I realize my problem, it's just that I want someone to, you know,
give a fuck.
I retrieved a paper from last semester, which I posted today (Fighting for Meaning, if you care), which had an A on the top and said it was a "delightfully acerbic comment on both texts." Basically it means she'd totally disagree with me, but the way I wrote the paper says, "If you don't me an A for this, I just might kill you." Maybe not. I came home and fired off a rightious flame, feeling like my literary acid-words would affect/effect.
"I am secretly an important man." -- Steven Jesse Bernstein
Nodeshells created: The Nodeshell Rescue Team Must Die(t)
I had a discussion with an E2 editor yesterday which made me totally re-evaulate why I am here. I am only here because I want to be. No-one asked me to come. Shit, half the time I feel unwelcome. The editor wasn't the cause of this, BTW, at least probably consciously. He/She had the attitude that He/She typically has when I /msg Him/Her. I realize this is what I must sound like to people when I talk on the phone at my help-desk job. I feel, suddenly, very small. I was directed to examine another noders work, an exceptional person, no doubt. I wondered why I was pointed to this. Am I special? Was this a message? Did this editor see potential? Does this happen to everybody? I almost think twice before submitting this, I want him/her to read it, but I don't, either. I don't want to be misunderstood. Should I hide it all behind a pipe link, so that someone clicking on a . would have the option of creating a node/-shell with it? I dunno. Maybe the ed. got me at a bad time. Probably. Or I got them at a bad time, they're only human. I respect him/her, it's just I rarely feel like I'm getting any back at all, not just from him/her. What does it matter, it's not like anyone will read this, anyway. And you know what the worst part is?
Even if it does happen, I don't think it will help.
I will never be one to wield hunger against humanity. --SJB
I've been reading Henry James' Midnight Song by Carol de Chellis Hill and there's this scene where Henry James is wondering what it'd be like to be written about. He, in the story, thinks it'd be nice if a book were written about his work. I empathize. I just want someone to read it, acknowledge reading it. And you know what the worst part is?
Even if it does happen, I don't think it will help.
Why is it when I feel so intensly emotional that my guitar playing sucks so thoroughly? Every time I play it I want to smash it to splinters. I listened to the Requiem for a Dream soundtrack, and found myself in the empty state I felt after watching the film.
I'm getting heartburn a lot lately.
These are all personal problems, but I don't know where else to sort them out. I have as many friends here at school IRL as I have middle fingers. I don't want to bother them. One wouldn't understand, the other has his girlfriend to spend time with. I actually think I have three, but it's weird 'cuz I can't talk to him about myself. I feel like I'm wasting his time. Behold, people who spill their guts on the Internet, but can't talk to a friend about simple problems.
I have a cup that says Professional Smartass on the side. I don't feel very smart. I feel really fuckin' idiotic.
"If you're looking for advice? Mine is seek professional help." -- Dr. Fraiser Crane, or however you spell it.
All of that amounts to this: I don't know why I'm here. Try to expand the word "here" as far as you care to.