Suunda Typpicaris
A day so lazy that I actually wrote again
Pitter patter.
It's an issue of taste. One hurdle that I've had to overcome in making new friends is the intolerance of others of new cultures. In my high school days, meme and humor flowed uninhibited between us. Issues within our relationships lay below the surface, but on that extremely thick surface, we could all appreciate the same fads and internet videos. only with great apprehension did I introduce my roommate to the legendary introduction of Castlevania: Symphony of the Night. He was utterly incapable of appreciating it. Later events have since revealed that he is utterly tasteless anyway, but at the time it came as a blow. In addition, my suitemates actually did not find a Smosh video amusing. How can they be my family?
It's an issue of social mannerisms. Some things just don't merit jokes. It's not because they're racist or politically incorrect; they're just wrong. Or perhaps I'm phrasing it the wrong way. Some things don't merit comments that aren't insightful, witty, or amusing at all. "You should wear the I Love Female Orgasm shirt to church on Sunday, that would be funny!" qualifies as one of these comments that just doesn't belong anywhere. Similarly, walking around a foot inside the perimeter of someone's personal bubble and moving 'round to cut off his pathway is a total no-no. Most people can sense these things, when people start talking less, avoiding, turning their bodies away. Some can't. And it's problematic.
Since the last time I wrote anything on this site, I've worked a full summer, attended more casual social occasions than in the rest of my life put together, been sick during my first week of college, and gotten a 1.5/3 on my first graded Cornell assignment.
If we've kept in touch at all during the last two months, then nothing here is news to you. Just the torrents of twisted peace, quiet, and procrastination. My Nanotech homework is not due until four o'clock tomorrow afternoon, affording me almost twenty-four hours not to do it.
It's raining lightly. The drizzle after a kickass downpour of the non-thunderous variety. One of the windows of my dorm room is open, and cars resound and rev clearly. My roommate is not around, and there is quiet in the suite despite my noncommittally open door. I've just watched American Beauty and am reveling. A suppressed chat transpires online. No trinkets of excitement lurk in the internet. I can't help feeling like I've just woken up. It's actually almost four-thirty in the afternoon, and I've been awake since quarter of ten. It's the feeling of not having accomplished anything useful at all, which also seems weird, because I did my week's Physics homework in the morning.
Can I call it home? I think it's possible. My desk has received three ritualistic cleanings, motivated by seeing others' cleanliness. But already, staples have appeared that cannot depart. Cornell's desk lamp stands stolidly posted at the far left corner. A three-ring-binder's hole puncher gathers dust on the far left edge of the table, the underdog that never actually got its break. An open, empty botle of Lipton Green Tea blocks off further peripheral vision in the leftward direction. To my far right corner is a long-since empty bottle of Lipton White Tea, in tipping range, the twin of its freshly drunk green tea at my left. To its left is an empty bottle of Aquafina, standing tall, narrow, proud, the white bishop on the forefront of my desk. Near it lies a pile of change, unused ammunition discarded yearly by the federal government. An iPod with cable and headphones lies facedown, scratched up and sprawled in a mess, but all far away from me. My DS charges beyond unnecessarily. Shiny, slick, black, boasting a total of around thirty minutes of playtime since August 17. Two mediocre penciles and a non-working pen lie uselessly. The pen's purpose is only as a DS stylus. A pile of documents serves as my wireless mousepad, and curved sunglasses, entirely out of place, look up blindly at the slanted, rising, never-ending ceiling of my room.
In all the time it's taken me to type up all of these descriptions, the atmosphere has changed, and my mood is far less dreamy. I'm in gutsy typing mood now, my roommate's back and watching Star Trek, and there's chatter down the suite. Numbers roll. Zero spam today. The GameFAQs match has got a hundred thousand votes and plenty to spare besides. Eleven buddies are on my Pidgin list. Fifteen days 'til Rebecca Wang's birthday. Fourteen movies seen since getting to college. Fifty-seven movies on my to-see list. Two hundred hours of work. Seventy-five hours of community service. Sixty-eight degrees Fahrenheit. Five kilobytes of text of degenerating quality over the past two hours.
And that's how it ends. I just don't have it in me to produce more. I've gotten out the requisite five kilobytes, and like a dribble after projectile vomit, this entry now comes to a much needed end.
SD
Sun., Sept 9, '07
Home.