a hectic two weeks.

I haven't posted on here in a while. Two weeks to be exact. It's been a long two weeks. I'm moving. In fact tomorrow I'll be out of my apartment and between places for a week or two. That's fine but it does make things busy and annoying. Julie and I broke up. It was the right decision but that doesn't make me exceedingly happy about it. I'm glad I was with her for as long as I was though. She was with me at the wrong time though. If we both had our lives together when we were going out then I'm sure it would have worked out much better, but that's not how it worked.
She only ever knew me while I was somehow insane, and There's not much I can do about that. I'm getting to know myself better and I'm dealing with not being with Julie surprisingly well. For about a week before we actually broke up I was dreading and expecting it so I got some songwriting and ranting and the such done. That helps a lot. I'm not even sure if the songs are worth playing for anyone but damn do they make me feel better.
My head is feeling ok but I've some things I haven't had the ability to deal with lately. I'm afraid I may be Bipolar. It seems that my first quarter here (well I don't actually know the time span) was all a manic episode. Everything I did then fits with the diagnosis. I realise the conflict of interest involved in self diagnosis, but I haven't been too far off in the past and I've got a pretty good psychological knowledge. I wish I were as good at dealing with my problems as I am at dealing with the problems of other people.
It will be nice to move to someplace new, but the process of it is very very annoying. Because of my couple of weeks of craziness I have more things to deal with now than I would have had I planed a bit better. It's nothing too huge but I'm not looking forward to various hassles. I never really had someone to be with at night or when I was feeling lonely. Even so, I wish I did now. Julie at least filled the role in some emotional way.
It's a horrible catch twenty two, when you're sad and in hard times you can't get a partner, but that's when you need one. You only get the support when you don't need it.
Mental illness seems to have a lot of those. Catches are all around, and I'm sure tired of them. I'm kind of tired of everything. Work, The world. I still want to be here in hopes that better things come along, but I'm not enjoying the world as it is. some things are going well, work for instance, but that is of little countenance.
These things will either work out or they won't, either way I must deal with it. I'm working on it, and It's hard, but such is my lot.

I hope to have better things to report next I post, but such may not be the case.

the neuroscience of storytelling.

It looks like there hasn't been any research on the neural basis of storytelling. Not so much as one neuroimaging study. It seems to be an unresearched thing. That is what I want to study. I want to study the way that brains tell stories. Which parts of the brain are active, what is going on in these parts, how does making up a story differ from telling one which is remembered, how does writing a story differ from speaking one. There are a lot of questions and all of them are rather interesting and would be easy to make studies about.
It would be interesting to see if the brains of people who tell stories for a living are different than other people. Do the sorts of stories you tell cause different brain morphology? If you are a trial lawyer and tell a certain form of story to juries how is that different from a writer telling a story? Is there some neural basis for the structure of stories. Other than semantics of language, does our neural network somehow determine the structure of stories.
Is there some neural basis to archetypes in stories.
I'm really shocked that no one has studied this yet. I may just not have found anything yet, and I'm going to keep searching, but that it's been this hard so far shows that there is so much stuff we don't know. It's also such and interesting intersection of various things neuroscience studies. It requires an understanding of the neural basis' of memory, language, social interaction. So much of what seems to separate us from other creatures is storytelling.
Some animal studies could be really interesting as well. It would be interesting to see if a Parliment of rooks is indeed being told a story by the rook in the centre. Where does the ability to tell a story begin.

This is great because it is also the intersection of two of my loves, Storytelling and Neuroscience.

anywho, I'm very excited about this and have been mulling it for a while. I still want to study mental illness as well, but the storytelling is interesting enough to be another focus of study.

As if I weren't already frustrated enough.

