something (aka: the beginning)
2001-09-20 - 4:07 p.m.
�Something primitive, something modern, something Xeroxed, something you.� -Nemo
I got sleep. Uninterrupted, dreamless sleep from 2am to 10am. This only happened because I caught a bit of a cold, and forced myself to stay in bed for much longer than would normally be done, even over the course of three days. I feel so...refreshed. Like I�ve spent all day getting wrinkled in a warm bubblebath. This might have something todo with the wind, because windy days seem so much more...energetic. Or it might have something todo with the realization that I don�t have to always be Doing something. There do exist times in a person�s life when they can be unproductive, just for the funn of it.
This weekend, I plan on visiting Boston. By foot.
I got on the T last night and took a random stop. Ended up in Chinatown: bought some Djarums from Indonesia and Mongolian Beef from P F Chang�s. I now have a backup supply of napkins and toothpicks, but wasn�t my original reason for going to the restaurant. Ya see, I�ve never really cared to watch a person pay for a meal with their credit card. So I thought it�d be a good time to find out, being by myself and all. On the way, before I had thought about stopping at a restaurant, I considered the unethical practice of leaving the tip on the table. I would have to feel responsible, if someone took the opportunity to walk in, take the tip, and leave. And the money-deprived waiter would probably blame me for being careless or think I didn�t leave a tip at all. So I made up my mind right there on the bus that whenever I go to a restaurant, I�m going to give the waitress a tip before she hands me the check and leaves. After my meal, I found out that that�s how non-hick restaraunts operate anyway...and there was much sadness because people always seem to be stealing my ideas. On the way back to school met an Angel. Wel, that�s just what people call her at the bakery; her �real� name (as if one can actually have anything less real and impersonal than a common name) is Crysta. She�s got that short, blond-dyed-red, I know I�m-old-enough-for-alcohol-but-I-can�t-help-being-a-Winnie-the-Pooh-fanatic thing going for her...a senior in the bereavement studies program, concentrating on children who have lost loved ones. I really hope things work out for her, but rare is the angel that makes it to heaven while she�s on earth. So here I sit, sucking the overcooked marrow out of the ribs I bought for today�s meal [Breakunchupper]. Mmm, beef. It�s what�s for lunch. [Breakfast is coke. Always.]
Related Sidenote: At first, you take it in; it tingles the tongue. Sparkles from other-planet stars and pixie dust. Hold for a second, and then just let it in...feel it ooze down your throat, tingling all the way. The endomorphins break the bars and run from their cages, the world swims for half a second. But there�s nothing that compares with the exhale. The primevil feeling of literally Breathing acid back out into the air. I keep getting a picture of the antagonist in Ferm Gully (TM) when he breathes the smoke into the forest, combined with an image of a titan blowing humans around with a gust of wind. That breath is punk rock, defiance and anarchy. It�s an expensive cheap thrill, and all the waste a landfill can muster. It�s playing in the mud in your Sunday clothes. Destructive, euphoric. Interchangeable. The other reason I�m trying to quit, of course, is that it tastes so much better: knowing that if I fail to escape it, I can get chemically rewarded for my lack of willpower. There's something primitive about giving in, something necessary.
In other news today: I was given the liberty to make a Skinner box. If this fails to take up enough of my time, I make need to pick up a non-credit graphics design class.
Some people believe that when we die, our soul leaves our body behind, and it turns into an angel in heaven. But there are a lot of people that have never played a harp, have no experience flying one-man aircraft, and can�t sing worth beans. They can�t very easily learn these things in heaven, having left their brain on earth, so they just make for poor angels. So there�s a bunch of �dumb� angels crashing into clouds and trying to get music out of a harp by slapping it on someone else�s head. Sometimes I wonder if the other angels make fun of them.
If you went to such a good school in Maine and all that, then what are you doing *here*? -John T.
Good question, John. As I already mentioned, I looked at all the schools in the NE US that offered a degree in funeral service, and this was the one that appeared to be the best for that major. Yea, I could have gone to Simmon's Institute...but I wasn�t too keen on having to wear a suit to class each day, and they didn�t have dorms. But as I look back on this decision, and realize that I need more than what this college has to offer. I don�t want to be �the sma�t kid�, because that leaves me no room for improvement. My fishie self needs a bigger pond. I need more than one person with brains to interact with, (for my own selfish reasons, I�m hoping that Nikki will stay here for two years, but that wouldn�t really be fair to her) because the lemmings are killing me.
Firstoff, I would make an amendment to my use of the term Sikh. The Sikhs are a religious faction in Afghanistan. As I understand it, Bin Laden�s followers define themselves as being of the Sikh faction of faith. This is not to say that all Sikhs are terrorists. The term was meant to provide to the reader more information about Bin Laden�s group, rather than be an encompassing remark on all of the Sikh sect. On a similar note, I received an e-mail from Mitch recently about my coldness in reference to the situation. I�d like to offer an apology to the readers of this diary, because my emotions haven�t been very...existent. This is not to say that there was ever evidence of my having emotions. At this point, like to throw out a new rule for this diary. If anyone sends me an e-mail specifically stating that they want something in my diary to be omitted because they found it offensive, I give them the right to do so. Feel free to tell me to delete my whole diary, if you wish...anything you want, if it�ll help you sleep at night.
