Babel.

I fell in love with a boy whose words I never understood.
I sat in my mother's living room with my computer plugged in to the modem at midnight in late March. My eyes were tired from the day, but I couldn't sleep. So, I decided to look through this boys life. I found his life several months ago, and I forget about it for a few weeks. I figured I would catch up and see what he was up to, so I went through the last month recorded. Beautiful accounts, from what I saw. I never knew what he was writing- it was an arrangement of letters I could never make out. I didn't even know his name. It took me a while when I first found his life to find out who he actually was.

When I was certain he was who he was (I thought it couldn't have been him, as he was present in too many of the photographs... but it turned out to be who I thought it was), I almost felt like I was starting to understand what was going on in his life more. I was no longer intimidated with the strange script on his page.

I called him David.
I never knew his real name, but he looked like he could be a David.

The more I looked at the words, I realized what language it was. I daren't use google translate, in fear of relying on it to interpret what David was all about. Instead, I kept him and all of his friends strictly visuals.

You know me and my fascination of fantasy people.

It is so strange to think David actually exists. He lives and breathes on this planet. And I only know him by the photographs that he posts. He doesn't even know that I look at them. Isn't that creepy? So extremely creepy. The price he pays publicizing his photographs. I bet he doesn't realize there is someone thousands of miles away from where he lives creating a storyline in their crazy little noggin, thinking he lives a tragically ornate life, the desperate wishes every American youth wishes to experience on a Saturday.

I never thought I would fall in love with David's pictures. David's life.
I think I fell in love with him because I wanted to be him.
Or one of those beautiful girls that he knew. Oh, to witness that divinity in the flesh would be heaven.

Instead, he would forever remain a 1081px × 1600px piece of pixelated beauty.

I said my prayers, ironically listened to "Young Adult Friction" by Pains of Being Pure at Heart," rubbed my eyes, and closed my computer. I turned off the modem and went to bed.

Only to have dreams about having long, luscious locks and an Irish beau at my side.

Hej hej,

Any

A nice friend reminded me of something.

He was right. Thinking about the little things, like getting dressed in the morning, to the big things, such as our mere existence, is crazy.

Why do we do the things we do? Why do we have to exist?

I began to imagine myself step out my front door, naked. I know how the world react- appalled, flabbergasted that I would go against the social construct of being clothed. The thing is, the only thing that would matter would be what I would be thinking. Of course, I wouldn't think I was going mad, because I would just be thinking of this 'philosophical' blog post that I am typing out right now. And, so many would try to ship me off to a mental institution after I explain to them that I 'don't care about having to wear clothes in public,' or the fact that I don't care if my hair is washed and well kempt. I don't care if I want to yell at the top of my lungs out of my window, or dance at a bus stop.

WHY DO WE WORRY?
WHY DO WE ALWAYS HAVE TO CAUTION OURSELVES?

I still don't like myself. Not one bit. In fact, even after this liberating discovering of not having to care what external factors influence me, I internally still hate myself. This is because the external factors dug their needles into my skin when I was young. They injected me with their poisonous thoughts, and they handed me filth. I took that filth, crushed it into a fine powder, and breathed it in. I licked it off of my lips, off of my fingers, and it all has consumed me. It has poisoned the way that I think of myself.

This is what happens. You let so many things trouble you, that you let them become a part of you.

I look back at the photos of me I middle school. I was beautiful. I didn't need to look better, I looked damn good then. Even in high school. And now, because I inhaled all of those dirty, dirty comments people fed to me, I am packing them on. Every inch of me is a word they have said to me. And I can't let it go. The more they pressure me, the more I grow. I am growing so much, and I now hate myself for letting this happen to me. I need to have blinders on. I can't listen to anyone anymore tell me how I should be.

I need to take the control into my own hands.
I am tired of hating myself.

Don't you dare say anything encouraging.
Don't tell me I am fine the way I am.

Your words don't mean a damn thing to me anymore.
You have made me the way I am:

A 5'10" piece of hatred.
Shut up.

