Encroachment

It's ridiculous, if you ask me; a young man who, until quite recently, had not mastered the use of articles is suddenly planning to become an English major and a Writing minor. Doesn't he know the sort of prowess and mental acuity required of English majors? Doesn't he know that he'll have me to compete with?

The English department has never been Wash U's most competitive department; the general sentiment is that anyone who completes the requirements should pass, and that anyone who passes the right number of classes should get a major. I have been pushing, since arriving last year, for a system more resembling Wash U's premedical program; something a little more dog-eat-dog.

The assumption is that the world needs doctors of a certain caliber, and so it isn't always enough to know 80% of all the facts presented to you; rather, you have to know more than 80% of your peers. The idea is that people's lives are too valuable to put in the hands of just anyone, no matter what their capabilities may be. I feel this is the correct way to approach literature.

People will scoff, I realize, and utter nonsense about "life and death" but I will scoff in return. A life wasted awash with shoddy literature should be treated as seriously as a terminal illness. We can't allow amateurs to step in and dilute the hard work of hundreds of generations.

It should not be possible for every student in a class to get an A. The students with the worst work should fail, even if the work is deemed acceptable. Some will say that the public will recognize the talented and shun the worthless, but I hold that society does not.... can not know how to discriminate unless they are properly instructed. In the last 50 years, the rise of hack authors has risen astronomically, and they have begun to take over the industry; Tan, King, Crichton, Rowling.... some of the most easily recognized names in modern literature, also easily the worst writers of our time. And I'm supposed to stand by, take my courses, earn my credits, and fade into the backdrop like every decent author of our time, while the next Wipidowski novel sells out in bookstores, grocery stores and Wal-Marts across the country?

No! There must be a hierarchical measure of achievement! The threshold system must fall, or the bar must be raised drastically, before we contribute another overly-ambitious amateur to the world of fiction.

That is all.

My Future's So Bright....

Waking, for me, is a daily challenge; not for want of sleep, or for the warmth of the bed, but for love of darkness.

It saddens me to know that my mind, the powerful organ that it is, is still incapable of thinking nothing. When I close my eyes, I wish that I could see true darkness, as though I were blind. When I lay in bed at night, trying to clear my head of the thoughts that keep me awake, I try my hardest to have absolutely no sound in my mental ear; the best I can manage is a low buzz, but a sound is a sound.

But, oh, the bliss of unconsciousness. You don't see, you don't hear; you become completely unaware and completely self-contained for the duration of your slumber. I wake, each morning, into a reasonably (but not completely) darkened room, and I am surrounded by clicks and hums and car horns and ventilation systems. I return to the world of stimulus, and it offends me.

This morning, I walked into the bathroom, turned on the harsh vanity lights, and held my arm up to block out the light. This is nothing unusual. I do this every day; sometimes I hiss as I do it.

The strange thing is that the pain of visual stimulus did not fade with time. I brushed my teeth through a wince, until I noticed my pupils. They were not quite as dialated as they are after seeing the optometrist, but they were certainly larger than they should be; what's more, they refused to change size.

I showered with my eyes closed, drank a few glasses of water, and they were responding by the time I left for class. I have observed them throughout the day, and they seem to fluctuate from being too big, normal, and too small.

My negative social disposition has led me, over the last decade, to take a not-insignificant number of anti-depressants; most recent on that list is Zoloft. My mother warned me, before I started taking it, that it had made her pupils behave strangely. I have been taking it since August, and today is the first time I have experienced this. It may be significant that yesterday was the first pill from a new bottle.

So, I have been wearing sunglasses for the last hour. It doesn't help my physiology any, but it seems to reduce the burning sensation I've experienced since waking.

I never liked light, and now I'm secure in my hatred of it.

That is all.

The Great Prank War

This may or may not bear fruit, but I have caught wind of the beginnings of a great prank war. Brody's now legendary friend was caught, recently, sprinkling his pubic hairs on Brody's pillowcase. My understanding is that the word passed down from the higher-ups who spoke to the people in charge who know, personally, the second cousin of the man is that "It's On."

I must contact this fellow, this legend, and see if I can aid him, somehow.

That is all.

To Condemn Two Fools

My attempts to destroy Brody's ego and sanity have, as expected, inspired his suitemates to rise against me. In that building, I cannot safely show my face, unless I want something promptly smeared across it. It is fortunate that Chaz's relations with Dauten 23 transcend their grudge against me, or else I'd have next to no access to critical information. So, it was with great enthusiasm that I recieved Chaz's report, last Wednesday, of an opportunity to strike.

He had, simply by hanging around D23, learned that Brody was at a Journalism Conference and would be until Saturday night; also, because no good fraternity can exist without betrayal, his suitemates had forced his door open. Chaz saw this as an excellent chance to do something terrible to Brody's room, so he smuggled me into the room while nobody was looking. I looked around the room, trying to find some perfect perpetration, some way of marking his room that would last until the end of the year. My more petty instincts kicked in, as well, as I momentarily considered poking a needle through the condoms I found in his drawer; I decided not to, as I am not inclined to let Brody's gametes spread farther than his sheets and the sewer system. No, I wanted something bigger! For all my boasting and threatening, I felt I had quite a bit of hype to live up to. I had to think outside the box. I had to think outside the room I was in.

It is a strange mechanism which allows Brody's open and unguarded room to inspire me as it did, but the arc of revenge is often much larger than the most apparent opportunities. Standing there, his domain squished between my fingers, I closed my eyes and my mind and considered the second ramification of Brody's absence; he was far away from anyone who might protect him. Returning my mind to this meager plane, I asked Chaz where Brody's conference was being held. He said "Kansas". I said "Then we're going to Kansas".

We returned to the suite to gather our things, and we found dear Vladimir putting the finishing touches on a soviet adaptation of the "potato cannon". Though traditionally made of PVC or some other sturdy plastic, Vladimir's brainchild is made of stainless steel and has a laser sight. For once, I found myself considering the ways in which Vlad might be useful. He and his cannon came to occupy the backseat of my car.


Were they around to say so, Chaz and Vlad might tell you that we all had a rollocking good time driving to Kansas. One of the many fatal mistakes I made this weekend was in bringing two assistants along, as I was quickly out-voted on nearly every issue. Choking down a Big Mac, listening to Eminem and playing I Spy is not my idea of a fun time, especially when one of your cohorts thinks "I Spy" is a matter of national security.

We reached Topeka early Thursday morning, and we slept in our seats until the light of day was too much to ignore. I will not recount the futility of the following 60 hours. What you should know is this : Friday morning, in an attempt to blast a Bush billboard, Vladimir exploded my rear left window. Saturday afternoon, Chaz made some phonecalls and informed me that the reason we could not find the convention is because it was in Kansas City. Saturday evening, I let the two of them drink until Chaz couldn't stand up straight, drove them to the middle of a field, knocked Vlad out with his steel cannon, then drove home.

I believe in proactive evolution. I believe that whatever fate you bring down on yourself is deserved, and if that fate should leave you dead in a ditch.... well, then you weren't fit to live in your time and place. The mistakes that Chaz and Vlad made were unforgivable, and the thought of driving all the way back to St Louis with the same bad music and the same bad fast food was just more than I could bear. Should they find their way back, then, I suppose I will have to deal with the consequences of my actions. Know, however, that I am not at all certain they will ever make it back.

That is all.