I was trying to remember what I thought Kath’s apartment would look like. I was sitting on the bus, rummaging through old, long-forgotten items in my brain, trying to remember my preconceptions about Kath’s apartment… it was a night of heavy snow-fall… all around there was beautiful white. And I kept calling my parents, trying to convince them that I would be completely fine, and that they had nothing to worry about! But my dad had been watching the news or listening to some radio station, and he was telling me about all the accidents on the freeway. He demanded that I come home immediately… and now, ah, yes, the memories resurface of their own accord, without my effort… I was in the midst of doing some last-minute Christmas shopping… if memory serves, it was the day before Christmas Eve…
And so I used this as a spring-board for some elaborate lie: I told him I would finish up my shopping as soon as possible, and then I was “going to my friend Katie’s in West Allis,” since I was already “in that direction.” (if you only knew my father, or the Milwaukee metropolitan area for that matter, you would know what a consolation this was to him; it sounded infinitely better than saying “I’m going to take the 8-94 all the way down to the east side to visit my friend Kath’s apartment…” Couple with that the fact that my father was always leery about my extraneous visits to the east side.) so, little by little, I got my parents’ consent, and with that, I was off to Kath’s apartment on the east side.
On the way there, I remember speaking with Josalyn on the phone… and she was telling me how they were assembling a TV stand and hanging up posters… and that Kath’s apartment was very dear and “quaint,” and that I would really love seeing it…
And, consequently, today, as I sat on the bus, I tried to remember what I thought about when Josalyn told me this… yes, a rather absurd detail of memory, but I wanted to bring it to the surface anyway; these bizarre recollections and musings are one of the many reasons I love taking the bus… one never knows what interesting thoughts may surface…
So what did I think it looked like? I think I remember relating it to Cheryl’s apartment, probably because I really haven’t been to very many apartments… It didn’t register in my mind that Josalyn had told me it was a one-bedroom studio apartment, and that it was going to be much different from what I had thought.
All I remember is that my preconceptions were much different from Kath’s actual apartment. And obviously, not in a bad way; I love Kath’s apartment, and already, I have so many beautiful memories attached to it.
But, for some reason, this thought just clung to my brain… I needed to remember the exact image I had conceived before seeing the actual apartment… Maybe there was a living space with white carpeting, and a tiny little bedroom, and maybe--
“Excuse me,” shouted a petite woman adjacent from me, thoroughly disrupting my thought-flow, “this is my stop!” A few other riders seemed to laugh casually.
Yes, yes, he had missed it. I remember watching her pull the cord immediately after we left the last stop, so as to make her intentions very clear… but for some reason, the bus driver completely missed it. Perhaps his brain had not taken notice of the bell, or the “STOP REQUESTED” sign. Or maybe he just made a very human mistake. It was completely forgivable, I think. But evidently not to this woman.
At that point, I was trying to recollect whether or not this type of instance had ever happened to me. But I couldn’t remember any such instance…
“Ah, you should have said something earlier…” the bus driver casually mused, meaning no real harm… probably just speaking straight out of his mind.
“I pulled the cord right away, loser.” The sting in this woman’s words was both clear and deliberate. There were some low, apologetic “ou’s” from the crowd… a few laughs… someone else muttering, “oh, come on, now ‘loser?’ ” it sounded extremely similar to the din of a studio audience at a sit-com… or like the spiritless canned laughter on television…
And I realized that my thoughts had been completely turned by this bizarre incident, and that I would truly never be able to remember my preconceptions of Kath’s apartment… and from there my thoughts ran absurdly and illogically… documenting the bus-driver’s increased velocity after the incident (or at least, I had perceived an increase in velocity; perhaps he had been driving quickly the whole time…) yes, yes, we were driving maniacally fast! And I was thinking about writing all these thoughts down in some haphazard journal, and that I would be like a perfect Woolf, in her bizarre little short story “An Unwritten Novel.” and then I was thinking that it would be a very different story indeed, because it would be based on actual events, not on an interesting fabrication of my own imagination. And from there I wondered if I could ever truly be a legitimate writer, because I “put so much of myself into” the craft. Especially when Woolf, Wilde, and many others, had talked about completely removing one’s emotional mind from his or her art… otherwise he or she was “selling-out,” or something. Objectivity. And realism. No romantic subjectivity… but which was I really aiming for anyway? And wasn’t I writing realistically?
