I have my writing hat on and I am sneezing.

I realized recently that I had a lot of potential, and maybe I still have it. Maybe the way that I look at the world is really different than that of other people, maybe I'm strange. Maybe a lot of things.

I know some things though.

I know who I am now. I kind of stopped caring about a lot of shit, as of late. Things that upset other people don't upset me as much. I will say how I feel, and that's that. I'll get pissed, annoyed, irked and all sorts of other words, but I will keep on going, and going, amen. I go. What else can one do?

Morbid? ME? I am. Elly says that I'm morbid. Honestly I haven't been called that since middle school. It really is true however. I am an absurdist, at heart. Everything about the absurd appeals to me. Part of this is using really dire and, well, morbid things to a comedic effect. That has always been my way, and it always will be my way. I enjoy the strange satisfaction of it all. I mean, if we can't laugh about the most dire things, like death, what can we laugh at?

In WW1 there were many trenches stretching for hundreds of miles. Day in and day out the soldiers, British, French, and German would "go over the top", charging headlong into barbed wire and machine gun fire. Needless to say, at this point in the war, survival was not very likely. In battles like the Somme and Verdun over 1 million people would perish, a generation lost. In one trench in particular things were looking down, and when you may die the next second, down is not where you want to be looking. You want to see the sky, the beauty of life, not the mucky ground where people have shit and pissed, died, and where the remnants of poison gas lingers. Something needed to be done. As if from God, but more likely a corpse hit by an artilery shell, a hand was flung down into the trench. The hand was attatched to a forearm, but nothing else. Puzzled, but not overly surprised, the Brits took this hand and stuck it into the wall of the trench. The next time they went over the top the all shook this hand, faring the former master a fond "cheerio", hoping they wouldn't be meeting the dear departed person in the afterlife.

The hand gave them comfort. They realized that they were in the most dire situation that one could find themselves in, and they did something about it. They took control. By accepting the horror around them, and possessing it they controlled it. Sure they would still die, and the war would still rage on, but that hand let them be human for a bit, to see how absurd the whole situation was, and how little it all really mattered.

People should realize how little it matters, but not in a bad way. What is a word? What is it passed between friends? What are feelings hurt? They will heal, life will go on. It is better to cope and recover than keep angry. Being angry doesn't accomplish anything. I know. I have been very angry for days at end, miserable. When I think of the things that I could have done in that time, I feel foolish. I wasted it. I will never get that time back. Enjoy the time that you have. There's nothing after it (see the previous post for more).

Tim will apologize, Jess, I hope, will accept. No harm was meant, no lives were lost. Life will go on.

People underestimate Tim horribly. I can honestly say that he is one of the smartest, most together people that I have met at Conn. I don't mean to disrespect the rest of the campus, my friends included, but I've never seen anyone so disregarded. People literally treat him as if he is retarded at times. This really irks me (ha). He knows what he is doing. He's human though, and slips sometimes. He'll say something stupid, offensive, or whatever, but the fact of the matter is that he won't say it out of spite, to hurt, to harm. He'll say something, or do something, for a reason. There was a reason behind him saying what he said to Jess.

It was comedy, in the highest form.

As a writer of some very limited renoun, I know that comedy is something that is very hard to master. Tim has perfect timing. He knows when a joke is ripe, and when to pick it. He knows when to say just the right thing, and at Rosie's diner he said something offensive to my friend Jess. The catch is that we were at two seperate booths. At my booth, the one with Tim, a story had just been elaborated upon, and Tim saw an opportunity to continue the joke, and did. At Jess's table, the did not know about the joke, and didn't take kind to the insult that it prompted, even though there was no malice behind it.

Feelings were hurt, people will move on, and really on a totally detatched level, I don't care.

It's something to write about though.

And on a sexist note, why can guys, in general, take so much more ribbing and insulting than a girl? Is it an issue of socialization or what? It there some huge construct that protects women from joking insults or what? Men are tried by fire by their friends. I know. I was sensitive and I was ribbed by my pals. I would get pissed, but now nothing bothers me, as long as I know that it is a joke. If it is not, then I can be...dangerous. But do girls have the same sort of thing when they grow up? It may be interesting to look at, someday, when I am a famous Anthropologist/Sociologist/unemployed pedophile.

WHAT?
(scratch that last one. The last two for that matter. Perhaps the last word of the 3rd, and the first two options)

Unemployed?

Here's to graduation.

-ccm