I'm doing way too much.
I'm lying in an underground bed/couch in Powell Library, at the foot of a metaphysical mountain of work. I am tired - but that is such great understatement that it transcends literary forms and becomes actual, prosecutable, libel. More accurately, I am some combination of the words exhausted and dead. My eyes remain open only by the virtue of the moist direct contact on the surface of my eyeball provided by my contact lenses, and the two glasses of Mountain Dew I had this morning at breakfast, thanks to UCLA dining's strange crusade to provide soda at every single meal.
I'm taking four classes, each of which demands substantial time commitment to preparation and work. Econ requires about 12 hours a week, French 6 hours, History 5 hours of reading, and Math infinity hours of pouring over calculus and my solution's manual. Midterms, daily bruin deadlines, and papers converge on the same day. I haven't slept more than five hours in a week, and I drink Rockstar more than I do water.
fuck this
These days, it's not possible to simply pursue your passion. You have to knock it off it's pedestal, hitch it to a 6 figure salary and drag it through the dust, twist it, paint it a different color, cut corners off of it, and finally forget about it for a while. Then, at the end of the road and after a lifetime of jumping through hoops to reach that carrot tied to the stick, your passion is finally yours, if there's anything left of it - or of the person wanted it in the first place.
It's like when a twelve year old looks up into the night sky and sees a satellite pass by, and thinks to himself, I want to be an astronaut. He's never meant that word "want" more emphatically in his whole life. He wants it with his whole self, and that hour, that minute, he starts doing everything he possible can to make that dream a reality. He doesn't sleep that night. The next day, his dad tells him, "Astronauts are some of the most well educated students in the world," and his report cards from then on are full of a's. "Astronauts need to be athletic," his mom says, and in two years he gains 20 pounds of muscle. His parents don't know what to do. They don't know how to tell him what he needs to know, and he just looks so incredibly passionate talking about how he's going to explore the stars. Every night for the next 6 years of his life, he climbs out onto the roof outside of his bedroom window and looks into the night sky and takes deep, expectant breaths.
Childhood ends, and college begins. He studies hard - physics, astronomy major - and spends his free hours training with the ROTC program on campus. At first, when his friends talk about what they want to do with their lives, he smiles, and thinks about stars. But he hears the tone of worry and anxiety in their voices. He doesn't understand it, but for the first time in his life he understands fear.His determination to achieve his goal becomes more than desire. He begins pursuing his passion with iron determination, ruthlessly cutting away the parts of his life that would interfere with his dream, hurtling towards it like a sleek torpedo. He still dreams of stars at night.
His physics professor, a former nasa scientist, watches the boy carefully, who he knows by the boy's constantly attentive eyes and upraised hand. The boy is a constant fixture at the professor's office hours, and the professor can't stand to see the pain accrue behind his shining, fearless eyes. "look," the old man says. "they only accept 5% of applicants every two years, maybe less with the funding from this administration You have to market yourself, get internships, start writing letters, shaking hands, kissing babies. They won't give it to you just because you'll be good at it and because you deserve it - life's not that way."
The boy doesn't know what to do. He hasn't lived his life that way for 21 years, and it's too late to start. He tries, because he wants it so bad, he can't let go of it, but it wasn't enough. With the rejection letter clutched in his hand, he looks back at his whole life and with a motion akin to closing a door, he throws it in a wastebasket. He should have known better.
He becomes an engineer, a successful one, and marries a woman he loves. They have children, and move to a bigger home in a better neighborhood. The father never speaks about his dream ever again, and every day he tells his children, "The world is a cruel place. Get ready." He is fiercely protective of them. In the bedroom over the bed, though his wife protested, though they couldn't afford it, is a skylight, through which on a clear night when the city lights aren't so bright, he can see the stars that he never reached.
yeah, got a little carried away. The inspiration was this guy at work Joey, who was in training to be a firefighter, but failed the test. He told me he still feels it when he watches Rescue Me and shit like Ladder 49. I guess my point is, I really have lost some faith in the world, or at least in it's benevolence. M
Maybe I'm naive and idealist, and maybe I just didn't see how things were going to be when I was young. The way I saw it though, was this: I was born and the world offered me opportunity. "You can do anything", it said, "be anything. Just want it badly enough and it's yours, on a silver platter, in a steaming mug, however you want. Happiness is yours for the taking. Welcome to the world. "
but maybe I don't believe that infinite possibility rhetoric any more. I want to be a journalist, and I want to tell stories. But looking at all of the hoops I have to jump through, and what the job is really like, especially with modernization and the 'internet journalist', I feel like it's not possible to pursue a passion any more.
