What you're reading right now is trash, garbage. What you're reading right now pales in comparison to what I actually thought of writing here. When I thought about this post, everything flowed beautifully; words were chosen carefully, syntax perfect, diction outstanding. Had you been able to have read my mind, you would have stood in awe.

But instead you are treated not to a wonderful delicacy of the English language but of worthless blog-like babbling. My points lead nowhere, my arguments fall flat, and my word choice is far from impeccable. When I think I am focused; I don't need to pause to come up with more to say; what more I have to say comes into existence instantly as I am thinking. This is not so when I write.

Granted, this complaint is related to an essay I should be writing right now. It's not a very long essay--only two pages double spaced. That kind of length maximum hardly translates into an essay at all; I could knock off something that short in half an hour with enough thought. So why am I not writing?

I do not write because my thoughts sound better than my words. I've thought up brilliant ideas for this essay, and I've got wonderful quotations to include and points to make. Yet, I do not even have a first sentence. The essay remains in my head as a beautiful, elegant, ever-flowing river of ideas. Each time I think of my essay it isn't the same; sometimes the ideas shift, sometimes the way I express them changes. It's very poetic.

When I write, however, my words are fixed. They no longer flow and make perfect sense. They need to be explained to an outside reader, they need to be carefully chosen, they need to exist.

And with THAT, ladies and gentleman, it's time to write an essay. Had I been able to write this same amount of text for my essay instead of this post I would already been half finished (in terms of length). But alas, thems the breaks. GOOD NIGHT.

[edit] My grade on the essay was a 19/20, BTW. YEAH BOYYY.

Today I pack for college, and tomorrow I hit the road. Only an hour or so away, but I guess you could say I'm a little excited to be going.

-------------------------------------- -------------------------------------- -------------
tl;dr: I worry about college bullshit. Give me advice or wish me luck.
-------------------------------------- -------------------------------------- -------------

I've been absolutely swamped with "college advice," so I'm listing some here to get it off my mind:

Enjoy yourself. Make friends; take classes you enjoy.

Easier said than done.

However, I do expect to have lots of fun. I currently live in a neighborhood devoid of any people my age, and most of my social interactions happened in the classroom. Well, certainly not anymore.

And while I hope to take classes I enjoy, the nagging feeling that I must maintain a high GPA (in order to get into graduate school, get a "good" job, etc) remains strong. Should I explore my options and possibly face lower grades, or take classes I feel I have a better chance at a higher grade in (even if they might not be as interesting)? A classic dilemma.

Furthermore, if I take classes I enjoy, will everything I end up doing be useless? It seems as if unless I major in engineering, I'll be hopeless unemployed with a useless degree for the rest of my life. Not a true statement, but a true fear nonetheless.

But after writing that just now I think: who the hell cares if I don't get a "good" (read: high paying) job. I'll do what I enjoy, learn what I want, and I'll be ten times happier than if I do something I don't want to do. And in the end, isn't it all about happiness and enjoyment anyway? Plus, why the fuck should I care about what others may think of my "success?" What does that matter to me? Answer: it doesn't.

Talk to your professors. Go to office hours! Take advantage of your short time there.

Oh certainly.

At least, that's what I hope will happen. I've never been good at class discussions. I have no problem speaking in front of a class or expressing my opinion, but I'm not good at coming up with questions. What am I supposed to be asking? I did the damn reading, I understand what's going on, and I'm not confused. So how am I supposed to come up with some BS to ask about? An inconclusive problem.

Take advantage of all your opportunities! Join clubs, start clubs, network!

Impossible. Absolutely impossible.

There are approximately 230+ clubs my school, and I'm interested in about a dozen. A dozen? Like hell I'll be able to do all of that. I'll probably have the time to join one or two at the most. Ugh, now my writing is regressing. I really should have done more writing over the summer, because I'm going to be fucked when I get assigned three 15 page essays in the first week. BACK TO THE CLUBS:

Like I was saying, too many clubs to join, not enough time to do everything. I'm nothing but a horrible dilettante, and if I try too much this is never going to change. But what to focus on? Theater (I have no experience, but am interested)? Dance (I'm decent according to friends, but no experience)? Newspaper (and if so, should I become a writer or be a layout designer)? Sports?

