The Domain of Steven

In the dream, I’m late for my internship with an Asian film director. They’re shooting on top of a large cliff overlooking the sea. The sun is bright, sky is blue, and there’s plenty of lush grass beneath our feet. Our, being myself, the director, his assistant, and the hundred actors comprising two armies of rival nations, decked out in blue and red.

As I run up the hill to meet them, I find the director standing smack dab in the middle, with armies in formation in front and behind him ready to charge. He yells “Action!” and my mind fast forwards. He is preparing an actor for a scene involving him being pushed off the cliff by an enemy. The assistant irritatedly walks up to the director and starts haranguing him, complaining about safety and expenses and difficulty, how we could easily do this on a blue screen back at the studio. It’s getting late, he says, and the actors are tired. If we film this shot digitally, we can call it a day and not go back to this wretched place.

Wretched? This oceanside cliff is beautiful, a sharp contrast to the bloody feud that is taking place. I want to make my case to the director, but it’s not my place. I’m just an intern. And when the director looks into the tired eyes of his employees, he too lets out a weary sigh. Very well, we’ll call it a day, he says.

I don’t bother pleading, or helping them pack up, I just walk back the way I came. This place has a certain majesty about it, something that couldn’t be recreated by a second-rate computer geek who has spent his life indoors, who has never felt this wonderful ocean breeze.

At the bottom of the hill is a wall-less tent adorned with a sign that says WI-FI INTERNET. Several tables have been strewn about, packed with people on their laptops. A few people are sitting on the fat, pillow-sized stone slabs that serve as a railing for the small ramp that leads down the cliffside to the water below. There’s one poor shmuck who is standing in line, apparently not content to sit on the grass or sit in the sun.

Curious as to why they’d make a rail that leads downwards, I hop onto one and start to make my way down. My balance wavers a bit, and I decide that it’s best if I sit down and scoot instead of walk. The ramp alternates between slanted and straight, and it would be a fun slide if the friction of the granite wasn’t such a killjoy.

I reach the bottom and find that the water is actually pretty shallow. It would probably just reach past my feet, if I stepped in, nothing like the ocean I saw from on top of the cliff. It’s inconsistent. But life is consistent. The only place something like this could happen is…a dream? Is this a dream?

As rebellious thoughts fill my mind, I remember that I’m in bed after having taken a nap. I give a gentle mental push, and suddenly my hands feel the smooth sheets of my bed instead of the rough rock.

I immediately pull my mind back, my head spinning with the realization about where I am and what I can do while here. I have had a lucid dream only one other time, where I was on top of a large building. I wanted to jump off but I was too afraid, worried that I might be sleepwalking and would wake up moments before my death.

But this time I was too curious. I stood up on the stone railing and looked back the way I came. Another inconsistency, the railing was not part of a ramp that led up the cliffside, it was now simply a long curved railing that led back to an island. There was no cliff behind me anymore, just the expanse of the sea. The water was still foot-deep.

The best stories are made when you’re bold, curious, and just a little bit stupid. I dove head-first into the shallow water.

My head entered, then my body, then my legs. I was fully immersed, and there was plenty of room beneath me in the cool water. I wanted to come up and take a look around and found it effortless to rise to the surface. The island was still in the distance, but the railing was gone and the water was now a proper ocean. I started swimming, not caring which way, and it was the easiest thing in the world. I was totally uncoordinated but it was as if I had on a miniature life jacket that had that helped me float.

It was amazing, liberating, and in a flash it was over. I was on my bed, eager to go back into the water but too certain that I was awake and would not be able to return. And so instead of reliving it in my dreams, I sat down at my computer and relived it through my memories and my words. Hopefully I’ll have more lucid dreams, because I’m sure as hell not diving into water outside of one.

Apologies in advance for obscurity.

There used to be a time when people would crowd into my room to watch Ninja Warrior and The Colbert Report. It was a time when Papa Johns was frequent and delightful, when we had to schedule hangouts on the weekends to accomodate my work schedule, when it was predicted and feared that seawater and the searing sun would cause my skin to have fits. A time of firsts: sleepovers, karaoke, banter, bunnies.

Those were not the most notable features of the time, though. It is more distinctly remembered as a time when memory foam was thoroughly appreciated, when strong tones were not, when steam was constantly recirculated in a futile attempt to make sense of it. It was when the borders of your mom expanded to gleeful smiles and rolled eyes, when you were young was fussed over and grown to be loved, and when Catan was played cooperatively. When talks would be long, frequent, and grandiose.

But that time is best remembered through the moments that caused me to lose more of them. Can I really say that I’ve gotten better if I often replay them in my mind? That I’m no longer affected by something I look back on with such nostalgia?

I moved off the reservation solely because of the hope that maybe I could relive some of those times. But it’s never that easy to forget. You never need to tell someone what you think of them, and so you don’t. It is always their intent to hurt you. They are always trying, but they’re not the ones who end up hurt.

Some people miss the good ol’ Calvin and Hobbes days. I just miss Hobbes.

The Sims is a series of award-winning games that let you control simulated people, each with their own needs, desires, relationships and futures. Some players choose to build elaborate houses, giving their characters a dream home and letting them roam free to do as they pleased.

I, on the other hand, played The Sims very efficiently. I built rooms only as large as they needed to be, with items strategically placed to minimize the space they took up and the time to travel between them. I did not decorate the interior of the house, because pretty scenery really only mattered when they left the house to go to work, and indoor decorations would not help that. I did not buy a full-length mirror because a square hanging mirror served the same purpose at a fraction of the cost while not taking up any space.

I built bachelor houses that were essentially very large cubicles, with no extra money spent on walls for the bathroom because no one would ever see him and it would never be an issue. I did not buy a lounge chair or sofa because it would not double as an eating chair, and which I would then have to purchase separately. The house had one chair. It was the chair in which my Sim ate, watched television and learned skills from. I spent money making it extremely comfortable, because that chair and the bed were the only sources of rest I provided my Sim. When he needed comfort, I did not let him simply sit down, I would top off his fun need by also making him watch TV. If he was already at full fun, I would discontinue TV watching and make him read a book to learn a skill.

But hermit Sims have stunted job progression because later promotions require you to befriend your neighbors. To accomplish this, I had a systematic way of rapidly maximizing a relationship level. I did not bother with most of the interaction options like backrubs and pranks, I did what I needed to do in order to get where I wanted to be, and then I sent them along their way.

I would talk to them until our relationship level rose a bit and then mixed in jokes, all the way until when a hug became the best option to increase relationship points. I chose these because they were efficient and reliable, but also because they raised fun points as well.