Which brings me to the question, what kind of person am I?
It seems like there are two kinds of people in the world distinguished by two kinds of happiness. In one form, happiness is a foggy, indiscriminate haze of pleasure, like when you're watching a good movie, or have just had a good meal, or heard a series of funny jokes with friends. It's not that this kind of happiness isn't worthwhile. It's just unearned. You think to yourself, "man, this is great. I could feel this for the rest of my life, but then...what would my life be?" Some people can deal with that - have a life that begins when the clock hits 5pm at their desk job.
On the other side, far superior, is passion. It's like happiness is a nice picture - satisfying, but two dimensional. Passion is an emotion in 3D - it's as real as anything around you. When you achieve it, it feels like your heart is expanding fit to burst, you can't sit still, you can't wait to see what the next minute brings, the intensity of it makes you clench your hands into fists. You're full of energy, happy just to be alive and doing what you do. These people, who live off passion, change the world, and are happier than anyone.
So which one am I? do I care about my passion or just my prosperity? I don't know.
It's like when a twelve year old looks up into the night sky and sees a satellite pass by, and thinks to himself, I want to be an astronaut. He's never meant that word "want" more emphatically in his whole life. He wants it with his whole self, and that hour, that minute, he starts doing everything he possible can to make that dream a reality. He doesn't sleep that night. The next day, his dad tells him, "Astronauts are some of the most well educated students in the world," and his report cards from then on are full of a's. "Astronauts need to be athletic," his mom says, and in two years he gains 20 pounds of muscle. His parents don't know what to do. They don't know how to tell him what he needs to know, and he just looks so incredibly passionate talking about how he's going to explore the stars. Every night for the next 6 years of his life, he climbs out onto the roof outside of his bedroom window and looks into the night sky and takes deep, expectant breaths.
Childhood ends, and college begins. He studies hard - physics, astronomy major - and spends his free hours training with the ROTC program on campus. At first, when his friends talk about what they want to do with their lives, he smiles, and thinks about stars. But he hears the tone of worry and anxiety in their voices. He doesn't understand it, but for the first time in his life he understands fear.His determination to achieve his goal becomes more than desire. He begins pursuing his passion with iron determination, ruthlessly cutting away the parts of his life that would interfere with his dream, hurtling towards it like a sleek torpedo. He still dreams of stars at night.
His physics professor, a former nasa scientist, watches the boy carefully, who he knows by the boy's constantly attentive eyes and upraised hand. The boy is a constant fixture at the professor's office hours, and the professor can't stand to see the pain accrue behind his shining, fearless eyes. "look," the old man says. "they only accept 5% of applicants every two years, maybe less with the funding from this administration You have to market yourself, get internships, start writing letters, shaking hands, kissing babies. They won't give it to you just because you'll be good at it and because you deserve it - life's not that way."
The boy doesn't know what to do. He hasn't lived his life that way for 21 years, and it's too late to start. He tries, because he wants it so bad, he can't let go of it, but it wasn't enough. With the rejection letter clutched in his hand, he looks back at his whole life and with a motion akin to closing a door, he throws it in a wastebasket. He should have known better.
