| Copyright 1999 and beyond. Merv/Marv Productions. |
Wednesday, August 8, 2001 I'm freaking tired of writing papers. I don't know why I always tell people that I enjoy writing. Whenever I'm writing, I just feel complete disgust for what's on the page. Teachers like it. Teachers liking it makes it worse. I pull something completely out of my ass and am lauded for my "sophisticated writing." Sophisticated buttcrud. Ain't that nice. In an hour and 20 minutes, professors worldwide will have a chance to redeem themselves. The paper I wrote in a daze that felt like I was jacked up on Demerol (amaaaazing feeling, btw) will be returned to me. Red ink better be dripping from the edges. Speaking of, uh ... pigment, I've found a new hobby -- painting ceramics. And because it has added so much joy to my life in so short a timespan, I have now become an unofficial sponsor of DO ART. Go, enjoy, paint. A job was snagged by me. (Heh, passives are funny.) Is being employed good, bad, a necessary evil? I have heard support for all three sides from three people whose opinions I respect very much -- all of them thinkers. Person A (Note: These people will not be named, merely because I don't think it's anyone's beeswax who I hold in high regard, especially not Person A, B and C) is very industrious, very logical and appropriately determined in goal-reaching strategy, and once told me that I should become a "productive citizen." Person B believes that there is a higher purpose in life, spends time mostly doing enjoyable things, and equates working with "falling into the system." Person C will pompously assume dominion over description A and B, because both ideals are incorporated. Working is a necessary evil -- to reach goals, to be productive and avoid boredom, to be able to afford fun -- but only enough to be able to remain an elevated watcher of the world. I need money. Sunday, August 19, 2001 Within the past week and a half, I've sprained my ankle, had two wisdom teeth surgically removed, started menstruation, had my stitches taken out (of my mouth) -- which hurt more than the surgery itself, and had my toe bitten by an evil ant. I'm allergic to ant bites. My toe looks like a breakfast sausage. It's a wonderful life. I got my bowls back. They look ok. Can you measure how much one person values another by the quantity of "important" information that person divulges to the other? My bet is no. I think a better measure is how much the person alters his/her true self to suit the other -- or how comfortable the person is with sharing his/her true self completely. Monday, August 20, 2001 1:27am. The late-night delerium set in early today. I started work today (yesterday, however you want to look at it). It's hard to keep a smile on your face for seven hours straight. I'll work on building stamina today. Smiling for long periods of time when you don't really want to is an essential gear in the automaton of American society. I'm goin' to bed. Wednesday, August 29, 2001 It's funny how you can always find fault with the things you think you need when you get them. I'm not sure it's as shallow as the connotation taken from the whole "grass is greener on the other side" theory, though. I used to sit around, doing nothing, thinking life would be more fulfilling if it was spent doing this and that, however mindless the activity would be. Now I spend hours smiling, asking people if they want their receipt in the bag, staring at merchandise, getting X'ed and Z'ed and counted out. I've learned my lesson. Now all I need to do is stop wanting the things that aren't mine. In an effort to maintain some minute sense of sanity and to remind myself that I belong to me, I'm going to try to make these entries more of a regular habit. (I needed that written somewhere so that I'll actually follow through.) I hate feeling nervous. Dr. Schmidt makes me nervous. I'm sure there's some big cosmic reason for my being in her class, some grand lesson to be learned. Even if there isn't, I rarely meet such an adequate challenge. And I always love a good game. My little turtle, Amos, passed away the other day. Funny how the tiniest thing can affect my sentiments so much. He will be missed. more of what Sarah's saying >> |
 |
 |