I'm so done talking about this right now. Don't even get me started on "networking," since my experience is equal to zero.

Be organized! Don't procrastinate! Get all your reading done, attend lectures, and have a plan in mind for everything you do!

Fuck that.

I'm going to stop procrastinating? Maybe in magical fantasy land where whatever I write down in a blog can magically come true in real life. But on the off chance I'm living in a magical fantasy land, I'm going to do all my homework, problem sets, etc, as soon as they're assigned, I'm going to write essays days in advance, bring them to professors and others to look over and get criticism from, I'll be totally organized about my schedule, and I'll get plenty of sleep. Ok, did it work? I SURE HOPE SO.

I need to turn my life into a movie montage with 80s work music in the background, because otherwise I surely won't get anything done.

As for being organized, I still haven't decided what classes I'm going to be taking first semester (granted, I can't choose them yet and won't be able to know if they're all filled up by the time I have my chance to), so I only have rough ideas in mind. I've been told over and over again my advisors are not going to be terribly helpful, so figure I'll need to figure most of this stuff out myself, like what majors I should leave myself open to, and how I should plan accordingly. This shit be complicated.

.

That's all for now from this episode of "Nervous perfrosh worries about cliché college issues before even stepping on campus." Stay tuned next time for, "Worried first-week freshman complains about sluggish college administration and terrible food."

I CAN'T WAIT.

'Cause it's time to start fresh.

THINGS I AM DEALING WITH AND THAT YOU SHOULD CARE ABOUT:

- This is my last summer vacation =(
- I am getting a job for the first time ever =)
- I have an insane amount of free time now =)
- I have been using this free time to browse the Internet and watch anime =(
- I have a stack of books approximately 3 feet high I should be tackling instead =(
- But life is good =)

UPDATE [7/28/09 2:24 AM]: Having a college email is so fucking awesome. I can access like every single website/database/paper on the Internet. BWAHAHAHAdafjskfjnsdgf.

ok done. it's late anyway.

UPDATE [8/7/09 2:21 AM]: Wow, is this my usual update time? But no matter. If someone posts on this userpage today, August 7th, between the hours of 5-6 PM, Newgrounds time, this person shall receive a fabulous reward. Note: this person can not have commented on this userpage post before. THIS IS A TEST TO SEE IF ANYONE READS THIS AND I AM SURE IT SHALL FAIL =(

[Edit 2/2/09: I am alive!]

