I Need to Shower
Sunday- October 9th:
Eventually all the lights will go out.
Living alone has just made me aware of how many small things I managed to live without just because I had someone else. Both physical things and bits of knowledge. I will eventually need a step ladder. I like to think I am tall for a girl but I am not that tall. Not tall enough to be useful. Just tall enough to make me uncomfortable wearing heels around shorter guys.
By my calculations I am able to read three quarters of a page in a minute. Although, that is really meaningless because what is a page? How many words are on a page on average? I could very well be reading those hard glossy books that they give to very small children. Each with but three to five words on their inflexible pages. I feel as though that's what I should be reading. I feel as though that's the best I can do to understand the world. Spot runs. I can see it. This is a truth that need not be further parsed.
Instead I read YA novels and Descartes' musings.
My nails are always dirty because I spend my time absentmindedly clawing at myself. Frustrated. I spend a lot of my time frustrated. A general sense of a lack of understanding. And I take this out on my flesh. Unconsciously, I tell myself, but I can acknowledge that it calms me in a way to punish myself- so how unconscious can it be? I claim unconsciousness because it's disgusting to admit that I might find comfort in something that someone would describe as an illness. The illness is that I find a destructive impulse comforting.
I missed a question on my latest quiz. I am so uncomfortable with how things are going right now. I'm just skirting deadlines. I washed laundry but forgot to dry it for a day. I rewashed it but it still smells a little mildewy. I'm Britney Spears in 2001: Not a girl, not yet a woman. But I should be. An adult. How long can I put it off? Febreeze will get me out of this mess, but masking the smell of my mistakes won't work forever. I'll eventually be cast out by society. Like a vagabond. Ignored. People will look away in the hope that I don't approach them for help. I smell rotten because there is something rotten about my character. Isn't that just the worst?
Tuesday- October 11th:
I have successfully completed my first test in philosophy of science. Does success imply I have done well? I guess not knowing the measure of success can be attributed as my primary source of anxiety. If that is the implication then I suppose I should say that I have just completed my first test. How well it goes is at this point undetermined. I simply don't have the data to make that assumption. There were limited instructions. There was no scope of expectation set. Just weeks of stumbling over very British language about a very dead philosophers and scientists.
The points of information I do have are that I attended class, read everything last minute, in general get good marks on my writing, and wrote for a much shorter period of time than the other people in my class. I also picked the two easier prompts. I hadn't considered that until I finished writing. I had picked the two prompts I understood best and then realized afterwards that they were the easiest. Which is probably why I understood them best. The first was to discuss whether Descartes saw his intuitions as a priori and the second was regarding Newton's rejection of hypothesis.
In case you were wondering- Descartes is a fairly round-about person. I may be being imperceptive. What I know of him is limited. It's possible his arguments feel much less cyclical when they are made about different things- or taken along the line of his life's work. From what I know he was concerned with finding absolute truths. And the key to finding these truths about the workings of life were inherent absolute truths. Concepts that were known because they were ingrained in the essence of what they were a part of- like a triangle having three sides. They are inseparable. From this point, by way of reasoning, one should be able to answer a base question, and from that answer you should be able to deduce the answer the another question- building up until you have understood whatever you originally intended to investigate. It's an interesting idea. I am sure there is some truth that people can investigate all manner of smaller questions to build into larger problems tangentially and then discover great truths about the world- but Idk.
I'm tired. I have been keeping myself up and on little food for several days. I have been taking my medication for about two weeks. I went to study after class with Tehya and have been consumed by insects on the patio of the Starbucks near my old office. Every part of me itches and I feel there is no way I could possibly deduce a solution by considering the degrees of a triangle. Perhaps I could do so by running experiments- but empiricism takes too long. There is no swift and easy answer to my current suffering, or any suffering for that matter, probably, so I am unconcerned with the arguments that might prove the existence of god. That won't stop the itching. Nor put me into a satisfying sleep.
