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.