29 November, 2002

A Thanksgiving Horror Story

I like cheesecake. 

I spent Thanksgiving with my family. It was a horrid affair; I positively abhorred the whole event. I say this because my family is far too critical for my tastes. Not with me, thank God, but with people in general. If you thought I was intolerant, then you should hear them. 

"Where they went wrong is when they stopped letting kids pray in schools. That's when all that evil stuff started happening in schools, y'know."
This was the comment that started my disgust. I so very much wanted to take up for freedom from religion, but I restrained myself. After all, they are my family, after all. I should not burn bridges for the sake of a cause that cannot be achieved by me in the space of one night. I may be many things, but one thing I am not is a martyr. 

But the topic of conversation soon got progressively worse and worse... And what was bad was that they thought they were being quite tolerant about all of it! It was quite unbelievable. They would sit there at the table, bashing homosexuals and african-americans, but they would denounce harsher citiques of those same groups -- so to them, they were being quite tolerant after all. 

It was disgusting. 

So disgusting, in fact, that although they had cheesecake available to eat, I dared not get up to get myself a slice, for fear that if I moved in the least bit I would draw enough attention to myself for them to ask me my opinion on the subject. And I know that if I had been asked, I would not have lied; I would have told all of them what I think of them for saying such things, especially considering that there were children present in the very next room. Had I been asked my opinion, I likely would have never been invited to that house again, simply because of what I would have called everyone sitting at that accursed table. 

But thankfully, I said nothing. Thankfully, I simply sat there, quiet and unobtrusive, until it was time to go. 

::sigh:: Perhaps I just don't understand the concept of a family. I thought I did, long ago, but obviously I didn't. Then, later, I was almost taught what exactly a family is -- I nearly understood -- but I didn't quite. I just didn't grasp it. 

Which is it? A cake the day after Thanksgiving, or the day after Christmas Eve? Either way says something dreadfully important, even though I never considered such important in the least. But as I sit here in the near-darkness, I imagine that I am wrong, and that instead true importance lies within the bellies of such cakes, and it is celebration, not money, that makes the world go round. 

::sigh:: I hope I'm wrong. I hope that life is not just the logical beast I ascribe it to be. I hope that love serves a higher purpose, whatever that height may mean. I hope that Pandora's mistake will be rerecognized as more good than harm -- for it is hope alone that keeps me alive these days. 


I am so retarded.

25 November, 2002

An Interview

So there I am, reading racist periodical literature on the couch in Carpe Diem, when I overhear two people meeting for the first time at the table beside me. 

One of them is a reporter for some paper that I hope is obscure (if not, then the public is really in trouble), and the other is a seemingly nice enough guy. The interviewee was dressed well enough, was articulate, drank tea, and had good manners. The interviewer reminded me of the typical interviewer stereotype you commonly see on TV. 

After their introductions, the interviewer went straight to business. His first question:
"Okay, so tell me about what it's like to be dead." 

It is this opening question that piqued my interest; I immediately turned the majority of my attention from the article on reparations I was reading to the interview going on next to me. 

"Well, first of all, I didn't know I was dead at the time. I thought I was still alive." 

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I mean, it isn't everyday that you overhear an interview, let alone one on a subject such as this. 

"God spoke to me, but I didn't know it was God. I just thought it was some guy." 

I actually had to refrain myself from laughing aloud. I don't mean to be prejudiced versus people with questionable beliefs; after all, I believe in true love, so how am I any different? But still, you have to imagine yourself in the same situation. 

But I think that what I overheard earlier today signifies more than what it seems at first. Today, as I recoiled at the thought that this guy really does believe all this stuff, I had to stop myself and ask: Am I fully understanding what this man thinks? 

I mean, what if he really and truly believes in what he's saying? Not just that he believes -- I mean he really believes. 

I mean, I can understand Gandhi. Even when he fasted, he did so for a purpose. And what he did worked, didn't it? You can't argue with results. I think I could make an argument for Gandhi being a closet atheist. It's not unthinkable. 

But this man... This interviewee I was overhearing... He struck a chord with me. Yeah, maybe he's just making all this up for the sake of getting his name in a (hopefully) obscure paper. But what if there existed another like him that truly believed this stuff and yet did not tell anyone? What if they believed simply because they believed? 

In other words, I asked myself the question: What is belief? 

