I don't think I've played fuck with the grad school process yet. I think I'm on the right track. inherent problem: my thoughts, my limitations. but! when I've spoken to brooke, to dr. gruber, to dan and even to the anderson, they seem to think my thoughts are on the right track. far apart from having letters of recommendation (which'll be nice, don't read me incorrectly), what's warm now is the simply fact that they thought well enough of me that they'll help me out and recommend me for such. they believe in me. that's a powerful feeling.
then there's the friend factor. this term would be unbearable were it not for such. without riding too long on the "my friends are TEH BEST EVAR!!1!" (which they are), let me just say that were it not for the things we do, the discussions we have, our seriousness, our fun, I wouldn't really have a reason to try for such. the grad class is great, but even compared to what I talk to carter, ben, kat about, it's simplistic, skimmy, topoffed only.
wow. I abandon this thing for a while, and then what?
positivity, naysayers.in less happy news, apparently US troops are being deployed domestically. 'course, it's done without pomp, circumstance, or trumpets, so I doubt anyone will hear or care. I'm disconcerted. reinforced: nobody answers to the electorate.
roller bladers outside my window. I'd like roller bladers. also, an attractive man lives across the street, which leads me to:
two weeks ago (three, perhaps), I went to a gay party which turned into another gay party which turned into spin the bottle, which turned into an STD waiting to happen. and lo, strep throat is an STD. I was out for a week, as far as purpose and intent go. the inner conclusion is that it was a dumb, dumb thing to participate in, and the libido needs to be shot in its kneecaps. an entry of several weeks ago says libido is dead, which (I think) was a lie then and certainly is now. there are more important things, that's all. not that I don't continue to look/hope/smile ingratiatingly (another lie?), but gay men? the depths they express, at least in this place, is analogous to a dried-up puddle. the sad thing is that I know now that they're capable of more, but they've created what's more-or-less a self-fulfilling prophecy. carter says that they don't what to do about me, and I'm glad: if they did, I wouldn't be doing my job. they need to understand that there are worlds outside of their bubble, worlds they can't control or assimilate and, more than that, operate on a dimensionally-shifted ideological place. not to pedestal myself (heh, though 'twouldn't be the first time), but I don't give a flying donut fuck about what they wear, or how much it costs, or how much time they spend in the gym. the ironic thing is that I'm reaching the ripening point in which I
am attractive for the writing, and it's a dangerous step. heady. it falls under the same category of attraction based on pure physicality: this is what I do, what I am. put it all together, but if you like me based on my writings or my esoteric physicality, you might as well like me for how many green thumbtacks I own. in fact, that might be a better reason, since I chose to buy the thumbtacks.
that was longer than I intened. the summary is as follows: caution and risk are inherent in all things. and everyone's afraid of something.
I'm enjoying the tunes of coheed and cambria, and symphonic rock. queens of the stone age, supertramp, the killers, lostprophets. way to introduce, rockband.
I'm to a barbeque in several minutes. another tomorrow, with some kind of group of reactionary gays. as I told ryan, it's going to end up creating the exact thing that exists already, except on a smaller scale. then again, maybe not? either way, it should be minorly amusing.
