Whence does motivation come from?  My father has always criticized my impeccably, stellarly unmatched ability to waste time.  I infamously waited for the last minute to even think about beginning a project.  Where did that come from?  I never watched the Yankees intentionally wait for the bottom of the ninth to get the bats going.  Where do you learn this?

I wrote the bulk of this entry in Statics class whilst my professor tries to profess the Gospel according to Newton.  I can't pay attention anymore.  Mr. Jim Hinton had a poster (or maybe it was just a saying) that used to say his students were too poor to pay attention.  ...that's irrelevant. 

It would infuriate him, my father, and at least aggravate my mother that I would sit the night before crunching math problems or feverishly flipping through the leaves of a novel.  Then, at some indfinitely defined then, there was no option.  The work would be completed without question, and very probably quite satisfactorily so.  

I think it must have been Sophomore year English when I realized the existence of another option: the incomplete.  I remember consciously not reading A Separate Peace.  I must have at least read the SparkNotes because I feel like I vaguely remember the names of the two boys, Finneaus?  and... (well, at least one of the boys).  And I can't, right now, remember many of the main characters from the books that I did read throughout high school.  I can't remember how I was able to fudge the test.  I believe it was to write questions to Chet that would illustrate a knowledge of the plot and serve as a model test.  That was the beginning, and I regret it happened so early in my academia career.

Ideally, obviously, I'd like to figure out how avoid the procrastination that has long plagued my habits.  Probably, I shouldn't try to analyze the situation and just go and do some homework rather than complaining about not knowing how to do it anymore.  That's what the problem is, maybe, that I just don't know how to do homework anymore.  I don't know how to study.  (I never studied.)  I don't know.  Blah.

Sooner rather than later, but better late than never.  (I feel like that line is too good to just use here...  hmm...)

...that you are the happiest (or, and as I'm typing this I realize I should also include its opposite, saddest) that you are ever going to be.  In general, really, don't ever think that you are the most anything you will ever be.

I'm reading last year's only post from The CoNJ and I sound genuinely happy, which I was, of course.  But this year and since then have just been incredibly better.  I realize it's not interesting reading about someone that's happy.  We need to read about torture and misery to make ourselves feel some kinds of better, isn't that right?  Of course it is.

I would like to make a promise to present more thought-provoking assignments, but that would be baseless.  Just like when I told you that I was going to get a poem published.  Ha!  As if...  The best I can do is to keep thinking and maybe, maybe, return here to enlighten the audience.

I'm sorry.  I love you.

...naht.

Baines has distracted me from composing any coherent thoughts, and the following is a result of my mind after hearing a story about his ass hanging out of short jean shorts a la Mr. Donato.

I have a lot of song lyrics running through my head, like It's been such a long time...  It's a moot point noting that it's been 41 weeks since my last blog (no, I didn't count.  LJ keeps a very good record).

The Beatles interpretation of happiness (at least per this song) is not an idea that I'm particularly interested in examining.  I'm feeling too superficial right now and not deep enough to wrap my finger around your warm trigger.  

Maybe another Joe, a Past Joe, would've theorized that happiness is only the absence of dissatisfaction or regret.  I think I may have even quoted or referenced my Economics professor whom stated that it was only possible to minimize sadness rather than maximizing happiness.  The same Past Joe agreed with such a moniker, a Past Joe that wasn't nearly as happy as Present Joe.

A nadir that saw zero social life last school year really brought me down and I must admit that I didn't expect a whole lot coming to a school where the T at the bottom of the swimming pool stands for "The."  I really let myself not even attempt to be myself for the first month or two of the first semester, and I regret that now.

The further I travel through this year at The College of New Jersey, I believe more and more strongly that we do have one of the happiest students in the nation.  I'm happy to have made new friends after thinking that I didn't know how to make friends anymore (ha!).