He becomes an engineer, a successful one, and marries a woman he loves. They have children, and move to a bigger home in a better neighborhood. The father never speaks about his dream ever again, and every day he tells his children, "The world is a cruel place. Get ready." He is fiercely protective of them. In the bedroom over the bed, though his wife protested, though they couldn't afford it, is a skylight, through which on a clear night when the city lights aren't so bright, he can see the stars that he never reached.
yeah, got a little carried away. The inspiration was this guy at work Joey, who was in training to be a firefighter, but failed the test. He told me he still feels it when he watches Rescue Me and shit like Ladder 49. I guess my point is, I really have lost some faith in the world, or at least in it's benevolence. M
Maybe I'm naive and idealist, and maybe I just didn't see how things were going to be when I was young. The way I saw it though, was this: I was born and the world offered me opportunity. "You can do anything", it said, "be anything. Just want it badly enough and it's yours, on a silver platter, in a steaming mug, however you want. Happiness is yours for the taking. Welcome to the world. "
but maybe I don't believe that infinite possibility rhetoric any more. I want to be a journalist, and I want to tell stories. But looking at all of the hoops I have to jump through, and what the job is really like, especially with modernization and the 'internet journalist', I feel like it's not possible to pursue a passion any more.
Which brings me to the question, what kind of person am I?
It seems like there are two kinds of people in the world distinguished by two kinds of happiness. In one form, happiness is a foggy, indiscriminate haze of pleasure, like when you're watching a good movie, or have just had a good meal, or heard a series of funny jokes with friends. It's not that this kind of happiness isn't worthwhile. It's just unearned. You think to yourself, "man, this is great. I could feel this for the rest of my life, but then...what would my life be?" Some people can deal with that - have a life that begins when the clock hits 5pm at their desk job.
On the other side, far superior, is passion. It's like happiness is a nice picture - satisfying, but two dimensional. Passion is an emotion in 3D - it's as real as anything around you. When you achieve it, it feels like your heart is expanding fit to burst, you can't sit still, you can't wait to see what the next minute brings, the intensity of it makes you clench your hands into fists. You're full of energy, happy just to be alive and doing what you do. These people, who live off passion, change the world, and are happier than anyone.
So which one am I? do I care about my passion or just my prosperity? I don't know.
Working at Aeropostale is like making love to an obese spouse - physically exhausting, unfulfilling, and during the act, no outwardly perceivable exhaustion or distress is permitted. I am a talking piece of furniture, a lumpy, disheveled mannequin permitted sense and awareness but prohibited freedom of movement or expression. I wear the Aeropostale clothing, or rather, Aeropostale, Inc. displays their clothing upon my body. I can't even have body odor - I have body fragrance - 'A87', a scent specially engineered to send teenage girls into consumptive mania.
After every shift, I literally go insane. It began right after my first shift when I got into my car and shut the door. At first, I just talked to myself - what I was going to do when I got home, I was hungry, etc. Then I became aware of how much I enjoyed the sound of my voice, and how much fun it was to say the word Aeropostale. Loudly. It quickly escalated, and now, every drive home is inevitably accompanied by a flood of random, shouted vocalizations. This has, to my intense bewilderment and slight dismay, become habit, ritual even, starting without any sort of intent or awareness as I pull out of the mall's parking lot. Most of the time, it's not even words. The entertainment of choice for yesterday's drive home was the word 'kentachi', voiced in varying tones, volumes, pitches, and tempoes. (it's the chinese name for the KFC franchise in Taiwan)
Also, I just worked tax free weekend, which meant 100 people in the store all day, and 20 people in line for the 4 dressing rooms. The store by the way is only about two times the size of my bedroom.
Been reading a lot...I just plowed through Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell, Brave New World, Interpreter of Maladies, and 1984.
more about those later
After every shift, I literally go insane. It began right after my first shift when I got into my car and shut the door. At first, I just talked to myself - what I was going to do when I got home, I was hungry, etc. Then I became aware of how much I enjoyed the sound of my voice, and how much fun it was to say the word Aeropostale. Loudly. It quickly escalated, and now, every drive home is inevitably accompanied by a flood of random, shouted vocalizations. This has, to my intense bewilderment and slight dismay, become habit, ritual even, starting without any sort of intent or awareness as I pull out of the mall's parking lot. Most of the time, it's not even words. The entertainment of choice for yesterday's drive home was the word 'kentachi', voiced in varying tones, volumes, pitches, and tempoes. (it's the chinese name for the KFC franchise in Taiwan)
Also, I just worked tax free weekend, which meant 100 people in the store all day, and 20 people in line for the 4 dressing rooms. The store by the way is only about two times the size of my bedroom.