It's awfully hard once you've gotten into a rut to get out of it. It takes more effort than succeeding under any other terms. It's not so much time effort as emotional effort and the effort of going through middleman after middleman. I fell into one of those ruts. It's a pretty well known fact. I'd like to think that I'm all better now, and for the most part I am (no OCD anyways). Being mostly better doesn't help though. I can't show the university bloodtest results for OCD. I can't make administrative processes work any faster.
What is the worst is when there are things I can do. When I find that I am able to change something (usually after the fact) and for some reason or another I don't. Those are the times that really piss me off. It's an anger that can't very well be assuaged because I've no one to blame but myself. It's usually forgetfulness, or minor neglect in the face of stress. Nonetheless I can't stand it. One such thing just happened to me. It's rather horrid and I'm mad at myself about it.
When I was Disqualified from UCD for poor grades (gotten because of insanity) I was advised on the situation. The advisor had me sign a contract for readmission, and told me to call her whence I met the requirements for readmission so that I could sign up for classes and all of that. I was understandably distraught, so the reading of the contract was cursory. I hadn't looked at it again until about a week ago. I called the advisor because I met my requirements. What the contract said. What I didn't read. What I really should have fucking known was that readmission forms for fall are due in on the last business day of July. I found this out today.
It's one of those things where I don't know where to lay blame. I blame myself primarily because it's my fault. I'm not sure how much good just feeling bad about it will do though. Other shit was going on, and a lot of it. On my down time I did jack shit, so If I'd known I wouldn't have had a lack of time for filling out the form.
I just didn't see the form. I took what the advisor said (or what I remembered her saying.) at face value; call her when I got my grades in and get things sorted out. This is one instance in which my avoidance of obsession (to an almost frightening degree really) bit me in the ass.
I was consumed by obsession for so long that I don't ever want that again. Now I suppose I'm being apathetic because if I care too much I obsess. That's just a cursory analysis though. It may just be the fucking drugs. I don't even know. That's the whole problem. I don't know how much of me is well. I don't know what is right or wrong. I don't know anything right now. The only things I understand are stories, the English language, Neuoscience, and psychology. None of those things are doing me any good right now. What use is it to understand how the brain works if I can't even fucking use mine with any degree of accuracy.
I've got things figured out so the fuck ups I've been making aren't exceedingly detrimental, but I have had enough setbacks as it is. I don't need any fucking more.

I could rant for a while more about it, and will later, but now I think I'm going down to the store to get something to drink that isn't soy milk or water.

melancholy.

alone I sit
this heat surrounds me
bit by bit
my grasp it leaves me.
Now I see
where my time's going
To nothing much
just sit and waiting
in stagnation
I can do nothing
so I've tried
to fill these hours
with songs
and poems of little worth
but songs
and poems they go so far, not
far enough.
Worse than being in a rut
because
you made a poor decision
being stuck
for nothing in particular.

four AM

it's only about four am. That's somewhat late, but I'm saying only because I want to make myself feel better. If it's only four, then I still have an hour or so until I absolutely need to fall asleep. at five my next day could start, but at four, It can still be night time. I'm yawning and I feel kind of tired, but I'm also pretty sure that sleep isn't coming anytime soon. I almost want to encourage it away and just sleep a whole bunch after work tomorrow. I don't even know anymore.
This whole weird sleeping thing sucks. It's been a month or two since I last slept on a normal schedule for more than a few days. oh well. It's not as if there's a lot I can do about it.
I feel like it'd be alright if Julie were here, because either she'd be awake as well so I'd have someone to talk to (or just to hang out with for that mater) or she'd be asleep and I wouldn't mind so much lying in the dark waiting for sleep to come. I always sleep better when she's around too. I'm pretty sure it's the same for her.

anywho. There's really naught I can do about either of those things, so I'm going to go and either further procrastinate (odd using that word to refer to sleep) or lay down to try and expedite the process.

Broken car further hinders releif from the world

I can't really help but be unhappy about my car situation. It's been weeks since I last saw Julie. I could go up on a train. It wouldn't be too much trouble to undertake. Her mom's coming up though, and it's the weekend before senior high so it's somewhat intense. I just want to be there. I honestly would be fine with just being there. If it makes it harder for her then I don't want to come. She said I didn't have to go to the trouble, but I feel like she was really saying she didn't want me up there this weekend. I mean, we've got time after camp is over to hang out, so It's not like it makes a huge difference in the long run, but I'd gotten used to seeing her every weekend, and the relief I got from doing so was so large that the absence of that possibility hangs heavily over my head.
I was peeved when I started this message, thinking that Julie just didn't want me up there. I felt alone and I've been tired of this for a while, so I had a shorter fuse than usual. I'm realising that it's not actually that bad, and of course it's understandable that she'd be busy. Without a car our activities are heavily limited as well, and with her Mom there, me being a third wheel wouldn't be completely welcome. My initial annoyance is gone. I still feel a bit forlorn, and despondent, but that will subside.
I have a weekend of leisure ahead of me, and that's not a bad thing. I'll take it for what it is, and read, play videogames, play guitar, and sleep.