Are you sure?
Yes, I'm sure!
I'm not sure if you're sure.
Well, that's to be expected.
And WHY is that?
Because YOU'RE not sure.
What does that have to do with it?
If you're not sure, then you assume I'm not sure.
I don't believe you.
You should.
I don't.
Start.
No.
Now.
I don't want to.
You should want to.
You're repeating what I say.
On the contrary, you are.
No, I am most certainly not.
Yes, you most certainly are.
See! Just there, you did it again.
Excuse me? I see no place like that.
Feigning ignorance are we? How lame.
Lame? What kind of a response is that?
What's wrong with 'lame'?
It's not a good word.
Yes it is.
No, it's not.
YES, it is.
NO, it's not.
I suppose we just disagree, then.
I'll agree with that.
Don't try to be smart here.
I'm not.
Yes you are.
I can't.
You can't?
No, I'm over there.
You're not funny.
Yes I am.
No.
Yes.
Maybe.
Who's there?
Who is entering this conversation?
It is I!
Who are you?
The person you have been waiting for.
We've been waiting for you?
We have?
Yes! Hello, my friends!
Who ARE you?
Yes, who?
Why, I am everyone and no one. A walking paradox. A representation of our fondest ideologies.
You don't make much sense.
No, you really don't. Go away, please.
I shall not leave! Not until I receive my answer!
Your answer?
What are you talking about?
I request an answer to a question.
I don't want to hear it.
I'll hear it.
Why do you want to hear his question?
Why not?
Ok, fine. What's the question?
I'm glad you asked! Your question shall yield a question.
Go on.
Yes, go on already!
The question is, what does it mean to exist?
That's it?
That's the question?
Yes, my friends! That is the question.
You mean, "To be or not to be"? Wasn't THAT the question?
No, little one! My question does not ask whether existence is important, but rather what creates it!
I don't like the question.
Me neither.
Can you give us a different question?
One that is more simple?
Don't be silly! My question shall not change. Now, answer it!
Well, I suppose...
Hey, don't answer him!
Why not?
Because, his question is lame.
There's that word again.
But it is! I don't want to answer.
Are you prepared to answer my question yet?
No, not yet, sir!
Not yet!
Take your time! Exist, so that you may realize what existence is.
This guy is lame, see? Him AND his question.
I see what you mean. So, what do we do?
Let's say something random.
Random?
Yes, something random. He'll accept it anyway.
And then he'll go away!
Yes, exactly!
What a smart idea, brother. What are you going to say?
Just wait and see.
Certainly.
Excuse me sir, but we are now prepared to answer your question!
Ah, excellent! Existence is but the fleeting passage of time after all.
Right...
So, what are you prepared to say? How will you answer my question, 'what does it mean to exist?'
Simple. To exist is to have physical property. There, I am finished.
That is your full answer?
Yes.
And his as well?
Oh, yes, it is mine as well. We answered together.
We are brothers, after all.
How sweet, this brotherly love. Since you have given an answer, I will now evaluate it!
Hey, wait a minute!
You're supposed to leave! We have no more time for you.
But what is time? How can you measure it? How can you even prove time exists?
What are you talking about? Of course there is time.
Time runs our society! Everything is based on time.
But, my friends, time is not physical! Time can not be felt in your hand. How, then, does it exist according to your very definition?
Brother, what do we say? I'm not interested in him or his babbling.
I know, I know--I'll think of something.
Good, please hurry.
Sir, you're going to have to leave. I do not want to resort to violence.
Violence? Does violence exist? Violence is merely a general term! It is not physical; it doesn't exist!
You're annoying.
Very annoying.
Stupendously annoying.
Please, stop being so annoying.
Annoying? But how can I be annoying? What is 'annoying'? How can annoying exist? How--
Is he gone, brother?
Yes, he's gone.
You got rid of him?
Yes.
Good.
I know.
He was rather annoying.
Yes, he was rather annoying.
I don't like thinking.
No one likes thinking.
No one?
Yes.
But he did.
No, he was nothing but a charlatan.
And he's gone?
He's gone.
Let us be sure.
I am sure.
It is good to be sure.
It is indeed.
I do not want to be unsure, brother.
Do not worry. I am sure.

-------------------
9/27
-------------------

Bob is an average man. No, he is the average man. He's 48, balding, has a dead end job at some kind of faceless technology-based corporation, and lives with his wife and two children in a small cramped apartment on the other side of town. Does bob have any dreams and ambitions? Sure he does. He wants a raise, first and foremost, and he wants to move into a nice white picket fence house before he retires. He wants to live out the cliché called the "American dream."