I say I believe in true love, but what do I really mean? After all, I doubt the true existence of free love. So I don't really believe.
My friend Michael said to me today that during his yearly visit to a church, he recites the same ritualistic responses that most every Catholic does weekly, simply because he has always gone to Catholic schools. He doesn't really believe in what he says, though.
Even the office of the Pope has tried to make religion more mainstream by getting rid of the ridiculous hats worn by nuns and accepting evolution and the like as the truth. Even the Vatican doesn't truly believe. 

But that doesn't mean true belief cannot exist. And today is the first day I ever fully had this notion. Before today, I could not conceive of the idea of true belief. But now... 

...Now I can imagine the existence of a person who believes in nonsense just as much as I believe in logic. 

And that scares me.


The names have all changed, but the meaning is yet the same. 

I am amazed at the sheer size of Jupiter, aren't you? 'Tis such an ugly planet, yet so easy to hit as a target, even with an unsteady hand. But what's most strange are those moons circling the planet. I'd never noticed them before. It is so hard to notice such insignificance next to such a huge celestial body, and yet at the same time it is this hugeness that makes such moons so easily seen now that I know how to look for them. 

And yet, without the perturbations normally seen in smaller planets' orbits, what is the point? Why even bother if no perturbation is present? A star at a ninety degree andgle from our spiral galactical tilt may be twice as dim, but it is still more noticable than a star crowded out by the rest of the solar systems in our own galaxy. 

If you have to use parallax to figure it out, then no one else will bother. And if no one else bothers, then why should you? Dominique is only useful if others think she is. 

But what scares me most is not that I'd not noticed these moons before, but that I know not what they mean in the here and now. What am I missing? What information need I gather in order to unravel this mystery? 

I just don't know. 

Furthermore, what is this fascination with the most low rates? Who cares? All you need is the lowest, right? So does it matter if you know more low rates than another? What a horrible fallacious slogan. Must corporate America be so very dense? 

Mayhaps not, but what of it? Others were dense. Did I mind then? But then one of them e-mailed me. Remember, Eric? Her name was DeEtta, I think. It has been a while, so I'm not entirely sure. What of her, Eric? What comment there? 

No comment. No concern. Just sadness, that's all. Pure sadness. Sadness for me; sadness for her; sadness for you know whom. There is enough to go around, unfortunately. 

Thank God I am now here. Thank God I have my feet planted firmly on terrestrial ground. Peter disagrees, as does Russ, and Him as well. But Jimmy understands, I think. Jimmy may not know he understands, but that doesn't make the understanding go away. 

Is it enough? I'm not sure. It takes so long to get a message to and back from Mission Control. It is this that scares me second most. The length of time between rest periods. 

Is rape rape if the rape weren't considered rape by the victim? I ask, because I'd like to know. Enlighten me.

Candide Versus "The Prioress's Tale"

The following is an assigned essay which was completed for a grade. Unfortunately, some formatting has been lost in the transition to LJ.

Author: Eric J. Herboso
Class: ENG 121.02 (Composition I), for Dr. Schaub
Assignment: Paper 5: Compare & Contrast Candide & “The Prioress’s Tale”

Voltaire is a simplistic writer. His finest work, Candide, exemplifies this simplicity in its acuteness of point, lack of drivel, and ruthlessness in attacks. It is rare to find an author so willing to forego suspense, realism, and subtlety for the sake of succinctness. But that doesn’t mean that Voltaire was the first to write in such simplistic elegance. Three hundred fifty years earlier, an English author named Chaucer wrote The Canterbury Tales, a pseudo-collection of short stories of differing styles and levels of complexity. In one of these short stories, “The Prioress’s Tale”, Chaucer used a form of simplicity very similar to what Voltaire would one day come to be known for.

Like Candide, “The Prioress’s Tale” is short and to the point. No time is wasted on scenes that aren’t integral to the plot, unless the scene is present for some higher purpose. For example, the setting in Candide often changes scope dramatically in the space of but a single line of text, as can be seen when Candide first arrived in South America: "the ship made her way. They landed at Buenos Ayres” (p. 30, Candide). The only extraneous space comes in the form of semi-veiled attacks against Voltaire’s harshest critics, and even then the retaliation lasts for at most only a paragraph or two. In one particularly scathing scene, Candide asks of the Abbé, “What is a folliculaire?” to which the Abbé replies, “a pamphleteer -- a Fréron” (p. 58, Candide). “The Prioress’s Tale” is just as concise. Chaucer moves along in the story at quite a steady pace, pausing only to attack critics of Christianity (Jews) in the same manner that Voltaire attacks critics of Voltaire’s own style (Fréron, Trublet, et al). “Evil shall get what it deserves” (l. 180, “The Prioress’s Tale”).

