Posts in Category: The College Years


This is my first blog entry. I haven’t used a blog before, but I spend 98% of my waking life bored out of my mind, and I figured blogging was the perfect complement to utter boredom. I could be wrong, and if I am, I’ll forget about this whole thing roughly three days from now.

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I Am Incredibly Responsible

Since the beginning of the semester, I have amassed (at last count) 132 pages from three different textbooks for single class, the History of Africa from 1885-present. Guess how many pages I’ve read since the beginning of the semester? My rough estimate is zero. I haven’t cracked a single goddamn book, and I’m starting to actually feel kinda bad about it. This complete lack of reading any actual assignments coupled with the fact that I’ve shown up for maybe five out of the ten class sessions. This is grossly insubordinate, and if the syllabus hadn’t contained the oh-so-magical phrase “more than three absences may lower your participation grade” as opposed to the normal Columbia standard of “IF YOU MISS MORE THAN THREE CLASSES YOU WILL BE TAKEN TO THE BASEMENT OF THE WABASH CENTER AND DROWNED IN A POOL OF YOUR OWN PUS-FILLED BLOOD,” I probably wouldn’t have missed so much class. But, come on, I can’t even understand what the prof is saying anyway. She has a heavy Liberian accent, and I just sort of sit there drooling and wondering what the hell is going on. Maybe it’d help if I read at least one assignment.

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Last night was one of the more bizarre experiences of my life. My aunt recently moved back her from San Francisco with her three demon spawn children. After the Chicago sect of the family abandoned the concept of “family parties,” save for important occasions like graduations and, of course, an annual Christmas party, this aunt comes back and decides, “HELO I ARE HAVING DAUGHTER WHO SIXTEEN OF YEARS SO LET PARTY.” And with that, a group of busy people, not used to having family parties, attempted to clear their Saturday night to celebrate the sweet sixteen of a child who for all intents and purposes should have been killed years ago. I guess in a way the fact that she is still alive and has not been admitted to a rehab clinic, an STD clinic, or an insane asylum is an important milestone worthy of celebration.

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What the Fuck Is WTF?

Fiction Writing is the biggest waste of time I’ve ever encountered. Four hours of worthless “activities” designed to improve writing skills. I’m not saying I don’t need help improving my writing skills, but these exercises don’t work. Well, they don’t with me. The other people in class seem to be responding to it quite well, but then again, the other people in class are part of the problem. The entire class is a nightmare cross-section of everything I hate about art school students.

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Believing You Can Fly at Age 15

I did the ol’ shuffle thing on iTunes today and a song I haven’t listened to in a long, long time came up: Straight No Chaser’s cover of that R. Kelly song “I Believe I Can Fly.” It reminded me of the semi-infamous second debate in my public speaking class last semester, after the extremely infamous first debate got so out of hand that it was canceled and we started from scratch with a completely new topic.

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An Anniversary of Pain

New Tori Amos = rocks

A reconciliation of sorts (if there was ever reconciling necessary…I’m still not sure, but then again I’m left in the dark about 98% of what happens in my life) with my not-girlfriend = a happy event that has perhaps fittingly occurred on Halloween

Five hours of Buffy today = severely gg

Three bags of leftover Kit-Kats (yeah, trick-or-treating isn’t exactly over, but I will be sure there are three bags left) = fattening, but who cares other than my jeans?

Very little homework this weekend = yay

No job = no money, but still, yay

Halfway through The Bluest Eye = Jesus Christ, I can’t take another page, but it’s better than being a quarter of the way through

I have time to write again (and I ain’t talking about shitty assignments) = neat-o

That about sums up the day. This evening shall be a festival of the written word, as I plan to finish The Bluest Eye tonight, and I will follow that up by a session of rewriting the story bible for a TV series that’ll never happen that I occasionally write when I’m bored or dreamy or just have nothing else to write but still need to get something down on paper.

Oh wait, the thing that got me back on that series idea is that I’m ingratiating myself upon my Writing For Television professor, and she’s got a disturbing excess of contacts for television in the area and in Los Angeles and in New York. So far, she’s my most exploitable contact, and fortunately, she seems to have some sort of horrible crush on me (or maybe it’s my writing…), so hopefully I can use that to my advantage in a patently non-sexual way. I’ve already got enough sexing up to do, thanks to an early-morning call from Not-Girlfriend that irritated me until she, at the goading of a friend I didn’t even know she knew, apologized for things that she didn’t even do just so I would feel less paranoid (did I address my paranoia in another entry? I don’t remember). Isn’t that sweet? She knows just how to screw with my head to make me normal, or at least as close as I come to that.

Plus, she’s really hot.

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Don’t Blame Me, I Voted for Nader — No, Really!

I’m reading this article right now that sort of put things in a perspective I never really thought about. Basically, it’s about Bush and what a big fucking liar he is (and a bad, incompetent one at that), but people buy what he’s saying like the gospel truth. It also points out how, essentially, he was elected on the idea that he would restore truth and honor to the White House. I mean, he didn’t have a whole lot of government experience, he’s a total idiot, and his father was part of a few executive administrations that basically shot our economy into the toilet and unemployment into the stratosphere.

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Of Poetry and Kings…or Something…

I hacked out a poem today. It’s the first of my attempts to simply destroy every person in my Fiction Writing class, one by one, and make them all hate me. I envision the final for that class consisting of them chasing me through Grant Park with pitch-forks and torches, and whoever gets a clean kill gets an A.

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