A farewell to life -or- Why I can’t talk to you during film school


As far as suicide notes go, the experts would consider this a bad one.  Their main complaint would be that I am not planning on killing myself, which I have been told is a key factor in having a successful suicide note.  If one writes a suicide note and does not commit to killing oneself, then the “suicide note” merely becomes a “note,” and no one cares about “notes,” unless of course someone wrote the note to you.  If this is the case, then a state of puzzled bemusement is generally the emotional status quo.  “Dear me!” people normally begin with, “A note!  How lovely!  And yet it’s written on paper, with ink.  How peculiar!  A simple text message, or even an e-mail would have sufficed, I’m sure, but still, how very nice!”  They would then puzzle over the bizarre looping script the note had been written in, before shrugging and casually tossing the thing in the garbage or, if they are particularly environmentally conscious, the recycling bin. This is of course assuming the note had been written with pen and paper, rather than typed on a heartless computing machine and penned by an equally heartless printer.  If I were ever going to kill myself, I would most certainly write my suicide note with a pen on stationary paper.  It adds that personal touch to the taking of one’s own life that would sooth your loved ones as they tearfully stepped over your swollen corpse and picked up the letter, riddled as it was with spelling errors and horrible grammar.  Things like syntax are hard to keep up with without spell check.

“What’s that say?” Your dad would ask, squinting at a word.  He would then glance down at your body and shake his head. “Lazy kid never did figure out cursive!  Why the hell would we write his damn suicide note in cursive?”

“Robert, please!” You mother would chide, blotting a tear from her eye with your carefully crafted note that you worked so hard on, smearing some of the ink.  “He was trying to be creative!  He was always so creative.  At least he didn’t type it on a computer.  At least he cared.”

As the title states, this blog post is a farewell to life, and I suppose that in a sense it is a suicide note, albeit a temporary one.  My life, however, is not being taken or snuffed out, but rather carefully packaged and set upon a high shelf, where it will gather dust in the coming months until it becomes nothing more than another unpacked box from my move.  On the shelf it will remain until the end of my first semester at film school, when I move out of my dorm.  I’ll discover it once I have packed everything else up in my car, after I have said goodbye to my room mate and I’m doing a last inspection of the room, a last check for anything I’ve forgotten.  My eyes will stop at a small, coffee mug sized box, dusty and alone.

“What’s this?” I’ll ask, picking it up and turing it over in my hands.  It will tinkle slightly, like a wind chime in a light breeze, or maybe broken glass being swept up from a stained linoleum floor.  “Ah!” I’ll remember, setting it carefully down and cutting the box open with a knife, given to me by the man from Aurora, Alabama who had rescued me from a roadside disaster an eternity ago.  The lid swings open, and  a glow comes from inside.  I grab it, and press it gently to my chest, whereupon it permeates skin and diffuses throughout me.  At that moment my phone will buzz with a thousand texts and ring with a hundred phone calls.  There will be time to answer them when I get home, but as things will stand I’d still have 300 miles to go.

But that’s almost four months in the future, and so I sit here in the waning hours of a saturday morning writing my not so suicidey suicide note to let my friends and family know that I’ll be busy nearly all of autumn.  You shouldn’t take it personally, because it’s my fault, not yours.  I was the one that signed up for this intensive film program, and I’m the one giving them money that the bank was nice enough to give me. I sure hope they don’t want it back.

So if you don’t hear from me for a while, don’t worry.  I’m not dead, I’m just sitting up a shelf until winter, when I’ll be taken down, dusted off, and set loose once again, to wreak havoc on the world.

It has begun…


And it’s about time, really.  Indeed, I haven’t blogged or written anything that was not academically inclined for many a fortnight.  With my busy schedule I had no time for anything.  Near the end of last semester I had even sequestered myself in my chambers for nearly TWO whole days writing a paper for my ancient paganism class:

My penultimate moment of inspiration...a moment that changed me forever

A class which incidentally had far more to do with early Christianity than anything awesome like druids, babylonians, satanists or etc.  On top of that, I was heavily involved in a valiant but terrible ultimate frisbee teams, and maybe even attended HALF of the games.  Each time i didnt go, y incredible skill brain was sorely missed.

Master tactician that I was, I always played with my head

Any normal human would at this point be so swamped with work that he or she would contemplate ending it all and working at McDonald’s, but not me.  I still found time to play a disgusting amount of video games, work my fingers to the bone at a job that would have much higher productivity if the entire student staff was traded in for poorly trained orangutans, watch two full seasons of dexter, blow $2000 on stuff and verbally abuse nearly everyone I know, because i felt like it.  I eventually became so busy that I pushed through the barrier of Infinitely Busy and came out the other end into a state of doing absolutley nothing; I was so busy that i had nothing to do.  If this makes no sense go take some physics classes at MIT and then you tell me who’s right.

