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| So, I haven't updated in half a year. The pictures are years old, the ideas that I've written are pretty much obsolete. I'm a much older person now (because, you know, 19 is the wisest age).
I won't shut it down, but I probably won't update it.
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| So, I haven't updated in half a year. The pictures are years old, the ideas that I've written are pretty much obsolete. I'm a much older person now (because, you know, 19 is the wisest age).
I won't shut it down, but I probably won't update it.
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| Hmm well where to start? I feel like xanga is a long-time friend whom I haven't seen in forever. I'll go through the motions of small talk catch-up, and so will she, but obviously something is simply off. Things aren't the same and nostalgically I ruminate over how I used to excitedly jump onto the bulky desktop computer and enter in a new prompt, saying "Hey! It's me again! Went to Michael's house. Sooooo fun, just like Bill Cosby!"
What changed?
One day my Holy Ghost friends and I were schmoozing at Nifty Fifties after visiting the school and seeing the teachers. Longing for a certain economics teacher, we called Doc Coughlin who had left Holy Ghost for naturally ambiguous purposes. I had my share talking to the Doc, and over the speakerphone he had said, "So John, are you keeping up with your writing? I always found you as a writer and I hope that doesn't go away..."
I don't recall ever introducing a teacher of mine to my writing. Maybe my free responses on whether the Korean currency will increase or decrease in value in comparison to the US dollar after a shortage after hyper-exporting had eloquently and charismatically influenced my teacher. Doubtful, but not out of bounds.
The point of this entry is to play catch up with life, to speak into the psychologist's recorder of all the events and people that came to pass. That sentence made a lot more sense in my head.
February was the guest at a party that enters the house and after the party's over, chooses not to leave. Every day slowly came to a crawl. By now I had mistakenly drunk someone's drink. That certain "someone" must've hooked up with "someone #2," and that someone, aka Mr/s. Sesspool, had been nurturing what came to be my good ole' friend mononucleosis. I wish I knew who it was so I could shake my fist at them and leave it at that. I'm guessing it was Melissa D., but I'm sure I've reached my quota for fist shaking with her by now. The mono had entailed hallucinogenic fevers, grogginess, overall lethargy, and of course, the viewing of movies such as Princess Mononoke and Slumdog Millionaire. It gave me a reason to skip out of a chem test, chem lab test, and neuroscience exam, all [but the last] for which I was ready. I yearned for a week where I could relax and allow my mind to decompress from college work.
Of course, what better way to start a random week off from school with a forensics tournament. The annual Harvard invitational was Valentine's weekend (it seems that the day always lands around that time, since I base the tournament off Valentine's day/Claire Fontenot's birthday). Seeing my team and their little Holy Ghost forensic groupies was quite cute. I helped out with some of the kids' pieces, lounged around as an alum (because apparently that's what alums do), and ate an obscene amount of 5-5-5 deal domino's since we over-ordered.
I judged some pieces. Nothing special, especially when I don't find many forensics pieces amusing (I have mentioned many a time that I never truly enjoyed forensics). In the first round I judged a DI. One girl had gone up and was doing her unenthusiastic piece. Four minutes and change into it she just stops and says, "Um yeah, I can't do this. Can I be excused and I'll come back?" I had no idea what to say. I thought that was part of the piece. I wrote on her ballot: "I commend you for having the courage to publicly speak and do your piece, but if you're not prepared, then you shouldn't be competing. Practice first, then compete." I made a corny joke and expected the other participants to laugh since any competitor should laugh at a judge's empty boring joke.
And they did.
From time to time I hung out with this girl Sarah G. from my school at the tournament. A pretty cute girl, little high strung, but every girl is so I don't worry about it that much. We walked around Harvard's spectacle of a campus and talked about forensics, family life, and being single on the day Saint Valentine was martyred. She was shocked to know that I wasn't a virgin by then, with underlying tones of jealousy of the girl who got to me first. After symbolically devouring the "Be Mine" and "Hug Me" candy hearts in our single status bliss, we pressed on our ways for the remainder of the tournament.