I can currently conclude that happiness is not just the absence or minimization of sadness or dissatisfaction.  Happiness actually exists as it's own entity (maybe it's a warm gun...).  If I can make a physics analogy here:  The relationship, I think, is not similar to the relationship between heat and cold.  When you're a kid (or when I was a kid, at least) I thought "cold" actually existed.  After further observation (I guess) and legitimate (and illegitimate, Mr Davidson) Physics courses, I learned that cold doesn't exist.  It's only the absence of Heat, the absence of energy, not some anti-energy.  (I love this analogy because it doesn't make sense just like the rest of the analogies in this not-so-LiveJournal, we're back (A Dinosaur's Story!)).  

As a final remark, all these emotions are obviously relative.  I feel like I've finally (maybe) tasted the sweet nectar (of mango juice) of happiness and I look forward to further, more exotic elixirs.  Amiright?

Would you?  This is the beginning of another running series throughout my blog in which I propose a question and you answer it.

Would you accept a complete change to physical, greyscale appearance?  This scenario is offered only to you and no one else, even if you turn it down.  If you accept, you will not only appear to other people to be in black and white, but you will be black and white.  Permanently. 

Before I begin, I'd like to state, for the stenographer, that I have several truths waiting to be revealed.  I just am afraid that they are not, in fact, true.  I'm saving one in particular to serve as the ultimate truth.  Some truths can be condensed into one; in short, I'm taking my time with them.  Further, though, they are occupying the majority of my thinking thoughts lately, and so my reason for not having posted much lately.

Anyway, onward!  I feel I need to impose another disclaimer here: this is not a rant about the environment.  I love nature; most should know that, but this is just not about that.

There's a hole in the ground, and the green grass grows all around, all around.  The green grass grows all around.

The fact of the matter remains that the grass is not always greener on the other side of the fence.  My mom used to tell me (Mama always told me not to look into the sun, woah! but mama that's where the fun is!), when my sister and I were younger and didn't get along as well as we do today, that it was just as easy to be nice as it was to be mean.  I doubt she really had any implicating, cold-hard, stead-fast evidence to support this righteous claim, but it was enough to make a young mind think.  Back to grass: it's certainly easier for most folks to envy their neighbor's apparently lush, green lawn.

Let's face it, though!  It's not about the grass!  Maybe you are too close to your lawn to notice that it is actually greener.  Perhaps your neighbor's kids are miserable because they can't frolic in their yard at the expense of health of the grass.  Maybe, deep beneath the roots, lurk grubs that seek to destroy the lawn.

Why even concern yourself with the fence?

Truth The Third: The grass is not necessarily always greener on the other side of the fence.

Uh oh.  ::looks around with shifty eyes::  It got kinda awkwardly quiet around here, huh?  Well...  Nothing like a few really bad jokes to break the ice, I guess.  These are some of my dad's favorites.  By association, I've come to appreciate their pathetic humor, also.

For starters, I'll ask if anyone knows where Rocky and Bullwinkle J. Moose went to school?  (Yeah, the answer is the first joke.)

Hokay, moving on.  I'd ask if anyone knows the real method to catch an Elephant, but I doubt anyone is shrewd enough (and it does require a certain degree of shrewdness).  It begins with a forest.  Cut down all the trees and burn them to ashes.  In the clearing, dig a large hole and fill it in with the ashes from the tree.  Now, put peas on toothpicks around the perimeter of the hole.  When an elephant comes to take a pea, kick him the ash-hole!  Har, har, har.

Don't worry, this one is worse.  There's an older woman riding the bus on a warm spring day with a throbbing headache.  She seeks to relieve her pain with aspirin, but the last pills fly out the open window in the transfer from bottle to hand.  The old lady sticks her head out the window yelling, "My assburns!  My assburns!"  A fellow traveler passes by and says, matter-of-factly, "if your ass burns, lady, stick it out the window!"  ::gulps heard::

This one is from M*A*S*H, but it's been around for a while.  I'll leave this one open to the panel of readers.  Does anyone know how the Heckawe Indian tribe got their name?

