It's springtime here at the University of Rochester. Barefoot boys in t-shirts and cargo shorts are throwing their frisbees on the quad, shouting things like, "dude," "yo, totally," "check out that chick," and "yo, totally check out that chick, dude." Clusters of girls suntan on outspread blankets and towels, their knees bent, feet flat against the ground, squinting beneath the sunglasses they wear--sunglasses half the size of their heads; sunglasses with neat emblems on them, like one of a "C" crossed over a "D" (I'm not sure what this signifies... probably some sort of Latinate reference that everyone's forgotten the significance of). Sunglasses more expensive than the black market value of the brains hidden behind them. Everyone is half-naked. Everyone has covered themselves in thick films of antiperspirant mixed with sun-tan lotion mixed with perfume/cologne...for after all, is it not the season to find someone to touch you in your special place and make you cum all over the grass? So as the deadly ultraviolet rays release the melanins in the fair skins of these boisterous and sex-starved 20-somethings, allowing them to better hide themselves in the dark while returning from their cars after purchasing the Barbara Walters' acclaimed "How To Improve Your Relationship with Your Melanocytic Tumors In 10 Steps Or Less," I return to my room to deliberate on that which I've seen.
It is walking on this campus in my own flip-flops, cargo shorts and t-shirts that I am so often struck (symbolically) by frisbees myself...and when I say struck, I don't mean that the urge to throw a frisbee becomes so overwhelming that I growl like a rabid dog and begin to drool until one of these fair-haired, backward-cap wearing individuals throws me the disc. Instead, struck by the image of such individuals doing such a thing as throwing a frisbee, I begin to consider the origins of such a practice.
Well not really. Probably has something to do with the discus. Unfortunately for myself however, these individuals are not as sparsely clothed as some of the bronze gods of yesteryear who pranced around the coliseum flashing their buttocks at the lions. A sad day for all, dear reader, when bouncing testicles were imprisoned by the cotton womb that is the "tightie-whitie" article of clothing.
But I digress...
Passing through the academic quad or residential quad, these are the sorts of sights one sees. The young men and women flirting, laughing, kicking soccer balls, attempting to read textbooks, etc. All very collegiate (is that the right word). Very stereotypical. VERY atypical of Rochester (it's rarely warm enough even as the summer solstice approaches to wear anything but heavy duty boots and a fleece-lined jacket.
But I digress again!!! Fuck me!
The fraternity quad, dear friends, is quite a different story. Exiting or entering Todd Theater from the front entrance, one can look west and see the best minds of our generation half-naked in front of their hulking rape-dens, hallow-eyed from the drugged drink they'd meant to give to a girl but accidentally drank themselves instead, and high from blowing lines of cocaine off of each other's erect penises. While most of these individuals would rather be spending their time finding a bike gang so as to become the sacrificial lamb in a steamy bukkake session, they find it prudent instead to sit in front of their houses on moldy couches, drink beer, play with the breasts and pussies of the cutest chlamydia-ridden maidens they can find, discuss at length the girths of their respective penises, fart, call their drug dealers for more Rohypnol, and adjust the prostate massagers that each has secretly positioned in their assholes beneath their cargo shorts. Did I mention the sleeveless t-shirts?
Now please don't misunderstand me, dearest reader. I've nothing whatsoever against prostate massagers. After all, is there anything better than a little tingling where one needs it most? No, my friend, there isn't. My specific objection to these ball-scratching individuals is their respective (and I suppose one could say collective) demeanors. My favorite anecdote about this glowing center of the universe is the time I walked without shoes past one of these houses. Rather than being a normal human being and ignoring a quiet passerby, one of the apes looked up from the feces-stained hand he'd been licking and rubbing on his face, stood, walked over to me, and slapped me across the face as one child might do to another on the playground. Not only did the security officer literally three feet away not do anything about this, but she proceeded to get down on her knees, rip open her blue uniform shirt, bare her breasts and flail her arms while going into a grand mal seizure, but afterwards she curled up in a ball on the pavement, sucking her thumb, declaring that the all-powerful collective arm of man comprises both shaft and the heads of G_D's omnipotent cock, that men who don't wear shoes outside are clearly not worthy of having penises, that University of Rochester policy requires that all students subject themselves to a violent act by a fraternity member at least once a semester, that being not limited to allowing oneself to be stabbed in the eye with a sword, gang-raped by a thousand viagaric "Greek" penises at once, be hit in the teeth with a baseball bat, wrapped in barbed wire and hung from a flagpole, and/or forced at gunpoint to masturbate into one of said individual's mouths until said individual's thirst is quenched.
