The Redoubtable Words of Sages, Pt. 2 (Sequels Aren't Always Bad)

And, now, over a year later, for another sampling of a conversation between my ex-roommate, who is the same person as my roommate from more than a year ago in the first entry by this title, and myself. Isn't it self-indugent bullshit to quote yourself? I think so!

My Ex-Roommate: do you still desire foodages?
Me: I could do food.
My Ex-Roommate: hmm..yes.
Me: Not . . . Sexually, mind you.
Me: I could. I mean . . . Theoretically, it's possible. I can have sex with food, but it's a matter of choice, and free will gives me the ability to say "No," and no means no.
My Ex-Roomate: ....right.

Really, I just think I'm funny. My ex-roommate is funny, too, but I wanted an excuse to quote that conversation. Man, this is just a testament to how tired I am, right now.

Ah, life, how you beat me down so . . . Adios.

Canorous Rancour

It's interesting: regret. It's like a confession of being wrong, without the ability to rectify anything. What's the point, I always asked myself, when I felt tinges of it. There really isn't one, but it's human nature to have emotions, so I have regrets.

It always sounds tough and stoic to say you live without regret. I should know; I've done it. "Yeah, no regret, nuh huh, not me. Carpe diem and all that jazz." Whatever. I have regrets, because I'm not perfect, and, as such, I've made wrong decisions and done wrong actions.

There's a line between regret and self-pity that isn't at all fine, so I've never really argued with myself over it. Regret lasts a short duration of time, comes and then goes, and is forgotten. Self-pity is constant and nagging, like a bruise that doesn't heal. It's not hard to differentiate between the two, so it's not like I've ever had problems with that.

Wrong; being wrong; be wrong, be strong. They're my little mantras that I use to remind myself of my humanity, my fallibility as a human. It's easier to accept wrongness, really, than rightness, because there're more people willing to support you in being wrong than in being irght. More often than not, someone will be more than happy to reinforce the idea that you did something wrong than right.

So, usually, you end up rather alone in being right, and in plenty of company while being wrong. I've always made it a point to not do this: to not reinforce the egos of people who I consider wrong, and to ignore those I consider right. It's why I fail miserably at maintaining good relations with social circles, because I can't help but not give a shit about some people.

I've made mistakes. I've done wrong. That's the easy part. The hard part is doing the right thing, as the cliché always goes. Maybe I'm going in circles. Maybe this is wrong.

Maybe.

To Expatiate (Spill on Aisle One)

So, I'm back in college for the semester, and already the rage I have mounted inside is enough to obliterate the average horse from the pure, brunt force of it. Work is Hell, put shortly; to be a bit more explicit, working for I.T. Services for a college during the Move-In Week for residents is the exact opposite of fun—literally, by the Webster definitions.

Also, the Financial Aid office is trying their absolute best to fuck me in the asshole with a rusty rake, raking end first (I honestly just spent about a minute trying to conjure up words for the end of the rake with which you . . . Rake. I settled with the obvious). Dirty, lying bureacrats and their filthy, red tape and heaps and heaps of bullshit. Seriously, I wonder what it's like to actually work inside a building constructed purely from bullshit. It must be smelly. I know I smell the bullshit when I get near or (worse yet) go inside the Administration Building of college.

Also, some of my classes are going to be painful, I imagine. Especially since I have an Art Studio course with a professor who seems to think having a project due the second week of classes is an awesome idea. Fuck . . . Granted, it's an easy enoiugh project, but I'm used to Art Studio courses where you just turn in a portfolio at the end and that's that. None of this . . . Timeliness shit.

And, as always, I've been doing a lot of contemplation, for no reason. I'm debating, right now, between the idea that I am too stressed out to be properly sociable, or that I am, truly and honestly, anti-social. One way or the other, it will always hold that I am the sort of person who does not make exceptions for the sake of anything unless I absolutely feel they are meritted, and if I don't like you, I don't like you, and I won't be around you, I won't acknowledge you, and I won't help you. This attitude has caused me to exit a few social circles, voluntarily and involuntarily, but always without much argument. I've just reached a point in my life where I'm done dealing with people who are full of shit and seem to think that's it's acceptable to treat others like shit.

