Reality

Day Four in the new apartment. I hadn't even realized it was Day Four until about two in the afternoon, but that's how it goes when you don't have work, school, tv, the net.

I've got basically everything put away and done with so far after having moved in on Friday. Bed, desk, dresser, bookshelf, futon...pots and wares and the all-important gaming systems. Pretty much all I have left to do is find a kitchen table and set up an appointment to have the net guys hook me up.

Tomorrow would be the first day of classes, but I don't have class on Tuesdays, just a work shift that's only a few hours long. Wednesday I'll have the joy of having every single class on the same day, which wouldn't be so bad except for having to hop from one end of campus to the other, then right back to the building I first left. They're literally the buildings on the furthest edges of campus, with about two miles between them and only ten minutes to cover it in. If I don't get my hands on a bike I'm going to be twenty minutes late every day.

I've been trying to get on a schedule, forcing myself to wake up by ten until school starts, even though I'll have to be out the door at something more like eight. It's a start. Consequently I've been ready to go to bed at about nine-thirty every night, something I've been fighting in preparation for nights of study.

The kitchen is run on gas, which I don't like. So far I've made ramen, more ramen, spaghetti, jell-o, tea, a baked potato and a sandwich. The spaghetti was pretty adventurous. Funds allowing I'll try to actually cook non-instant food relatively frequently. First I have to buy red pepper and tobasco. I'm so lost without tingling A-10 receptors.

Once upon a time as a kid I broke the sit-up record in one of my schools. When I joined boyscouts for all of three weeks, there was a thing where you had to do as many as you could when you started so later you could see how much you had improved. They made me stop after 250. Now I feel like I'm going to blow chunks after fifty. In two sets. And push-ups are a joke. Goodbye sets of fifty, hello two sets of fifteen.

Gotta start somewhere, though. And I'm sick of being out of breath. Too much tobacco, "tobacco," and food. And liquid bread, and liquid potatoes. I'm not fat, but there's no sense in waiting until you are fat to do something about it.

I want a girlfriend, I decided. But I don't love anyone, so it'd have to be one of those things where you start dating before you really have any feelings for the person and just sort of hope it comes along early. I hate that. With a passion. I don't see myself going for that sort of thing, plus I wouldn't want to start something good and then end up moving to Canada. I've already lost out because of a move once, and it's anything but a fun experience. I think I could handle it, but out of decency it wouldn't be right.

Of course I'm getting ahead of myself. See, someone kind of has to have some interest in you at all before you can effectively, oh, what's the scientific terminology...put the mac on? I think that's it. I'm just sick of other people's boyfriends and girlfriends. Not that I don't love to hear about how precious they are, but I'd like to be able to at least relate it to a relationship that someone aside from me still gives half a shit about.

I need to start being realistic.

Reality. After last semester, no self-respecting school is going to accept me based on my transcripts. It's a waste of money to even send them, however I'm going to anyway because perhaps there's a school in Canada that isn't self-respecting. When I don't get accepted, I'll have to apply for a second time and hope that there are new, better grades to show. There will be. Hopefully I'll get in, but that being the case it may still not be until the fall, leaving me with another semester to kill before I can go anywhere. That'll make entirely three years of schooling toward absolutely no degree nor anything useful whatsoever before I even begin to work on my actual degree.

Reality. As much as I hate being outward and reaching to people, if I'm actually going to have any friends this semester I'm going to have to do so. I'm going to have to put on the smooth talker voice that I loathe and interject opinions where I don't feel one belongs. I have to make the effort to do social things. The plus is that all of my classes, being wastes, are classes I picked because I'm interested in their subjects. This means that everyone in the class is majoring in the field (or wasting time like me) and I have an automatic interest in common with any potential entertainment. I mean, person. Who I won't just be using as entertainment. For sure.

Reality. Though I can probably get a job as an officer, I will probably never make it into the RCMP. I have to call it a dream because it'll likely never come true. My professional career will be spent trying to achieve something that I more than likely am physically incapable of doing despite my mental readiness and willingness to execute the duties with maximal ability and eagerness.

Reality. I'll die knowing few people, my last wishes won't be filled, and I'll have never done most of what I set for myself to do. No one will even know what I'd set for myself to do anyway, and thus have no sense of the magnitude of the extent to which I viewed my own failures.

Reality. I don't feel normal human emotions the way normal humans do. Everything is either an extreme or not present at all. Amplified most are things normally called negative. Sadness, loss, betrayal...and not present at all are basic self-defense mechanisms. Fear, rage, hate. Some things simply don't exist at all. It's best not to delve into that realm. After years of attempting to find emotion and become anything other than a "computer," I found all the wrong ones. All the right ones for the glorification of all the wrong people, anyway.

Reality. I speak when I have something I feel is pertinent or of importance. When I have something I feel will contribute positively or ease a process. The amount of importance I place on what I'm saying is directly proportional to the thoroughness of which everyone around me misunderstands what I've said.

Reality. Sometimes I don't know what's real, anyway. I'm never alone. None of us are ever, ever alone. That's what's so lonely.