The journeys of a wanderer weary (part one)

At it's edge the forest calls
far it goes, seeks to enthrall
deeper still the forest goes
shadows turning, on trees thrown
through the shadows you traverse
thoughts assail you, most perverse
now your head it fills the blanks
making twiglings into shanks
building monsters, they're oh so cunning
your frightened mind then calls for running
you resist its frightened call
telling it to quell the squall
standing still your heart beats quicker
wishing now you had some liqour
to calm your nerves, and settle you down
to un bolt your feet from the loamy ground
this abject fear, it soon subsides
for in this forest no monsters reside
or none you know of, none you pray
tippy toeing on your way
hiding fear and stopping fright
keeping alert, prepared for a fight
then from fog a house appears
on its door are reddish smears
out your axe and flashlight come
to see where all this blood came from
trudging down a bloody path
you begin to do the maths
fearful ground you do not know
no telling how numerous your foes
you turn back silently lurking
sighting an owl through the murky
sitting on a brached perch
causing you to quickly lurch
back your food on dead man falls
over him sick insects crawl
buzzing sounds as flys abound
deadly stench floats all around
trying now to stop a yelp
you prepare to go for help
then you frightfully recall
the nearest town's across the falls
these hurried times this trip bars
with axe out you trot around
'till you hear an awful sound
from behind a crunching bone
now you know you're not alone
in your midst this sad man stands
entreating you with bloody hands
sympathy he wants to start
but soon the fiend begins to dart
at your throat his fingers fly
while he makes an inhuman cry
axe ready down it swings
catching shoulder, metallic ring
armour your weaponry confounds
with the light you shine his eyes
blinding him, making you free to strive
with rope that hangs on back pack coiled
quickly his movement is foiled
hands are bound and feet bound too
only scratches injured you
now you drag the bad man on
singing out victorious song
out the forest now you dance
cheering at your skill, your chance
free at last of fear you are
you want to travel, travel far.

lament of a condemed building

I've been messing with different metres lately. Here are some of the fruits of my labour.

When all the lights have burnt full out
and sounds of living gone away
when all the people leave my halls
my families move on, move on
when my doors, shut for the last
latches rusted, holding all in
still will be the pain and joy
residing in my walls
Paint will peel and chip away
thrown about will furniture be
yet all the filth and slow decay
will fail to confound, or turn away
the sounds of people in my walls
the smells of cabbage, sausage, cooking
the ancient cry of tenement halls
the faint residue of rooms
where lives were spent from start
to the last exhalation
Moistening my walls slightly
still I'll sit in degradation
waiting for destruction
while I wait to be detached
limb by limb they'll take me
I wait here with the memories
of people who forsake me.

our pasts are fiction.

Most peoples lives, when looked back on, are fiction. The things we know about out past are mixed in with the stories we tell about them. Your embellishment of what happened melds with the reality, until no one knows the difference. Once it's gone it's gone. This is probably why I can remember the plots of books as if I had lived them. Perhaps that is why when telling stories I never really cared if they were about me or not, as those ones were likely fiction too.
I've spent a while thinking about how my life has been so far. For a Twenty year old I haven't done too badly. If I try to tell the story though, it will be naught but fiction. I don't have a problem with fiction, but I can't state fiction as memoir.
I also want to figure out everything before I put anything in writing. I suppose writing about things would clear them up in my mind, would remove the nebulous slag sticking to my ideas. I suppose I'm just scared. I'm scared of what I'll find. There are so many shitty things that could happen. There is a good chance that some of them might happen too. It's not simply an irrational fear, like the fear of terrorism (especially in the US). It is a fear driven by heritability percentages and evidence from the road I've already traveled.
My Father is bi-polar. Putting it that way is a bit too simplistic, but I haven't the desire to go through an explanation. Bi-polar disorder is one of the most heritable mental illnesses. Look up the percentages because I've forgotten them. I'm afraid that is me too. I'm afraid that more shit will pop up.
I already have enough wrong with me, and enough wrong with the world. I don't need more.
That's what I've been ruminating on. Not obsessively so, but with relative frequency. Writing about it does help though.