Unsurprisingly, I remain single . . . Because, per normal, women seem to find a sick pleasure in treating me like shit. I should append my statement: women who I am interested in romantically seem to find sick pleasure in treating me like shit. It never fails that the women who pay attention to me and seem interested are the ones that I either never notice or can't stand. I partially blame myself for that.

My conclusion is that there's just a narrow margin of human beings in existence who seem to have a grasp on how to consistently deal with other people in a fair and honest way, and that, for the most part, people are poorly trained in socialisation and do no have a solid handle on how to treat others. I am not exempt, of course; I must come to grips with my inability to stay entirely together when it comes to women. I can not shift all the blame off myself, and I have come to realise how utterly and totally I lack the experience and arsenal necesaary for dealing with women.

On a random aside, I don't like physical contact anymore. I find that being spontaneously touched really pisses me off. Agian, I haven't decided whether or not this is due to be overly stressed, or actually being anti-social. As it stands, I really don't want to be touched. I find the sensation irksome . . . as though every bit of contact with others, physically, is a manifestation of a lie on the material plane—a lie that they want to stay close to me, or be near me.

I am a straightforward man, but I am not a confrontational man. If I do not wish to speak with you, I do not come to you and discuss this, because, well, I do not wish to speak with you. That's how I operate. I decided, and, then, I act. But, me not speaking with you is not always a sign of not wishing to speak with you, but, instead, I may just believe that you do not want me to speak with you; as a result, I am not a conversation initialiser—it's not the kind of thing I do, if given the option. I enjoy talking, but I don't go to others to talk, unless I really need to do so, and I think that has happens on less than five separate occasions.

I need to have fun. This past few weeks hasn't been fun. I haven't logged onto Narfell because of extenuating circumstances that don't make that viable as a fun roleplaying experiences, and my job has been hectic and dreadful. The start of classes is always a worrisome time, because it involves a lot of getting shit together, as does that carry over to the fact that I am the President of the Anime Club. Shit to do, and not enough time to do it.

All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.

All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.

Holy Crap, Work!

Job. Explosion. Argh.

Pari Passu, So Goes Relevance and Sanity

Another inconsequential entry!

I have a question, for the general public: what the fuck is this Juniper Lee show even about? There's some girl who hardly talks, some screaming kid who says a lot of things that make no sense, and a Scottish dog. There's not really so much an introduction of a plot as, suddenly, they're all kicking some crazy dinosaur around, and nobody seems to think this is unusual, and there's a lot of random dialogue . . . I'm just confused.

I'm going to go ahead and endorse Studio Shinnyo, because another story came out from him and I've been reading it all weekend. Ah, fanfictions: my guilty pleasure.

Adios.

A Tryst with My Ego

I don't generally condone the practice of making an entire entry consisting of just one, short quote, but, eh, I was fond of this line. [Warning: This entry contains the incredibly pretentious notion of quoting one's own self as clever or profound. Please, feel free to ignore the Author and his arrogance.]

"Life is like the long, boring wait in line at the amusement park for the rollercoaster that is suicide."

Something of actual substance may appear here, soon.

Adios.

Snidely Being Nugatory

Dear Poets of the World,
   I am officially retiring the following rhyming scheme: lie / die / cry / try / fly / sigh / eye / rye / pie.
   That’s right. Nobody gets to use it anymore. It’s done . . . Over. It’s been beaten into the ground, buried, exhumed, hit with a stick, tossed, turned, baked, fried, stirred, shaken, and, generally . . . Just, you know, used a lot.
   So, in honour of this special occasion—this retiring—I will present to you, as a eulogy, the last, officially sanctioned and authorised poem to use this rhyming scheme.

A Poem For Your Eye . . . S

Look up! In the sky,
To you, I shan’t lie:
Oh my! ‘Tis a fly.

Forsooth! I must try,
In failure, I would cry,
Shoo! Away from my ham on rye.

“You,” I say, “Die!”
But, alas, with my sigh,
He lands . . . On my pie.