Despite the tidal wave of condescension I will probably get from this admission, it must be said: this is the first September in 19 years that I will NOT be returning to school. 19 years. That’s 82.6% of my life and just about as much money as would have been to simply bribe my way into the journalism industry.
I am an anxious wreck. I have vivid daydreams about my brain melting into some kind of pink, grainy, liquidy substance, like over-chewed gum, and dribbling out of my ears like snot. And the evidence of this process lies in my actual dreams. For example, last night I dreamt about cleaning out my fridge. I would pick each item up from off the shelves and hold it in my hand considering it – the color, the smell, the expiry date, my likelihood of using it in future culinary feats – and then I would yay or nay it. See? You’re bored already. Like, is there really no material for my mind to draw from to create the intangible brilliance that is my regular dream matter? This terrifies me.
School, university in particular, has always given me the raw ingredients for my psyche to stew over. Fall has always been punctuated with heart palpitations brought on by inspiring lectures, passionate discussions, and fanatical debates. What am I supposed to do now to keep my mind from fermenting like the many cahiers and bank tellers who tend seemingly to encounter a delayed onset of fetal alcohol syndrome?
I need to keep my mind sharp. So this area of my blogorpus will be dedicated to discussion of philosophy and cultural theory. I invite anyone and everyone to join me in the brain-knocking vivisection of the various theoretical undercurrents that pervade “civilization.” And since I plan to spend the rest of my night eating mint chocolate and watching Season 4 of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, we will begin tomorrow.