Quixotica

Crappy office job FTW!

Waking up at 5 tomorrow FTL...

School's over.

Finals are done.

Quit my job a week ago.

Took care of all the passport and scholarship paperwork.

Everything that's been hanging over my head has been taken care of. Summer classes don't start for two weeks, giving me plenty of time to relax and enjoy summer break.

...

Man I'm bored.

So, in my feverent joy I missed a few things.

To recap:

- Free from Baskin & Robbin's. Fuck you, service economy.

- I have a history of looking bored and/or high. Go figure.

- Getting passport renewed because I'M GOING TO ISTANBUL. #$%@ CONSTANTINOPLE!

- I KNOW!

- Gotta miss AX to go. Long Beach FTL. Byzantium FTW!

That will be all.

Carry on.

Free at last, free at last,
Thank God Almighty, I'm free at last!




Getting my passport renewed.



July 2000.



May 2007.

Seven years.
What the hell happened?
And why do I always look bored or high?

S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo
Questa fiamma staria sensa piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero
Sensa tema d’infamia ti rispondo.

PWND?

Happy seis de mayo!

I thought it important that I attempt to narrate a post while inebriated.

I dunno, it seemed like the thing to do. I wanted to evaluate my ability to cognitively craft sentences, and so far it seems stable if mildly uninteresting.

I was disappointed; while I hadn't set out for the fiesta with the objective of getting "smashed," once there I decided that I ought to at least try and experience what so many young college males had supposedly spent their whole freshman year "experiencing."

I do not suspect that I am "smashed," as you call it; rather, I had a couple glasses of various types of alcohol and am now experiencing a thoroughly interesting interpretation of existence. For those of you who have never consumed alcohol, it is a difficult sensation to describe, and thus I will not attempt to do so. Rather, I will simply say that though I had at first felt a most imperative need to refrain from consuming any substance that would impair my judgemental capability, once presented with the reality of such a situation it became obvious that such naivete was exactly that: willful naivete on my part.

I have often told myself that I would not consume substances which would impair my judgement, because in my opinion my intelligence and ability to reason were the only things I had going for me. Having now experienced at least a small part of what it means to be truly intoxicated, let me just say that I was absolutely right and yet at the same time so naively wrong. My judgement (however faulty you may feel it to be) is in truth all I truly have going for me in this existence. I was born neither handsome nor comely, nor was I gifted with extraordinary strength, speed or stamina. I was lucky enough to be born into a close-knit family which taught me the value of honesty and hard work (however much I've failed to uphold those values), as well as the importance of a supportive family environment. Beyond that, I felt I had only my own reason and wits to rely on in setting myself apart from the archetypal crowded masses.

I don't feel that I was entirely wrong; rather, I feel that it was foolish of me to assume that one moment of weakness would signal the downfall of my carefully constructed carapace of morals. Such a line of reasoning is immature; if one's beliefs and morals cannot withstand a test of one's true self, can they truly be considered truth? If I was so afraid to test my own ethical limits, might it not have been because those limits were faulty to begin with?

I must admit I'm impressed; (or at least, I hope I'm impressed; it's hard to tell at this point) I didn't expect to be able to form complete sentences, much less manage complex punctuation. I do hope this looks as good tomorrow morning as it does this evening; I'd hate to think I was delusional as well as drunk.

But drunk's a strong word; I suspect that at my worst, I was only significantly tipsy; I say suspect, because my experience with the sensation can best be described as "non-existent." Still, it was a worthwhile experience and I don't think I'd trade it for anything. The next time some holiday or event comes up in which the ritual communal celebratory consumption of alcoholic beverages is encouraged, I think I'll be one of the first to encourage it; to actually feel my conscious control slowly degrade was a fascinating feeling, and I'm interested in exploring the extremes to which the human condition will go once under the effects of such insidious intoxicants. It should be more amusing than this paragraph, at least.

Also:

Screw you guys. I know I drank Garrett's supposedly THC-laced rum like, four times. EVERY TIME, I could remember taking a sip earlier; I just wasn't sure, and wanted to double-check with my supposedly SOBER and TRUSTWORTHY friends. Foolish, I know; next time, I'm just gonna punch myself in the face as I suspect it would be quicker and less goofy.

Meagan, I'm sorry if my continual reference to your Hebrew heritage offended you; at some early point in the evening I seized upon the concept of a Jewish princess as inherently insouciant, and I suspect that I might have carried the joke a bit too far. On behalf of the Jewish people, and all the followers of Abraham, I apologize. Bracha kol isha.

And to everyone, I apologize if my Caucasian dance moves were too much to bear. I am known for bringing the funk, and I know that sometimes the sheer weight of my groove can bring the house down, so to speak. If our rendition of "Twister Moves" was too intense, I take full responsibility.

I was not born to dance quietly.

I was born to rock.

My sister pointed out to me today that I shouldn't be allowed to dress myself.

Rightfully so, I suspect. Green, white and blue might not seem so bad if tastefully arranged, but the blue and pink plaid heart boxers suggestively peeking out may have taken the viewer's eye down a road better left less traveled.

I was not put on this earth to match.

I was put on this earth to rock.

As always, dawn sheds a different light on struggles long past. In review, I've come to admit that I hold several deep-seated grudges close to my heart. While an honest account would result in pages and pages of sordidly sinful spite, it would be pertinent to address some of the most glaring in light of yesterday's vehement diatribe.

First, (and most glaringly I feel) I loathe gorillas. Uppity bastards think sharing 98% of their DNA with humans entitles them to walk around on their knuckles all day, waving their ass in the air and generally making a nuisance of themselves. Did a gorilla invent fire? The wheel? Parachute pants?
I thought so.

Secondly, I can't help but feel a certain distate for East Islanders. However, this pales in comparison to my rabid contempt for Papua, New Guinea. Be warned, Papuans: should we ever encounter each other, perhaps at a local street fair or Civil War re-enactment, know that I shall heap concentrated scorn upon your shaven heads. It is highly likely that your matrilineal heritage shall be called into question. That is all.

But really, I feel that the most glaring flaw in my personality brought to light by such feverish narrative is my all-consuming hatred for the comma. Sure, many aspects of English punctuation elicit feelings of mistrust and revulsion, but none do so with the simple impertinence of this most abhorrent spawn of mankind. Cheeky blighters can't even be bothered to actually do any work, serving essentially as the grammatical representation of a noncommital shrug. Does the sentence end, is the point made, is the clause finished? Thanks to the insidious debauchery of the comma, we may never know.