The Heat Is On High

Here is something I don't think I have actually done on here yet: venting in a direct manner that people will surprisingly understand. Finals week is in 12 days, so let's flush out all the crap life gave me.

I am freaking out that I won't receive credit for two of my classes, both of which I have D's in. I am pissed at myself for being lazy, not studying hard enough, giving up too easily, and putting forth my worst academic performance since preschool. I am also pissed off that a multiple choice test could be hard enough for me to fail. One class has a 10-question test with hard questions, in a class with a teacher with a thick french accent who goes off on tangents and talks for three hours without the visual aid of a power point. Another class has a 40-question test in which the material is simple, the questions seem easy, and I study for a considerable amount of time for the test, but I've walked away with a D and an F on two exams. A third class offers a 40-question test with a "correct answer is not given" choice on half of the questions, and is usually right for three of them even though no one usually thinks of choosing it without wanting to strangle the teacher in order to get the right answer. Luckily for me, this teacher actually curves the test by a reasonable amount, and I pull off grades that will actually earn me credit.

I have eaten alone for most meals this week. Breakfast I eat later than everyone else, lunch I sometimes skip, but dinner pisses me off. I hate eating dinner alone, but it happens all the tr. Why? No one bothers to ask me to eat with them, even though everyone has to pass my door to get to the stairwell and people have my phone number. When I ask people to eat with me, either they already ate, will be eating two hours later, and say "I'll be down there soon" and don't bother or "forget" to let me know. Last year, I almost always had people to eat with. This is ridiculous.

The fact that I'm ranting to myself in a blog an not to my friends pisses me off because I should be able to rant to my friends about these things, but I don't spend enough time with them for me to be able to do that without feeling uncomfortable. I am also too proud to tell my home friends or friends from my old school.

I am running out of advice to give to my good friends, and I feel more isolated now than I have ever felt.

I am 19 years old and I've never had a girlfriend. It makes me feel like there's something wrong with me, that somehow the way I act is weird or creepy and I'm just completely oblivious to it all.

I have no idea how the world works. I don't know how professional you have to be with certain people, how confidential with certain information, or really even what is not normal behavior in public. I have no idea how to party at college or how to pick up a girl. I don't understand the concept of random hookups, let alone why people would seek out and prioritize physical satisfaction over wmotional bonding. I still have yet to understand why every girl I form an emotional attraction to just "wants to be friends" even though they could try it, just to see if things could work out.

I hate how my shoelaces come untied any time I walk for over five minutes.

I hate how a "check" on my government paper is only worth 3.5 points out of five, pinning my average at a D+. And it's impossible to participate in the discussion if the TA discusses topics no one has ever heard of.

Every part of my earphones have broken except for the actual functioning, and they are too expensive to replace.

Why do things have to cost money????? Don't answer that, that's what my government class is for.

When my window is closed it's too hot, but when it's open at night, there's too much noise. I sleep with my fucking fan on in the winter.

My mom calls me a lazy shit. It really helps my self-esteem and motivation when the person who has stood by me my whole life has suddenly lost faith.

I want to grow up to be a writer, which is the least sustaining job possible. I'm afraid that I'll be living in a basement or paying rent until I'm 40 when either my first story comes out or I decide to go bungie jumping and "accidentally" forget to hook the bungie cord up to the harness. I fear either the public will reject my work or I'll be too busy working a low-paying job or a dissatisfying job to do what I love to do.

Of course, one of the classes I may not get credit for is an important requirement for my major.

I hate Justin Beiber and the Carolina Panthers' 3-8 record.

The water fountain in my hallway always tastes like shit and always has some unknown, disgusting object blocking the drain.

My tongue hurts if I move it horizontally or if I stick it out, and it has been that way since my food poisoning almost two weeks ago.

My hair grows too quicky, it hurts when skin grows under my freshly cut fingernails, and every time I cut my toenails I predict that they will be ingrown one day.

The shade on my window is impossible to keep closed for more than five seconds and it really pisses me off.

My phone's battery loses charge too quickly.

I try to go to bed before 1:00 every night but always go to sleep after that time. My body clock is fucked up and I fail every time I try to fix it. Then, of course, I am disappointed in myself the next morning after getting up late and being late to class.

WHY DO I ALWAYS FEEL DROWZY IN ASTRONOMY?!?!?! C'mon, son.

I think I've covered just about everything.