Towards the end of the tournament, after watching duo finals (yes to the crayon map and walter mitty skits, neigh to Metamorphoses and Jumanji), HI finals (not that funny really), and awards ceremony, I made sure to say goodbye to my friend Sarah before my team and I left for the week. I saw her in the pure blue dress amidst sodden black suit crowd and bee-lined over. I hugged her then (I would've kissed her on the cheek too, but being novice to the whole mono realm, I didn't know what to do), and from that point I knew that hug meant more than just two arms and an embrace. Sure, when I first met her, I thought she was cute, would've copped a feel at a crowded party or stuck it in her if we were both drunk, but the hug had razed my guard for my emotions. Quite frankly, the girl is gorgeous and easy to talk to. I had to make it work. I thought about it on the way back home with my forensics team, even during the viewing of Sweeney Todd when people were screaming, "THE WINNUH, IS TODD!"
What was even more of a win was that random week break. Finding bubble bathsoap and laying in a tub that's over a foot shorter than it should be must've been the highlight of the break. Real showering is one of very few things I missed at college. Shower flops. Give me a break. If I want to shower, I want to shower. If I had a hoagie in my mouth and myself in a girl's mouth while showering, life would be perfect. This visualization of course, is sans shower flops.
The much needed week long shower break had revitalized myself enough to ace my neuroscience exam and do comparatively well on my other two tests. This success of course, was at the expense of an official medical diagnosis of mono. The health center at the school had stated that their results were "inconclusive," which is a fancy shmancy medical word for "we didn't do the test correctly." They made it up with wet cloths on the forehead, warm blankets, and loving Jewish mommy care, for no apparent reason.
I still have much more to write. Bear with me.
Bears say rawr.
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| 12/5/2008
One and a half weeks left until the semester is over. The last class is Monday, and finals begin on Thursday. Am I ready? I should really ask myself, "Ready for what?" People fear what they do not know, yet the only sensation I'm receiving from next week is pure apathy. No distress. No anxiety. No anticipation. Pure nothing.
Edit 2/6/2009
Well, talk about a hiatus. Obviously the semester had ended and I have moved past my pre-finals bewilderment. Finals themselves were okay. I can't describe them any better; okay seems to fit perfectly. Honestly, how are finals supposed to be defined?
Skipping over to winter break...
Winter break is an opportunity for me to visit and revisit the people I know and love. Really, it's the other way around - they want to see me and I'll fit them into some makeshift schedule. I never really did excel in scheduling. Living in the now keeps me going and peering over to future plans seems confusing to me. Honestly, I have enough on my plate now, so why should I excite myself by ordering even more from the menu?
My friends from back home fall into three distinct categories: my Holy Ghost friends, my Pennsbury friends, and my other miscellaneous friends. Since I never really engaged in nepotism and partisanship, I always wanted to visit my friends equally. And so I did, one by one. Get-togethers, reunions, meet-ups, hang outs, parties, celebrations, shenanigans, I've done them all, or at least, all that I could fit into said schedule.
Moreover, these groups all enjoy different things. My Holy Ghost friends have a proclivity for laser-tagging and the Neshaminy mall while the other fancies late night gossip amidst tangibly pungent video games. I've learned to adapt between habitats and thrive fittedly in both. I mean, it's my job.
Speaking of jobs on a literal level, I work as a customer service representative at Kohl's, well, in name at least. Lately, I've been a floating worker; I fold jeans, look up UPC codes, recommend bra sizes, transport large parcels to cars, solicit store credit cards, cashier, fix signs and fixtures, scan items, and of course, assist customers to the best of my ability. It's funny to query my job, as I enjoy zero of the above listed tasks. Actually, the only true benefit to working there is to increase my patience.
