Blah, blah. Here I am again. Did I post yesterday or two days ago? It’s been kind of a swift slither of days for a little while.
I had a serial killer dream last night. Something about little kids being taken to a room with pink walls and there was a knife involved, and I’m pretty sure I remember a garrote. Ew ew ew. I think it’s because I watched two or three episodes of Criminal Minds on Sunday while I was waiting to feel busy. I really should have cleaned my room instead. There are clean clothes all over the damn place (floor, lamp, laundry basket) just begging for me to get off of my ass and do something about it.
But I guess I won’t, because right now I’m writing and after this I’m going to put my shoes on and go to history class.
History always stresses me out. It’s one of the few “typical” academic classes we have here, and it’s so stupid because everyone is trying to be more of a know it all than the person they’re sitting next to. I don’t even bother raising my hand, because although most of the time I know the answer and’ve done the reading, there’s no point– someone will either mutter or squeal out the appropriate reply and they’re the ones who are expected to answer by now, anyway. So what’s the point? And in addition to those who actually speak up in class, you have the rest of the vast majority who sit there seething with self-righteousness because they know but they are too good to put their hands up, unless it’s meekly and demurely every once in a while. Then there’s usually eyelash batting or self-deprecating smiles involved. It’s like, please, guys.
I actually don’t give a crap, though. I don’t fall into either of those two categories. I don’t feel left out because I don’t answer– I don’t feel unjustly ignored and too perfect to contribute, either. I just don’t feel like getting involved in it at all.
That’s me. Plain detachment. When I become emotionally invested in things I can’t change, I have to remove myself from thinking about it, caring about it. Having some kind of emotional input about it. Otherwise I tend to drive myself crazy dwelling on it and that’s unproductive, and why — seriously, why?– should anyone be miserable because of a situation they can’t control?
I’m not really talking about history anymore, but the question remains the same. Why should I allow myself to feel like less of a success, less of a musician, less of an intelligent and capable human being?
A question to ponder on the way to history.