tavie.com

If I were a brilliant writer, or a painter, or a dancer, I wonder: Would I want to be good at math?

No. Everyone wants to be an artist. It's depressing. God knows I do, and I don't have anything resembling a new idea, ever. Which is what artists are. People with new ideas or new ways of expressing old ideas. That talent test was bullshit.

I'd still like to be good at math. Good enough at math that I don't dread the inevitable Retard Math 101 that I'll eventually need to take-- and stick with-- in order to gradu-ma-rate.

Anyway, I'm glad I'm not the only one horribly depressed about the start of the new school year.

How many bitchy posts have I written about this subject in the last six hours alone? Shoot me in the head and my bleeding corpse will be more pleasant company than I am now, I promise thee.

As long as I'm bitching, I hate all of you people with significant others. Or even crushes on real live people (as opposed to Alan Alda circa 1974.) You rat bastards with your rat bastard boyfriends, girlfriends, husbands, wives, occasional lays, workplace crushes. I love you specifically, god knows, but, abstractly-- you know me and my {mocking tone} abstract reasoning {/mocking tone}-- I hate you with the dull, plodding jealousy of the terminally uncreative.

Why are you in Tavie's head? 2:15 AM | shower me with attention