Meh.

There isn't that much happening, these days - at least not with me. I wake up every day, I go to class (sometimes) and then I go home. That's about it. I eat now and again. I sure as shit don't read as often as I like. I spend way too much time on my computer, and I'm afraid I'm slipping into my CyberLAN slump again.

I've spent quite a bit of that time sorting through all that tired bullshit I've been talking about of late. You know, what to do after college and such. I still have no answers, and I'm beginning to wonder if I ever will. I don't know if I've said it before, but I think I'm just naturally discontent with everything. A prime example is that I can't stand using "I" so damn much...especially to start a sentence. I suck. Damnit...

I really like it when my writing is more external. Like when I'm talking about the things I'm doing. But right now, I'm not doing anything. At least not anything worth talking about at length. I just feel dull and inactive and terribly, terribly, lame right now. Ah well. There's always whiskey, I guess.

And speaking of lame: it's been almost 3 months, Cofer. Get off your ass, bro.

What the Fuck is You Rambling About Today?

Call me a voyeur. Call me a dropper of eaves. Call me a cactus. I really don't care that much in the end, but I should tell you, there is some crazy shit to be exposed to just by sitting around listening to people. For instance - as I sit on the couch at my home away from home, there's a 20-year-old kid at a nearby table talking to his preacher. I call him a kid, because he looks like he's still in high school. He's not what I would call big, but he's tall enough and looks like he's been in a fight or twenty, like a mechanic. In fact, that must be it. He reminds me of the guy who was in my graphic arts class and worked, for a time, at the Shell Rapid Lube, near the Buffalo Grille in Oak Ridge. I wonder whatever happened to him. Anyway, from the bits and pieces I've picked up, he spent a little time in prison for stealing a car and he's talking to his preacher about redemption and all that stuff. Now that's some heavy shit. I think politeness compels me to say no more about the ignorant bastard's conversation. Still, I find myself thinking, "FUCK! This guy's lived a Life!"

So, I'm down to 6 hours of school now. Economics was going to take far too much work and dedication for me to care at this point. And as I'm not going to get my teaching license, why get the accreditation to teach economics anyway? Fuck it. I'm having far too much fun with Creative Writing and Shakespeare, and I think I'm better for it. As much of a struggle the whole poetry thing has been, I have to say that I really have come to enjoy poetry. The stuff I get, I love. The stuff I don't...well, I tell those wanky pretentious fuckers to eat one.

Dr. Braggs (or Brakk as Lunchie calls him) says that everything that has been written about has already been written, which is pretty much the only point of disagreement we have. There's plenty of stuff that hasn't been written about, we just aren't conscious of it yet. Yeah, there are a zillion love poems, a billion poems about death, at least one about fathers (kuz I wrote it), several about pain, some about pets, a lot about sports, and far too many about fuckin grass or leaves. The trick though is to use fresh language and to look at things in a different way, and that's what makes it interesting. I can agree with that. It makes sense. But this "everything that can be said, has been said," shit just doesn't fly with me. I think it forces you to assume that everything that everything that has been experienced has been experienced too. Ya know what? There isn't enough Science Fiction poetry. Come on, Unkie Harlan! I think that would be some interesting stuff.

Dostoevsky 2 - Chuck 0

This message is coming to you at the usual time from the usual place. I'm in the living room of my adopted home, Stone Cup. I spend entirely too much time here, but it's just a much better place than my creatively stifling apartment. That place sucks, and I can't wait to get the fuck out of there. As Cofer noted on Super Bowl Sunday, I'm a dirty fucker. It wasn't as bad as it is now, and I have precious few excuses really, but I've always had a tenuous grasp on the understanding of what is considered "clean" by most standards. In the interest of true confession, I didn't wash my hair regularly until I was in middle school. But none of this really explains why my apartment is a fucking hole.

I think I know why, though. I think I've got my finger on the throbbing vein of my discontent here in the Scenic City of Goddamn Awesomeness - I don't wana grow up.

Ok, keep the fucking platitudes to yourselves. You know who you are with your, "Nobody wants to grow up," bullshit. I'm not twelve. What I'm getting at is that I don't know what to do next. Think of me as Brad Pitt, sitting in the bathtub, in Fight Club. That's what I'm talking about. If things go as expected, I'll be out of school in May or August. I'm not going to teach, so how do I pay the bills? Dad told me last night that his company is looking for people to do research for them. I could do that, but I can tell you now I'd hate it. You can square the hatred if I have to live in Oak Ridge. Cube it if I have to live at my parents’ house. I'm thinking of taking the two grand I've got squirreled away and running off to Europe for a bit. No idea where, or what I'd do while I'm out there. Anywhere but here.

Still, that doesn't answer any of my questions. Running away from the problem isn't going to help. If it's one thing I never picked up that everyone else seems to have, at least in some way, it's foresight. I think my way around is more Pavlovian. Stimulus and respons, that's me. Plus, I have very little internal motivation. I hardly do anything unless something or someone drives me to it. (Again, no platitudes, foo!) As The Watson says, “Things are complex.”

So, I'm trying to figure all this shit out and have school pilling it on day after fucking day. And now I've gotten so far off track that I didn't even get to Dostoevsky. To give the short-short version, I've started up The Brothers Karamazov again. He vanquished me the first time, but I'm back, bitch! And originally, in the title of this offering of rambles and babble, the score was 1 - 0. But a few minutes ago, some random dude came in with the same book. I mentioned the co-ink-e-dink, and he said he started it a couple years back but never finished it.

I'll get you this time, you commie fuck.

Anything But Work!

I'm just avoiding my paper right now. I'm just idiotic like that. I enjoy writing these papers almost as much as avoiding them. Oh happy day. Real update in the not too distant future.

Update, you bitches. You know who you are.