"Bob," I said, "Tell me about yourself. Why do you want a raise? What makes you so deserving?"
"You know, I've been working as a computer programmer here for the last 23 years. I think I deserve a little kick back. Every day I come in at 8:52. Every day! Every day I see people move up, get raises, and become managers and directors! Why can't I get a piece of the action?" Bob replied, fidgeting in his chair.
"You tell me, Bob. Do you have low self-esteem? How was your childhood? Are you bad with office politics?"
"Oh, don't get me started on those office politics. I can't stand it. It's all rumors and chatter, and people stealing ideas left and right. I try to be honest around everyone, but then it all backfires! My parents raised me to be an upstanding person. I follow my Christian values; I go to church every Sunday. My kids go to church every Sunday and get a good Christian education. And yet, what does it amount to? I feel like I'm falling apart here!"
"Good, good. This is good. Tell me more. I want to get into your head Bob. I want all the details you can tell me."
"You're sick, you know that? Just like Charlie Woodworth. The damn weasel. He slaps me on the back like he's my friend. I know his type. He's some young atheist slicker who does everything for himself. I bet he gets promoted before me. I just see it happening."
"Alright, Bob. Let's get back to you. What makes you special? What makes you unique? I'm hearing a whole lot about how you've got a cliché life with cliché problems that everyone else runs into. Why should I care?"
"Why should you care? Listen, my story might not SOUND too special, but that's just the point. I'm not some adventure hero out in the jungle; I'm just somebody trying to make ends meat! My wife doesn't have a job so I need to provide for my family. How am I not important? How am I not interesting?"
"Don't get mad, Bob. I'm only here to understand. So, what part of your life do you want me to tell? I can't say everything, only the things that are important. What kinds of problems do you think you're going to run into that I could talk about? Or, what do you think should happen to you, Bob?"
"I think I need that raise. That Woodworth kid doesn't deserve it; I do! My family needs it. He just got out of college; what does he know? Nothing, that's what."
"That's too easy, Bob. I can't just give you a raise like that. There needs to be some drama. Something good, something juicy.
"How about one of my kids becomes tangled up with the wrong group? Like he becomes an atheist? Or how about there be a girl at the office I fall in love with, and I start to neglect my wife? God forbid, of course! Or, if you're so bent on my destruction, you push that Woodworth fellow up the ladder, and I crack, denounce the immoral themes of society and work, and so on?"
"You've got some ideas, Bob, but they're nothing I haven't thought of. In fact, I thought of all of them. Think, Bob. You've got a nice head on your shoulders. You were the first of your family to graduate from college. So, think!"
"You're a hard sell, you know that? How about this: a story about a story. I've got my life, my office politics, my moral family--the works. But then you, the author of my life, is stuck. You're all out of ideas. You come to talk to me and we brainstorm ideas on what could happen, and maybe a few could play out. It could be a comedy, not a drama. Theater of the absurd, so to speak.
"That's better, Bob. But I'm still not an easy sell. This sounds awfully like that movie I saw. What was it, Stranger than fiction?"
"But it's different, different I'm telling you! That movie was about love, about whether a character dying at the end was always the best choice! This is about clichés, about life, and about the different choices we can take during our life and seeing how they end up in an absurdist and experimental way!"
"Not too bad, Bob. No, not too bad at all! In fact, I'm starting to like it. Maybe you won't end up on my garbage pile just yet."
"That's the spirit! Just give one scene or two, and you'll be hooked!"
"But wait, Bob. Where is this plot going? Where's the climax? Where's the story?"
"That's easy."
"Oh? That was a quick response."
"Oh but it is. You give me a few choices, and I eventually cheat and lie my way to the top. But now everything I believed in is reversed. You keep telling me we should go through another scenario, but I start to refuse. Eventually you leave, and I no longer have your guidance. The narrator is my "good god", and I'm the bad one. I fall at the end of the story, but at the last chance you come in once again. My life goes back to 'normal' at the end, but I've got a better outlook on life.
"Sounds kinda corny to me, Bob."
"No, not at all! The path that's taken is completely different and more interesting. And at the end, perhaps the moral themes could be made less obvious. I dunno, you tell me!
"I'll think about it Bob. Nice talking to you today."

-------------------
9/28
-------------------

The fruit tree.

Elizabeth was always outside with her fruit tree. No matter what season it was, or how the weather was, she was always beside her tree. In the winter she would stay outside under her tree even in the cold. Elizabeth's parents worried about her, and tried to make her stay inside, but she would not have of it. She loved her tree too much to let it go; the tree was her friend, and she would not abandon him.

One day Elizabeth caught pneumonia from staying out in the cold too long. She died a painful death. The end.

"What a god awful story." The teacher said.
"I beg your pardon?" Henry said, having sat down after reading his story.
"Did you read the assignment I gave you?" The teacher adjusted her glasses, still uncomfortable after hearing the story.
"Yes." Henry replied cooly. "You said, write a story with some kind of happy ending. I did just that."
"You call that a happy ending?" The teacher said, raising her voice.
"I do." The rest of the class started to giggle. Mrs. Johnson, the teacher, had always had trouble controlling the class, and she didn't want to lose to them now.
"Settle down everyone!" Mrs. Johnson shouted. "Henry, could you tell us just what was so happy about that ending of yours before I give you a zero for not following directions?"
"Mrs. Johnson," Henry said flatly, "I thought it was a very happy ending. Elizabeth was a stubborn bitch; she had it coming." With that, the class erupted into laughter. Mrs. Johnson had lost to Henry again. Before too long, however, the bell rang, and the class quickly filed out of the room, leaving only Henry and Mrs. Johnson together.

