Today was a depressing day not because of what occurred in the classroom, but rather because of the events outside of it. Trust me, there have already been many depressing day inside the classroom.
Simply put, I've been unceremoniously dumped from the newspaper. And I've had enough of it. I'm not coming back to it. It's not worth it, spending all that time desperately trying to repair bonds that have long since been shattered. Repairing those bonds doesn't even guarantee that I would be editor anyway.
I love to write, but I hate the bullshit bureaucracy that abounds in the world. I've lived it first hand. Yes, I know I don't devote an exorbitant amount of time towards the newspaper. I don't have that kind of time. Look at the number of activities I'm engaged in: three sports, quizbowl, chorus, etc. Yes the newspaper is important, but simply because I have so many other activities, it can't be number one. And even if I didn't have the activities it wouldn't be number one. I lied earlier this year about that and it seems more absurd every time I play it over in my head.
I'm tired of spending my valuable time editing articles only to have some half-wits who I never even see take the title that is rightfully mine. I'm tired of people constantly asking me for updates and then forgetting what I've told them in five minutes. I'm tired of having to be at someone's beck and call. I'm tired of sucking up to a bullshit senior who suddenly decides to arbitrarily flex her power because she didn't get in to Yale. And I'm tired of a puppet adviser who merely acquiesces to what this person says. I don't care if this affects what college I go to (it probably won't). This is a matter of principle: I will never work under someone who is unfair and biased, someone who inflates their ego, someone who attempts to push me around. Sounds like a large majority of people in this world. If my work won't be appreciated here then I will go elsewhere to fulfill it where I am certain if my employers are more reasonable and fair, they will receive my best efforts.
Second order of business: my lost wallet. I don't even know what to say about this except it's incredibly disconcerting to continue losing things. Maybe someday I will learn how to keep hold of my things. Maybe.
Why I worry so much about these things is beyond me. The world is full of shitty people and Piingry is no exception. They can pretend to be giants and people of importance at this school, but time will reveal all. I am certain there will come a day when justice is served: when these people will meet their match or fail. And then they will see what wretches they were and currently are and desperately try to make amends for all their stupidities and harm they have caused. But it will be too late. What's done is done.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Sunday, December 02, 2007
What I Want
[This was written a week ago]
As we sat and drove tonight and I looked out at all the suburbs flashing by, all the shopping centers, and gated townhouses and endless tail lights, I realized something: I could never live in a place like that. I will never live in the cultural and intellectual monotony (even oppression) that is the suburbs. The uniformity depresses me: every house exactly the same, every shopping center housing exactly the same stores under different names, the same small-sized sedans driven by anonymous faces.
I’ve said this many times, but never before, after visiting my aunt and uncle earlier today, has it been this clear: I want to be different. I saw the life they lived, how happy they were about their small townhouse, and the mall down the street and all the other townhouses surrounding them. It made me sick. Under the superficial surface, there was a frightening lack of substance: where were the books in their house? Where was the library in the exurban town? Nowhere to be found, I am afraid.
I saw two facets of silent desperation this weekend: four people slipping forever into oblivion. Two old, two young. Four lives wasted. For the old two, there is nothing to be done. They can live in their stuffy, smoke-ridden house drinking and smoking their lives away until they rot. For them, there is nothing that can be done. For the younger two, why will they not be different? They think they are unique, but in reality, are like millions upon millions of fellow Americans. I could never live this way. In what useful occupation are they serving mankind? I do not know.
At times I worry that I will be like all those that came before me, and I have every right to be worried. The majority of humanity lives like this. Look what I wrote in my English paper:
The fear of failure,
Of never writing the great American novel,
Of never exploring the world,
Of never doing or writing anything of great importance.
Do not worry: everything we do, every day we walk the earth, is the greatest success.
This is in the style of Walt Whitman, and it is complete nonsense. Of course I worry about preserving my legacy and my memory, for what other purpose is there to live? Actually, many others I suppose, but this is extremely important. I want to go away for a long time to a land I have never seen before and live there and be happy. I want to write poetry and stories and novels and see the world and play soccer under the floodlights and have friends and go out to the pub and have a laugh on Friday night and forget about tomorrow and take walks in the wilderness Saturday afternoons and make love to a girl I love under the stars and stand back and see the world for what it really is and laugh at peoples’ worries for I am far above their worries. I want to cry when I’m sad, laugh when I’m happy, hold someone tight when I’m scared, not be afraid to take a chance and fear nothing. This is what I want. Will I achieve it all? I do not know.
But tonight is only one night in (hopefully) thousands, and I cannot do everything in one night. Tonight I can only dream. Tomorrow is a new opportunity.
As we sat and drove tonight and I looked out at all the suburbs flashing by, all the shopping centers, and gated townhouses and endless tail lights, I realized something: I could never live in a place like that. I will never live in the cultural and intellectual monotony (even oppression) that is the suburbs. The uniformity depresses me: every house exactly the same, every shopping center housing exactly the same stores under different names, the same small-sized sedans driven by anonymous faces.
I’ve said this many times, but never before, after visiting my aunt and uncle earlier today, has it been this clear: I want to be different. I saw the life they lived, how happy they were about their small townhouse, and the mall down the street and all the other townhouses surrounding them. It made me sick. Under the superficial surface, there was a frightening lack of substance: where were the books in their house? Where was the library in the exurban town? Nowhere to be found, I am afraid.
I saw two facets of silent desperation this weekend: four people slipping forever into oblivion. Two old, two young. Four lives wasted. For the old two, there is nothing to be done. They can live in their stuffy, smoke-ridden house drinking and smoking their lives away until they rot. For them, there is nothing that can be done. For the younger two, why will they not be different? They think they are unique, but in reality, are like millions upon millions of fellow Americans. I could never live this way. In what useful occupation are they serving mankind? I do not know.
At times I worry that I will be like all those that came before me, and I have every right to be worried. The majority of humanity lives like this. Look what I wrote in my English paper:
The fear of failure,
Of never writing the great American novel,
Of never exploring the world,
Of never doing or writing anything of great importance.
Do not worry: everything we do, every day we walk the earth, is the greatest success.
This is in the style of Walt Whitman, and it is complete nonsense. Of course I worry about preserving my legacy and my memory, for what other purpose is there to live? Actually, many others I suppose, but this is extremely important. I want to go away for a long time to a land I have never seen before and live there and be happy. I want to write poetry and stories and novels and see the world and play soccer under the floodlights and have friends and go out to the pub and have a laugh on Friday night and forget about tomorrow and take walks in the wilderness Saturday afternoons and make love to a girl I love under the stars and stand back and see the world for what it really is and laugh at peoples’ worries for I am far above their worries. I want to cry when I’m sad, laugh when I’m happy, hold someone tight when I’m scared, not be afraid to take a chance and fear nothing. This is what I want. Will I achieve it all? I do not know.
But tonight is only one night in (hopefully) thousands, and I cannot do everything in one night. Tonight I can only dream. Tomorrow is a new opportunity.
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