Talking, joking, and hugging were fun. With just those three, my Sim no longer felt the desire to watch TV. As long as he could keep talking, he never wanted to read a book, or play games on his computer. To keep the game understandable and not needlessly complex, the developers generalized a Sim’s need for recreation into a single quantity that rose whenever something that could be construed as fun was accomplished.

It doesn’t work that way in real life, sadly. Given constant exposure to something, we grow tired of it, and we are not as affected by it. Conversely and notably, the absence of something can make us profoundly affected by its reappearance.

For the past year I have been in the presence of amazing friends and socialization. I love being with them and have made shockingly large changes to my plans for next year in order to keep being with them, but they are not everything that I am. They don’t do everything that I like to do. And so sometimes, as much as I want to spend every moment with them, I also want to spend moments relishing the comforts that I enjoyed so dearly before I met them.

Yet even with the best of both worlds at my fingertips, each having done nothing to dilute each other, I can’t have everything I want. I am always missing something, missing someone, neglecting someone.

But given the choice to be everywhere and do everything with everyone, would I take it? Would it only make me tire of everything faster? Maybe it would. But at least I would never have to apologize.

Spring break isn’t anything remarkable to blog about this year. I didn’t decide to to go some island with wonderful weather or abroad to some place with lax alcohol or drug use laws. Despite this, this spring break needs to be one of the most remarkable. The past few weeks have seen me at my most unproductive and most unmotivated, behavior that would only lead me back down a well-beaten and much-hated path, and I need to elicit change in order to keep me on a more desirable one.

Becoming a morning person would be exactly the change I need. Or at least, stop being a night person. It just isn’t working out. Many nights recently have illustrated that very point. I love the worker’s high that I get from being productive, from coding and seeing things work, from poring over and finally understanding concepts. I used to associate these moments of heightened concentration with late nights illuminated by my monitor and my desk lamp, but recent experiences have proven contrary. They’ve left me at the wee hours of the morning with little to show but a pile of fatigue on my eyes.

But I randomly decided to rest my eyes a couple weeks ago, and as with almost all instances of me resting my eyes during the school year, I didn’t wake up for some time. This particular nap was particularly lengthy, and some would even call it sleeping. Yes, I think there’s an unfamiliar but more fitting term for it, sleeping early. I slept at 8 and woke up at 4.

Now even for a normal person, waking up at 4 is like what the fuck are you doing you crazy bastard. I surprisingly didn’t feel that way at all. I felt…energized. Refreshed. Better than I had ever felt even with 10 or 12 hours of sleep. I worked and coded in perfect contentment. It was a sight to see, and it is a sight I want to see again.

It will mean I will have to abandon all those late night friends, forsake all those late night conversations. They were what perhaps cemented me in my role as a night owl. I enjoyed the company, the support, the mutual understanding of our situations and the comraderie forged because of our similarities. Does this mean that I’m trading friends for sleep? If so, here’s to the nights we felt alive, and here’s to goodbye, because if all works well, tomorrow is not going to come too soon. It’s finally going to come right when I want it to.

She once told me that if we were to be together, she would probably have an argument with me and break up with me after only a few months. She had told me more than a few times that I couldn’t handle her temper, that no one could, that I was only inviting disaster by asking for full disclosure.

I am reluctant to admit that she was right, but she was.

Yet things were completely different for me when I was instead just a friend. I was able to bear the brunt of an attack the likes of which I’d only seen once before, one that had been a giant blow to my sensibilities. I was able to push past thoughts of her being with other guys, to embrace her as eagerly and passionately as I had done hundreds of times in years past. I was able to learn of things that I would not have thought I could tolerate. I was able to put myself and my own needs above those of other people.

That last note is the one that gives me pause, for that selfishness is exactly what was enabling me to function so well in the presence of difficulties. I have sometimes said that unlike those who treasured independence, I loved being dependent. I loved having someone to whom I could dote on, who would appreciate the details I paid attention to and fuss over.

But I was not always able to meet expectations, and my need for their approval ensured that I always felt it. It is in the dissolution of this dependence that I became more resilient. Perhaps only ever so slightly, but noticeably.

Is the improved defense worth staying single, worth putting myself before other people? Is this, in contrast to how I have lived my life all these years until now, perhaps the better life for me after all? I can already see Cristen telling me that to lead such a life would cause me to miss out on life itself.

Or perhaps I have simply underestimated myself. Perhaps my being unscathed should be attributed not to being selfish, but to simply knowing when I need to back down. Perhaps my tolerance is owed to an understanding of new rules.

The one thing I do know is that being godlike is not all it’s cracked up to be.

It’s still hard to imagine my parents as people who once had lives like the one I’m leading right now. To me, their lives had always started with…well, me.

It’s when tidbits about their past are fed to me that I start to get curious about what their lives were like before they settled down. My father offhandedly mentioned that he actually entered Polytechnic University as a chemical engineer major, only to discover that he didn’t like chemistry. It was then that he turned to silversmithing, and finally deciding on mechanical engineering.

My father, the man who loved his job so much that he set up a drafting table and work environment in his basement, actually thought he wanted to do something else? I can’t imagine him as a chemical engineer, and I didn’t even know silversmithing was a major!

My parents actually bought a house in Brooklyn, on 70th street and 20th avenue. They had intended to move out from our 1-bedroom apartment in Queens, away from all the relatives that lived above us or within a few minutes drive of us, away from the routes and venues and nuances that I know so intimately. I wouldn’t have gone to Montessori, Renaissance, and maybe not even Mega Academy. I would have lived a mere three blocks from my friend Sally, who currently lives two hours away by train.

But for whatever reason, they didn’t move out. My dad drove there during the fall to sweep the leaves in front of the property and in the winter to shovel the snow. Eventually my parents realized that they weren’t going to move there, that taking care of it was too much of a hassle, and that they weren’t strict enough as landlords to make money off of it. They sold the house at a loss just to be rid of it.

When I hear about my parents’ pasts, when I learn about how they stumbled, when I realize that they might be perfect parents but were not always perfect people…through learning about their failures I find the courage to face my own. Not everything fell into place the way they wanted, but I can’t imagine them falling any other way.

Even the naive get tired when the only progress to be made is negative. Luckily nothing ever breaks; instead, incompatibilities are discovered. The ideal was worthwhile, but ultimately it belongs solely to the mellow.

Strangely, the closest I came to crying over her was when she was being cursed out. As with all instances of tearing, I was split between wanting to embrace it and suppress it.