The good news is that great progress is being made. Next year the requirement may drop from two self-subjections to violence per semester to one.
More anon. Love,
David
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Saturday, April 12, 2008
this is going to be a terrible post, so don't bother reading it. Seriously, go somewhere else.
Between June 29 and July 13, the University of Rochester will pay between $7,500-$10,000 for me to go to the arctic, take notes, and then come back and write a story about it. First of all, my loving reader, I would like to assure you that YOU may be the very first to read about my sub-zero adventures. Isn't that spectacular? Isn't that just fucking fabulous?
The trip is going to leave on June 29 from Rochester. That means I have to take a plane up from Boston on the 28th, stay overnight in a hotel, and then take a taxi to campus the following morning. This wouldn't be a problem if all of taxi drivers' fathers and mothers hadn't conceived them in alleyways downtown and parted ways afterward, she straightening her panties and wiping herself off with a Kleenex from her purse before emerging onto the street, he merely wiping his dick with his shirtsleeve. Easier that way. She had to get to the dentist's office anyways, what with the wait and all, and she had to be at work soon. We don't know where he went. He disappeared. Never to be heard from. Except for, as luck would have it, a brief mention of him in a Kafka story. And you know as well as I, dear reader, that ne'er a fate worse than appearing in a Kafka story.
She had her cavities filled, made it back to work--a small restaurant at the center of a residential neighborhood--and took the first order: a stack of blueberry pancakes, a side of bacon, and a cup of coffee for customer one, and a ham and mushroom omelet for customer 2. Both resumed chatting noisily. We do not know their sexes, names, or places of birth.
She put in the order and walked quickly to the bathroom. Inside, she pulled down her pants and urinated. Nine months later, walking out of the same bathroom, her water broke.
This is a problem because it seems to have happened quite often in this godforsaken city. Not only does every taxi driver's mother go into labor at work, but none ever think it prudent to take an ambulance to the hospital, instead popping out their kids in their managers' offices with the help of the short order cook. However, dear reader, I'm sorry that I'm unable to please your sick tastes, but no spatulas were involved in any of these processes. Although driving in one of these godforsaken cabs, I would be surprised if most had been dropped in a hot frying pan after their umbilical cord was cut, had blueberries poured on them, got flipped twice before being served, and then proceeded to be processed in the stomach of a burping trucker and dissolved into cholesterol, belly fat, and feces.
No such luck.
Instead, one such individual gets to drive me from the Marriott downtown (I know I'm setting my sights high as it will probably end up being the Days Inn off of the 590...but a boy(/man) can dream, can't he?) He'll charge me at least twice as much as I owe, threaten to kill me if I don't pay, and drive off before I get a chance to get my bag out of the trunk. Then I'll be off to the arctic without any mountaineering boots, without any waterproof pants or gators or heavy-duty jacket with fleece lining or hat or gloves or camera or 80gb iPod. This is taking for granted that his rattling '89 Cutlass makes it, of course.
I apologize for having deflected, dear reader. I won't have anything else to say about it until after I return.
