My Peripatetic Existence, or How to be a Pedestrian on the Road of Life

So, I'm snowbound from work and classes, today, which is a shame: I never have all the hours I should for my biweekly timesheet. I write that as though anyone who may possibly read this would give a fuck; every once in awhile, I get an urge to create context for what I put up here, but you all can see how consistent that trend is. I derive too much pleasure from the construction of complex sentences -- You know?

This'll be short, I'm only addressing the remainder of my life. So, I've never claimed to ever have a damn clue what I feel is appropriate to do with my life, careerwise. When I was young, as in third to fifth grade, I desired nothing more than to be a cartoonist. No, you asshole, not the guys who make cartoons: those are animators. Cartoonists are the poor blokes who draw comic strips for the newspaper, and, in more modern incarnations, the internet. You may or may not remember that incredibly dreary entry I made ages ago about the state of comic strips (Orotund Brio, or somesuch). Yeah, it's a slight interest of mine, whereupon I cycle through nigh on thirty comics a day. However, my habit of doodling in the margins of notes in class evolved, over time, into a full-fledged obsession with art, artistry, and art history. I still love comics, though, and, every once in awhile, I design a few. Somewhere along the way, I lost that drive to be a cartoonist, though.
My secondary habit became apparent at about the same age I was drifting away from my dreams of being a cartoonist. Nintendo led to Super Nintendo led to Sega Genesis begot Abel and Cain begot Apple II begot IBM . . . Electronics and technology transform me into a giddy fool. Were you to, you would not be the first to see me break into a fit of an elongated, "Oooooh!" at the sight of new gadgets. Afterwhich, I make it my mission to know what every button and combination thereof will do. My parents bought a new phone and I had the day and time set before they could open the instruction manual. A blinking "12:00" bothers the hell out of me -- Set your God damn clocks, people, I swear.
Uh, yeah, skip to today and I'm a programmer: not the greatest, but up there. Logic and mathematics have always been my friends, so it was a merely a matter of time when that part of my brain bumped into the part of my brain that obsessively figures out technology, throw in a computer somewhere, and I've taught myself how to make a tiny ASCII man dance. Heh, my first program ever -- a short, BASIC instruction set to make a series of pipes, carats, arrows and hyphens leap about the screen, crowned with a large 'O' for the head. Have I ever mentioned how few friends I had as a young boy?
You would, possibly, believe that the conclusion to those previous three paragraphs, the topic sentence that makes them entwine together and complete the puzzle, would be something like, "Today, I am striving to become a graphic/web designer." Shit, no: I hate web-based programming languages, honestly; moreover, I hardly do any art on the computer. If I really mustered the energy, I could be a webcomic artist, but, as stated above, I lost that childhood dream to make comics. I have all these various talents and hobbies that don't interchange with each other. I'm sure I've put here before that I'm a double-major in Computer Science and Fine Art -- Double-minor in Mathematics and Literature. Pause for a moment and imagine the clusterfuck that is my class schedule, how the universe in my head teems and bucks everytime I walk from one room to the next, lessons learnt veritably mutually exclusive. And, at the end of the day, I don't know why I put myself through it all, making myself learn subjects I am clueless how to apply to my actual life.

It occurs to me that this Blog is here only to make the readers wonder, "What in the fuck is wrong with this guy?" No, I'm not finished, but I digress, for the time being . . .

Adios.