everything in it's right place

The school year started for me today, at midnight, and as if to say, FUCK YOU, CLOWN!, my somatic self immediately superceded the elf that produces rationality through the modulation of dials in my skull and now my body's stuck on school mode. Which is to say, the insomnia returns as soon as school does. Is that a sign of illness? Of food poisoning? Of lupus? Why are there mosquitoes in my room? Why do they bite my face as I lie in bed? Why can I not think of a single answer the potential question, "Tell me about yourself?"

Q: Tell me about yourself.

A: The R&D of solar radiation instrumentation have significant calibration requirements. The specialized optical laboratory YES operates to characterize products includes three major facilities for the measurement of spectral, cosine and absolute responses of optical radiation detectors.

Q: What is the greatest obstacle you have overcome in your life?

A: My knickers don't dance, they're just pull-up pants, so do the Rockaway. Lean back. Lean back. Lean back. Lean back.

Q: Do you think your grades adequately reflect your magnificent, many-faceted intelligence?

A: Two former New York City police detectives, who retired in the early 1990s and moved to Las Vegas, made their first court appearance Thursday after federal authorities accused them of helping the Mafia commit eight murders.

I'm so ready for my interviews! "Tell me about yourself" FUCK YOU! You're not the boss of me! Why don't YOU tell me about YOURself?!

My pants extend 4-5" past my ankles. I've been told that my shoes are "laughable." I bought a $10 folio at Staples, so that I can impress my interviewers with neatly printed resumes sandwiched between pleathered boards. I'm gonna wake up early and polish my teeth with buffing mittens so that my winning smile will cast a piercing gleam across the tri-state area. Today I did lat pull-downs at the gym so I can fan out my Bruce Lee backside; not in preparation for any career moves, but just because I can.

I write all this because a clown is secretly crying underneath his make up. But this is no secret, because when you cry with make up on, your make up streaks like a salt plain and you look like your face has been run over by radio-controlled toy cars. What you then have is a law student in clown's make up crying and ruining the make up. This is such a SHITTY METAPHOR. What I am crying about tonight is the geneaology of morality. It is like trying to find the geneaology of a unicorn. You might find a particular unicorn's father or mother, or even grandparents, but what good does that do when they don't actually exist? Morality, like a yeti, is elusive. The question is: is maturation 1) coffin nails on a once-pretty past; 2) a lowering of expectations, a narrowing of possibility, an acclimatization to varying degrees of less-than-happiness; 3) a defeat; 4) irreversible; 5) opportunity; 6) backpacks on cold fall mornings?

All of these things, and one fucking mosquito that has made my face into hot cross buns, keep me awake. Friends, mediocre acquaintances, and people who read this blog just because it's better than filling out shipping orders, repondez s'il vous plait.