Open the pod bay doors, Hal.

I'm afraid I can't do that, Dave.

Lately I've come to the conclusion that rational autonomy is a hideous bitch goddess. Thank you, world. I promise that some day I will learn to add photos to my blog. No one reads it, so I figure nude pictures of Margaret Thatcher might be the draw for some new demographics.

Writing papers is a mixed gambit. I'm back to nothing on my English paper. Exposition essay based on material from the syllabus. Hopefully Frankenstein gives me what I need for a compare/contrast with Curious Incident.

Adam, why are you sitting near the frigid doorway of Rutherford, watching videos by The Fall and The Residents instead of working on school work?

There was an attempt this week to write a short story. I shut it down in the second paragraph. Instead of just typing and hoping to come up with something, I'm going to try and write out a skeletal framing structure, highlighting what I want to execute with the story. So far the only thing I like is the title, Cinderblock Boy & Brine Girl. But I have a feeling that's a terrible title, and it's so similar to a lot of teen fiction or faux-goth cartoony pining crap. We'll see.

Also, I almost ruined things with a friend this week. But it's mostly from ignoring the lessons of not being honest with people. Not that I lie, but I refrain from expressing any wants or desires. Also I never ask for help.

This is an awful place to study.

This is yet another go at re-starting a regular blogging schedule. Tonight I'm using the blog entry to warm up for essay writing.

Allow how I'm feeling now to stand as a summary for my week; tired, fuzzy of brain, a little sad and quite satisfied. My voice is weaker than usual, my sleep has been oddly timed and not very restful, and it feels like my brain is made out of parafin. This is the end of my fourth week of not being on prozac, the first time in 5 years I've attempted to go off of it. Maybe I'm regretting it, but since serotonin affects decision making, I don't know. All I feel is that all the coffee in the world won't help me feel right.

What's getting me through this? The National. Billy Bragg. Belly. Something about the sonics of some records where there's loud, loud heavy drumming and delicate playing and instruments. Some kind of coronet and violin over a really pounding beat that starts The Geese Of Beverly Road by the National. It's a definite allusion to how life feels. It always goes on, it's unapologetic and hard to ignore, but laid over it is this kind of connectedness and beauty that makes it easier to bear. Safari by the Breeders too. It's loud and pounding, but on a dime it becomes a pop song about being lost and how to cope. Then it ends in blissful raging feedback, the kind of sound that makes Belly a staple of my playlists these days.

This kind of heartache is like being visited by my old self. The hopeless romantic with a doomed sense of being. The flawed and cracked glass that seems to inform my outlook as much as it influences what people see about me. This week, I wonder what happens to people when they get rejected by seemingly perfect partners. What does that say about your nature when you can't even make a convincing argument for a relationship with someone your own attributes closely mirror?

My suspicion is that I'm not willing to argue for myself as a valid candidate. It seems irrational to accept rejection without at least making a case for contraindication, but the fact of what's at hand is thus; you can not make someone's heart see logic. Pleading shouldn't be beneath me, but for some reason I can't be bothered to fight harder for something I want. It's gone, it's out of my hands, accept it and move on, right?

Wishful thinking is a way that I waste a lot of my time. Allow me to be specific for once. This week I spent some time with a girl with whom I thought things were going great. But it turns out I was back at the point of being the only person who thought a relationship was growing out of this camraderie. This is the second time I've let myself be hopeful with this person, and it's worse the second time because you feel ridiculously inept for doing it to yourself. Especially when you've been explicitly told that what you want can never happen.

Anyway... this week has eaten me up and turned me into a giant emo sad bastard. I'm going to work on my essay, go home and have a bath, and try and get more than 4 hours of sleep. Sadly, this will probably continue next time.

One week of reading Demons, and I am on page 49. Remarkable progress now that I'm into the second chapter. It introduces the character of Nikolai Vsevlodovich Stavrogin, Varvara Petrovna's only child. The storyline has streamlined, in that the plot is kicking in. I'm starting to REALLY enjoy it.

My brain seems to be gravitating towards lefthandedness. I noticed today, during breakfast at the Commodore, that I quantify everything. I was measuring the sugar for my coffee by spoonfuls, so I could create a duplicable metric. Definitely left brained behaviour, right? It makes me wonder because I was reading before I noticed this, and now I wonder about what hemisphere is mostly in control of the process of reading. It's a visual spatial kinetic deciphering of language that is meant to connote speech, action, motive, image, and a poetic process of being art. So at what point do left brained people start reading more business books and right brained people read comic books?

"Because if it's not love, then it's the bomb, the bomb, the bomb that will bring us together."

Good improvised drink recipe: Equal amounts 7-Up and orange juice (I used canned Minute Maid) with a generous portion of Bombay Sapphire. Delicious and very few ill effects.

"I passed out on the fourteenth floor. The CPR was so erotic."

For the record, I love my Moleskine weekly planner for 2008. It's red and has an elastic around the front and stickers and a removable journal. Also, my Semikolon journal is nice. It's a deep gray clothbound journal with watermarked pages and an elastic loop that holds a matching pencil. I sketched out two little ideas of pieces of writing in it at breakfast today, but since I don't intend to write anything, I might just add it to the pile of things I've thought about but never acted on. 

Is hesitation noble?