Candide, the main protagonist of Candide, is just as his name suggests: candid and naïve. Likewise, the child protagonist of “The Prioress’s Tale” is of a singular belief beyond all reason. Because of his blind belief in the holiness of the Blessed Virgin Mary, he vows to learn a song he doesn’t even know the words of “even if [he] shall be punished for neglecting [his] primer / and shall be beaten three times in an hour” (ll. 88-9, “The Prioress’s Tale”). Of course, whereas Chaucer praises the child for such beliefs and Voltaire chastises Candide for the same, the method of making their respective points is the same; it is not so much a similarity of purpose that is seen here, but rather a similarity in proof.

But even though the intent of each author is significantly different, the syntax is quite remarkably similar. When Chaucer introduces the child hero of the story, the depiction consists of but one paragraph that describes his lineage, age, and naïvety. When Voltaire did the same for Candide, he left out Candide’s age, but the rest of the description is strikingly similar to Chaucer’s. Candide’s “countenance was a true picture of his soul. … [And he was] the son of the Baron’s sister” (p. 1, Candide). The child “was a widow’s son, / … / … / and also, whenever he saw the image / of Christ’s mother, he would … / … kneel down and say / his Ave Maria, on his way” (ll. 50-6, “The Prioress’s Tale”).

The concept of suspense is also similar from both authors’ perspectives; while not completely lost on the idea, suspense has been revamped with a higher purpose: clarity of intent. It is this clarity of intent that truly makes these two texts most similar; while it is true that the actual intent of each is different, the way each author so very concisely makes their respective points is both unusual and parallel. Suspense is not created by requiring the reader to wait overly long for the resolution of a given event, but rather by the inclusion of hints towards what will come next in the narrative.

However, it should be noted that despite all of the similarities described above, the two works are truly quite disparate. Voltaire’s Candide is written as a parody on Optimism, describing a proof against the concepts of blind belief, while Chaucer’s “The Prioress’s Tale” is written as praise for Christianity, describing the merits for blind belief. Whereas Chaucer talks negatively of Jews being allowed to live in a community “for purposes of foul usury and filthy lucre, / hateful to Christ and his followers” (ll. 39-40, “The Prioress’s Tale”), Voltaire talks sympathetically of a Manichean in a positive light, showing that Martin “was an honest man, … persecuted by the preachers of Surinam” (p. 51, Candide). But despite these many differences, the method of discourse between the two texts remains similar, even when the crux of each respective methodology is completely different.

It is this utter simplicity of style that makes both Candide and “The Prioress’s Tale” a true pleasure to read; it is not common to find such gifted authors as that can write a story so very simply and yet portray that same story so very well in one and the same text.

21 November, 2002

A Normal Entry

Cartoon Network decided to run reruns in favor of new DragonBall Z episodes today, meaning that the continuation of the series I've been watching since I first came to school here at Spring Hill College will not be aired until sometime next year. Needless to say, this has made me more than a bit upset, as the last show they aired yesterday afternoon ended on quite a cliffhanger. To make up for it, David invited me over to his dorm to watch DragonBall Z movies. We ended up watching six hours worth before I left. 

His dorm is extremely nice, too... It's the newest dorm facilities on campus, and they are nice enough to almost make me want to forego my apartment and instead live on campus. 

I had a paper due this morning, but instead of writing it last night like I had intended to, I stayed up all night arguing with a friend. It was fun, but it came at a price: now I have multiple papers due, and I've yet to start on any of them. And look at me now, writing in my diary in lieu of writing my papers. 

I am eternally stupid, you know that? 

Actually, this is my attempt at writing a 'normal' diary entry. It's more hard than it at first seems. I've had to delete entire sentences and rewrite them just to make them sound more 'normal'. It reminds me of when I tried to write a Dr. Seuss narrative once. It seems so easy, yet it is instead quite hard. 