"He's right you know"

But so far this semester, i have had more free time than something that has alot of free time.  A rock or something.  Maybe a fox.  I could see foxes having lots of free time for some reason.  I had more free time than a fox, so i figured that it was high time i started blogging again.  Not that anyone ever reads what i post anyway, more that by the act of blogging itself I become a less bored person and can at least pretend that my opinions are relevant.  After all, my pages are hosted on the internet.  Who else can claim such a ting?  I had grown tired at the other site I previously used.  Blogspot or whatever.  The formating was fail, as were the customization options and the user base.  Additionally , since I was able to get ads on my website, I felt that I had sold out, which made me angry.  And since I never made any money from these ads, I felt I had chosen a poor place to sell out, which made me even angrier.  So I began to fantasize about greener blogging pastures.  Amazingly, when I went to work last week, some coworkers were discussing blogging, and mentioned that they both used wordpress.

“WordPress…” I thought to myself outloud.  They both stopped talking and turned to look at me.  “Yes…of course!  Wordpress!  Its so simple!  HAHAHAHAHAHAH!”  Needless to say this sudden revelation had a twofold effect: I found a fantastic new website to host my indecipherable ravings, and I was able to take command of the good chair at work because the girl I was working with had come to believe I was completely insane.  I was all set to embark upon a new adventure of writing, to sail the golden seas of creativity in the HMS imagination… until i began to watch the tudors and completely forgot about blogging until I arrived at work today.

Before I get to the thing that inspired this incredible post, that is, other then my usual inspiration (heavy metal music), I suppose i should answer a glaring question: Why the Corngoblin?  The answer is simple: During a high school track meet, James and I created the mythical “Corngoblin” in order to amuse ourselves, commenting on other runners by saying things like “He runs as swiftly as the Corngoblin!” etc.  The corngoblin later evolved into a goblin that gobbles corn, and then into a long running joke between nick, james and myself.  Most recently, I have used it for an account name for Xbox live and several online games.  Nick has even drawn a picture of him!  The corngoblin is funny because it makes no sense whatsoever.

So anyway, I was going through everyone’s status’s on facebook because I am creepy and that’s what creepy people do, when I came across a particular status that drew my attention.  A friend of mine had deleted most of his facebook friends who he either didn’t know or didn’t care to hear about; a novel idea in this day and age.  He kept only people who meant something to him in some way or another.  And this got me thinking.  Does anyone actually believe that they are friends with all of their facebook friends?   Is there some poor soul who, after his or her first week of college, gets a call from his or her mother and proudly claims “Why yes, I have made friends.  2,387 in fact.  You can see them on my facebook!”  That would be pure insanity.

They say a picture is worth 1,000 words.  I say a picture of insanity wolf is worth 10,000 years of madness.  In short, people probably do have too many facebook friends, but dont worry, i probably wont drop you any time soon.  Probably…

Lastly, heres a short story i wrote for german.  Dont speak german?  TOO BAD.

Die Tragödie der Bananafingers

Bananafingers hat in den Spiegal angestarrt.  Sie war hässlich, und keine Männer haben sie geliebt, weil sie hattet Bannanen für Finger.  Sie, aber, hattet einen Entwurf: wenn alle leute haben Bananen für Finger, dann sie schön würdet. Plötzlich, Hamburgerface hat das Zimmer eingegeben.

“Bananfingers, was ist unrecht?”  Hamburgerface hat gesagt.

“Keine Männer lieben mich, weil ich so hässlich bin!” Bananfingers hat geschrien.  Sie hat den Spiegal mit ihre aasige Hände geschlagen, der ist nicht brach ab weil der Finger zu leicht war.

“Oh mein Bananafingers, du bist schön in dein eigen besondere Weg!  Wer noch kann ihre Finger essen?  Du haßt die appetitlichsten Finger in die ganze Welt!” Hamburgerface hat gesagt.  Neue Tränen sind in Bananafinger’s Augen geformt; Tränen der freude.

“Oh Hamburgerface, du wisst immer wie mich Lächeln machen!  Dass ist warum ich liebe dich.” Sie hat gesagt.  Hamburgerface hat geworden gegen Bananafingers mit Traurigkeit an seiner Gesischt.

“Oh Bananafingers, ich könnte dich nie lieben.”

“Warum?”

“Weil… Weil du Bananen für Finger hast!”

******************************************

I know,  I cry every time i read it too.

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