Consider this situation. A customer arrives at the customer service desk to return an item. The item is clearly worn and old, but policy states that, defective or not, full amount is awarded in return with a receipt. She does not have a receipt nor does she possess the current amount of knowledge of the English language to understand what exactly a receipt is. I then begin to tell her, in the most elementary of words, that without a receipt, the current sale price of the item will be returned. For example, if something is 10 dollars originally and, over the years, drops to the minimum sale price of 1 dollar (90% off), the customer will receive 1 dollar in returns if he or she chooses to return the item without the receipt at said time. I explain to her that she would be receiving $2.40 for the item. She weirdly enough understands that, and rants about how it was not that price, but a full 12 dollars! Why, I would be so insincere to even think of granting such a valued customer with pocket change. Moreover, to hint at her wearing such a garment, why, this is brand new! It has never been worn before; it sat in the closet for a while. The customer then threatens to storm off and out of the building without purchasing potentially over $350 in sales. Knowing she does not have the self-discipline to leave the store without having to purchase the oh so delectable Christmas wreath trinket on clearance because it's January, I then am at the mercy of our policy. I must use managerial keys to override the system, change the return amount, and give her the desired 12 dollars. But oh wait, now she wants more? She says our incompetency for selling her such a "faux pas" shirt has cost her an additional six dollars in gas money. Should I compensate her? I pause for a second, struck with a bolt of incredulity, and admire her usage of a French idiom amidst her heavily Russian accented broken English. I unfetter my shackles from store policy and unleash my wrath on the customer.
"I apologize mam; however, Kohl's cannot compensate you for transportation issues. I have already completed the transaction. If you could just sign at the bottom for me while I hand you the 12 dollars in store credit for the shirt. Thank you very much mam. Have a great rest of the day and thank you for shopping at Kohl's."
She gave a condescending smile, as if, "Oh yeah, you got me this time Mr. Customer Service. You know what? No you have a good day. And when you go home, realize where you work and what you do. It amounts for nothing in the end. You think you can get me with your petty politeness. Ha! I live a life. I have a husband and an education. I'm biligual and you are nothing. So go ahead, wish me a great rest of the day. Go ahead, not only do I want you to dare me into having a great day, but I provoke you into wishing me the greatest day mankind can fathom. I want all the greatness so your day will reveal itself to you at greatless. So tell you what. Don't have a great rest of the day, because I have all the greatness. Don't have a bad rest of the day, because I'm above that. Have a day, a normal day of a normal life. This day is going to exemplify the rest of your borne monotonous life."
All in one smile did she inveigh me. She had stopped time to lecture me on life and how working here reflects how you work and how you are. Store policy requires me to absorb the smiles of customers. I hate store policy.
Throughout the winter break I took these customers. Sure, occasionally a customer unveiled the ability to empathize, but the majority uses me as a means to continue the day. And day by day past (passed? Both words look spelled wrong now because I looked at them so long). I was primarily focused on a cute girl named Caitlin H. Caitlin and I are obviously good friends. She and I agreed that, if for whatever reason, we were still single by the winter break, we would lose it to each other.
Romantico.
So, we scheduled the date (I hate scheduling) and when the day came, I woke up, showered, and drove an hour and change out of my way to hang out with her. It was eerily bright outside; the clouds stretched for miles as flurries intermittendly rummaged through the knooks and crannies of the landscape. Weather was unimportant to me - virginity was on the line. As a man in his sexual prime, I believe sex will always outweigh weather. I gave three cold knocks on the door. No answer. I waited for five minutes, rang the doorbell and knocked again, no answer. The cold hugged me as strongly as I had hugged my hopes for this to work out. I waited in my car, leaving about five voicemails. After an hour, I drove that hour and change directly back. I failed.
Of course, she facebook messages me saying her aunt was hospitalized in Virginia for cancer related issues and that "hopefully you'll read this message before you leave. I'm sorry."
Do I believe her? Maybe. Does it matter anymore? No. Would I still have sex with her? No. Have things been the same since? No. Was it a personal loss for me? Yes. We were good friends and that had fallen to pieces. Shame really.
I travel back to Boston on my birthday. The travel was ok. I first went to my dad's work, where he drove me to the train station. Homeless people in New Brunswick were inquiring about my army duffel bag as luggage. "Yes it's legitimate. No, I am not in the army. No, I do not know how I got it. No you may not look in the bag. Yes it is heavy. Take a quarter each." They blessed me for the quarter.