Hugs and Kisses,
David
The trip is going to leave on June 29 from Rochester. That means I have to take a plane up from Boston on the 28th, stay overnight in a hotel, and then take a taxi to campus the following morning. This wouldn't be a problem if all of taxi drivers' fathers and mothers hadn't conceived them in alleyways downtown and parted ways afterward, she straightening her panties and wiping herself off with a Kleenex from her purse before emerging onto the street, he merely wiping his dick with his shirtsleeve. Easier that way. She had to get to the dentist's office anyways, what with the wait and all, and she had to be at work soon. We don't know where he went. He disappeared. Never to be heard from. Except for, as luck would have it, a brief mention of him in a Kafka story. And you know as well as I, dear reader, that ne'er a fate worse than appearing in a Kafka story.
She had her cavities filled, made it back to work--a small restaurant at the center of a residential neighborhood--and took the first order: a stack of blueberry pancakes, a side of bacon, and a cup of coffee for customer one, and a ham and mushroom omelet for customer 2. Both resumed chatting noisily. We do not know their sexes, names, or places of birth.
She put in the order and walked quickly to the bathroom. Inside, she pulled down her pants and urinated. Nine months later, walking out of the same bathroom, her water broke.
This is a problem because it seems to have happened quite often in this godforsaken city. Not only does every taxi driver's mother go into labor at work, but none ever think it prudent to take an ambulance to the hospital, instead popping out their kids in their managers' offices with the help of the short order cook. However, dear reader, I'm sorry that I'm unable to please your sick tastes, but no spatulas were involved in any of these processes. Although driving in one of these godforsaken cabs, I would be surprised if most had been dropped in a hot frying pan after their umbilical cord was cut, had blueberries poured on them, got flipped twice before being served, and then proceeded to be processed in the stomach of a burping trucker and dissolved into cholesterol, belly fat, and feces.
No such luck.
Instead, one such individual gets to drive me from the Marriott downtown (I know I'm setting my sights high as it will probably end up being the Days Inn off of the 590...but a boy(/man) can dream, can't he?) He'll charge me at least twice as much as I owe, threaten to kill me if I don't pay, and drive off before I get a chance to get my bag out of the trunk. Then I'll be off to the arctic without any mountaineering boots, without any waterproof pants or gators or heavy-duty jacket with fleece lining or hat or gloves or camera or 80gb iPod. This is taking for granted that his rattling '89 Cutlass makes it, of course.
I apologize for having deflected, dear reader. I won't have anything else to say about it until after I return.
Hugs and Kisses,
David
Friday, April 11, 2008
and the worst are stoned to death at the north pole...or else forced to quit smoking
In approximately forty-nine days and eighteen hours I will be in the north pole. This is no ruse, dear reader: in less than two months, yours truly will be wrapped up in layers of polypropylene and wool, donning thick mountaineering boots and a heavy duty jacket, and armed with the massive afro-puff of hair on my head which retains %250 body heat. I will be shivering and wet, unable to feel my fingers or toes, trudging around in rain and/or snow and/or hellfire, chipping mineral samples or something of that nature from rocks and examining them. Most importantly, I will (god willing) be taking notes for a longer fiction or non-fiction piece when I return.
In order to survive the conditions in said geographical location, I have been advised to quit smoking. This is good advice. In fact, this is not only good advice in light of my forthcoming expedition, but it's simply (gasp) good advice in general. Having had my first experience with nicotine at the age of twelve, I've found it increasingly difficult as the years have passed to refrain from using said substance.
But I mean it this time.
I think.
I realize that smoking causes all sorts of nasty cancer. I also realize that I have a long family history of cancer. I also realize that I die walking up the five flights of steps to Morey Hall every morning and walking up the three flights of steps to my tiny room in the attic of my house every evening. When I wake up every morning, I can hear the wheezing of my breath as I lay in bed. I cough up brown things. My room, my car and my clothes smell like smoke. My life smells like cigarettes.
Fact*: %99 of the universe is disgusted by the smell of cigarettes.
Therefore, %99 percent of the universe finds me disgusting. This poses a problem.
And what else poses a problem?
