Pressing My Way
Happy music! Finals are over; all that's left is beginning to consider procrastinating the start of pondering the rough draft of my English final, or whatever it is. It's a "Writer's Reflection", the assignment sheet says. These liberal arts majors, making up things like "reflections" and "writers" and other such nonsense. The only reflections I know of are the generated ones in the graphics engine my friend and I wrote together; those were a bitch, let me tell you. And they had nothing to do with writing, so it means I had a shot at doing it well. The end result was decent, but nothing compared to the Source engine from Valve. Well, there are two parts to this assignment, so let's start with the easy part: printing out at least fourteen pages of non-directed writings. If it's not going to be read, I could print out the technical documentation I wrote for some of my Perl modules. That's not non-directed, though, and I didn't do it with class in mind. Actually, I'll end up printing this beast out, and I didn't write any of this with the assignment in mind. Well, except for this paragraph. And this sentence. And this one. And this one.
I read a lot of philosophy today, finishing up Speaker for the Dead. Amazing book—read it. I have a copy if that's all you require. It's slightly damaged, and I don't know how it happened. It makes me sad. I'm writing in simple sentences. This must be bland. It's time for improvement.
But yes, Speaker for the Dead was an amazing book, and I can't believe how creative Orson Scott Card is with the thing he came up with for the biology of the planet it takes place on. I mean, I can't say anything about it, because that would give it away to those of you who haven't read it, but will, because I'll cause harm to your person if you don't. I'll find a way to track who's read this, and HUNT YOU DOWN, so watch out! I'm on the warpath. Actually, I'm bored of war right now, since I played [18h00 minus 11h00 = 7 hours] of Counter-Strike: Source today, almost all in a row. I completely forgot about eating lunch, but it was so much fun. It's amazing how appealing something can be when you get (visibly) better at it every time you participate in the experience. It's too bad writing isn't a process like that; I'm just obliged to myself to do it. I mean, if I don't, I get stressed out, and that's not good, the anxiety attacks might start again, and holy crap that would be bad, don't want to repeat The February of Desolation, 2006. We're hoping (we, like Gollum; that was unintentional—I meant like we, the management) that it's not the beginning of an annual thing, because that would really, really suck. Then again, it's not every year that something like that happens, and the physical effects are hard to come by. I'm more relaxed now anyways; I care a lot less.
Do I care less? Or am I more reasonable than I used to be? Is this independence from people a good thing, since I could easily survive an Incident? What degree of detachment is humane, to myself and others? How cold and distant can I be without hurting people? I always fall into the trap, anyways. Friendship is much too appealing to be healthy. Well, I've proven that friendship isn't healthy, and the appeal can't be either, sort of like an attraction to the business end of busy weapons isn't healthy. Believe me, friendship is a busy weapon. I suppose it's in my best fake interest to maintain these relationships with people, and enjoy myself, and just brace myself for the unexpected impact. They say that's one of the things about the floggings like they did to Jesus: you can't see it coming, so you can't brace for impact, and not being able to wince makes it hurt a LOT more. And why would I do that voluntarily, when I can turn my back on people and avoid the flogging altogether? What's the benefit? This transient feeling of acceptance and worth? Is it worth anything? Why can't it be like it used to, when I could shut up and stop being obnoxious, and I didn't care about other people, except it never worked that way, it was just different: extreme dependence on a few people, and when the most significant figure fails (dies), then where are you? Out in the cold, where you were supposed to be in the first place. This dependence—it must be natural, instinct-like, because otherwise I'd be able to avoid it. I should reason my way out of it. But it doesn't work. It never works, and damn me for trying, because I end up hurting people other than myself in the process, and that's the last thing I want. And now a quote, from the song of the title and my current music:
"Just think of one time when you thought you wasn't gonna make it." Another line from the song. So much, so much. So emo. I'm embarrassing myself publicly (aside from the part where you're reading what I'm writing, which isn't worth reading, and yet you're here: why?); I'm cold and detached, though, remember? So, it's time to get to some directed writing, to the tunes of Robert Randolph and the Family Band.
Enjoy yourself.
I read a lot of philosophy today, finishing up Speaker for the Dead. Amazing book—read it. I have a copy if that's all you require. It's slightly damaged, and I don't know how it happened. It makes me sad. I'm writing in simple sentences. This must be bland. It's time for improvement.
But yes, Speaker for the Dead was an amazing book, and I can't believe how creative Orson Scott Card is with the thing he came up with for the biology of the planet it takes place on. I mean, I can't say anything about it, because that would give it away to those of you who haven't read it, but will, because I'll cause harm to your person if you don't. I'll find a way to track who's read this, and HUNT YOU DOWN, so watch out! I'm on the warpath. Actually, I'm bored of war right now, since I played [18h00 minus 11h00 = 7 hours] of Counter-Strike: Source today, almost all in a row. I completely forgot about eating lunch, but it was so much fun. It's amazing how appealing something can be when you get (visibly) better at it every time you participate in the experience. It's too bad writing isn't a process like that; I'm just obliged to myself to do it. I mean, if I don't, I get stressed out, and that's not good, the anxiety attacks might start again, and holy crap that would be bad, don't want to repeat The February of Desolation, 2006. We're hoping (we, like Gollum; that was unintentional—I meant like we, the management) that it's not the beginning of an annual thing, because that would really, really suck. Then again, it's not every year that something like that happens, and the physical effects are hard to come by. I'm more relaxed now anyways; I care a lot less.
Do I care less? Or am I more reasonable than I used to be? Is this independence from people a good thing, since I could easily survive an Incident? What degree of detachment is humane, to myself and others? How cold and distant can I be without hurting people? I always fall into the trap, anyways. Friendship is much too appealing to be healthy. Well, I've proven that friendship isn't healthy, and the appeal can't be either, sort of like an attraction to the business end of busy weapons isn't healthy. Believe me, friendship is a busy weapon. I suppose it's in my best fake interest to maintain these relationships with people, and enjoy myself, and just brace myself for the unexpected impact. They say that's one of the things about the floggings like they did to Jesus: you can't see it coming, so you can't brace for impact, and not being able to wince makes it hurt a LOT more. And why would I do that voluntarily, when I can turn my back on people and avoid the flogging altogether? What's the benefit? This transient feeling of acceptance and worth? Is it worth anything? Why can't it be like it used to, when I could shut up and stop being obnoxious, and I didn't care about other people, except it never worked that way, it was just different: extreme dependence on a few people, and when the most significant figure fails (dies), then where are you? Out in the cold, where you were supposed to be in the first place. This dependence—it must be natural, instinct-like, because otherwise I'd be able to avoid it. I should reason my way out of it. But it doesn't work. It never works, and damn me for trying, because I end up hurting people other than myself in the process, and that's the last thing I want. And now a quote, from the song of the title and my current music:
Problems at my homeNow listen to the song, so you get the tune and it all makes sense. Actually the whole album (Live at the Wetlands) is incredible. I'll give it to anyone who needs it. If it's Christmas and you need a present, I'll buy it for you.
I got to press on
Problems on my job
I got to press on
When I'm down to my last dime
I got to press on
When I don't have no friends
I got to press on
I press on
"Just think of one time when you thought you wasn't gonna make it." Another line from the song. So much, so much. So emo. I'm embarrassing myself publicly (aside from the part where you're reading what I'm writing, which isn't worth reading, and yet you're here: why?); I'm cold and detached, though, remember? So, it's time to get to some directed writing, to the tunes of Robert Randolph and the Family Band.
Enjoy yourself.
posted by Andrew Hills at 10:11 PM
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