Then I purchased the wrong ticket, saying Newark Penn Station and not New York Penn Station. I lost more money on my birthday. I then didn't get a good seat on the Megabus. A Korean girl watched Korean movies on her computer while a man rhythmically snored a few rows behind me. Then at South Station in Boston, I waited for a bus that never came. I took the subway and then the commuter rail. The total travel time was about 10 hours for a 6 hour max trip. A few people at Brandeis remembered my birthday. I didn't care if they knew it or not. Just because a day signifies my mom popping blood vessels to push me out of a vagina does not entitle me to a parade. It's a day. January 12th is a day, just like May 14th or June 7th. They're all just days.
The next day was the beginning of the second semester. Eventually I get all the classes I wanted and the people in them are nice. I have tried this thing last year of making a note to every person who had wished me a happy birthday saying thank you, along with an accompanying story. The difference is last year I only made notes to people I wanted to tell how I felt about them, girl and guy. Now I've tried everybody, which failed since it's now a month after my birthday, and I'm only halfway. Plus, I've saved the most important people for last, so it may be too late. For example at the beginning of the semester I liked a girl named Katherine K. Very cute, sweet Greek girl. It would've worked out if I had just made the move and worked at it, but now I've waited too long. My body tells me to move on, and I'm sure she has too with her infatuation for me.
That's one of many stories. Another girl is Jamie G., who came to Brandeis and we hung out. She's an amazing friend of mine, and needless to say, we had sex. She had forgotten it was my first time and I replied, "Well, tell me this. In all honesty, knowing it was my first time...was I good?" and she rejoinders, "Umm yeah...fuck yeah you were. You basically tore up my vagina. You were so good I didn't think you were a virgin at all. You fucked really good."
She meant to say "fucked really well" since the adverb "well" modifies the verb "fucked," but in either case, that statement made my month. Afterwards, however, her feelings for me had resurfaced. It would never work out since we live so far away, and she and I both know it. We all have to move on sooner or later.
Again, a true shame, really. Distance is a big issue.
What's a big issue is my school's financial status. The financial crisis has hit Brandeis University rather crucially. Because Brandeis is a relatively young school (not even 100 years old), it doesn't have the accumulated funds to buffer itself from a financial collapse. So naturally, the university has taken panicked measures to keep the school functioning. For example, next year, the school plans to:
- increase the enrollment by 12% and decrease faculty by 10%
- condense majors and cut graduate programs
- cut athletics (the golf team and my adored sailing team have been cut from the varsity list. Also, the school's swimming pool has broke down beyond repair due to "poor" maintenance (aka no maintenance), so also no varsity swimming)
- merit scholarships do not transfer out of campus (in other words, study abroad would be without financial aid)
- Selling a portion of the acclaimed Rose Art Museum (closing down the museum had hit new york times, bloomberg, boston globe, and wall street journal, and so they reversed the decision to keep it open in order to avoid bad media feedback)
That's only a portion of the actions. I've begun to notice budget cuts when my beloved deli lady at the cafeteria suddenly stopped showing up. It was called a "grilled sandwich" station for a reason, but due to liability issues, we're unable to grill our own sandwiches, so now we must make our ungrilled sandwiches. Personally, I feel it degrades the student; he or she must make our own sandwiches after paying to eat the food. What after? Would we soon have to pay to grow our own food, then harvest it, then eat it?
The issue also takes a stab at my jokingly chauvinistic attitude, but that's besides the point.
What recently got to me was the most ridiculous budget cut yet. I say "ridiculous" as an example of how the school is cutting the most negligible and miniscule expenses from its budget. Recently I've found out first-hand that the school has cut paper towels out of their budget. Now every bathroom in every building on campus is paper towel-less. They expect people to dry their hands with the air blowers, even though not every bathroom has those devices. I find it embarrassing to pay the x amount of tuition to go to a place that does not even offer paper towels in its bathrooms. Of course the student body is enraged at these changes, but at the same time they are aware enough that these changes must be needed (with the exception of the final example).
