Project Wangst.
I have had it with these motherfuckin projects in this motherfuckin school. That is all.
I am quite for projects. I do not mind them in the least when I have one or two at a time. But when every class one has is assigning these big honkin projects and one begins longing for bookwork, worksheets, and notes, I feel something might be amiss. I cannot design 3 page layouts, 34 thumbnails for 2 different projects while re-designing a 3rd and 4th, study the mating habits of college co-eds, and retain sanity. I just can't.
Also, this is interfering with my writing time. Bad enough to deny me the luxury of theater, movies, dancing, drinking, socializing, and otherwise enjoying my youth, now the professors conspire to deny my the closeted-in-the-room with a notebook and a laptop time. The voices in my head The characters are going away! My punctuation and grammar is going straight to the land of Laurell Hamilton. I'm getting out of practice. I'm losing my ability. I'll be reduced to painful Stus and angsty Sues if they keep this up...Worse, they'll be ill-presented by awkward text. Sob.
School is ruining my future career, I tell you. Which just goes to show I should have majored in something that involved writing. Or Recreation. ... Really, I suddenly cannot fathom why I am not studying Recreation. ... That's it. I'm giving up school and forming a cult... It shall be a cult of... flowers. And writing. Painting. Poetry. We shall be hippies. But not the murderous Manson kind. And we so are not being socialists because poison kool-aide is so 1970s. And I am not dying for a cosmic ride on a comet ship.
Damnation. I shall make a very bad cult leader. Perhaps I should call it a commune leader? A nice tropical island, lots of rum and poetry and writing, and everyone dressed like pirates and hippies. ... I suppose I ought to throw in some nice nature worship and dolphins as divine messengers...
But our downfall will be the fact that everyone can only be a nancing hippie pirate poet/writer/singer/artist boehemian for so long before you all go mad and join the corporate world. We'd be 1982 all over again. ... With shoulderpads even.
I'm random. I know this. Now back to Mirrormask...