Hej hej,

Any

A raise of hands.

Who reads this blog, and why? How did you find it? Why do you continue to read this?

If you could answer, that would be lovely.

Hej hej,

Any

Candystripe Straw.

Happy St. Patrick's Day.

I write this in the basement, staring straight into my cup with a candystripe straw.

It is so weird to think of the things we see as two-dimensional. Like, everything we see is 2-D. Don't look puzzled. The only thing that makes us trick our minds to think that what we see is 3-D is the fact that our sensors for feeling can usually grasp/touch whatever is ahead of us.

And the fact that we are told/brainwashed during our school learning that we live in a 3-D world... and that the particles that make us... us... are 3-D as well. What the hell is this bullshit?

Now I am starting to believe what I see is what I can see. We have 2-D vision and 3-D touching-abilities, that is that. Paintings are what we see all of the time... constantly in motion, nothing is ever still.
I think even a painting can move. There is something in me that is convinced that nothing is the same as it was 23 seconds ago.

Things are always turning into something different- not necessarily older (as the thing of time is arbitrary and tacky... I hate the concept of time, yet time travel fascinates me).

The idea of fantasy's or mind tricks fascinate me. According to Aristotle, the only way that we can see illusions are if the images are drawn out from memory. We cannot have nightmares or see hallucinations without the ability to draw back on something we have seen before.

Now, how does this explain mythical creatures? How can one possibly dream of a mythical creature? I am certain I have had dreams that have terrified me with creatures I have never seen before. Are they actually hybrids from things we have seen before? Is that why when movies creature Extra Terrestrial beings, they still have figures like a human?

I have tried, so many times, to imagine living in an entirely different world with an entirely new set of senses. I could not think of anything other than the five that we have right now, could not think of anything that was remotely feasible because I cannot think of anything outside of what I already know.

So, how is it that a man can think of something no woman or man has ever thought before?

I disagree with this. I am starting to believe we have all thought the same thing in our life before, it is whether we have brought it to the front of our conscience or not... and who has the chance to publish the thought first to be claimed the ultimate thinker of the 'genius' thing they thought of all 'by themselves.' Hmm- phooey.

I really do enjoy Foucault's writings on Bentham's Panopticon, and how that structure is similar to how we all live censored lives, but doesn't everyone notice this as they get older?

"Man was born free, and everywhere he is in chains,"-- very famous opening line from Rousseau.

Well, as I said before, doesn't everyone notice this? How we are all censored? I mean, especially during our teenage years, when our parents begin to have a tighter grip on us (or when we start to realize that our guardians are holding us in a headlock)! Those who have had the courage to stand up to their oppressive governments, they know they are being over-censored, because they are oppressed. Why is it such a big deal to credit certain people with certain 'ideas?'

So that we can quote them?

I am starting to feel that even quoting is starting to be the lamest thing ever (despite the fact that I have quoted Aristotle and Rousseau directly in this post so far)- it isn't intellectual to quote someone, it's just an easy way to formulate something you have thought about and the author has been able to say the words eloquently enough for you to reiterate them...

We have all thought the same things... some have articulated the thoughts better than the others...

Now I am a looney.

I am really straying away from my final philosophy paper. I am trying to figure out what I am going to do, but I am basically going to be talking about this in a nutshell. The way that we perceive, how appearances and understanding function in human beings, according to Aristotle.

It is some pretty mediocre stuff, but it is still interesting, nevertheless. I hope this can hopefully spark some ideas for my final piece of crap. I want to push my limits on what I need to write for this paper. It doesn't have to be the best thing that I have written (I vouch that it will not be!) but it certainly has to be interesting enough to read.

Hej hej,

Any

Oh simple thing- where have you gone?

This week. This goddamn fucking week. It doesn't feel like a burden, either. It feels like it is going to stretch out to be the longest week of all weeks this year so far. I have $20.05 to live off until Thursday. I will make it, and I will be a champ.
I went to bed last night at 10:30 as my body was telling me it was what it needed to do. I tried to fight it, but I closed my computer and caved in to a deep sleep. I did not rise until 8 this morning, and I still feel fatigued. Maybe all of the anxieties/excitement of going home is getting way over my head? I have never been so excited about going home ever since I have moved to college. I know that it is going to be a bundle of sun and time to read things that are not required...