My compulsion to smoke while driving, walking to class, walking back from class, before meals, after meals, while I'm drinking water, while I'm drinking beer, while I'm writing, reading, sneezing, coughing, choking, farting, showering, having my yearly physical, walking my dog, walking my cat, talking on the phone, talking to myself, after sex, before sex, during sex, while paying my credit card bill, while buying cigarettes, while setting my alarm clock before going to sleep, and yes, dearest reader, even while sleeping.
May I proceed?
I spoke with a doctor about a drug I've heard about called Chantix. Besides sounding like the name of a fetal cat indigenous to New Guinea or one of the working girls you can find down on Lyell Ave, Chantix--
If you're afraid that this is about to turn into a ringing endorsement for godforsaken Pfizer, don't fear. Actually, I don't really have anything to say about it yet. I've been taking the stuff for 7 days, and tomorrow is my quit date. More anon.
But the arctic! I know very little about it so far, other than that I will be accompanied by Professors Joanna Scott and John Tarduno as well as one English graduate student Katie Van Wert (I believe I've gotten the name right) as well as X number of geology students (I really know nothing so far as that is concerned). And for free!
As of now, the itinerary looks like we'll begin in Rochester, fly to Ottawa, then take a small plane to Iqaluit, then take a helicopter to Resolute Island, where we'll be for ten days, and then backtrack along the same path. I may very well be the first Jew to ever grace Resolute Island. ברוך השם!
This probably isn't even true. It occurs to me now though that if the whole Israel-Palestine thing doesn't work out they can always move one of them to the arctic. Plenty of space.
Unfortunately, this little trip is going to end up causing some problems in my life...serious problems. But I'll save that for next time.
Goodnight you princes [and princesses] of Maine, you kings [and queens] of New England!
David
In order to survive the conditions in said geographical location, I have been advised to quit smoking. This is good advice. In fact, this is not only good advice in light of my forthcoming expedition, but it's simply (gasp) good advice in general. Having had my first experience with nicotine at the age of twelve, I've found it increasingly difficult as the years have passed to refrain from using said substance.
But I mean it this time.
I think.
I realize that smoking causes all sorts of nasty cancer. I also realize that I have a long family history of cancer. I also realize that I die walking up the five flights of steps to Morey Hall every morning and walking up the three flights of steps to my tiny room in the attic of my house every evening. When I wake up every morning, I can hear the wheezing of my breath as I lay in bed. I cough up brown things. My room, my car and my clothes smell like smoke. My life smells like cigarettes.
Fact*: %99 of the universe is disgusted by the smell of cigarettes.
Therefore, %99 percent of the universe finds me disgusting. This poses a problem.
And what else poses a problem?
My compulsion to smoke while driving, walking to class, walking back from class, before meals, after meals, while I'm drinking water, while I'm drinking beer, while I'm writing, reading, sneezing, coughing, choking, farting, showering, having my yearly physical, walking my dog, walking my cat, talking on the phone, talking to myself, after sex, before sex, during sex, while paying my credit card bill, while buying cigarettes, while setting my alarm clock before going to sleep, and yes, dearest reader, even while sleeping.
May I proceed?
I spoke with a doctor about a drug I've heard about called Chantix. Besides sounding like the name of a fetal cat indigenous to New Guinea or one of the working girls you can find down on Lyell Ave, Chantix--
"CHANTIX™ (varenicline) is non-nicotine prescription medicine specifically developed to help adults quit smoking." (http://www.chantix.com)
If you're afraid that this is about to turn into a ringing endorsement for godforsaken Pfizer, don't fear. Actually, I don't really have anything to say about it yet. I've been taking the stuff for 7 days, and tomorrow is my quit date. More anon.
But the arctic! I know very little about it so far, other than that I will be accompanied by Professors Joanna Scott and John Tarduno as well as one English graduate student Katie Van Wert (I believe I've gotten the name right) as well as X number of geology students (I really know nothing so far as that is concerned). And for free!
As of now, the itinerary looks like we'll begin in Rochester, fly to Ottawa, then take a small plane to Iqaluit, then take a helicopter to Resolute Island, where we'll be for ten days, and then backtrack along the same path. I may very well be the first Jew to ever grace Resolute Island. ברוך השם!
