Remarkably Light. Metamessage. Brimming With Ideas.
It's the most remarkably light feeling, selling one's soul.
I just signed up for the Late-Summer Testmasters LSAT Prep course. In fact, in the other tab of my browser (Firefox, you light up my life.) I am staring at an e-mail receipt and confirmation.
I (say that I) hate to overdramatize, but this feels like one of those Big Moments (haha, B.M.), one of those milestone sorts of things. Rather, it feels like it's supposed to be. And yet, all I'm actually feeling right now is my lower-back rapidly stiffening as I hunch over this tripod... chair-like... contraption... upon which my woefully underpowered laptop is precariously tilted. For some reason, Buttface Junior's wireless card refuses to steal signal from my kind (read: stupid and naive) neighbors upstairs when I sit him on my lap. Only when I rest him on this stool, thereby forcing me to bend my torso at a spine-altering angle simply to participate in this in-ter-net thing I've heard so much about. The glaring subtext being that the name "laptop" syncs up with the rapidly-forthcoming soreness of my back, forming the punchline to a horrible joke at my expense. And hot damn, do I ever need more of those right now.
There's a metamessage (to borrow some jargon from Comm 10; no amount of water will wash away this filth) hidden in my horrible digression: I really don't feel like I am appreciating this whole LSAT registration thing as much as I should be.
For Christ's sake (Funny Story: I actually hesitated while typing the Big JC's surname. You can take the boy out of the church, but...), it's the LSAT. You think I'd feel some kind of... something.
Fear of another acronym containing "SAT," the last of which entailed stuffy Saturdays in a tiny room in Pasadena with a weird Chinese man teaching me how to budget my time for the math portion.
Fear of the grim specter of post-collegiate life (this time not in the form of Annie's haggard, jowly visage... whoashitburned)-- R-r-eal... Lai. Lai. Life? I can't even get my fingers to type that out naturally-- which this test is the collosally threatening embodiment thereof.
Fear of sending a $1300 bill to my parents for something I could very well have neither taste for nor aptitude to succeed at.
Fear of... nuclear war?
As you can see, I am a boy brimming with ideas. But just that: ideas. Ideas of what I think I should be feeling. None of this stuff is really coalescing into concrete emotions. My insides are a calm blue ocean.
Fuck that, it's more like a shot of novocaine between the ribs. And, to be perfectly blunt, it's incredibly unsettling.
But enough about me. Let's talk about me and other people.
- Ravi came down from Davis for the weekend. I've missed that guy. A nonspecific "we" determined that Ravi is pretty much Rex from Toy Story. Went to Zuma Beach, I got embarassingly burnt. I physically reached all of my back but apparently my hands ran out of sunscreen at some point, as there are hand-shaped smears dividing the regions of burnt from not burnt. I say it looks like a geopolitical map of Europe leading up to World War One. But I'm no historian. Also went to Disneyland. Managed to go on something like fifteen rides in about thirteen hours. Factor in lunch- and potty-breaks, and we made some damned good time. I discovered that I am an frighteningly fierce monolith of Zurg-crushing Space Ranger awesomeness:
- Apparently Mara put my viking picture up on the refrigerator. You give a girl a personal emblem of warlike Nordic protection, and what does she do? She goes and shares it. What a world.
- Motherfuck stupid, goddamned subjective passage identification questions on English exams. UGH. So fucking frustrated. I fucking get what Wycherley wanted to say in "The Country Wife." Jesus Tapdancing Christ.
- My roommate is watching the Sopranos on DVD. A doctor, referring to one of the character's diarrhea (she has IBS apparently?), just used the word "jimjams." Hahahahaha. Fucking solid gold. Jimjams > Mudbutt.
Oh god. Toilet humor. I'm ending this now, because the only other person even smirking is Kathy.
I just signed up for the Late-Summer Testmasters LSAT Prep course. In fact, in the other tab of my browser (Firefox, you light up my life.) I am staring at an e-mail receipt and confirmation.