It all came about from a thought that had been stubbornly persistent: if I could go back one year, would the knowledge of one outcome change my behavior? Would I work harder towards keeping us together, or would I be resigned and bitter? Would I do nothing and simply appreciate our time more? If so, what would happen when the last day passes uneventfully? Would I assume that the same events happened and call her a liar?

No, I never assume the worst of people; instead, I fear it. Every action would be laced with hesitation and restraint, every hug less heartfelt, every kiss reminding me of the things she did and might still do. The changes in my behavior would be the same reasons why I couldn’t take her back.

Change is what everything boils down to. What would I change? What has changed? Could I change? Could she?

I have always honestly believed that people can be anything they want to be. That they could change themselves to be whoever they wanted to be. I do not, however, believe that you can change someone else; it has to be purely of your own volition and desire. At the end of the day, you are the only person there who can tell you to keep trying.

So no, I don’t think I would try to change what happened, because I did nothing wrong. I did not give the relationship my all, but I gave the relationship everything I was willing to give. I did not always put her over everyone else because I needed to have a life apart from her, and the presence of that life was kept a particular rift from closing. What happened was not something we had any control over; it was simply a result of how we were.

Given the chance to relive that year, I would do everything the same way I did it, up to the day where it was done, and would once again be done. Would I be able to say all this while in the comfort of her arms? No, but that’s exactly why I wasn’t.

Bostonians,

I realize that the Red Sox entering the World Series fills your understandably dull lives with rich meaning and incomparable delight, but please, refrain from having a car horn orgy. We can all see that you are fully capable of tapping your car horn multiple times in succession, but might I suggest you instead apply that skill elsewhere, like video games or channel surfing? Or maybe while in bed with your wife? (Tip: neither the texture nor the corresponding sound will be the same.) (If either are, seek medical attention immediately.)

Thank you.

Defiantly, exasperatingly, but resolutely choosing friends once again. For once, I’m going to douse a bridge.

The good part about college? You can literally have no homework due for two weeks.

The bad part about college? All four of your classes have large homeworks due that day, two weeks from now. It’s awfully hard to not start assignments the day before, but I’ll find a way.

You don’t have to worry about overstepping your bounds when you’ve got diarrhea of the mouth.

She always told me that she wanted to make me confident in myself. She wanted to make me believe that I was as smart, sweet, witty and cute as she thought I was. I had always thought that somewhere out there, there would be someone who did find my jokes funny, and my quirks cute, my attempts at romance charming. And somewhere out there, there’s someone who really does have the same balloon fetish you do, or thinks that the huge tumor on your forehead is actually pretty damn sexy. In each of my relationships, I had been propelled by sheer excitement. Someone actually liked someone as strange as me? Someone honestly wanted to spend time with me, and just me?

It was possibly the ultimate compliment. It made me feel secure about myself, made me feel that I could be myself and still experience that mystical feeling called love. That there would finally be someone I could pour all my effort into and have them reciprocate in full, that someone would notice all the little things, make me feel all the things I’ve wanted to feel and maybe a little more. And as doubtful as I had been all my life…she actually succeeded.

I noticed my freshman year of college that I approached people with confidence, raised up and cushioned by the fact that I had someone to run back to if a social encounter ever failed. It made me more confident and outspoken around everyone, and I really do have to thank her for that. It made me unafraid of sharing my hobbies, my jokes, my self…and I had a better idea of who that self was. She reinforced that in me, that my real self was so close to the one she loved, such that I embraced it and let it fly. She helped me define me, even while she herself was so unsure.

But the dip in the Styx wasn’t perfect, and the qualities that perhaps made her cling to me so readily and lovingly were the ones that have left deficiencies in me. Would I ever be able to find a girl that didn’t make her interest so obvious? Would I ever be able to ask one out, or make one see me as a lover and not a friend? Would I ever be able to keep one?

Which is why I have posts like this. Thoughts, dreams, nights, days like this. Just optimistic enough to hope, too rational and risk-averse to substantiate. It rarely affects my attitude towards people…but that doesn’t keep it from affecting me. But I’m still here. I’m still hoping. And perhaps one day I’ll start trying and things will start happening. Because now I know what I want to reclaim, match, and exceed. I have her to thank for making me sure like never before of my reasons for defying reason.

Always…and never. Now all that’s left is just to keep holding my head up high and try to find a decent engine.

Rising Stuyvesant sophmores used to be required to take Drafting 1, and were then required to take either Drafting 2/Honors Drafting or Introduction to Computer Science.

For once in my life, I went past the call of duty by not only taking Honors Drafting, but Intro to Compsci at the same time. To top it off, I took an optional compsci course at the same time, and followed both drafting and compsci course paths to full completion in later years. AP Compsci, both of the senior-level compsci courses, Technical Drawing, and Architecture were what padded out my remaining years at Stuy. Choosing to do the extra work and stick it out with both course paths turned out to be one of the smartest things I’ve ever done, because despite my major being computer science, I was totally prepared for both of my internships, especially my current one at JDP Mechanical.

Transitioning from CADKEY to AutoCAD was easier than I expected. I was already familiar with how CAD drawings are handled and manipulated, so all it took was a little experimentation and direction to find out which command I needed to enter to do what I wanted. CAD work is actually quite fun, and while I’m very efficient, I’m still amazed at how fast my dad can mold his drawings to what he sees in his mind.

Unfortunately, drafting is only half the battle, and the lower-paying half at that. The reason my father gets paid the big bucks (big = only slightly more) is because he is able to solve problems. The primary problem is that New York City is brimming with people, Manhattan in particular, and every cubic foot of space is precious. Given the choice between making the machine room comfortably big and squeezing out a couple extra hundred thousand dollars isn’t really a choice at all. Landlords will always choose to make the extra money and hope that their AC and heating units will fit in the little niche carved out in the basement. And therefore, landlords will always need companies like the one my father works for. He coordinates with all the other contractors, trying to make sure that his water pipes can fit alongside the gnarled masses of the electrician’s cables and the plumber’s sewage lines, while making sure he isn’t getting in the way of the gigantic ducts strewn across the ceiling.

My father is paid well because it is difficult to compensate for human error while minimizing costs and working on a deadline. It’s a difficult job that requires an intimate knowledge of the industry and its conventions. From a purely practical standpoint, it’s the best career for me to jump into. It is such a niche field that experienced, dedicated workers are far and few, which means companies are more willing to train and cultivate workers. I already have a great foundation of CAD knowledge, and I found that my mind easily warped to decipher schematics and reconstruct them in my mind. To top it off, I have one of the best draftsmen in the industry as a personal mentor.