One thing I do to keep Mr. Financial Crisis at bay until I transfer is work on a work-study job. I work at the Lemberg child center on campus. It's used for child psychology and education courses. I just work for the money really. My friend Melissa works there. She's obsesses over little kids. She finds them the cutest beings on the face of the planet. For me, I just get jealous. Everything the kids do, it makes them happy. Ephemeral sadness comes and goes, but they don't care. They have not identified themselves. They are not self-aware. Who is to care about morals or occupations or chores? Everything is set out for them. They just absorb.
I remember a kid named Ethan who, playing outside with the other kids, walks up to me with a chunk of snow. "What do you have there?" I playfully inquire. "Wow, that is an e-normous chunk of snow! Where did you find that thing?" Ethan picks up the snow and drops it. It hit the ground inaudibly and rather anticlimactically. He picks it up and drops it again. The snow chunk breaks down the middle. He picks up the smaller chunks and continues this until all the chunks are of negligible weight. I stared in amazement. In the words of Judd Apatow's Knocked Up:
Pete: I wish I liked anything as much as my kids like bubbles.
Ben Stone: That's sad.
Pete: Totally sad. Their smiling faces just point out your inability to enjoy anything.
Weirdly enough, that's not the first time I've quoted those lines in this journal. It must say something if that's the case. It's true though: everything makes a kid happy. A normal human examines a situation, decides if he or she will gain pleasure from the event or potential experience, and if so, will continue to go along with it. Kids experience it and are happy gaining a new experience, but if on the off chance it is unappealing to them, they will leave in search for a greater pleasure. No thinking is involved. No superego. Just happy.
Alas, life cannot function on fundamental and primitive mentality. Sure the more intelligent we became, the more problems we create. We use our intelligence to fix the problems, but as we progress, so do our problems. Society chooses to break boundaries with technologies that are intended to increase our quality of living, and yet paradoxically we sit in our chairs and wonder, "Why me?"
A friend of mine recommended that I don't matriculate into medical school immediately after undergraduate. She said that if I do med school, then that's the end of my life. I prepare to turn into a doctor, actually turn into a doctor, and I just help people. What then? Before that happens, I need to do something more...primitive and fundamental. I've dreamed about sailing around the world. A romantic dream at that, but if I had the opportunity, I would take it in a second. I need to leave.
Need is a word I rarely use. I strongly support Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs, in that all I need are physical needs, and higher up on the pyramid are lesser important needs. But this, well, I need this. I don't know what my future may entail, but I want it that way. Like I said, I don't want to schedule my life away. My dad did that. And like some mythological hero failing to escape his fate, I don't want to be my dad.
I'm sure every college student encounters a phase in his or her life where he or she just questions everything. Recently I have made the example to my friend where, "What if you learned something the wrong way and for the longest time you just did it because you had always thought that was the right way? What if you had been wiping your ass the wrong way. What if everyone does it in a different manner and you just don't know it?" As an absurdist, I don't know why people do what they do, knowing that they have no reason for doing it. Why am I in college? Does taking the most conventional path designate me towards a happier life? Philosopher Thomas Nagel summarizes an aburdist's view with an analogy. [Paraphrased of course], a mouse's life is not absurd. A mouse survives by sifting through the directions of the maze for the hunk of cheese that which fills the air with such aromatic taste. The mouse's life is to find the cheese and eat it. A mouse's life would be absurd if the mouse were self-aware, and the mouse questions why it goes through life looking for the ever-accalimed chunk of cheese, but still it continues with its impeti for the cheese. The mouse is happy when it finds the cheese, but it doesn't know why. Even if it were to question why, it still continues on with the duties of being a mouse.
It seems my cheese is somewhere else. What's the point of treasure hunting resides deep beneath strata of sand off in a distant island, and I'm sitting here digging in the same holes in the same spots? Wherever that beloved Colby Jack is, it's still absurd for me to search for it in the first place. Unlike in the rat maze, man does not find the cheese, and he knows he never will, but yet we all can't resist the smell that drives us so.
