"Angel looks down at him and says, 'Aw pretty boy, can't you show me nothing but surrender?'"
Hmmm. What a great day. I think the first day of Spring Quarter is almost always the best day of the academic year. Although this isn't exactly true of Columbus yet, I feel inclined to quote the great Natty today: "The flowers are blooming, and so is the booty." In case you don't already see it, this is the greatest quote ever. Yes. Spring Quarter will be totally fucking rad. I'm psyched.
Although, of course, now that it's late and I'm alone (and incredibly tired, to boot), the moods behind my madness give way to a strange brand of despondency. I'm counting on the next 10 weeks to be cataclysmic, in one way or another.
Living crossroad to crossroad, desperate for the peaceful suicide of hope.
Two weeks ago I felt the stirring of that hope and quashed it. Or tried to. I get the feeling now that I was not entirely successful, but.....that's nothing new, I suppose.
The Stranger by Albert Camus is an incredible book, though I can't say exactly why. Something resonant buried beneath simple language. Plus I'm a sucker for translated works. I just find the concept so odd that I can't help but enjoy them.
How come nothing I touch can ever become a comprehensive whole? Pieces, parts, flying away from the center. Which is not so much destructuring as a form of restructuring. My gift to the world.
And suddenly bouncing back off the wall. Rebounding and going nova in the space of trembling seconds. The thrill of bend and break.
I think I'm going to post something more fact-oriented tomorrow, after my other two classes. Said post can be expected to include: last quarter's grades, my gut reactions to each class, and other such trivialities.
Hmmmm. They took "bipolar" away as a mood choice. That pisses me off. But anyways, goodnight.
Although, of course, now that it's late and I'm alone (and incredibly tired, to boot), the moods behind my madness give way to a strange brand of despondency. I'm counting on the next 10 weeks to be cataclysmic, in one way or another.
Living crossroad to crossroad, desperate for the peaceful suicide of hope.
Two weeks ago I felt the stirring of that hope and quashed it. Or tried to. I get the feeling now that I was not entirely successful, but.....that's nothing new, I suppose.
The Stranger by Albert Camus is an incredible book, though I can't say exactly why. Something resonant buried beneath simple language. Plus I'm a sucker for translated works. I just find the concept so odd that I can't help but enjoy them.
How come nothing I touch can ever become a comprehensive whole? Pieces, parts, flying away from the center. Which is not so much destructuring as a form of restructuring. My gift to the world.
And suddenly bouncing back off the wall. Rebounding and going nova in the space of trembling seconds. The thrill of bend and break.
I think I'm going to post something more fact-oriented tomorrow, after my other two classes. Said post can be expected to include: last quarter's grades, my gut reactions to each class, and other such trivialities.
Hmmmm. They took "bipolar" away as a mood choice. That pisses me off. But anyways, goodnight.