Ok, it's that time again. I'm back to school now. I should be
studying instead of writing this. Specifically, I've got tons of
assignment problems to due, and they're due tomorrow at 8:00 am! Ack!
But, instead...
It's like a movie, where things just happen and you accept them,
because it's a movie, and you know that movies aren't real, and
ludicrious things can happen. But it's not a movie. It really is
happening. Still, it feels so surreal, as if I'm not really living and
working and doing all this stuff, more like I'm asleep and dreaming,
and watching myself stop a
runaway fire truck, watching my niece, watching myself get bad grades
and ending up spending six years on a four year program. And then idiodic
things popup, like how I start thinking about the invisible cars,
and how I don't want to run into them. Nothing really weird I guess,
nothing that wouldn't be normal for a slightly paranoid person,
someone who really isn't paying attention to the world.
I don't want to waste another year in University. I realize how
much work I should really putting in, how I should be reading and
understanding. How I should really learn the things I need to learn so
that I can move on. I can't say, oh, I'll figure it out on the exam
anymore. I'm getting sick of feeling like an idiot for not really
knowing what's going on in class because I haven't been keeping up and
doing the reading or even paying attention in class. Sometimes we're
the ones laughing at the people falling asleep, but sometimes we're
falling asleep. I want to get straight A's this semester. Yeah
right, like that'll happen. But any improvement is good, and I think
I'm attaining that; I read something and understood why it was so, and
understood how I would have never have been able to figure that one
out at the last minute.
I've realized something about my writing lately. Sometimes I find
myself writing in the most confusing style possible, just so that I
can have fun trying to obscure the meaning or the setting or the action of
my writing. It's not serving any purpose really, except for my own
fun. Fortunetly, my factual writing doesn't suffer from this, so
things like Lagrange Point turn out well. It's just recreational
stuff that should really be deleted as soon as I finish it, because it
truly sucks. It was fun to write the onslaught of man, but I don't
think I would get anything out of it, reading it again. I'm not sure
anyone else would either. There's an idea to it, a purpose, but it was
just sort of tacked on to something that popped into my head while
sitting in class one day. The idea at the end is worth exploring more,
some factual nodes could come of it, some opinion on wilderness
management, but as it is, that writeup sucks. I think something better
could go with the title; that phrase sort of works for me, but I know
I can do a better writeup, something that makes better use of the
title.
So, I think I made a new friend. It's always good to make new
friends, and I probably don't do it often enough. Having nothing interesting to say hinders the ability to make
friends of course. I find a strange dichotomy within myself; I want to
know more people, I want to fit in a little better, I want to be able
to engage in casual conversation. At the same time, I feel like I
don't want to talk to anybody, as if it's to much effort to try to
come up with things to say and to respond in an appropriate fashion to
what others have to say. I find myself imagining converstions with
other people, people who might be interesting or might be interested
in me. I imagine myself being expressive and articulate, and in my
mind I can do these things, but I find myself imagining myself saying
things that I would never revel to people I haven't known for
years. I'm to guarded, I hate to share things about myself for fear of
giving others ammunition to use against me in a weird sort of
emotional warfare, for fear of burdening others with my problems,
for fear of being a complete goofball. But that's really part of why
I don't talk much.
Back to work.