One game I've created during my Brandeis experience, among others, is called "Tower." The point of the game is to take any object near you, and stack as many objects as possible until the tower falls over. I remember one time I've played with glasses at the school-restaurant. They came crashing down. Luckily nothing broke, but I yelled, "TOWER!" and well, that's the gist of the game. There's no real point to tower; neither goals nor competition are part of the game. It's just stacking.
After stacking scheduling my friends, working at Kohl's and Lemberg, and maintaining the overall college workload, it would seem rather absurd for me to continue. I don't know why I continue to play, since I'll gain nothing but shattered glasses afterwards, but do I need a reason?
The reason will come to me, but first comes the TOWER.
Fonte
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| Long time, no talk. It seems as if I'm starting out with small talk with you, xanga. The whole scene is analogous to a ten-year high school reunion, and I bump into a person whom I haven't seen for years. I have so much to tell you, but the question isn't where do I start, it's more how do I start? I feel like a lawn mower that is egging to have its engine-string pulled.
What a shitty simile. I'm working on them, don't worry.
Well, I'm just going to start right with it. College is...college. For me, personally, nature has routinized my week, making Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday school days, Tuesday a work-catch-up day, Friday an odds n' ends appointment & clean up day, Saturday being my sleep recovery and partying day, and finally Sunday a weekend work procrastination day. Habituation is not my forte, but man is a being of habit, and frankly, being the manly man that I am, I couldn't escape this inevitability. At least I get my work done. Even in a relatively smart college, some kids always over-procrastinate and end up not getting work done, or they don't even attempt to do the work at all. It's just an unavoidable portion of a school's population. Some kids have admitted to résumé fraud, claiming they were the captain of a fake club, or they lied about their ethnic background.
I can't help but regret not doing that. If I just changed my last name to Fyun-Tae, I'm sure I could've gotten into a load of schools. It's unlikely, but in the wise words of the New York Lottery's slogan: "Hey, you never know."
My roommate is cool. He doesn't really clean up though. I never was Mr. Clean back home, but I've assumed responsibility for my land in the dorm room. I've created an unofficial line of demarcation, kicking all of his junk onto his half of the room while keeping my half pretty clean. I make my bed, fold my laundry, and even vacuum the floor. Mom (as a general title, not necessarily my mom) would be proud of me. Even Martin S., the hyper-macho popular boy across the hall from me, has accused me of and commended me for being a "homemaker." The name doesn't bother me. I don't really take him seriously anyway. If I do, then that just encourages his personality. I don't buy into it, but some do. Nevertheless, he's a cool kid, just a different social status is all.
Mr roommate also doesn't wear shower flops. His obdurate view on the subject doesn't help either. Mr. Bulwark refuses to budge, gaining unnamed foot fungi in the process.
He also smokes. I'm indifferent about it, but occasionally the smell of his breath can fill the room under 60 seconds.
He also leaves the light on. It's not a big deal, but I guess it's just an OCD thing of mine. He just never turns it off when he leaves. rawr.
He also is never there. I can't rely on him if I lock myself out by accident (which has only happened once or twice, relatively good compared to the rest of my hall).
He also doesn't use sheets for his bed. Again it doesn't bother me in particular, but it embarrasses me when I have to explain it to someone from my hall or an incoming tour willing to scrutinize my room.
My roommate's pretty cool.
Judaism at Brandeis has begun to overwhelm me. Sure demographically only 55-60% of the students define themselves as "Jewish," but it's more so the culture itself. Never in my life have I experienced a culture so deeply as the Chosen People. Imagine a race that has its own religion and its several respective branches of the religion, that eats by its own rules, that talks about its homeland all the time, that has almost all of its people visiting the homeland at least twice. The list goes on.
Don't get me wrong, I love Jewish girls. Personally I just love girls who are shorter than I am, who have dark hair, and who have curves. Recently though, I've been going through a phase where a characteristic of not being Semitic has actually been a turn on.