After that my thoughts flew back to the incident, and I thought about thinking about the incident. And I thought about thinking about writing about the incident. And I thought about thinking about thinking about writing the incident. And from there I wondered what a sad end I would come to, if the bus driver got us all killed in some terrible accident… with me thinking about writing and writers and bizarre interpersonal incidents…
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Monday, March 29, 2010
a morning worth noting
The freeway grows and shrinks and wraps around itself in fantastic shapes. Primordial in simplicity… elegant in its vitality… like blood vessels… and the little people in their cars. (and, where are they all going?)
But this morning it doesn’t matter where they’re going, because I have the soothing chatter of the radio, because I hear the deep, faceless laughs and the endless conversation about politics and pop culture. This morning I’m not filled with a philosophical inquiry about my fellow man; I don’t question why or what he is. I only know that he is. I only know that he has purpose.
And next to me, my father talks about the best routes to take, the definitions of “interchanges,” and the confused logic of graveyard plots. And with him, there has always been this sort of awe at logic. This sort of awed expression at mathematical beauty… logic, reason, rationalization, equations. And when I was younger and more immature, I never understood this beauty. I found his ideas sterile and generally inhumane. I flocked to my mother’s love of literature and the written word, of language and spoken beauty. And, in my youth, I considered this beauty superior. But only now, as I am riding peacefully along the freeway with my father, finally escaping anxiety and contrived fears, do I understand my father’s sense of mathematical beauty. This beauty of logic and of reason.
He wonders aloud how cemeteries are able to keep up with landscaping and other expenses, since the patrons only pay once. And what happens when they run out of space? But to him, there seems to be no wonder or fear at the absurdity of death; only a gentle wonder at the absence of financial logic, perhaps. There is no fear of absurdity, no questions about our ritual of putting the dead underground, in enormous, non-specifying groups… tombstones and markers, bearing the family name… and family names blending into one, and eventually, entire cemeteries becoming one distinct being… becoming the home of the Dead, not of Christopher So-and-So, or Mary This-or-That. Yes, in my father there is only a quiet speculation about the gruff exterior of things. And, for the first time, perhaps, I am able to see the beautiful order in this.
But, of course, this ideology unwittingly fails in so many situations, when life truly does become absurd. Because I must ask, how does this type of person address the Holocaust? Hiroshima and Nagasaki? Innocent deaths, meaningless lives, failed dreams? How do they address the World Trade Center collapsing on itself? The people jumping out the windows, choosing the lesser of two hells?
Perhaps, in numbers. Perhaps in calculations and slow steady reflections. Perhaps in historical perfection--in attempting to memorize all the facts exactly as they happened (but any fool knows this is completely impossible!) Perhaps in polite conversation, in gentle awe?
I can’t tell. But I long to ask.
There is a different smell to everything. A different feel. My dorm room seems welcoming and clean.
“It smells clean in here,” I remark. The groceries in their bags, the books stowed away in my backpack, the shoes lined up… Yes, there is a renewed beauty to everything. And if only I read Proust every morning! If only his beautiful writing echoed through my head at all hours, giving beauty to otherwise unnoticeable figures.
The city is still the same. The skyline is the same. The smokestacks are the same. But there is a renewed sense of beauty and calm to them.
I walk to class. There is still the smell of cigarettes… the wakening smell of spring… the sponginess of the grass. And subtly, suddenly, old feelings return to me, as though slowly awakening from a pleasant dream… the enormous columns of Golda Meir. The bike racks. The people all crammed inside the library. And I want to know that they’re being as productive as they look… that they’re not all sitting on Facebook and delaying some other important task… the Gothic windows on Chapman Hall, bringing with them an era long-since passed… an era where my idealistic visions of education are fancily floating about; an era where I am certain I belong, or should belong. And slowly, the old feelings return to me…
The anxiety and the contrived fears that I had forgotten on the car ride here start to call me again… “and what are you really doing? I think you’re wasting your time… hurry up, decide!” and I start running through endless pros and cons… start considering endless majors… My heart stretches out in twenty different directions. And I remember why I feel so tired all the time.
And the constant concern for my own health. The gentle fear underneath my skin… the worry slowly destroying the lining of my stomach, altering the beating of my heart. The red and sundry marks on my body… analyzing each one, coming up with a disease more horrible each time. The physical pain I truly feel. My mind races with worst-case scenarios. I’ve become so deft at imagining worst-case scenarios in a matter of seconds. I can analyze a situation and immediately come up with the worst possible outcome… because if I have imagined the worst, I cannot be surprised by it… nor can I be surprised by the bad, or the somewhat bad… and how thrilled I will be if it actually turns out good!