This probably isn't even true. It occurs to me now though that if the whole Israel-Palestine thing doesn't work out they can always move one of them to the arctic. Plenty of space.
Unfortunately, this little trip is going to end up causing some problems in my life...serious problems. But I'll save that for next time.
Goodnight you princes [and princesses] of Maine, you kings [and queens] of New England!
David
the day evel kenievel died
I present the quintessential representation of myself through my most recent discovery, "The Blog." Naturally, one would assume that if I'm only now just discovering this concept in the year 2008, I must either--
a. not own a computer
b. live in the Swiss Alps in a hut made out of sticks
c. have a learning disability or mental impairment so severe that it has taken me the several years of "The Blog" growing in prevalence and importance to be able to spell and/or pronounce the word "blog," thus finally allowing me to begin to understand the meaning of said word.
How to explain this? I was thinking of citing a piece by St. Augustine called "About the Teacher," which I would use to explain why I've said that I'm "only now just discovering" this thing we call "The Blog." It quickly occurred to me that doing so would either--
a. confuse me
b. confuse you
c. make me seem like a pretentious dick who assists his ego in its masturbatory endeavors by citing Augustine in order to explain a reasonably simple concept.
d. make me seem smarter and better-read than I am, because to be honest, it's the only work of Augustine I've ever read.
e. alientate you
f. alientate me from myself (I'm not really sure what that means)
e. all of the above
Mind you, I've read blogs before. In fact, the impetus for beginning this blog was my having stumbled across several blogs by individuals in similar walks of life as my own (what that means specifically I will get to later on). Reading these peoples' entries, I was struck not so much by what they wrote but by the fact that they spend time writing. "Fascinating," I thought, "truly fascinating." And then I thought, "I should be writing one too!" Everyone and their grandma has a blog...well my grandma doesn't, although I'm sure if she went around reading blogs by people she identified with, she would copy and paste this very post onto her blog, being that she would share so many of the sentiments about blogs and have the same degree of blog-envy as her grandson does.
But here's the deal: I should be writing 28.5 hours every day, wearing out the letters on my keyboard, wrapping each finger in gauze to stop them from bleeding (though only for a while as it's difficult to type with gauze wrapped around one's fingers). I need to be writing...otherwise, what the hell am I doing? Studying for a class? Assaulting my housemate's Wii with hours of brain-numbing (although oh-so-beautiful) Mario Kart playing? Getting McDonald's drive-thru? Making designs out of tic-tacs with glue on contruction paper? I've explored the situation mathematically:
Studying= Positive Brain Stimulation - Pleasure - ($47,000 a year in tuition times 4 years)
Mario Kart = Pleasure + Temporal Lobe Damage - The money I lose betting on it with my housemates
McDonalds = Pleasure + e. Coli poisoning + the inability to have an erection - the $3.45 it takes to get there because my car gets 4.2 miles to the gallon - $5.52 for a Big Mac meal
Tic Tacs = Minty Fresh Breath + Tooth Decay - 89 cents a pack
Writing = Pleasure + Money (hopefully someday, though it's free in the meantime) + 140,000 virgins surrounding me at the gates of heaven - Temporal Lobe Damage
Don't get me wrong, it's not that I don't write at all. In fact, I do so entirely too much. I write response papers about books for class; I write letters to my mother explaining that I need her to help me out with the money for a new printer cartridge for fear that my head will explode if I attempt to print on the library's antiquated printing system; I write emails to my housemates telling them to stop being worthless pieces of shit and wash their goddamn dishes already because the sink is disgusting; I write emails to professors asking them for extensions on essays; I finish writing said essays three minutes before they are due even when I receive said extensions; I write mindless messages on Facebook to people I haven't seen in nine years and who I probably will never see again; I write text messages and instant messages to friends who I'd be better off calling for the sake of saving time (and money in the case of text messages); I write checks to the University Parking Services for $20 at a time for each of the five-hundred and fifty thousand parking tickets they give me every year; I write stories and poems, some of which I attempt to publish although thus far such labors have been unfruitful due to my inability to spell, punctuate, or compose anything coherent (this will be a topic of importance later on); finally, I write angry letters to the worthless and offensive campus newspaper, which I end up deleting for reasons I myself cannot explain.
