Me, myself, and me again.

I wish Star Wars--all the films, the cheesy novels, its pathetic rabid fans, the stupid characters, the tacky merchandise, the irksome music, the obnoxious media hype surrounding it--could somehow be compounded entirely into a blueberry muffin, which I would crush with a 20 pound sledgehammer then stomp on repeatedly until it assumes the appearance of an unidentifiable puddle of sludge. I adore effigies when they effectively represent something I dread. Even focusing your rage and frustration onto a tennis ball; imagining that it represents everything that's getting your goat, is a wonderful method for releasing some of this unpleasant emotion. It takes a considerable amount of mental discipline, however, to throw or strike the right thing when something must be thrown ... or struck. Punching bags and weight bags are ideal, but really... there is no way I could have one in my apartment.

It's not that I blow up easily, either. Of course, virtually no one else would even suspect that I flip out now and then, judging purely by how calm, collected, and stoic I -constantly- act around humans. It's very important to suit up and wear this disguise to blend in like a ginger snap in a leaf pile if I hope to get the day having garnered the least amount of attention possible. Even still, I cannot hope to conceal -all- my quirky behaviours, as there are simply too many of them. At the very least, though, I am never effusive in public. Even if I sometimes feel like breaking down in tears or laughing my head off in public, I never do. I would never give anyone the pleasure of witnessing such a scene.

It is great to have someone besides myself whom I can act naturally with. I find that my own company does get rather stale, sometimes, though I usually find myself so odd, random, and unpredictable that I usually end up entertaining myself no matter what. Rarely, very rarely, do I get bored. The more time you spend alone with yourself, the better you know yourself. By now, it's almost an unconscious thing, but ever since I was six or so, I perceived myself as being two different people. I still do. I talk to myself as if two people are conversing. The principle doesn't seem complicated until I attempt to actually analyse it. It has nothing to do with an imaginary friend, but rather . . . I view myself as myself -and- another person. It just comes naturally for me, and I do it without thinking. When I can be heard by human beings, I have these conversations in my mind rather than utilising my vocal cords, as talking to myself around people would attract far too much unwanted attention. In essence, there is me, my realistic perception of myself--who I really act like, what I truly believe I am. Then there's my idealised persona, which is essentially everything I aspire to be in one convenient package. Sound familiar? Really, it hardly seems that unusual now that I think about it. Anyway, we have a lot of talks. When I refer to myself as 'I,' I am really referring to both of us . . . together. I fight, I resolve, I share an incredible wealth of disjointed musings between me.

My spring semester is finally over, since I took my last final on Thursday. It included a painstaking write-up on exactly how I would design a research study, but I mired my way through it. I have traditionally always finished up spring semesters with a whimper, but this time around, I went out with quite a bit left in me. I should have higher marks this semester than I have had in any previous semester. Also, I have been looking around and seeing people graduate left and right. Admittedly, while I am happy for and proud of them, I am not very envious, especially after wandering around the campus yesterday afternoon . . . it was a very pleasant tropical day, and I was content to simply walk around the area for awhile while mentally preparing myself for my final final.


campus shots!

I have nothing planned for today... goodness, what a delightful feeling.