�We�ll see how the day goes.� -Preston
2002-06-06 - 11:31 a.m.
Today was beautiful. The air was nice, the temperature was slightly above �awake�, and the birds were singing for the squirrels. I passed my driver�s test [I would talk here about ambulances and masses of pedestrians and using the wrong blinker light, but this time, the tribulations seem too trivial]. Bank error in your favor, $305. Funeral to go to in an hour. Maybe today will be my perfect day.
Might as well collect errors for a living; if such a thing could be called a �living�. Reading �Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance (an inquiry into values)� by Robert Pirsig. Only just finished chapter twelve because I�ve only been reading it during down times at work (or between up times, what have you) so I really don�t have enough information to formally criticize it. [In using the word �criticize�, I mean it in the most neutral sense of the word...unfortunately, this otherwise very functional word has picked up a nasty connotation...but I�m aware that without connotations, this language I�m using would be an absolute bore [in my head].] He gets points for wet, even slobbery trains of thought, combined with several of the �familiar� philosophers, combined with realistic, �normal� characters that don�t really play a big part in the central theme of the book [yet]. Kinda makes you think. Most of the thoughts posed so far have been pretty common for abstract thoughts, but he includes most of the ones that are good for a second time around. So there�s this error (a missing period, run-on-thing) the only one I�ve seen so far, and that�s good too [for two, please? a table].
No sleep last night and I�m paying for it this afternoon in dizzys and dazees. But all for good reason: I began the design of a Hero Quest (TM) computer game. Of course, there�s copyright issues out the shami* (sp?) but this will be okay, as Mitch and I will probably be the only ones to ever play it.
Work on Sunday was boring, like swiss cheese without the holes. I miss you.
They took my knife. Found it today, nearly a half-year later, while helping Father look for a set of playing cards. I have long since matured into asking them for something rather than pawing through their stuff...mostly because I don�t want to get jumped [stunned, but not surprised] if I find their new dildo-hiding location. They, however, have not seemed to reach this level of maturity...and because of this, I didn�t need to ask hin where he�d gotten it from. I could even tell that it was he who had pawed through my room and taken it, because Step-mother keeps the things she takes one her side of the room. Instead, I got right to the point and asked Why he had taken it. Might have come in handy last camping trip, and maybe I might have lost my own knife in the woods, and there wouldn�t have been a fuss made at all. �Because you were going to hurt someone.� *short pause*...I don�t remember much, but I think I�d remember something of this...order...I�ve been a completely passive person since fourth grade when I bit that kid...I couldn�t even win wrestling matches in high school because I felt it too violent to hold someone down, restrain them. Of course, this one of those important fault lines between Luther and Goblyn, but...no. And he said it so factually, almost happily, as if it was a certain thing, without argument, and it wasn�t necessarily something bad. That�s how doctors tell you have cancer. �What do you mean- Who?� �Well, yourself.� As if this should have been obvious. Here I stand, waiting for the �Duh.� That I was sure would follow, rhetoric speaking. I�m still not sure where valley-fathers come from, but it�s just not...not right, at all.
The premise is not without logic. The first time I went camping with this knife I did cut myself, but this was because I was witling something, and it wasn�t much more than a papercut on my finger. But to suggest that I would purposely hurt myself with it is just absurd...�m the most sane person in the whole family (let�s assume for a bit that such things, like personality, can be quantified). Sarah and I are the only ones not attending a psychiatrist, who haven�t needed to attend a psychiatrist. And if it really came down to it, Sarah has a mildly borderline personality (and I mean that in a purely complimentary manner). Step-mother once told me that one of her husbands was a psychopath, and I had to resist the urge to ask her if that was her psychiatrist�s excuse, of if she had thought it up all by herself. I�m still fairly pleased with my restraint at that moment; I try so hard not to sink to their level. But I hear that they took Sister candles from her last week...left the vodka in the closet. I tell you, it�s like living with Ashcroft, and his new Federal Bullshit of the Inquisition (TM).
Over the last couple weeks, I�ve dropped my coke addiction; I�ll pick it back up in the fall, when school starts [explanation: my memory scraped the bottom of the pool, and I forgot that I wanted it; a week later, it just didn�t do it for me anymore]. I smoked my last clove today, gave the rest of my pack to Step-sister�s boyfriend. I�m beginning to retake control of my brain...yay for me.
Sir#1 (pretending to be a poor college student without money for his rent): Hi there...I just need a loan, for $200.
Sir#2 (pretending to be the teller): I�m sorry, I don�t think we offer loans of that size...what are you, a gambler?
Sir#1: *pause* Well, everyone�s a gambler. You gamble every morning that when you wake up and step outside there isn�t going to be a man there waiting to shoot you...
Sir#2: I mean, do you gamble for money?
Sir#1: Everyone gamblers for money. When you go to work in the morning, you�re gambling that some wacko isn�t gonna come in here with an uzi and spread you like jam all over the walls...and he�s gambling that he wont get caught, and the guy outside is-
Sir#2: Excuse me, Sir...are you threatening me? Might I remind you that it�s not only a federal offense to kill a bank teller during bank hours, but my life is worth thousands of dollars more in insurance...
Sir#1:Nono, not at all...I was just...I wanted a loan, for $200.
Sir#2: I�m afraid that�s not going to be possible, Sir. We don�t assist gambling addictions...
Sir#1: I�m not a gambl- wait, so you are afraid...
Sir#2: *no response*
Sir#1: ...Hello? Anyone there?
Narrator: It was then that Jason realized that the duration of these little daydream talks with himself were getting noticeably extensive. And then he noticed that he had been living north of the middle of nowhere, and hadn�t talked to anyone in at least two days...the majority of this day was spent designing a couple hundred spaceships inspired by biochemical carbon formulas. And he noticed that *this* is his life, talking to a bent ceiling.
The above (see above) are the truncated remains of a discussion I had with myself about next year. I crunched some numbers and came to a decision [which is a very rare thing to come to, of course...usually they come through priorities and/or immediate needs]. I decided, next year, to live off campus. And to return to Mount Ida College; to *kick* and *poke* it into shape a few more times before I leave.
*this is a thing used to wash cars. Yes, I learned yesterday how to wash a car the right way. And all these years...tsk tsk. But yay for learning the stuff everyone else already knew. *proudness*
