Cadillac, Black Jack
I woke up this morning thinking I had swine flu. Then I realized that the soreness of my body was a result of the running I had done the previous day.
I forgot that I had ran because I went out to a honky-tonk bar the previous night. In celebration of Cinco de Mayo, I got about as sloshed as a buckeye ought be on a Tuesday night. Unfortunately, I had a midterm early the next morning, on the phenomenological account of the care structure of dasein, or some other obfuscatingly convoluted philosophical terminology.
Speaking of which, I made one of my professors cry last week. During an office hours visit, I called him a sophist and proceeded to rant for two hours about how philosophy has lost touch with pedagogy, and that it's all his fault that he propagates the system by which his field is peddled as a commodity. Truth be told, it was a half-concocted attempt at being Socratic. But I don't think he realized that.
I wake up this morning too hung-over to study. I look over some internet encyclopedia for half an hour, then head to a local Greek diner for breakfast. I show up just in time for the exam, and finish in just over two hours. Afterwards, I make a pitiful attempt at a bar crawl.
I spend 6 hours touring the campus area drinkeries on my way home. Pint after pint, pitcher after pitcher, I find myself slowly losing concern for all things philosophy. I mean, who really cares what Husserl or Heidegger have to say anyhow? I'd imagine that if you looked them up on wikipedia, you probably wouldn't spend one minute skimming over their ideas before giving up in frustration. (Try it and see how far you get.)
I arrive home nearly nine hours after I left in the morning, as trashed as can be. I head upstairs and work on some CSS document for a website I manage. Sadly, the document was completely fucked from the get-go, so every bit of the five hours I spent trying to fix it was wasted. But, Lennon once said that time you enjoy wasting was not wasted. In a nerdy sort of way I enjoyed what I did, so I guess my efforts weren't completely in vain ( http://bprc.osu.edu/MODIS ). On that note, I guess I should mention that I got a job as a systems administrator for the polar research center, and fixing computer things (rather, fixing things that others fuck up on) is part of my job description. Good thing I've grown out my beard/hair, because I anticipate losing much of it in the near future to the hands of this job that I enjoy so dearly.
At some point I give up and decide to go dancing. My neighbor and I head up to this dingy excuse for a bar (which is named after a Rolling Stones song) and grab pitchers of some kind of German bock. We slam em down and go out for a smoke. Someone slips me a roll of ecstasy, to which I'm equally appalled and flattered. I head out on the dance floor and tear it up for what seemed like three hours. Women move all around me, trying to keep up, but I'm not to be bothered. I'm there for me to dance, not for me to dance with Sally Sue from Springfield, OH.
Closing time comes and we make our exits. We head down the dark alleys of north campus, fearing no one. My neighbor notices a grill on someone's lawn and exclaims that if one of us took it, the person who owned it would certainly not miss it. I agree but express how whether one misses something hardly suffices whether one is morally right in acting in such a way. He retorts, and we suddenly find ourselves in full-blown discursive mayhem.
The conversation soon ends as we arrive at our homes. I head inside and play Shostakovich, a personal favorite of a grad student (who, incidentally, is also my ta) studying 20th century Russian composers. She adores me, but I'm not quite mature enough to fully accept the situation. I guess that's how life goes.
I sit in my favorite chair, a gift from a roommate of old. I smoke the days' last cigarette and take in Dmitri's 5th symphony. I stop the music after the second movement, not wishing to stay up another 30 minutes for the rejoinder. I head upstairs and get on my computer. An old friend is online, and we discuss the happenings of the evening. He expresses concern for my drug usage, telling me that I will surely die by taking them. I persuade him into accepting that they are necessary for experiencing the magnitude of the world as it is, and that in order to truly need god we must first be captivated by the mystery of the world itself- something impossible without the use of drugs. He warns me against the possibility of dehydration. I guess that's what they call reciprocity.
I turn on Pandora and reflect on how silly my life really is. I'm not at all wavered because I imagine everyone else's to be just as much.
