it�s all about me
2001-09-10 - 11:51 a.m.
�it�s all about me...and i wish i were someone else.� -Nemo
There are people in my English class that don�t know how to use semicolons. I always thought these were a totally different race of people, the indigenous retards of Nowhere that had to be evacuated from their former environment and placed in government facilities because they were in danger of extinction. Alas, these people do exist. I pity da foo�. Speaking of bananas and indigenous people of Nowhere: we were talking about stress in my (required) health class today. The effects of stress on the body and what sort of diseases (like alcoholism, heart attacks, and depression) it can cause. The teacher asked who was streesed, and one sma�t ass said �but, we ALL have stress...� The instructor agreed. Then he went on to say that stress is caused by a lack of money, the workplace, family obligations, college life, drug abuse, relationships, and shopping (of all the horrific things invented by us). But we made all these stressors. We choose, as a population, to hold onto these everyday stesses for dear life, because they ARE our life. But what about the pigmies? They don�t have money, and they don�t care. They don�t have assembly-line �stressful� jobs. They don�t walk around like zombies all day, looking for someone else to blame their depression on. They might have family obligations, but come to think of it, if you�re family obligations are stressing you out and not cheering you up, then you don�t really have a family...you have a personal business. The pigmies are not stressed. The pigmies are happy. So let�s destroy their environment out of jealously, and use it to print millions of copies of textbooks and Hallmark (TM) cards for our society, so we can stress ourselves out.
Sidenote: I feel like I should�ve kissed her goodnight. Just on the forehead. Not that I�m superstitious or anything, but it�s just...I�m kicking myself now for not having done it.
When I get full-blown Alzheimer�s, I hope things get more emotional in my life. Maybe I�ll forget that I forgot how to cry, so I�ll be able to do it again. I looked through my photographs again today...all thirty er so of �em. Only four really strike the chords of my inner violin. One: Aroostic State Park, on Father�s second-to last birthday. A park bench with a tree curled around the right side of the picture. It�s all overlooking a pond of some sort, and there�s little water ripples...there�s some sort of simplistic beauty to it all. Two: Sarah, Sister and I stand in front of my old high school on graduation day, one sister to each side; smiles are on the house. But in their smiles, in the way the hold themselves and the way they have their arms around me, one can see a dramatic difference in the sisters. Sarah�s smile is real, busting with laughter and general hugginess; Sister is simply posing in a picture with her brother. And then there�s me, half-smiling as if I�m indecisive about how I feel about the whole thing. Three: The complimentary picture of NumberTwo, with Step-brother and Step-sister. I like the way my head shines, but I�m not genuinely smiling. Four: Hand-made mittens and hats. I don�t remember how long Becca�s mother tried to get us to stand still for the picture, because whenever we got in position, one of us would tickle the other and it would all go happily to chaosland. I see this picture and know that for some twisted reason, I still love her. I love the idea of her, The form more than the material, in Aristotle�s language.
Fell asleep reading �Beyond Freedom and Dignity� (yea, I�m reading it again, this time for a class). Drooled all over my pillow and took a shower accordingly. Football player came in, threw back the shower curtain, and ran like hell, for no apparent reason. Not that I mind this sort of thing...it adds a little life to my day. But hopefully it doesn�t become a regular thing, or I might be forced to actually *ugg* buy shaving cream.
Have you ever stood underneath/in-the-centre-of one of those giant radio towers? Watching the triangles of red and white metal lit up by blinking red lights...it was marvelous. And all I could think was that I wished Lucy was there to see it too...but she prubly wouldn�t have wanted to jump the barbed-wire-topped fence to see it. And she wouldn�t have let me pocket the three rejected shopping carts out behind the parking-lot-building, tied together with stolen �caution� rope.
Have you ever wondered how they get the high-pressured air inside a tennis ball? Prubly make it in a specialized high-pressure area, and seal the two sides together. Have you ever heard one football player say to another �I�d bet you one-hun�red, cash mooney, that yo can�t bang that chick...hun�red bucks...�? I thought this sort of thing only happened in brainless movies, but I just heard this from someone in my suite.
Roommote#2�s friends were in here a couple days ago, looking at the stuff on Roommate#1�s wall. Nearly fifty pictures of girls ripped out of magazines, and three of guys. One comedian-guy, one odd-looking briefcase add, and one Timothy McVeigh.
Officially have an on-campus job now, they wouldn't let me have any more than one. Nikki said she tried the same thing, because she wanted to work with the preschoolers. Lovely, lovely thoughts swim in my head...hopefully there's no sharks in the water.
Rommate#2�s friends have started calling roommate#1 a �fag� because of the three guys he has on the collage. They weren�t really perturbed that one of them was a famous killer...but it�s a *gasp* guy...on his wall...must be a fag. Erg. I�ve been thinking about switching dormitories lately, but I�ll have to wait until later this month.
