Words. Sometimes. Maybe...: So, Like, Profound

I sometimes forget that Harwood is an actual place of learning. I just started my fourth season of softball there and the girls I play with have always jokes about their school, "Nope. Can't count that high with my Harwood edumacation." Sarah used to jokingly call me "Privy" when I said something she deemed intelligent. (This isn't really all that pertinent because Sarah would call me "Squirrel" when I was being goofy and uncontrollable. Other times she'd just sigh exasperatedly to signify that she was talking about or to me. Poor Sarah.) Anyway, when I've become so bored that I think my brain is imploding, I generally just go to Harwood. I say hello to the lady who works behind the desk, sign in as a visitor, and write "Everywhere" next to the word "Destination:" on my nametag. The other day I was sitting in Becca's art class and making a bracelet (apologies to the public school system for taking 11 beads and some string) and this girl sitting at the table with us sighed before saying, "Ya know, I think I'm just going to write myself a note and go home."

"Well... what do you mean?" I asked.

Becky was also sitting with us, (I know confusing, Becca and Becky. At least you don't have to play ball with both of them on the same field.) and she said, "Yeah Sam. You just write yourself a note for a doctor's appointment or whatever and forge a signature. It's easy, do it all the time."

At this point, I was pretty much floored. "But... but, like, your parents...?"

The same sighing girl who suggested going home said simply, "Oh. Yeah. No biggie. I just text my dad and he'll be like, 'Okay.'"

I just sort of sat there in awe, quietly sliding beads onto my wire. The last time I was at Harwood, I sat through a chemistry class and made Katie Martin's teacher like me more than her. (Consequently not that hard because I wasn't trying to give the teacher a hard time.) I just get so bored and run out of things to think of without other people's input and at Harwood there is learning but it's really relaxed and it's fun to hang around with my friends, always being a little bit distracting, and make a complete fool of myself because I don't know anyone. I get to run around the halls or slalom between people in the lunchroom; don't forget complimenting random strangers on their t-shirts and shoes.

***

Today I learned that I'm barely mechanically inclined enough to make crescent rolls. (Seriously though, what is up with the packaging? It said to poke a hole along the perforated lines with a spoon but I ended up doing a lot of stabbing (????)). Also, are Eggo waffles with nutella on them an adequate breakfast? I just made cookies (Speaking of this, what do I do with the left over cookie dough? Can I eat it? I feel like I would get salmonella; that would be just my luck. Also, having put an entire stick of butter into a bowl, I'm not as excited to eat it.) I need my mom because the milk is sour and putting on something other than pajama pants and driving a total of five minutes down the road to the gas station to get some more milk is definitely not on my list of abilities.

I hate all of the things that I'm doing, but I can't think of anything else to do, so I'm just continue to drink seltzer and make any kind of food that doesn't require milk. (God, I want cereal.) I was watching How I Met Your Mother, because who doesn't need a new unhealthy obsession, and I looked over at my seltzer and all the bubbles were floating to the top and then popping as they reached the top of the water. Then I thought about how I was glad that bubbles of condensation aren't sentient because they race to the top only to pop and lose their shape, their form, everything that they are, as they join the rest of the molecules in the air. Many of them rush to the top, others seem more hesitant but still hopeful; eventually, they all meet the same fate. Any of their efforts to reach the pinnacle of their existence, to find the highest point, simply lead to their untimely death; it is a race to a euphoric end of existence: simultaneously sad and totally exuberant. I need to stop drinking seltzer.

Why am I relating to a snake? Empathy toward a reptile should not be this easy.

I watched a documentary about The Shining (I won't be sleeping for a week.) and ignoring the one guy ranting about how the footage we saw of the moon landing was faked, it was really interesting, but also really long, and it included all of these clips from movies I haven't seen and some I hadn't even heard of. But before that, I watched Bo Burnham's show called "what," which is what I least regret from the past few days of only shifting when one of body parts became numb or needed to click to tell Netflix that, yes, I am still watching.

Caution: Bo Burnham can be somewhat offensive. (I mean, the poem is called "I Fuck Sluts." I don't really know what you're expecting.)

Here's the link because the video wouldn't work

"You're incomparable, like a..."

I started watching The Naked Gun and immediately regretted it because transitioning from conspiracy theories about the The Shining to slapstick humor isn't very smooth. I was thinking about reading Lolita but also about reviewing/discussing Divergent because I started rereading it the other day and Tris was making me so mad and I have no idea how Four was putting up with her. I was just reading and I kept thinking, Calm down Tris. Calm down Tris. Calm the fuck down Tris. You're going overboard right now. You're putting too many emotions on the line right now. Did you really just say that? Ohmygod. You're trying to give me ulcers. Go away Tris. Then I put the book down and Eklutna took it back; I was simultaneously upset that I couldn't go back to it at my leisure and glad that it wasn't there, tempting me into anxiety under the pretense that I'll enjoy the plotline and characters the same way I did last year; I started rereading the book in the hopes that it would keep me up until 3am again. Instead, it was easy to put the book down and when I came back to it, I was drowsy by 11:30.

I don't have homework. I have nothing to procrastinate. What does that even mean? I could write I guess. Oh. I'm writing now. Not about anything. If this has no purpose, if what I'm doing right now has no point, is it even writing? I think a more adequate name for it would be rambling. Or blathering. Maybe I'll come back to this later.

I don't want to change what I'm doing, I just wish I was doing what I'm doing with someone else because my ideas keep bouncing off the walls and hitting me square in the face which, as you can imagine, isn't very pleasant. So, as much as I complain about people being the bane of my existence (directly following the word "moment"), I sort of seem to need them to assure me that my slow descent into madness hasn't become the slippery slope. I also think that I should be rewarded for putting up with my mother calling, on average, about three times a day to make sure I haven't lit the house on fire. She also keeps asking if I'm eating. "I just made some pasta." "There was a thing of mac and cheese." "I'll definitely (not) make some hamburgers." In reality, I'm just devouring songs by the Arctic Monkeys and roast beef.