Wall-E

I just returned from watching Wall-E. There was only one kid in the theatre. It helps that it was a 9:30 showing, but I was pleased by that. The film was beautiful. The colours were a drab palate of greys and rust reds and dirt browns which evoked the feeling of desperation and foreboding I imagine was intended. The first portion of the movie has no human voices. there is some music and once or twice the robots say their names, however the silence is pervasive. The use of Wall-Es eyes for expression is magnificent. My environmental psych class popped into my head a few times as well, and that was interesting.

there's more to tell but I don't particularly feel like doing so.

a late night and a bike crash.

It's four in the morning (roughly). I gotta say, this is getting annoying. It doesn't make a huge deal of difference since I've little to do tomorrow, but shit. I am going to eat dinner with my parents and manage some money stuff, but that won't be until a bit later so I'll have ample time to sleep. I really don't know what's up with me.

On a completely different note my neck is sore. I think it's from this bike crash I had on Wednesday. I was riding my bike a bit too fast, and the streetlight was turning yellow. A car was turning left coming from the other direction, and I was parallel with a car in my lane. The fellow turning left saw the other car, but not me, so he proceeded to take his left. I was going too fast to really stop efficiently because I had been speeding up to make it through the light. by the time I got to the intersection I was confronted with his trunk area. I turned right as hard as I could so I was going the same direction as the car I struck and I hit the car, ricocheting off at roughly a fourty five degree angle. My bicycle and I flew into the air and I landed on my back (and my messenger bag, thank god) about two metres away from where I hit the guy. The wind was knocked out of me pretty badly. The guy got out of the car to ask how I was doing and all that and I couldn't really respond with no wind. I told him I was fine besides that though. We waited around for the police so we could have it on record if anything happened, just to cover our asses. He was a really nice guy, I'm sorry I ran into his car. I found I was bleeding in three places, an abrasion on my elbow another on my left hand, and a geartooth shaped hole in my right calf from the sprocket. The sprocket hole (or chain tattoo as some call them) by far bled the most, though it hurt the least. I later found that I had three or four (perhaps five?) abrasions on my back. None of the stuff was too bad, nor was it anything I hadn't had happen to me before. My shoulder (right) is a bit sore but my range of motion isn't hindered and movement is fine so It doesn't seem to be serious. My neck is sore too. I think its from the shock of me holding it up off the ground so vigorously. I wasn't wearing a helmet see. This is because research supports the idea that riding with a helmet is in fact more dangerous in the presence of cars because they crowd you. I've just been going by whatever the most valid well constructed studies have found. anywho, I was defensive in how I landed, though little of it was conscious, and so I didn't hit my head, and all that's sore now are the things listed above. It's a bit annoying, but not hugely so. I can't say I'm not pleased that I get to be all hardcore. Sadly on the same day one of my friends upstaged me by getting in a motorcycle accident (he's ok, because helmets on motorcycles are infact a Brilliant idea) his accident wasn't as intense as mine, but he passed out and has two black eyes so he gets automatic credit.

weird sleep strikes again

my weirdness in regards to sleep schedule has struck once again. it is five thirty in the morning and I'm not yet a sleep. The sun is very close to coming up. I didn't wake up until relatively late today, but that doesn't explain all of it. I've been living on a schedule where my days are a bit longer than everyone else. It seems like I just tack on a few extra hours here and there and end up getting out of sync. It's also gotta be partly because I haven't been going to work and forcing myself into that schedule. I've just been feeling really excitable too. It's odd. That's the fucking problem with being up at five thirty though, I can't really think properly. I can think quickly but things are working in the correct order, or whatever it is that isn't clicking. I'm going to put off more posts until my head is more clear.

the persistence of memory.

