Drawn from the imaginations of spoiled homesick kids, some schools offer single rooms for people who’d like to fork over more money. Guess who agreed to this doctrine? Of course I did, because I’m not looking for any surprises this year. Surprises scare the hell out of me, so now, I’m camping out by myself. The suitemates seem to be an upgrade over last year, although replacing Fivecoat will be a stretch. Overall, I consider this a win compared to last year.
The classes, the horror. The politics and the money; the pleasure and the pain. Conventional wisdom says 22 units may be a bit garish, ostentatious, and in short, crazy. I have a solid chance of scoring higher than I have previously, but I’m not sure if that’s my motivation. Do I care about graduating? Not particularly; I can easily coast if I so felt the need. Do I need to placate my ego? Sure, but my ego doesn’t exactly bow to great feats; to earn my mind’s awe, worlds must be moved. As many magic specials as I’ve seen, I’d be skeptical afterwards.
I came to the realization that I may just be masking my social anxiety by burying myself in classwork. However, I sure as hell could’ve picked a less expensive distraction; I may hit $500 for books, which is ridiculous. Eight classes be damned; that’s a lot of money. So how’d that working out?
I’m back to square one; things haven’t changed. Still feeling lonely, cheated, and screwed. I’m a cagey veteran, only cagier. On top of that, I told a friend who has bad taste in guys that dating me would make her a “glutton for punishment.” Damn, even my self-perception suffers a bit from a case of honesty. My room, despite the lack of feminine intervention, my room feels adequate. I still have a full slate of decoration to do in here that will lead to guests…hopefully. Dejectedly, the once proud king/manic-depressive retires to the drawing board.
Skibbedebeop. Much later.
Current Track – John Morrison and The Miz “Mizfits and Mofos”