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| I think this "internet" fad is just about coming to a close.
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| When I do pushups in my bedroom, my hands leave imprints in the carpet. They are quite beautiful on several levels.
Physical therapy has been bouncing around in my head as a career option lately. It would allow me to take some psychology, and place appropriate value on physical activity.
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| Today was the busiest I have been in a long time. Work, orientation day, followed by an interview fair for Affinity Plus federal credit union in St. Paul.
Ok, and, I don't have the energy to really hash out how I feel about all of this. Not because that was a lot of work, but because I didn't get enough sleep but worked out anyways. I work at Caribou Coffee at Rice & Larpenteur, the same store I worked in 2008 after my disastrous first semester.
The interview. I have never felt so out of place - I came straight from Caribou in tennis shoes and jeans. Everyone else there was significantly older, better dressed, and (in my mind anyways) had more experience. Still, it was good to try.
That is all. My writing is poo right now. On Thursday it will be 2 months (59 days) since I last smoked weed, and 1 month since I smoked fake weed. For brevity's sake, I'll say I'm glad to be away from that mindset and lifestyle but disappointed in slow progress. On an emotional level, I expected all or most of my problems to disappear with the absence of pot.
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| P, your comment stung a little bit. I've been trying to put my finger on why - it's just criticism.
Truth be told, I look at Xanga as a place to write without thinking, editing, or structuring. Sometimes I go back and edit an entry, but only if I feel the post is serious enough to merit that kind of effort. So it's essentially a diary, except with an audience. I try to avoid writing for an audience and the tainting effects that has, but it's unavoidable.
I arrived at a certain realization, perhaps about myself, perhaps about human nature. When I'm criticized for something I put very little work into, like a quick post about talking to an old fling that shut me down over a year ago, it feels like the criticism is directed at me. But when I've put work into something, say, a piano piece, I don't feel that way at all. Rather, the critic is simply trying to help me improve my work, and I can see this. It's as if the effort I've put in is a shield between me and the piece. Yet another benefit of giving 110%.
From an emotional standpoint, I see unedited self-expression as accurate, and refined expression like essays and piano pieces as fabrications. Logically, I know the opposite is true - by thinking and working, I have made it part of myself. Logic can't change gut reactions.
I tried to let it go, but I couldn't. Sometimes I just don't feel like explaining myself, especially when it comes to matters of sexuality. She was a girl who lived in the Twin Cities but I met in River Falls. We hit it off nicely and had a short fling, but I came on too strong. It was a learning experience. My previous post was about finally talking to her on Facebook that night - I asked her if she was going to the Pixies show, merely out of curiosity. I considered saying, "I'm not bitter about being rejected, I understand why you were creeped out by me. I brought it upon myself". But I figured it would be better form and at least leave the door inched open, so to speak, to act as if I had forgotten all about it. I'm certainly "over it", but the life lesson for me was profound.
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