One in one-hundred-seventy-four million.

Well, I didn't win the lottery. Again. It's funny how that ticket, in my mind, acts like it is in some sort of quantum state: it is both simultaneously a winning and losing ticket until I actually observe it. It's as if the numbers are actually continuously changing right there on the page, and only freeze in place when my hand tentatively reaches into my wallet and grasps that smal slip of a hopeful future.

I often think what it would be like to suddenly have millions of dollars at my disposal. When I was younger, I thought the same way as I suppose a lot of people do: give the job the one-finger salute, buy an outrageously expensive house, travel the world in first class, steak dinner every day. Now though, I think my lottery dreams have become as dull as my everyday dreams: find a humble home to call my own, save for not only my future but all my descendants futures as well, get myself through college, take the time to find something that I really want to do for the rest of my life.

I'm never going to win the lottery, so I had better start doing something on my own to attain those dreams.

I think I know how Marvin felt...

I think I'm going to write a book. There is an idea that has been slouching about in my brain and once in a while stands up straight to say, "Here's another part you could add!" I am going to need some fancier words in my vocabulary, though; my language is too simple, too ordinary, too blasé. I need more 'susurrus' and 'languid' and 'quixotic' in my arsenal. Maybe a 'turgid' too.

Oh who am I kidding...

I am the machine.

CLICK.

I always thought the book resensitizer here had a very satisfying CLICK to it. As if some exceedingly happy machine from the universe of Douglas Adams was like, "CLICK. That's all set for you, Drew! CLICK. That book is sensitized now, by golly! CLICK. Another job well done!"

Although I guess it's less of a CLICK and more of a CLOHCK. Maybe it's from Sweden?

Lately, though, that CLOHCK has sounded less and less satisfying. The machine has become less cheery, and more bored and disenfranchised with life. "CLOHCK. Yep, that's done. CLOHCK. Uh huh. CLOHCK. Sigh."

Maybe the machine needs to start taking more risks. Maybe the machine needs to get out there and see what it's capable of. MAYBE, just maybe, it will realize that it actually is quite talented, and shouldn't just shut itself down before it even attempts something.

This, obviously, isn't a metaphor for anything...

Really bad at this.

So here I am, manning the circ desk, watching one of the homeless mentally ill people that like to camp out at the public computers for hours on end, writing another 3000 word missive on how the world is out to get her. I've read her rambling, inane, badly spelled diatribes from time to time (she posts these things to a blog, donchaknow), and while they make abso-fucking-lutely no coherent sense whatsoever, it never ceases to amaze me that she'll sit there for two, three, four or more hours at a time. Writing. Non. Stop.

I cannot figure out for the life of me why I'm completely unable to make myself sit down and write. I've got all these ideas and thoughts and sounds and words and stories and quips bouncing around in my echo chamber of a brain, but I never get them out. Do I need to go back on Adderall again? Should I bash myself repeatedly in the head until I become as crazy as her? Should I start cutting myself again as punishment for not doing what I need to do to get out of this chasm that I've dug for myself?

Damnit, Drew. Get your shit together.

Truthbombs

Saw this today in a Reddit thread about people with high IQ's and what they do with their lives:

"Challenges take efforts, and if you've grown up with higher than average intelligence, everything was easy when [you were] a kid, so as an adult, making efforts is very, very tough."

This, in a nutshell, is my life.

I'm not a polymath like Tony Stark or Stephen Hawking (yes, I realize one of these is a fictional person... just go with it), but when I've had my IQ tested on numerous occasions, the number has been well above average. Growing up, nothing about school was challenging and, as a result, I really didn't give a crap about doing homework or putting effort into projects, because I simply didn't care enough about them. So, despite being rather smart, my grades were abysmal. After dropping out of college, my career followed much the same path: I couldn't hold down a job because I would quickly lose interest in whatever it was and subsequently move on.

And here I am, 36 years old, with no college degree, no direction in my career, challenged by nothing, but unable to make the effort to challenge myself because I've simply never done it before and have no idea how to go about doing it.

A week and some change

I tried to write something longer than usual about the happenings here, but it got to be too much, too deep, too heavy, and I tossed it in the bin as a result. Suffice to say, it's been a strange, horrifying, gut wrenching, at times hopeful, at times sorrowful, tense, and emotionally charged week.

Things are getting back to normal. And by normal I mean that, once again, a municipality here in Massachusetts decided it was necessary to tow my car to an undisclosed location because they wanted to spend seventeen seconds running a street sweeper along the block. It's cool: I didn't need that $150 dollars. Here. You have it.