"Now wasn't that fun?" Henry said sarcastically. He leaned back in his chair.
"I see you don't even try go to lunch anymore" Mrs. Johnson replied wearily.
"No, not at all. Lunch detention with you; I know the drill." Henry reached in his backpack and took out a brown lunch bag.
"Tell me, Henry. Do you enjoy being a class clown? Do you enjoy seeing me... seeing the reactions of the class?" Mrs. Johnson said, even weaker than before.
"Huh?" Henry replied as he stuffed a sandwich into his face. "I dunno. It's fun I guess."
"Right, of course." Mrs. Johnson looked down at her lesson plans, which hadn't even been close to being followed.
"You ok Mrs. Johnshon?" Henry said, with a hint of sincerity.
"No, I'm alright. Don't worry, they should be here soon." The door to Mrs. Johnson's room opened and in came Ian and Joey--the other detention regulars.
"Yo, Henry! You here again?" Ian said, waving.
"Yes, indeed my follies have landed me in this lowly pit of despair." Henry said poetically.
"What?" Ian said while sitting down. "Whatever, dude." Joey sat down next to Ian, saying nothing.

-------------------
9/29
-------------------

Writing for another 15 minutes. 15 minutes.

What am I supposed to say? What am I supposed to write? I keep thinking about the world around me and I feel isolated. Financial crisis, presidential election, and so on and so on. I'm following the events but I'm not actually connected to them. No. I'm living in a dream world. Everything I'm thinking is completely irrelevant. Completely worthless. What am I to everyone else? To anyone else?

I opened an old notebook of mine from school. It had to be from 3rd grade because there's mostly subtraction and addition of 3 digit numbers. That's the kind of stuff I did in 3rd grade. I flip through it before going to bed, and happen to turn to the middle of the marble book. Nothing but empty pages. In fact, only the first few pages were ever used. However, something does catch my eye. Right in the middle of the notebook--perhaps a bit farther towards the end--is a single word written down.

"Tomatoes"

It's there, taking up two and a half lines, scribbled down in 3rd grader handwriting. I have no idea why the word tomatoes happens to be located in a random part of a math notebook I had in 3rd grade, but it is indeed there, starting right back up at me. Defiantly, might I add.

It's humorous at first, seeing a kind of non sequitur from days long past. Perhaps I was just trying to spell the word correctly, and pulled out a random page to practice. I can't remember writing the word down, nor can I remember the slightest reason for doing so. It's weird more than anything else. Like the rest of the world, I'm disconnected to my past as well.

Oh, wow, past disconnected and disconnected with present as well. And let me guess, you're going to spew some crap about being disconnected with your future too. DIdn't see that little diddy coming, oh no, not at all. You're not predictable, no, not at all. Of course not.

Don't be too hard on yourself, you're just writing random thoughts anyway. NO. Be hard on yourself. You think you're so great but you're not. You're terrible. You're average. You're nobody special. For everything you like to do or think you're good at, there's somebody better. Yeah, that's right. You're nothing. Go die, or something.

Now now, let's not fall into some kind of dark emotional writing; no one wants that. You know why? Because dark emotional crap is exactly what you're trying to avoid: tripe, banal, cliché thoughts that every other person your age has had, or has thought of, and has been ridiculed for.

You can't escape your mediocrity. You have to accept that you're always going to be disconnected. That you'll never be the best at one particular thing. In fact, no one will be able to. It's an impossible goal, so give it up. Don't grow your ego; stay humble. Get a job, fall into place, and become the gear you're destined to become.

Yeah, that sounds lame again. Wow, a "gear"? That's the best you could come up with? Really? Terrible. Ugh. No, you've got to go out and do something. Become president or something. Yeah, that's it. You're gonna be president some day; keep telling yourself that. Then you'll be special, right? No, yes, maybe. Probably no. What the hell am I writing? Who's reading this? Nobody, that's who. Stop kidding yourself.

-------------------
10/4
-------------------

Page turner. Gripping. Masterpiece. Best seller.

John's work is none of those things. He's currently laboring over his newest piece, "The Forbidden Kiss." It's only a matter of time until he realizes his cliché ideas and uninspired thoughts will amount to nothing. His work consists of no more than trite circumstances and purely archetype characters. Another cigarette meets John's mouth as he re-reads his most recent lines.

"And then Laura leaned forward, her lush red lips pursed together, awaiting Jose to return the favor. He did. The two stood together in complete silence. The world was not silent but their heartbeats were; the moment was magical."

