Today I compiled a list of my least favorite words, and ended up with this:
knapsack
knickerbocker
Narnia
snog
nibble
munch
Notice what they all have in common... damn you nnnnnasal letter n! My apparent hatred of nasal sounds justifies my hatred of the French. K? K.
You can bet there will be more to come.
What a lame blog this is. "Hey I was bored, here's a few lines about something dumb I was contemplating while bored today."
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Forget creative writing!!
Recently Andrew gave me some leftover acrylic paints and two canvases from a failed stint as a painter when he was young.
Naturally, I decided the best use of these resources was A UNICORN PRANCING IN FRONT OF A RAINBOW! Excuse the horrendous quality... my phone is old enough I'm grateful it even has a camera at all.
Naturally, I decided the best use of these resources was A UNICORN PRANCING IN FRONT OF A RAINBOW! Excuse the horrendous quality... my phone is old enough I'm grateful it even has a camera at all.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Maybe I am just jealous.
Today, all I've need to accomplish is to read a 14 page excerpt on structuralist literary criticism. It is now 6:54 pm and apparently this has proven too much for me to handle. Granted, I'm on page 12, and I didn't wake up until noon, but I'm still averaging less than two pages an hour.
Earlier Moe and I took turns reading paragraphs of our assigned readings aloud, secretly competing to see who was attempting to absorb the more mind-numbingly dense academic work. His book on the historical spread of various clans across the Arabian peninsula centuries ago (or something boring like that, I sure as hell wasn't paying attention) won, but that doesn't mean I'm not going to complain about the convoluted bullshit I've been struggling all day to pretend I care about. As I read about the belief that all cultural practices, literature included, should be analyzed from the perspective of comparing an individual work to all others in its field to discover meaning, I can't read more than a few lines without pausing to reflect on the sheer pretentiousness of this work, comparing it, of course, among the framework of scholarly essays as a whole to prove I'm learning something. (Even typing that sentence made me feel like a jackass)
Currently I've reached a spot where the author has picked out five people who've made "memorable" advancements in structuralism since it was first created, scholars whose entire lives' works are each summarized in a page hidden in a chapter hidden in a book about a theory that's sure only to be read by:
a) unenthusiastic college students, only because it's a requirement for their major,
b) an only marginally more enthusiastic college professor, simply browsing for something to assign to said college students, or
c) the random douchebag doing legitimate, independent research he hopes to be seen as so revolutionary as to be included in the next revision of the book.
Basically, though I've been kicking it around for the last two and a half years, I have definitively realized that there's only one evident objective for being an English major at the college I'm paying more than $8,000 a semester to attend: to have done so much research on something meticulous within an already obscure topic that I'm mentioned later in someone else's slightly more in depth research paper.
If it sounds that uninteresting posted on a blog, imagine how dull it must be to live that life. Sigh.
Earlier Moe and I took turns reading paragraphs of our assigned readings aloud, secretly competing to see who was attempting to absorb the more mind-numbingly dense academic work. His book on the historical spread of various clans across the Arabian peninsula centuries ago (or something boring like that, I sure as hell wasn't paying attention) won, but that doesn't mean I'm not going to complain about the convoluted bullshit I've been struggling all day to pretend I care about. As I read about the belief that all cultural practices, literature included, should be analyzed from the perspective of comparing an individual work to all others in its field to discover meaning, I can't read more than a few lines without pausing to reflect on the sheer pretentiousness of this work, comparing it, of course, among the framework of scholarly essays as a whole to prove I'm learning something. (Even typing that sentence made me feel like a jackass)
Currently I've reached a spot where the author has picked out five people who've made "memorable" advancements in structuralism since it was first created, scholars whose entire lives' works are each summarized in a page hidden in a chapter hidden in a book about a theory that's sure only to be read by:
a) unenthusiastic college students, only because it's a requirement for their major,
b) an only marginally more enthusiastic college professor, simply browsing for something to assign to said college students, or
c) the random douchebag doing legitimate, independent research he hopes to be seen as so revolutionary as to be included in the next revision of the book.
Basically, though I've been kicking it around for the last two and a half years, I have definitively realized that there's only one evident objective for being an English major at the college I'm paying more than $8,000 a semester to attend: to have done so much research on something meticulous within an already obscure topic that I'm mentioned later in someone else's slightly more in depth research paper.
If it sounds that uninteresting posted on a blog, imagine how dull it must be to live that life. Sigh.
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