Goals.

Status Report

Wearing: Same Curious George Shirt. I’m also wearing silk Marvin the Martin boxers.

Feeling: Good.

WinAmp is playing: Iris – Live

Last ate: Four chicken strips and coos-coos that my mom made. Oh, and broccoli and califlower. Carlin says they kill cancer. *smiles*

Entry Start Time: 4:10 AM

Based on Esther’s “Senses”.

Life. Get up. Get dressed. Do something with the day. Eat. Pee. Poo. Be social. Go somewhere. Go nowhere. Learn something. Forget something. Think about today. Think about yesterday. Think about tomorrow, the future, as if there’s a big difference. The only difference is on the human invention known as a calendar. Eat something, maybe contemplating how many calories are in it. I’ll think only of how good it tastes. Take a moment to feel the warmth of the sun, whose rays take a full eight minutes to transverse the distance. Sun goes down. Retire for the evening. And do it all over again the next day, only differently.

I’ve decided to make boobies one of my life’s goals. Not on me, you fool. Well. In my face. But, I don’t desire to go through any sort of surgery. I like boobies. I want a girl with sensitive nipples, so she’ll actually ask me to slobber all over her chest. Oh yes, how lovely. Saliva.

Of course, I never said it would bring happiness. I was kidding, of course. Boobies aren’t a real goal. They’re more of a side effect. Boobies are like good donuts. They’re both good to lick and put in your mouth. But, as with all things, it’s fleeting. Nothing is permanent. Consider how many cells your body has shed over it’s lifetime. You really are what you eat. I am a donut. I am a taco salad. I am Lucy juice. Sure, my body has rearranged those atoms to serve it’s own purposes, but yes, my point remains the same. I’m content to never put all my eggs in one basket, to never plan too far ahead into the future. If you have one expectation of how your life will be, you will be sorely disappointed, for nothing ever happens as you think it will happen. Ever.

It’s funny how the big things that we need in life are the things that really don’t matter. A job. I thought about just what it means to “work”. For any job, there is input, and there is output. What can a human do? We move inanimate objects. And occasionally animate objects. Coal miners input labor and output coal. McDonalds inputs rat guts and soy and outputs burgers for every nation on the planet. The goal for most people is to get the most output with the least about of input. Yes, I suppose we should all “do” something with our lives. Sitting around and getting a paycheck would get old.

A job. Having money to sustain myself is merely a consequence of living. Financial assets are necessary to live, at least at the standard of living I’m used to. If I wanted to, I could live in the forest and have zero viable financial assets. Would that bring so-called happiness? Maybe for some people. It is very possible to be happy while covered in shit. It’s also possible to be sad while surrounded by expensive things. I happen to think that, in a way, money DOES buy happiness. I paid for the gas in The Van. With the gas in The Van, I was able to fetch Kivudet and General Disk Error this afternoon. Which let us hang out. Which brought my happiness. Of course, by this logic, a leaf falling in Japan causes me happiness. So, in that sense, money causes no more happiness than anything else. It’s a matter of course that we can quantify how much “money” passes through us.

Apparently, I’m going to be (or am) a Computer Science major. “Apparently”, as in, I don’t have a fucking clue. CS is a default. People ask if it’s hard. I guess? It’s funny, I’m so good at computers, but I feel stupid with some of these people at Rutgers. I’m just not in the scene. Any scene, at all. I don’t play CounterStrike. I don’t play EverQuest. I don’t frequent IRC. I don’t do Quake III or Unreal Tournement. I don’t know shit about networks. I don’t know perl. I’m not interested in losing my virginity. I don’t like Dance Dance Revolution. I like the dining hall. I can’t see any reason why anybody would want to visit my dorm room. I’m boring as shit. Right about now, I wonder how I could sit at Lisa Electron for hours on end. Lately, I can’t sit at her for too long without getting piss bored. My writing moods only strike me when I get tired. Quaint.

And yet, I do know a lot of shit. Computer-related, that is. I have my own collection of relatively useless knowledge. Oh, and I forgot to mention that I don’t get anime. To me, it’s just like, “Oh.” BIGGAYDAN makes more sense to me. Er. Nevermind. My Republican job this summer is really good for a resume. I.. I should look into getting an internship next summer. *nods* I need to go talk to people. I’m just really bad with that. I hate doing things I’ve never done before.

Speaking of needing to talk to people and doing something I’ve never done before, I REALLY need to find a urologist. My genitaliac anomaly has reached the point where I know it’s not going to just go away. Whenever I walk, I feel it. Dull ache. Blaaaah. This is why I like thongs: More support. And I’m .. not wearing a thong right now. 🙁 It makes me wonder why I’m embarassed by this. It certainly doesn’t bother me to share on OD or with my friends that I’m having problems with my maleness. I probably wouldn’t care if I shared this with a stranger on the street. “Yes, my left testicle is having problems.” But, my parents? Why does this bother me? Social conditioning, I suppose. I know that I could unlearn it or get past it if I really wanted to. But, again, social conditioning. It’s like yellow discharge. You can no more talk about an achy epididymis than you can about yellow discharge.

“How are you, Bob?”
“Oh, I’m great. I got a new car and my left epididymis hurts.”
“Oh, that’s nice. Wait, what the fuck is an epididymis?”

I think I could deal with doctors. “Oh yes, there’s this .. thing.” Then drop my pants and let him/her STARE AT MY BALLS. I think I’d prefer a hot girl to a guy. Yes. *nods decisively* …But, how many hot girls go into urology? If any girl has any interest in urology, she’ll probably go into gynocology. Baah. Well, on the plus side, I already shave my scrotum every time I shower. I wonder if he’ll notice and go, “You didn’t need to shave for this.” Then I’ll go, “I always shave my balls!”

Fear? I suppose I’m afraid. I just don’t feel like facing it right now. I avoid anything I fear. I either avoid it like Killer Klowns, or I face it with a smile. Something like that. I know I need to get this checked out. I can’t even identify what it is I’m afraid of. Once I figure that out, the fear will dissolve. In time, in time. Hopefully, soon. Retaining as much of my birth body means a lot to me. We all know I’m still mourning the loss of my foreskin.