in which he does things distinctly human
2001-08-04 - 9:07 p.m.
Sarah is officially gone. Sister, Step-sister and I did a left-hand-extension-standing-on-the-porch wave, followed by a right-hand-extension-standing-on-the-porch wave, and then by a pseudo-Gamesh-six-handed wave, and for a finally, gave the I-wanna-be-Miss-America Wave (TM). I jogged after the truck until they were nearly out of sight...�I wuv you, Sawah!�
And now, from the vaults of empty heads:
Me, to Sister: �Relationshipwise, what do you look for, in a person?�
Sister: �Like, an actual person??�
And the date on the cheques go boingboingboing...I got some cheques in the mail a couple weeks ago. Every single one of them is screwed up, despite my incredible penmanship that was used to fill out the forms for the cheques. But it�s just the phone number, so it shouldn�t cause that much of a problem...right?
Mail from college. I�m going to be in a quadruple this semester with Matt, James, and Mr. Song. At least, that�s what I�m calling them now. I�ll think up humorous nick-names for them after I get to know �em a bit better.
I was born in...Went to The Salvation Army today. It was my first time, and I was a little nervous...but the lady at the counter assured me that it wouldn�t hurt at all. And I had a blast. Two philosophy books, tow subliminal message tapes (even though I don�t believe in the power of subliminal messages), and a �history of British Rock� audio cassette. Was really funny is that it has absolutely nothing British on the tape. Just bad 80�s music in British Rock clothing. And it�s the funniest thing I�ve listened to in weeks.
Sidenote: I read today that caffeine constricts blood vessels. The heart attack should be kicking in any moment now.
I read my own writing with a different mindset then that which I use to read someone else�s writing. I read it with the Passion of knowing that it is my own, personal work. I assume that most artists, of whatever type, do the same with their work...bit last night, something clicked inside my head. I realized that artwork, that is to say, Any behavioral extension of mann, is a part of Me. It is a part of what it is to be Me, because the creator of such work is a fellow earthling-type. I no longer read my work with a Passion, I no longer regard your work with a Passion, if I did before. Instead, I rejoice and Passion over the work of We, the everyone that helped to construct the Day in which it was created.
Sidenote: Teaching penguins ballroom dancing is not as easy as it sounds, regardless of how they�re dressed.
Mr. Tinker sat on his thinker
Thinking his happiness away.
Along came a sunbeam, to sit on his shoulder...
�...I think I�ll think this another day.� (was all he could say, and promptly went out to play)
Sidenote: When pondering potentially saddening theories, I usually try to counteract them with the theory that it�s all just fun and games, even after someone gets hurt. It hasn�t helped yet.
I think I had a dream once, in which I died and went to Heaven. And at the gates, I was given a number. 98. Peter welcomed me and congratulated me on being one of the lucky one-hundred-forty-four. He told me that he was number 0, so he wasn�t really in the one-hundred-forty-four, but still got to stay sort-of in Heaven, taunted by the idea that he could never really enter. I told him that his exclusive little country club in the clouds could just go and screw itself for their pig-headedness (I�ve never really been good with insults; at least I didn�t call them stooped-heads). Peter got really mad then, because I�d thrown away everything he�d wanted for an eternity, so he sent me down to Purgatory, where I became a law officer. But I was really bored with the job, because no one really does anything bad in Purgatory, they just sorta mill about. My boredom led to mischief, which led me to be more trouble then I was worth. But they couldn�t send me to Hell, because I had been admitted into Heaven. So they sent me back to Earth as a punishment. End Dream. When I woke up, I considered that Heaven is really a one-person club...and it only exists so that I can get sent back to Earth one-hundred-forty-four times. In which case, I feel really bad for Peter.
