I came home tonight, thoroughly unmotivated to write. Of course, I left home even less motivated, so I suppose I had better make up for some of the slack.
Lots of things occurred to me today, so be prepared to see "It occurred to me" as a prefix to most of the sentences in the following.

    It occurs to me (you've been warned) that I've spent too much of my time focusing on things I ought to do. What I ought to say, what I ought to be doing, what I ought to achieve so I can finally feel accomplished or good about myself, and I've totally neglected to do the things I actually like doing. One of them includes writing, which I've neglected anyway, but that may constitute as a whole 'nother post in and of itself.

    I used to enjoy walking around quite a lot. Or even not so much walking as a sort of minimalist adventure in and around the center of a town, trying to discover new (if not interesting) things about places that I've seen so many times before.

    I decided to skip youth group tonight, an event which I fear has become too much of a hive of nigh-political struggle and pointless bickering (without any of the perks of the democratic system, or anyone to represent me in a court of law) to be anywhere near as enjoyable as it used to be. People, it occurs to me, seem to be less satisfied with life nowadays. They just can't seem to leave well enough alone. Anyway,
    I decided to skip youth group, and take my new red-and-black bowling-shoe-wannabe chucks out for a walk around Davis.
I've always really liked Davis. I really don't know why. I've always enjoyed that kind of society. Everyone knows who they are and what they want and are willing to forgo all the things other people think they ought to be doing to enjoy themselves. Not maliciously so, as if all they do is party, but they know how to have a good time there, and make the best of things.
    I browse around -purposefully avoiding Starbucks at first, knowing that if I go there first-thing, nothing else will be accomplished- and come across a tiny book-shop known as The Avid Reader, which I had nearly forgotten about. The name, even as I walked in, confuses me. I understand that the establishment caters to avid readers, but does that make the building itself one of them? I daren't ask the proprietor, lest he actually have an answer (God forbid) that turns out to be as boring as one may expect.
    I decide to actually seriously look for a book for my trip, as I have an inkling of a suspicion that the first two books of Death Note won't last me the whole six weeks. Alas. I browse the fiction section, waiting for something to catch my eye. More specifically, I'm looking for a book that's immediately decent, written by someone I've never heard of, and has a 98% chance of being a book I will never read again.
   I come across "Light" by M. John Harrison. Never read him, I thought, this is good. He's male, as well, also good (I've all but given up on female authors. While I have no doubt in my mind that they can write just as well-if not better than-male authors, mainstream authorettes all appear to have the same general style as each other, and mention sex one too many times for comfort. Which is a shame, too, because I was under the assumption that females as a gender would have evolved by now to a point in which they had other things to occupy their literary time with. Shoes, for instance). I simultaneously attempt to come up with five good reasons why I should buy this book. For one, it had a white cover, in stark contrast to the black that has been so readily adopted by many-a-fiction-author. Black and elven, that seems to be it these days. Black elves, even. But this one had a white cat, which was nice. I felt like reading it. So, inevitably I bought it, more on a whimsy than anything. It's cheap, I thought. Not dirt-cheap, but cheap enough for me to feel confident that I'm actually buying each and every page, instead of feeling like the cashier is robbing me of my money for a few chapters worth of moderate escapism. (In imagining that scene, I realize that the imagery of being robbed in exchange for escapism is escapism in and of itself, and promptly feel my mind slip off into another dimension)
    Right. Book in hand, it's back to Starbucks. Still somewhat avoiding it- an inkling feeling in the back of my head tells me that there might be other, more interesting places that I could go, but eventually the coffee wins out. I pass two ladies that I had passed before, one of them slowing slightly to attempt to read my shirt ("Genius by birth, Slacker by choice"). I slowed slightly, in sympathy (poor saps do it all the time), but not enough to keep me from my goal.
    I arrive in Starbucks, adopt a grande caramel macchiato as my own, grab a chair, and read through the first chapter of Light before I feel it ample time to leave.
Good book, actually, Light. Sort of a what-if-we-could-slip-through-dimensions reverse thriller. (I say reverse-thriller because really, in reading the flyleaf, you know how it's going to play out, so that's not the thrilling part. The thrilling part is the set-up, and the rest is sort of just an apre-vie)
    It occurs to me that the main problem I have with cargo pants, is that whoever takes it upon themselves to design the darn things always feels the need to invent some sort of new-and/or-innovative way to close the presumably-included cargo pockets, which, in my feel, is a little bit of a drag. They can't be open? Oh no, of course not. Of course not. Being open implies space, it implies functionality, it implies that someone might pickpocket you (an act that, I would like to point out, would leave at least four of the vital areas within immediate striking distance of either of your knees), it implies the freedom to store what you want in there. It implies that, above all other unthinkable thunks, that they are in fact pockets, just like all the rest.
    In matters physical, it was getting dark, so I decided to grab my drink presumptuous and hit the town, so to speak. Walking around in purposefully dark clothing, wondering if cars will see me, half-praying that they won't, just to make my otherwise relatively dull night somewhat interesting (pain notwithstanding). Everyone saw me, though, which I guess is good. I continued to walk aimlessly, just in case.
    It occurred to me that nearly (actually, not even nearly- absolutely) everyone I saw, was with another person. Be they couples, groups, parties, what have you. I was the only, only person that I saw who was utterly on his own. Not really an important thought, as the only reason I went out tonight was to be alone, but an interesting observation nonetheless. it's like the human species feeds off of being with someone. Doesn't totally matter who, but there's literally some sort of... nutrition, almost, that comes from company. Like a life-source for some people.
    Those people thoroughly annoy me. I'm not at all like them, and I do often wish to be left alone (because of them, more than not). They're the type who will call "just to talk" and then not talk, waiting for you, the unassuming callee that you are, to spark up a conversation totally out of the blue. These people scare me, because they wait for people to call them and do the same, and prepare entire monologues specifically for the occasion.
    It is for this reason that I still despise the concept of the telephone.

