In Which Reality Sets In And I Shit Myself.

I'll get to the goods in a moment, but first the business of the day.

Latin is fucking my shit up. I'm studying maybe 3-4 hours a DAY, and it just isn't flowing. I've got a test on Wednesday and my Underoos are brown with proof. It seems that each week I have to pick a class to neglect in order to get all my shit done. There isn't any balance at the moment, and it's depressing as hell. But on the bright side, I have my Rhetoric and Comp. class three times a week to cheer me up.

Today, Octavia (aka Hot English Teacher) gave back my first draft for my paper on ANWR, which was little more than freewriting. Nothing close to the 4-5 pages she requested, but it was better than nothing. Ya know? It was about 7:30 in the morning. I always get to school around 7am on MWF because my day is so short that I like to get a head start. It makes me feel productive. We were sitting on the cement benches outside the library and it was pissing down rain just a few feet behind us. I gave her the draft I worked on this weekend. She tucked it into a foulder and said she would get to it later. She stood up as if to go, then sat back down and said, "Ya know, I think I'll read it now." I went back to reading the Harlan Ellison that Jesse so kindly lent me. I guess she was half way through the 3rd page when she turned to me and said, "You know, I really like reading your papers. They're easily the best I get and great for breaking the monotony." It was quite possibly the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.

On the last page of the draft she handed back was written, "Charles, you're a confident writer and thinker and you show it in all of your work." I find it odd, because if it is anything I am not confident in, it's writing. Thinking is no problem. I do it all the time. Writing, boy...I don't know. (That's when Bartlet decided to kick my ass, by the way.) I have ideas, but they always come out wrong when I write. Something strange happens between the formation of a thought, that thought passing to the blind man on quality control of the conveyer belt of shit running through my head, to what shows up on the page. I think it. I write it. I come back to it. I hate it. Jesse and I were talking about it the other day. There is something up with the way I view structure. Maybe that's why Latin's so hard for me. I know it's a part of my dyslexia...but if you ask me, it's a bullshit, cop-out, of an excuse. I've never had trouble before, so I don't understand why it would suddenly be cropping up now. Or maybe I'm just realizing it now... I want to write well, and I want to do it all the damn time...

Bah. I'll quit boring you with my masturbatory introspections and will cut to the good stuff.

I swear to the Flying Spaghetti Monster that someone is fucking with me. Or maybe it's the Spaghetti Monster, Himself, who's doing the fucking. Anyway, I feel like I've been hit over the head with a mallet. I'm serious. I'm delirious; in a daze. Her name is Jen and we met under some pretty bizarre circumstances...but not bizarre enough to bother leaving here. But the story in brief goes like this:

-Met 2 weeks ago for the fist time, but wasn't really paying attention.
-Met Friday at a part and spent a lot of time talking, flirting, and making me feel generally uncomfortable. I was too stupid to get her number.
-Called my friend Samantha (her former roommate) to get her number. Called Jen that night. Talked for half an hour.
-She called me Sunday, spoke briefly...went back to watching West Wing with Rhys.

Tonight, after Fiddy-Cent Tacos with Jesse, I went to Stone Cup (her job), had a latte and studied for about 5 hours. She would come over and chat for a bit then have to run off and do the whole job thing. It's really weird. We hardly know eachother, but it's like we've been friend for a really long time. It literally feels like I'm talking to a Ridge Monkey. And I've gota say...Wow! Not hard on the eyes at all.

Any of you curious types wana meet her, we'll be hitting up the show on Friday night.

Pray I don't screw this up.

Inspiration Ensues

I met a girl tonight...in a manner of speaking. The chase begins anew. Let's see what happens....

"The true source of our sufferings, has been our timidity."

That little tidbit of motivational quoteage comes from good ol' John Adams. I came across it a couple days ago and it's the kind of thing I would run around quoting as if I'd known it for years, but then I realize that anyone who knows me, even a little, would see right through it. That's pretty much my daily struggle; trying to keep my shit original, or at the very least to be honest when I'm ripping off someone else. Ah, who am I kidding? I doubt there is an original thought in my head. Well, that whole "oven baked," thing is all mine. (Besides, I don't think anyone else would have the sack to claim it.)

Here's my thing though. You all know I've been down here at UTC, doing the whole teaching thing. Well, now I'm not so certain that it's going to be my gig.

I remember that at some time in the last year, I was over at Rachel and David's place in Ft. Wood. Adam was there for one reason or another, hanging out and drinking beer and having a laugh or two with the ol' chummy chums. For one reason or another, he asked me the question all education majors love and hate equally. "What the hell is wrong with you?" (Or simply, "Why do you want to teach? I hear it sucks.")

My answer was by no means original, and I fessed up to that fact shortly after. I was reading WHEN ALL THE WORLD WAS YOUNG by Ferrol Sams at the time, which is by far my favorite book ever (Sorry, Mr. Miller, Mr. Follet, and Mr. Frazier). Now you guys know me. Tell me if this sounds like me:

"There are two kinds of people in this world: those who give to other people and those who spend all their lives taking. Or planning to take. Either by bulling around on one end of the economic scale or whining on the other. I'm not a taker. I'm a giver. Some folks are born to serve and others to be looked after... I was born to give and to serve, and the world had goddam well better know it and get ready..."