And now the same creeping sense of exhaustion arises. And my futon looks more and more enticing. And the anxiety seems more and more worth forgetting… worth drowning in the peaceful, unthinking bliss of sleep.
But, before I surrender my body to temporal relief, I recall, with happy fondness, the beauty of this morning. The unhurried, whimsical manner of life. The beautiful words I have read. I remember feeling happy and complacent in the car with my logical father. I remember feeling happy at my desk reading Proust, underlining my favorite passages. I remember feeling happy in my French class, sharply identifying the difference between quelle heure est-il? and quel temps fait-il? I remember the beauty and sad profundity of Chopin. I remember the beauty of my friends and of times long-since passed.
And then I rest my head. Not attempting to escape fear and anxiety, but to surrender to a quiet exhaustion. (or, at least, these should be my ideal motives… anxiety is always present, of course…)
But this morning it doesn’t matter where they’re going, because I have the soothing chatter of the radio, because I hear the deep, faceless laughs and the endless conversation about politics and pop culture. This morning I’m not filled with a philosophical inquiry about my fellow man; I don’t question why or what he is. I only know that he is. I only know that he has purpose.
And next to me, my father talks about the best routes to take, the definitions of “interchanges,” and the confused logic of graveyard plots. And with him, there has always been this sort of awe at logic. This sort of awed expression at mathematical beauty… logic, reason, rationalization, equations. And when I was younger and more immature, I never understood this beauty. I found his ideas sterile and generally inhumane. I flocked to my mother’s love of literature and the written word, of language and spoken beauty. And, in my youth, I considered this beauty superior. But only now, as I am riding peacefully along the freeway with my father, finally escaping anxiety and contrived fears, do I understand my father’s sense of mathematical beauty. This beauty of logic and of reason.
He wonders aloud how cemeteries are able to keep up with landscaping and other expenses, since the patrons only pay once. And what happens when they run out of space? But to him, there seems to be no wonder or fear at the absurdity of death; only a gentle wonder at the absence of financial logic, perhaps. There is no fear of absurdity, no questions about our ritual of putting the dead underground, in enormous, non-specifying groups… tombstones and markers, bearing the family name… and family names blending into one, and eventually, entire cemeteries becoming one distinct being… becoming the home of the Dead, not of Christopher So-and-So, or Mary This-or-That. Yes, in my father there is only a quiet speculation about the gruff exterior of things. And, for the first time, perhaps, I am able to see the beautiful order in this.
But, of course, this ideology unwittingly fails in so many situations, when life truly does become absurd. Because I must ask, how does this type of person address the Holocaust? Hiroshima and Nagasaki? Innocent deaths, meaningless lives, failed dreams? How do they address the World Trade Center collapsing on itself? The people jumping out the windows, choosing the lesser of two hells?
Perhaps, in numbers. Perhaps in calculations and slow steady reflections. Perhaps in historical perfection--in attempting to memorize all the facts exactly as they happened (but any fool knows this is completely impossible!) Perhaps in polite conversation, in gentle awe?
I can’t tell. But I long to ask.
There is a different smell to everything. A different feel. My dorm room seems welcoming and clean.
“It smells clean in here,” I remark. The groceries in their bags, the books stowed away in my backpack, the shoes lined up… Yes, there is a renewed beauty to everything. And if only I read Proust every morning! If only his beautiful writing echoed through my head at all hours, giving beauty to otherwise unnoticeable figures.
The city is still the same. The skyline is the same. The smokestacks are the same. But there is a renewed sense of beauty and calm to them.
I walk to class. There is still the smell of cigarettes… the wakening smell of spring… the sponginess of the grass. And subtly, suddenly, old feelings return to me, as though slowly awakening from a pleasant dream… the enormous columns of Golda Meir. The bike racks. The people all crammed inside the library. And I want to know that they’re being as productive as they look… that they’re not all sitting on Facebook and delaying some other important task… the Gothic windows on Chapman Hall, bringing with them an era long-since passed… an era where my idealistic visions of education are fancily floating about; an era where I am certain I belong, or should belong. And slowly, the old feelings return to me…
The anxiety and the contrived fears that I had forgotten on the car ride here start to call me again… “and what are you really doing? I think you’re wasting your time… hurry up, decide!” and I start running through endless pros and cons… start considering endless majors… My heart stretches out in twenty different directions. And I remember why I feel so tired all the time.