But the best worker and father I’ve known also gave me one of the best pieces of advice I’ve ever heard: “Do something you love, because if you like it, you won’t mind putting in the hours to become great at it.” It summarizes very well the key to his success, but it also summarizes why I’m so hesitant to take up what would otherwise be a great opportunity. I know I could be good at it, but I don’t know if I would be willing to put in the effort to become great. I remember happily spending hours coding up my first programming project, making a freakish monstrosity easily two or three times the size of everyone else’s projects. At least a third had been handwritten during my free time between classes and on the train, without ever wondering or worrying about the amount of time I was putting into the project. Programming was fun, and still is. Debugging is frustrating but ultimately rewarding. Difficulties are exciting challenges, not hinderances.

That’s the attitude my dad wants me to have, because while he would love for me to follow in his footsteps, he wants me to be happy most of all. My job is going to be somewhere I spend 8+ hours a day, so given the chance, I ought to spend all that time doing something I love. I want to keep being able to say that I love my life and have never regretted the choices I’ve made.

So I’m going to go for it. I’m not going to settle; I’m going to keep dreaming and desiring, so that one day I’ll be able to do. If I fail, it is not going to be for lack of dedication. But if I succeed, it will be.

Instead of writing what I would like to think about, perhaps I’ll write about what I am thinking about. Which, in fact, is nothing. Nothing at all. I’m feeling more listless now than I have all summer. My mind doesn’t think of quips, it doesn’t think of comforting words, it doesn’t think of conversation…it just doesn’t think. It doesn’t process information. It forces laughs when they’re prompted, it forces eye contact when it’s prompted.

And yet I’m not sure what triggered it. My first day at work was spent being excited, nervous, and cheery. I talked to each and every customer with my usual gusto, left work happy, and met up with friends. And sometime between shopping with them at Bed Bath & Beyond and getting home, a part of me just stopped trying.

Perhaps I’m just tired. I dealt with a lot of people today, and had to wrack my brain for solutions to their questions. I know that I have a low quota for social activity, and I often appreciate alone time after going out with friends. But this isn’t quite a need for alone time, because not even watching TV or checking my RSS feeds provided me with any satisfaction.

I originally attributed it to loneliness. Playing with Bunnie vividly reminded me of the lack of physical contact in my everyday life. As strange as it sounds, I had never missed it before she entered my life. I had appreciated it but never felt a desire for it. She was the one who showed me what I was missing, showed me of the power she held over me. I know that simply by hugging me tightly and not letting go, she could make me forget about my deepest and most entrenched worries. Strange and unnatural for someone who relies so heavily on reason.

But now, there’s no one to go to. This is one of those rare occasions where I actually don’t know the answer to my own question. Perhaps there is an answer out there, but honestly, I don’t even know if there’s a question anymore. And there’s no one to notice that I’m not there asking or answering. The freshmen here are looking for the easygoing friends that they can become lifelong buddies with. My sophmore friends are in their own little worlds, and I suppose I’m in one of my own. The difference is…I’m not so sure I want to be in it by myself. I may have people here with me, but I certainly don’t feel like it. I feel too awkward to call attention to myself, feel embarassed when I do get attention, and yet complain that I don’t get attention?

Maybe I’m not lonely. Maybe I’m just regretting.

Dryden: How did he die?
Bond: Your contact? Not well.
Dryden: Made you feel it, did he? Well, you needn’t worry, the second is-
[Bond shoots Dryden]
Bond: Yes, considerably.

There will be no diatribe. We’re done, Cristen.

The beach epitomizes nearly everything I react badly to. Sand gets everywhere and precludes everything but sandals (which I never wear), the Sun is blinding even when there isn’t an expanse of sand reflecting it, the heat causes me to break down, and extended periods in water have the same effect. But when I went there last Saturday with my friends, it wasn’t like that at all.

In fact, I rather enjoyed it.

My main problem was the heat. I had a pair of comfortable slippers from home, and my sunglasses were in working order, if a little crooked. That was easy. On the beach, I thought there would be no reprieve from the oppression of the infrared rays bearing down on me from all sides. I brought a spray fan in preparation for dealing with the heat, but I was afraid that it would remove my sunscreen, so I kept it tucked away until absolutely necessary.

But like most theorycraft, I forgot to account for something: wind. There was an incredibly pleasant breeze blowing throughout the beach that kept me cool while under the beach umbrella that Shelly provided. In fact, I was hottest when not on the beach! The line for a $2.75 Nathan’s hot dog, no matter how famous, was windless and way too hot. And the hot dog wasn’t even that crunchy…

The food, as expected, was overpriced. Thankfully, my friends and I were able to find small bastions of cheapness, like vendors selling dollar cans of soda and water, as well as dollar icee carts. I didn’t know there existed icee carts that do not carry some form of lemon, but I wasn’t about to complain in the face of the equally awesome pineapple.

This was all to refuel our bodies after volleyball. I’m not a big fan of it, but that didn’t keep me from chilling out in the shade while taking pictures of the action as well as the awkward, compromising positions they occasionally ended up in. I was a bigger fan of frisbee, which I found Joanna, Yi, and the Stuy robotics team playing a ways down the beach. I got to toss around a frisbee whose primary purpose was something other than a shovel, and then headed down to the shoreline to take my first steps in the ocean.

I’ve lived a life with a set of tempermental skin, and when I looked at the seaweed, shell, and debris-filled ocean, I was a little skeptical to say the least. If I stepped in without my slippers, I would feel all kinds of things underneath me and around me, but if I stepped in with them on, the same things got caught inside of it. I resigned myself to keeping my slippers on (I didn’t want them to get stolen or washed away) and moving when the tide was at a standstill. It was surprisingly cool, and I didn’t melt or molt. When I returned to my original group, it turns out they wanted to go into the ocean too, and I took bolder steps. I still didn’t plan on going much farther in, so I left my camera, wallet, and cell phone in my pocket like I always do and started wading in while holding up the ends of my shorts. There was noticeably less debris as I got farther out, possibly because the same debris is washed back and forth when you’re closer to the shoreline. I got a first-hand glimpse of how much less debris there was when my friend Mike snuck up on me and pushed me over. This was in direct violation of the verbal contract I arranged with him previously, being “If you drag me into the water, Mike, I’m taking your balls.” Needless to say, his balls were now mine. I contemplated chasing him down, but unlike me, he had no compunctions about going into deep water. I deemed my electronics more valuable then a pair of testicles and wisely left the beach and emptied out my pockets before too much water seeped through.

He’s still my hero though, because of this exchange:
Sally: *playing with the sand* Hey look, it’s a dinosaur print!
Mike: *kick* Hey look, it’s messed up.

