(no subject)
Maybe I realized why I don't post on this, like, ever. Fairly recently, I developed a complex that kept me from being able to write on a computer. I used to do it all the time; it used to be easier. But, this year the blinking cursor became a jeopardy-like timer, counting the eternal seconds of wasted writers-block time. Yet, here I am, making an attempt. The ennui of summer/academic independence may have driven me back.
So, life's good, thanks for asking. Nothing earth-shaking is going on right now, other than the imminence of college decisions and my taking part in a living situation that may or may not be completely awesome. In T minus one-and-a-half weeks, I'll be living on the campus of Barnard College in beautiful and lively Manhattan. Four weeks of pseudo-independence in the city that never sleeps is appealing when "Kindergarten Cop" on HBO is what I have resorted to.
I just realized that these posts suck and are really boring when I don't have an idea beforehand of what I want to write.
Not good.
I think I'll just disintegrate into writing one-sentence ideas that I have. That may be somewhat insightful.
I fear that I'll be overwhelmed by schoolwork and applications and extra-curricula, when all I really want to do is sit around in my underwear and read books in French.
In Slaughter-House Five, when Vonnegut mentions the fate of Lot's wife, he says that when she looked back it proved that she was human; ever since I've been fascinated with her.
I've come to realize that anything I read that is edited will have correct grammar, and anything that isn't won't, but if I hear someone speak with correct and accurate word choice and order, I will be impressed.
Anywhere I can sit in my underwear and read French books is a good place to be.
I have so much stuff. Why do I need so much stuff?
I think it would be fascinating to go to a therapist just to see what they think of me, just to see if I have any complexes or any underlying mental activities that I wouldn't be able to recognize.
I've lost my appetite for punk music and culture. Completely. Too many people seem to be giving up on the world before even trying to make sense of it.
Is it ambitious to hope that I understand the world around me by the time I die? Is it too much to hope that understanding anything will make me more content?
Where is my pocket-sized French-English dictionary?
Well, okay.
So, life's good, thanks for asking. Nothing earth-shaking is going on right now, other than the imminence of college decisions and my taking part in a living situation that may or may not be completely awesome. In T minus one-and-a-half weeks, I'll be living on the campus of Barnard College in beautiful and lively Manhattan. Four weeks of pseudo-independence in the city that never sleeps is appealing when "Kindergarten Cop" on HBO is what I have resorted to.
I just realized that these posts suck and are really boring when I don't have an idea beforehand of what I want to write.
Not good.
I think I'll just disintegrate into writing one-sentence ideas that I have. That may be somewhat insightful.
I fear that I'll be overwhelmed by schoolwork and applications and extra-curricula, when all I really want to do is sit around in my underwear and read books in French.
In Slaughter-House Five, when Vonnegut mentions the fate of Lot's wife, he says that when she looked back it proved that she was human; ever since I've been fascinated with her.
I've come to realize that anything I read that is edited will have correct grammar, and anything that isn't won't, but if I hear someone speak with correct and accurate word choice and order, I will be impressed.
Anywhere I can sit in my underwear and read French books is a good place to be.
I have so much stuff. Why do I need so much stuff?
I think it would be fascinating to go to a therapist just to see what they think of me, just to see if I have any complexes or any underlying mental activities that I wouldn't be able to recognize.
I've lost my appetite for punk music and culture. Completely. Too many people seem to be giving up on the world before even trying to make sense of it.
Is it ambitious to hope that I understand the world around me by the time I die? Is it too much to hope that understanding anything will make me more content?
Where is my pocket-sized French-English dictionary?
Well, okay.