Academic: Breaking - I'm not prepared to be an academic--a teacher, perhaps, but not an academic. With every word I write, I think about the meaninglessness of my action. My topic has been so bastardized by certain "orders" or "discourse" that it has lost its significance to me. Like a defeated Roarkian (an oxymoron?) or moreso a pre-Galtian Rearden, my efforts to salvage what's left of an atrocity are futile and, perhaps, even immoral. And today I learn that the mutant proposal--which I allowed them to create--is not even good enough. I must be fair to all theories. Even my thesis must be multicultural / postmodern / dead. If someone said to you, "Even if you believe in the value of your own life, you must consider the fact that it's not valuable at all for the sake of everyone else who think's their life is worthless," what would you do? Would you make the argument? The proper response, it seems to me, is to punch them in the face and walk away. But that won't get me a master's degree in most states. This isn't Alaska for God's sake.

Social: Breathing - Aren't I always?

Personal: Confused - Aren't I always? No. That's not fair to me. In a time when I feel as if I'm able to live more freely than ever before, it seems as if I don't know what to do with my new found freedom.


on duty

This link is the perfect example of what I mean when I say that I have neither the time nor the desire to restate arguments that have already been made.


Kevin James perpetuates "the lie." And no. The lie is not that Kevin James is funny. He is often funny-ish.


"Giddy" is often a good thing. Most of the time, at least. And in this case as well. It's an accomplishment--or as the French say: "accomplissement"--something to take pride in.

Giddy-pride. (Sounds too much like "gay pride.") Prideful giddiness. (Eh.)

Giddy is a terrible word phonetically. It's not manly at all.


Do you want to...

Strrrrrrike one!

How about...
Sure, sounds great.

Swing and a miss!

Well, I still want to... Do you?
Yes, absolutely.

Strike three! You are outta here!

Good thing I have two more batters. And it's only the bottom of the second.

(Was that a sports metaphor? On this blog? My, my how things change.)


Yes, BRT, that was four exclamation points in one post.


It's I who have won in this situation, you know. It's not a "sad" feeling to glance or a "depressing" feeling to emote. Awkward? Ok, yes, a bit. But more so invigorating.


When you say, "I want to share an experience with you," what power are you conceding? Does the content of someone's answer change based on your saying what you desire? Does your mere expression disqualify you from its attainment? Is acknowledgment of reality the ultimate turn off? It might be more appropriate to ask, "Should I be interested in someone for whom the acknowledgment of reality is the ultimate turn off?" It could become a litmus test.

Dagny didn't believe that he was possible. She was ready to die searching for an ideal.
(Dagny is a fictional character.)
(He is a fictional character.)

I didn't believe that she was possible. She is not the ideal--for the simple fact that I am not her ideal--but she is an acknowledgment of the possibility. For me. I am ready to die searching for an ideal.
(I am not a fictional character.)
(She is not a fictional character.)

You1 do not believe that she is possible. You1 are ready to die not searching for an ideal.
(You1 are not a fictional character.)
(She is a fictional character.)

Nuances of possibility and actuality.


What do you think it was that I thought when you opened the door and entertained the idea of aesthetic supremacy--of knowing a Platonic ideal through the witness of beauty? (It's nonsense, you know, what they say about Platonic love. "Selfless love" is neither selfless nor love. How flattering to say, "I derive no pleasure from loving you." Platonic "love"--a bastardization of the term--is more so a prison than an emotion, more so a self-imposed panopticon of shame.) But Plato may have been on to something he could not understand. (People who don't believe in the primacy of reality cannot comprehend its frighteningly beautiful complexity. You may ask anything of "philosophers" except that they admit what they see.) "Ideal forms" exist but not in some higher realm. (What higher realm exists besides that which I can achieve with my life?) Death is not a prerequisite for their attainment. But truth is. And ego. And happiness.

What do you think it was that I thought when you commented on my "looking great"--aside from my Payless shoes? It wasn't that I was the luckiest man in the Universe wearing cheap footwear--though it probably should have been. It wasn't that I was overwhelmed with happiness to be blessed with this evening--though it probably should have been. It wasn't that "love sometimes occurs without pain or misery." Or that "the idea of you is part of my mind; you influence my likes and dislikes, all my tastes, hundreds of times when I don't realize it." Or that "[a man] will always be attracted to the woman who reflects his deepest vision of himself, the woman whose surrender permits him to experience--or to fake--a sense of self-esteem."

What was it, then, that pervaded my senses--both physical and spider--when your hair draped your shoulders to hide them from undesired glances--as if there were such a thing--when your red dress refused, demanding eyes and everything they bring and everything they imply and everything you want them to bring and imply? (Like looking at a sculpture except that art represents the potentiality of man and you the reality. And the actual is much more exciting than the potential, let me tell you.)

I thought to myself, and no one else, that you deserved something tonight that I couldn't provide: a date. (There is something to be said for independence--something grand and profound and incredibly important. But your independence is not dependent on your relationship status on Facebook.) Every new year that passes with our celebration is one without your celebration. A travesty of told--though still unbelievable--proportions.

Don't think me an ingrate. Or a fool. Or whatever else you're thinking of me. Every moment I have the privilege of spending with you provides me incalculable happiness--pure, unadulterated, selfish happiness. "And you think it's not the same for me," you ask? "You are my friend and I love you." To which I reply: It's not the same. And you know it's not. (And I'm still not scolding you.)

And it's OK, your difference in experience. More than OK, even.

It's beautiful.

But it's also not something I want for you for/ever. "That's awfully selfish to want something for me? What if I don't want it?" The first hypothetical question invalidates the second. How's this for your double meaning: I want for you but I can't actually want for you--no more than I can breath or think or move for you, no more than I can make you want or give you permission.

You're allowed, killer. And you should take every advantage. I do. And I will continue.

How's that for scolding?