My Existential Map Has You Are Here Written All Over It

Alright so here is a confession: I am emo. I let little things get to me, I get thrown off course by the stupidity of others, I contemplate the vast emptiness of the universe and yes I enjoy listening to Dashboard Confessional.

I recently decided that the little mid-young-adult life crisis thing I have got going on is the direct result of boredom. My classes are seeming dull and tiring. Religions is currently dealing with traditions (eastern) that maintain that the western mind can never hope to comprehend them. Psychology is doing YET ANOTHER over view of the same dead white men who control the history of just about every discipline I will ever hope to study (that is right Freud I am talking to you). French is actually quite interesting but occurs Wednesdays between 6-9 pm when I am cranky and hungry and disinterested. Art History and French Culture Studies seem to be heading in an interesting direction but have definitely not got there yet.

Outside of class weird unrelated events keep happening (think I Heart Huckabees). The other day I was walking down the street with my boyfriend when a group of 12-15 teenage boys blocked the sidewalk. We kept walking through carefully ignoring them but the ringleader (not wearing a shirt in the -2 degree weather) started yelling at Tal. When neither of us showed any reaction he became more and more explicit eventually referring to my boyfriend as a 'faggot'.

Smaller incidents that seem slightly out of place in my day to day life have put me on heightened intuitive alert but I acknowledge that I am likely reading far too much into the universe these days.

In the truly subtle fashion that I love, the universe guided to me this exert from a required reading assignment novel called How Proust Can Change Your Life:

There are few things that humans today are as dedicated to as unhappiness. Had we been placed on earth by a malign creator for the exclusive purpose of suffering, we would have good reason to congratulate ourselves on our enthusiastic response to the task. Reasons to be inconsolable are abound: the fragility of our bodies, the fickleness of love, the insincerities of social life, the compromises of friendship, the deadening effects of habit. In the face of such persistent ills, we might naturally expect that no event would be awaited with more anticipation than the moment of our own extinction.

And that my dear friends, is precisely what is bothering me. Also, I have a cold. I eagerly await seeing if Proust can cure one (or both!) of my afflictions but for now I am confined to catching up on sleep and studying my mildly schizophrenic notes from the debut of this semester.

Sam