Heh, it's rather humorous. Ah well.
Some signs I should have noticed:
1. Ellen takes command of Rachel's house and states we'll have a movie night seemingly on the fly. It's almost like it was planned in advance... But it was "forgotten about" and all was normal.
2. Rachel speaks of said night as if Ellen hadn't said anything, though it seems proposterous.
3. My grandfather doesn't do things Saturday night. It was all too convenient.
4. My mother doesn't mend. EVER. And yet, she up and decides to have me change shirts because the one I had on had a hole in it. Crazy moms...
5. My mother also tries to put make-up on my nose. It was insane. She seemed so intent on doing it, I didn't bother to ask why. She didn't succeed though...
6. Mother and Carrie went out but never said where they were going.
7. Rachel's car was pulled into the top of the driveway, making it so I could only park at the top.
8. All the lights were turned out, even though it was clear others were home.
I never asked about any of these things. Thus, it was a success. I certainly enjoyed it, it was beautifully done. The attention to detail, the planning ahead. They even told you not to bring presents since I do dislike them so... Besides a few comments by my father in drunken stupors and hitting the tree, I'd say that's the most surprised I can remember being. It was completely unexpected, but in a pleasant way.
Loaded Questions was entertaining, but I hope no one's feelings were hurt. Ellen had the unfortunate privilege of being the butt of a running joke, but I still think she's a great gal. Sarah's responses were certainly "interesting." I didn't realize calling people gay as an insult was still "in" but there you are. I did rather like her response to the question of what you'd change about high school: "Well, Zack has herpes. So..." I like dark humor as long as there's no real ill will behind it. With Sarah I can't really tell... At any rate, hopefully we can play it again without so many people sometime.
So thanks again everybody. Now I get to focus on how old I am. In a few more days, I can't rationalize all my mistakes as youthful indiscretions anymore. Now they're just regular discretions with a youthful flair. Hoo-rah.
Saturday, August 21
Trashcan Dreams
(Quoted from an Elton John song; 5pts to the correct guesser!) Well, something rather disturbing happened today. I actually realistically considered going to UT (and not the Honors program), staying at home, and reverting to the social hermit stage I was before my Junior year. It wouldn't be too hard, I dare say, and there's only two real detriments to that plan. One is that I'd actually be living at home, with my sister and father either of which I could burst into a homicidal rage upon fueled by pent up rage so compact and dangerous it's been simmering for years. But surely I could repress more. I mean, I've gone three years with no attempts at the life of my dear sweet sister, why would I break the streak after... six....more........years? Yeah.... The second is that after all the progress I've made I'd end up just throwing it to the wind and regressing into the small ball of solitude I was before that oh so fateful Junior year.
The reason the thought had occurred to me is two-fold (yet again). One reason is that the thought of going to Maryville and actually being forced to be in close confines with other people I may or may not like for extended periods of time is a tad disturbing. I mean, what happens if I get there and they're all the type of people I loathe? (For those keeping track, those people are (in order of annoyance) sadistic, pervicacious, hypocritical, superficial, gossiping, missionary, born again Christians.) I just have nightmarish visions of hordes clones wandering about getting drunk and acting in that wretchedly stupid/sadistic way many boys do. Surely this would not be the case. Right? Right?!? Right.
At UT, I could avoid confrontation and interaction the entire time, outside of class. I could go home, not do homework, get on the computer, do homework, sleep, and return the next morning. No "talk", no "activities", no "other people." Essentially what I do now, except even now I see a few of you outside of class. I don't think I'd get involved in much of anything at UT. So, basically, it's a choice of shallow and easy vs. deeper and hard. I don't know... My main goal at college is to get out, and Maryville is one year shorter for Education than UT. But Maryville's fees (of which I would have little to none if I was to go there) keep quite a few people out. It's also only 1000 or so people strong, so that's a tad scary. I'm not much of a gambler...
It's ironic, though, that I'm becoming somewhat of a "selectively outgoing" person, and now I ponder reverting to a recluse. I don't like being cold, impassive, and quiet. It's rather boring. Monotones (unless they're needed, Ellen (who, by the way, did a great job after much coercing on our skit even if it didn't get many laughs)) are just not exciting. I want to be erratic, needlessly excited, and overly exuberant. When I feel like it. And gradually I am. I want to be a teacher whose class is like a relief/reprieve in a stressful day because I'm not serious, sorta like a Petko/Combs hybrid without the religion, seriousness, and difficulty. I've seen too many miserable teenagers, I want to make some of them happy. At the very least I'd like to be an understanding, approachable person. It's a factor that seems to be in favor of Maryville because I'd actually get to know more people and hopefully obtain a further understanding of them. Meh...