Choosing The Right Tiles

If people are like artwork, then what does that make me? I've been told many times by many people that I'm just a combination of people in one entity. I'm a tye-dye. I'm a quilt, patched by the seams. I'm a melting pot of natives and immigrants we call the United States of America. I am not any one painting; I am all of them. They make up a mosaic of morals and mannerisms from everyone around me, the tiles cemented together by the impression they had on me to form a single work of art: me. But I am no longer considered a painting. No, I am a mosaic. However, I am a tricky mosaic. Only certain tiles reveal themselves to certain people. Only one person has seen the entire work of art, and that is the art itself. It knows everything inside, the background, foreground, and middleground of each painting. It is a gift.

And yet, it is also a burden.

It takes all of my concentration to reveal my true colors. Being me has become increasingly difficult. Having absorbed all the uniqueness that made my mentors likeable, I have lost what has made me likeable. People know me for the other paintings inside of me, but not the one tile that began it all. The one that knew there was good in the world; that the good guy always wins. In my quest to become greatly unique, I have become great, but I am also generic. Average.

But don't doubt for a second that I'm not proud of who I am.

From being ordinary I strive for extraordinary. I will now take an oath to be the best that I can be. To always share the best parts of me with everyone. I have all the traits, all of the paintings, I just need to choose the right tiles, and discard all the rest. Start a newly refined mosaic.

Let's start by removing the laziness and the need to not give a crap that high school poisoned me with.

Motivation: found again.

Artwork Is Personal

Normal people are like paintings. There are images in the foreground that jump out at you almost immediately, such as farmers holding pitchforks. Once you are familiar enough with that aspect, you may begin to examine the middleground (is that even a compound word? I'm a writer, I should know this). In the middleground, you may find something that you would not have seen during your first glance. Maybe, behind that twisted, screaming man, you see a beautiful horse on a farm. Then, you find that the twisted man still has a nicer side of him. And as you look deeper into the darkest depths of a person's painting, you might see something few have seen before. In all of that darkness in the background, you'll find a yellow dot. But not just any dot: a star. It illuminates that one spot in the corner of this living painting. Through all the dark secrets, embarrassing moments, and memories we would love simply not to remember, we have a reason to resurface them. Because once they darken a person enough, the victim will soon realize that those memories are lit just enough to bring positivity and happiness through the negativity they bring. They shape us, make us who we are. And, eventually, we may only hope that one day we will be able to be shaped into a dot ourselves; to be the star that lights up someone else's night sky.

Battling The Eraser

It is the pencil that puts words on a page.  However, a small part of the pencil, the eraser, hides those words from intrigued eyes.  In my quest to write, I have succeeded in devising a story--two now, actually--that I am proud of.  I have all the words in my head.  Though some of those words have safely reached the page, others have been stopped by my own personal eraser.  This is not the pink menace that threatens to rid the world of all printed language.  No, my enemy is much worse; laziness.  The very act of not acting delays my motivation and my accomplishment.  I fear that, as time passes, I will no longer be able to finish my work, whether I lose interest or forget where I wanted the story to be taken.  It is an inner battle of wits between me and my eraser, to see who will perish first: me, the eraser, shaven completely and scattered across New England, or me, the pencil, too short to hold and create the words that I desperately wish to reveal to the public.  My determination is strong, but my longing for academic success and social interaction distorts my drive for completion.

The victor is yet to be seen.

Inspiration VS Infringement [EXPLICIT]

Let me be clear: My intent is never to take an idea from someone. I research every one of my ideas to see if they have been done before. I take extra care to make sure that I'm as original as possible. But let's face it. There are aspects of certain stories that I like. Not necessarily a specific idea, but more of a general concept or style. Of course, this argument won't help me in a court battle. And that's the thing about being original: either it's been done or it's copyright infringement. All the aspiring writers out there just want to make a living doing what they love, and then some greedy SOB (son of a billionaire) wants more dough. So, rather than publish the writer's works, they sue his ass for all it's worth. And trust me, a writer's ass is worth a lot. We sit on it for so damn long typing away at our keyboards. So, the writer is so poor that he or she would do anything for money, even get a job putting fringes on scarves. And I know for a fact that I am even less willing to infringe a scarf. So please, to all you publishing companies, TV stations, production companies, and, hell, scarf makers out there: how about instead of falsely accusing us of stealing your ideas, you either let us live our lives, strike a deal to publish our work, or af least appreciate that you've inspired us to express our creativity in 350-or-so pages.