One more thing before I end this entry: in the forums I frequent, stupid people keep posting in a physics thread, proposing outrageous claims that I needn't even really respond to since everything that I could say had already been posted before they typed what they did in their post. How exactly do you stop such moronic people? I just don't get it. 

Oh, well. 

I hope you've found this journal entry to be 'normal', because I've worked very hard to make it that way. (c; 


20 November, 2002

Carnal Pleasure

Sometimes, she makes me smile. 

We'll be talking of whatever subject we happen to be on at that moment, and she will make some point of logic that just hits home. Most of the time, I thought of it before she did, but the very fact that she thought of it at all sends shivers down my spine. 

Hearing the cold logic of a beautiful woman is breathtaking; but it is even more so when she beats me to the logic -- on those few occasions when she says something and I've not considered it before, an almost orgasmic feeling comes over me, and I cannot help but enjoy it. 

Sometimes, she makes me smile. And after I smile, I am forced to excuse myself from the room, lest she realize how much I enjoy partaking in her intelligence. 

::sigh:: ... It is too bad that I do not get to argue with her more often... And it is doubly too bad that I know of no other woman who is willing to argue with me like this. ... ::sigh:: 

C'est la vie.

19 November, 2002

Anarchy Versus ... Me?

He is there every day when I go to the cafeteria for food. Forty hours a week he toils, sometimes more. Yes, he gets paid, but so what? How does he get out? 

"How does he evade the system?" my friend asks me. 

I'm stumped. I sit for five or so seconds, and the smile on his face grows as others at the table snicker at my expense. It is the first time they've ever seen me hesitate. 

I have to answer with something... anything. "Well, ..." I imagine a bead of sweat rolling down my forehead, but it is too cool for any such thing to happen. "... he shouldn't procreate. If he can't give a good life to his children, then he shouldn't have any; this will break the cycle, and the children that are born into this world will be better off than otherwise." 

"So we should round up all the poor people and have them spayed? Then we can use them for slave labor afterwards and it'll all be good, right?" The snickers become outright bursts of laughter, and there is nothing I can do to stop it. 

"No, no -- they should n't be forced into it, but surely you see why --" 

"No, I don't see, Eric. What do you mean? What are you getting at?" 


I look at him, and I see what I see everyday that I come to the cafeteria. He walks from table to table, fixing chairs and sweeping floors and rearranging ketchup bottles. 

Am I really doing this to him? Is it really people like me who have dictated that his life be as it is? My glass of tea is empty, so I excuse myself for another round. Is this what capitalism really means? That I am better than him? Why am I better than him? I can't stop glancing at him as I walk through the cafeteria. I worked hard to get where I am; I am working hard even now. Why should he get what I get if all he does is rearrange ketchup bottles? I fill my glass with tea. But he has no choice; where else can he go? This is the best job he can get? Could you do better if you were in his position? 

I pour out the tea, disgusted with myself. I look at my hand, quivering in the bland light of the cafeteria, and I see the scar. Greg's scar. It was his sword that pierced me that night; it was my thoughts that night that scared me more than any other night I've ever been alive. I lied that night. I know not why, but I did. It wasn't a big deal at the time, but now, looking back, I know how important that night was to my life. On that night, I was the one rearranging ketchup bottles. By choice. 

What am I here for? Why do I do what I now do? Why do I have such thoughts? ...such hurt? 

Absalom? No. God, I hope not.
Tyson? Perhaps. I don't think so, though.
Conan? ... Maybe. Maybe so. 

That's scary, you know. Really scary. 

Love me, please. Don't ignore me. 


18 November, 2002

Candide Versus The Fountainhead

The following is an assigned essay which was completed for a grade. Unfortunately, some formatting has been lost in the transition to LJ.

Author: Eric J. Herboso
Class: ENG 121.02 (Composition I), for Dr. Schaub
Assignment: Paper 5: Compare & Contrast Candide & The Fountainhead

Perhaps no two philosophic works seem as though they could not be more different at first than Voltaire’s Candide and Rand’s The Fountainhead. Whereas Voltaire’s point was to make fun of Optimism (among other things), Rand intended to portray the ideal hero and what made that hero so very ideal. But when a disconcerting reader looks closely, it is found that both books share a basic premise of ridiculing what others take for granted.

