(no subject)
I triathloned this Sunday. The early-waking and swimming and biking and running was preceded by one of the worst nights of sleep I've had in a couple years, waking up every hour in order to dread waking up in X number of hours and swimming and biking and running. I got out of my house at 5:10 and biked to the aquatic center on campus. After I set up my transition area and got body-markered, I had the chilling realization that I had made the mistake of only bringing the clothes I would be biking/running in. So while all my fellow competitors milled around in fuzzy jogging suits and flip flops, I padded around in my bare feet and swimsuit and a short-sleeved shirt I had brought but then couldn't wear because the sleeves concealed the numbers markered on my arms. It started to rain and there I was in a swimsuit, little lycra shirt and bare feet: an obvious triathlon-virgin.
That's all pre-race nonsense though. I rocked the race!
Swim (825 yds) : 12 min. 54 sec.
Bike (12 miles): 53 min. 41 sec.
Run (3 miles) : 31 min. 51 sec.
Today, I wore my Tinfoilman Triathlon t-shirt to class. It's practically the sexiest thing I've ever worn, what with the sleeves of the shirt rolled up around my triathloner's biceps and the hem of the shirt riding low on my triathloner's hips, gently brushing the tops of my smooth, hard triathloner's thighs.
My mum and dad and Beth and Rye and Brian and me went to Chinese for lunch after the race. Lo mein noodles and sesame chicken has never tasted so earned before. The whole thing was so exhilarating that I want to do another one. But more on future goals later.
So, I skipped my workshop last Friday. No good reason, except I had been up to 4 or 5 every night the past week and I needed some sleep. No university-sanctioned reason anyway. I thought it was my second (and last permissible) absence. Apparently, it was the third. I got an email from my teacher. He says, "I'm hoping you can offer an excuse sanctioned by the university; you're my best writer."
The fact that I'm the best writer in the workshop ==> good
The fact that I can't count from 1 to 3 ==> !@#$%^&*@$%@$%@$%@$%@%$@%!#@$!#$@!$#!@#$
And here's the worst thing of all about it. I'm not even as worried as I feel I should be. I actually laughed when I read the teacher's email because my own idiocy, in the absurdity of its extent, is kind of comic. That laugh was followed by a sweeping panic when I realized I may not even be able to graduate a. in May, assuming I want to get the creative writing degre or b. at all, if I decide I don't need it. But then I shrugged and thought "Well, you don't need a degree to write anyway." But then I thought, "Oh god, all that work and all that money all lost because I'm stupidstupidstupid" and wanted to cry.
I hate myself first and foremost for letting stuff like this happen. And once such stuff happens, I always have to endure this wild shifting back and forth between hakuna-matata and hari-kari.
This weekend, I fulfilled one of my dreams (i.e. competing in a triathlon) and even exceeding my own personal time goals. I've had two fiction workshops so far, and both of the teachers have told me I'm the most talented writer in the workshop. I have an implicit faith in myself that I have the stuff it takes to be a full-time novelist ...
Then why do I fuck things up so much for my awesome, talented self?
That's all pre-race nonsense though. I rocked the race!
Swim (825 yds) : 12 min. 54 sec.
Bike (12 miles): 53 min. 41 sec.
Run (3 miles) : 31 min. 51 sec.
Today, I wore my Tinfoilman Triathlon t-shirt to class. It's practically the sexiest thing I've ever worn, what with the sleeves of the shirt rolled up around my triathloner's biceps and the hem of the shirt riding low on my triathloner's hips, gently brushing the tops of my smooth, hard triathloner's thighs.
My mum and dad and Beth and Rye and Brian and me went to Chinese for lunch after the race. Lo mein noodles and sesame chicken has never tasted so earned before. The whole thing was so exhilarating that I want to do another one. But more on future goals later.
So, I skipped my workshop last Friday. No good reason, except I had been up to 4 or 5 every night the past week and I needed some sleep. No university-sanctioned reason anyway. I thought it was my second (and last permissible) absence. Apparently, it was the third. I got an email from my teacher. He says, "I'm hoping you can offer an excuse sanctioned by the university; you're my best writer."
The fact that I'm the best writer in the workshop ==> good
The fact that I can't count from 1 to 3 ==> !@#$%^&*@$%@$%@$%@$%@%$@%!#@$!#$@!$#!@#$
And here's the worst thing of all about it. I'm not even as worried as I feel I should be. I actually laughed when I read the teacher's email because my own idiocy, in the absurdity of its extent, is kind of comic. That laugh was followed by a sweeping panic when I realized I may not even be able to graduate a. in May, assuming I want to get the creative writing degre or b. at all, if I decide I don't need it. But then I shrugged and thought "Well, you don't need a degree to write anyway." But then I thought, "Oh god, all that work and all that money all lost because I'm stupidstupidstupid" and wanted to cry.
I hate myself first and foremost for letting stuff like this happen. And once such stuff happens, I always have to endure this wild shifting back and forth between hakuna-matata and hari-kari.
This weekend, I fulfilled one of my dreams (i.e. competing in a triathlon) and even exceeding my own personal time goals. I've had two fiction workshops so far, and both of the teachers have told me I'm the most talented writer in the workshop. I have an implicit faith in myself that I have the stuff it takes to be a full-time novelist ...
Then why do I fuck things up so much for my awesome, talented self?