Bookception

You can never have too many Inception references. Now, for those of you who have been reading from the start (which is basically the two people that will read this), I have finally decided what the central theme of my blog should be on: writing. Yes, I'm writing about writing, whether it be my writing, someone else's writing, or just writing in general. And I'll occasionally throw in a random story about something that's frustrating me (which could also fall under the category of "the way the world works") or about life in general. Except being a college guy, it won't be that general because I'll probabaly just end up writing about a girl. You'll see.

On the subject of bookception, keep in mind that I'm also writing about a writer who writes about a writer. Really interesting stuff.

The Jungle Book Is Now A Jungle Of Books

I am taking a creative writing class at school, and what I didn't realize is that there are so many people my age who at least like to write. Not only that, but I also learned that almost everyone (in my class, anyway) is majoring in something other than English. I'm hoping we all write best sellers so I have plenty of friends in the industry and less hostile competition. (Does that even exist in an author's world?) I also hope that in the jungle of books out there, people will see mine as the giant tree to rondesvous (did I spell that right? dang French) at.

The Broken Record of Improvements

The one thing that I don't like about writing: revising.  I am always so eager to progress the story that I rush events to the point where the plot could end within three pages.  When I try to resist the temptation of continuation, I suffer through revision after revision until I decide that I'm sick of reading the same lines over again.  That's usually the point in my projects where I abandon it entirely.  Otherwise, the writing would seem forced.  If I were to ignore the need for changes and carry on with the plot, however, my gut would eat me alive.  Currently I am at the same crossroads.  Luckily, I know that this is the project I want to finish.

Should I Feel Embarrassed, Or Embarrassed For Feeling Embarrassed?

These past few weeks, I have been focusing on the "hero" genre.  I, for one, have never read a DC or Marvel comic (with the exception of one issue about Raven years ago), and for some awful reason I've looked down on comic geeks.  If anything, it's the style of the drawing: really jacked guys with a lot of use of shadows on everything, no eyes drawn on anyone, just masks, and all of the females are skinny, muscular, and have exaggerated... "other" features.  But I must say, the creative genius the writers put in to their work is quite impressive.  They create elaborate environments, planets, stories, villains, heroes, powers, and plot-lines that cannot be matched easily.  And unlike most stories with a beginning and an end, the creation of a universe is continuous, with endless possibilities.  You want some guy to come back from the dead?  So be it.  Add another hero?  One was just born.  The story is so endless, so involving to the reader, that the stories never end until either a company or a writer casts it aside.  Even then, another writer can think of something else to add to the story.  To the reader, without a writer to continue a work that "ended", the job of creator falls into their heads.  They recreate the missing pieces into something that makes sense, so they will always continue it in their head.  Problem is, only a few record their ideas.

My ideas were mostly recorded, but unfortunately, they would not be legal to publish.

On a related note, I have a confession to make, especially to my family and close friends (because you're the only ones who read this other than the Russians sending me ads to shorten the domain name).  I won't tell you this in person, but I actually love this stuff.  I was obsessed with the show Teen Titans as a kid, but I was unsure if I saw all the episodes.  So, this summer, I re-watched all 67 of them. Yup.  Then re-watched most of them again.  Then, to finally put it in my past, I watched Young Justice because it had some similar characters and was meant for the same age group.  (Yes, I realize 18 is probably not included in that group).

Of course, I'll never admit to watching those shows to people I actually know, because it's a little embarrassing.

...Okay, very embarrassing.

It was after watching Teen Titans that I decided I wanted to create my own hero.  Hell, at one point I even looked up internships on the DC website.  If my obsession continues, I'll apply for one in Boston. At first, the hero thing went great, until I came to a roadblock.  I then started watching Young Justice and discovered that I like the group hero thing better than the solo characters.  So guess what I did: I created 5 (yes, five) new heroes (God I feel so nerdy) and came up with a setting.  I never would have guessed that my next writing project would be a comic book series or graphic novel.

Just one problem: I can write, not draw.  A hero novel cannot be written.  Fight scenes would basically be, "She punched him, he punched her back."  The only logical method would be to write either a comic or a graphic novel.  Oh, and I may have failed to mention, I CAN'T DRAW!  That means I either have to learn (as of now, I barely have the patience to even finish one drawing. I tried.), or a more logical answer, I find someone who can draw for me.  Oh, and, I don't have money to hire someone.  Maybe I'll find a cartooning student at school who will agree to translate my words into colorful drawings.