John will soon realize he could have made a lot more money writing a screenplay for a soap opera instead. Nonetheless, John leans forward again while exhaling from his cigarette, ready to get down the next sentence.

"Just then, there was a knock at the door! Jose quickly opened his eyes and spun around. It was Maria.
'Traitor' She screamed, her eyes quivering.
'No, Maria! You don't understand!' Jose reached out towards Maria but quickly pulled back.
'Jose... what's going on?' Laura said softly.
'Laura you-' Jose stopped himself mid-sentence.

Absolutely terrible. It's hard to tell if John is writing a romance piece or a comedic parody. Unfortunately, he thinks he's just reached the "good part."

"That's enough for today" John says out loud. He wheels his brown swivel chair around to face the letter-filled table opposite his computer. Terms like "Final Notice" and "Final Final Notice" are the most ubiquitous. John ignores the unopened letters and instead reaches for the small envelope stamped P&D Publishing Co.

"This is it." John says triumphantly. He slowly rips the red seal, careful not to damage the rest of the envelope. The envelope is open. John stares inside. "This is it. No more failures, this is it!" John retrieves the single sheet of paper from inside the envelope.

"Dear Mr. John Smith. Thank you for submitting your piece ME AND YOU. However, at this moment in time, we are unable to..."

John stops reading. Another failure, as expected.

"Hey, who are you to judge me, huh?" John shouts.

John starts to scream, his inner rage no longer able to be contained. After years of rejection, his true feelings have final begun to surface.

"What do you mean, surface? Why don't you stop being so negative, then?"

John is now yelling at the thin air--perhaps at his very own mind--because he feels inferior. John has had an inferiority complex since grade school. He's never been able to be the best at anything, and his half-hearted attempts at literature support this.

"Didn't I tell you to shut up?" John yells again. "I'm not inferior to anybody! Go to hell!" Silence, except for the passing cars on the street five stories below. John paces about his apartment, thinking to himself.

It's too bad for John, however, that pacing won't do any good. Pacing never helped anyone; it's a worthless waste of energy. John should go back and read his dog-eared copy of "How to write a novel in 21 days" if he actually wants to be productive.

"I want to know who you are." John speaks firmly, but his voice is no longer cracking. He waits, but there is no answer. He sits back on his swivel chair, exhausted. "Every time..."

-------------------
10/6
-------------------

The Subway.
A Play.

(Subway car with six seats total. One three seater, one two seater, one single seater. Sliding doors for subway entrance. The subway car is unclean; there are wrappers on the ground as well as a plastic bottle. A newspaper lies on one of the seats. The conductor's voice sounds from offstage.)

CONDUCTOR
Oregon station next!

(Sounds of a train stopping. Sliding doors open; MARTY enters, carrying a clipboard and pencil. He sits down in the three seater. He fidgets and looks around anxiously. A few seconds later MR. BROWN enters. He is wearing a suit and is carrying a briefcase and thick newspaper.)

MARTY
Excuse me sir, are you registered to vote?

MR. BROWN
No.

MARTY
Well, with the election coming up, you should definitely register as soon as possible. I can give you-

MR. BROWN
Not interested.
(MR. BROWN sits down in the one seater. He places the briefcase at his feet, and starts to read his newspaper)

MARTY
Because you know, it's every citizen's duty to vote and with such a close election coming up every vote matters and-

MR. BROWN
Not interested.

MARTY
It only takes a second and I'm sure it'd be worth your while to-

MR. BROWN
Are you deaf, boy? I said, not interested.

MARTY
Y...right.
(Marty sits back down in his seat. Sighs.)

Yes, today is my birthday. The 17th one, to be specific and all that. And in the most cliché, uninspired, and predictable way possible, I'm writing in a blog about it.

Oh well. There must be a reason for writing this, right? There must be some underlining motive behind putting finger-to-keyboard and creating these small gray pixels you're reading (or glancing over) right now. Well, the only reason I can think of right this moment is the desire for attention and comments as interesting as "Happy Birthday", but perhaps something more substantial might become clear later on.

So here's some incredibly important news for my fellow people out in cyberspace: I was down the shore two days ago (as is called "going to the beach" 'round my parts) in Ocean City. The usual affairs included walking along the boardwalk, going in the very murky water congested with fellow vacationers, and playing DDR in the arcades.