What I've learned from Economics, so far, is that pure happiness does not and cannot exist.  Rather, dissatisfaction can only be minimized through the course of human events.  The best way then, to ensure momentary happiness, is, to the best of your ability, live in the moment.  Be satisfied with what your current affairs bring you rather than worry about what the future holds or what the past has wrought.  Even the pursuit of happiness does not guarantee happiness.  Quite on the contrary, in fact, when so many surrender and give up prematurely because the fruits of their labors had not yet been tasted.  Life and liberty are things that can be and are guaranteed by other people.  Happiness is on a whole other level.

Whence does this concept of eternal happiness stem?  We grow up holding these certain truths to be self-evident, that we and our friends will grow up to marry the prettiest girls, live in the biggest houses, and drive the nicest cars.  Our fore fathers instilled in us a belief that everyone is happy, but when we caught glimpses of the television of people crying because of some sort of turmoil, we the people should've been able to connect the dots.  We the people should've been able to realize that happiness is not guaranteed.  Not us, though.  The worst tears we ever knew was when Donato sat on our Green Power Ranger and broke its right arm (I totally made that up).  The worst angst was when, despite countless attempts at blowing the dust off the chip, the Mario Kart cartridge failed to play.  That was happiness: when our inability to remember the past resulted in a summer that lasted for three years; when our inability to even begin to predict the future created a vortex of time that, instead of sprinting through, we strolled along merrily; and when our inability to perceive the present established a world that existed of only a few blocks and a bicycle trip beyond the borders of the High School football field homefront summoned the utmost panic and worry from the Senate committees of safety, of international relations, and of transportation.  Those were the times when happiness is abound.

I'll tell you when I'm happy.  I'm happy when I'm sitting at the ballpark in the warm and loving sunshine.  I'm happy when I smell the breeze come off the field that is now infused with freshly cut grass, infield clay, and sweaty baseball-glove-leather.  I'm happy when fans come out to support other people because I love it when people support me.  I love letting the passion get the best of my vocal chords when shouting at a soaring baseball that deceptively appears as if it'll sail easily over the outfield fence.  Most of all, I love when guys on the team are supportive of each other.  Joe Florio is a utility infielder who mainly plays second base.  Joe is from New Jersey.  He doesn't appear to get many at-bats, but I notice that when he gets up, him especially, the guys give him the business: "C'mon, Joey!"  "Let's go, Joe!"  Golly, does this ever bring me back.  This makes me happy.  It's now when I don't have to think of the future, and can remember a blissful past (without being overly upset about it being past) that I am at peace.

And so, truth number two: complete happiness is so hard to find that it is unfindable, and so it is more worthwhile to focus on diminishing dissatisfaction.  Diminishing dissatisfaction is an enterprise that focuses on the present.  A present time where the future is not considered and the past is all but forgotten.  A present time when you are content with what you are currently doing for it is the only thing you have any control over.

Have you ever head a song that sounds like sunshine?  I hope, for your sake, you have.

I've learned since a previous post that the best thing about Jolly Ranchers is that you can always buy another bag.  For as long as there is a market for Jolly Ranchers, there will be Jolly Ranchers.  And for as long as people are willing to live, there will be life.

I can't resist another pitiful life metaphor.  Yesterday, for you collegiate basketball enthusiasts, was Selection Sunday: the day when self-proclaimed experts (be sure to realize that the word "experts" in this case is reserved only for men that have dedicated their lives to being extremist sports fanatics, in this case, the world of college basketball) forge the bracket of 65 NCAA teams and do their best to make sense of a season from whence it came (Granted, "from whence it came" doesn't fit there at all, but it was too good of an opportunity to pass up.), and March Madness (Madness?!  This is college basketball, babay!  Take it easy, Leodickie.)  (that actually ends in the second week of April) begins.

Our job, as fans, is to fill out the bracket.  That is, to choose the winner of every game (and some that won't even happen if you picked incorrectly a round before).  In a perfect world (for the number 1 seeds, at least), the number 1 seeds from each region will move onto the Final Four defeating its respective number 2 seed in the Elite Eight.  If Carolina can live up to its stellar season, they will win the Championship.  But, in Bracketology 101, as in Life, things don't always turn out the way that is expected.  In Bracketology, men are rewarded for correctly selecting upsets (that is, when a team whose seed is closer to 16 defeats a team whose seed is closer to 1).

