Der Wille zur Farbe

Nine hours of Nietzsche plus meager disposable income equals existential epiphany and subsequent hair Verwandlung. Or, you know, I just now realized how hot Lucille Ball was.

Jeez, who puts so many pictures of herself on her own blog? I mean, I make no excuses for being so self-absorbed, but this is getting ridiculous. I should really be pontificating on all the extremely smart topics I’ve read about at excruciatingly painful length this week–general narrative theory (Schlegel’s searing treatise, Novels Are For Total Fatties, stands out as the Meisterwerk of the bunch), Nietzsche’s chiasmic logic (I would like to engage in some academic fisticuffs with my cousin Dan, he can be "Either/Or" and I’ll be "Both/And" and we can see who wins–probably the Derridian who will just bore us to death with a bunch of self-important circular "reasoning" that isn’t "reasoning"), what a lame-o the Rationalists were…but unlike my more informed cohort, I have no idea what any of the people I’m currently reading are on about (except that Dickens fellow–something tells me he is making highly satirical fun of the Victorian aristocracy, but don’t crib that theory from me because I’m planning to parlay it into the critical apparatus that makes me employable, in that it is so revolutionary). Therefore I have no idea what I’m on about, and I have no contact with any semblance of a "real" world outside this highly self-insulated, totally subdivisioned-in postapocalyptic suburban waste land. Ergo: all I can really be sure about is the flesh on my body (which, despite the dire warnings of my friend Eric, has not multiplied in exponential fashion immediately upon my arrival in PhDville) and the various dead-cell extensions of it, and since I don’t know how to give myself tattoos (YET), the old standby of ritual follicle abuse is about all the options I have. I told one of my classmates tonight that at the end of every quarter I’m going to have to get another tattoo or something–the next one will be a skull and crossbones for total top-secret purposes; the one after that some criscrossing arrows (CHIASMIC UNITY, broseph!); maybe a little heart with wings on it and a smiley-face icon…I really need to go enlist and fight in Iraq or something. I’m way too disconnected. Huh. Yeah. Well, this degenerated into "mildly disturbing rantings of a borderline-psychotic" about two paragraphs ago, and it’s only one paragraph long, so I’m going to get back to work. Just thought I’d give my loyal readership of four people related to me a pathetic update of sorts.