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Journal Entry September 5, 2003 Today was not a good day. If I was not so much a religious person and had sworn off all cussing, or at least all cussing done consciously and premeditatively, I would say that this has been the day from hell. But since I am a religious person, I will not say that and will, instead, be content with only saying that this has not been a good day. However, it was not a bad day by any specific incident. For example, I could not say that today was a bad day because aliens flew in with the sole intent of blowing up my car on their way to Alpha Centauri. Instead, it was simply the fact that I still have a cold and not just any cold, but the really stubborn and vindictive type of cold, the type that, for two days, seems to be gone, only to reappear somehow worse on the third day, catching its victim off guard and tissue less. So, my entire class periods were filled the wonderful sounds of my sniffing and snorting, snorting actually would probably be the most appropriate word in this case, interrupted only by me either getting up to blow my nose or an equally pleasant sounding hacking cough. Then, the real vindictive nature of my cold became manifest when I unsuspectingly took medicine for the purpose of relieving my symptoms. I say unsuspectingly because, unknown to me, the cold, in its early germly years, inserted into itself a growth acceleration plan that would be activatated the moment the victim took any sort of cold and/or allergy medicine. I can see the council now of little cold germs sitting around the conference table while the scientific cold germ announced this finding. They would all laugh, rubbing their little germy palms together at such a brilliant and evil plan. Needless to say, I fell straight into their trap so, instead of getting better, I got immensely worse and nearly threw myself out the window of the ILB in complete misery. Not to mention the fact that cold and allergy medicines are notorious for leaving you with that “floaty, disconnected feeling” that makes you feel like a hot air balloon. To quote myself from a thought that I had walking into the Mitchell Center for my Synoptic Meteorology class: I don’t even feel like myself. I feel like I am another myself separated from myself and walking beside myself, thinking thoughts separate from my own thoughts, which thoughts I could no longer gain access to since I am no longer myself and, therefore, can have no contact with myself. I would say that I don’t feel like myself, but then I am reminded that that very statement is the essence of deconstruction, and it is during those moments that we are closer to who are true selves really are. I try to use this to my advantage and see if I can figure out who I truly am, but I can’t think of anything to think. Perhaps this is significant. Because of this, I failed my Statistics quiz, I’m sure. I had to have failed it considering the fact that I could not see it because my eyes were watering too bad. Normally, this would have devastated me and left me thinking that I was stupid however, this is a Statistics class and so the instructor, for the last quiz, calculated the percentage of scores for the entire class. I was in the upper percentage, which meant that approprixamately 67.4% of the class was stupider that I was so I’m not worried about it right now. At least, not too much. And I did study for the stupid thing, but, of course, nothing that I studied was actually on the quiz. It’s as though instructors attach a little camera on your books so they can see what items you studied and then test you on the others. I went to the bookstore to pick up yet another book. I’m getting close to two thousand now, and I’m positive that I have enough books now to keep me reading until the day I die. I have decided that I am going to learn everything, and the topic of the moment is Japan so that is what I bought a book on. I want to start it soon, but I have about nine hundred other books to start soon so it is number 87 on the books to start soon list. I’m getting bogged down because of all these novels I have to read for my American Novel class. It’s not that they’re bad, but for some reason, a book is never as good when you are forced to read it so my reading time has gone way down. I did learn today, however, when we were talking about psychoanalysis in my American Novel class, that I am not really a woman, but rather that I am a woman who will go through my entire life pretending to be something I am not, and this is true of all women. Of course, this is all an unconscious thought and so I, as a woman, will go through my life trying to burst into the “world of men” while, at the same time, desperately seeking the approval of men and wishing to return back to the old days where the only jobs appropriate to women were cooking and baby raising. As feminism has grown stronger, I have begun to take roles that, years and years, well, I guess not too many years ago in the grand scale of the world, only belonged to men such as going to college and picking a male-dominant occupation in Meteorology. However, because of this, I will continuously be mentally unstable as a result of feeling as though I am cutting off my father’s penis. I’m not sure what upsets me more, the fact that this might be an unconscious feeling and driving force or that my father might have one of those. I don’t think psychoanalysis is a topic I’d like to learn about which poses a real problem in my “learning everything” philosophy. Perhaps I should edit it to learn everything but psychoanalysis. And the sex life of grasshoppers. I don’t really want to learn about that either. © EXCEL
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