So, with all of that in mind, here begins a series of truths, or, more accurately, things that I deem are so likely to occur that they happen every time with the "non-happenings" being negligible or, actually, zero.  I don't know how many Truths I will discover, but, hopefully enough to make some sort of profound findings.  Feel free to disagree, but hopefully, you won't be able to because they are truth.  I'll try to avoid things that are already accepted by most (ie, Murphy's Law, the Grass Law, etc.).

I'll start with a simple one.  Truth Number 1:  Great expectations (for any- and everything) are generally not met and usually lead to some degree of dissatisfaction, even if Pip is, externally, satisfied with the product.

I have a lot that I want to share that floated through my mind on my way back from the dining hall just now.  Hopefully I don't omit anything key.

One of the six fundamentals of Psychology, as taught by JW Kalat, at least, is that correlation does not indicate causation.  That is, just because two things happen at the same time does indicate that they are linked.  For example, President Bush choking on a pretzel does not indicate that he will choke on a pretzel every time he snacks on them.  This is, of course, a very rudimentary example.

I hate the adage "all good things must come to an end."  Why?  Why must all good things end?  Perhaps this is a misconception that has circulated for so many years that we have truly forgotten.  Maybe one good thing came to an end long ago and some wise-guy decided that it would be a prime opportunity for a grave misnomer.  Maybe before that one good thing came to an end, all good things never ended.  Now, now that we have this stupid saying for when things go wrong, good things end.  I think I'm failing to make sense.  The connection that I'm trying to establish here is between good events ending because good events end and good events ending because they think they are supposed to.

This entire week has just been absolutely perfect weather: mid- to high 70s, sunny, breezey.  Just gorgeous.  The clouds crept in last night and today the rains fall.  I said to myself, reassuredly, "Oh, all good things come to an end, I guess."  And then, in the midst of the nearing-torrential downpour, I spotted a lone soul sitting umbrella-less on a bench (it would've been a park bench had we been in a park, but just on campus).  He just stared in front of him.  I immediately assumed that he had had a bad day, a bad week.  And then I thought of how I dropped my hot dog at the baseball game.  Just as I was about sit in my seat, the frank slipped off its bun and onto the ground.  At first, I looked at it disgruntled.  Furious that I had just been overcharged $3 for that hot dog, I grappled with the possibilities of whether or not to consume it regardless.  Surely, people around me had seen me drop it.  I'm even pretty sure one girl behind me restricted her snickers for my sake.  But after a while of glaring at the naked hot dog on the floor in front of me, I began to laugh.  Then my mind went back to the rain-soaked soul.  He was probably enjoying sitting there in the solitude as the drops fell around and on him.  I said to myself, "Good for him. That takes a lot."

I want to link this to religion.  That a belief in God is inherently a belief in Satan.  But I'm not sure it has to go that extra mile, so I'll leave it here.

All good things don't end.  All good things turn into other things that are also good.

I'm beginning to realize that coming here was not the worst decision I've ever made.  (Even though it was, haha).  Life is like a bag of Jolly Ranchers.  No, life is not like a box of chocolates.  (No, too, life is not like a pizza that can be enjoyed with friends on a Friday night.)  Like a box of chocolates, you never know what you're going to get when you pull out that Jolly Rancher.  However, to bring the analogy further, there are some that you would rather have and some flavors that you would rather not.  For me, every time I blindly reach into a bag of Jolly Ranchers, I hope for a Watermelon.  Generally, when I pull out a Grape, I'll throw it back and reach in a grab for another, and another, until there are only Grapes left.  Well...  okay, that part doesn't really serve to my analogy.  Me coming down here was like pulling a Grape out of the bag and just being totally and completely bitter about it not being Watermelon.

