EVERYTHING THAT HAS A BEGINNING HAS AN END
Sometime last year I turned in my first college paper. Nothing really to write home about. It was a five page composition about the existence of artificial consciousness in relation to Kant's ideas about the nature of conscious thought. Sounds like a real page turner, I know. As with most things that I do, I didn't exert a lot of effort while writing it. When I turned it in, I suspected that I would get a fairly shitty grade. This suspicion was amplified a week or so later when my professor, who I believe to be a raging alchoholic, chastised the class for not putting forth any effort on the assignment.
A few days later he handed back our papers and I was somewhat taken back with my grade. Considering my sleeping habits, it's entirely possible that I was imagining the "A" that had been scribbled in the bottom corner of my paper. So I rubbed my eyes a few times, and to my astonishment the "A" was still there. The next week the class was to have one on one conferences with our drunken instructor to discuss possible revisions to the paper. When I went to see him, he sat me down and said something akin to "Will, you're a good writer. You don't need to fix anything."
I felt like a fraud. Like the guy who wrote one good paper, and was all too quickly ushered to sit at the "good writers" table. I wrote two more papers in that class, and I was sure he'd change his mind about my writing ability, but he didn't. I got A's on both.
So then I figured, he's just a drunk, what does he know about good writing? This thought has kept with me over the last dozen or so papers I've had to write. And, although I still have significant doubts about my writing ability, I've gotten an A on every single paper I've written.
Then last week, everything changed. I had to write this paper for my english 205 class about Oedipus and whether or not his actions were guided by fate or some latent desire, inherent in every man, to sleep with his mother. I got a B+ on it. An 87% to be exact. Now I'm not a grade warrior. It's not like upon recieving my paper with the substandard grade I was on the verge of a nervous collapse the likes of which would require several years of therapy to mend. It really didn't bother me that I didn't get an A.
Not for nothing, but I had a streak going. Granted it wasn't quite as impressive as Ripkin's consecutive game streak, but it was a streak none the less. In the back of my mind, I thought the flurry of A's would continue right up until graduation, but it wasn't meant to be. My streak is over. I've lost the zone.
AMY HAS MONO
I don't think there's a soul on planet Earth that doesn't know Amy Northrup has mono. More importantly, I don't think anybody really cares, atleast not anymore. She contracted the disease a little over a month ago, and for the average person, this would be enough time to get past the illness. But not her, oh no. She can still be seen from time to time stumbling around McDavid complaining about her mono.
I only mention it because now there's a pretty good chance that I have mono. Before you go jumping to conclusions on some type of mat that you put on the floor, I did not make out with Amy. My concern here is that I don't take sickness well. I like to complain and bitch and moan, cause that's more exciting than just lying in bed trying to formulate new schemes designed to get Adam and his girlfriend to break up.
I just don't want to become Amy.
GOOD NIGHT SWEET PRINCE
The percentage of my day spent playing video games is staggering. Especially since this is an activity usually reserved for children and dead-beat dads the likes of which appear on day time talk shows. I really don't play that many different video games. Apart from the occasional game of Mario Tennis, I'm usually resigned to playing Smash Bros. and NHL 2002.
Last night, me and the boys were playing Smash Bros. I was playing with my favorite character, a young boy with a penchant for wearing a backwards cap, an uncanny gift for twirling a yo-yo, and who goes by the obvious code name of Ness.
After I eliminated one of the other players, who shall remain nameless, he went absolutely apeshit. And not ranting and raving like a lunitc, which he is known to do. He simply sat there and calmly said that I was never allowed to play with Ness again, and in order to ensure this, he was going to delete him from the game.
But I didn't want Ness to be erased. So with much woe, I promised never to play the game as Ness again. I died a little last night.
FOUR FATES WORSE THAN DEATH
In no particular order.
1) Having to sit in between Fran Drescher and Rosie Perez as the two of them are shouting at one another or telling jokes.
2) Losing any 4 out of your 5 senses
3) Being stuck neck deep in mud, and, while you're waiting to die from dehydration and starvation, having a wasp build a nest in your ear.
4) Having your eyes forced open Clockwork Orange style and made to watch Rocky Horror Picture Show on a continuous loop for the rest of your life.