And the constant concern for my own health. The gentle fear underneath my skin… the worry slowly destroying the lining of my stomach, altering the beating of my heart. The red and sundry marks on my body… analyzing each one, coming up with a disease more horrible each time. The physical pain I truly feel. My mind races with worst-case scenarios. I’ve become so deft at imagining worst-case scenarios in a matter of seconds. I can analyze a situation and immediately come up with the worst possible outcome… because if I have imagined the worst, I cannot be surprised by it… nor can I be surprised by the bad, or the somewhat bad… and how thrilled I will be if it actually turns out good!
And now the same creeping sense of exhaustion arises. And my futon looks more and more enticing. And the anxiety seems more and more worth forgetting… worth drowning in the peaceful, unthinking bliss of sleep.
But, before I surrender my body to temporal relief, I recall, with happy fondness, the beauty of this morning. The unhurried, whimsical manner of life. The beautiful words I have read. I remember feeling happy and complacent in the car with my logical father. I remember feeling happy at my desk reading Proust, underlining my favorite passages. I remember feeling happy in my French class, sharply identifying the difference between quelle heure est-il? and quel temps fait-il? I remember the beauty and sad profundity of Chopin. I remember the beauty of my friends and of times long-since passed.
And then I rest my head. Not attempting to escape fear and anxiety, but to surrender to a quiet exhaustion. (or, at least, these should be my ideal motives… anxiety is always present, of course…)
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Reader beware:
Every once and a while, I write something so intensely emotional and realistic that I'm afraid to show it to anyone... I'm afraid for others to see the wild chaos of my brain... the pretentiousness, the inferiority, the gross thoughts and observations. but, I have already revealed myself in an earlier post, so here goes. This is a mess of pretentious horse-chatter that I wrote out of frustration with my current situation. I have no idea where my life is going. I spend most of my days in anxiety for the future... reconsidering my past, wondering if I have made some celestial mistake somewhere. in this little piece, I claim to have found the mistake... it's vulgar, pretentious, and kind of scary.
Here goes...
I feel like my life is going nowhere. I feel like I had this moment of prime beauty and intellect, and I squandered it. Squandered it with careless glee. Let it drift away like meaningless bits of newspaper. And now I’m trying to pick them up again--to put it all back together… but it’s nearly impossible. I could maybe reassemble the headlines, at best…
And there I was, in all the glory of my junior and senior years. I had a rigorous “well-rounded” schedule. I studied music in the afternoon, and calculus and physics in the morning.
I became a machine in the name of standardized testing. I went manic with the ACT scores of my peers… she got a 28... He got a 24, how pathetic!… she got a 34; dear God, she is brilliant. I could never do that!… and he got a 30. A very respectable score. I could have accurately reported the score of any given person walking down the hallway. And then testing season came around. And I prepared by playing guitar and writing songs in my room, studying test prep books before sleep. And yes, yes, yes, there I was! The brilliant senior! I got fours and fives on all my AP exams! I understood calculus. It understood me. We were one soul. I made art late in the day… pots and pans, scrapbooks, drawings. The freshman were in awe of my work. I took up piano again. I went to state for my solo--Claire de Lune. I began songwriting more and more. I impressed the student body with my singing voice. Yes, yes, yes! The prodigy child! In extreme mania, I was finally embodying him!! And those moments of hideous fear and inferiority, well, we need not remember them. Because from a distance, these moments all sound so sublimely beautiful. And you really would think I was so incredibly brilliant then… standing on stage, being congratulated on my class ranking… number six, oh yes, me. Number six…
And I was supposed to be applying to all the wonderful universities in this country. But I applied to only one--UW-Madison, whose giant arms embraced me within weeks of applying. I found no need to apply elsewhere: this was it, this was it. The supernova of the UW system. The “flagship” of the UW system… with its giant research institutions and thousands of brilliant students and its “selectivity,” it was the place for me. All those brilliant shining faces… and we would all just work together under the sun… under the sun and the moon on Bascom Hill, showing our brilliance to the world. Yes, yes, yes! This was it! This was it!!
And I never thought to apply to any of the Ivy League schools. I thought it pointless. I analogized it with the idea of purchasing expensive, brand-name foods. I was convinced that the off-brands would taste just the same. Yes, oh yes, how sure I was! Those stupid, high-falutin’ ninnies! They knew nothing more about art or intellect than I! I was brilliant! I was brilliant, and I didn’t even think of them!