We had spent a good five or six hours at the beach before we decided to head out. Some of us needed to get home, others were worried about the sudden appearances of sunburn. Still, our original purpose was to go on the Coney Island rides before they closed after this summer season. Sally, Shelly and I had not forgotten this, and remained resolved to go on the Cyclone and Wonder Wheel before leaving.

The Cyclone brought out an interesting side of me, one that I usually only see during tests. When people come to me and lay out all their fears about how they’ll do, and how they haven’t studied, I am the epitome of false confidence. The fact is, despite my assurances and cool words, I am often just as fearful and unprepared. The same is true for rollercoasters: when people expressed uncertainty about whether going on was a good idea, I did my best to rally them and persuade them to go. Was I any less afraid of the feeling you get when you descend down those hills, that you’re going to go flying out of your seat and splatter across the pavement? Fuck no, it’s why I never go on rollercoasters by myself; I can be brave in the presence of others, but I’ll rarely stand up for myself. As we climbed up the first hill, I finally admitted out loud, “For the record, I’m scared shitless.”

And wow, scared shitless of that first hill I was. I clutched that bar for dear life and didn’t let go. The rest of the ride was both a success and a failure. It was favorable in the sense that I really, really enjoyed it. After the first set of hills, I got into it, I stopped cursing and started enjoying. I kept my eyes wide open as a smile streaked across my face wider and wider with each coming steep hill and sharp turn. I left the ride exhilarated, shaking with excitement and seriously tempted to spend four dollars for a reride.

The person sitting next to me was not of the same opinion. Her version of “scared shitless” only amplified as the ride progressed, and despite the sign that said “Do Not Rest Head On Bar,” she put her head down and closed her eyes in order to block out the overwhelming G forces and we zoomed about. This caused her head to thrash back and forth as we ascended and descended, showing that a bruised face and disjointed glasses was the price of resting your head on the bar. We all tried to comfort her, but she was shaken and the damage had already been done.

We never went on the Wonder Wheel because people were really itching to go by now. I think it would have been a memorable experience and given us some great pictures, but it wasn’t in the cards, at least not today. And while I only have a few more weeks until I start school, I have plenty more summers and plenty more great rides to experience with plenty of great friends.

Back in Stuy, there was a saying that often wormed its way into speeches or closing opinion pieces in the school newspaper, like that joke about laxative* that stopped being so funny after you’ve heard seven different comics say it in a row. (I am surprised neither was anyone’s yearbook quote.)

Welcome to Stuyvesant High School. Choose two of the three: grades, friends, or sleep.

The Friday before my Astronomy class final, I powered through a monster seven-hour study session with three classmates in preparation for the final. In doing so, not only did I fry my brain, but I finalized my answer to that joke in the process, an answer which I was leaning towards my junior year and had solidified by my final year of high school.

I choose friends. It doesn’t matter what else I have. Without friends, being well-rested just makes me restless and bored. Without friends, the time spent studying seems even lonelier, and the grades feel hollow and pointless. Yet with friends, I can feel energetic and motivated even when I’m running on empty. A dollar spent with friends on five fried dumplings can feel more rewarding than any meal I’ve eaten alone. Friends can make me feel like I have a place in the world, a niche that no job earned by good grades could ever fill. Friends is the only choice that will comfort me when I don’t have the others.

So thank you, all of you, for showing me this unique facet of the world: one where school isn’t everything, where a simple piece of molded plastic can provide infinite enjoyment, where money is no longer considered squandered but merely spent for a good cause. As much as my future clamors for more attention, thank you for grounding me in the present. Thank you for showing me that even though the most enjoyable things are often ephemeral and a waste in the long run, a life not lived is the worst waste of all.

*There are some things that you need to buy together. “Should I get the laxative…or the toilet paper? . . . Give me the laxative. Paper bag, please. And yes, I want the receipt!”

**I was tempted to say, “Friends, I choose you!” but I choked and died a little inside. I still think it’s a tiny bit brilliant, so it’s been relegated to this addendum.

Getting out of school a month before your brother does and three weeks before your summer classes start leaves you with a lot of free time. I tried new games and tossed them away, tried old games and tossed them away, used Flash to make text glint, started reading military science fiction again, and visited some friends while not visiting other friends. My chronic ennui reappeared on cue, as did its periodic remission. I’m not as productive as I could be, but the pace of summer gives me a wide berth to be lazy.

My summer classes are only a few hours every day, and are just enough to keep moss from growing on me. The teacher was literally hired the day before class started, and didn’t have a syllabus for a week. He writes tests that have confusing wording and answers that are identical in everything but syntax. He sometimes teaches us incorrect material and refuses to correct himself. In fact, the only thing he is good at is avoiding our questions, especially during tests. I do not think Hunter will depose him, simply because they have no one else. Based on the uproar we received when we went over the test, I’m pretty sure that we’ll get passing grades just to shut us up. Once the term is over, Hunter can put this embarassing course behind them and we can put our liberal arts requirements behind us.

My social needs are pretty slim, so I’ve been very content this summer. I:

• saw Curse of the Golden Flower with no sound while loitering in CompUSA and then again at an outdoor screening
• tasted appropriately expensive samples of restaurants on 46th street at The Taste of Times Square
• made my practically annual trip to the Museum of Natural History
• learned Mahjong and Cranium
• had my first sleepover, and found that I could not masturbate as fast as girls who have had boyfriends
• chilled out to watch Stargate for several hours while eating questionable beef but tasty shrimp noodles and pork
• proudly walked into the Jacob Javits center as president of Steven’s Selective Services in order to snag freebies
• slept through most of the July 4th fireworks
• became left-handed

In terms of actual productivity? I’ve set up another photo album, one I think is far sexier than Coppermine and reminds me of a certain mp3 player brand. It doesn’t let me categorize, label, or search very well, but it’s simple to view and easy to add and link to. Tip: once you click an image to view a larger version, you can press your keyboard’s arrow keys to scroll through the rest, as well as use your mouse to drag it around the screen. Sexy and easy? Oh my.

I’ve got several great games lined up, but there will be more posts when I find myself on the wrong end of a rifle too many times. For now, look at the glorious pictures of my freshman year. (Too many to bother linking, but I’ll do that in the future whenever I make a new album.)

Every character in World of Warcraft is allowed to learn two tradeskills, things like blacksmithing or alchemy, though in WoW they’re called professions. Professions are like college educations; they put you deep into debt in order to complete, and they’re near-worthless until you finally do. Once you’ve learned all that you can, you want to put that knowledge to good use, namely to work off those training expenses. Some people tersely advertise “300 engi/alch,” “port to darn/if/sw 1g,” or “arc transmute 5g.” I chose to advertise a little more flamboyantly.

