Pick-a-Philosophy Tuesdays

I picked up the Shopko catalog I got in the mail, and unfortunately, it inspired yet another cynical bone-to-pick (yes, it's now one, hyphenated word--I was told that I'm allowed to do that now). Right on page two, I see an ad for "NEW VIEW 2 pk. Resin Wall Plaques" for only $4.88! Wow!! The first plaque suggests in beautiful cursive, "Make each day a new beginning." Awe. Just inspiring. The second one wisely advises, "Keep a dream in your heart." Let me brush this joyful tear from my cheek.

Ok, first of all, I am utterly incapable of fathoming what could possibly be going through any human being's mind that could allow them to even tolerate such pointless, life-sucking space-occupiers, let alone ACTUALLY PAYING for the mindless dribble! Never mind that four dollars and eighty-eight cents could buy you around 8 candy bars, depending on the sale; never mind that you'd be $4.88 cents richer and your wall wouldn't be polluted with putrescent nonsense; what kind of drooling idiot would buy this garbage?? You might be wondering, why is Samie so worked up about such a trivial thing? Brain-meltage is probably a factor, sure, but it's the principle of the thing. Let's say you truly believe that each day should be a new beginning [eye roll]. FINE! THAT'S FINE! But even if that's the case, why would you go buy a ridiculous WALL PLAQUE?? Where's the connect?? So you can tack it up on your wall and let everyone else know that's what you believe? Is it the pretty little butterfly that printed above the cursive? Do you think your house needs another accent? Or are you attracted to big red "sale!" signs? I don't understand!!! And besides, what are the chances that these two little adages actually represent your life philosophy?? Aaaa!

Ok. Take a deep breath. If you like little sayings on your walls and shelves, fine. Go for it. But why not make a craft out of it and make something infinitely cooler and more personal than some dumb plaque you buy at Shopko for $4.88???!!
Maybe I'm taking my school frustration out on Shopko. And the dummy who made these idiotic plaques...
If you're a person with manufactured words on your wall and you're reading this, don't get offended. I can probably assume that you have a good reason. Please enlighten me.

More Poetry for You

In my current state, I offer things I hate. And because that sounds cynical by itself, I give it to you in poetry format. That way, it's bleeding art, not griping (as with all poetry--take THAT poetry; how do you like me now?)


The Great Hater (with apologies to Rupert Brooke)

These have I hated:
The singing voices of children
(Don't judge me, it grates the ear drums)
Ambiguities in requests
The audacity of undergraduates
Entitled punks who think their time is more valuable than mine
Line butters
Uncertainty
Snow
Driving
People who think the blinker is a fun option
Any change besides furniture layout
Surprises that aren't presents for me
The color pink
Oh how I loathe pink
"I know you're super busy, but..."
That dancing game when trying to pass a stranger
but you both try to go the same way
several times.
Academia's thievery of Spring Breaks
Women who are taller than I am
Just washing my hands and then being faced
with the obligation of a handshake
with someone who may have challenged hygiene habits
Small dogs
"I had the craziest dream last night,
let me tell you about it in detail"
"Let me tell...you...this important...thing...
Sorry...I'm distracted...by this....mundane...task..."
GRAD SCHOOL
Hollywood
Poetry
But before my list gets too long,
For the sake of my soul:
I like kittens, candy, green grapes, alliterations,
Christian, when people think I'm funny,
Being right, piano, fan-damily, boots,
Teaching, finishing something, graduating,
Graduating, graduating, leisure time,
Assassin's Creed 2,Left 4 Dead 2, drawing,
The color green, wind, rain, possibly YOU.


The end.

Perhaps poetry isn't the route I should take...

Just a little poetry for you

Is anyone ACTUALLY interested in how family structure affects labor market outcomes??? I mean, why do these people spend the time to write such horrifically dull articles? Surely that means someone is interested in the topic, right? But who? What kind of sicko likes that stuff? ESPECIALLY enough to devote their entire careers to it??! Why am I reading it?! What am I doing here?! It's sucking the life out of me..as well as the cookies I just ate.. and I ate a lot of them..