I am very much looking forward to the day that I own my own house and have my own driveway and/or garage, so that I won't have to deal with this shit anymore.

Eye-luh

It always cracks me up when I go on for years and years thinking that a word is pronounced a certain way, and then suddenly discover that I've been saying it wrong all along.

I love Scotch. I am particularly fond of the varieties from Islay, of which Laphroaig is my favorite. (I am imbibing a wee dram as I type this.) Last month, the lady and I went on a vacation to the UK, and we agreed that I needed to see the distillery on that peat covered isle where so many of my hard earned dollars had gone. Unfortunately fate, in the form of a broken ferry, prevented me from seeing it, but some good did come out of the trip.

I learned that Islay is not pronounced how I've been saying it all these years: 'Is-Lay'. It is, in fact, pronounced 'Eye-luh'.

Obviously I need a time machine so I can go back and tell people forming the language to give it a more obvious spelling.

Jerks.

A paragraph a day...

...is rapidly turning into a paragraph a week.

There are projects I get myself into all the time that I know will be good for me -my esteem, my thought processes, my creativity- but so many times I lack the discipline to see them through to the end, and that makes me feel like a finicky teenager and not the adult that I am. I want to do them, but somehow I manage to forget to do them.

I could set up a calendar reminder to do this, but that would depend on me remembering to actually create the calendar entry, and then when the reminder pops up on my phone or my email, I'll have to actually pay attention to it instead of simply acknowledging it then dismissing it.

Maybe someone could program a calendar that checks my blog to see if there's an entry before allowing me to dismiss the reminder...

x + y = z

If I want to get this degree done in a reasonable amount of time, then I'm going to need to test out of some classes to save time and money. I used to be really good in math back in high school, but didn't take any classes when I first went to college. I haven't looked at a math book or solved a practice problem in over 20 years.

I checked out a college algebra book at work so as to "brush up". I simply don't understand any of it now. It all looks like gibberish to me, and I'm suddenly very worried that it is going to take me longer, much longer, than I anticipated to get ready to take the exam.

I'm really terrified even thinking about trying to test out of chemistry or physics.

Doctor Who?

I have loved this show since I first saw it as a kid, and now that it's back, I feel like a kid all over again. With the new season, I feel especially nostalgic: the totally retro opening credits, the all synthesizer theme music, the completely old school console room, and the out of place clothing on the Doctor, all make me feel like a squeamish kid who can't wait to see what's next. I'm really curious how this season is going to turn out.

Bonus points: it's captioned, so my deaf lady friend can watch it with me.

Not my forte.

I don't think I'm cut out for creative writing. I simply cannot pull something interesting and original out of my ass and make it something people will want to read. I need a subject that requires research and thought. I've been staring at this blank slate for over 20 minutes without one single solid idea coming into my head. This is, of course, a miniature representation of my life in general: people ask my opinion or for suggestions... AND I'VE GOT NOTHING.

I have class tomorrow, so hopefully I'll get some ideas. Or not. We'll see.

I like challenges.

...but I hardly ever seem to get them at work. It's not anyone's fault, really. My schedule is very odd, which makes it difficult to be part of any committees or groups. Plus, there really aren't many technical or geeky things that I am able to directly work with.

However, at after dinner drinks (how improbable) the discussion somehow managed to fall upon a subject that is directly under my purview, and a possible project that could be perfect for me. It would jive with my schedule. It's geeky. It wouldn't need a committee or task force.

I want this. I want this really bad.

10 Years

What if I had made all these (mostly) good decisions I'm making now ten years earlier in my life? I'd be finishing college in my mid-twenties. Planning for the future such as buying a house, saving for retirement, or thinking about kids, wouldn't feel so urgent and terrifying. Coming out of the closet a second time would have made me seem more like a stupid kid and less like an incredibly stupid (and somewhat deceitful) adult. I'd have solid employment at a great institution, and wouldn't be hopping jobs like a teenager.

I guess it's just one of those days where I feel like a tremendous failure and a fuckup.

Writers block on the first day.

Is that a thing? Can I legitimately say I've got The Block on the very first day of this endeavor? (It just took a lot of effort on my part not to spell 'endeavor' with a 'u'. Gods, I'm such an anglophile.) I assumed that I'd at least have some ideas for the first few days lined up already.

Seriously. I've been sitting here for a few hours now staring at a blank page, and I've got nothing. Of course, staring at Reddit and Twitter aren't helping...

A new beginning

I have been challenged to write a paragraph a day for 365 days.

Challenge accepted.