:: a.whisper.in.water ::

:: Thursday, December 25, 2003 ::

[ i wonder when it’ll sink in, really ]

I’m done, as it were. Legitimately finished with all academic work by the deadline for the first time since second semester, freshman year, I think. There was a definite sacrifice of quality for speed at many points during the semester, and I can only hope that when it returns to take a fair chomp at my ass (as it doubtless will), it will be merciful, and bear my obsessive parents in mind. I managed to do so without aforementioned prescription to concentration-aiding drugs, though the simple request for such seems to have befouled my dad’s mood to the point where even his sickening veneer of pleasantries vanished, and all of his insecurities regarding my working habits, grades, what have you pour out in the form of what I’m sure he thinks are wry comments, culminating in outright nonsensical verbal abuse. It’s barbaric, but hey, it’s home.

Related tangent: Disney movies and children’s stories incite a largish amount of consideration and analysis, almost against my will: their situations, logic, and dialogue shuffle around upstairs, claiming brain cycles even during exams.

Me: Okay, so to find equations of motion, I need to equate total potential, rotational, and translational kinet—
Scar: Yes, my teeth and ambitions are bared…BE PREPAAAARED!
Me: Ooh, clever little turn of phrase, you ball of sass, you. Clearly in there for the adults, are we? Well, I’ll just put this problem on hold and consider the sociological ramifications of your effeminate nature during the framing moments of this song, accompanied by your commanding legions of Nazi Hyenas. (Hitler is gay, says Dead Uncle Walt.) Oh, guess I’m out of time.

Christ.

I really must apologize to Jenn for the fact that I’m terrible, abjectly terrible at keeping secrets from her. I also don’t have nearly enough patience to deal with the notion of voluntary surprises, which results in most everything being spoiled for me at my request, if not actively by my own actions; I still peek perversely at the last page of a book, testing my restraint, often before even reading the first one. Anyone care to know how The DaVinci Code ends? It begins all retarded-like, that’s for sure: most clichéd introduction ever. To be fair, I’m explicitly guilty of judging a book by its first page, but I needed some excuse to go dig up House of Leaves and just read it; it’s been more than 6 months since it’s been in my possession. My list of apologies to The Kitty hardly stops at the inability to keep (good) secrets from her, as sincerely as I mean it. I can only hope I keep my new old resolution and don’t spill the beans on forthcoming gifts (though to be fair, she would have guessed the Pirates of The Caribbean SE DVD anywhoo. Clever Kitty even second-guessed me to the point of telling her ‘rents NOT to get it for her. Blah, rumph, and mow to you, dearest…I love you!), whatever those gifts may be.

As for me, I want things just like everyone else, but my Chronic Waffling Disorder makes it damned-near impossible to get me a gift and feel confident that my b0><3rz will actually FLY FROM MY LOINS on account of a vigorous r0><0r1/\/g, the ideal to which all gifts should aspire. The whole gift-giving thing is a game too loaded to play to any great deal of satisfaction by its intended rules. Ideally, one’s objective is to give someone something they never knew they wanted, and is yet somehow “perfect” for them, and under $20 or so. This wouldn’t be a problem if people didn’t expect anything, and just graciously accepted whatever the hell they got. But then, what ideal to aspire to? Chubby balls, that’s what.

I grabbed the aforementioned bestseller for my dad from Barnes & Noble along with a replacement copy for Jenn’s badly-bruised Welcome To The Monkey House (got passed around my friends like a giant doobie, then lived in my bathroom for a few weeks. The list grows.) and the first season of “Three’s Company” for the brother. Getting baked with siblings is weird; keeping them company while they carry the baton of stoned-itude solo is some comparable subset of weirdness to this, I imagine. At the very least he’s nicer on it, though his mouth hangs open and he ate a pair of strawberry Pop Tarts altogether too quickly for my tastes. We just sort of hang out, make jokes no one else could ever hope to understand (‘cept Tim, I’d wager) and play Diablo 2 together all damn day. I’ve got a sick assassin all set to bust into Tal Rasha’s tomb and lay down the beat to which all must step. Interesting: the first Diablo had a neat little easter egg where if you played on Christmas (holy shit, it’s Christmas), you got sickeningly good items. I wonder if the same is true of the sequel…all I know is that I’ve stumbled across an ungodly number of really good rare items. The trick to gems, you see, is to use them, and not just use them to make other gems. I stuck two skulls of varying quality in some armor, and part of me felt as though some sort of criminal activity had taken place, and subsequently wondered if any sort of atonement was required for actually USING gems, instead of waiting to get two more gems just like it.

Ah well, it’s definitely lunchtime. I stayed up all night tonight just to verify that there is, in fact (Virginia) no Santa Claus. At least none that brings brown kids gifts, at least. There IS a Santa that comes in at 3:30 and gripes about how much gaming you’re doing, though he tends to come nightly, rather than once a year, and is actually my dad. “Just look for a pissed-off guy with a mustache.” I tend to take this odd attitude towards most every relevant holiday that makes them all weird combinatorial days of thanks, atonement, introspection, and gift-giving. I hope to get a chance to see everyone before they (and I) depart for destinations various and joyous.

Merry Christmas, and Ardent Wishes for Seasonal Awesomeness to You All. 

Keep in touch, space cowboys.

Music: Radiohead – Climbing Up The Walls (Fila Brazillia Mix). Earlier today, I listened to OK Computer again. “Let Down” still reduces me to tears, even if I’m cruising along, trying not to get killed by idiot fuckwit shit-for-brainses who Simply Cannot Drive, and attempt to Kill Us All with their merging technique. [non-sequitur ] Sean Lennon sounds more like Yoko than John.[/non-sequitur ]


:: Aziz 4:15 PM [+] ::
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