Of course, I paraphrased, but eloquence ain't my point. You gota ask yourself, "Is this the Chuck I know?" Of course you say yes, because you're all good friends. But is that honestly the first thing that ran through that cerebral jello pudding you call a brain? Yes? Ok, good. You know me better than I thought you did. But the fear still lingers in me that you actually DO think of me as, "sweetly racist," as "Uncle Bastard," or any of the other rascally yet endearing nicknames I've taken. Because that sure as shit ain't the case, brother.

It was around the time Amber dumped me that I realized teaching just wasn't doing it for me (more on that emotional rollercoaster later). But oh no, I'd gone too far to turn back. Can't change your major in your 4th year. You've done so much, you can't turn back now. What a fucking tool. I think of myself back when I was a sophomore in high school and I want to slap myself. Now I want to slap myself when I wake up some days.

Tonight, Jesse and I made some rockin spaghetti and watched Three Kings. We spent about an hour chillin and talking about the stupid stuff we normally talk about. And we got to talking about Harlan Ellison, my second favorite writer (Sorry, Mr. Miller, Mr. Follet, and Mr. Frazier). He put in a CD of some lectures Mr. Angry Pants did at MIT so I could, "At least hear the man's voice," before I died. And I'm glad he did.

See, the thing about Harlan Ellison is that he's an angry, angry, man. But he is quite possibly the most honest and humanistic writer I've ever read. The man oozes compassion - and so do I. I just push it down. I've been timid, see? I push down my own compassion, honesty, and love to put on the mask of The Bastard - The Racist - The Tiresome Jackass. I do it not because I am often found wanting for ideas or creativity; no, nup, wrong, nuh-uh. The following aren't all the reasons, but I do it, in part, because people tend to confuse honesty for frailty; compassion for vulnerability. Anyone who grew up in Oak Ridge knows that weakness will get you fucked with your pants on faster, and harder, than if you're caught lying. At least that was my experience. The biggest difference between Mr. Ellison and myself is that he wanted to be a writer his whole life and I just realized it about a year ago...and I was too chicken-shit to admit it. (That, and I suck at writing...and I'm not as angry.)

So what's the deal?

I've decided to explore the whole writing thing. I think I've got a fairly decent start. You probably don't know that I started keeping a real journal around the time I started rowing. (I begam scribbling at 1:15pm on 8/16/03.) So all the juicy shit about Christina is in there. (More on that later.) I'm gona finish my teaching degree, or switch to history and graduate next semester. I haven't decided yet. Either way, I'm getting the fuck outa dodge at some point and I'm going to see what I can do with my words. If I have to fly to Europe and fuck my way across Paris, I'll do it. If I've gota join the Army like I'd planned before I met Amber, I will.

I was never very uncertain about my future until now. And I sure as shit can't let myself be cowed by it.

I'm not joking...and don't call me Shirley.

For that matter, don't call me Jesus either, Holly.

I forgot how terrifying it is to blog. It's strage. I never have anything to say. Seriously...nothing to say. Well, I guess I can fake it for a while.

So, I've got this english teacher. She's about my age and she ain't hard on the eyes. It's pretty cool, because I'm repeating the class from way back when I was a sophomore and an idiot (I got a C in the class...what bullshit). Anyway, every day of class is fun because 1) I think she's under the impression that I'm a freshmen and 2) we always wind up having some random conversation about stupid things.

Take last friday for instance. We had to turn in a topic and thesis for our first "big" research paper. 4-5 pages. Argumentative. No problem, right? Well, for some reason, I got it into my head that I didn't want to argue 3 points on my issue...just two. And wouldn't you know it? She calls me up after class to talk about my thesis. "You can't argue two points, you can do one or three or more...just not two." Well, duh. But of course I had a point to make, so I went on and on about how it doesn't make sense that for one and three to be acceptable and not two. Boy it just isn't fair. I wonder how the number two feels about that.

Anyway, I'm not sure if I'm creating the impression that I'm an idiot or what. I have no game, people. It doesn't really matter at all. It's school, and this is my 6th year and I need to do something to break the routine.

Well, that's my little slice of bullshit for now. Maybe I'll post something stunning some day, but I doubt it.

Someone put shit in my pants!

Well, screw a bunch of Angelfire. It isn't that I don't like them or anything like that. I just wanted a chance, and we all know I'm lazy, so I just decided to take the quick and easy route out of Lamesville. No HTML to get in my way here. No sir. Nice and simple, so I can let the blind man in my head take a vacation and let the shit-train roll on through.

I'll post again some day, but this is more of a place-holder. Just getting your attention. Just letting you know I'm still alive, and will be blogging yet again.

So for now...

Piss on your grave.