Today during a huge cleaning spree, (likely driven on by a bit of mania and a lack of meds but that's another story) I found that the power cord to my printer is the same as the one missing from my old computer monitor. That was all that had been stopping me from using my old computer for the fun of it. My old computer is a beast and I its Frankenstein. running parts are held together with duct tape, everything is relatively jerry rigged, and I love it.
This computer helped to get me thorough highschool and that year of psuedo college/senior year of high school.
I plugged it in and everything worked fine. I was very pleased because I'd done nothing to it for nigh two years. The computer is a blast from the past. I opened up the music player to hear lovely sounds of my youth. There was so much stuff on there that I hadn't been able to transfer previously. Eventually I'll get to it, but now I'm just revelling in music I'd forgotten or lost. I also love the games and poorly written poems and songs laying about on there.
The songs and poems aren't all bad, but some of them are certainly atrocious. I'm not going to say whether my writing has gotten better, but I garauntee that my editing eye has gotten better. \
I'm enjoying this. I listened to some music I love and haven't listened to as of late for one or another reason, Some Dashboard Confessional, I Voted for Kodos, The Wedgewoods, some older NOFX, some old Catch 22. and some songs just sound better sitting infront of the big ol screen and rocking out. I'm pretty sure it has to to with ties to memory and situation and all of that stuff. It's just so bad ass to rock out to some chiodos in front of the computer. I've been eating it up.
I've also been reading Swan's Way, by Proust for a while now and just passed the scene regarding how the taste of madelline cookie dipped in lime flower tea brought back the vivid memory of his childhood in combray. Sitting infront of the computer rocking out to Chiodos, watching out for things that might break if I am not careful enough brought back a lot of the good memories from highschool. It also did something similar to what Proust discribed, it made me feel that perhaps the time spent in my room infront of the computer was the only time which existed in that stretch. Proust says it as such,

"And so it was that, for a long time afterwards, when I lay awake at night and revived old memories of combray, I saw no more of it than this sort of luminous panel, sharply defined against a vague and shadowy background, like the panels which a Bengal fire or some electric sign will illuminate and dissect from the front of a building the other parts of which remain plunged in darkness: broad as its base, the little parlour, the dining-room, the alluring shadows of the path along which would come M. Swann, the unconscious author of my sufferings, the hall through which I would journey to the first step of that staircase, so hard to climb, which constituted, all by itself, the tapering 'elevation' of an irregular pyramid and, at the summit, my bedroom, with the little passage through whose glazed door Mamma would enter; in a word, seen always at the same evening hour, isolated from all its possible surroundings, detached and solitary against its shadowy background, the bare minimum of scenery necessary (like the setting one sees printed at the head of an old play, for its performance in the provinces) to the drama of my undressing, as though all Combray had consisted of but two floors joined by a slender staircase, and as though there had been no time there but seven o'clock at night. I must own that I could have assured any questioner that Combray did include other scenes and did exist at other hours than these. But since the facts which I should have recalled would have been prompted only by and exercise of the will, by my intellectual memory, and since the pictures which that kind of memory shows us of the past preserve nothing of the past itself, I should never have had any wish to ponder over this residue of Combray. To me it was in reality all dead."

I'll let Proust have the next to last word as he says things so well.
Hopefully light was shed.

The orgin of my writing voice.

I ran into an essay by Kurt Vonnegut about style, and one of the points of advice got me to thinking. The point of advice went something like this. Vonnegut writes best when writing like the kid from Illinois he is. Joyce writes best when writing like a Dubliner. Twain Writes best when sounding like a man of the Mississippi. Ones orgin is the basis of their best writing voice. I haven't been able to think of an example refuting this. Saul Bellows sounds like a Jew from Chicago, and that is part of why he's so great. When I write I don't know what I sound like.
That's not a function of my writing being convoluted, though that has been a problem. I'm pretty sure it's more a function of my personal influences being so nebulous. I don't just write like a boy from the mountains of northern California, nor do I just write like a boy raised partly in Japan. My influences are such that my writing doesn't fit a single accepted form of prose. I have a weird way of speaking in which anachronisms from my parents generation, sentence structure from Japan, the earnest simple speak of the mountains, and the odd turns of phrase used in my voluminous reading are melded. It's hard for me to divine my influences.
One good example of this is simply in my speech. When talking I use lots of idioms that are antiquated. I don't realise no one has heard them. I always think them to be normal phrases, but am corrected, or met with a blank stare. This is how it is with weird little turns in my speech. I don't know what is odd. I know how other's speech differs from mine, but I sure as hell don't quite know what is up with mine. I look at all speech through the lens of what I've read and what I myself say. It's just natural.
It would be interesting if someone could pick out what was specifically different about the way I write or speak. I know a lot of what I write is either dull or constructed in a normal stylistic manner, but there's something there that isn't at parr. I suppose it's more odd that that is the way I speak too. The odd turns of phrase and awkward sentence structure pervade my speech.
If I figure out what's going on I'll let it be known, though this is rather unlikely.
until next rant.

ahh, near sorted.

dealing with my insurance company wasn't so bad, nor was getting a new tyre. I'm pleased with the interactions and it didn't take a huge chunk of my day or anything. I'm looking forward to getting back to work, and hopefully this won't but a huge dent in my already dented finances. Not something to really worry about though, things are like to get sorted soon.

