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.