Moving At The Speed Of Time

I apologize, it's been a while since my last insanely weird thought...but I just had another one.  What if time was not a concept, as we know it to be, but a constantly moving energy?  Light and sound are energies because we can sense them.  Well, we also can sense time because we know time is passing.  And here's where the weird comes in.  What if time is not just passing, but is passing us?  Light, passes us much faster than sound, but even sound passes us.  Light, in fact, is the fastest thing known to man.  But is it possible that time is just an energy that moves even faster than light?  Moving faster than sound creates a sonic boom; moving faster than light, from what I've heard in sci-fi movies, brings one into "warp speed" or something.  So, to move faster than time itself would mean that time is no longer passing you; you are passing time.  In essence, moving faster than time would allow one to travel into the future.  So, my final question: How fast is time?

Note: neither this nor any other strange post (likely all of them) were inspired by drugs, alcohol, or inhalants.  Lack of sleep may have been a factor, though.

The Experiment Has Not Gone Wrong Yet...But Feels It

My preference in writing is to be creative and original. Yet, I now find myself testing the waters with a genre that has been almost all but used up. After all, what powers are left to reveal that no one has seen before? What story has not been told? When I think about the modern "super hero", I think about generations of graphic novels, television shows, and movies that have told the same story for years. I think about those who are obsessed with one or all characters involved, reading every novel, every word, multiple times. The story becomes a large part of their life, which I regretfully admit annoys me. Why waste your life attached to a work of fiction that has no impact on humanity's survival? However, as I feed the flames of this genre, I now understand the thrill of the hero writer. I feel a rush creating a new universe matched with new problems and people. Then, I became afraid when I found myself thinking about the very universe I created, the one that I KNEW was fictional. Maybe it's acceptable because I need to think about the plot and, well, everything else, but it still scares me; this is the nerdiest I've ever been. But this story could be my first completed work if I wanted it to be. In a fictional universe, there are no rules. And in a hero's universe, the connections between characters, plot twists, and places are limitless. You can write a story on an 18-year-old, but you can later reveal literally anything that could have happened to the character in previous years. Endless possibilites produce endless pages, which I want to produce over the course of my life. So if this "unoriginal" genre could jumpstart my career, so be it. Even though I'm embarrassed of everything I've done with this story so far, I look forward to seeing a finished product. And I have 2 more months to work on it before I go back to school. Bring it.

Boredom: I'm Doing It Wrong

I never thought this day would come: the day I actually get bored of being bored.  About a week ago I was accomplishing nothing perfectly, biding my time with video games and computer time.  And now what?  Due to my lack of free will (I can no longer sleep until 11:00, I have to get up at 9:30...) I am afraid to even touch the Xbox.  Is it even possible to play just one hour on that thing?  Once my morning curfew was set, I moved to spending more time on the computer, which frustrated my mom just as much.  So, I caught up on some old shows, watching them from the beginning and seeing episodes I missed towards the end.  Okay, it was really one show, which I finished.  It wasn't much, just a half hour per episode and only 2-4 seasons depending on how many episodes there were per season.  All was well until I completed the series (in two days, I might add); that's when all hell broke loose.  Every show that popped into my head after that was an unsatisfying replacement to the previous show, and I don't really have any interest in seeing a show that I have not seen before.  And, of course, my genre is narrowed down to an action/adventure show, with a plot that carries episode to episode.  I've thought of nothing.  So now, I have absolutely no idea what to do in my down time (when my friends are busy, that is).  Most of my time is spent simply deciding what to do with my time, which usually involves going on Facebook and continuously refreshing the page.  This boredom is killing me along with all of the chores I have to do, so I am trapped.  Maybe I could actually...*shudder*...read.

Idiot Of The Week

Congratulations to Pastor Charles Worley on becoming our first official Idiot of the Week!  How about a round of applause (and maybe an angry mob) for this guy!  Wooooo!  Check out the article here.  I'm sick of all of these religious nutjobs, mainly old white guys, trying to control the LGBT community.  The purpose of humanity is to cooperatively improve society, the environment, and the world, and that simply cannot be accomplished when idiots like this man child are whining about the existence of people who are different from him.  Again, congrats, Pastor.  Just know that the gay community will likely protest your "lifestyle choice" as well.

