Mood for A Day

Tried arguing with the Logic professor to get a couple points on a homework assignment I more or less boned. Found out they're the last people you're going to win an argument against. I'm lucky he didn't dock me just for trying. So, tail between my legs, I accepted my grade (this all played out in back and forth email, by the way), but I still feel like a pat on the back should come for somewhere. Arguing with logic masters is scary, especially when they bust out the Latin on you.

Well, I made a big decision for the blog last week. I was parcelling out little sections for people that I thought they'd like for quite awhile, and I just sort of said, "Fuck it, blogs are meant to be read, just like books. No one writes JUST for themselves." Hm, maybe some people do, but I think the majority of good writing is useful or significant, and that invariably means it has readerS. I mean, even diaries have SOME use related to others. Most are like little mental sounding boards for big ideas, or they might be cathartic . This blog is sort of like a diary, and as such, it fulfils both functions. I'd say it's mostly cathartic. Well, there's nothing really cathartic about spilling your guts to some dark corner of the internet where NO one can see it, just like there's no release in hitting a punching bag that doesn't make your fist hurt or the chain rattle or the other people in the gym keep their distance. No one punches air. If my writing begins to suffer for this, I'll just destroy this blog and go back to the blogger closet. I suppose the quality of writing matters most because no matter what the reality is, I still write like people do read this. That's why I like the medium of the blog so much. If if it's address isn't on my facebook page, I still feel like this could be snagged by any hapless web drifter. It's a neat feeling, it gives you a neat sort of anonymity and the courage to experiment, try different voices.

Nick and I, what a pair. Geez, now I'm starting to think our impasse is rooted in failed communication, not spite. When I'm breaking balls, he's defending himself. When he's excoriating me, I laugh because I think he's just breaking my balls. When I called him a "sneaky fuck" -while laughing, mind you- and I didn't hear him chuckle, I knew I messed up, crossed a line. He then called me a mama's boy and, also, friendless and fat in the same two minutes. I don't even know HOW you'd ease that into ball-breaking camaraderie. No, he was letting me have it. And I'm not saying he was wrong, though. Haha, he had some pretty compelling arguments for all three parts of his phillipic. Still, not cool. The rules of war demand a response. I think at this stage, something totally juvenile and disgusting is in order. But no, I'll take the high road. If he takes out the garbage before my family gets here like I asked, I'll consider this Cold War resolved and I'll stop eating his M&M's (Yeah, he was definitely right about the fat part). Don't forget, I do like him. I think we have a concept to explain this. "Man law," is it? The unspoken rules that let you fuck with your friends as long as justice is on your side?

I'm almost done with my transfer papers. Off into the unknown again I'll soon be. Isn't life nothing but a shot in the dark, though? Risks and chances? I think I've got the stones to start a new life. Beginnings are the most powerful thing we can do. It takes a lot more effort to erase a word than to write it. There's something beautiful there, as well. I can't help but thinking about planting seeds. Cheesy and trite though it may be, it's still, nevertheless, a perfect metaphor for the power and beauty of starting over. I love starting fresh. I can leave behind MSU and its people, the salt of the earth-one of the biggest reasons why I came here in the first place: good, common, unpretentious people- for something different. The only thing I worry about is the money. MSU was the economical choice, and for that, the one that won out. My parents have two more on the way, I couldn't turn down all the scholarship money MSU was throwing at me. At the time, they were even offering me a paid internship thing (really, a 'professorial assistantship'). "We don't want you to have any regrets," they say. Touching, isn't it? Well, I don't want them to live underneath a bridge. It seems like all family stand-offs turn out this way. Deep, reciprocal care sort of paradoxically creating problems.