Been reading a lot...I just plowed through Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell, Brave New World, Interpreter of Maladies, and 1984.
more about those later
I am financially destitute. If I came across just a single penny lying on the ground, I would stop at nothing to have it. Women in labor, bullets whistling overhead, indeed, even the desperate calls of a bunny rabbit clenched in the jaws of a steel trap - all would be callously ignored in the name of weathering this financial famine. Yeah, that's not true. But I do have a box, and I have been whiling away the long unemployed hours by mounting daily safaris through my house and especially other people's houses for spare change to fill it with. I clip coupons, I sit through crappy matinee movies so I can sneak into the movie I actually want to see for a few bucks less, and each day brings a new ploy to trick my parents into filling up my gas tanks - no easy task. It's like a chess game where I closely control the level of gas in each car, and eventually checkmate them into driving the car that has only enough gas to reach the gas station. And all the while, the puppets are unaware of their strings MWAHHHHHHHHAHAHA
I finished Harry Potter, and I am hopelessly sad. The books have been a safe, and goddamned amazing haven to escape to, better than the best movie or video game. I don't like admitting this to myself, but for most of my life and still now, I have loved books mainly because when I really get into one, I don't have to live my own life. To me, it feels like the worst kind of cop out - trying to escape from your own life. Self exoneration - not from guilt, but from your decisions, and who you are as a person.
shower now, more later
I finished Harry Potter, and I am hopelessly sad. The books have been a safe, and goddamned amazing haven to escape to, better than the best movie or video game. I don't like admitting this to myself, but for most of my life and still now, I have loved books mainly because when I really get into one, I don't have to live my own life. To me, it feels like the worst kind of cop out - trying to escape from your own life. Self exoneration - not from guilt, but from your decisions, and who you are as a person.
shower now, more later
Fuggin blogging, I never keep up.
I am an goddamn addict, and the drug of choice is Entourage. Even as I consume each episode in an attempt to satisfy my ravening hunger for more pithy insults, power lunches, and charismatic characters, I am literally famished for more. I find myself pausing each episode so that I may ensure that my supply of new content will not soon expire, downloading more episodes to fill the bottomless canyon of my enjoyment. I don't just watch Entourage - I fucking inhale it! - but like marijuana smoke, it only makes me hungrier. I feel actual fear at the prospect of the show ending, and I need to check myself into rehab.
Home from college. It's so weird - I left this piece of my life behind to live a new one at college, yet when I came back, it's like I never left, kind of like putting on a shirt I forgot I had. This is definitely some form of time travel.
I registered for classes a couple of days ago. Enrollment periods are usually around 24 hours long; each hour you spend frozen by indecision, possibilities and opportunities DISSOLVE around you. The method is ridiculous - log onto URSA to actually register for classes. Then log on to Registrar so you can actually see the classes. Then log on to MyUCLA so you can actually see your time grid. Juggle the three in order to see which classes then fit into your schedule, then telepathically discern when the exam times are to ensure no overlaps. (exam times are signified with a code, that you have to compare to a chart) All the while - tick tock - essentialprereqsreachcapacity - tick tock - goodprofessorsgone - tick tock - only8amclassesleft. The end result is a series of panic-driven split second decisions which for me means that I'm majoring in economics with a political science minor. Or declaring my major as International economics halfway through junior year. I don't know how I feel about this decision yet, I'm just kind of disgusted that I made it that way.
Also, thinking about declaring my major at the end of this year actually quickens m y pulse. Time has passed so fucking fast.
For the record, getting home on July 19th sucks. Where are my friends? If they read this: COME BACK FROM CHINA, and also, STOP FUCKIN WORKING.
4am bedtime every night, 2pm wake up.
My job search is unsuccessful. I've learned that the words "we'll definitely give you a call" mean simply this: "Fuck you. Fuck you, and never come back, or we'll kill your family." With this heavy knowledge in mind, it's hard to go out there each day and not wince as I turn in my application, hands trembling with the stress of iminent indifference. Wild Oats, Publix, and Aeropostale are my best prospects. I will be poor my entire life.
end blog, sleep now.
