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| As repetitive as finals are, it's amazing to see that some people still don't get it after three years. Have I been so thoroughly conditioned to see that finals have become so redundant? Maybe others just don't feel comfortable if they're not pulling all-nighters cramming much-forgettable facts. I've been here for almost 7 hours, half of which have been spent perusing the next object to buy. 49ers season tickets? Intel processor? "Wow." With motivation as strong as the Maginot Line, it's incredible that graduation is next week.
Graduation. That ceremony...with speeches. Oh that's right they're supposed to inspire me. Or congratulate me, whatever that means. I should have felt nostalgic (really?) on my last day of classes here. Istead, the night before was spent liquoring up and playing Monopoly until 4 in the morning, resulting in a terrible, terrible awakening at 9 that resulted in an insufferable rest of the day.
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| Nothing particularly interesting, insightful, philosophical, romantic, or worth remembering in any way, a lack of color with which to assemble a vignette of sorts; perhaps the ambitious torrents of an honorable graduation has devoured such fanciful thinking to mere bread crumbs on a dirty stove [don't picture itit's just my dirttye kitchen]. It's rather difficult to express personal inside jokes to fellow peers. Either way, several categories may defy current circumstances and provide a boost, all inevitably spiralling into weeks and weeks of blatant, yet conscientious, sympathy and grievances for my final undergraduate task at hand.
In the meanwhile, we enjoy this precarious balance between two dueling superpowers.
Ben, not the $7.99 bottle of Krystov! | | |
| Listening to incomprehensible humdrum lectures, slouched over that inadequately small arm tablet, hazy-minded 'cuz its 10 in the morning but you've been swigging Jack 'till 4, and a little jealous and affronted by those smiling alert weenies next to you who care enough to raise their hands to ask questions. Somehow I'm expected to write 50+ pages of "original" historical research this quarter, but given that my topic is so unoriginal that many others have already published master's and doctoral theses on it, I figure Jack will pull me through. My parents have asked me whether I've made any "New Year's resolutions," so I told them that I'd contemplate on ways to improve myself. But I'm thoroughly convinced that most resolutions, especially the "I wish I were better at..." motifs (mine at least), don't make it past February. This problem derives from the desire to drag something from the realm of the farce to reality. So like all those yesterdays, I'll just deal.
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| When I think that I'd like to write more about things as if they were individualized life moments that will never happen again, I drink some beer, become lazy, and feel increasingly convinced that my perspectives and feelings are only permutations (or combinations, fuck you math...) of a default set of emotions. So for instance if I'm really exuberant or depressed or anxious, I feel as if I'm having deja-vu and amnesia at the same time - It's like I think I've forgotten this before. "Yeah, way to feel old you crummy heartless unappreciative bastard," but I'm laughing because it feels good, and who doesn't want to feel good?
Life is a comic playing to an audience that's afraid to laugh.
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