Ripe, almost rotten

The other day I was attempting to set-up Mouse Trap with a bunch of younglings. They were setting this puppy up far more efficiently than your anti-hero and so I remarked, "Wow, you guys are much better at setting this up than I." And one younglings responded: "That's because we're kids; we're good at setting up games". In this moment, I realized I am no longer a child.

In an unrelated announcement, I am using an agenda for the first time since grade seven. The madness of my life was paving way to a coup d'état against myself. This movement towards organization should deter the rising internal forces from conquering me. However, this whole organization business has illuminated me to the oncoming pestilence that may sink my rowboat anyway.
*Warning horn*
The nadir of the semester (and likely life) is coming. Work now, or embrace the plague and the woes that accompany it.
Frig! I even forgot to mention that I must find summer schooling now! Oh!

This Side Of The Blue

I am unequivocally disenchanted with life today. Time is dawdling in the flowery fields, ignoring my desolate cries to hurry on.
In short, I am mildly bored for the first time in ages. Thankfully, I know the remedy to boredom a la Dorothy Parker: The cure for boredom is curiosity. What to do with this remedy? I don't know.
I have altered my schedule for next semester. After a meeting with the fine folks in the registrar's office tomorrow, my schedule should appear something like this:

Global History (Core)
Theatre (To stretch)
Philosophy of Religion (Core)
Reformation Theology (Gateway to better theology courses)
History of Missions (Because missionaries are hipsters: thin, arrogant, and they listen to obscure tribal music)

The forthcoming semester is churlish. Of course, school has always been churlish. Why should next semester be any exception?
Although next semester I have those grand volunteer plans which should integrate some immediate (if not temporal) meaning to my existence save studying and succoring my fellow confreres with their struggles.
Thomas Mann was brilliant, if not demoniacally possessed.

Frigger

My frigger glasses snapped into two pieces. It wasn't even my fault this time; it was my weak motor skills and lackluster coordination, aight listen: I was holding my glasses in my hands, exiting my room when my hand proceeds to smack itself off the corner of the wall. Frig. I have attended my first class without glasses -- mathematics 101, the most primitive class ever -- and I was wholly confused. The "professor" was blathering on about something and scribbling on the chalk board madly. Due to my inadequate vision, I could not even acknowledge the presence of chalk on the board, save those audio aspects of writing on the blackboard. After two minutes I realized I would never learn anything and thus entered my "high school zone" and began to woolgather and write down odd thoughts and sicko pictures. Before I knew it, the class was over. No wonder I never learned a thing in high school. Ideally, I will order a spanking pair today from Costco but the situation is already dire, and new glasses will take ages to arrive. Friggers.

My lab partner refuses to meet with me and hence our compulsory lab is now four days late. Oh mys, seriously, what the frig? Group projects result in nothing but frustrating failure.

By Jove! a venture to Costco will result in skipping yet another political science class. I despise attendance more than my this course itself. Wait, no I don't. This course is ridiculously vapid and offers no succor to this semester's pseudo-education. Maybe I just don't like learning.

This privileged ingrate from Barcelona offers these semi-related words to my first paragraph:

Don't want to wear glasses
Though I know that I should
So I have to take chances
When I walk through the hood

Forgive the solecisms and I will forgive you.