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Jul. 28th, 2006 06:24 pmI'm in Nebraska. It is flat. The guy I'm traveling with is very rude to most everyone, and thinks it's funny ("It's not personal.") Our flight to Lincoln was cancelled, so instead we flew to...
I never finished that post. I can't start this one. I thought I had a lot to say, now I'm blank. I've been non-stop bullshit for 4 days now, from plane delays, logistics, the case in chief, to putting up with Ron's bullshit. He loves an audience, as everyone does, only he's an asshole in chief. I'm showing my adult side - I can withstand the humiliation of being associated with this guy who is so rude and not just inconsiderate, but takes deliberate joy from hurting other people for sport. I could also walk through the airport with sandals and brown socks, though the humiliation factor would be far less. I don't care about being a fashion emergency, but hurting people is morally wrong.
The worst part was today, leaving on a 6am flight, and having my connecting flight delayed to 1pm or so. The delay wasn't so bad as my choice of books - I may finish this "Prozac Nation" book, but only to drive the hatred of Elizabeth Wurtzel to a fine point to ensure than when the rage cools there is still enough to run out and strangle the bitch. Not just kill her, no, strangle her until she fights for her life, let her breathe, choke her again, and make her death slow and painful - slow enough that she appreciates how narrow her view of the world is. Fighting for survival does a lot for your perspective. What a vapid twit. On page 266 I find she has done nothing but rant about her depression and blame everyone but herself, admit she has no reason to be depressed, admit it's not chemical, and then distance herself from any responsibility for any of her actions. It hits a nerve, this failure to take responsibility for your own condition, your own actions. Her style was cute for about 10 pages, then it's just repetitious. There is a ton of name dropping, authors, bands, places, but the twit never comments on the substance of any of her references. It's like dropping the DJs name but clearly not knowing a thing about them personally. This many pages in I can tell the inconsistencies in her story - she's exaggerated her trauma, minimized responsibility for any of her actions, and mislead her audience about anything that might look bad. She goes into intimate detail about some mental processes and physical attributes as though this was somehow revealing, while it is all surface. I'm going to finish...I can't go this far and not, but it's hurting like hell. I hate her and see through her persona. How was this a best-seller, lowest common denominator? What a spoiled little shit.
Understand I was stuck in the airport for 4 or more hours. I stopped reading many times, but lacked other distractions. Eventually I felt like a cutter - just hurting myself on purpose to marvel in how I could take the pain. Writing...so...bad...
Perhaps when I'm done with law school I will write. I'm not brilliant nor do I have amazing insights to impress the intellectual elite, but I can write better than this twit. Perhaps I have enough knowledge to pass along. There is something to writing, your voice will outlive you in written form. I like to help, perhaps I could compose something useful to others. I remember being helped by books, having amazing revelations about my life while reading "Satan, his psychotherapy and cure..." Imagine if I could give my voice to some of my knowledge and mesh the two into something that touched many.
I think I'm crashing from the travel. Nothing brain left.
I never finished that post. I can't start this one. I thought I had a lot to say, now I'm blank. I've been non-stop bullshit for 4 days now, from plane delays, logistics, the case in chief, to putting up with Ron's bullshit. He loves an audience, as everyone does, only he's an asshole in chief. I'm showing my adult side - I can withstand the humiliation of being associated with this guy who is so rude and not just inconsiderate, but takes deliberate joy from hurting other people for sport. I could also walk through the airport with sandals and brown socks, though the humiliation factor would be far less. I don't care about being a fashion emergency, but hurting people is morally wrong.
The worst part was today, leaving on a 6am flight, and having my connecting flight delayed to 1pm or so. The delay wasn't so bad as my choice of books - I may finish this "Prozac Nation" book, but only to drive the hatred of Elizabeth Wurtzel to a fine point to ensure than when the rage cools there is still enough to run out and strangle the bitch. Not just kill her, no, strangle her until she fights for her life, let her breathe, choke her again, and make her death slow and painful - slow enough that she appreciates how narrow her view of the world is. Fighting for survival does a lot for your perspective. What a vapid twit. On page 266 I find she has done nothing but rant about her depression and blame everyone but herself, admit she has no reason to be depressed, admit it's not chemical, and then distance herself from any responsibility for any of her actions. It hits a nerve, this failure to take responsibility for your own condition, your own actions. Her style was cute for about 10 pages, then it's just repetitious. There is a ton of name dropping, authors, bands, places, but the twit never comments on the substance of any of her references. It's like dropping the DJs name but clearly not knowing a thing about them personally. This many pages in I can tell the inconsistencies in her story - she's exaggerated her trauma, minimized responsibility for any of her actions, and mislead her audience about anything that might look bad. She goes into intimate detail about some mental processes and physical attributes as though this was somehow revealing, while it is all surface. I'm going to finish...I can't go this far and not, but it's hurting like hell. I hate her and see through her persona. How was this a best-seller, lowest common denominator? What a spoiled little shit.
Understand I was stuck in the airport for 4 or more hours. I stopped reading many times, but lacked other distractions. Eventually I felt like a cutter - just hurting myself on purpose to marvel in how I could take the pain. Writing...so...bad...
Perhaps when I'm done with law school I will write. I'm not brilliant nor do I have amazing insights to impress the intellectual elite, but I can write better than this twit. Perhaps I have enough knowledge to pass along. There is something to writing, your voice will outlive you in written form. I like to help, perhaps I could compose something useful to others. I remember being helped by books, having amazing revelations about my life while reading "Satan, his psychotherapy and cure..." Imagine if I could give my voice to some of my knowledge and mesh the two into something that touched many.
I think I'm crashing from the travel. Nothing brain left.