What I'm trying to say is that writing is something that I enjoy, does not melt my brain, and something that I one day kind-of/sort-of wish to make a living out of.
I did not know what a blog was until I made one. I didn't realize how difficult it would be, how many times I would smash my face against my keyboard while coming up with a title and a URL, how how seemingly complex although truly inane my own "confessional" or "journal" writing style can be, I didn't realize that I should probably have some sort of focus to this whole bit, or perhaps a topic of some sort, to prevent from merely prattling on about my life, driving readers away by the bucketful and driving myself insane by speaking abstractly for 500-2000 words at a time about things that even I could give two shits about.
In conclusion: it only occurs to me now that I've begun how difficult this thing we call "The Blog" is. I'm only beginning to understand this as I write, therefore only beginning to discover the true essence of "The Blog."
However, because I've only used the topic of "The Blog" to begin to post because I had nothing else to talk about, if I put the words "The Blog" in parentheses one more time someone is probably going to kill me in my sleep, and because no one (including myself) really cares about blog-psychology (for lack of a better term), I think I'll drop the topic for a while. Although, for the sake of mentioning it--
a. it wouldn't be a bad idea for a thesis
b. is going to be a new genre of literature, the study of which will be my brainchild. Brilliant!
c. would be a GREAT thing to focus my blog on, although I'm already sick of talking about it after this post, and the idea of going around and checking out more blogs by other people would completely defeat the purpose of me starting the blog in the first place (note 1: that is an interesting little paradox, isn't it? Or is it?
I am tempted to delete this post.
Love,
David
a. not own a computer
b. live in the Swiss Alps in a hut made out of sticks
c. have a learning disability or mental impairment so severe that it has taken me the several years of "The Blog" growing in prevalence and importance to be able to spell and/or pronounce the word "blog," thus finally allowing me to begin to understand the meaning of said word.
How to explain this? I was thinking of citing a piece by St. Augustine called "About the Teacher," which I would use to explain why I've said that I'm "only now just discovering" this thing we call "The Blog." It quickly occurred to me that doing so would either--
a. confuse me
b. confuse you
c. make me seem like a pretentious dick who assists his ego in its masturbatory endeavors by citing Augustine in order to explain a reasonably simple concept.
d. make me seem smarter and better-read than I am, because to be honest, it's the only work of Augustine I've ever read.
e. alientate you
f. alientate me from myself (I'm not really sure what that means)
e. all of the above
Mind you, I've read blogs before. In fact, the impetus for beginning this blog was my having stumbled across several blogs by individuals in similar walks of life as my own (what that means specifically I will get to later on). Reading these peoples' entries, I was struck not so much by what they wrote but by the fact that they spend time writing. "Fascinating," I thought, "truly fascinating." And then I thought, "I should be writing one too!" Everyone and their grandma has a blog...well my grandma doesn't, although I'm sure if she went around reading blogs by people she identified with, she would copy and paste this very post onto her blog, being that she would share so many of the sentiments about blogs and have the same degree of blog-envy as her grandson does.
