I see some fuck hole hacked my account and fucked up my blog. That’s nice. Time to do some repairs. I apologise for the inconvenience…
‘I want someone to love me for who I am,’ people tend to say. The unspoken subtext to that statement, though, is almost always, ‘Not you, obviously, but someone I’m actually attracted to.’ Because the infinite divide between lover and loser hasn’t really got a thing to do with you or what you think, or the use of consonants, it’s really just a matter of what someone else’s perception is. And sadly, it takes some people quite a while to figure that out. But once you’ve got that sorted it’s like having a wooden stake rammed through your heart and then being dragged hissing into the harsh sunlight of absolutely crystal clear reality to struggle and burn.
It’s not their fault, of course, the other person, as much as you’d like to blame them – or anyone else – because it’s always easier not to be accountable for your own thoughts and actions, isn’t it? No, that fault is entirely your own. Your funny little make-believe world you’ve tried to impose on someone else’s reality is quite like grafting a human head on a dog. Sure it’s all very fascinating and everything, but ultimately it’s an ugly thing and doesn’t fit terribly well. And probably the other person doesn’t like dogs anyway. And you’re pretty stupid for thinking it would work out.
‘Someday someone is going to look at you with a light in their eyes you’ve never seen,’ states a popular internet meme. ‘They’ll look at you like you’re everything they’ve been looking for their entire lives. Wait for it.’ And that’s a very true thing: you can, to paraphrase John Legend, love their curves and all their edges, all their perfect imperfections; you can love someone with all your heart and want everything good for them, but if you don’t fall into their general category of even the remotest possibilities of someone they’re interested in, you can look at them with whatever miraculous light you can muster, and yet your words, your thoughts, your feelings are still going to be just empty things lost in the void.
‘Bless your heart,’ they say in the South. It sounds very nice at first, but really it’s quite a polite way of saying you’re just a fucking idiot. And though I’ve been on this rock for a little over half a century now – most of it annoying, thank you – I find that I’m still a complete nob when it comes to picking up much sooner on the whole ‘Bless your heart’ thing, no matter how often it happens, and figuring out that the smartest and wisest thing to do is to just bow out and decide the pain of being alone is somewhat slightly less difficult than the pain of being meaningless.
I wanted to take a moment and apologise for the lack of updates. I decided, since the previous entry, that I needed to take a break from writing – not just here, but everywhere. That’s not to say I don’t write anything at all, that would be virtually impossible. My shitty, soul-crushing job requires me to write almost constantly on whatever random scrap of paper I can locate. And I still have to make To-Do lists for myself, and scratch out the odd vitriolic note stuck to poorly parked vehicles in car parks. But I needed to take a step back from actual process of creating and find some sort of motivation again. It’s not always simple.
It probably wouldn’t surprise either one of you to know that I tend to suffer very unpleasant bouts of fairly deep depression, and the past year has just been an inexplicably brutal one on the personal front. I’m not going to dive into long details about it at the moment. I will, eventually, sprinkle those glittery dashes of faerie dust amongst the usual bits of rambling, but not just now.
For now I simply wanted to drop in, have a look round, dust things off, clear some of the spiderwebs, and start getting things back in order. I’ve realised that I need this little Time Out chair more than I thought. And depending upon whether or not you’re still popping back on occasion to see what the fuck is taking me so long, that could be a very good thing or a very bad thing…
The two of you, I’m sure, must have been on edge during this unexpectedly long silence. For that, I apologise. The reason, in short, is that this past term at University had been staggeringly brutal and took very nearly every moment of my time. There’s little point in explaining and, to be fair, it wouldn’t be terribly interesting anyway. The best I can say is that, as you’re both aware, in areas of mathematics I am essentially just a few precious steps away from being the Village Idiot of Simpleton. And despite being just one class from graduation, I am unable to take that class until I supplicate myself to the harsh rigours of the University-imposed prerequisites for that class, in this case, of course, another maths class. And not just any maths class, but a newly-invented maths class which made its debut this term; one requiring a number of ‘outside projects’ and many hours of additional ‘lab work’ to try and fit in amongst the other not-so-annoying parts of your life. Over the past 16 weeks I so I have often felt like a tortured slave in the bowels of a Roman galleon, being whipped to the rhythmic pounding of an enormous drum.
It was relentless.
This bit of torture was paired with a film class – Film Noir & Horror, to be exact – which, on the surface, given the vast amount of film classes I’ve taken in the past, and my own long-standing interest in the two genres, seemed to be the quintessential ‘blow off’ class. A bit of fluff to balance against the cruelty of maths. But no. It, too, consumed unwieldy amounts of my time, as the films we were required to watch (and later discuss on an internet bulletin board as well as in class) were not provided by the instructor. Rather, he helpfully suggested they could be had from nearly any retail source – Amazon, Barnes & Nobles, etcetera – various rental places, or possibly through Netflix, Amazon Prime, Hulu, or wherever.
Very often I found myself resorting to poor-quality web videos when the above mentioned sources failed to provide me with options. And after having purchased memberships in Netflix and Amazon specifically for the class, I was incredibly fucking annoyed to find only one of the 14 films available for free. Amazon Prime, especially, turned out to be a shocking waste of cash. Why pay a monthly premium for a service and then still be expected to pay an additional $1.99-$3.99 for certain films? I was outraged.
If I’m honest, though, I did take a short mental holiday at one point to binge-watch Derek and series 4 of Arrested Development on Netflix – after homework was caught up, mind you. Otherwise it was quite literally all work and no play for the past 16-odd weeks. One good thing about the film class, however, is that it provided me with a new film to add to my Rosebud Was the Sled Reviews sometime in the coming weeks. You’re thrilled, I’m sure.
A smallish addendum to the above: Wednesday, 15 May, was Graduation. A friend of mine asked me to attend the ceremony and see her receive her diploma. I specifically requested the evening off. As usual, because that’s how my shit job typically is, I was denied the evening off and, so, did not see my friend graduate, nor was I able to attend the smallish get-together afterwards because I was scheduled until 10PM and then again at 6.30AM the following morning exactly as I had asked not to be.
At about 7PM, I got a text off another friend who was attending the ceremony. ‘OMG!’ it said. ‘You’re graduating! Your name is in the flyer!?’
And yet there I was, grovelling like a supplicant for the great unwashed masses, performing my gruelling role of menial subservience for a thankless and thoughtless corporation.
‘It’s got to be a mistake,’ I texted back. ‘I think someone would have let me know I was supposed to be graduating tonight.’
With classes having only wrapped up a few days ago, I haven’t had a chance to talk with my academic advisor just yet about this little spanner in the works. But that is a problem for another day. For now, I’m free of the nightmare for a few precious weeks and am planning to drink beer.
Lots of beer.