Neither Voltaire nor Rand went so far as Marquis de Sade, but they did both write an attempt to question others’ beliefs. Candide (from Candide) goes through life naively, believing in an ideal that no one else can see; similarly Roark (from The Fountainhead) goes through life oblivious to others’ ideals, believing instead in things that no one else can see. (insert quotation here) Rand praises Roark for his view, while Voltaire makes fun of Candide for the same, but in either case the author is making the same point: the consideration of oneself is paramount to considering anything else.

Voltaire had this idea that one cannot just simply explain away pain and suffering just because God made the world as it is. (insert quotation here) Rand, too, shared this view, adding that the evils of the world are spawned solely from men. (insert quotation here) Voltaire may have disagreed with this, invoking hell as the root of all evil, but really this is equivalent to man if one takes the atheist viewpoint.

Even the supporting cast of characters in each novel are remarkably similar. Dr. Pangloss (from Candide) uses what he considers to be logic in order to find ‘the one true philosophy’ (insert quotation here) – Alvah Scarrett (from The Fountainhead) does exactly the same. (insert quotation here) Pangloss expresses his philosophy in argument to others around him, and Scarrett expresses his by writing for a popular ‘paper’, resulting in the same uncultured audience to believe both.

Although Voltaire and Rand lived at different times, wrote for different audiences, and even wrote with differing ideals, the two authors still made novels that had the same basic point: believing in what others say without reason is ludicrous; one should always listen to the viewpoint of oneself before hearing any other opinion.

True Meaning

Him: "I showed it to you because I thought you might like it. I like it. I ... I watch it at least once each day."
Me: "Yes, ... yes, I can definitely see why, my friend. That... that was beautiful."
Him: "Yes. Now you know how I felt when I first saw it."
Me: "Yes. Yes, I think that I do." 


::sigh:: I find myself wondering whether or not everything is as I see it... Is life as I encounter it? Or is life what I have not yet found it to be?
I cannot recall a time when I did not feel unease.... Baram was surreal. I felt unsteady with P. It was strange at ASMS. It was even stranger at LA. Even Roni made me feel so very weird... 

Even when I was the one doing the enrolling, life did not seem real. They were just too big. 

My whole life has been fiction... Not in that it was not real, but in that none of it felt real. None of it. Even now, in college, it is because I had to hide something. 

Nothing is real to me. 

"It has taken me almost 3 years to get up the courage to write this."
"But she was close... Oh so very close... It is as though she sees the right direction, but is unable to fully grasp it."
"I can feel it, almost... It's like a presence, except it isn't there."
"At least, I see nothing there with my eyes."

"Though this be madness, yet there is method in it." 

Is it wrong to quote? To repeat? To continue what came before? I asked one of my professors whether or not I had to cite myself when I repeated my own quote. ... 

I just don't get it. Why must the world breed such stupidity? Everyone I know I also despise, even those I love. Surely this is not healthy.

Yet even now the world stops before me, twirling about my finger, supported by four great elephants upon a huge turtle floating in the sea of seas... 

I don't get it. If I'm so smart, then why am I so stupid? If I'm so strong, then why am I so weak? If I'm so able, then why do I fail so miserably? 

At least Phoe jumped on a trampoline. And when none was available, he used a mattress, left out in the yard to be ruined by the elements. And when that was unavailable, he used pillows atop his couch. 

I thought him so stupid... 

And yet now I know that he was the smarter of the two of us. 
Alas! for torturous screams are naught when compared to the eerie silence of my joints! Another man's bones may break, but mine - Oh, Mine! - they hold so tightly, gripping with less cartilidge than any other man can claim. My own heart deserts thyself - myself - for we are one and the same, you and I, forever held together by the bounds of such sacred rites as that I never saw again.
Kiss me, you fool! yet the cry is meaningless without direction, and whom is there to heed my call? Dawn breaks, and with it my soul; lost forever in the depths of deepest horror lies happiness - true happiness - that of which the likes has never been seen in heaven. But the road to hell is paved with evil actions, and civility is not quite the same. Tear me open and patch me up again; beat me senseless and hurt my every pore... It is such that I wish, for it is such that I desire evermore, always and forever...
always and forever...
a never-ending call for me to rescind what I once was, and yet what then would I have left? Aye, I may only be but a shadow of an empty shell of a man, but at least I have my memories! At least I may cry and see in mine own tears that merry wanderer of the night! At least I may die and watch in that last moment a repeat of all I cared for above and beyond forevermore and without end... 

always and forever... 