I am an goddamn addict, and the drug of choice is Entourage. Even as I consume each episode in an attempt to satisfy my ravening hunger for more pithy insults, power lunches, and charismatic characters, I am literally famished for more. I find myself pausing each episode so that I may ensure that my supply of new content will not soon expire, downloading more episodes to fill the bottomless canyon of my enjoyment. I don't just watch Entourage - I fucking inhale it! - but like marijuana smoke, it only makes me hungrier. I feel actual fear at the prospect of the show ending, and I need to check myself into rehab.
Home from college. It's so weird - I left this piece of my life behind to live a new one at college, yet when I came back, it's like I never left, kind of like putting on a shirt I forgot I had. This is definitely some form of time travel.
I registered for classes a couple of days ago. Enrollment periods are usually around 24 hours long; each hour you spend frozen by indecision, possibilities and opportunities DISSOLVE around you. The method is ridiculous - log onto URSA to actually register for classes. Then log on to Registrar so you can actually see the classes. Then log on to MyUCLA so you can actually see your time grid. Juggle the three in order to see which classes then fit into your schedule, then telepathically discern when the exam times are to ensure no overlaps. (exam times are signified with a code, that you have to compare to a chart) All the while - tick tock - essentialprereqsreachcapacity - tick tock - goodprofessorsgone - tick tock - only8amclassesleft. The end result is a series of panic-driven split second decisions which for me means that I'm majoring in economics with a political science minor. Or declaring my major as International economics halfway through junior year. I don't know how I feel about this decision yet, I'm just kind of disgusted that I made it that way.
Also, thinking about declaring my major at the end of this year actually quickens m y pulse. Time has passed so fucking fast.
For the record, getting home on July 19th sucks. Where are my friends? If they read this: COME BACK FROM CHINA, and also, STOP FUCKIN WORKING.
4am bedtime every night, 2pm wake up.
My job search is unsuccessful. I've learned that the words "we'll definitely give you a call" mean simply this: "Fuck you. Fuck you, and never come back, or we'll kill your family." With this heavy knowledge in mind, it's hard to go out there each day and not wince as I turn in my application, hands trembling with the stress of iminent indifference. Wild Oats, Publix, and Aeropostale are my best prospects. I will be poor my entire life.
end blog, sleep now.
Eating a really large apple takes a lot of ambition. The first bite into the crisp, juicy flesh is easy, enjoyable even. You chew it contentedly, and you eagerly look forward to the next bite. But then you set the apple on the table, and you turn it around. The expanse of uneaten fruit is so vast that from the other side the apple looks untouched. You turn it back around, and you look at your teeny, tiny bite. That bite was good, you admit, but you're already feeling kind of full, and all you really wanted was the taste of the apple in your mouth.
Inertia drives you to take another bite, and you soldier on. This one sours in your mouth. You start criticizing the apple, searching for any reason you can find to stop. The skin is too chewy, and looks like it was genetically engineered to be shiny. The flesh is showing the first signs of brown from oxygen exposure. The remnants are looking vastly unappetizing, and there is still so much apple left.
You take another bite. By this time, your mouth is kind of tired, and pieces of apple are jammed into the cracks between your teeth. You chew resignedly, trying to ignore the taste, and swallow with a grimace. You fucking hate apples - they're the bane of your existence. You set the apple on the table and glare at it. It looms hatefully large and insultingly undiminished. No one presented you with a medal for your efforts. Finishing the apple would be a thankless task. Your initial ambition ebbs away, and you lob the apple in the nearest trashcan.
Somewhere up there in all of that is a relevant analogy for my life. I picked International Area Economics at UCLA as my major on a whim really; I liked economics senior year, I wanted to study abroad, and my dad told me it was a good program, so I declared it as my premajor.
Lo and behold, I came to UCLA, did some research, asked some questions, and realized that I would hate the major, primarily due to the math requirements. I changed my major to Psychology, mainly because I had all the prereqs done, but I'm having the same doubts.
I feel like I've been making throwaway decisions all of my life, with colleges, majors, ambitions, everything. But I've found this thing, this living, breathing energy inside me that is my ambition to pusure journalism. I hope it won't turn out to be just another apple.
I'm a really corny bastard.
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