Or maybe it has more to do with the fact that I've been contemplating a change of my major from Biomedical Engineering to Education.  I had this complex in my head that if I didn't go to a top-notch school, I wouldn't be able to be a great engineer, one that was world-renowned and known by many people.  Then I tried to come up with some great engineers, some that were world-renowned and known by many people and all I could think of was Dr Jarvik, creator of the artificial heart.  I haven't absolutely fallen engineering like I had hoped I would, and I probably haven't given it a fair shot, but that's just the way I am.  And so, in my never-ending quest for undying happiness, I pondered the possibility of becoming a teacher.  I have had many fantastic, impressionable teachers over the years.  For sure, there are some that I will never forget.  I think I might be able to be one of those teachers.  That's how I'll be known, I hope.  I won't be making the history books, or any other such annals, but I'll be in the hearts and minds of my students, hopefully.

I greeted the world with arms wide open, putting my innocence and chastity on the line as all college students must do for the first time, and the world gave me the stink eye and kicked me a good one in the groin.

I blame, partially, Boy Meets World for putting romantic images of college and life in my impressionable mind.  Topanga doesn't exist in any love relationship; Mr. Feeney is an impossibility of the educational system; and so trying to be like Cory is useless and futile.  Cory is only as effective as the Shawn that which he tries to coach is a flop or failure, is only as naïve as Mr. Feeney is wise, and is only as romantic as Topanga is dramatically in love.  In a pathetic way, I have been trying to be Cory (not to mention a mix of other episodal characters from a variety of television sitcoms) for my entire life.

I know that that's over-dramatic, but what more (or less should) could you expect from an over-dramatic person like myself.  I have recently described the decision to come down here as the worst in my life.  And the manner in which I made the decision, ultra-last minute, is something I have never before championed or practiced.  I kick myself, religiously, because of it.

I have a feeling that in the future, hindsight will tell me that I should have stayed here, but I can't put myself through another semester or two.  I fucked up so bad.  Worse than you know.  I really feel like in one school year's time, my future went from as bright as the sun to as dark as night with a mere flip of the switch.  I can't look forward to my future with a smile, rather, with dread.

I can keep asking myself, "What does it matter?  What does it really matter?"  That is only applicable for so long, you know.  At some point, you have to live for some other cause than not being dead.  I am continuing to search for things in which I have faith.  Ritter thought I had faith in my own mind and am secure in what it perceives.  What fun in life if you are positive that your perceptions are genuine?  Not much.

I need something...

It's hard to write about this without the reader being familiar with what I'm referring to.  Usually, that's not the case.  This one is special, though.  And, because of that, I request that you watch this short animated film by "Madyeti47" first: Kiwi!

I'll admit it: the first time I saw that video, I cried (a little bit).  At first, the societal implications failed to work their way into my cerebellum.  It was a mere reflex reaction at feeling bad for the flightless kiwi.  He just wanted to fly so badly like most other birds that he was, in the end, even willing to risk his own life.

I have dreams, but I rarely do anything to fulfill them.  I would love to find the motivation to nail trees into the side of a mountain just to make a dream come true.  How simple it is to dream a dream that is once thought to have been unattainable.  How simple it is to dwell upon that dream and resolve to accept that it will never come to fruition regardless of what actions are taken in the direction of fulfillment.

One would need to become obsessive over such an idea in order to accomplish the final goal.  Hundreds of trees do not nail themselves horizontally, that's for sure.  We're all just kiwis that are, ultimately, okay with not being able to fly.  We're all just kiwis that are, ultimately, okay with watching others around us fly.  Who among us will be Kiwi! and sacrifice a life to be able to fly?

The other evening, with supper (supper?), I enjoyed a deliciously succulent and holistically juicy orange.  The trouble it takes to peel open the orange and the pain that is caused when the juices seep into small cuts ('cause the Good Lord knows I'm a picker!) on the last joints of each digit is more than well worth it to get to the fruity meat on the inside.  The way the wedges are arranged and separate are fantastic for the casual eater, and it made me think about the first person that sunk his (no "or her."  Scientific fact that a man was the first to enjoy an orange.) teeth into the tart rind.

Did he bite deep enough to realize that sweet juices flow from the craters that he had just created or did he bite too tentatively in fear of it being something far less than it would turn out to be?  Did he have a cut on his hand that the juices seeped into causing great pain?  Did he hurl the cursed fruit because of this?  Did he know that I would be a writing a blog about him thousands of years later?

