12 years I've been in school.
That's three presidential administrations. Three-fourths of my life, that is. Twelve bloody years.
And yet today, in Creative Writing, the teacher pulled out an overhead with a little happy stick-figure mountain climber guy who was facing a long line with lots of peaks and valleys, a plot diagram. And then she explained to us what this whole plot
thing was about.
And I thought, just let me write. Seriously. Skip the lecture and we'll write. I'll take that little mountain climber guy up the mountain, down again, underneath, whatever. Maybe he'll get in a break-dancing competition with some mountain goats. Maybe he'll get his hat stolen by a sneaky sherpa. Just, whatever you do, please don't explain resolution
again. I get it. Really. Twelve goddamn years.
At the same time I'm complaining about the lack of intellectual rigor
in one class, I'm dropping out of another because it's too much work. Honors Chemistry, which has been the bane of my existence since early August. You thought the syphillis was the bane of my existence, maybe, or the knowledge that my string of gleeful hitchiker-slaughterings will someday come back to haunt me. Well, you were wrong. Bleeding sores and racking guilt have nothing on ionic nomenclature, my friends.
Try as I might, I'm just not a science guy. I think, like most things having to do with the inner workings of the universe, it's interesting in broad strokes. But when I actually have to get in there and muck around with exothermic reactions and sulfuric acid, I'm useless. I need one more science credit to graduate, but whether it's Honors Chemistry or regular, simple worksheets, easy labs, and nap-taking regular Chemistry, I still get the credit. So guess which one I'm in now?
If you guessed regular Chemistry, where we're just starting things we were supposed to have fully grokked back in September in Honors, you're correct. Your reward? The satisfaction that can only be found by grasping the sheer magnitude of my bloated sense of lazzzzziiiinessss
. Congratulations. I just grasped that magnitude myself. It's pleasingly gigantic.
Not as huge as Alecia's
laziness. I'm not even sure she actually GOES to school anymore. Which is fine, as long as she keeps celebrating God's precious gift of purity by imbibing tremendous quantities of God's precious gift of alcohol. I was thinking, in Creative Writing class, you know, the one with the plot diagrams and happy mountain climbers, and later, nap-time and graham crackers if it continues with its regression back to second grade, you really couldn't ask for a better character than Alecia, which is probably why her blog gets so much link-love. Although if it turns out she really does like this twenty-four-year-old she's dating, I will have to dismiss her as a total sell-out and start taking applications for a new Hard-Living Slut friend.
We are close to reaching
the saturation point for the Getting All Of DC's Friends Blogs project: Matt and Jack
now have a joint blog. You know you guys can configure it so it actually says "Posted by Matt" or "Posted by Jack," right? Although the fact that everything says "Posted by Matt and Jack" does give it that kind of cute, hetero-life-mate flair we've come to expect from you two jokesters.
: It's not often you see a movie that's mostly just talking. This one is. And it's also mostly some of the best performances I've seen on screen in a while.
On screen in the living room is Futurama
, which is now on the Cartoon Network four nights a week, because life is all sunshine and daisies, thank you very much.