A little known fact about me is that I write down my dreams. I've recorded about 20 dreams so far (or at least I can find 20 dream stories since it was only later in my dream writing career when I started writing in an official composition book), and lately my dreams have turned more extensive and cryptic. My last two dreams involved Armageddon/Apocalypse, which is a common symbol for the death of the old [lifestyle], and a change into the new one. What changed about me though? Dream psychology explains how the unconscious brain tries to tell the conscious one important information, but fails to tell it in a straightforward language, like English. Instead, a dream consists of symbols communicating about the self.
I missed that "important information," because I simply can't put my finger on what I've changed into. After years of searching (well, only three years. I just enjoy exaggerating), I've gathered a fairly good knowledge of who I am, what I like and what I don't like, and what my limits are. Did something slip under the radar of knowledge?
Now for an intentional digression. One of the greatest and depressing moments in my life is me finding out who I am. I'm the man who has close friends, and some friendly acquaintances, but I live solo. I don't really excel in the "best friends" category, but rather I live with various acquainted people whom I see every once in a while. I'm utilitarian to heart, and take a highly practical and logical (not necessarily proactive) view on life. I don't see why anyone would do anything if, as high school economics claims, the marginal cost exceeds the marginal benefit. I'm a pessimist despite my cheery façade. I feel, as paraphrased from Benjamin Franklin, that if I live as a pessimist, then I would never be disappointed. The phrase "be yourself" makes no sense, as if I were myself in front of people, I would be the biggest Debby Downer to live. Instead, I act happy and extroverted and motivated. People respond fairly positively to that version of John Fonte.
I would do anything out of curiosity and boredom. I've eaten 82 chicken wings in order to beat the high score in the Brandeis cafeteria and have locked a MasterLock on my penis (that being a very poor decision), to name two.
I would save anyone's life in place of mine. It wouldn't matter if the person was a family member of mine or some random thug who doesn't deserve to live a life of drugs and crime. Sometimes I've fascinated myself with daydreams of a hostage situation or a woman delivering a baby while working at Kohl's. God forbid either happen, since the first is endangering the lives of many and the second has a disadvantage of giving birth in such a unsterile and inappropriate environment, but I needed something to spice up my life. Would I be a hero and try to knock out the hostile gunmen or try to deliver the baby? Maybe. Would I spare my life if I knew it would protect the people? Absolutely.
That scenario yielded another question for me. One reason why man has pride in himself is an instinctual reason for survival. So do I have any pride? I don't know. Well, in what do I pride myself? Another aspect of myself is that I'm mediocre at everything. I get good grades, but not good enough to win awards or to get into an Ivy League school. I got 2nd or 3rd during forensics throughout my three year career of that, but never first. I play a fair game of tennis. I dabble at piano. My Spanish is adequate, but nowhere close to fluent. I'm not fat, but not even close to being in shape. My humour has its good moments. My writing style is hit and miss. I have to focus on my charisma a lot if I want to talk eloquently. My relationships have lasted three months maximum (with an equal amount of me dumping and me being dumped).
I deal with life. I'm actually fairly content with it. I wouldn't mind spending the rest of my life in the mountains of Tuscany growing grapes for wine. I have no need to succeed and rise to the top of a business hierarchy and become the multi-million dollar CEO who "get more turned on by the Bloomberg Wire than they do by any hot nannies" (The Nanny Diaries, 2007). Moreover, I have no reason to hate life either. Statistically, if a family makes over $150k, then said family is top 1% financially in the world. Likewise, if a family nets over $100k, then it's in the top 3% (don't quote me on those numbers). I'm guessing my family is in the top 5%. I go to a good school. I have friends. I haven't had any close deaths to me. Why wouldn't I be happy?