A Bad Case Of Zone Defense

One thing I love about blog posts is that people get to see my thought process when I explain how the title actually makes sense in my mind.

At this point in my life, I should know that usually things turn out alright when I leave my comfort zone.  Unfortunately, that is something I REALLY can't seem to get myself to do.  As a coach, my mind is instructing my actions, the player, to stay put in his own zone.  The player, on the other hand, knows that it's better for the whole team if he leaves the zone to defend the opposition.  (With a lack of metaphor for the opposition, let's just say that my coach is playing against the team, I don't know.  I kind of lost it at this point.)  Yes, this is about a girl, and yes, my mom will ask me about this post after reading it.  So before I ramble on about every single thought in my mind, I'm just going to say that I could really use a good push to leave my comfort zone.  (Situation-controlling entity of the universe, this is where you sub in for skill to help us win the game.)

Finals Poetry

I know rhyming is cliché now in poetry.  Get over it. (The "bell" I refer to below is the bell tower at my school that plays a song or two every hour. The songs last 5 minutes.)

Finals are awful, of that much I'm sure
I find them unlawful, cruel, and absurd
While writing this I may sound like a nerd
Because my glasses are broken, my vision is blurred.

I'm worried about the week ahead
After which, my brain will be dead
What I've learned this semester cannot be said
I just know I want to sleep in my own bed.

I'm spending all my money on food
Which puts me in an angry mood.
And with all these tests I'm really screwed
(Except for the ones with the teachers I wooed).

Someone said this week will be hell
And although these tests will not be swell
The things I can't stand are, well,
All the songs played on that stupid bell.

Can you hear that pounding in my chest?
That is the sound of my heart getting stressed
It's all because of these stupid tests
Don't teachers see that we need a rest?

"Look over your notes, study them hard."
I can actually feel that my brain's getting scarred
It was burnt before, now it's charred
And it's shattered into little shards.

Studying gives me little sleep
And I can only study when there's not a peep
If I see something unknown, "What the (bleep)!"
And I throw all my papers into a heap.

I leave on Thursday. Not morning, but night
Until then, I continue to suffer and fight
My way through black text on paper of white
So that someday I'm able to witness the light.

I Need An Elevator For My Shoulders

What the hell does that title mean? Well, simply put... I'm going through yet another moment in my life where something didn't happen when I wanted it to - and for a while it seemed like it was going to - so now, as always, I'm just taking some deep breaths and shrugging it off. Only now, the deep breaths have actually managed to piss me off even more, and I can't seem to shrug hard or high enough. I will stop being frustrated once my shoulders hit the ceiling (when I'm standing on the floor, not my lofted bed). So now, I feel like I'm inhaling frustration, and I need an elevator for my shoulders.

Dreams: Signs or Surreal?

Most of us who know the psychology of dreaming know of Freud's theory of sex symbols in dreams, a theory that we know is false.  Dreams are helpful in recording memories and rejuvenate the brain.   However, some dreams we have (or at least I do) are way too relevant to are lives to just be for recording memories.  I had a dream once that I was going after this girl, and then a friend of mine told me not to.  In the first half of the dream she acted basically how she would in the real world, but in the second half of the dream she was "evil" and tried to run me over with her SUV.  Of course there were other, much weirder parts of the dream that made it unrealistic, but I still don't know.  Was the dream a sign, or was it just a random collection of thoughts?

Why?

I was recently asked what the audience for my blog once, and, well, I never really thought about that.  I didn't think I actually needed an audience, I just want to get some of my thoughts out there.  That's mainly why nothing makes sense, and I actually have a hard time understanding myself too.  So, I'd say my main audience is really just myself (so I can stop talking to myself through Facebook statuses).  But, since other people may read this, let's just say that I'm saying the kind of things that make people look at life from a different point of view.  And some other things that I hope are interesting to you.  Lastly, I might throw a couple of posts here and there, like this one, in response to feedback I've heard about the blog.

I Blame Sleep

Needless to say, by know you've said to yourself at least 5 times, "Wow, this guy is weird."  I know I have.  Anyway, I'm sorry for all the strange posts.  Somehow I got to be all philosophical in the early morning.  No more weird posts from now on.  Just kidding.  But they'll make more sense.

