Several weeks back when I decided to once again spew my mental humdrums to the masses, the effects of this blogosphere indoctrination were not yet clear. I was (am) motivated to transpose my lottery-balls to a coherent format if only for my own wellbeing. Release always seems to bring about introspective peace, regardless of the subjective quality of said release. Inducing bodily trauma, whether through rigorous exercise or self-mutilation, releases endorphins to cope with the stress. Talking about issues, whether through a formal debate or in a wooden box speaking to a self-appointed liaison of a fictitious being, gives us a recovered understanding of the world around us and often provides a new sense of calm. Orgasms, it is said, whether a result of the tragically boring missionary sex with Mary-Margaret the missionary or that mustache-ride in the Chicago alley from Jorge the midget Mexican, gives us a window into our sub-consciousness, not to mention the physical release. Along similar lines, writing, at the very least, is a medium in which to organize my incongruous thoughts……or shall we say disparate thoughts? (yup that’s right, name of my blog). Most of all, in the predictable egoic sense, it validates what I view as a deeper, atypical mode of thought. Perhaps this is the epitome of human arrogance, but hey, I’m of that fallible mutt breed just like you.
The last several months have given rise to the discovery of countless blogs from the likes of scientists, atheists, politicians, spiritualists, doctors, bands and friends, to name a few. I’ve taken advantage of a number of podcasts covering current events, philosophy, environment, energy, not to mention the classes I’ve audited through itunesU, such as The History Of Jesus provided by Stanford. I’m an infoholic. I can’t live without infohol. We live in a time when humility should be at an all time high and ignorance should be at an all time low. There is one invaluable concept taught to me through the scientific method that you should always use as a platform when approaching information: NEVER EVER BELIEVE ANYTHING YOU ARE TOLD!!!! It is your responsibility to research the source, review the data, identify potential biases and educate yourself on the scientific method. There are no excuses for ignorance anymore.
Holy Tangent Batman! The point I am not making very well is that instead of directing my energy to writing, it has been spent on reading anything and everything from the underground connections of the blogosphere. Instead of attempting to write something I view as substantive, which is surprisingly difficult for me and mentally draining, and in order to keep up with my blog to get that release from writing, I’m going to switch styles slightly and dip into my stream-of-lottery-ball-consciousness. It may not be coherent for you, but I’m still going to achieve that release whether or not there is significant time devoted to arranging my thoughts or it’s just a stream of bullshit. To be honest, I’m extremely self-conscious of my intellectual ability…writing style. Debating has always been a weakness of mine despite the information being there, just difficult to retrieve in a timely manner, which is perhaps why it takes me so long to write something of intellectual coherence and beauty, very subjective coherence and beauty I may add.
So what’s on my mind? *Que metaphysical fishing pole* Well without sounding conceited or culturally hegemonous, I’m going to illustrate the pride I hold in my present situation. Ok ok it sounds like nothing more than bragging for the sake of inflating my cold, bald head, but there’s another motive. Think Tony Robbins meets Sarah Connor meets Matt Skiba lyrics. ***I actually just wrote for the last half hour about specific moments in my past to personify how fucked up life can get for some people. For fear of stigma I decided to delete. Perhaps I’ll change my mind later*** Too many years of my life have been devoted to second guessing myself and questioning my very existence, or perhaps denying my own existence with debilitating consequences to my mind and very tangible reminders to my body. In all this mess, the only order to come out of the incoherence are the sporadic bursts of success measured only in terms of where I have been in the past.
January marks my first semester of official graduate school at UIC. My first class in an environmental engineering program is Solid and Hazardous Waste Management. I will learn how to more effectively transport, store, clean and reuse YOUR poop. How fitting a class for my idea of how Balderdash should be played. I have applied for a more intensive program in the school of mechanical engineering, more specifically energy engineering. This program would prove to be a bit more relevant and productive to current societal trends, and I’d finally be able to get away from this seemingly unhealthy infatuation with butts and poop and other toilet humor often perpetuated by that Jen-girl.
So last year after I made the snap decision to move to London unemployed and homeless, literally unemployed and homeless. Go here to read about my London stuff http://www.xanga.com/jhart21.