Frustration and a weird sleep schedule.

My sleep cycle has been drastically perverted. My car has been in disrepair, and so I haven't been going to work, which has changed my schedule a whole lot. This isn't a bad thing, but it proves to me that Ideally I live at a slightly different pace. I know that I work best if I am awake for about seventeen hours. I can go more or less depending on how things are. This would work great if sleeping eight hours were my normal set up, but I'm pretty sure it isn't I'm pretty good with at least ten hours.
None of this is for sure and I might take a log of when I sleep and all of that sometime, but it seems that the normal schedule doesn't quite fit for me. On that note, it's seven fourty in the morning and I'm still awake. I woke up sometime around seven pm yesterday after a few fitful bouts of wakefulness. I'm going to go off and get my car fixed, and deal with the world disliking me. It's nice having these things occur at what is really the end of my day. I don't feel like dealing with anything but, I don't really have a choice now do I.
I'm also not happy that I'm unlikely to see Julie this weekend, as she's got other engagements. I don't like being apart from her for so long. Having had to put up with months of it doesn't make the weeks that I'm putting up with now hugely better. All I really want is to be in the same damn place, but I can't do that without shirking responsibility. I really can't shirk my responsibility if I want to be at all Fair to Julie. It's quite the catch twenty two. I need to be with Julie to really do her justice. To do that I have to shirk responsibility, which doesn't do her justice.
It's rather annoying. I haven't had a good complain in a while, and I guess I'm just getting it all out at once. I'm glad that I'm not crazy, but I definitely am not happy about the rest of the world giving me trouble. I know other people have it worse, and I've kept my complaints to myself (well mostly) for just that reason, but I've had enough.
Oh well. there's naught that I can do at the moment. I'll figure it out.Or maybe I won't, that's to be seen. I just have to keep it up and hope that things will work out.

dealing with people can just be too much fucking trouble. I understand a lot of how they work, and about why things happen the way they do with people, but fuck, how to deal with them sure is opaque. I wish everything were just more straightforward. I'm always relatively striaghtforward, and try to avoid bullshit, why can't everyone else?
So what sparked this was a conversation, or rather a bit of talking and a lot of sitting in silence, with my girlfriend. If I didn't love her this would have pissed me off. As it is I'm just a little annoyed and perplexed. I try to be helpful, I listen to complaints over which I have no control, and I give what advice I can. I know advice can't be given for every situation, and I know that not everything can be fixed, but trying to understand everything just seems like an obvious must to me.
I can only deal with that which I can observe, or which I'm told of. Silence doesn't improve my understanding of anything. I don't think it's alright for her to get all pissy just because I don't understand what's going on when I haven't any information. Oh well. I'm not particularly able to assess the situation as of this time, so I'll leave it be, but I can't help but still be a bit bothered. Whatever, I'll figure it out eventually. I just wish I were with her so I could pick up those signs I can't over the phone, so I could understand better what was going on, so when she talked with me, I could stop when she was annoyed, or leave, or otherwise do something effective.
I just feel so impotent at this distance, or any distance really.

I hate money.

Tonight I talked with Julie about money.
I have irrational fears about money, and obsess over how much I have and how I'm going to pay for things. My family wasn't poor or anything. Somehow frugality was simply instilled in me. My dad grew up poor and his father grew up during the depression. I can understand where some of this obsession comes from. The thing is that in the past I haven't let money stop me so much. I was ok with buying books and music regardless of money. I don't know what's changed, but lately I've been worried about how much I have and how much I don't.
I'm in debt right now and I have a little over a thousand dollars less a month coming in than I need in order to keep up with bills, without paying off my debt. This is with working thirty hours a week and using the money my family has saved up for years on end.
Julie is telling me money is easily attainable but that hasn't been my experience. I've done the whole applying for scholarships out the wazoo thing, and I've taken out loans. The thing is that it doesn't help. My dislike of all of this makes a certain amount of sense, but it is indeed irrational. However I know of lots of folks who worked their way through college. It's a common thing. I\I don't really understand how people can think that it's ok to just defer everything. I know that its ok to take loans and to focus on ones education, but what happened to contributing to your own education. The fact is that with the amount of money I was getting in financial aide loans and all didn't pay for the remainder that was left when my parents money was spent. (it's actually my money, long story, umm probably for later) I went further in debt because of that. Before I had my reckless spending binge while in a bout of clinical depression I already had debt from paying off parts of my school and housing etc. with my credit.

