I had a conversation with Sam a short time after I posted my previous rant. In it, I noted that I liked my cryptic style of personal blogging because of how interesting and differing people’s interpretations often are. He tongue-in-cheekily responded, “wouldn’t be fun if people didn’t have to guess to figure out what it was saying?” Well, no. But, I drafted a more blunt and angry version of yesterday’s post just to see what it would look like. And now I’ll share it - in the style of annotation.
(“We over, we alright” are likely misheard lyrics from the chorus of Memphis Bleek’s “Alright.” RATATAT just released a second remix album, and their version of “Alright” is one of it’s highlights.)
It’s increasingly difficult to complain here. That’s a direct effect of publicity. “I will do this using Capitalism” is syndicated on multiple websites. Past, present and future employers review my writings. What I say here can and has had serious repercussions in my life.
I am psyching myself up to write by typing fluff.
But, nothing worth doing is easy!
The single flaw in genius that is “A guide to writing for insert credit” is that it isn’t very amendable to short-form blogging. But, damned if I haven’t been trying. If you look back in my archives, you can see the dramatic change in style.
This week, I hated Sunday because it was full of antifun. Throughout the day, I helplessly and continuously pissed off my friends. In turn, I was transported back to my teens with derisive commentary on my self-motivation and questions like “why do you speak like that?” Fuck, that is one of my least favourite sentences. I can remember multiple occasions when a younger and more temperamental Scott disregarded the speaker and simply started swinging.
(The picture is a stick figure opening a door by way of anime styled powers. It was the best image I could think something not worth doing in the hardest way possible.)
Sunday sucked. I pissed off Rachelle all day. But, she was also being a self-admitted grumpy bitch. I also ran into a few other friends and acquaintances. Each of whom, in quick succession, reminded me why I don’t regularly hang out with them. The sentiment was almost certainly mutual.
And, fuck, I was pissed off at some things said yesterday. “[I] don’t put in effort” into my relationships? First, that person has not known me long enough to be able to make that statement. Second, between the two of us, only one person describes herself as a “girlfriend from hell.”
And, “why do [I] talk that way?” That is salt in a open wound. I have not and will never apologize for my idiolect. You understood me. I was clear. If my grammar was not informally structured, cope. If my vocabulary departed from realm of high school word lists, it’s embarrassing for you that the idea I’m trying to be conspicuously articulate popped out of your mouth.
And, of course, there were arguments. Ranging from drunken agreements about COINTELPRO to drunken disagreements about the Green Revolution. These, seemingly inevitably, segued into ad hominem attacks. Newsflash kids: I’m 25 and long ago accepted my social awkwardness. Rejoinders with it as the primary focus boil down to yelling “FACE” louder.
But, hey, there were arguments too. Honestly, though, I love arguing. Spending the cool evening constructively debating random topics would be great fun. But, if Miss. Hendrix is going to pull constant appeals to authority - specifically her authority - and then insult me for taking my laptop out in the middle of a park and calling out her inaccuracies... then, yeah, I’m going to “lose” the argument by simply not discussing it anymore.
That is different than stopping an argument because you feel your opponent is “ignorant.” One involves cited references and the other is pure zealotry.
Monday morning’s conclusion: it’s never a party without me playing the part of a tool.
I slept over with a girl I met that night. She has a boyfriend. Nothing happened.
Antifun has the handy property of reacting with fun in what’s technically referred to as the “antifun-fun reaction.” Without making up too many details, the two discrete particles annihilate each other when they collide. What remains afterward is pure energy capable of powering both starships and my enthusiasm. My gameplan is to finish every item on my week’s rather short todo, drive to the westside on Thursday, and not have a single long-term memory until Sunday.
(The image has nothing to do with antimatter-matter reactions. But, I think the those atoms are so cute. I take any opportunity I can to link them.)
Sunday sucked so much that I am enthusiastic to do menial and boring tasks.
Oh, and hey if the Universe isn’t big on simple math. The Capital Hill Block Party (feat. Blue Scholars, the Blood Brothers, Against Me!, Aesop Rock, Mirah, and some other bands we don’t care about yet) + Rat City Rollergirls = CRAZY DELICIOUS
It’s finals - who’s with me?
And there are fun things coming up this weekend. But, could only people I like and have developed the ability to accept me in all circumstances (you know, friends) accompany me? That would be the best.