Daunting can only begin to describe the emotions especially considering my malfunctioning sympathetic nervous system. Here is the story of my first interview:
You know when you spend the night at a person’s home and wake up in the morning and for a few seconds you have to strain to know where you are? Well imagine doing this in another country in a studio apartment after 10+ pints of lager and an unknown amount of sambuca. I rolled out of bed onto the floor; literally because this is what happens when you are sleeping on a mat. Promptly made my way to the bathroom where I proceeded to have some hardcore D.A.D.S. (Day After Drinking Syndrome) mere inches from where two precious girls were sleeping. I dawned my brand new American – untrendy London – one and only suit lovingly purchased by my Dad. So I’m shootin to kill in my awesome Dillard’s suit, walk out into the wonderful London air that often resulted in boulderous black nasal mucous and made my way to the unventilated tube system in the rain.
Let me summarize. I’m severely hungover, the sky is pissin down and oh so hot on the subway. You'd be sweating too.
I get off in central London, get lost in the rain, hail a taxi in my Dillard’s suit, the taxi driver can’t read the Google map, we get lost, time keeps ticking, I keep sweating. I arrive at this posh office with GQ guys and trendy girls; then there’s scruffy, hungover Dillard’s suited Jake. I WAS Ugly Betty. I’m taken into the interview room where I frantically try to dry any exposed skin, especially my right hand and forehead. I actually think I set some sort of record for severity of pitted-out suit.
The first of three interviewers came into what was now a room with noticeably higher humidity thanks to my armpits. It doesn’t help that when I get really nervous, I can’t smile and my face tends to twitch. I’ve gotten much better at combating both of these undesirable reactions, but it was particularly bad that day. I shot a quick smile before I could think, shook hands and thanked the nice looking lady for the opportunity. I discovered the only way I could keep a sustained smile is if I kept my hand under my chin. You know that astute “I’m thinking” look. With my hand awkwardly placed under my chin, I smiled, oozed as positive vibe as I could and answered questions as clearly and intelligently as my still-retarded-from-last-night firing synapses would allow. I utilized this method for the next two interviewers, thanked the last one, which would later become my boss, left and crashed…physically crashed. That’s what happens with people who have an overactive SNS and endure a prolonged episode. I went to the darkest pub I could find, which wasn’t hard, sat on a couch and drank pints until I dried and the irrational self-destructive thoughts could do no more harm. Through all that shit, I was offered the job. I earned that job.
Last year I visited 15 different countries as my passport will prove; the majority of visits by myself. This year I’ve traveled to both ends of the U.S, and for all intense and purposes, both ends of Canada as well. My next flight will be my 29th individual flight of 2008. I’ll be in Florida in November and living on the north side of Chicago close to Wrigley Field. I say not bad for a kid who hadn’t flown for the first time until he was 20. I say not bad for a kid who never thought in a million years he’d be in this position. Ok I’m going to admit it; I am bragging. I’m not bragging to you though, I’m bragging to my former self. I’m bragging to that person who is still very much a fundamental part of my psyche, just repressed with every ounce of strength gained through transcending those preconceived limits I once set myself.
I particularly enjoy when people boost my ego by making comments such as, “Oh I wish I had that opportunity,” or “I wish I could have done/do something like that” or “I just don’t have the time or money to do something like that.” Fuck that. That’s all bullshit. All of these comments are just excuses to validate a life that never was and will more than likely never be despite every conceivable opportunity to rise against this form of self-limiting way of thinking. A wise man once said you can do whatever you want. Maybe we can’t have our cake and eat it too, but the only thing your excuses are doing is providing an illusory sense of justification for your missed opportunities.
We all have a certain degree of limitation. I for one will most likely never have a budding porn career, but if I want to live in downtown Chicago as opposed to the more practical – in every sense of the word – decision of living in the suburbs, you better believe I’m going to choose the former. This philosophy that I continue to refine and will continue to refine until I’m dead is what has literally kept me alive. It has literally prevented my death. I know many say this isn’t realistic; I say practicalities don’t fit in my life, but hey, you gotta do what works for you.