I guess it's about the only goal I have left. I'll never date unless something pretty monumentous happens to change my mentality. I've no more dreams and aspirations. I've discarded any semi-ambitious notions I may have had at one point. Writing, performing, changing the world, all have been pretty much turned into pipedreams. I don't really care about much except to make my life and those around me better and more interesting, and to certain extents I achieve it. I don't know how far successful I am, only so many people have blogs... Ah well. I guess it's a good enough goal, albeit a simple one. If only I had some form of ambition. Or confidence. But that's ok. Just gotta keep the mantra in mind. You ought to as well.
The reason the thought had occurred to me is two-fold (yet again). One reason is that the thought of going to Maryville and actually being forced to be in close confines with other people I may or may not like for extended periods of time is a tad disturbing. I mean, what happens if I get there and they're all the type of people I loathe? (For those keeping track, those people are (in order of annoyance) sadistic, pervicacious, hypocritical, superficial, gossiping, missionary, born again Christians.) I just have nightmarish visions of hordes clones wandering about getting drunk and acting in that wretchedly stupid/sadistic way many boys do. Surely this would not be the case. Right? Right?!? Right.
At UT, I could avoid confrontation and interaction the entire time, outside of class. I could go home, not do homework, get on the computer, do homework, sleep, and return the next morning. No "talk", no "activities", no "other people." Essentially what I do now, except even now I see a few of you outside of class. I don't think I'd get involved in much of anything at UT. So, basically, it's a choice of shallow and easy vs. deeper and hard. I don't know... My main goal at college is to get out, and Maryville is one year shorter for Education than UT. But Maryville's fees (of which I would have little to none if I was to go there) keep quite a few people out. It's also only 1000 or so people strong, so that's a tad scary. I'm not much of a gambler...
It's ironic, though, that I'm becoming somewhat of a "selectively outgoing" person, and now I ponder reverting to a recluse. I don't like being cold, impassive, and quiet. It's rather boring. Monotones (unless they're needed, Ellen (who, by the way, did a great job after much coercing on our skit even if it didn't get many laughs)) are just not exciting. I want to be erratic, needlessly excited, and overly exuberant. When I feel like it. And gradually I am. I want to be a teacher whose class is like a relief/reprieve in a stressful day because I'm not serious, sorta like a Petko/Combs hybrid without the religion, seriousness, and difficulty. I've seen too many miserable teenagers, I want to make some of them happy. At the very least I'd like to be an understanding, approachable person. It's a factor that seems to be in favor of Maryville because I'd actually get to know more people and hopefully obtain a further understanding of them. Meh...
I guess it's about the only goal I have left. I'll never date unless something pretty monumentous happens to change my mentality. I've no more dreams and aspirations. I've discarded any semi-ambitious notions I may have had at one point. Writing, performing, changing the world, all have been pretty much turned into pipedreams. I don't really care about much except to make my life and those around me better and more interesting, and to certain extents I achieve it. I don't know how far successful I am, only so many people have blogs... Ah well. I guess it's a good enough goal, albeit a simple one. If only I had some form of ambition. Or confidence. But that's ok. Just gotta keep the mantra in mind. You ought to as well.
Thursday, August 19
So...
Big day today. Now I finally know what a full day is like! I can't believe it...
Let's see... Mr. Ross is slowly moving up in my eyes, but I still don't trust him. He's... interesting. Has a sense of humor, but he also seems to be dangerously fickle, so one must tread lightly. So the subject of our parodies of the school officials came up today. Now I'm torn. On the one hand, I don't like personal insults unless I know the person can take it and knows I'm joking. On the other hand, how can we not do the "Donna Fieldon Dance Party?" I've a vested interest in Coach Lindsay as an evangelist preacher because I distinctly remember a certain school-led prayer being led around 9/11 that, if it was legal, it was barely. Still, they and any other spoofs we do (Mr. Rogers reading an economic report during the apocalypse or something), could be seen as quite insulting. Maybe I could do an accordion number, that would be entertaining and would show everyone I'm silly too... oooo Ellen and I can do a duet while I play the accordion and she sings... something. There's comedy in there, I swear! We could do a parody of Gallo's award, maybe a mafia racket... So many ideas. Perhaps I'll ask the faculty's pardon before we do them.
