(no subject)
Woodstock is 1129 days old
Blondie and Dagwood are 615 days old
Christmas Eve.
Supposed to be a day of some importance in the culture, Santa notwithstanding, and yet here I am sitting on my ass waiting for my father's gift computer to arrive so that I can sign for it. It is snowing, and that is supposed to be of some importance as well (though I never understood the significance of frozen precipitation on one specific day of the year). It isn't even really snow anymore. Its better described as "falling slush." In addition to waiting around for this package I'm supposed to go "plow" the snow. This should be good. There's about a two inch layer of actual snow and beneath that is about seven inches of wet, saturated slush. If I can ever get the snow-blower started I expect the sight of a stream of slush pouring out of this thing to be quite comical.
Of course, I'm sitting around procrastinating because, no matter how comical this might be, I really don't want to do it.
Yes, I have been neglecting this journal just as I have been neglecting The Black Book. The Fall 2008 semester was insane in terms of work required, effort given and work actually produced. It proved to me that I am not strong enough to go for the BFA and should just stick to the BA. Overall, the semester was kind of a waste. Had I known I could have taken a Photo History class without Art History II, I would have finished up my degree and gotten the minor all in the summer and have been done with everything on time. As it is I've just discovered that I'm a terrible excuse for a person and can't deal with the workload most people have. I have no social life whatsoever, I have no job, I have only class and yet that work alone almost destroyed me. It makes me ponder the reason for my continued existence.
I get the feeling that I'm writing this solely for the sake of writing something. I think it is time for me to stop this and get to work clearing the sidewalks.
I end this entry with a standard period.
Blondie and Dagwood are 615 days old
Christmas Eve.
Supposed to be a day of some importance in the culture, Santa notwithstanding, and yet here I am sitting on my ass waiting for my father's gift computer to arrive so that I can sign for it. It is snowing, and that is supposed to be of some importance as well (though I never understood the significance of frozen precipitation on one specific day of the year). It isn't even really snow anymore. Its better described as "falling slush." In addition to waiting around for this package I'm supposed to go "plow" the snow. This should be good. There's about a two inch layer of actual snow and beneath that is about seven inches of wet, saturated slush. If I can ever get the snow-blower started I expect the sight of a stream of slush pouring out of this thing to be quite comical.
Of course, I'm sitting around procrastinating because, no matter how comical this might be, I really don't want to do it.
Yes, I have been neglecting this journal just as I have been neglecting The Black Book. The Fall 2008 semester was insane in terms of work required, effort given and work actually produced. It proved to me that I am not strong enough to go for the BFA and should just stick to the BA. Overall, the semester was kind of a waste. Had I known I could have taken a Photo History class without Art History II, I would have finished up my degree and gotten the minor all in the summer and have been done with everything on time. As it is I've just discovered that I'm a terrible excuse for a person and can't deal with the workload most people have. I have no social life whatsoever, I have no job, I have only class and yet that work alone almost destroyed me. It makes me ponder the reason for my continued existence.
I get the feeling that I'm writing this solely for the sake of writing something. I think it is time for me to stop this and get to work clearing the sidewalks.
I end this entry with a standard period.