I’m tired of waxing philosophical. I’ve been in an
introspective phase lately, and my brain has been
uncontrollably hemorrhaging metaphors, “what ifs” and
“how comes.” Now, it wants to rest. It wants me to
kill some of its cells with alchol and inundate it
with mindless television that’s impossible to analyze.
It’s begging.
I guess that means I can’t have any long
conversations with Aaron this week. Last Friday, he
mentioned the possibility that the true “self” may not
exist, and given my mood, this sent my already-spent
psyche into dizzying oscillations that lasted the
whole weekend. By Sunday, all I could do was drool and
nod. Please, no more. Aaron can only talk to me about
AP style and chai for the next few days.
So this week, I’m taking it easy. At least
intellectually. Let’s see. It’s only Tuesday. I’ve
already sacrificed countless hours of sleep, skipped
two hours of class, experienced a several frightening
heart palpitations (where the hell are my sources!!!
is that CQed???) and stripped down to my underwear for
a photographer without even getting paid. All this in
the name of journalism. The things I do for Pulse.
But I’m OK with that, because the rewarding part
of my job is when I see the results of relentless,
frantic insanity and the premature gray hairs I’m
sure to soon start seeing unfold into something
legible and actually really cool… it’s like the
collective vision of the entire Pulse team gelling
into one big, beautiful, sparkling mass
of… entertainment. The stuff that makes the world go
’round. And I think this week’s body art issue was a
really good example of that. When I see things like
this, the facts that I haven’t done any of my reading
for the whole term and I’ve barely had time to brush
my teeth don’t matter so much.
Like I said, it’s gonna be a ponder-free couple of
days. I want to do something stupid and absolutely
non-thought-provoking this weekend, like wear a
T-shirt that says, “I’m with stupid,” and have a
burping contest with my boyfriend’s pals — the ones
who think Xbox is the epitome of culture. Pass the
cheese dip, please.