I am happy, but not content. Maybe that will come some day soon. At least, I hope it does.
I forgot that I had ran because I went out to a honky-tonk bar the previous night. In celebration of Cinco de Mayo, I got about as sloshed as a buckeye ought be on a Tuesday night. Unfortunately, I had a midterm early the next morning, on the phenomenological account of the care structure of dasein, or some other obfuscatingly convoluted philosophical terminology.
Speaking of which, I made one of my professors cry last week. During an office hours visit, I called him a sophist and proceeded to rant for two hours about how philosophy has lost touch with pedagogy, and that it's all his fault that he propagates the system by which his field is peddled as a commodity. Truth be told, it was a half-concocted attempt at being Socratic. But I don't think he realized that.
I wake up this morning too hung-over to study. I look over some internet encyclopedia for half an hour, then head to a local Greek diner for breakfast. I show up just in time for the exam, and finish in just over two hours. Afterwards, I make a pitiful attempt at a bar crawl.
I spend 6 hours touring the campus area drinkeries on my way home. Pint after pint, pitcher after pitcher, I find myself slowly losing concern for all things philosophy. I mean, who really cares what Husserl or Heidegger have to say anyhow? I'd imagine that if you looked them up on wikipedia, you probably wouldn't spend one minute skimming over their ideas before giving up in frustration. (Try it and see how far you get.)
I arrive home nearly nine hours after I left in the morning, as trashed as can be. I head upstairs and work on some CSS document for a website I manage. Sadly, the document was completely fucked from the get-go, so every bit of the five hours I spent trying to fix it was wasted. But, Lennon once said that time you enjoy wasting was not wasted. In a nerdy sort of way I enjoyed what I did, so I guess my efforts weren't completely in vain ( http://bprc.osu.edu/MODIS ). On that note, I guess I should mention that I got a job as a systems administrator for the polar research center, and fixing computer things (rather, fixing things that others fuck up on) is part of my job description. Good thing I've grown out my beard/hair, because I anticipate losing much of it in the near future to the hands of this job that I enjoy so dearly.
At some point I give up and decide to go dancing. My neighbor and I head up to this dingy excuse for a bar (which is named after a Rolling Stones song) and grab pitchers of some kind of German bock. We slam em down and go out for a smoke. Someone slips me a roll of ecstasy, to which I'm equally appalled and flattered. I head out on the dance floor and tear it up for what seemed like three hours. Women move all around me, trying to keep up, but I'm not to be bothered. I'm there for me to dance, not for me to dance with Sally Sue from Springfield, OH.
Closing time comes and we make our exits. We head down the dark alleys of north campus, fearing no one. My neighbor notices a grill on someone's lawn and exclaims that if one of us took it, the person who owned it would certainly not miss it. I agree but express how whether one misses something hardly suffices whether one is morally right in acting in such a way. He retorts, and we suddenly find ourselves in full-blown discursive mayhem.
The conversation soon ends as we arrive at our homes. I head inside and play Shostakovich, a personal favorite of a grad student (who, incidentally, is also my ta) studying 20th century Russian composers. She adores me, but I'm not quite mature enough to fully accept the situation. I guess that's how life goes.
I sit in my favorite chair, a gift from a roommate of old. I smoke the days' last cigarette and take in Dmitri's 5th symphony. I stop the music after the second movement, not wishing to stay up another 30 minutes for the rejoinder. I head upstairs and get on my computer. An old friend is online, and we discuss the happenings of the evening. He expresses concern for my drug usage, telling me that I will surely die by taking them. I persuade him into accepting that they are necessary for experiencing the magnitude of the world as it is, and that in order to truly need god we must first be captivated by the mystery of the world itself- something impossible without the use of drugs. He warns me against the possibility of dehydration. I guess that's what they call reciprocity.
I turn on Pandora and reflect on how silly my life really is. I'm not at all wavered because I imagine everyone else's to be just as much.
I am happy, but not content. Maybe that will come some day soon. At least, I hope it does.