“Like vibrating mechanical objects, but can’t tell the difference between a Mechanical Squirrel and a Sniper Scope? Want to get back at that mage with an exploding sheep? Let Iskar the Incredible Inventor with his 300 Engineering handle all your engineering needs!”

“Have slippery fingers and keep dropping your vials? Whether it’s Swiftness potions or Rocket Fuel, let Iskar the Incredible Imbiber with his 300 Alchemy handle all your substance-related needs!”

“Parents never talk to you about the birds and the bees? I can reenact the story with your Thorium Bar and Arcanite Crystal for just 5g! Come see the Miracle of Life…arcanite bar style!”

“Tired of Aragon the paladin and Gimlii the warrior begging for money? Change it up and have Llegolaz the hunter beg instead! Take a portal to Darnassus for just 99s! Friends ride free!”

“Tired of the contaminated canals of Lagwind and the soot-filled air of Lagforge? Take a trip to the clean, cool, tree-hugging wonderland that is Darnassus for just 99s! Friends ride free!”

I programmed all of these messages into individual “macros” that so I could advertise a particular service to all three major cities with the click of a button. The biggest rewards would be when people would LOL in the trade channel after my advertisement spam. The racier ones often provoke a LMAO or a WTF. Sometimes people would send me a private message saying that they didn’t need a transmute, but if they did, they’d buy one from me. Whatever the reaction, I enjoyed eliciting them and making money in the process, and it’s something that I’ve missed since I stopped playing WoW. I miss the people in my guild, their quirks, their voices, their talents, their generosity and companionship. I miss completely annihilating players that think I’m an easy target. I miss manipulating the economy, perfecting methods of killing a dozen monsters at a time when other people have to slog through them individually. I miss being good at something. The feeling of success is what I look for in a good game, and I stuck with WoW because it provided it so well.

The game has since changed drastically, and made itself dead to me in the process. I was in love with what it had been, not what it now is. I’m sure that I’ve changed in the interim just as the people who I played it with have changed. Even if they don’t remember me as fondly as I remember them, the least I can hope for is for my guildmaster’s words to ring true: “Iskar, no one will forget your macros.”

I didn’t get any work done when I was sick this past weekend. I had told myself that I’d rather be healthy and unproductive than ill and unproductive, but tonight is a night of healthiness and unproductivity, and I found myself wishing that I was sick so that people wouldn’t blame me for being unproductive. That maybe if I had some terminal illness, people wouldn’t expect anything of me. I don’t want to do any of this. Sometimes I feel like watching TV, or playing games, but honestly I don’t know what I want to do. At times like these I want to do nothing. Just play whatever game I’m hooked on, try new ones, make feigned attempts at exercising, sit around and wallow in my memories, sleep.

Resigning myself to a fate would be so much easier than taking control of it. It’s especially hard when I don’t much care where that fate leads me. College will let me go anywhere, but I don’t want to go anywhere. I want to get a mindless job somewhere and live in a small apartment and spend my free time being lazy and doing useless things. Last summer’s routine was wake up, work, load up World of Warcraft, raid, PvP, sleep, and it was great. I want a boring life like that because it isn’t at all boring. It’s filled with small pleasures. It’s contentment. It’s happiness. It’s having nothing expected of you, nothing asked of you, no goals to meet and no achievements to fulfill.

I have no ambition. My soul was placed in the wrong body. My wonderful family and girlfriend were meant for someone who wanted to go places, to make a name for himself. He was supposed to make his family proud of him. I should have been born into the family that lived in the middle of nowhere and had no prospects, so that nothing would be wasted.

If I had that life, would I ever want more? I don’t know. I certainly didn’t know I would ever want to be dying and in pain. But as I’m lying here in a pile of failures that would take true ambition to climb out of, I’m wondering if I would even have the ambition to do everything differently if I started over. This semester was supposed to be the one where those habits stopped. I always start out so strong, so resolved! But there are more sentences I could use the word “always” in, and none of them speak highly of me.

I need stronger guidance. I need someone’s ambition to ride along, to direct my focus and make use of it. I need someone to recognize what I can do and use me. After that…all I can hope is that they bring me to the top with them.

Sometimes I wonder whether I made the right choice by majoring in computer science. There are definitely parts about the subject that I don’t like: the algorithm analysis, the complex math, the debugging, the snowball effect that results from misunderstanding a concept…

But there are flashes of insight and revelation that completely reassure me that I made a good choice. They make me feel elated and ecstatic, turning my mind into a clairvoyant machine bristling with implications and inferences. My emotions snowball, but this time they gather understanding rather than confusion. Even when I’m doing math that seems way over my head, and that I’ve been struggling with for days, all it takes is that one moment of clarity to completely turn things around.

The most telling sign that computer science is a good fit? When I make those discoveries, I feel really, really geeky. And I love it.

For the past twelve hours I have been thinking entirely in terms of Mario Kart: Double Dash!!: I keep envisioning myself blue sparking. Blue sparking around the enemies in the game I’m playing. Blue sparking around the hall. Blue sparking around my kitchen table.

I loved the game the first time I played it. It was easy to jump into, and it gave you a sense of speed not through being faster than other racers, but by the sheer chaos of what was going on around you. Whether you were facing an incoming shell, a pair of racers bobbing and weaving through your path, or a trio of giant pirahna plants ahead attacking riders who came too close, there was always some impending doom that you had to avoid. Because you received more powerful weapons the farther away from the lead you were, there was always a hope for redemption, and always a paranoia about the people behind you. You know, the ones that wielded weapons even more powerful than yours?

I was obsessed with the game when I learned how to blue spark. All the on-screen chaos became perfectly controllable: a matter of judging the right angle at which to slide down the course and around the corner, of how hard to yank my vehicle to dodge an obstacle, whether I was coming in hard enough to snag the item box or not.

The kicker was that I could do it. Heck, I could do it wonderfully. I no longer just held down the acceleration button down a straightaway, I drifted down it like a snake, relying on the continual speed boosts to propel me faster than I could have gone just driving straight. I was constantly in the zone, each successful powerslide a work of art that I brought about with my own hands.

I believe that my mind is using the memories as an antidepressant, an upper. By constantly reliving my successes, I’m kept in a state of euphoria. It instills confidence into me about my skills and my judgement, my ability to predict what needs to be done and then take decisive action. My mind is cheering me up. My mind is a good friend.