I don't know what to think right now. I don't want money to determine what I do, but I can't eist without my money figured out. Julie doesn't worry about money the same way, but I don't think it's just me being all irrational, though that is part of it. I think that some of it comes from the fact that I manage my money. I have to see where it goes, distribute it among accounts, spend it, and organise it. She doesn't do any of that. Her parents juggle the finances. They probably have to go through a similar set of hoops, but she never sees the hoops so her anxiety about money is subverted. I also imagine it's easier to get a loan when you have some twenty or thirty years of credit built up. as far as my parents taking out a loan, we already have some of those out, and I'm not sure where we are financially. Frankly money is the only thing my father and I really argue about.

Just like with everything else as of late I wish I could just drop it all and just curl up with Julie. That's all I want out of anything lately.
I can't fix my craziness in a flash, I can't fix my schooling in a flash, and I can't simply slough off my monetary responsibilities on my parents. Like it or not I've taken on this stuff, or have had it pushed on me, and now I have to deal with it. I'm not alone or anything, but I sure as fuck am not in the ideal situation.

Hopefully that made sense. It probably didn't considering my track record tonight.
maybe I'll figure it out soon.
until next time

a wonderful day for my student

My student was wonderful today. He wasn't in the classroom the majority of the time. I thing these two things may be causal. He does very well if things are put forth clearly, and in a non-classroom environment that is much easier to do. (it sometimes feels impossible in the classroom).
He followed directions well, enjoyed himself, was happy throughout the day as opposed to off and on, and his aggressions were exceedingly rare. It just makes sense though.
The reason he was out of the classroom was for a bit of testing. It wasn't for analysis. What they were doing (they being two people from the district) was introducing him to a new communication system (just feeling it out). It went' well. I don't think the communication system would stick, but his behaviour and reactions during the testing were brilliant.
I was very proud of him. His mother was also there during this (as was my consultant) She expressed surprise about some of the things I was doing, in a good way that is. for instance, in order to lead him places, and to give him a good amount of tactile input, my hands are on his shoulders a whole lot. She was under the impression that he didn't like that. It's just one of those problems that comes up when you assume every whim and need. She doesn't require him to clearly show what he wants, and so he doesn't feel the need to. If all things he wants are just given to him, why should he be insistent about it.
I'm proud of him, and I think that perhaps a switch in his mothers brain is being triggered. Maybe she'll realise the harm (and disrespect for that mater) she does him by enabling him.

She is very dedicated to her son. That is certifiable, it's simply her refusal of advice from people who know what's going on. It's a common problem, and if she realises that is what's wrong, she will take advice, because she wants what's best for her son.


other than that my day has been relatively uneventful. I may have more things of interest later, but who really knows.

post 100

I don't really feel it to be so important, but it is somewhat exciting that I'm to a one hundredth post. I'm still a little sick. I've been coughing and being up and about for more than ten minutes isn't so pleasant. I'm going to try to go in to work tomorrow anyways. I feel bad for missing a week or so of work, it just feels irresponsible, even if that's what was suggested to me by the doctor. I got an inhaler to help the coughing a bit, but that's all they could really do. It's a viral infection, and so I must let it run it's course. I can't say that's pleasing. I'm fine with it, but I hate being down, I'd rather be able to go back to work.
For the last few posts it seems that my blog has been largely complaint. I don't want to seem like the sort of person who complains endlessly.
I've watched a few football games in the euro cup, but I haven't been following too closely. I haven't a dog in that fight. I could route for just about anyone. For international Football its always Ireland at my top list. I like the Germans a lot, but that's partly due to my fascination at the skills of their goalkeeper during the world cup they played against Brasil.
I really wish I were up and about. That I've nothing more to talk about than a cold and football is really a shame. Not to say that I wouldn't be fine talking about those things.
I'm off to be sick some more. Perhaps I'll celebrate my hundredth post with some coffee. Hopefully I'll have more of interest to tell you later.