Sometime last year I turned in my first college paper. Nothing really to write home about. It was a five page composition about the existence of artificial consciousness in relation to Kant's ideas about the nature of conscious thought. Sounds like a real page turner, I know. As with most things that I do, I didn't exert a lot of effort while writing it. When I turned it in, I suspected that I would get a fairly shitty grade. This suspicion was amplified a week or so later when my professor, who I believe to be a raging alchoholic, chastised the class for not putting forth any effort on the assignment.
A few days later he handed back our papers and I was somewhat taken back with my grade. Considering my sleeping habits, it's entirely possible that I was imagining the "A" that had been scribbled in the bottom corner of my paper. So I rubbed my eyes a few times, and to my astonishment the "A" was still there. The next week the class was to have one on one conferences with our drunken instructor to discuss possible revisions to the paper. When I went to see him, he sat me down and said something akin to "Will, you're a good writer. You don't need to fix anything."
I felt like a fraud. Like the guy who wrote one good paper, and was all too quickly ushered to sit at the "good writers" table. I wrote two more papers in that class, and I was sure he'd change his mind about my writing ability, but he didn't. I got A's on both.
So then I figured, he's just a drunk, what does he know about good writing? This thought has kept with me over the last dozen or so papers I've had to write. And, although I still have significant doubts about my writing ability, I've gotten an A on every single paper I've written.
Then last week, everything changed. I had to write this paper for my english 205 class about Oedipus and whether or not his actions were guided by fate or some latent desire, inherent in every man, to sleep with his mother. I got a B+ on it. An 87% to be exact. Now I'm not a grade warrior. It's not like upon recieving my paper with the substandard grade I was on the verge of a nervous collapse the likes of which would require several years of therapy to mend. It really didn't bother me that I didn't get an A.
Not for nothing, but I had a streak going. Granted it wasn't quite as impressive as Ripkin's consecutive game streak, but it was a streak none the less. In the back of my mind, I thought the flurry of A's would continue right up until graduation, but it wasn't meant to be. My streak is over. I've lost the zone.
AMY HAS MONO
I don't think there's a soul on planet Earth that doesn't know Amy Northrup has mono. More importantly, I don't think anybody really cares, atleast not anymore. She contracted the disease a little over a month ago, and for the average person, this would be enough time to get past the illness. But not her, oh no. She can still be seen from time to time stumbling around McDavid complaining about her mono.
I only mention it because now there's a pretty good chance that I have mono. Before you go jumping to conclusions on some type of mat that you put on the floor, I did not make out with Amy. My concern here is that I don't take sickness well. I like to complain and bitch and moan, cause that's more exciting than just lying in bed trying to formulate new schemes designed to get Adam and his girlfriend to break up.
I just don't want to become Amy.
GOOD NIGHT SWEET PRINCE
The percentage of my day spent playing video games is staggering. Especially since this is an activity usually reserved for children and dead-beat dads the likes of which appear on day time talk shows. I really don't play that many different video games. Apart from the occasional game of Mario Tennis, I'm usually resigned to playing Smash Bros. and NHL 2002.
Last night, me and the boys were playing Smash Bros. I was playing with my favorite character, a young boy with a penchant for wearing a backwards cap, an uncanny gift for twirling a yo-yo, and who goes by the obvious code name of Ness.
After I eliminated one of the other players, who shall remain nameless, he went absolutely apeshit. And not ranting and raving like a lunitc, which he is known to do. He simply sat there and calmly said that I was never allowed to play with Ness again, and in order to ensure this, he was going to delete him from the game.
But I didn't want Ness to be erased. So with much woe, I promised never to play the game as Ness again. I died a little last night.
FOUR FATES WORSE THAN DEATH
In no particular order.
1) Having to sit in between Fran Drescher and Rosie Perez as the two of them are shouting at one another or telling jokes.
2) Losing any 4 out of your 5 senses
3) Being stuck neck deep in mud, and, while you're waiting to die from dehydration and starvation, having a wasp build a nest in your ear.
4) Having your eyes forced open Clockwork Orange style and made to watch Rocky Horror Picture Show on a continuous loop for the rest of your life.