Who was the first person to realize that the zesty skin could be tenderly removed thus revealing all and only marvelous meat?  Because it does need to be tenderly, carefully removed.  That first piercing is a difficult one, indeed.  You hesitate to go too far in fear of puncturing the wedge, but you don't want to go too shallow and leave all the white pulp, either.  The first peeler probably did not know this, unless he was also the first biter.  (At this point, I've realized that it was probably more reasonable for a woman to have been the first to attempt to eat an orange for women were the gathers of nuts and berries, and men were hunting and watching football on television, but it's too late to go back now.  Onward!)  And when the first orange was peeled, it must not have taken long for the realization to be made that the orange was naturally constructed such that the wedges could be removed from each other.

I don't know if it was the sudden rush of Vitamin C, but man, that orange really picked me up and put me in a damned good mood for the rest of the night.  Go enjoy an orange.

I have written on this subject several times before (perhaps even in this blog).  I just need to restate it to remind myself.  Feel free to extract any value that it might possess.

Rainy days can really get you down.  The forsaken skies seem relentless and foreboding; despicable and careless.  Sometimes, you are suffering along this already withered path when the lights go off.  It makes you want to sit down, curl into the fetal position, and suck your thumb for a while and wait for someone to come pick you up, dust you off, and maybe even carry you out of the rain and darkness.

The fact of the matter is, though, is that it is a rarity, indeed, when such an individual comes to your rescue.  You need to be your own rescuer, your own hero.  Because even if it rains today, even if the sun refuses to shine today, that does not mean that it will rain or be sunless forever, no.  Even if it rains again tomorrow, you will have the knowledge and the strength to rise above it and know that the sun will shine again, eventually.  Eventually, the withered path will open and become more inviting, and you will be less alone.  Know too, though, that the sun can't shine forever.  But "when the sun shines, we'll shine together."

Peace and love.

This weekend, on the floor of my suite's bathroom right in front of one of the toilets, stalked two pennies: one heads up, one tails up.  The pennies are still there today (as if it's been some immeasurable amount of time).  I've found it entertaining how nobody has bothered to pick the up.  No one has even stepped on them, as they haven't moved in the slightest bit.  I've actually had the thought to pick the lucky one up, make a wish, and toss it into the toilet as if it were a fountain, but I had forgotten which side is unlucky to pick up - not that I'm superstitious or anything.  Even if I did wish to sacrifice the functionality of the toilet, I wouldn't have known what to wish for.  It hit me today: sweeter strawberries.

This evening, as I consumed my bowties at dinner, I watched, as I tend to do, my fellow Pack members.  One young chap caught my eye as he sauntered passed my location in a throwback Cleveland Indians nylon snap jacket and matching hat that made me reminisce about a better time when Wild Thing hurled at batters in the classic film series.  Anywho, I continued watching this young man as he sat down with his tray.  He proceeded to pray.  If the story ended there, it would be no story at all.  Once finished with his prayer, the devout Christian sprinkled a generous amount of sugar on a few strawberries he had in a bowl.

I could practically hear him pray to God, "nice try on these strawberries; better luck next time."  What's the point in thanking then?  If I need a million dollars for a costly operation, I'm not going to be overly thankful for a ten dollar bill.  Meh.

Up until last night, when Del and I discussed politics (a dangerous topic for conversation), I had never drawn the connection between my non-believing in a supreme divinity and my faithlessness in our democratic system.

I'm cold and calculating.  I get caught up in trying to choose what's best, that I often don't choose at all or choose the wrong thing.  I'm afraid of diving headlong into something because I second-guess myself.  I think that I haven't thought everything through yet.  I'm afraid of change because of the possibility that it could be worse than what I have now.

I don't believe in God because according to my mind, such a force is not logical.  I have used this analogy many times before, and I will use it with my last breath.  People long ago believed that a god pulled the sun across the sky in a horse-drawn chariot because they had no better explanation.  Just because we don't have an answer to a question yet doesn't mean the answer is "God."  Science has the secrets; we just haven't found the keys yet.