Yet harsh sentiment returns, not to harm, but to teach! to care! to love! For in love lies knowledge, and in knowledge lies that which may never be stated more intensely than what was first condemned as that most horrid act... If I may rape, then what ought I? If I may rape, then life may choke, and Gaea may stay away, far away, always and forever...

take me away... please, take me away... 


I hate you, P, for giving me a level of sanity. I would much prefer to be without help, dying in a field of cotton. F you, P. 
take me away...

17 November, 2002

Garacan Does A Survey?!

{{Note: When this entry was first posted, it was under the pseudonym "Garacan".}}

Well, this is it: my first survey entry. 

Yeah, yeah, I know. I realize that it's totally out of character for me, but I recently encountered a survey on another diary that asks the really tough questions and reveals more about one's psyche than any other survey I've ever seen before. So, I've decided to make a survey entry. Feel free to skip this one if you so care. 

Survey stolen from Harm's Way at

Name: Eric Jonathan Herboso, though here I am referred to as Garacan. 

Location: Mobile, AL; USoA. It's a beuatiful place, though to truly appreciate it you have to really look at it. 

Age: 21 years old. At times I feel much younger, though... 

Sex: Male. This is not by choice, though... I much prefer females to males. 

Favorite book: The Fountainhead, by Ayn Rand, for it's views on philosophy, although I disagree with much of that philosophy. I know that sounds weird, but it's the truth. 

Favorite poem: Paradise Lost, by Milton. I say this because Milton wrote in English, but even better: he wrote well in English. I wish I could write like Milton, but alas, I cannot. 

Favorite sexual position: Standing, with the woman pushed up against a corner. 

Favorite movie: I've not yet seen Instinct, so this might change in the near future, but for now it is Citizen Kane. (I've been meaning to see Instinct for a long while, now... 

Favorite friend: Myself. If I hadn't been there for me all the times that I had, I would have long since gone crazy. Or is that I would have then been sane? Either way, it makes no difference -- they both amount to the same thing. 

Favorite band: Manhattan Project, although no one else has ever heard of them. They combine bveautiful poetry with beautiful music -- a feat most other artists never get the hang of. I don't reccommend them to others, though; you really have to understand their style before you can appreciate their music. 

Favorite line from poetry: "Acceptance is Perfection; understanding is love." (Quoted from Ashley Saxon, a young poet that I met once and never heard from again. Miss Saxon, if you ever read this, please e-mail me. I'd love to talk to you again.) 

Favorite line from a novel: "That's the only way I can feel. Or not at all." (From The Fountainhead, p. 141 in the '94 Plume printing. Dominique is saying this in response to how she feels about reading books.) 

Favorite line from a movie: "What we have here is a failure to communicate." (From Cool Hand Luke. If you've never seen this movie, then go watch it. Now.) 

Name one line that sticks out right now, off the top of your head: "There will be no heavy duties. Your job is, every time I say something, contradict me with the strongest possible arguments." (Quoted from Wolfgang Pauli, to his new assistant. I so very much wish I could have been Pauli's assistant.) 

Three ways in which you can make the world a better place: Written works, logical proof, and constant argument. Without these, the world will never get any better. 

Three parts of the trinity: An attempt at fixing what earlier writers of the bible screwed up. I do not care how anyone interprets this logical faux pas any more that most people care how Rand writes of Dominique versus Roark. 

Marquis de Sade is: so very close to perfection; if only he could have understood the true nature of happiness, then I would care for him more. Instead, his works were written more for shock value than for truth. To me, this is more like commercialism or a route to fame than true intelligence. He was close, though. 

Favorite author: Milton. He writes beautifully. Too bad he was so devout. 

Favorite poet: If I were a robot and cared only for sructure, I would answer Milton. But I'm not a robot -- I also care for content, and Milton was a retard. So I'll answer Whitman here. Don't misunderstand me, though -- I think Whitman is a horrible poet. It's just that he's the best there is. (Yeah, I know I'm weird.) 

Favorite philosopher: You might expect me to say Rand, but that is not true. Rand was retarded. But since there's really no one better (though Nietzche comes close), I'll answer that I consider myself as my favorite philosopher. Is that egotistical? Perhaps, but I would debate that point. 