    I decided to give up the wandering, wondering about humans and their oddities, and drive home. I realize about the time I get on the freeway that my tank is almost empty. I'll have to take care of that tomorrow.
    One of the things that bothers me about my car is that, in accordance with the style of thel ate 60's, early 70's cars, it's so low to the ground that anything on the road today (read: anything designed by someone smart enough to account for speed-bump clearance), while driving at night, looks like they have their brights on. I know they don't now, and they're actually quite courteous a lot of the time, but it annoys me still. I hate going blind, I really do. Driving at night doesn't help.

    Anyway, I'm home now, in my pajamas, only half-ready for the weeks that lay ahead. I'll be off to Honduras soon, which may be fun. More immediately, I must be up early tomorrow to go to the rehearsal for graduation, because apparently none of us can possibly graduate properly the first time.



Blogs bother me, in that I can never figure out how to end them.

"Recent research shows: there are no Mexican Kool-Aid men, so we don't have a problem there."
"Essentially, they're hicks with guns."
"Ziplock bags: $3. Glade air freshener: $5. Thwarting the American Border Patrol yet again: Priceless."
"How exactly do you abolish cities?"
"Wait, we're getting $250 billion dollars? Whoa! Our case only says 2.5!"
"Whoops, hang on a second, my mom's calling. Mom? Yeah. Yeah. Can you hang on a second? I'm nearly done with my 1AR."
"Is the judge ready? Timer? Paparazzi?"
"No, seriously! That's all it is!"
"Wait wait wait, the mines are meant to kill people? What are they for, then? Looking pretty?"


6-0 record yesterday. Got knocked out in first out rounds. We had Mr. Fink's vote, though. That's all that matters.
Billy's smug and I'm arrogant. At least we're consistent.

Those of you who know what I'm talking about will understand. You know who you are.

Just got an email from CTI.


Taiwan is a possibility for me.
Dewd.





Taiwan.