Besides, I'm not really a good investment. Funny, I used to be such a go-getter, the extra creditor, the hand raiser. And I don't want to leave my family in a debt I can't pay back. It's wrong for them to foot a bill that lets me sit on my ass and become more and more withdrawn and pathetic. It's just cruel because I know they'll feel terrible when they watch me become a slacker bum with a philosophy degree. They'll think they failed. Sometimes, I wish I didn't happen to such nice people :/ They want to help me do what I want even more than they want me to get a good career, it seems. Jesus, it's almost tragic. They'll watch me be poor and think I'm suffering, and they'll suffer for that, but they won't ever interfere. Though they can't understand my fucked up goals- to live apart, to want nothing- they would never interfere; What I want, though ridiculous, dwarfs what they might secretly, silently, sadly, wish for.

Now, when I think of what I'll become, I find myself far away. Lately, I don't really feel that American. The people here are SO competitive, the rat race is such a grind. This year, I thought about law school. But what and where will that get me? A stress-induced heart attack and a eulogy celebrating all the difficult cases I won, MAYBE a family I would never see and awesome boats, houses, and other toys I'd never use. Maya, maya, maya! I don't want to want anything. I don't want anyone to want me to want anything or to depend on me at all. I want to be a leaf alone on a pond with not a ripple to shake it- detached, untouchable, impregnable, complete. Bleak, eh? And I used to hate Schopenhauer. I'm a square peg in a world of round holes. I can't think about sticking me anywhere. Will I be a city slicker? A country fella? Maybe an ex-pat? Will I be a family man? A loner? A house, apartment, condo, flat? Nothing fits. The only thing I want is freedom and growth and peace. I don't want to be pulled in the million directions of this complicated society, with work and family tearing me asunder, leaving me riven by responsibility. Hm, maybe the struggles, the ripples on the pond, are necessary for growth. I'll have to think about this.

Could this all be whining? Doesn't everyone get scared, especially as their 20th birthday draws near? Will I ever suck it up and just straighten my tie, cuff my sleeves? As I've often said about things, yeah, this could be. Da Vinci thought changing your mind was wonderful, that we should scream our new opinions from the roof tops. Maybe the next place I'll air my gripes will be to the wind from the roof of Shaw as I proclaim my new dream of owning a huge business.

J.J.'s coming tomorrow. He's bringing Gears of War 2. I've been waiting for this game for awhile. The first game in the series was awesome, the stuff of nightmares, even. It's scary, but also a decent shooter. Sometimes survival horror sacrifices gameplay for the visuals and the immersion. Gears is an interesting blend of both elements.

A couple of days ago, someone told me to ease up, that I "hate myself so much." Well, it's complicated. I see it differently. I don't hate myself, really. If anything, I love myself a little too much. I have high hopes for myself, high standards, high discipline- all because I care so much about myself. The individual is a gift, the block of clay we all have to mold and make beautiful. Because of this love, I get upset when I fail, big time upset. I question just about everything I do or say, often to my blog haha, and spend hours rethinking decisions, re-playing things in my mind, trying to forget mistakes. This torture causes me to "hate" myself. It manifests itself in my self-criticisms, low morale, esteem, confidence, but it's not TRUE hate. I guess it's more akin to disappointment, but it's sharper, constant, and more personal.

Almost wasn't able to ship my contacts back to the company for a refund last week. The fuckers made me tape the box itself, which is exactly why I walked across the entire campus. So, the only service they rendered was giving me a big, fucking tape roller thing that looked like something the Whos play with on Christmas. You know the one. It's got like seven slots and rollers and handles. The tape winds through it tortuously, always ending on both the cutter and the hairest place on your arm. Some girl across from me was laughing her ass off watching me give myself a government arm wax. I got a couple cuts, too. After a half hour or so of entertaining all the lucky 2-D letter senders, I was left with a box that looked like it had been tied to a cow and dropped in the raptor pit. Finally presenting it to the incredibly helpful clerk, I laughed with her. I stopped, however, when she pulled out her scissors and touched it up. What the fuck? Why didn't she let me use that to measure the strands in the first place? What was the Rube Goldberg device for?

That's about it.