Ok, this is the last post on school, I promise...if that's good for anything. Who wants to read other people's griping about their schedules and their sucky majors.. I'm just perplexed. And vomitrocious.

So, to smooth things over with you, I offer my poem: Ode to 7th grade poetry

Brains
Squish
Versus skull
Cavity.
It's complex.
It's perplex.
It's a 4-plex.
Where discrimination is allowed
Under Fair Housing.
Stop it.
No housing.
What a lousy
Way to die.

The end.

Stellar, am I right?

What in the heck is construct validity??

Can someone please tell me? I really don't know. I have basically no idea. And you may be wondering, how is Sam doing in her research methods class? I don't want to talk about it. But it's all cool, because I made that fateful deal with myself that if I'm going to do grad school, I'm not allowed to obsess or work on Sundays. Sunday is working out...but not knowing what construct validity is...well...that's like a little miniature Freddy Kruger clawing around my innards...must...under...stand...And yeah, go ahead, look it up. You'll be more ignorant than before you started.
Sigh.
I wonder if there's a spectrum of sanity...or if you're just sane or insane.... What's really depressing is that what I just said reminds me of a continuous variable versus a categorical variable...
Sigh again.
Whatever the case, we'll see what's left of said sanity when this circus is over.
Oh and here. Let me just frustrate you with this chart that nothing to do with anything.

Man Baby

Alright. Perhaps smaller, more frequent posts. One of those things that I MAKE time for, even though zero exists. Speaking of that, it's pretty annoying when other people are always complaining about how little time they have...and I do that...a lot...So I'll try to stop. Maybe that will magically give me more time. Mmmm...time.

So the thought of the week: I don't ever want to see an adult male do an accurate infant impression again. Not ever again. So if you think you have a pretty good one up your sleeve, keep it to yourself, okay? I can't handle any more.

Post for the sake of a post

Post. Stay tuned for when I'm not horrendously busy. I'm not dead and my cynical musings have not dissipated.

In the meantime, for your viewing pleasure: David Bowie in Labyrinth!

The Tragic Tale of the New Clock

After months of tardiness and frustration, I finally decided to spring for a new clock to hang in the bathroom. It was a day like any other day as I perused the isles at Smith's. Happening upon the clock section, I noticed a clock sale. My lucky, yet ever-fateful day.
This clock was too showy. That one too bland. This one said, “Greetings, I'll pay you to be my friend.” That one just screamed, “Listen, the time is now 7 o'clock and where are you? Here at home. In your pajamas. Why aren't you out painting the town? Why are you here? Why don't you have an exciting life like me? I'm fun and sassy, so what are you?” I don't need an arrogant clock asking insolent questions of me. After an icy glare, I moved on. And there. There he was. Sensible. Neutral between masculine and feminine. A smooth charcoal black. A celebration of time and beauty. And on sale for a reasonable $7.99. I lovingly embraced my new friend and took him home with love and understanding.
I fed him his first meal: two double-A Duracells. I taught him the correct time and then lovingly hung him prominently on the bathroom wall. That evening I caught myself glancing at his smiling face and grinning fondly as he informed me of the time.
It was a magically blissful evening. Me. Chris. And Clock. A new little family. But, little did I know, painfully jagged tragedy was soon to strike. My precious, sensible clock was never meant to make it past 5 a.m.
I awoke the next morning quite unaware of anything amiss. I headed to the bathroom to put my contacts in. I confidently looked to my new friend to tell me how quickly I needed to accomplish the task, but what's this? It couldn't possibly be 4:43. With a quick gasp, I inspected the situation more carefully. Oh, the agony. Oh, the despair. In the early mists of morning, my sweet, sensible clock's life had been cruelly snuffed out. I found his body that morning, hanging from my wall, his hands still twitching in his final death throes. Resuscitation was futile. Besides, clocks don't breathe. The timing, and irony of that timing, and the irony of time itself was unbearable. Out of respect, I covered his lifeless face with a towel.
After this fateful day of loss, sorrow, grief, and misery, I have never, nor will never, be the same again. The bitterness and cynicism you see me exhibit today are the remnants of tragic loss that will never heal.