YSP Day 8: Calvin and Hobbes

I don't think journalling about YSP is necessarily the route to my trumpetting success as a writer. Not only is it uninteresting to talk about math, but I also make a lot of typos transcribing notes from my phone and chicken-scratch Staples pad. I will, however, continue to write as frequently as possible. I read the first parts of Eveline's blog recently, and I feel insufficient. She does write fiction though, which is hard for me to accomodate in my pea brain that latches onto only very personal writing. But then again, isn't the art that encompasses fiction a purer truth than any string of words man can speak?

...No. That's something stupid Aristotle or an old-timey philospher thought up while he (let's face it, it was probably a "he") was breaking bread across his toga'd lap. I know I made a terribly stereotypical generalization. The point was that nothing is that simple. I should try to read fiction that is not already transcribed in books.

So as I try to forget all of the math that I pretended to learn at YSP (we did Laurent polynomials on Thursday. I missed Friday for my consumer ed final, 81% final 95% semester grade WADDUP), I always become really sad. This is not to say that I'm not sad in other situations; I spend most of my time being sad, but math - this "real" math - seems to emphasize it. Everyone at YSP tries to hard to keep up. Everyone at YSP who isn't stupid already knows that the integers are an integral domain in which the positive elements are well ordered. I liked being proficient at finding roots of unity and proving that e^pi is greater than pi^e (diagnostic test material), but I guess there was always something in the back of my head that told me that this was step 0 of the introduction to mathematics. It could be the 6 hours of sleep in moody weather, but I've lost it. I would rather look at tshirt design platforms than prove that the lowest upper bound is the intersection of all ordered fields. That probably wasn't even right.

*I think I say the same thing on this blog a lot. You guys are allowed to comment and tell me things I'm doing wrong. You should also tell me what to write about, because I don't have any structure or reason.

Anyway, all of this sadness (not just the math induced kind) carries me to nowhere land. My runs have been spectacular bursts of stretching and walking. I didn't eat much. Like, I'm back to last year's weight, not just because of dehydration and certainly not because I run 10 miles a day like I used to, but because I just stopped eating when I could. One part of my life corrected itself, even when its ratification is a problematic creation in itself. Sometimes I'm so tired that the rush of blood blackens my vision when I stand. I had to bike instead of run twice. But my stomach's normal. My legs are... normalling. For the first time in a long time, I'd rather be skinny than muscly. At least, not that muscly. And yes, I know, I look normal, with a healthy BMI of 20 and am still sprouting with flowers and sweat. I feel better in one way. Worse in many more.

Most of the time, the fatigue travels through my fingers, and I start ignoring people on chat. It started this school year, and I dropped friend by friend. I used to care what they'd think about what I would say, and I would still help anyone without hesitation. Its just so easy not to care anymore. I want to watch Master Chef. I want to watch vlogbrothers. I want to read Mental Floss and Calvin and Hobbes and Zits and Foxtrot, snuggled in bed or slouching over a table, a pack of gum, a watermelon, and slice of lemon dangling in my water. I want want want want want want want. While I'm at it, I want to draw and listen to the Miracle of Swindon Town and Swoodilypoopers Strike Back. I want a break, and some Portillo's. It's 11:33 PM right now, so of all of those things, I just want to read myself into a comical and serious world of painted characters, so deep and complex, yet so resolute and truer than any person who's tried to hold a conversation with me.

I wish I could cartoon. All I can do is write about how great cartoonists are. They are all, in fact, great. Sparky to the Bills to Jim and Jerry. Artists are a friendly bunch, just not syndicates and merchandising businesses.

Well, at badminton today, we did forehand drop-overhead smash for an hour and a half straight. It was like plyo on steroids. Our butts melted. I lost my air. We were a happy bunch. I've missed being happy here. I've missed feeling invigorated by the possibilities, because now I don't have possibilities (and no, for anyone who judges me for my grades in junior year, they were not the worst, and you're terrible for assigning my academic value to B+s. I am obviously a stable academic. haha.). I don't love anything outside of the humanities. Where has my reason gone.

To the people I don't reply to (that is, all but three people. I've left monoloques hanging.):
Sorry, but I don't think I'm that sorry quite yet. Here is my pity card: I wake up wondering if I should eat breakfast in the stale and clogging air, or if I should run, and forget that breakfast is truly that important. I spend half of my days wishing I could try intermittent fasting, and the other half wishing I could run faster. I draw, but I know I'm not that good. I'm okay, better than you probably, unless you're Eveline or Elizabeth (I'm assuming no other artists read this blog), but I would still rather read Will Grayson Will Grayson. I would rather read about suicidal love that is not overly sexualized than draw a city scape. I romanticize everything, and everything falls short. I'll romanticize a great conversation with you, and it will fall short. I'll feel the need to run or draw in the middle, and I'd find something cool on Youtube or Pop Chart Lab. Let's go to Starbucks or Einstein's instead. I promise we'll catch up, no phones allowed.