I was looking through my grades for computer networking and looked at the distribution for the midterm (from three weeks ago).
Some people, after knowing they did horrible on an exam, might say, ‘That sucked. I probably got the lowest grade in the class’.
Dream on, because I'm that guy.
(‘Guy’ is pronounced 'ghee' in French (just drop the ‘h’ sound), according to Andrew. And I think I just figured out why some letters are silent.)
ONE I scored 102 out of 117 on my [quantum] physics midterm – it's the same class I failed a year ago due to sheer laziness. And now I'm scoring above average with just a few extra hours of work. Maybe that'll serve as motivation to watch less television and do a little more studying?
TWO Dan and Pete appeared out of nowhere last night and I found myself at The Highdive a bit later watching Bob Log III. Bebe & Serge was the second act to open before Bob; they might be the strangest group I'll ever see performing.
I can't form the words to describe their set just yet, because I have a small headache from drinking.
As I'm watching Rap City (Old School Wednesday), a bit of nostalgia washes over me. And then I start to search for these different songs. But there's this one group, whose name I forget, but I know they're from Chicago. I remember the video. I remember the varying personas of the group members.
But what's their name!?
Then there's this commercial for Krutial – it's cheaply done. I stopped paying attention to what exactly Krutial was advertising, because it hit me: the name of the group is Crucial Conflict!
If that isn't just the eeriest thing.
Now it's time to mourn the whoring of rap through Jay-Z, Big Tymers, and everyone else who wants to just talk about money and bitches and all that other shit, in the most uninteresting way. It's been done with more skill and taste in the past. Stupid MTV. 50 Cent sucks. Blah.
(Note that there's no distinction between hip-hop and rap, except as an easy way keep up a stereotype. And also,
that is Lady of Rage flipping switches. I swear on my computer, I want hydraulics on a '64 Impala (or equivalent, say, an El Camino, or even an Accord) with gold rims and all that. You might think it's funny, but I'm waiting for that day.)
Some people joke about being a student for life, but that message makes me skeptical of that idea.
If I'm agitated, stressed, or bored while doing something, I tend to run my fingers through my hair (be it short or long) and pick at my scalp. That accounts for the markings some of you may have noticed when I shaved my head.
And there's that whole fondling issue.
Right now, there's an interracial couple arguing in the parking lot outside my window. This apparently involves a child; the (white) lady called the police on the (black) guy for some reason, and now the guy wants to call the police on her. But they're coming to a temporary stop, because the lady got in her car, and the guy is putting his son in the car seat.
And if I remember correctly, this guy is one of the landlords' friends. The landlords live directly below us.
What does it all mean?
I'm also watching the final episode of Dragonball Z. I thought I wouldn't experience this moment until after I was 23 years old!
Don't eat half a pint of Ben & Jerry's Chocolate Fudge Brownie at 8 PM.
Damn…I'm a bit saddened for some reason.
I had to call the police. Shit downstairs was getting out of hand, and someone apparently got a good beatdown from six or so guys, according to Toby. Four cop cars in the end. Someone beat me to the call though.
I really hate fuckers who think they're all tough because it's ten of them against one or two. I empathize with Kiefer's role in Phone Booth because I've had that same feeling at times.
And this daylight savings thing is…explicative.
It just dawned on me that brown folk (Indians and Bengalis in this context) will understand the food we've been brought up with more than, say, non-Indian subcontinenters.
There's nothing deep about the understanding. It's just a unifying symbol of sorts.
Example: Arun and his cousin (Rick) came into my room less than an hour ago. Rick looks at my food cart and sees chainachur and flavored chick peas; he says to Arun with a smirk – maybe alcohol and marijuana added to that amusement – ‘Kaiser's got the good stuff’. Or something like that. Who else would comment on those particular food items in such a manner? There's an unspoken bond beneath the words. Right?
I've avoided my ‘kind’ since I've been here; it has more to do with a majority of the brownies being cliqueish. They all seem so preppy. And besides, 95% of them are Indian. Where are my folks, the Bangladeshis, at? Oh yeah, I'm avoiding them too, because I feel I have nothing in common with them, and it's hard for me to make new friends if there isn't a friend linking us.
This doesn't have much of a point, except maybe that I'm anticipating one of those identity crises, reevaluating my role in society. Where are my cultural roots? Am I no longer Bangladeshi? How do I reconcile these two wolrds? I could be the next hip Bengali writer rehashing the whole Brownie in the Western world theme. (Except that it doesn't interest me at the moment? I'd like to write a book that doesn't necessarily go anywhere.)
If anything, I hope to be content in being human, a citizen of the earth as ordained by divine powers. Borders are never permanent.
I'm bored.
No, it would be nice.
It would be nice if used dishes consistently found their way into the dishwasher, or go through a wash and then chill on the drying rack. It would also be nice if I wasn't the only person to have cleaned the bathroom completely the entire year.
Just daydreaming here. Pay me no mind.
Phone Booth is killer. Well, it's good and surprisingly humorous. And let's not forget about Kiefer Sutherland and Colin Farrell – they're platonic crushes, I swear!
Best line of the movie, of course, is:
You hurt my dick hand!
Why do people keep calling me to go out tonight just so they can see me? I understand that's the whole point of a reunion but after those first initial minutes of ‘Hey! How've you been? I haven't seen you in such-and-such years’ and all, it all dies down and gives way to the normal bar scenery. Plus a few more familiar faces, of course.
I've never been the life of or support for a social gathering. I'm left kinda dangling uneasily and would rather avoid it completely than try to generate a stronger gravitational pull.
Something like that.
As I sat and ate a banana not five minutes ago, my mouth had flashbacks of milk and cereal with slices of banana. I don't even remember the last time I ate such a thing.
What cereal would compliment milk and banana?
Never sacrifice sleep for The Mangler 2. NEVER.
However, you can't say no to Daniella Evangelista.
Duality defined.
The story about going to New York and meeting a girl was fictitious, and I apologize to anyone who believed it to be true. I would've loved it to be true, but that's a bit of a stretch.
Instead of going into why I made up a story, it should be sufficient to say that I'm entitled to write a tiny little fairytale every now and then. Life is dull and, more recently as well as in the past, unhappy and confusing.
How do you, the reader, tell fact from fiction in my journal? It's pretty simple. You have an idea of who I am and what's been happening the past few weeks, months, and years so really, what are the chances of something like this happening to me? Chances are slim; it's inversely proportional to my body, coincedentally.
I should be punished for this, and I am (or will be). As proof, I state the following:
![see the [lack of] hair?](/88/resource/old/playing_guitar.jpg)
Here's to us.
The auditorium-style desk-seats are precisely engineered such that anyone over the height of, say, five-and-three-twelfth feet wishing to rest will be confronted with maximum discomfort in both forward and backward inclinations. It forces me to walk out halfway through class to retain a bit of sanity.
And the weather is a pretty sixty or so degrees with a breeze. Now, time for some French-pressed coffee.