Typewriter, Post-its, the back of a Decemberists CD and one severely damaged negative

Father in Heaven, what time did I start in here? I've finished enlarging a variety of prints for the collage assignment. My fingers are wrinkly from dipping into the chemicals so often. It's a different state of mind after every hour past the third one. The crazy thing is... I only printed about twelve or so shots from the two rolls (only) I took of my typewriter. Looking at the handful of prints hanging, I regret not taking just one more roll of shots to get even more angles and distances.
At one point, the song had ended and I heard a faint beeping noise. It sounded like a phone that has an unread text message waiting. The pipes never sound like that, so I grabbed my cell and keys and walked outside where the beeping turned into the fire alarm for the campus center. If the song hadn't ended, I would not have heard it. If there were an actual fire, I would be toast...
Relating this to Lynda a few minutes after coming back in, I told her that "it wouldn't be a bad way to go... burned among the photos that I spent six hours to print, about $30 for paper, and about four more hours to shoot and develop the negatives. Also, this tiny, secret darkroom would be dedicated in my memory for sure.
I had two lattes and a bottle of water. I'm starting to feel a bit woozy. I've got miles to go, still, before I sleep. Tomorrow will be more difficult, tomorrow will make me a man.

Will my car be fixed and operational by Tuesday? Can I pick up my computer in Sioux Falls by then? Will I have finished my essay by Tuesday? Do I have enough money in my bank account? What do I have to do tomorrow? What should I be doing, for tomorrow, today? What should I be doing today, for today? Why do I have to work with complete idiots? Why is my manager a psycho? Won't you let me walk away? She should just... I should just,

"Every one of you is fired."

I want to just,

Zip, zip, "Fuck you."

Ha! I wrote a short story in high school about a man hanging himself and the teacher contacted the counselor who, in turn, contacted the Inspiration Hills camp group for troubled teens and what. So... I spent a weekend on the high ropes course and incense-confession-crying sessions back-to-back. You know, "Alright Alvin! Way to face your fears! Let's go light this stick of cinnamon wild berry and have a talk! ...okay, I think we've made some progress! Let's grab some pulleys! Wrap this around your crotch!" Back and forth. Once you've completed one part of the high ropes course, you don't really have any more fear. And when you can smell the cinnamon wildberry on the high ropes and Steve! is staring at you for hours on end, you end up making shit up in order to get him off your back. "Uhh yeah. I never really wanted to pee. I just always liked the feeling of holding it in and then losing control and it exploding... is that weird? Sometimes, I smell myself."

Some people don't like confrontations. Did you know that? "Maybe it'll go away... if someone had a problem with me--and I'm sure someone does--then I wouldn't want to know about it. That'd be horrible!" Ha! Oh dear.

It's cold today, but yesterday--yesterday night even--was warm.

In an outburst of violence, he wrote, "Get busy and kill them! Kill them! The quicker the better! I mean if they can't stand the truth they ought to die and be dead! Let's hope maybe they'll go to Heaven and not to Hell!"

David "Moses" Berg of the Children of God cult. Sick motherfucker.

Six... almost seven hours of sleep coming

"Giddy as a schoolboy."

Hehheheh... yeah, I've heard it before. I heard it back in February. I don't know. I don't know. You know? It's... satisfying. I'm sorry; I should be able to describe it in more words. Maybe throw in some sentences... or phrases even. With or without some imagery. I'm sorry, I don't know what else to say. But I do have this unstoppable grin on my face.

It seems it's always the crazy times, but the best thing about being a giddy schoolboy is that time where time steps aside and makes way for timelessness. And just sitting there and even the pauses in between conversation transcends schedule and assignments and activity. And leaving that time Oh! leaving! is like a very, very funny joke played on you. And you're laughing and in high spirits but you're upset that it was against you. And I'm happy thinking about it, but sad that it's over and I'm heading back to the mode where I am in one place, but anxious about what I have to do next.

And you give yourself to these things, getting up constantly to face more and more. Because I feed off of it. And pushing myself to the limit is how to handle it. The white flag and punking out is not a way to handle it. Just run and run and run and recharge... then run some more.

But I realized that I smile more. And when I'm doubled over, aching and dry heaving in pain; I'm thinking about what it will be like after, when it's over and I won. And how I will be different because of it.

And when I walk into my dorm--at the end of sprint #1 and at the beginning of spring #2--I'm smiling.

And those idiots are counting the days down until we're done.



Note: This is not to antagonize the schedule, assignments or activities. On the contrary, the schedule, assignments and activities are the reason I--and you--are here at this place called higher education. And I'm calling you an idiot to your face if you're paying however much we're all paying and still taking it easy and in apathy.