Calm

A lot has happened

I didn't get the Wolverine Summer Camps job that I wanted. Oh, well. I hope some suit-wearing prick got it instead, and I hope he's playing on his Iphone when some kid breaks a leg on the volleyball court.

This is finals time. They (I'm still saying "they"?) have a study week. It's pretty neat. At State, you had a weekend, and then finals week. So, since my classes are jokes, I'm just kind of chilling. I have a paper to write tomorrow, but I'm not that worried about it. I can do no wrong in that class. Anyone with a grasp of punctuation and command over a couple transitions (WHOA! TRANSITIONS, HOLY SHIT!) can ace the papers. If I'm feeling sprightly, I might conjure up a couple more tricks for this one. You know, it being the final paper and all. I might use a colon or two, maybe a parenthesis.

Spanish has kind of been pissing me off. We just had an oral exam. My partner got a 94% and I got an 89%. I guess she showed me up. It should be okay, I have great grades on the written exams. I don't know, there's just something about speaking Spanish. My mind is like a whiteboard. I see the phrases in-print, and I just sort of read them off. I'm like the Spanish Forrest Gump. I speak SO slow and SO deliberately.

There's this really cool song by Metric that I've been listening to non-stop. It's called "Help, I'm alive". Neat beat, very danceable. Great production (some have actually criticized it for this) Awesome vocals.

My friend, Franz, has a new "prospect" (his word. I call it a "cute girl"). Susan and I met her today. I want to give him a high-five right now.

Joe has been sick. Susan and I dragged him to a party last night. He was fine. He really hit it off with this one guy by the entrance. Then, as we're leaving, it looks like Joe is having his testicles chewed by a crocodile. By the time we get back to the dorm, he's popping pills and cancelling study sessions. Today, it was all sweat pants and day-time T.V. It's funny. He has like a sick suit. When he's REALLY hung over or otherwise ill, he puts on these grey sweatpants and matching sweater.

Over the last month, I've been calling in to this on-campus sex-themed talk show "Turned On." They actually have a blog on blogspot. I just prank them stupid with the most lewd shit you can imagine. Whenever I do it, I channel the voice of Carl Brutanandilewski from Aqua Team Hunger Force, which I don't even like that much. At any rate, he has a great voice for vile calls.

Susan is a dream come true. I'm madly in love with her. I brought her home for Greek Orthodox mass. Any shiksa who goes to that service deserves their own holiday. She said she had fun, though.

Here's a really good picture of us. It was taken yesterday.

Well, I'm a philosophy major now-on paper, at least.

My Red Wings have been destroying the Columbus Blue Jackets. They're primed for another parade. The Shark Tank has been punctured, and they're choking on cold, hard, air and their own suck. Funny, I had them going further. Boston swept, like I predicted. The Rangers are winning in the Capitals series, which is an ENORMOUS shocker to me. Sorry, Ovie :/ However, Ovie's attitute has been a little vociferous, a little too confrontational lately. Usually, he's content to just chest-bump the boards whenever he displays some on-ice bravura, but lately, he's been showing up to early morning practice sessions for the opposition. He got kicked out of one. When asked why, he said, "Because they're afraid of me." I really hope Datsyuk beats out his countryment for the Hart. He might be the best player in the NHL. Though his numbers aren't as great as Malkin's or Ovechkin's, bear in mind, Pavel skates against the top lines of the enemy, like on the penalty kill, and he skates far less than Malkin and Ovechkin. So, for what quality point-earning time he gets, I feel he makes the most out of it, more than Malkin or Ovechkin.

Susan's birthday was monday. I took her to the Macaroni Grille, and it was fantastic. Like an Olive Garden, only a bit nicer (almost identical, actually). I got her a Wolverine Ice Hockey jersey. It's a small, and she's swimming in it. She loved it, though, and, I have to admit, she's dashing in it. Yellow really complements her dark hair and eyes. Before I gave it to her, I dragged her in front of my mirror and made her shut her eyes. Then, I browsed through my closet for about ten minutes, just to build the anticipation. When it looked like she couldn't take it anymore, I grabbed the jersey and slipped it over her.

We've grown since my last post

I won't mince words: Susan is the best thing to ever happen to me.

Well, that's all for now.

I build it up to get it knocked down. I'm treading water. Not drowning, not swimming. Watching everyone else disappear on the horizon like freighters on Lake Huron while I fight the weeds around my legs. And I know, I know, that the slightest look from her can make it all go away. That the cloud can disperse, that I can be rooted, anchored to this world I'm spinning off of at terminal velocity.