Story Time

A while ago, my friend Figs wanted me to tell a story. Somehow, I was able to make one up on the spot... and it managed to satisfy my self-critical personality. So, I decided to share it with you. It uses one of my most favorite themes: innocence (I, for one, get all giggly and childlike inside at any reference or mention of a childhood show). The shuffle of grass tickles the ears of a young boy, his feet producing the sound as he strides down a swollen bump in the green field. Light emits from his neck-length, golden hair. Caressing each strand, the wind blew the foliage on his head back,causing it to whip behind him in an excited frenzy. A small cottage lay in the distance. Ricky was sprinting to his friend Heather's house, and he would not rest until he got there. The dirt below the boy levelled out. Ricky got to be more comfortable with each step on flat ground and picked up speed. Soon the chopped blades of grass grew to ankle height. A plethora of flowers dyed pink, yellow, purple, and blue joined in, decorating the field with a mosaic of color. The petals of these mosaic tiles gently skimmed Ricky's knees, yet they managed to dodge receiving a violent smack from the  menacing bone as he ran through. The small cottage appeared much larger now. Nearing the end of this natural masterpiece, Ricky could almost hear Heather chiming his name with her sweet, melodious voice. Then it echoed with greater intensity. Ricky slowed his pace, confused at the quite vivid level of reality in that last call. A friendly sensation hit his ankle. Not a flower this time as he had guessed it would be,  but not far from it. Ricky lost all balance and let his leg come out from under him. He landed softly, however, thanks to the comfortable ferns cushioning his fall. He turned over onto his back to see Heather on her knees by his side. Her eyes, white pearls painted with a ring of hazel and a blotch of ebony, stared into Ricky's. Heather smiled at him with those white pendants in her mouth. Ricky grinned back, his cheeks painted a nervous scarlet. His hand pinched the stem of an iris and floated through the air toward her. "This is for you," was all he could say. She took the field's golden offspring, her cheeks matching the color of his. Ricky carefully relocated a portion of her hair back to its proper place behind her ear. She locked it into that spot by placing the flower in front of it. Heather laid down on her back next to Ricky, her hands at her side. Together they gazed at the white cotton above them in the azure Atlantic sky. Ricky's fingers crawled along the grass toward Heather. Her fingers did the same. She opened her petite hand to reveal her palm, awaiting his. Her skin tingled Ricky's trembling hand. His smile stretched across his face, extending through the gap between them to meet Heather's. Slowly the gaps closed and the smiles hid behind eager lips. For a moment they locked their faces together. Then, they laid down and looked back up toward the sky, bathing in silence and contentment.

Why Are Puns So Bad?

Yeah, why ARE puns so bad?  I see them as an opportunity to be creative with the words themselves, not their meaning.  I always enjoy a good pun, though I guess it's just me.  A lot of people have told me that pun jokes stink.  I wonder...do they find them to be PUNgent?  :D

Free Food!

Speaking of food (See: blog title), why can't it be free?  Of course, I don't mean all food should be free. But certainly important necessities, such as the main foods: chicken, fish, bread, beans, and we'll throw water in as a food as well.  I understand the expectation that you should pay for a luxury such as junk food, but why pay for the food that helps keep us alive? Again, this is including (and especially) water.  Going back to my first post, I believe people should have equal chances to succeed in life.  But how can you succeed if you're dead?  The darwinist rule is the survival of the fittest, so if we are all fit, we can all survive together.  It's hard enough that we must compete with one another for jobs (and sometimes relationships). Can we at least make it easier to focus on success by aiding us with priceless provisions?

Why "Maybe" In The URL?

For those of you wondering what the "maybe" is in Gerber Maybe Food, it represents all of the explored an unexplored possibilities of the world.  Maybe at some point in the future, college students may actually be able to afford to pay off their loans within five years of graduating (yeah, right).  Maybe people can learn to help each other instead of overcharging for the most ridiculous things for their own profit.  (I'm allowed 10 dollars per day for my meal plan for the semester.  I eat 7 dollars per meal.  Chartwells is scum.)  Maybe I'll be able to fall asleep soon.  Again, yeah right.

(And, to ruin all of that, let me just say that there was absolutely no reason why it's there. It's only a play on words, nothing more. Reasonless.)

Another Shocker: High School Doesn't Actually Suck

For those of you in high school who can't wait to get to college, I am ready to smack you right now.  Do not waste some of the best years of your life.  Let me repeat that.