Anyways, I'll be back again in about a week if anyone else is going to be there (a long-shot, to be sure). I'm about average height, brown hair, and will most likely be wearing a t-shirt, shorts, and sandals. I hope this narrows everything down enough for you to spot me!

More important news straight out of my very important life (and I'm most certainly not cynical--oh no sir): I saw "In the Heights" on Broadway about a week or so ago, and I'd say it was quite good. Some nice bits of comedy, and the music was a surprisingly fun combinations of multiple genres and sounded great. If you know Spanish, the experience will also be much better.

All right, that's enough, back to the birthday. Remember, I'm important today. Oh yeah. Although to be frank, 17 is a rather boring age. It's like a filler age. 16 and 18 are both very nice ages to be, but 17 is in the middle, doing nothing one way or the other.

At least 17 sounds a hell of a lot younger than 18; I'll rely on that for now.

Yes, that's right.

I'll add something meaningful here in the near future.

I was going to detail my life but then I realized that's lame.

Maybe I'll post crappy stories and Plays I write here. WE SHALL SEE.

New line.

End post.

Like dust in the wind, I'm blowing far, far away. My time is up; I've pulled up stake. The end is near; the time is nigh. Because I'm moving on up and moving on out.

I'm not coming back. No, not for many a year. You won't see my face; and that's all you'll hear. Today is the day I've decided to leave. Oh yes, yes indeed; I'm going with a ho and a heave.

That concludes my tale -- oh how great it was. But, alas, I'm going; I tire of this buzz. Think of me much, or think of me little. It's up to you now, but I'll remain noncommittal.

cp /etc/hosts ~/Desktop/hosts.txt
>>
0.0.0.0 www.newgrounds.com
0.0.0.0 newgrounds.com
>>
sudo cp ~/Desktop/hosts.txt /etc/hosts

Goodbye.

[snip]

...and I'm on Newgrounds.

Not that I'm adverse to Newgrounds, or the content, or anything else, but rather, I can't really understand WHY I'm online right now in the first place. My Saturday seems to have gone as quickly as it came, and nearly all the precious free time was washed away on the internet. I've been seeing this happen to me again and again, week after week, and frankly, I'm disappointed in myself and the way I've been spending my time.

For instance, being a junior in high school leads itself to a number of responsibilities, such as various tests beyond that of the regular curriculum (SATs, AP Tests, etc), the demand for high grades, and various college woes. Every day I come home with a pile of work due, but I always seem to end up doing it last minute, rushed, and never to the best of my abilities. Instead, I'm on, of all places, the internet, and in general; Newgrounds. Honestly, I've found the unbelievable addition so intense and extreme that it's completely embarrassing to talk about. Yeah, there are plenty of people who spend great deals of time online on their favorite sites, but my addiction seems to reach higher levels every week.

I've already wasted Saturday of this weekend, when I could have been tackling my never-ending assignments or studying for the three tests I have early next week. I could have at least put in an hour or two, which is practically nothing, to give myself at least some kind of boost. What did I do instead? I browsed Newgrounds. For practically the entire day. Hell, I didn't even go outside. That's how bad it is. That's how pathetic it is. Here I am, completely aware of what I'm doing; completely aware I could easily be putting my time to better use, but I don't.

As generic, predictable, and cliché as all this sounds, it's still quite quite bothersome. I continue to dive deeper into the extreme stereotype of "addicted-to-internet" nerd, what with not seeing daylight, spending all my time online, staying up to the wee hours of the morning, etc, etc. Hell, I'm even a BBS moderator. The more I see myself become like this, the more I just want to smack myself on the face and say "WAKE UP! THE INTERNET IS ENTERTAINMENT! IT'S NOT REAL LIFE! GET OFF AND DO SOMETHING PRODUCTIVE!" In fact, I do this quite often, and to no avail.

So, what's keeping me from acting on these intentions? Honestly, I can't really tell you. If I did, I'd be doing something to go against it. Perhaps this is how a serious addiction works; you know what you're doing is wrong (let's compare this to smoking), and you know you shouldn't be doing it, or so much of it, and yet you feel compelled to continue on, unable to shake yourself from past habits. The internet is the only thing I've been so addicted to. I can spend a bunch of hours on a video game, but it doesn't come close to what I spend on the internet, or on Newgrounds. As an addiction that seems comparable (to me) to that of smoking - an addiction which is well documented and which was constantly warned about in grade school - I'm worried. I'm scared.