For the past twelve hours I have been thinking entirely in terms of Mario Kart: Double Dash!!: I keep envisioning myself blue sparking. Blue sparking around the enemies in the game I’m playing. Blue sparking around the hall. Blue sparking around my kitchen table. Blue sparking around my worries. Blue sparking around my concerns.

When I blue spark, I feel like I can go anywhere and do anything. The problem is when I can’t, and when blue sparking becomes an obsession instead of a tool. I become so overwhelmed with the need to blue spark that I don’t pay attention to what is in front of me, and tumble face first into the problems blue sparking was supposed to avoid.

My mind means well but sometimes does more harm than good. Like my dependence on constant blue sparking, I have become so reliant on my mind’s tricks that I’m not sure how well I could function without them. I just have to keep practicing and hope that one day I can finally obtain the control it makes me believe I have.

If I had a lifetime to train as a fighter, I would specialize in counters. I would wait until my opponent attacked, then analyze and redirect it to throw him off balance, following up with an attack at the newly created opening.

When I play chess, I always prefer to be black because I do not like taking the initiative when the sides are equal. Even when playing white, I would use the extra move to build up a fortified position. As my opponent would mount an offense, I would deftly repel the attack and then take advantage of the weakness caused by overextending. (Skip to the next paragraph if you’re not a chess geek.) I’m sure you’ve seen a bishop dive towards the side of the board close to the opponent’s pawns in their starting positions in order to snatch up a piece. And I’m sure you’ve seen the bishop get chased back by the pawns, leading to the bishop getting stuck in some obscure nook while the pawn player’s bishop, knight, rook, and possibly queen now have room to breathe. I’m the pawn player. They’ve looked to gain a small advantage or equalize the playing field, and I’ve manipulated the situation to deny it and open up more possibilities for me.

When I play Magic: The Gathering, I actually do not choose to go second. This is because I do not have to actively create new opportunities with all my pieces like in chess; rather, a new opportunity presented to me automatically each turn as I draw cards, and going first ensures that I can strike at an exposed opponent as early as possible. The board starts as a clean slate, unlike chess where everything is already defended. Indeed, my Magic playing style is no different than that of chess or fighting: I am what is aptly called a control player. I enjoy playing cards that break down the foundation my opponent tries to set up, or that nullify his efforts and leave his resources exhausted. By locking my opponent down, I can set up for a decisive blow. I also have a somewhat comparable propensity for cards in aggro decks, since constant overwhelming force keeps the opponent off-balance sometimes more efficiently than a control player could hope for.

I should have expected that in mediums with so many different approaches, I would learn more about myself by examining the strategies I used. I approach social situations the same reserve I bring to duels in Magic and chess. I want to predict the best thing to say or do, but that requires me to deeply understand the people I’m dealing with. I strive to be empathic to the point where I’m easily overloaded. I can read a single person, and am comfortable with a group of sociable friends, but group dynamics with an unknown person tend to be too much for me. In those situations I simply blank out: I’m fully aware of what is going on, and will respond to questions directed towards me, but I can’t manage to think of anything to say. Even when conscious of my absence in the conversation, my mind works impossibly slower at generating anything beyond interjections.

I prefer to read and respond. I may start up conversation with you, perhaps lead a discussion, but make no mistake, I’m still of the same disposition, I’ve just analyzed the situation and determined that provoking a reaction was the best move. I mentally jot down potential conversation starters as the talk progresses, ready to whip out the most interesting one when the energy wanes. With groups, talks tend to move around too much for me to complete so many mental calculations. I can always jumpstart a conversation, but I can’t think of ways to insert my own thoughts between keeping contingency plans and reading the everyone’s attitudes.

I’ve noted many times, most poignantly when handing in late papers, that I should lower the standards I set for myself. If I did not expect myself to be able to handle my opponent’s attack, how would my chess playing be affected? Would I not be as addicted to denial cards in Magic? Would I be more outspoken in conversations?

Cristen’s continued presence in my life answers my question for me. Yes, if I changed my attitude, my behavior would change, possibly for the better. But at the same time, I can be wonderful just the way I am.

Am I no different than the rest of the crappy gifts, just with softer wrapping paper?

Can a couple have a glaring problem go unnoticed until a better lover comes along?

If it was grounds for breaking up, why was it not noticed before?

If it was noticed but ignored for lack of a better lover available, was the deserter justified in making the abandoned believe nothing was wrong and that their future was assured, even while unhappy?

Are reunions really about enjoying each other’s company and bragging about accomplishments? I get the feeling that underneath it all, everyone is secretly interested in not just seeing whether or not their friends have changed, but finding out whether they’ve changed themselves.

I wish that in the stupor after waking up, and during the onset of painful homework, I would finally learn and move on.

There will always be people better than you, but it’s not about being the best; it’s about being there when it counts.

The desk lamp that casts shadows across the room can still wash away my worries and make my room feel like home. I love being in a school with such animate people in abundance, but it’s still nice to be alone with your thoughts. As I look at my desk and see the free pens stolen from Splash and Collegefest, the post-its hanging off the side of my monitor, homemade Japanese flashcards lying next to new ones waiting to be filled, and my keyboard hanging off the table while being supported by an open drawer so that I can have room to put my books, I’m amazed at the extent to which I’ve settled down. In fact, the only thing that shocks me more is the realization that I’m not homesick, but happy and content.

Now if only this cough would go away and I could finally get the hang of Japanese and calculus, everything would be peachy keen.

I’d love some cheap Chinatown food, too.

I realize that even when you’re alone, there’s something to be said about having another body next to you. Perhaps not the confession of love, but the sychronization and disembodiment of movement, the comforting display of empathy and sympathy, not the feigned apathy feebly covering up the antipathy of loneliness.

No, that still does not excuse you.

Written in the space of several hours the night before its graciously extended due date for Mr. Bonsignore’s Science Fiction & Fantasy Writing final paper. Emo? Perhaps. But it was an emo that let me pass the course..
Read more…

There is an ass that needs to be kicked. In fact, I still do feel that his ass deserves a severe pounding, a passionate pounding, even. I restrain myself not out of fear of the local law enforcement, but because it is unbecoming to go into a fit of rage in front of one’s girlfriend.

But fool me twice and you’re a dead man.

As for me? I’m going to continue giving this relationship my all despite the pain.

*insert vow made under the influence of repeated late-night frustrated desperation*

I don’t have normal dreams. I could’ve had a dream about Christmas, holiday spirit, or even the games (not to mention people) I’ve been obssessing over. Instead, I get some freakish conglomeration of…well…lots of things.

