I missed work on New Year's Eve because I didn't check my schedule. I am a boxman and a chess tutor, and you'd think a chess tutor would have the marbles to check his box opening schedule but you'd be wrong.
My self-improvement levels are at a low or another; I spent almost an entire Autumn not drinking or anything, but I still disliked and feared the universe. Hence I suggest the theory that we decide to engage in self-loathing so that we can avoid the work of self-improvement is an old wives' tale, since after all many of us decide to embark on the latter for the express purpose of diminishing the former and finding them both after an entire season alive and powerful and with eyes capable of staring at us. I guess if I really wanted to be austere I would stop writing about or for myself. Here are my results for narcissistic personality disorder gleaned from the giant compassionate beings from the diaphanous lotus of a website called psychcentral:
Not to brag, but I am seven points less narcissistic than the rest of the world who according to the quiz I feel I am superior to. I never actually taught a chess class yet, but there are plenty of avenues for getting totally fired. I seriously need the dough since my age is twenty-four and my address is the same as it was when I was as old as the children I will be tutoring.
I have that thing going on where when I close my eyes I see a knight forked between my king and queen. I had a knightmare last knight that I was playing someone whose rating was 22,000 which is too high to be real I think. My rating is 750, which is literally class G which means I blow but will face you as Subcontrary on chess.com. I don't know what the numbers truly mean, all I know is that I'm literally rated G.
Even if I do a good job it won't make me a better writer. The librarian at this online library has commented upon the game: "Playing chess for hours at a time only helps you play better chess for hours at a time -- and that's all it will ever do… In truth, most of us are in it for the money."
I was told that Isaac Asimov defined a writer as someone who writes 2,000 or more words a day. I guess it has to be on a day by day basis since if he meant every day then Isaac Asimov wasn't a writer. That means I'm not a writer most days, like today for example. I'm guessing that typing "fox spirit or just a ghost" into a search bar doesn't count as writing six words. I haven't written much fiction for a few weeks, that's for sure, but in my defense the good people at [NAME OF A LIT. MAG. OR TWO] have been taking some time in telling me they're not interested.
I need to buy a book of new poetry. Some FAQ I read once went along the lines of:
Q: Should I write a lot of poetry?
Q: Should I try to become a professional poet?
They said trying to become a professional poet is too unrealistic to bother with. If I ever find that FAQ again I need a book to wave around in an email and ask A, whether they think that the poet responsible for the book's poems exists or not and B, what the ratio of US presidents to professional American poets is, and why as a result nobody should try to run for president.
If I hadn't been hung over the entire first day of 2014 both in brain and mind and neck maybe I would have avoided the curse of feeling for the next 361 days as though there are too many things to think about and all of them are wrong. How am I supposed to figure out how to help people who are suffering when I have to figure out how to teach other people a black and white and square form of recreation? Am I helping you? What about the whirling sun monsters on the homepage, do they help?
Maybe I didn't go to my box job because I just got a raise and I'm paid by the hour and I need to make enough money to move out and begin the process of becoming a fully functioning human mammal. If even showing up for my shift at a minimum wage job is too complicated for me it's no wonder that I couldn't quite figure out how to study folklore in Quebec or logic in New York. I don't know how many more dreams I should jettison before my ship can safely sail to the coast of nobody thinking I'm doing anything wrong with my life island.
In a hundred years no one will be talking about how I'm two years older than the guy in The Gift of the Magi and he was getting Christmas presents for his wife at their house whereas I haven't even given the guitarist in the band I'm generally the bassist in his present. If I'm lucky that's what they'll be talking about, and I'm only lucky in that I have enough to eat and I have a home and my parents never got divorced and I don't have any distressing diseases that would prevent me from having as many friends as I do. I'm not lucky in that my inner world is not interesting enough to be talked about in a hundred years, especially since much of my current notebook is filled with my inner world's thoughts on essential and nonessential properties rather than on the more enthralling interpersonal pain.
I like to tell myself that most people whose inner worlds are discussed long after their deaths were often in terrible pain for most of their inner worlds and it's not worth it at all, but I'm sure there are examples of all four possible combinations.
1. Pleasant inner world + nobody thinks about it =
2. Pleasant inner world + not nobody thinks about it =
3. Unpleasant inner world + nobody thinks about it =
4. Unpleasant inner world + not nobody thinks about it =
I was going to put some actual names of people who fit those categories before I realized I don't have the confidence to decide if anyone's inner world is truly pleasant. Which of the four might you feel closest to?
My New Year's Resolution is to finish all the books I'm reading as of this writing on the dot. I got into this thing where I kept reading more and more and now I need to finish them unless another good one comes by. Here is the list so I can't lie:
The Literary Mind And The Carving of Dragons - Liu Hsieh
Selected Stories - Alice Munro
Strange Tales From A Chinese Studio - Pu Songling
Murmurs Of Earth - Carl Sagan
Compendium On Reality - Santaraksita
The Last Man - Mary Shelley
On Growth And Form - D'Arcy W. Thompson
Varieties Of Life - Colin Tudge
I don't know why I can't be an Ultima Underworld: The Stygian Abyss tutor; I'm much better at it and I think the kids will like the level with the headlesses:
And I could teach them how to avoid checkmate:
I knew I felt as though the poetess of Barcelona had offered me my own thoughts when she wrote--
Tiene miedo al silencio
Tiene miedo de la gente
Tiene miedo al vacío
Tiene miedo de la muerte
This is only a one thousand or so word essay!