Eventually all the lights will go out.
Living alone has just made me aware of how many small things I managed to live without just because I had someone else. Both physical things and bits of knowledge. I will eventually need a step ladder. I like to think I am tall for a girl but I am not that tall. Not tall enough to be useful. Just tall enough to make me uncomfortable wearing heels around shorter guys.
By my calculations I am able to read three quarters of a page in a minute. Although, that is really meaningless because what is a page? How many words are on a page on average? I could very well be reading those hard glossy books that they give to very small children. Each with but three to five words on their inflexible pages. I feel as though that's what I should be reading. I feel as though that's the best I can do to understand the world. Spot runs. I can see it. This is a truth that need not be further parsed.
Instead I read YA novels and Descartes' musings.
My nails are always dirty because I spend my time absentmindedly clawing at myself. Frustrated. I spend a lot of my time frustrated. A general sense of a lack of understanding. And I take this out on my flesh. Unconsciously, I tell myself, but I can acknowledge that it calms me in a way to punish myself- so how unconscious can it be? I claim unconsciousness because it's disgusting to admit that I might find comfort in something that someone would describe as an illness. The illness is that I find a destructive impulse comforting.
I missed a question on my latest quiz. I am so uncomfortable with how things are going right now. I'm just skirting deadlines. I washed laundry but forgot to dry it for a day. I rewashed it but it still smells a little mildewy. I'm Britney Spears in 2001: Not a girl, not yet a woman. But I should be. An adult. How long can I put it off? Febreeze will get me out of this mess, but masking the smell of my mistakes won't work forever. I'll eventually be cast out by society. Like a vagabond. Ignored. People will look away in the hope that I don't approach them for help. I smell rotten because there is something rotten about my character. Isn't that just the worst?
Tuesday- October 11th:
I have successfully completed my first test in philosophy of science. Does success imply I have done well? I guess not knowing the measure of success can be attributed as my primary source of anxiety. If that is the implication then I suppose I should say that I have just completed my first test. How well it goes is at this point undetermined. I simply don't have the data to make that assumption. There were limited instructions. There was no scope of expectation set. Just weeks of stumbling over very British language about a very dead philosophers and scientists.
The points of information I do have are that I attended class, read everything last minute, in general get good marks on my writing, and wrote for a much shorter period of time than the other people in my class. I also picked the two easier prompts. I hadn't considered that until I finished writing. I had picked the two prompts I understood best and then realized afterwards that they were the easiest. Which is probably why I understood them best. The first was to discuss whether Descartes saw his intuitions as a priori and the second was regarding Newton's rejection of hypothesis.
In case you were wondering- Descartes is a fairly round-about person. I may be being imperceptive. What I know of him is limited. It's possible his arguments feel much less cyclical when they are made about different things- or taken along the line of his life's work. From what I know he was concerned with finding absolute truths. And the key to finding these truths about the workings of life were inherent absolute truths. Concepts that were known because they were ingrained in the essence of what they were a part of- like a triangle having three sides. They are inseparable. From this point, by way of reasoning, one should be able to answer a base question, and from that answer you should be able to deduce the answer the another question- building up until you have understood whatever you originally intended to investigate. It's an interesting idea. I am sure there is some truth that people can investigate all manner of smaller questions to build into larger problems tangentially and then discover great truths about the world- but Idk.
I'm tired. I have been keeping myself up and on little food for several days. I have been taking my medication for about two weeks. I went to study after class with Tehya and have been consumed by insects on the patio of the Starbucks near my old office. Every part of me itches and I feel there is no way I could possibly deduce a solution by considering the degrees of a triangle. Perhaps I could do so by running experiments- but empiricism takes too long. There is no swift and easy answer to my current suffering, or any suffering for that matter, probably, so I am unconcerned with the arguments that might prove the existence of god. That won't stop the itching. Nor put me into a satisfying sleep.
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