Next up... I had four things to say, what were they? Well, Coach Roberts is annoying me a bit. He asks these discussion questions, we answer them, but he then repeats the question as if our answers weren't good enough/the ones he wanted. Ah well.
Card-board Club went well today, thanks to all who came. Stratego's Tuesday, hopefully bridge will be Thursday if special guest Andrew Campbell can show up. 14 people for the second day's a great number. I think it went pretty well; even Ben (the errant freshman who wandered in) behaved relatively well. I felt bad about Mr. Petko having to stay so often, but he said he probably would do it anyway and seemed pretty receptive to the entire idea. I guess in some ways he's what I want to become, minus the religion and seriousness.
There's the subject, seriousness. Something else I remembered in Ross's class is that it's remarkably easy to be negative and deride everything. I mean, any subject at all can be made insignificant and foolish. That's why there's a thin line between that sort of nihilism and romanticism. On the one hand, if things are taken seriously more might be accomplished, but often it's not entertaining and it makes people seem foolish. But if everything's a joke, well, it seems almost demeaning to life itself. I dunno. I need to remember to lighten up, remain positive, be facetious, but not let the inherent negativity of comedy get to me. I think that's the way I want to be. I'd like to be a true romantic, but I can't handle it. I get too upset, too virulent and it just gets ridiculous and ugly. But I have to remember not to deride everything and try to keep up good spirits. My mantra should be "Be happy, do happy, make happy." If only I was a warm, caring person... Ah well. I'll probably still revert to a pithy state eventually, but hopefully I can pull out. In other words, don't expect much progress here. You people ought to get blogs yourselves. I'm sure you've wonderful insights and opinions that could be of use to someone. Heh, if ya get bored sometime.
Alright, enough rambling. Tis Calculus time!
Let's see... Mr. Ross is slowly moving up in my eyes, but I still don't trust him. He's... interesting. Has a sense of humor, but he also seems to be dangerously fickle, so one must tread lightly. So the subject of our parodies of the school officials came up today. Now I'm torn. On the one hand, I don't like personal insults unless I know the person can take it and knows I'm joking. On the other hand, how can we not do the "Donna Fieldon Dance Party?" I've a vested interest in Coach Lindsay as an evangelist preacher because I distinctly remember a certain school-led prayer being led around 9/11 that, if it was legal, it was barely. Still, they and any other spoofs we do (Mr. Rogers reading an economic report during the apocalypse or something), could be seen as quite insulting. Maybe I could do an accordion number, that would be entertaining and would show everyone I'm silly too... oooo Ellen and I can do a duet while I play the accordion and she sings... something. There's comedy in there, I swear! We could do a parody of Gallo's award, maybe a mafia racket... So many ideas. Perhaps I'll ask the faculty's pardon before we do them.
Next up... I had four things to say, what were they? Well, Coach Roberts is annoying me a bit. He asks these discussion questions, we answer them, but he then repeats the question as if our answers weren't good enough/the ones he wanted. Ah well.
Card-board Club went well today, thanks to all who came. Stratego's Tuesday, hopefully bridge will be Thursday if special guest Andrew Campbell can show up. 14 people for the second day's a great number. I think it went pretty well; even Ben (the errant freshman who wandered in) behaved relatively well. I felt bad about Mr. Petko having to stay so often, but he said he probably would do it anyway and seemed pretty receptive to the entire idea. I guess in some ways he's what I want to become, minus the religion and seriousness.
There's the subject, seriousness. Something else I remembered in Ross's class is that it's remarkably easy to be negative and deride everything. I mean, any subject at all can be made insignificant and foolish. That's why there's a thin line between that sort of nihilism and romanticism. On the one hand, if things are taken seriously more might be accomplished, but often it's not entertaining and it makes people seem foolish. But if everything's a joke, well, it seems almost demeaning to life itself. I dunno. I need to remember to lighten up, remain positive, be facetious, but not let the inherent negativity of comedy get to me. I think that's the way I want to be. I'd like to be a true romantic, but I can't handle it. I get too upset, too virulent and it just gets ridiculous and ugly. But I have to remember not to deride everything and try to keep up good spirits. My mantra should be "Be happy, do happy, make happy." If only I was a warm, caring person... Ah well. I'll probably still revert to a pithy state eventually, but hopefully I can pull out. In other words, don't expect much progress here. You people ought to get blogs yourselves. I'm sure you've wonderful insights and opinions that could be of use to someone. Heh, if ya get bored sometime.
Alright, enough rambling. Tis Calculus time!