I'm scared that I won't be able to "quit", and that I won't be able to get offline and STAY offline to be able to really do what I want. I guess me writing this post is somewhat ironic in the sense it's a good chunk of time to rant about something ON NEWGROUNDS, but it helps to say this stuff in some form, whether it be text or out loud. Besides, writing a few paragraphs is nothing compared to the rest of the time I've wasted today. Man, this internet addiction is the real deal.

So, the point of all this so far is to really try and tell myself to stop. To stop using the internet so much, to stop spending all my time here, and to do what needs to be done (No, really?). My last few Sundays have consisted of me wasting my time on the internet until 5:00 PM or so, from which I then move on to worrying and anxiety as I frantically try and get through whatever I have to do. This usually ends up taking much longer than expected, and by the time I get to sleep (after some bickering with my mom) it's past 3:00 AM (I get up at 7 for school). Ugh.

I expect the same is going to happen later today, as I didn't so shit on Friday or Saturday, despite my conscious yelling at me the whole day about getting offline.

So, you might expect, after reading all this, I'm going to shout "I'm leaving!!!" at the very end, and then open this post up for comments from various users ranging from "Oh no", "That sucks, dude", "Haha, faggot", "Hey, here's some advice: [blah, blah, blah]", or whatever. But I'm not leaving. You see, that's the whole point. I'm not going anywhere. I constantly use the internet, and I HAVE to constantly use the internet. No, I won't explode if I don't, but since school work, research and other resources are all online, I'm always going to be on the internet. When I'm always on the internet. I find myself always going to Newgrounds, or Youtube, or any other site (but mainly Newgrounds).

Maybe I need to block Newgrounds using a HOSTS file like I did a while ago (and which kept me off for an utterly pathetic two weeks or so). Maybe I need to ask to be demoderated. I don't know. I don't think I want to do something so extreme, since I don't feel it'll help. I feel I need to practice some more basic self-control, and solve the issue myself. I feel as if I can work out the problem myself, cut back on my internet time, and deal with it accordingly.

Furthermore, I'm fiercely independent, and I don't like asking for help. If I'm in a group situation, I always seem to end up taking the "leader" position, and usually allot myself a gratuitous workload because I feel I'll be the one to do the best job, and because I seem to have an inherent distrust for the quality others work, even if it's perfectly fine. Thus, I feel I can tackle this problem on my own, too.

I've been telling myself that for the past few months, but this is probably the first time I've bothered to speak (or type) freely about it. I've told bits and pieces to some friends, or to my parents, but I don't usually end up trying to explain myself. This time (and I always seem to refer my goals as "this time", "next time"), I really mean it (SURE you do). This time, I'm not going to give up after an hour and think I've got all the time in the world for "a bit" of Newgrounds (which usually evolves into 3 hours like nothing). I guess I should start with my English reading homework. If you see me online, tell me I'm being a complete moron and should get off immediately. Either that, or invent some machine that allows other to smack me over the internet; it would help.

There you have it. A peak into one of the woes of my life, which I've never really talked about much on the internet. Most of my posts on Newgrounds have to do WITH Newgrounds, usually regarding the answer to some question or another boring sort of explanation of the rules. I seem to put out little to no real personality at all, being some kind of walking and posting Newgrounds help-bot.

Well, I am human, and I'm dealing with the same boring problems that a million other kids out there are probably dealing with (now, don't get me started on how I feel I'm going to fall into mediocrity and the mild bouts of depression associated with that, since that's a whole 'nother story). Procrastination, internet addiction, meh. They seem so overdone and blasé. I guess if you've read this whole piece of crap I've arbitrarily decided to spew, perhaps you found something interesting, though. If not, oh well; I wasn't trying my hardest to entertain. I could probably go on even longer, but that probably enough torture for anyone deciding to read this depressing chronicle. I think the first "post mood" icon I've ever used sums up my current situation better than this post does anyway.

midterms.

Midterms.

Midterms.

Midterms

Midterms

MIDTERMS.

MID-FUCKING-TERMS.

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I just love midterms.