I think that the people who procrastinate the most tend to be the most intelligent, sensitive and creative. (I also think they tend to commit suicide the most) These are the people that, when they need to do an unpleasant task, can create and envision within their minds, with vivid horrible detail, all the lurid nightmare scenarios that could possibly be involved with it. They do this so well and so quickly that it invokes an awful feeling that slowly seeps into every crevice of your body and you just want to suppress it with something else. So you write on Xanga when you have a million things to do. It’s the insensitive simple individuals who doggedly and gleefully jump in and plod ahead, oblivious or uncaring of the consequences of failure.

Blueberry has died.

Goodbye my friend, you leave this world a less colourful place.

2025 me here: There was a fish picture here. I wonder if I picked a dead or alive one.

Hello. It’s been a quiet morning and afternoon. I want to write here but am having difficulty seizing one of my swirling thoughts. They are encased within an impenetrable gelatinous blob of turmoil. Turmoil I don’t believe I’m entitled to but have nevertheless. I would like to live one day in someone else’s head, listening to their stream of consciousness. Would I find more complex and elegant reasoning or something cruder? Maybe that’s part of why I enjoy Xanga, except the experiences and ideas expressed here tend towards the shallow and inconsequential. A window into a truly interesting and insightful mind is so rare. but beautiful. I don’t believe myself to be particularly intelligent, I probably think slower and more freely disconnected than most. My expressed opinions tend to be vague or ambiguous. It’s difficult to have forceful opinions when you’re so open to possibility. It’s a drifting stream punctuated more with colour and music than vocabulary. Not a great attribute for someone on the verge of starting a career firmly grounded in rigid logical structure. My sister, who’s in art school, probably has the right idea. I have a suspicion that path would have fit better. Running a scientific maze will be challenging. But the challenge won’t be the work, it will be in finding some way to not be miserable in it. I wonder if someone else is living my life somewhere. I wonder if it fits them as poorly as this one does me.

I need to find a good used bookstore in Boston. And I wish I had a really high quality pair of earmuff headphones so I could listen to my Horrorpops album in peace and clarity. Promising interviews aside, I’ve had a terrible week. I feel constricted here like I knew I would. Not enough energy. I bet I inherited bad mitochondria from mom.

I’m managing the fish tank in Merle’s brother’s room now that he’s away at college in Salem. He only had one fish in there, the cichlid, but now I’ve made some additions and it’s a dysfunctional community of five. The Cheat is my favorite. Blueberry might die because of constant harassment from the three-spot gourami.

2025 me here: Looks like I had pictures of fish here.

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Mystery Cichlid, “Hercules”

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Clown loach, “The Cheat”

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Turquoise dwarf dourami, “Blueberry”

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Three-spot lavender gourami, “I need a name still”

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Plecostamous, “Puckers”

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My private comedy of errors continues. Turns out the man who crashed into me from behind is a lawyer and has filed a claim and is lying about which lane he was in to shift most of the liability on to me. So I have to go to the police station and give the details now. Officially I’m just visiting here but Merle’s mom told the insurance woman I was living here, which is a mistake because then I’m not an occasional driver and the insurance wouldn’t cover me. Then Merle later told them I was on the way to a job interview which cements the living here story. And the Harvard guys now want my references which means there’s a solid chance they want to hire me but they stipulate I must include a research mentor reference. But I had a frosty relationship with my research mentor at best and he’s always impossible to get a hold of. And I left my cherry chap stick in my shorts and Merle did laundry and it stained a whole bunch of her clothes with red streaks. And I have to mow the lawn but can’t get the decrepit family lawn mower to start and my hand blisters hurt still. The End.

Guess who crashed Merle’s Civic in a three car accident on his way to Harvard (but still got there on time)? 

I wisely didn’t bring it up during my interrogation. Would you hire the guy who crashed on the way to the interview? I figure I’ve got a 20% chance on landing it, I wasn’t terrible but didn’t nail it either. Some of my personality came out at the end which was a good thing. Now I have to prep for another one at 3. The fun won’t begin until I pick Merle up at 6 in her smashed up car though. 

I’m feeling the pinch of stress over a couple of upcoming interviews. One tomorrow at Harvard, the other a phone interview for Northeastern that could commence at any moment. It’s gratifying to have been contacted for a few interviews after less than two weeks of serious searching, but also a jolt. These two are the first interviews I’ve ever had for something relevant to my career. I’m a little intimidated that one’s at Harvard too. I don’t feel prepared to sell myself and all my references aren’t in. I suppose I should look at them as more of a learning experience than a legitimate shot. The deck’s already stacked against me because I don’t have a green card.

I’ve been on a major Beatles kick lately. They always cheer me up. I need a little of that.

There are large blisters on my digits and palm. I applied something called mercurchrome and now the wounds blaze a gory, festering red. They came from the axe handles. I chopped wood for a few hours yesterday. A diseased Maple. I think I’ll creep downstairs and watch the Patriots play. Go, local sports team. We’re better than those other guys from somewhere else… I’m having trouble writing here. Maybe I’m falling into a routine. Oscar Wilde says that consistency is the last refuge of the unimaginative.

I wish I had a better sense of the big picture. Not a global worldview, just more insight and direction in regards to my future. I don’t know what I’m doing here in this house, this city, this country, this relationship.

There’s an ice cream shop in/around the Boston College campus called White Mountain Creamery. I wondered if the place was a franchise because it certainly didn’t feel like one. It has the atmosphere of a favorite student hangout. Wood floor, tables and chairs. A B.C. Eagles banner hangs from the ceiling. At 10pm last night it was filled with students. They had the look of freshmen reluctant to let the orientation week mentality go. Two guys, one in a straw cowboy hat the other in a trucker cap, were playing chess with plastic men. Posted on their, “today’s specials” board was banana coconut ice cream. So I ordered two scoops of that in a waffle bowl and asked for whipped cream, cookie dough and hot fudge on top. Merle ordered a ridiculously large chocolate whipped cream sundae with nuts, brownies and everything else. We sat in between a large group of Chinese students and three loud girls with one very bored looking guy. Half of them were talking of cell phones. Merle ate about half of her monstrosity, I finished all of mine with the exception of three cookie dough balls. It was delicious. The End.