Wednesday, April 19, 2006



10:30 to Noon -- together with 5 or 6 other Admissions Office students, I sat around the Union, and then walked the same 50-foot stretch of sidewalk 8 or 9 times, posing for pictures and videos for them to use in recruitment media. There you go, I'm that guy, generic college guy #1, studying, walking, being generally collegiate. Don't you want to come to Lincoln and be like me?

Someday, in a more honest world, they'll tell you about the bad professors and puking nights and panic attacks. On the plus side, I'm narcissistic enough that I really enjoyed my brief excursion into modeling. I just get a kick out of the fact that I, for those pictures, represented all the average white guys going to UNL.

Shoot me.

12 to 1 --Speaking of shooting me, I handed in my thesis today. Naturally, it could still have been improved, but one more edit and I would have bled from my eyes. Didn't have to work, either, so I enjoyed the afternoon off and watched "A History of Violence." Pretty sweet. Then I started thinking about the fact that I committed to a charity bowling event on Sunday that I can't go to because of Honors Convocation, and became alerted to the fact that I'm expected to wear graduation regalia to said convocation, which I have not procured, as I am not going to sit through thousands of names at Devaney in order to walk across the stage. Just when I hop into my bathtub of contentment I have to remember that can't seem to take care of myself.

It'll all be over soon, I remind myself -- can get some job somewhere and read books because I want to and get my blood pressure back down.

So how can you tell if you're really nuts, or it's just the present circumstance? Reflecting on my own mental health, I have to admit it's a chronic problem -- when I'm not constantly occupied, or the threat of an activity vacuum hangs over me. I also can't sit still. Many hours I've spent wondering whether I'm plauged by a neurological cocktail, two parts depression to one part ADD and one bipolarity, or these are merely occassional side effects of eccentricity. Don't get me wrong; it's fun to be Andrew Moseman. Except when I'm by myself, jittering and unsure, wondering whether life would be easier heavily medicated. Judging by my romance with alcohol, I'm leaning toward yes.

See, now I feel better. Are my enzymes back in line, or do they simple need their angry fix, purge onto a page?

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