I (say that I) hate to overdramatize, but this feels like one of those Big Moments (haha, B.M.), one of those milestone sorts of things. Rather, it feels like it's supposed to be. And yet, all I'm actually feeling right now is my lower-back rapidly stiffening as I hunch over this tripod... chair-like... contraption... upon which my woefully underpowered laptop is precariously tilted. For some reason, Buttface Junior's wireless card refuses to steal signal from my kind (read: stupid and naive) neighbors upstairs when I sit him on my lap. Only when I rest him on this stool, thereby forcing me to bend my torso at a spine-altering angle simply to participate in this in-ter-net thing I've heard so much about. The glaring subtext being that the name "laptop" syncs up with the rapidly-forthcoming soreness of my back, forming the punchline to a horrible joke at my expense. And hot damn, do I ever need more of those right now.
There's a metamessage (to borrow some jargon from Comm 10; no amount of water will wash away this filth) hidden in my horrible digression: I really don't feel like I am appreciating this whole LSAT registration thing as much as I should be.
For Christ's sake (Funny Story: I actually hesitated while typing the Big JC's surname. You can take the boy out of the church, but...), it's the LSAT. You think I'd feel some kind of... something.
Fear of another acronym containing "SAT," the last of which entailed stuffy Saturdays in a tiny room in Pasadena with a weird Chinese man teaching me how to budget my time for the math portion.
Fear of the grim specter of post-collegiate life (this time not in the form of Annie's haggard, jowly visage... whoashitburned)-- R-r-eal... Lai. Lai. Life? I can't even get my fingers to type that out naturally-- which this test is the collosally threatening embodiment thereof.
Fear of sending a $1300 bill to my parents for something I could very well have neither taste for nor aptitude to succeed at.
Fear of... nuclear war?
As you can see, I am a boy brimming with ideas. But just that: ideas. Ideas of what I think I should be feeling. None of this stuff is really coalescing into concrete emotions. My insides are a calm blue ocean.
Fuck that, it's more like a shot of novocaine between the ribs. And, to be perfectly blunt, it's incredibly unsettling.
But enough about me. Let's talk about me and other people.
- Ravi came down from Davis for the weekend. I've missed that guy. A nonspecific "we" determined that Ravi is pretty much Rex from Toy Story. Went to Zuma Beach, I got embarassingly burnt. I physically reached all of my back but apparently my hands ran out of sunscreen at some point, as there are hand-shaped smears dividing the regions of burnt from not burnt. I say it looks like a geopolitical map of Europe leading up to World War One. But I'm no historian. Also went to Disneyland. Managed to go on something like fifteen rides in about thirteen hours. Factor in lunch- and potty-breaks, and we made some damned good time. I discovered that I am an frighteningly fierce monolith of Zurg-crushing Space Ranger awesomeness:
- Apparently Mara put my viking picture up on the refrigerator. You give a girl a personal emblem of warlike Nordic protection, and what does she do? She goes and shares it. What a world.
- Motherfuck stupid, goddamned subjective passage identification questions on English exams. UGH. So fucking frustrated. I fucking get what Wycherley wanted to say in "The Country Wife." Jesus Tapdancing Christ.
- My roommate is watching the Sopranos on DVD. A doctor, referring to one of the character's diarrhea (she has IBS apparently?), just used the word "jimjams." Hahahahaha. Fucking solid gold. Jimjams > Mudbutt.
Oh god. Toilet humor. I'm ending this now, because the only other person even smirking is Kathy.
posted by Unknown at 10:24 PM
2 Comments:
i'm actually not smirking because i don't get/use jimjam or mudbutt.
mickey was right. last time i went on buzzlightyear i got 80,000+.
you suck.
Haha. Although kathy did not smirk at "jimjams," i sure did find that amusing.
Eric... you some how lit up my droll work life. How, I have no idea.
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