I am editing a paper right now, and I almost find editing papers more exhausting than writing them. You would think there were only so many ways that you could rearrange words to make them sound coherent.
Bah.
Well, you are right when there are only so many ways... but it always turns out to be more ways than you could ever fathom. So, you pass your writings to multiple people in hopes of gaining multiple perspectives...
And when you compile the edits from that draft, you can continue to edit that again.

Editing is a gruesome, endless cycle.

Writings can always be improved. It is sickening to know that there will never be an ideal paper written (except in Plato's goddamn World of Forms. Suck it, Plato).

Speaking of, I have to decide very soon if I am going to write my final philosophy on Aristotle, Kant, or Nietzsche... Nietzsche sounds like a sound choice about now.

My eyes are drooping. I think they are doing this to me so that I do not have time to work. But, I must. I must finish. I am not stressed about this right now because I know that it will get done.

Hej hej,

Any

To all of the party rookies.

Dear children applying to colleges:

You are a novice at partying. Do no deny this, but after the hot mess of an evening I witnessed, AKA March 12, 2010, I am most definitely inclined to write this blog post about all of the no-no's that I witnessed that evening. Partying is nothing like it is in the movies, it is far from that iconic (ironic) Asher Roth song. It will never be anything like you saw on The Cobrasnake (if anyone even still looks on that site at all... he is shooting at pre-teen b-day parties now, apparently), parties will never be like a Ke$ha song. In fact, parties have undeclared rules. I would like to provide you with some words of wisdom before you go on and make a fool of yourself your first year of college. You do not want to cross anyone who throws parties, you will suffer the consequences.

Rule #1: There is no such thing as "Free Beer"
You heard me right. This is just untrue. Do not assume that you can walk into a house without money or your own 6 pack to have a good time. Always carry around $10 if you decide to go out. That way, you can have a little booze, and maybe a few extra bucks in case if you have a hankering for a Fourth Meal at Taco Bell.
The person hosting the party will find out that you are raiding their pantry, and they will seek revenge on you. Oh, you know,like maybe find your keys and hide them in the cushions of the couch so that you spend a half hour trying to find them when you want to leave...

Rule #2: Just because someone gives you access to their drinks doesn't mean your friend can have some, too.
This is the sign of the ultimate dipshit. It's cool you are making a new friend with someone nice enough to offer you one of their Blue Moon's, but that does not mean that you can go back and take another one for your friend Taylor. "Hey, want a beer?" never translates to, "My box of booze is free reign- take as many as you would like!" Think about it, if you were the one offering a beer, wouldn't you be ticked off if the person you offered was overmooching after talking to you for less than ten minutes? That's what I thought.

Rule #3: Know your limits
Puking on the steps of the front porch is never classy. You don't want to be that kid who can't make it out of the door without having your friend sling you over their shoulder so that you can make it home- that is just embarrassing on your behalf. Always start out slow, you don't have to show for anything just because you can drink 10 beers in two hours (ouch!).

Rule #4: Do not be a scavenger
I am unfortunately guilty of this. A scavenger is someone who picks up random cans or cups, and tries to drink any of the remaining drops. Hey! There might be a little bit of a treat left over! This not only looks unfortunate to the outside observer, but this is how The Herp, Swine Flu, and Mono spread. Well, aside from rando-makeout-sesh's... Boy, am I lucky to have not contracted anything from that really sad night...

Rule #5: Always know where your friends are
Don't get left behind. It is just plain sad to see when a party is cleared out, and there is the lone soul sitting on a couch, drunk out of their mind, wailing, "Rachel is in the bathroom! I am waiting for her to come out!" only to hear someone say, Shit- Rachel left an hour ago!


That is all I have to say for now. I will update with anything new after the next shit storm I attend.

Hej hej,

Any