This dream isn’t as clear as my last major one. I’m not sure how it started, but it involved me walking into Stuy through the second floor entrance and coming upon the senior bar. For those who don’t know what it looks like, picture a square area around twenty-five feet on each side. I’m coming from the southwest corner, there is an up escalator at the north side, a hallway perpendicular to the north side at the northwest, ac opening to a larger hallway/locker area to the northeast, and an opening to offices to the southeast. But the most distinctive feature of the senior bar is the senior bar: a row of lockers arranged in a quarter-circle whose ends point towards the eastern and southern walls. People (usually seniors) sit on the bar, and it acts as a general hangout spot considering almost all students have to pass it to get into school.

But this time it wasn’t a hangout spot; it was the location for some bizarre event. Bizarre Love Triangle bizarre. People were arranged in two lines leading from the escalator to the senior bar so that there was a walkway coming down from the escalator. People were coming down the escalator in pairs wearing very fancy, sexy clothes, strutting as the lines of people cheered them on. I didn’t know what it was for, but I remember walking down the northwestern hallway in disgust.

That was when someone walked alongside me and asked why I hated them so much. I replied that no one there was really happy for anyone else, but that they just wanted to see people in hot clothes and be part of something lively. The other person seemed to take offense to this, and motioned over to a friend to walk beside us. I sensed the tension as they flanked me, and that’s when things totally went to hell.

The first person pulls out a bow on me. Like, a freaking huge composite longbow at least 2/3 his size. No idea where he was hiding that thing. I stop for a moment, staring him down, before I burst into action, drawing out a knife and spinning around behind me to put his companion at knifepoint. I’m not sure why, but I kept thinking of it in Dungeons & Dragons rules terms: I had rolled a successful tumble check to move through an enemy space without provoking an attack of opportunity, then successfully initiated a grapple as well as another grapple to pin the person and ready an action to attack her. I also knew that he’d get a penalty for firing into melee, and that I’d get cover bonuses to my AC because of the human shield. To top off the craziness, this random bystander pulled out a sword and held it ready at the longbowman.

I then saw the encounter through his analytical perspective. He knew that his crazy bow skillz (probably had some crazy upgraded version of Point Blank Shot) would be enough to take down the swordsman, but I’d stab his friend in the heart. There things get stranger: he knew that I was a wizard, but that my current repertoire of spells was very limited. He considered the possibility of me chucking the dagger at him, but he knew it’d do only 1d4 damage, and was a last resort considering I’d lose my weapon without a guarantee of taking him down.

He finished his analysis, and decided that he’d rather taste some combat. He kills the swordsman with an arrow as I thrust the dagger through his companion. As he’s firing a second arrow at me, I chuck the dagger at him while holding the body for cover. The dagger glances off him but distracts him enough for me to deflect the slightly off-target arrow with the body. I then whip out this relatively small glowing white bow named Hohenheim of Light. Man, talk about strange Full Metal Alchemist references to end a strange dream.

(Yes, I know that technically my grappling stunt would have taken at least two rounds, that I wouldn’t have gotten a cover bonus, and that I really would have been MORE vulnerable considering I’d lose my dexterity bonus to AC when in the grapple. Not to mention that attacking someone 5 feet away with a bow would have provoked an attack of opportunity. But come on.)

Everything I hear about MIT brims with coolness. Uberness, even. Running around in the middle of the night trying to avoid campus police, climbing on top of the dome, putting a car on top of the dome, creating ingenius works of technical brilliance, dressing up the school in homage to the video games of old…it’s almost like the school is too crazy to be real. MIT seems like this mystical place where the best of the best go, and do things that are talked about forever.

Perhaps it’s (counterintuitively) because I’ve heard such great things about it that I could never bring myself to even apply there. It’s like I’m not sure if I’d be the person I envision MIT students to be. I don’t know if I’m smart enough, resourceful enough, creative enough, motivated enough - heck, I don’t even know if I’m weird enough! Stories tell of MIT students creating programs in their spare time that I’ve relied for years, yet even when prompted I couldn’t create a program I’d use once a month. It may be that I can’t do it, but I think it’s more that I don’t want to do it. I don’t want to create something amazing, or to explore the intricacies of something we take for granted. That’s not my bag of fun. Mine usually comes in annoyingly Starforce-protected form.

I suppose it’s best summarized by my vocal explanation to my mother as to why I might be hesitant to apply to an extremely techy school like RPI, “I’m like ‘Hey, compsci is pretty cool,’ while people at RPI are like ‘OMG COMPSCI RULEZZZZ!’” I don’t think I could ever make the change that characterizes those students, and I’d be alienated. I’d be the kid that didn’t do anything crazy; he just passed his classes, hung out with friends, and played lots of games.

Yet when I read it, I don’t feel that there’s anything wrong with that life. In fact it sounds great. I love friends, I love games, and I even love classes on occasion. I could live that life for four years in any other college and I wouldn’t mind. I could live a 9 to 5 life for the rest of my life, with random socializing and games to mix it up, and I wouldn’t mind. It’s only when I see people doing so much more with their lives that I start to get envious. I’d love to be them, but I don’t want to be them enough to do anything about it. Is it possible to be content yet left wanting? Can I really be content when I feel inferior?

This jealousy is going to drive me crazy one of these days.

Happy and sad,
Tired and awake,
I’m not sure how much more
of this cycle I can take.

I procrastinate. I sleep at 1 or 2 AM on a daily basis, waking up at 6:25 AM. I do very little homework, if at all, due in no small part to my tendency to get sidetracked as well as starting my homework as late as 11 PM despite coming home several hours earlier. I regularly feel remorse for my actions, though inaction would be the more appropriate term, and then five minutes later go back to procrastinating.

And yet I keep doing it because once the ten seconds of remorse runs its course, I’m perfectly content. Maybe even happy. There are plenty of things I love to do in the world, plenty of things that I have already done, and plenty of things that I have yet to do. I could step away right now and I’d be satisfied with the things I’ve done. Content with the memories made.

That contentment is perhaps what’s keeping me from being more efficient. Most of the time I like how my life is going. Sure, I’m sleepy during particular classes, and will eventually get yelled at by a teacher for handing in a project late, but I’ll do fine. I’ve done fine, I will do fine, and I’ll be content with however “fine” is defined, so why change that?

I had thought that with my shifting from Xanga to Blogger to Deadjournal to Freewebs to Movable Type to Wordpress that maybe I wasn’t a traditional. I do like new techy things: new gadgets, new programs, new discoveries. Yet the more I think about it, while there may be instances where I like to shift around, I really prefer to settle into grooves. Be it in an online world or in school, I’ve had the most fun when it was something I could rely on.

I just hope that when the dust has cleared after I’ve left college, that something will be a someone.