I have lost faith in our democratic process.  In the race for president, it should not just be two people.  I didn't like Mitt Romney from the get-go, but how stupid it is to me that he drops out and will probably throw his support behind John McCain.  Early in the race, the two battled and jockeyed for position in the polls.  They fought and told us that they had different values and plans for the country once they got elected President.  So now, Romney drops out of the race and he'll tell his supporters to now support McCain.  Well, that's not what they believed in.  What a sham.

I've been trying to find something that I have faith in.  I can't think of anything.  I'm faithless.  It's kind of scary.  Kind of.

Hooray!  Lucky for you, today's Pet Peeves will be a bundle of three.

Being the literalist "wordsmith" that I am, I try to use words appropriately so that, in context, their definitions are as accurate as they appear in the dictionary.  That being said, you can guess how miffed I am when someone so blatantly misuses the word "literally."  Either "figuratively" is not in people's vocabulary, or literally has come to adopt a meaning quite the opposite to my own interpretation. 

Thursday morning, I stepped into the shower and reached for the shower head to angle it down so I didn't get blasted with the freezing cold water that sat in the pipes.  I reached up and handled a shower head that was unfamiliar to me, and I immediately feared its oncoming force.  I like a good stream of water when I take a shower, not some gravity-driven mechanism.  I turned the water on, and, much to my dismay, water exuded itself from the head at barely more than a trickle.  Alas, needless to say, the shower head's "Niagra" setting is nothing to marvel at.  In fact, it's doing little else but falling.

I believe I am in the majority, here, when I state my hatred for being woken up from a golden slumber.  That stirring is multiplied several-fold when I am not woken up slowly and courteously, and several-more-fold when it is 4:15 in the morning.  Here's looking at you, Benj.  The good Lord knows I need my beauty sleep.  I don't mind that he comes in at that hour.  I understand that this is college, etc, etc, but please have some freaking courtesy.  I have no idea what he was doing, but he was sure making a helluva racket.  So, of course, in my limited prefrontal cortex inhibited state, and absolutely seething with rage, I attempted to make as much noise as possible to alert him that he had woken me from my sleep.  Finally, once he was in bed, I got up and finished my milk making sure to make as noise as possible in the process.  Inconsiderate prick.

I'm working on narrowing down my life's poems to a collection of 5 or 6 and I'm not having an easy go with it.
If you have any suggestions on where I should send a manuscript, please let me know.  Also, if you're willing to help me widdle, well, I'd love that also.


I seriously have nothing else to say.  Cool.  Cool.  Neat-o, gang.

"George, is it Feb-ru-ary or Feb-u-ary?  I prefer Febuary, but what is this ru?"

One month ago, I was bitching about how New Years started off on the wrong foot.  January has since gone, not to mention the first week of February.

The New York Football Giants are currently at the top of the world, and I'm proud to (be a New York Giant) have been apart of the experience (as much as watching it on a television at Kuschan's is being apart of it).  It was glorious.  Everyone was overjoyed and terrifically enthused.  It's such a great feeling to share that kind of passion with those around you.  It's certainly something that's unique to the human race and to this era.

The Giants took the improbable route to the Super Bowl being one of only a handful of wild card teams to win the big games.  They defeated the likes of the Buccaneers, the arch-nemesis Cowboys, future-hall-of-famer Brett Favre's Packers, and, last but certainly not least, the perfection-bound Patriots.  Week after week of the playoffs, experts picked against the Giants.  Even the spread for the Super Bowl had the Patriots as 12 point favorites.  But alas, the Giants persevered and out-played pretty-boy Brady and Co.

I already find myself looking forward to the end of February and Spring Break.

I don't know.  I feel like that's an important theme in my life, this concept of not knowing; for it is knowledge that we strive towards.  Some understanding is important, perhaps.  But there is much more that I do not know than I do know and there is very little that I do not know that I wish to not know.  Although, I suppose that last clause is a little paradoxical. If I knew what I didn't want to know, I would already know it regardless of whether I wanted to know it, or not.  That's absurd.  Maybe that's the best understanding I can have of absurdism.  Maybe I'll never know.