But here's the deal: I should be writing 28.5 hours every day, wearing out the letters on my keyboard, wrapping each finger in gauze to stop them from bleeding (though only for a while as it's difficult to type with gauze wrapped around one's fingers). I need to be writing...otherwise, what the hell am I doing? Studying for a class? Assaulting my housemate's Wii with hours of brain-numbing (although oh-so-beautiful) Mario Kart playing? Getting McDonald's drive-thru? Making designs out of tic-tacs with glue on contruction paper? I've explored the situation mathematically:
Studying= Positive Brain Stimulation - Pleasure - ($47,000 a year in tuition times 4 years)
Mario Kart = Pleasure + Temporal Lobe Damage - The money I lose betting on it with my housemates
McDonalds = Pleasure + e. Coli poisoning + the inability to have an erection - the $3.45 it takes to get there because my car gets 4.2 miles to the gallon - $5.52 for a Big Mac meal
Tic Tacs = Minty Fresh Breath + Tooth Decay - 89 cents a pack
Writing = Pleasure + Money (hopefully someday, though it's free in the meantime) + 140,000 virgins surrounding me at the gates of heaven - Temporal Lobe Damage
Don't get me wrong, it's not that I don't write at all. In fact, I do so entirely too much. I write response papers about books for class; I write letters to my mother explaining that I need her to help me out with the money for a new printer cartridge for fear that my head will explode if I attempt to print on the library's antiquated printing system; I write emails to my housemates telling them to stop being worthless pieces of shit and wash their goddamn dishes already because the sink is disgusting; I write emails to professors asking them for extensions on essays; I finish writing said essays three minutes before they are due even when I receive said extensions; I write mindless messages on Facebook to people I haven't seen in nine years and who I probably will never see again; I write text messages and instant messages to friends who I'd be better off calling for the sake of saving time (and money in the case of text messages); I write checks to the University Parking Services for $20 at a time for each of the five-hundred and fifty thousand parking tickets they give me every year; I write stories and poems, some of which I attempt to publish although thus far such labors have been unfruitful due to my inability to spell, punctuate, or compose anything coherent (this will be a topic of importance later on); finally, I write angry letters to the worthless and offensive campus newspaper, which I end up deleting for reasons I myself cannot explain.
What I'm trying to say is that writing is something that I enjoy, does not melt my brain, and something that I one day kind-of/sort-of wish to make a living out of.
I did not know what a blog was until I made one. I didn't realize how difficult it would be, how many times I would smash my face against my keyboard while coming up with a title and a URL, how how seemingly complex although truly inane my own "confessional" or "journal" writing style can be, I didn't realize that I should probably have some sort of focus to this whole bit, or perhaps a topic of some sort, to prevent from merely prattling on about my life, driving readers away by the bucketful and driving myself insane by speaking abstractly for 500-2000 words at a time about things that even I could give two shits about.
In conclusion: it only occurs to me now that I've begun how difficult this thing we call "The Blog" is. I'm only beginning to understand this as I write, therefore only beginning to discover the true essence of "The Blog."
However, because I've only used the topic of "The Blog" to begin to post because I had nothing else to talk about, if I put the words "The Blog" in parentheses one more time someone is probably going to kill me in my sleep, and because no one (including myself) really cares about blog-psychology (for lack of a better term), I think I'll drop the topic for a while. Although, for the sake of mentioning it--
a. it wouldn't be a bad idea for a thesis
b. is going to be a new genre of literature, the study of which will be my brainchild. Brilliant!
c. would be a GREAT thing to focus my blog on, although I'm already sick of talking about it after this post, and the idea of going around and checking out more blogs by other people would completely defeat the purpose of me starting the blog in the first place (note 1: that is an interesting little paradox, isn't it? Or is it?
I am tempted to delete this post.
Love,
David
Thursday, April 10, 2008
welcome, people of the universe
Let's finish quickly with the formalities. Let's spare all the blood and the anguish and the severance of genitals. Let's get down to business so we can get down to business:
Name: David Weisberg
DOB: 6/8/1987
POB: Boston, MA - Brigham and Women's Hospital
Current Location: Rochester, NY
Occupation(s): Student, Real Estate Agent, Attic-dweller, Pseudo-poet, Son, Daughter, Father, Mother
Love,
David
Name: David Weisberg
DOB: 6/8/1987
POB: Boston, MA - Brigham and Women's Hospital
Current Location: Rochester, NY
Occupation(s): Student, Real Estate Agent, Attic-dweller, Pseudo-poet, Son, Daughter, Father, Mother
Love,
David
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