Only now do I seriously consider them. Now, when I am doomed. When I am trapped inside this stupid state with stupid people who don’t care. Trapped with stupid tools with backwards hats and faux-diamond stud earrings. With stupid orange sluts whose stupidity is exceeded only by their alcohol consumption. Yes, here I am. Trapped in the “four-year bacchanal” when I should be off with genius professors studying the classics… studying Latin and Greek, philosophizing, experimenting, thinking. Yes, I have wasted myself. I have wasted my talent. I was too engrossed in becoming a well-rounded student. I was too engrossed in myself to think about my future. And here I am. I pay the full price. I can be nothing more than a mediocre piece of scum now.
I have a 3.625 GPA from Madison, and a bunch of Humanties/Arts classes in progress here at the lovely University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee. I have nothing to show for my work in high school. No one cares anymore. No one cares about the musicals, the rehearsals, the drawings, the calculus tests, the Latin translations, the piano-playing, the perfect 4.0, the class ranking. No one! No one! It’s all bullshit now. It may as well not have even happened. I cannot transfer to an exceptional university at this point.
“We accept 18 to 35 transfers out of 800 applicants.” Ha! Ha Ha Ha Ha! What a fucking joke! And they want a 3.8 college GPA as well. Ha! What a joke! I’m not going to have that. Even if I ace all these stupid, unchallenging classes at Milwaukee! And even if I did, they won’t care! I took one difficult course in my college career--Chemistry, and I only got a B. They don’t care about that!
I’m trapped. I’m trapped. I’m trapped. I had it all and I wasted it. I had it all and I just threw it in the garbage. It’s timing. It’s all timing. Life is all about timing. Success is all about timing. Oh, if only I’d realized this earlier.
Or, perhaps, I was never as brilliant as I had imagined in the first place…
What becomes of me? Will I really amount to precious little more than mediocre scum?
These classes are not challenging. They just make me sleep. All I do is sleep now. I have no reason to be awake, aside from my own personal scholarship and learning… for which I am only occasionally active.
I am trapped! I am trapped!
Oh you fucking douche bag with sagging pants! No one cares about your faux-diamond stud earrings! No one cares about the orange girl you fucked last night! No one cares about how you snuck past the monitors “totally wasted as fuck” last night!
Why are you here? A hundred years ago, your kind would not be anywhere near a university. You would be despicable tavern scum. Which is, I think, what you still are. Unfortunately now, you must bear the same title as me (what a disgrace to my accomplishments and my abilities!): undergraduate. Yes. We’re all undergraduates together. The orange girls and the douche bag boys and the indifferent sluts. Yes, we’re all undergraduates. And they don’t give a shit’s worth about literature or knowledge or philosophy or Shakespeare or Plato or anything even REMOTELY intelligent. So long as they’ve got some beer and some stupid easy slut to take home at night! What a fucking joke! This whole institution is a joke! How can anyone take themselves seriously here! This is the most tragic of comedies! And I, the principal actor! Oh, the irony! Fuck this, fuck this all! I just want to run away from everything, because I have messed up so celestially… messed up so celestially that there is no hope for redemption… none….
Here goes...
I feel like my life is going nowhere. I feel like I had this moment of prime beauty and intellect, and I squandered it. Squandered it with careless glee. Let it drift away like meaningless bits of newspaper. And now I’m trying to pick them up again--to put it all back together… but it’s nearly impossible. I could maybe reassemble the headlines, at best…
And there I was, in all the glory of my junior and senior years. I had a rigorous “well-rounded” schedule. I studied music in the afternoon, and calculus and physics in the morning.