Brandeis University loves the arts. They can't get enough of theatre. I've been to three plays already, amidst a slew of about 20 this season. I gave plays a shot, but they're not for me. I just don't understand why people become so fanatical about acting, let alone acting on stage? Did their parents not pay enough attention to them as kids? Possibly, but I believe it's more due to a need to escape reality. Unlike other forms of fiction, like reading or video games, acting immerses the person entirely into a new being. Life isn't accompanied by a pit orchestra, nor does it involve choreographed dancing every scene, but most of all, life doesn't shine the limelight on a certain person. We all live in the same world honey, deal with it. It isn't all sunshine and rainbows, but running off to a dreamworld, the equivalent of playing in the forest with an imaginary friend, won't solve the problems of the world. I tried to appreciate the art of it all, but something deep down just prevents me from smiling during a marriage on stage or from opening my mouth after a treacherously betrayed murder. I just can't feel it. I never was one to speak in accents, cartwheel over to left stage, and wear various makeups, but something just isn't right.
I really liked The Pillowman.
Upon leaving a party at AEPi, I felt compelled to impress (no one but myself) by being mannerly, and thanking the host for the good time. I walked over to the man in charge of the frat, Ben J., and shook his hand. He stopped me for a second, asking if I was a freshman. I replied with a yes and my name, and he rejoindered, "Hey man I'll definitely keep you in mind for some rushing events. You seem like a good guy so if you need anything, hit me up."
Later I realized that Ben was good friends with hyper-testosterone Martin, so naturally I saw him and talked to him numerous times. Ben and Martina had a suggested a pre-rush event, since this semester's pledges are done, and the next wave won't start until next semester. It was called "Sake Bombing" at a local Sushi restaurant. I said, "Sure, why not" to myself, and that night, I was with Martin, Austin, and another upperclassman also named Ben, who was comically reminiscent of John Belushi from Animal House. It was fun.
Many don't deem me as the frat type. Hell, neither do I, but like I said, I would try anything. Plus, it's Brandeis, so even the frat kids are nerds. That's always a plus in my book.
Thanksgiving's coming up. I love the idea behind it. No, not the kindergarten-taught story of Native Americans and Pilgrims, and how peace and love united them for a historic feast. I'm talking about the more contemporary idea. America devotes an entire day (technically two) to lounging around, stuffing their face with an obscene amount of food, and then embracing the tryptophan until they pass out on their couches, leaving the football ridden TV on in the process. It epitomizes America on a national level.
Likewise, the same reason applies towards the Christmas season and why I'm not particularly fond of it. For 11 months of the year, the American people complain and dread the monotony of their lives, ranging anywhere from their jobs to their disagreeable marriages, spiced with a little high gas prices in between.
All of a sudden, let's invent a season devoted to happiness and giving! The atmosphere feels so fabricated, so mechanical. Unlike Thanksgiving, the Christmas season was created to compensate for the rest of the year's inadequacies. Much like theatre, instead of dealing with reality's problems, the Christmas season is used to romanticize the world into a wintery wonderland. Whimsical, but superfluous. Why don't people just put a smile on their face throughout the year, instead of only giving a damn during "that time of year." Christmas's beaming faces and its accompanying overall uncomfortable merriness has annihilated my affinity for the season.
Thanksgiving is sinking into the couch, "giving thanks" for a content life, but Christmas is jumping off the couch due to an unexplained burst of energy and euphoria, thus disregarding the life we have and embracing a better one temporarily.
Usually I conclude and wrap up the entry by making a stretch and tying everything into the title. Solipsism doesn't really fit with anything I've said though. It's a radical idea, but I do agree with Berkeley's views on epistemology, which lean towards that. Really, it's all how you look at the world. This entire entry has exuded a figuratively cynical aroma, but if everything's in the mind, well then we have the power to make it what we want to make it. Taking more of a carpe diem approach, I suggest to walk off the stage, inundated with a false sense of pride, and hug the outside, the real world. I'm not talking about staged Christmas season - that doesn't really exist - I'm talking about escaping the monotony of the world, sitting on a recliner overlooking the Mediterranean, and indulging in a homemade glass of Pinot Noir with your desired lover.
Perceive happiness, and don't inundate yourself with The Sound of Music, Grease, and Mama Mia! in order to attain happiness. Attaining happiness is impossible.
I'm home 'til Sunday.
Fonte
PS - Here's a personal shout out to Lou Manco. Hi Lou.
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