It's a weird schedule. Class two days a week, but 5 hours of class on each of those days. The out-of-class academic schedule is highly irregular as well: Last week there were 2 obscenely large homework assignments and a midterm.
Didn't sleep much.But now there's nothing on the horizon. From the day I walked out of class thursday until I walk back in tuesday morning, there's nothing to do. Well, a Databases assignment, but it's not due for another week and a half. That's next week's problem. But I keep thinking, soon as I have a couple days of free time, I'm going to get all productive. I'm going to have schwerve again. Two projects float around the back of my head, each representing a particular passion of mine. One: Code my own blogging software. None of the ones I've seen quite do what I want them to, I just want something suave and utterly customizable and completely extensible, so later when I have epiphonies, I can write widgets that will do nifty little things, and the blogging software will accept them with open arms (API's) and cheerful smiles (cheerful smiles). I hate the idea of not being on people's buddylists anymore, because I like reading what they write about me, and because hit counts suffer when you're not part of a system that tells people when you've updated. To be honest, I'm still just a bit of a hit-counter whore.The other is to write Calling Shotgun. My problem here is the same as the software. I tend to lack go-juice. It's getting rarer and rarer lately that I feel the need to write in here at all, I'm writing more often in the "Things happened and I should probably talk about them" kind of way, instead of the writing because I love to kind of way. It's like I'm losing the drive to be able to perfectly express something. So today, right before I started this entry, I read Dave's diary, front to back. I swear to God, it's not a fanboy thing. Well, a little, but it's reciprocal, so "fanboy" doesn't apply. But he'll write about Screaming at video games and I'll laugh, or he'll bitch about his own lack of writing ability and I'll feel insulted as a consumer for loving it so much. Kind of like if FFX's tagline had been "Don't Play: You're better than this.". But he can express with such dorky, bohemian proficiency, and by virtue of the fact I have a clue in hell what he's talking about, it gives me hope again that maybe I have something to say too. Andrew once told me, "I wonder if you're in the wrong major. You're a good coder, but a fucking FANTABULOUS writer." Nikki told me, after reading the entry about a homeless guy selling dancing girls, that I could easily do it as a career. And I kind of dig on that, because although I love to write, I really have no way of gauging my quality other than what other people say. Kevin left a guestbook entry once correcting my grammar, and it was like a kick to the balls, and like a 5 year old, I wanted to go over to his guestbook and take pot shots at his capitalization street-cred.Other than that, I keep changing my mind about what the book would be ABOUT. Originally I'd decided it would be a journal, so I could slack and just copy entries from in here, change the names to protect the guilty and armed or whiny... But it wouldn't work, because I want to tell a STORY. Not just a bunch of small ones. I want to convey a journey.Eh, 'nuff about that, I'm bordering on Emo here.Last night was a Halloween party. Angels and Demons themed. I was (I would say went as, but it was at our house) Micheal, because a cute girl told me a couple months ago I should. Basically I needed unkept hair, and to not shave for a couple weeks. And a pair of overalls and angel wings from the thrift store. Girls gold me it was the coolest costume ever, and I felt proud of my haphazard suaveness. But there were lots of people, so at one point I snuck out the back door to sit in silence in the dark and smoke, stare at the moon and recharge in an introverted-out kind of way. I had done my escape suavely, discreetly, nobody had noticed except Andrew. We compared notes, he'd gone out the front door looking for me at one point, for the same reason I'd gone out the back door. I'm better with crowds now than I used to be. I can spend more time in them then away from them, but I still need 10 minutes to myself every once in a while.Fell asleep again with Jenny (Sleeping buddy from previous entry). Often she'll have a moment that makes one want to give her an award for excellence in the art of awesoming, and I'll tell her I want to keep her. She'll smile and tell me, not until I quit smoking. So far I've cut the habit down to 4 or 5 a day. I've developed a mild dorky crush on her, and it's odd, because other than a profound love of certain authors, we don't have entirely much in common. She goes jogging, for god's sakes. But when she rolls over in bed and clutches the arm I've flopped over her, and mumbles in her sleep, or when I wake up next to her at too-damn-early-in-the-morning... There just aren't words for how cool that is. -Alex
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