Favorite philosophical work: Definitely The Fountainhead, by Ayn Rand. I want to write something like that someday. 

Least favorite philosopher: Augustine. While it's true that he was more logical than most of the devout, it is the fact that he acts as though he is better than other religious figures because of his logic that annoys me. If he praises logic so much, then why does he stop his logic when it comes to belief? Others were stupider than Augustine, but none of them ever considered themselves logical to an extreme. 

Least favorite philosophical work: The Fountainhead, by Ayn Rand. I hope I never write anything so inanely stupid in all of my life. 

Least favorite novel: Ugh... There are so many. Today I'll go with The Scarlet Letter, by someone I can't recall. If you ask me again tomorrow, I'll likely answer differently with an equally retarded novel. 

Least favorite poem: Well, ... it depends on how define 'least favorite'. As of now, I will answer with any poem by William Topaz McGonagall. The irony of the situation though is that I like McGonagall's style. 

Least favorite movie: There have been some really bad ones out there. I'll answer Pokemon for right now, but I bet if I really thought about it I could come up with something worse. 

Faith, Hope, or Charity: Faith, of course. Too bad I don't have any. 

The Form of Forms: Love. The strange thing is that I say this based on faith alone. (Talk about doublespeak...) 

Anything you can think of goes here: This is the only survey I've ever even considered filling out. Props to whomever thought this up. 

To anyone who reads this: Feel free to steal this as you see fit. It will tell more about yourself than most of the other stupid surveys on the 'net... (c;

On The Existence Of People

I saw the latest Harry Potter movie yesterday. It was pretty good, though the changes they made from the book were too extensive for me to say I really enjoyed the movie all that much. 

Last Friday night, I was shown a fan-made music video combining scenes of Vegeta from DragonBall Z and music from Creed and Linkin Park. It was, to say the least, extremely moving. Whomever made this video is most definitely a real person. Whomever it was that knew how to splice such music with such scenes truly does exist. 

Most people don't exist. 

He got up, walked over to her, and stood looking at the lights of the city below them, at the angular shapes of buildings, at the dark walls made translucent by the glow of the windows, as if the walls were only a checkered veil of thin black gauze over a solid mass of radiance. And Ellsworth Toohey said softly:
"Look at it. A sublime achievement, isn't it? A heroic achievement. Think of the thousands who worked to create this and of the millions who profit by it. And it is said that but for the spirit of a dozen men, here and there down the ages, but for a dozen men -- less, perhaps -- none of this would have been possible. And that might be true. If so, there are -- again -- two possible attitudes to take. We can say that these twelve were great benefactors, that we are all fed by the overflow of the magnificent wealth of their spirit, and that we are glad to accept it in gratitude and brotherhood. Or, we can say that by the splendor of their achievement which we can neither equal nor keep, these twelve have shown us what we are, that we do not want the free gifts of their grandeur, that a cave by an oozing swamp and a fire of sticks rubbed together are preferable to skyscrapers and neon lights -- if the cave and the sticks are the limit of our own creative capabilities. Of the two possible attitudes, Dominique, which would you call the truly humanitarian one? Because, you see, I'm a humanitarian."

I was invited out to dinner this weekend, but I did not go. It is not that I forgot (though I nearly did); rather it is that as I took my shower and began preparations for the outing, I stopped myself, thinking on what needed to be done. 

I have a paper due tomorrow on a book I have yet to read. I know that such procrastination is stupid, but I almost feel as though my subconscious did it on purpose. What if I purposely waited until the last minute to read my book solely so that I would have a reason not to go out to eat? 

I must truly hate myself. 

Yet at the same time, it is this supreme hatred that defines why I love whom I am. It is because I hate my life that I feel that it is the life I lead that is preferable to all others. I mean, sure I'd be so very much happier if I had what I wanted, but then what would happen? 

I just don't get it. Why must I be as I am? If only I were just slightly stupider, then all would be fine. If only my depression sprang from an idiotic source; then, I could be happy. But no. Instead, my depression comes from something so deep that it is impossible to describe here. Others that I talk to about it misrepresent my pain -- it is not from a woman or love or even an ideal. It is not from lonliness or lack of friends or social status. It is not from a barrier of intelligence or racial qualities or apathy in life. 

No, what depresses me is that I exist. 

