Classic Snivel

August 27, 1998.

Please forgive my sporadic updates -- this has been an exceptionally hectic and stressful week for me. I've been having the worst time in my attempts to work out a schedule of classes for the coming school year -- Carleton, in its wisdom, has not offered more than two of the seven philosophy courses I need to complete in my focus (the philosophy of mind as it applies to cognitive science) -- so that I can, you know, graduate -- in the past two years, which is causing me all sorts of worry, as my degree looks more and more like it's going to take an extra year to complete. Which means, yes, another year or two of security tightly clasped to the bountiful nipple of post-secondary education, but meanwhile that dang ex-girlfriend of mine, Phil, moves ever closer to a Masters degree in film studies and all the smugness that entails. I was really hoping to pick up some of the slack with some extra courses at the University of Ottawa, but their philosophy department only offered a few compatible classes, and the only one I could have taken (one ended just as another began at Carleton, which turns what is otherwise a nice five or ten minute walk across campus to a commute across downtown) was offered in French only this year. I've managed, so far, to at least kind of assemble a reasonable schedule, but it's going to be a pretty crummy year, filled with computer science and linguistics as it is. I still have to grab one fall course, and one winter course before I can finalize my year, and I'm actually also waiting on them to decide whether or not they're going to be resurrecting the philosophy of mind course they suddenly cancelled this summer.

Not that I actually know what I want to be when I grow up anyway.

More on my crappor week later, hopefully tonight.

A u g u s t 29

I'm always amazed by the fact that, for however much time passes between when I sit down to write one story, and then to write another -- and this could mean months or even a year -- that I return to my trusty digressions a phenomenally better writer than the time before. I must credit the Daily Snivel to some extent for this success, but it seems to be an almost latent development which grows and evolves whether I put myself to the task of writing or not. That being so, I am not at all ready to share anything especially moving with you, since it's all highly unfinished and will likely continue to be as such until I get around to quantifying my latest bout of 'genius' into a novel or two.

This that I shall share with you however, is just trashy angst.

I jotted it down in my ubiquitous black It book today, and will probably make it much longer or forget about it altogether. But it says a lot about what my state of mind is, and how whiny and crappy I really can be. I figure some cheap verse can explain this as well as any long and eloquent passage from my heart.

Frowny Joe

Someone called and didn't leave a message; I thought it might be you but I wasn't sure. Someone called me so many times and never left me a message. The clicks are so mysterious that instead of going out or calling anyone or doing anything to ease my loneliness I lay down and stayed beside the telephone all night just in case.

Ahh. That feels better. Cathartic. Teenagery. I'm so sorry you had to deal with it. But hey, it's scary because it's true.

Brought to you by Jolt Cola, with
the buzzing and mild irritation of
caffeine induced paranoia.

e-mail helps to moisten.

Back to this week of The Daily Snivel.

Return to days past for more Classic Drivel.

Back to Purple People Eater Town.