I became a machine in the name of standardized testing. I went manic with the ACT scores of my peers… she got a 28... He got a 24, how pathetic!… she got a 34; dear God, she is brilliant. I could never do that!… and he got a 30. A very respectable score. I could have accurately reported the score of any given person walking down the hallway. And then testing season came around. And I prepared by playing guitar and writing songs in my room, studying test prep books before sleep. And yes, yes, yes, there I was! The brilliant senior! I got fours and fives on all my AP exams! I understood calculus. It understood me. We were one soul. I made art late in the day… pots and pans, scrapbooks, drawings. The freshman were in awe of my work. I took up piano again. I went to state for my solo--Claire de Lune. I began songwriting more and more. I impressed the student body with my singing voice. Yes, yes, yes! The prodigy child! In extreme mania, I was finally embodying him!! And those moments of hideous fear and inferiority, well, we need not remember them. Because from a distance, these moments all sound so sublimely beautiful. And you really would think I was so incredibly brilliant then… standing on stage, being congratulated on my class ranking… number six, oh yes, me. Number six…
And I was supposed to be applying to all the wonderful universities in this country. But I applied to only one--UW-Madison, whose giant arms embraced me within weeks of applying. I found no need to apply elsewhere: this was it, this was it. The supernova of the UW system. The “flagship” of the UW system… with its giant research institutions and thousands of brilliant students and its “selectivity,” it was the place for me. All those brilliant shining faces… and we would all just work together under the sun… under the sun and the moon on Bascom Hill, showing our brilliance to the world. Yes, yes, yes! This was it! This was it!!
And I never thought to apply to any of the Ivy League schools. I thought it pointless. I analogized it with the idea of purchasing expensive, brand-name foods. I was convinced that the off-brands would taste just the same. Yes, oh yes, how sure I was! Those stupid, high-falutin’ ninnies! They knew nothing more about art or intellect than I! I was brilliant! I was brilliant, and I didn’t even think of them!
Only now do I seriously consider them. Now, when I am doomed. When I am trapped inside this stupid state with stupid people who don’t care. Trapped with stupid tools with backwards hats and faux-diamond stud earrings. With stupid orange sluts whose stupidity is exceeded only by their alcohol consumption. Yes, here I am. Trapped in the “four-year bacchanal” when I should be off with genius professors studying the classics… studying Latin and Greek, philosophizing, experimenting, thinking. Yes, I have wasted myself. I have wasted my talent. I was too engrossed in becoming a well-rounded student. I was too engrossed in myself to think about my future. And here I am. I pay the full price. I can be nothing more than a mediocre piece of scum now.
I have a 3.625 GPA from Madison, and a bunch of Humanties/Arts classes in progress here at the lovely University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee. I have nothing to show for my work in high school. No one cares anymore. No one cares about the musicals, the rehearsals, the drawings, the calculus tests, the Latin translations, the piano-playing, the perfect 4.0, the class ranking. No one! No one! It’s all bullshit now. It may as well not have even happened. I cannot transfer to an exceptional university at this point.
“We accept 18 to 35 transfers out of 800 applicants.” Ha! Ha Ha Ha Ha! What a fucking joke! And they want a 3.8 college GPA as well. Ha! What a joke! I’m not going to have that. Even if I ace all these stupid, unchallenging classes at Milwaukee! And even if I did, they won’t care! I took one difficult course in my college career--Chemistry, and I only got a B. They don’t care about that!
I’m trapped. I’m trapped. I’m trapped. I had it all and I wasted it. I had it all and I just threw it in the garbage. It’s timing. It’s all timing. Life is all about timing. Success is all about timing. Oh, if only I’d realized this earlier.
Or, perhaps, I was never as brilliant as I had imagined in the first place…
What becomes of me? Will I really amount to precious little more than mediocre scum?
These classes are not challenging. They just make me sleep. All I do is sleep now. I have no reason to be awake, aside from my own personal scholarship and learning… for which I am only occasionally active.
I am trapped! I am trapped!
Oh you fucking douche bag with sagging pants! No one cares about your faux-diamond stud earrings! No one cares about the orange girl you fucked last night! No one cares about how you snuck past the monitors “totally wasted as fuck” last night!
Why are you here? A hundred years ago, your kind would not be anywhere near a university. You would be despicable tavern scum. Which is, I think, what you still are. Unfortunately now, you must bear the same title as me (what a disgrace to my accomplishments and my abilities!): undergraduate. Yes. We’re all undergraduates together. The orange girls and the douche bag boys and the indifferent sluts. Yes, we’re all undergraduates. And they don’t give a shit’s worth about literature or knowledge or philosophy or Shakespeare or Plato or anything even REMOTELY intelligent. So long as they’ve got some beer and some stupid easy slut to take home at night! What a fucking joke! This whole institution is a joke! How can anyone take themselves seriously here! This is the most tragic of comedies! And I, the principal actor! Oh, the irony! Fuck this, fuck this all! I just want to run away from everything, because I have messed up so celestially… messed up so celestially that there is no hope for redemption… none….
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