Follow the Fortune Cookie

the Ides of March

Technically, the Ides of March isn't until the 15th, but given the last couple of days, I thought I would trot out the idea right early. A warning, if you will, for the possibility my head may explode sometime this month. Yes, I can tell that this is going to be one of those months that I will look back on in five years and wonder where the hell I went wrong.

I'm behind on everything. No surprise. Seven classes is a bad idea for anyone, but seems to be a horrific idea for someone with a severe case of insomnia. Even worse, I am not alone. How many of us here on WDC are completely lacking in the sleep department? Here's the problem: I don't seem to care anymore that I'm so far behind. My mind has reached its maximum saturation point. Apathy has become my friend. We are bosom buddies now.

Yet, with all the apathy I have, a plan has been formed. The quarter is almost over. I'm going to drop my March class at Saddleback and take only one class at Whatcom come spring. Will that put me behind? Absolutely. But I do not care anymore. After putting the hammer down for so many years, I've finally hit the point where running away seems like a fantastic idea. So fantastic, the realization that I could really just let everything go makes me giddy. So I'll just keep moving forward at a slower pace, turtle-style. Everything and everyone can go bite me. (Not anyone here, this is mostly advisers and family; who am I kidding, my family will be the biggest aggressors in this battle.)

A great deal of this has to do with my upstairs neighbors. They're noisy bastards. I mean, all day and all night, scream fests. They walk like giants because they could care less who lives beneath them. We have two confrontations. Polite, but strident. The lady of the house told me in so many words that she was going to do bad all by herself. The manager is going to get involved soon, although my faith in him is waning. Between the addicts and noise mongers, the threshold is kaput.

Signs, I tell you. These are all signs that I need to move on. Or get a new brain. Or better yet, a lifetime vacation.

"Old Number Seven" -- the Devil Makes Three