Calculus: My Anti-Sleep.
(I know you guys can think up wonderful sexual innuedo with this prompt)
Tuesday, March 29
Thursday, March 24
Tuesday, March 22
Odd
So I'm listening to good ole depressing Otis Redding and then "Come on Get Happy" comes on by the Patridge Family. It's always better when it takes you by surprise... The song, not sodomy.
What?!
Edit: Well even the Patridge Family's getting depressing. What is it with all these depressed musicians? You'd think it was some sort of theme.
What?!
Edit: Well even the Patridge Family's getting depressing. What is it with all these depressed musicians? You'd think it was some sort of theme.
Now I'm in one of those "moods." The ones condusive to ranting. Perhaps it's because my escape is unavailable at the moment, or maybe it's because the substitutes proved quite depressing. At any rate, it is a definitive low. Not a horrible, soul tearing kind. Just a severe depression. It is not triggered, for the thought of suicide has not seriously occurred to me yet. It is more of an extrapolation about my future.
I look ahead, and I see what's happened thus far. I've so much potential. And yet, I lack motivation. The same old story. I'm a believer that if you commit yourself to something, you can do it well regardless of natural aptitude. Perhaps you won't be the best, but you'll be able to be satisfied with what you've done. I don't see that happening for me. I don't see any significant exertions in my future. I see myself growing more and more aloof, forming a shell of avoidance rather than trying to actually improve. It's what I'm already doing. I can't write, I can't work, I can't do anything but go on and spend hours upon hours in a fantasy that deludes me into thinking I have some real purpose. I feel needed. It's the same mentality I take with love, except this version is much easier. The rewards aren't as high, but they're more certain and don't come with horrible side effects.
And, at the rate I'm going, I don't see a significant change. The present is depressing. The state of government, the state of the future, the state of the entire world. I could try to change things and make a difference. I could write, I could try to inspire, I could try to bring hope to the bleakness that envelopes most of what I see. I don't care, though. I can avoid it. So I do. Does it make me happy? Not really. Does it relax me? Not when I have to return to reality, and that's unfortunately often. But what else can I do? I don't like taking risks. I don't like placing expectations upon myself. That's what turned my "novel" into a disaster. I didn't want to talk about it, I didn't want people to know about it, but gradually it seeped out. Expectations raised. And as expectations raise, I just can't deal with the pressure. I have to have a darkhorse mentality, where if I fail the consequences aren't serious, or I can't function. I don't have that now.
I've made the same predictions before. I'll make them again. I say I'll become a solitary individual, the aloof observer who tells a joke once in awhile but tries not to get involved. And, if things ever get too bad, I can finally escape with few around me being hurt. I'm dangerous. I've lost much of my self-discipline, whatever little I had, and I fear a more complete regression. Time ticks by, and I think "work" but I never do. Is this my fate? To slide by on natural aptitude, sparse work, aloofness, and escapism? I don't know. The worst part is, I don't know if it'd be so bad.
I look ahead, and I see what's happened thus far. I've so much potential. And yet, I lack motivation. The same old story. I'm a believer that if you commit yourself to something, you can do it well regardless of natural aptitude. Perhaps you won't be the best, but you'll be able to be satisfied with what you've done. I don't see that happening for me. I don't see any significant exertions in my future. I see myself growing more and more aloof, forming a shell of avoidance rather than trying to actually improve. It's what I'm already doing. I can't write, I can't work, I can't do anything but go on and spend hours upon hours in a fantasy that deludes me into thinking I have some real purpose. I feel needed. It's the same mentality I take with love, except this version is much easier. The rewards aren't as high, but they're more certain and don't come with horrible side effects.
And, at the rate I'm going, I don't see a significant change. The present is depressing. The state of government, the state of the future, the state of the entire world. I could try to change things and make a difference. I could write, I could try to inspire, I could try to bring hope to the bleakness that envelopes most of what I see. I don't care, though. I can avoid it. So I do. Does it make me happy? Not really. Does it relax me? Not when I have to return to reality, and that's unfortunately often. But what else can I do? I don't like taking risks. I don't like placing expectations upon myself. That's what turned my "novel" into a disaster. I didn't want to talk about it, I didn't want people to know about it, but gradually it seeped out. Expectations raised. And as expectations raise, I just can't deal with the pressure. I have to have a darkhorse mentality, where if I fail the consequences aren't serious, or I can't function. I don't have that now.
I've made the same predictions before. I'll make them again. I say I'll become a solitary individual, the aloof observer who tells a joke once in awhile but tries not to get involved. And, if things ever get too bad, I can finally escape with few around me being hurt. I'm dangerous. I've lost much of my self-discipline, whatever little I had, and I fear a more complete regression. Time ticks by, and I think "work" but I never do. Is this my fate? To slide by on natural aptitude, sparse work, aloofness, and escapism? I don't know. The worst part is, I don't know if it'd be so bad.
The Celf. Desolation. Grandeur, potential, power. Lost. Forsaken by the very Gods that created it. A land bleak, uncaring, ungiving. The Celf is a Wasteland, a veritable Hell. Only cracked ground and dust. The decimation stretches as far as the eye can see. No lightness penetrates this land. No radiance. Only death. Only death and emptiness.
There are shades of death. Wisps of the past, the present, the future. Wisps who have no home or destination. Wisps who serve no purpose. They exist because they exist.
The Celf is a fragment. A lie. A diseased delusion that once, once knew the Truth. Once the Celf lived. Once the Celf had hope. Now the Celf has death.
There are shades of death. Wisps of the past, the present, the future. Wisps who have no home or destination. Wisps who serve no purpose. They exist because they exist.
The Celf is a fragment. A lie. A diseased delusion that once, once knew the Truth. Once the Celf lived. Once the Celf had hope. Now the Celf has death.
Monday, March 21
For the hat enthusiast in each of us.
Hat Etiquette
Quick trivia tip for you Academic Team kids: John F. Kennedy was the first President to be seen outdoors without a hat. Is it true? Did you already know it? Are you going to eat that last french fry? Some questions are best left unanswered.
Quick trivia tip for you Academic Team kids: John F. Kennedy was the first President to be seen outdoors without a hat. Is it true? Did you already know it? Are you going to eat that last french fry? Some questions are best left unanswered.