End my misery.
Last night saw the arrival of CRC elections, which are shaping up to be the most contentious in 3 years. More details will be provided as I become able to divulge them. Oh, and after I finish the Chron.
My moods swing. A potentially successful trip into Evanston to accrue advertisers, coupled with several dozen Del Shannon songs, have lifted my spirits considerably.
My narcoleptic tendencies have returned, forestalling me from attending the gym with the frequency that I mustered at the beginning of the quarter. Unless there’s a pressing duty which demands me to rouse earlier, I find myself turning left and blinking at Yeado’s clock. First it’ll say something like “8:42”. Then I’ll blink and it’ll read, “9:20” (too late for my gym trip). Then “10:10” then 11-something. It’s disconcerting, but it has yet to really hurt me.
I apologise in advance for the maudlin tone that this and future entries may take. Nothing has gone wrong in my life, per se. The same problems are there, give or take a few. But at the tail-end of a short academic quarter, with my vacation plans and idle friendships ground into silt, and with the simultaneous termination of more than a few relationships, I’m finding myself in darker and darker moods.
It’s nothing debilitating. I’m getting work done at varying paces. But a sense of inevitable personal failure creeps over me, wraithlike, as I go about anything. Most of my rancid emotions can be explained away by the soul contamination wrought by Angela. That whole experience, twisted and grasping as it was, put me in touch with a number of sensations and realities that were green to me, known second and third hand through movies and observances. Really, it should have baptised me and soaked away the fears of my that have nagged me for a decade – specifically, that it was impossible for anyone to become enamoured of me. But it didn’t, really. It now seems that while it’s possible, and maybe even likely, for girls to entertain the idea of dating me. But it doesn’t seem like they can find the gumption to fall for me. That thoughtless obsession that drives people to toss out their lives and build new ones … the kind that I would say only happens in movies, if I didn’t know so many jackasses who’ve worked the model perfectly. I don’t see it happening to me. And why I care, I don’t really know.
This is absurdly personal. I’m forgetting that anyone can log on and read this. What the hell am I shooting for by posting this all up?
Who knows. It’s spontaneous. Maybe something will come of it.
There’s a couple across the hall that’s been together for as long as I’ve known them. In situations like this, if one is not historically minded, it’s easy to overlook that the two were ever apart. But I fancy myself a social historian, and I spend much of the time otherwise unoccupied finding out what life used to be like.
Apparently, the male of this relationship used to be “fun.” That’s hard to believe. These days he spends most of his time walking to the shower, walking from the shower, and walking to and from the kitchen to fill cups of water and plates of bourgeois chicken. There’s two of everything, except for the towel he enshrouds himself in on those innumberable bathroom trips. Most of his life is spent caring for this girl. And for reasons I can’t explain without delving into the psychological mortar of my soul, it irritates me greatly.
No, no – I reckon I can explain part of the reason. Said girl is probably the most irksome, spoiled and unsatisfied female in the Central time zone. Everything she flaunts – social invitations, an uncommitted schedule, a slender figure unaffected by unchecked voracity – is something I lack. And her habits are abbhorant, including as they do weekly trips to a horse stable and whining, whining, whining about any semblance of work that veers into her Com Studies cacoon.
It’s gotten to the point where, especially in my post-courtship haze, this is unbearable. I am unable to think straight for rage when I hear the warm, wet murmurs emanating from the couples’ room. These noises intermingle with whines, always from the female (the male doesn’t talk) about changing the channel or eating something or the immediacy of “cumming.” Oh, it’s hellish.
And yet I can’t decide. Is it the most irritating aspect of my life? Or is my day to day existence so carefree that such a mundane annoyance can become a bane?
I started writing again today … I solicited ads for the Chron … I took part in a few conversations. My God, you’d think a member of the weblog community would think of more to talk about. And I suppose I do, if we extend the definition of what passes for a weblog. Let me post this and I’ll elaborate.
Tonight I am writing a submission to the Collegiate Network on why Bernardine Dohrn’s position at NU is the worst campus outrage of the year. I’ll also be touching up some materials to apply for two more jobs in D.C.
Can you say F-U-N?
Pop quiz, hotshot. It’s the night your paper goes to press and you have four feature stories. Three of them haven’t come in. The reason? The reporters don’t want to finish them.
What do you do? Well, if you’re Dave Weigel and Michael Hoes, you stay up till 7 a.m. generating those stories from your reporters’ notes and laying them out in a semi-legible fashion. You punctuate the time by cursing your shiftless staff and cackling over who you can demote or screw over. And you send out a budget for the next week as soon as you get a chance on Thursday.
Jesus. That was awful. I will divulge the details of Chron night later, but I can provide a taster of what it did to me – I am weighing the cost-benefit analysis of going to class at all today.