"Oh boy, here he goes on another existentialist rant."  Yeah, maybe.  My last two posts were trivial, insofar as the implications were either so incredibly unfathomable that it was a waste of energy to even make an attempt at comprehension or so melodramatic that complaining about the consistencies of muffins is just as invaluable as the former.  So here I am preparing a grandiose series of observations that is important to me as a living, breathing, honest-to-goodness human being.  ("I AM NOT AN AMINAL!  I AM A HUMAN BEAN!"  Bless your soul if you are unfamiliar with that reference.  I suggest you brush up on your 90s Nicktoons.)

In a twisted manner, the essence of Joe will be revealed as he seeks to define it.  For aren't I just a kid with unorthodox hair that wears a shirt bearing his own name with a question mark at the end?  That's who I am, but I don't know who that is or why that is.

I can't even apologize, there, for that tangential digression.  This is the path that I am taking.  It is the path I intended to take from every second that preceded each footstep.  Follow not my footsteps, for I walk into walls.  Isn't it important to walk into walls?  You never know when you'll be able to go through them. 

The preceding is not finished.  It never will be finished, just as a circle has an infinite number of tangent lines, so too should a thought have the ability to take any path be it converging or diverging in nature in nature (both "in nature"s were intended, see my intention?).  Even though the preceding is not finished, I will begin the following.  The following is where I originally wanted to end, so it's a good of place as any to begin, if I do say so myself, and I do.  The most entertaining sentences are the ones that are not only grammatically correct, but also the most complex in structure.  My grammar is by no means perfect, but it is damn near close.

Sorry Jorge, but I, along with the majority of Americans (and probably Earthans) my age, am a fan of Dane Cook.  He's dramatic and exaggerative and hilarious.  Last night, Comedy Central premiered A Vicious Circle.  Dane Cook was featured.  He told a joke about saying "God bless you" to a stranger that turned out to be an Atheist.  In the joke, the Atheist went on mock to Dane for being a Catholic and believing in an afterlife.  In the joke, Dane mocked the Atheist for believing that he would return to the earth and become a tree and then be turned into paper that had the Bible printed on it.  Everyone loved it.

Being the existentialistic Atheist that I am, this concept of after-death wrought my mind like a... like some clever analogy that deals with some profession wringing out his tool (not reproductive organ).  I found myself laying (or lying?) on my back in bed last night staring into the depths of the darkness.  My first thought, admittedly, was not as good.  If no light was touching me, did I exist scientifically?  Perhaps not, but there were still a small smattering of light particles that struck me, and so I existed.  I couldn't avoid that.

What was I afraid of?  That was my next controversy.  Among the immediate things that came to mind, not one of them was death.  Unhappiness, yes.  Failure, yes.  Death, no.  It is not because I believe in some miraculous salvation, either.  When the Commandments were handed down from the burning bush that did not burn, there was no mention of how to persuade the Atheists.  "Thou shalt take no other God before me."  Well, I will agree to that, but I will be taking no God before you.  Existentialism is interesting, but what does it even matter if I fear not death?  Now, I seek a correlation between fear of death and religiousness.  I am a scientist, of sorts, and I must have a good cross-sampling to make an accurate revelation, but for now, with me as my only test subject, I am one for one in terms of Atheist/fearlessness of death.

I am not afraid of death because I know I will have lived as well as I can and could have in my living days.

I think life is scary.  Maybe that's another correlation between Atheism and fear of life.  There is so much that can go wrong in life that doesn't and can't go wrong in death.  Pessimism. 

I'm fairly (un)certain that's all I have to say on the matter.  And so it goes.

P.S.  I searched for an existentialist mood, but, sadly, it doesn't exist.  How depressing.
P.P.S.  This, as with most posts, took me longer than one song to write; it's arbitrary most of the time, just as with anything and everything else.  I guess it just serves to let you into my extravagant life a little bit more than I have let you in already.
P.P.P.S.  I have already edited this blog twice since uploading it the first time.