DO NOT WASTE SOME OF THE BEST YEARS OF YOUR LIFE.

As a guy, male bonding with "the bros" is my top priority.  In fact, time spent with friends in high school accumulated into my best set of memories ever.  Because once you get to college, it's all over.  Your friends will disperse across the region, maybe even across the country, and chances to be with them in person again are limited.  So I'm begging you all, with my largest regrets in mind:

Take advantage of the time you have in high school while you're still there.  It may not seem like it at first, but the fun is limited to eight years (four in high school and four in college), which is less than 10% of the average lifespan.  Once your four years of high school are over, the fun is half gone.  Oh, and, that girl in your class who you like?  Go for it.  You may actually have a chance at going out with her.  You'll never know until you try.  No, I don't want you to draw a connection between all of this and my personal life. Just worry about yourself for once.

This Just In: Winning The Presidency Is NOT About Being President

This sort of ties into my faith in humanity.  All I hear about the Obama campaign is that he's doing what he thinks will help this country the most.  From the Republican primary candidates, however, I hear only one reason being given for people to vote for them, repeated in my ears like a chant: Beat Obama, beat Obama, beat Obama.

Let me clarify this for people: The presidential race is NOT about becoming the next president so that your party is in office.  Being president, rather, is about being the best man (or woman, once that happens) to help the people of America.  It doesn't matter that a democratic or republican candidate wins the election.  If the person is not fit for the job, you and the rest of the country are screwed.

The Apocalypse For Faith In Humanity

Something thought to be nonexistent throughout America these days still survives in me: faith in humanity.  No, this isn't like having faith that Santa Claus is real.  I have faith in the genuine good in people.

First off, everyone has the potential to be honest to each other.  White lies are okay, but ones that harm other people, like scams, take advantage of our trust.  Even withholding the truth may be harmful to someone.  (When it comes to the "does this make my butt look big" question, however, just pretend to play a game on your cell phone and refrain from giving an answer.) In fact, the lack of truth in advertising has made me believe that a new system should be experimented with.  Rather than exaggerating the positive aspects of a product and painting the ad with bright colors and fine print, advertisers should list pros and cons of their product and that of a competitor's, and then try to give reasons why their pros outweigh the competitor's pros.  Just for once, let people know what's actually going on and cut out all the bullshit.  It saves you money and saves us time.

Anyone Can Write

I have a theory, one that may sound crazy to some, that anyone can write.  Those of you reading this might immediately dispute this, saying that you are not creative at all, or that your spelling or grammar is subpar.  In my theory, I put these aspects of writing aside.  First of all, spelling and grammar may be taught, and I admit that mine isn't perfect either.  However, if you are passionate about something, anything at all, then you can write about it.  It could be an article in a magazine or a full 300-page masterpiece, but my point is that with enough passion, the words will write themselves.  You just have to type them.

Motivation: Found.

From the time we're born, we wonder what our purpose is in the world, and (hopefully) how we can make it better using the talents we already have.  One of my talents, unfortunately, is thinking too much at night, or in this case 4:30 a.m.  This talent, however, has finally organized my scattered thoughts into an epiphany that every college student dreams of having--the sudden realization of what I want to accomplish in life.  My mind found a way to combine my trust in the good of human beings, and my belief that everyone deserves a chance or two in life, with the idea that people should be able to be financially comfortable doing what they like to do for a career.  When I say financially comfortable, I mean somewhat financially secure, because let's face it; especially with today's interest rates, it would be nearly impossible to pay off all bills on time and in full.

The issue I have with society these days is that some subject areas lack job availability.  These subjects I call "failed" majors.  From what I have seen, most unhappy retail workers graduated with a degree in English, History, Philosophy, Psychology, or Communications.  Though these subjects are extremely valuable to shaping our culture, jobs are scarce, especially for the new, fresh-off-the-college-boat workers.  It is my goal to use writing skills to build a name for people in these fields and help them get into the job that they most desire.

Here's a summary of what I hope to accomplish:

I want to set up a "writer's clinic" of some sort that would help people write about their favorite subjects.  Mainly, it is for people who graduated with the majors I listed earlier.  In my experience, it is difficult for students with those majors to find jobs.  Writing a book about the subject would put their name out there for employers and would help them to find a job in the career they desire, instead of settling for a job filled with misery and a lower pay.