Is that bad? That someone has this control. That I'm owned. That I can't make things better for myself. That I need someone to flick the switch, to tell me I exist "for a reason", that there's a place for me, that I'm great, that the world is lucky to have me.

And how much worse is it that I can't believe her? That I have to watch her say the most beautiful things and still take them with a grain of salt? I hate this filter everything has to slide through to get in my brain. The truth is putty. It's taffy. I love playing with it.

And, still, I'm getting ready to go drift through the same summer air currents, press my tired legs against cold porch concrete, nylon hammock, cotton blanket. Cushioning, stifling, stultifying.

There's a bunch of paradoxes I can't understand about myself. Knots that keep me so constricted, but can't be untied. I want to be a part of something, but I simultaneously despise any kind of organization, with their fucking name-tags, people saying, "resume builder!", and hours sheets. I want to be something great, but I can give it all up.

I need to decide for what and why I want to live.

My girlfriend is going away for awhile. But it's okay, we'll talk once a week, and I'll bum a ride off my parents to drive me half-way to some fucking diner to meet her for coffee.

I couldn't be more miserable.

Back to the same god damn, mother fucking, sorry-assed, piece-of-shit job. I'm the only person who can't make things better for himself. Everyone else can FIND things. People, scholarships, money, jobs. I sit with my thumb up my ass, blind to the world, groping my way through life.

Just when I think I could fade out, cease to exist, I find that I suddenly love life, more than anyone else. I'm an accordion, I'm a jump-rope, I'm a roller coaster, I'm a wave, I'm a string vibration, I'm a yo-yo, I'm a ship hull, I'm the sun, I'm a thermometer, I'm a volcano.

I'd rather be blind, deaf, and dumb than mediocre. I'd rather just succumb, just beat my brains out with alcohol and drugs, than spend my life like a dog trying to walk on two legs.

I need to leave and be alone. I need 5000 dollars to fall into my lap, and then I need to get out of here.

I have done nothing. I've met no one. I've written nothing. I've created nothing. I've said nothing. I'm treading water.

I fucking hate this school, too. I hate them all. They're a scam, a callous business, a piece of this world.

I hate this fucking post. It's terrible. Anyone could have written it. It's self-indulgent, it's angsty. It's seventeen-years-old. It's juvenile, it's puerile, it's pointless, it's selfish, it's ignorant, it's whiny, it's lazy, it's disgusting.

I think I've been depressed for awhile. I ignored it. I just thought I was weak (not saying I'm not). But I've been crushed like this before.

I'm at the bottom of a valley and the sky is black. The mountains are infinite and the land is barren. Guess I'll just stay for three more fucking years.

Coming here was a mistake. I lost a year. Even more, I lost a degree. I'm repeating things, I'm learning NOTHING. I'm learning not to think for myself, not to make decisions, because I'm always so fucking wrong.

I'm looking at a picture of me right now. I'm smiling. I want to vomit. As if the party could coax some happiness out of me? As if that was "what I needed"? I could sit here in this room for the rest of my life.

Something is wired wrong. Which wire can I cut?

And all this sadness, it's just not productive. It'll wrench my mind away from the things that could save it, it will keep it hopelessly dithering in my fear. I'll just keep sitting here, shaking at myself, trembling out of fear and rage.

Can I just have my fucking office job now? Can I just start dressing business-casual? Can I just start living for the water cooler chats? Can I just stare at a screen, make enough money to live, and then go home and be away from everyone and everything? Can I just be separate, at last?

Every time I laugh, I want to cut my vocal cords out. I would laugh. I have nothing to lose, I'm fucking daft. Those are the people who laugh like I do. The one's who are just too depressed to stop. Because what happens then? Well, it's not very funny.

How much money do I have to waste on myself? Enough to get professional help? Enough to go do something? To get an exciting internship? I'd burn it. I'll starve. I don't care.

How far can I go? Tell me, I'll go.

The more people I bring in, the more people I hurt. They're cockle burs. They cling to me, only to be deposited in a big pile of shit. Oh, I'm real good at latching them. I'm so fucking funny, and charming, and playful, and fun. You should see them fall. They jump right on to my sleeve.

I can't talk to anyone. They all remind me of things I hate to much. Home, this school, my past self, my future self. Being human has been hard.

Fuck this record. I knew "The Bends" would make me do this.