And yet, even that definition doesn't sound right. It's not simply because of that; if that were the case the solution would be simple: kill myself. No, it is simply that I have the possibility of existence. And yet, that's not right either, for it's not a personal feeling. It really doesn't have anything to do with me per se. In fact, it has nothing to do with any of my qualities. 

When it comes down to it, I really don't have a good definition for it. But isn't that in itself illogical? 


A friend of mine just came back today from the protest for the School of Americas in Fort Benning, GA. While there, he signed up in the communist party and gave an interview for an anarchist paper. From his decrsiption of the events, it sounded like fun. I almost feel like I want to go next year with a camera and a notebook so that I can cover the event from the point of view of a staunch capitalist. 

Tonight, I promised a friend of mine that I would be going to a play entitled "The Last Of The Formicans". But I shan't be going; not because I don't want to, but because it is more important for me to stay here, doing the work that I should have done much earlier. 

I am so stupid. 

I don't mean to be, of course, but I am anyway. And everyone out there reading should not dismiss this statement -- I am stupid, whether you believe it or not. Perhaps I have more knowledge than most, but I am stupid. Anyone who cannot resolve cognitive dissonance is stupid. I'd almost use that as a definition of stupidity -- the incapability of resolving cognitive dissonance. 


You know, I didn't used to use the double colon before and after the word 'sigh'. I used to use < and > instead. But html has forced me to use colons. And what makes it doubly annoying is the fact that in IM conversations if I use colons, the ':s' combination in '::sigh::' almost universally creates an emoticon that I did not intend. And that's annoying. 

A lot of things annoy me. There are a lot of things that don't annoy me, too. But there are very very few things that I adore. 

Like Vegeta. I adore Vegeta. 

I know most people hate DragonBall Z. That is to be expected, as it is one of the stupidest cartoons ever made. But if you can get past the stupidity and watch Vegeta... If you can watch how he grows from episode to episode... If you can look past the cartoonish exterior and see what Vegeta's soul looks like... 

Vegeta is a real person. Vegeta exists. 

So few people truly exist... 


14 November, 2002

Dear Man Walking

Sister Helen Prejean, CSJ, the author of "Dead Man Walking" gave a speech tonight. I helped with setting everything up before the speech and I did all the post-speech work as well. I'm not sure... Either that is the kind of thing I do all of the time, or else I'd ordinarily never help out like that. 

Her speech catered to emotion. She talked harshly against the death penalty in all of its forms. 

Her speech made me sick. 

Not because it was horrible; on the contrary, I liked it. I found myself agreeing to most every point she raised, if you discount the religious arguments. And at the end, when she was given a standing ovation, I had to physically force myself not to clap for her. 

I hated her speech because I found myself liking it. 

I haven't slept for nearly forty-eight hours now. Miss Whitmarsh will not be stealing me tonight. I plan on sleeping, and I plan on sleeping well. 

My programming teacher reccommended that I try using dhtml on my website. I will try, but first I must look up dhtml and see what it means. 

::sigh:: I'm depressed. 

I'm not saying that for sympathy. I'm saying that for truth. I'm not asking anyone to feel sorry for me. I'm asking only that others be respectful of my own thoughts and ideas. Don't leave me alone at six-thirty in the morning to fend for myself. Don't leave a note on a Playstation that I won't look at again for weeks upon weeks. Don't talk like Mojo Jojo to me unless you want to be talked at in a strange accent right back at you. 

Thank you for the hugs. You know whom you all are. I appreciated it immensely. 
I saw Miss Dearman today. I hate to say it, but the sight of her made my insides twist and writhe. I wish I had not seen Miss Dearman today. But I did.
She asked me what would seem to most like an apropriate question. But for me, it was torture. Pure torture. 

I almost yelled at her, screamed at the top of my lungs: "Go away, you fool! Don't you see that you are exactly what I hate more than anything else in the entire world! Don't you see that you are the past that I try so very hard to forget!"
But instead I politely answered her question in such a way that she quickly got the idea and went on to talk to other people. 
Damn you, Toohey. Damn you for doing what you did to me.



Question: if I ask for a kiss this entry, will I get kissed as much as I was hugged because of my last entry? If so, then I'd like to ask for a kiss. Otherwise, ignore this paragraph and be happy with the fact that even a depressed me is able to smile for some things. (c: