I’ve wanted to write ALL DAY. There were just so many other things to do…
a)My entire life I’ve been so restless. I’ve lived here for not quite 3 months, and I find myself perusing job ads and imagining my life in Michigan, Maryland, Georgia. Seriously, Morales? What’s so wrong with stability? Oh, that mystery? No, not for me. Even as I sit and miss the feeling of a backpack on my shoulders, miss the sights of the Illinois quads, miss the smells of Mumford Hall, even then, I remind myself how anxious I was to say goodbye.
b)I hate when people talk down to younger people. I remember being a kid and hating when adults spoke to me like I was stupid or like I was a “kid.” I always swore that some day, way off in the far distant unimaginable future, when I was finally an adult, I would never speak to anyone younger than me like they were dumb, or incompetent, or ignorant, or a kid. I don’t think I ever have. Unless you piss me off, then I will patronize you. And you’ll know it. I just noticed today that a lot of my colleagues do that to college students. Talk to them like they’re children. I get it…there’s a 10, 15, 40 year age difference, but no. Unacceptable. Their brain works the same as yours. Maybe not at the same level–at the same capacity–but they still deserve your common and decent respect. Maybe. Until they prove otherwise. Then, I couldn’t care less how you talk to the little shits.
c)I wish someone, anyone, would significantly recognize Richard’s death. This should not matter to me. But there hasn’t been a single piece of print in black and white with those words all together: Richard Fu dead. There hasn’t been an obituary; there hasn’t been a notice; there hasn’t been any kind of third party goodbye I can officially hang my hat on. It wears on me. It’s hard for me. I struggle. His parents recognized his departure, and I want to, too.
d)The first event I planned in my official capacity as an official full-time advisor was a great success. And my coworkers were so impressed they took me out for a beer. I mean, I paid for my own beer, but it felt awesome. Fucking terrific. Watch out, I am a competent fool.
3)I don’t want to know a lot about a little. I want to know a little about a lot. That’s why I could never get my PhD. Why maintaining my motivation throughout my Master’s degrees was such a struggle. Why I was so burned out after undergrad. The research. The expected depth of knowledge. The fucking hoops. I’ll be over here, just Google-ing everything.
f)There are few things I like more than sitting in a moderately cool room without pants. Or a cold beer in a tall glass after a long week. Or weekends with an extra day. Or freshly mowed lawns. Or chocolate cake. Or ice cream in a dish. Or pay day. Or my bed. Or sunsets? I have a serious infatuation with my bed. Or freshly shampooed and cut hair. Or lists. I like lists.
I don’t have a point. I just wanted to get the words out. Louis L’Amour: “Start writing, no matter what. The water does not flow until the faucet is turned on.” K, well, mine is broken and just drip-drip-drips on occasion.
When I was younger I used to write songs. Did you know that about me? Somewhere, in my box of used-to-be-me’s, I have notebook papers lined with doodles and lyrics. I was convinced my words would make it into someone’s mouth, on a stage, in front of a crowd.