Weird human crisis (I'm having a crisis)

As the title of this post suggests, I'm having a crisis. I mean, it's a pretty common thing for human beings to have these existential crises right? Like "what is the meaning of life" "are we a part of reality or simply a figment of Leonardo DiCaprio's imaginations"? Pretty common.

 And what does one do when they have said crisis? Do they seek out for meaning or stand in a public space throwing copies "Inception" DVDs on random passerbys? No, they write about it in their blog.

 While I continue to feel uncomfortable to write or speak about anything genuine or sincere because feelings are just inherently disgusting and painful and gross, I can't help but want to be sincere and honest about this crisis. I'm often jealous of people who seem that have things together, walking around like the world isn't a vast part of an ever extending galaxy, which in itself is just one of the infinite amount of possible galaxies in the universe. How do people not just think about this all the time? Sometimes I get the urge to grab random people on the shoulders and ask "HOW ARE YOU OK WITH THIS?"

Though I know the answer. Or the maybe possible answer on why people don't just have such crises at any given moment or time. It's because there's other things to worry about. They have actual things to do that occupies their minds.

 So instead of having an existential crisis, I decided to think about other things. Like the future and the rest of my life. This terrified me further and lead to a different type of crisis. What am I going to do? I don't have it together. Does everyone else know what they want to do for the rest of their lives? How do you find out? Did everyone secretly get instructions through a colourful leaflet that tells them what their goal is? At least I'm not thinking about the universe anymore. But this still sucks.

I got a new thing. (this got more dramatic than intended)

Remember that time I wrote a poem about my laptop and its whirring sounds of death? Or that one where it just died and I briefly reevaluated my life and how we as a human race will begin to regress due to the internet? Yeah, me neither. It's okay.

I finally did it today. I replaced me laptop. Sure, I'll admit, there was a tingling sense of guilt when I took the new one out of the box and placed it next to the old one (also the fact that I distinguished between them by "new" and "old"-- Sorry old one). Like that video I saw on youtube where this couple got a new kitten and their current cat looked at them with glazed eyes of betrayal and hurt. My laptop looked at me with equal amounts of betrayal and hurt. I just got this thing, a newer and thinner and shinier thing that will do things that my old laptop won't do (it has infinitely better specs... look at that battery life uheruhreuheruir)

I think the main issue here is not that I'm betraying my old laptop but the fact that I'm ridiculously sentimental about everything. Seriously. When I finished a notebook I made an emotional video montage about it. In slow motion. With a song in the background. True story.

 Anyways I'll miss the old laptop and we had some great times together. But now I'm mostly thinking about how much of a bitch it's going to be to transfer all my files across.

Thinking thoughts in my brain (I can't sleep).

Hello again,

Is it weird to start addressing my blog as a living entity? Not that I do it in real life, it's weird enough already through text. What if the blog starts talking back and forming it's own thoughts, gaining intelligence through the internet and everything I've inputted here and then just crawls out of the screen and start rapidly ranting to me about how I've been spewing nonsense for years and now it's my turn to listen to my own blog. I don't know, it may not be a bad thing. What if they have something interesting to say. But am I talking to my blog now? WHAT IS REALITY. 

In other news I'm on chapter 40 of Bukowski's 'Factotum' and I just cannot bring myself to finish it. Not in a good I-don't-want-this-book-to-end-it's-perfect-[Mockingjay whistle]-way. It's just so disappointing because the first book I ever read by him ('Ham on Rye') was so good and perfect and this, quite frankly, just seems like a shitty brag/fantasy of a pervert who is surrounded by really superficially described as disgusting women that all want to sleep with him.

(I'm sorry if you like that book… I mean, if you do, please feel free to tell me why.)

(Maybe I'll finish it and have a different opinion)

(open mindedness right?)

(riuhregouhgsiytreowhyegrh)

'Tis the season (by that I mean for Sherlock Season 3)

Hello blog, how have you been? Good? Good.

So, you know, it's that time of the year again. If you are a child (and for some bizarre and unexplainable reason managed to find your way into the realms of my blog), it is the time of the year when an obese man with a beard squeezes his way down your chimney and leaves your presents under the tree for the exchange of milk and cookies. If you are an adult, it's pretty much the same except you realise you don't have a chimney because no one really has a chimney and your childhood was a total lie.

Have a good one!
Love,
Me.

Barpire (the blogpost where I lost it completely).

There is a (fictional) legend, surreptitiously whispered about a bar around the corner. The bar itself is not called 'The Bar Around The Corner' however contemporary the name seemed, due to the owner's fear of geographical inaccuracy when referring to the bar when the individuals aren't in fact around the corner.

"But what if they were on the same street? Then the bar would be just ahead. Should I call it 'Just Ahead'?" He had wondered to himself. Though the idea had an almost identical flaw and isn't really a solution at all.

 The bar wasn't special and remained unnamed, mainly due to indecisiveness. It bore a blank slate of varnished metal at the front that left enough space for when the indecisive owner finally settles for an appropriate and generally applicable name.

 The (fictional) legend about the bar around the corner was about the owner himself. Though the (fictional) legend remains unbeknownst to him.

 It was that he was a vampire. A life sucking creature of the night that frolics the dark alleyways in search of a prey. This rumour could be blamed on his choice of clothing (collared capes) and the fact that the bar closes precisely by midnight.

 To end this tragic tale, the (fictional) legend of the indecisive bar owner is finally clarified. No, he's not a vampire. He is just an owner of a crappy bar around the corner.

Thoughts on studying (a succinct and eloquently worded account on my feelings towards studying).

I hate it.
So much.

Halloween.

I'm still not quite sure about this festivity, but it is a good excuse to watch Tim Burton films. So, you know, have a good one.

Today's progress:

- almost nothing.
- planning to do one of those montages in films where super cool music plays while I stay up all night manically flipping through books and typing.
- Current essay word count: 252.

Here's one of my favourite short films, if you (like me) do not have the time to watch a 2 hour long flick today: