how high? real high

Get this. I'm using the COB library computer, just browsing Diaryland, when I find the system infected with adware. Diaryland doesn't do adware. Diaryland doesn't even do ads. Which means that someone managed to install a program on a system which only allows admins to install programs.

It boggles the mind.

They have, apparently, built a better idiot.

In other breaking news, I discovered Livejournal's community Jumpingpictures . Odd how a fivehundreth of a second exposure of someone in midair is indistinguishable in some cases from levitation.
//cause I'm just so fly

when are all my troubles going to end

Post upcoming. Several actually. And FYI: I hate college.

EDIT: It just occured to me that if I wor hard and sacrifice my mental and physical health, I could end up with a lifetime of debt and skills I already have. Ain't college grand?

EDIT: Yes, your friends call you Lumpy. And you're cute and have a British accent. Now shut up already. Thanks.


//I'm understanding now that·we are only friends

Over the past weekend, with some assistance1 from Mr Carroll, I have come to realize that I am suffering from depression.

One really irritating facet of the entire thing is that I keep thinking: "Maybe I should kill myself".

"But Jonathan," says a voice which sounds like Roma Downey towards the second season of Touched By An Angel. "You're morally opposed to suicide, euthanasia, and abortion! Besides, you've considered this before. For almost five minutes on end. During that really boring summer."

It's right, actually. That was the last summer I ever felt anything like that, because that was the winter I discovered the Interweb.

My point being that I have several potential reasons to go on, none of which I can currently summon to mind, but I'm sure they'll come to me in a few months.2 In the cold. In the dark.

I'm taking-and failing-COB's art program, who's primary attribute could be described as "bass-ackwards", but not to it's face. I have a half term vacation coming up only slightly longer than my average weekend, , I can't drive-though I want to by the end of next month-and from what I saw of actual Graphic Designers during my work study last summer, I could be doing their job, and still have time to work on a webcomic and ironic t-shirt webshop I already have about two dozen designs just sitting there, in a notebook.

Boy, do I need a PDA.


1.Regarding which, I find it singularly unoriginal to mae reference to Linkin Park when referring to angst. Innumerable posts on innumerable forums reading merely "CRAWLING INNNNNN MY SKIN!!!!!!" lead to no small amount of frustration on the part of those L.P. fans-a number which I count myself among-who know that, aside from the ridiculous title, CMS is actually one of Linkin Park's better singles. P.o.D is angstier that Linkin Park. Skillet is angstier than LP, and they're a Christian group.

To that end, I propose that anyone, except webcartoonists, who makes extended and bigoted references to Linkin Park on any message board or blog, especially if they demonstrably know nothing of the band other than the song title "Crawling In My Skin", the subject will instantly and summarily be banned from the Internet pending investigation, and issues a certificate stating that they fail at life.

Mr Speaker, honourable Members of the House, I thank you for your time.
2. Dear Lord. I must be the most cheerful depressive south of Milwaukee. The original footnote read Tallahasee, but Milwaukee sounds funnier.
//but you just can't leave

when the horizon darkens most

So I spend a few hours-spread over weeks, I tell you-wrestling with Blogger's code, trying to wrest a brand new template into existance from whence there once was merely void.

Then I suddenly realize that the design I had in mind could be created with a few deft modifications to Blogger's Minima Black, which I'm already using.

//we all need to believe there is hope

God bless the child that can hold his own

I am an 18-year old, not-unattractive male. I live in one or the brightest, shiniest countries in the world. It's a sunny day, and the birds are singing. I have no pressing concerns, and a sick day off from school.

Boy, am I depressed.

I have an assignment due I don't know when, an essay to work on, and Photoshop work just sitting there. I have no appitite or intrest in anything, though the former can be ascribed to the perscription cough medicine the doctor perscribed, which tastes like vanilla. Horrible, horrible vanilla. I'm doing mediocrely to bad in school, and worst of all, I'm feeling an emotional disconnect from everything. You know how one goes on autopilot when one has a really bad migrane? Yeah, that's me.

I get sick so easily, it's frustrating. I have the worst immune system in my immediate family, and withing the acquaintance of said immediate family. My sister shook this thing off in a day. It's a week and I've still got a hacking cough, which is actually the least of my syptoms, what with the earaches, migranes, and joint pain.

Worst of all is COB's actively retarded Arts program. Our 3D Design teacher thinks teaching is telling us to go make something around a certain principle expressed by a brief definition in the book is 'teaching'. To be honest, I've been slacking. There's some work I should be doing even now.

All my percieved faults and inadequacies and deadlines and needless assignments come crashing down, funneling my head into a deep dark pit of despair.

I wish I was the kind of person who would use this juncture to get drunk.
//cause when it's on it' s on

someone picked you from the bunch

My mother has a distinct inability to accept change or admit she's wrong.

For example, my homework for Monday involves covering a picture frame in little "accessories" so that it looks "Baroque". This is the same teacher, mind you, who dissed my installation piece two entries back. I find a definition on Wikipedia , and highlight the first paragraph. While she's reading it, accidentally un-highlight it.

She throws a fit.

There is a sort of irony here: she is constantly criticizing my lack of maturity; yet refuses to admit when she has a flawed arguement, choosing instead to characterize my pointing it out as "rude". Whenever I ask for clarification/justification of some statement she's made, she starts complaining about how I disagree with her and my father out of spite. Whenever I do implement one of her suggestions, I'm always doing it wrong. If I prove her wrong about anything, she ignores it. And whenever the slightest detail of her life is changed, I shouldn't have. The woman has been known to trip out over someone changing the television channel. Which she had on mute. Which she wasn't watching. Protesting vehemently over a toy she wasn't using but someone else wants to play with...does that sound like the behavior of a woman more than three times my age?

In this particular case, I waited for a few minutes of her ranting before pointing out the fact that I could easily have highlit the text again by now, and she would've finished reading it. She said that that wasn't the point. The point was that I was rude for de highlighting it. I pointed out that I had unlit it by accident. She pointed out that my hands shouldn't have been near the keyboard or mouse. Yes Mum. I shouldn't have been touching the primary input devices for the computer while I was inputting data. Real Nobel-winning logic there.

What I find the most ironic is that she's the one left foaming at the mouth in these 'discussions' while I'm the calm one. The more illogical she gets, the calmer I get. She sees this as 'arrogance'. Then again, she also frequently wonders why I don't panic when faced with last minute deadlines, no matter how much I explain to her that panicing never helps.

I suppose, at some point, everyone feels the urge to slap some sense into one of their parents.
//one glance is all it took

the keys are just collecting dust

+spews+
"What do people with big pen1ses eat for breakfast? I bet you d..."
How'd they know?

//but I can't close the lid

swimming through sick lullabies

I think my teacher hates me.

We were to critique a series of outdoor pieces. The assignment of myself and several others was to "activate the surrounding space". In the most basic terms possible, the piece's presence had to be larger than that of the space it occupied. The other half of the group had to change the scale of an object. The first piece was a large hairbrush. My opinion wasn't asked. The second was a four-foot red lollipop. In my critique, I gave it a B-, or as Adam and Morgan would say, a four...out of five.

"Jonathan, what are your reasons for giving this a lower mark than everyone else?"

Excuse me?!? You want extra justification simply because I have a different opinion? Do you hate me or something?

I fumbled through a shoddy explaination, but, truthfully, I was going on aesthetics alone. I wasn't a teacher. I didn't need to objetively evaluate another's work.

"Sorry, Jonathan, since you can't justify yourself, I'm not counting that."

WTF?

I flipped her off behind my back, which worries me. I'm starting to do stuff like that more and more now.

Next piece.

"Jonathan, why do you give something like this a higher grade than everyone else?"

Uh.

"I'm going to strike this one too."

Y'know, if I had some kind of persecution complex, I'd think she hated me. Oh wait: I do, and she does.

Then we got to my piece. Ccall me crazy, but I think ripping off pieces of the installation may have been a bit melodramatic. Was there nothing redeeming about the piece?

"But I like the idea."

Oh, well, one time pays for all, then.

She then called me lazy, and sent me to the library to look up Andre Calder0.

"That's cute. Really. As long as we're throwing names around, you're a witch who seems to dislike me, and by extension my work, through no fault of my own. This course serves little practical use pertaining to my chosen field, and I have difficulty believing that at some point you plan to perfom your job by instilling in your students skills through a process you may have dimly heard of, known as "teaching". I will now leave this course, and never return again, freeing up my Monday and Wednesday afternoons for something more productive than this which only qualifies teaching under the loosest possible defintion of the word found in the English language. Good day to you, madame, if indeed that is your title.1

+leaves with shocked gasps of admiration from his classmates and stunned silence from his lecturer+

Don't I wish.

Really, I don't see her as an authourity figure. More as a small shrill woman with a bad haircut, worse taste in clothes, and serious insecurity issues. Ahh. That felt good.2

0. It was actually Alexander Calder. When I Googled Andre Calder I kept getting helicopters.
1. This paragraph should not be taken seriously by anyone, and grammar be hanged.
2. This paragraph should not be taken seriously under any circumstances.

//choking on your alibis

This entry was written on paper, in school, and then typed up.


Today, there was another exciting episode of the hit game show "Who wants Jonn Wood's money!" With your host, the Art Department of the College of the Bahamas! Today's contestant; Jonn Wood, who enjoys living, breathing, and fervently regretting his decision to become an art major! The rules are simple: omit the price of the materials he'd need for this lesson, and let him come to class with too little money!Come on down!

Listening to: Rufus Wainwright - Hallelujah


Based on the estimate my teacher gave the of how much money we'd need today, I bought X amount of money to class, only the find that I really needed Y amount. Coupled with Z amount-for a handout I need to buy for Arguementative Writing-and I am now officially up S, creek, without P, paddle. On the other hand, the Bible says fasting is good for the soul.

Watching: my blood drip slowly from my fingertips; crimson falling1, end over end, down to ear-seriously, Yahoo! LAUNCH music videos.


The galling part2 of it all is twofold: firstly: I've bought this upon myself. I probably wouldn't be in such dire straits3 if I had gotten a job, bought the handout when we were told of it's existance, and learned to drive last spring so I wouldn't have to spend two bucks a day on the bus. Secondly, I am a graphic Design/illustration major, and to date none-a word which here means "Jack diddly"- of my classes have prepared me one bit. Not even 2D design, which seemed to involve all but working in two dimensions, and more buying expensive art supplies which would only be used once.

Like Ian said: Ideas you can get anywhere. Skills to express those ideas are what I need.

Actually, what I need is a Wacom Graphire3 4x5 or larger. Or a Mac Mini. Or the Amazon gift certificate for the worth therof. Pretty please.

Because you know you've always want to blow hundreds on a complete stranger.

LATER-Hmm. The lady at the next easel wants to pay me half the price of the pack to share it for the duration of the lesson. Um...sure.

LATER {2:10 PM}-My second class today, from one to four, effectively finished at two. I stared at the table for ten minutes until she told me to go to the library and do research online.

Yes, ME.

Assgning me to do a task online is roughly equivalent to giving a junkie a pipe, a book of matches, a pound of Jamacian uncut, and and a Bob Marley CD.4

So now I have two hours of web time.

Which my parents are paying for.

Mwahaha.

It's possibly just my medication wearing off5, but it seems that I'm more attractive to girls now. I was leaving the copy center earlier, and a girl said "come here". I paused with one foot in the air, looking for all the world like a black Fabio.

She had a strange smile.

"No," I said, and went to Wendy's.

LATER-I really, really want to see Cursed. Which is odd, because I'm far more excited by some dude's rippling ads I saw in the trailer than a straight guy should be. Of course, I got excited at the bed scene in the trailer for Americal Werewolf in Paris. You know, the one where Julie Deply pushed Tom Everett scott onto the bed, straddles him, then pulls up her shirt to reveal she's a werewolf. Of course, I was all of ten years old at the time. Which, in retrospect, is really creepy, but I also recall collecting pictures of women in thongs6 at seven or so.

1. Which sounds like a DeviantART photography title. If you have to ask, you won't get it.
2. Which sounds like a new Good Charlotte single.
3. Which sounds like a hot new emo band, world premeiring their hot new single 'Parlez-vous le anglais en que?' right now, on TRL.
...
I'll stop now.
4. Not that I have anything against Bob Marley or Rastas. My best friend is Chinese.
5. Don't I wish.
6. If you must know, they were on our churches front lawn, and I wouldn't learn what masturbation really was for another seven/eight years or so.


//and fools aren't going to follow·you don't send the sleaze about

Whenever a car approaches me, I evaluate the skill of the driver within, and thus its chances of hitting me based on several factors.

1. The depth of the winshield tint, the extent to which it covers the winshield, and whether it is the traditional black or purple.

2.The proximity of the lowest edge of the front and rear bumbers to the ground. If they seem dangerously low because of modifications, then the risk goes up.

3. The volume of the music eminating from the car, which, if it meets the qualifications above, is almost invariably rap or reggae. No Mozart found here. Rap implied a slightly etter driver than reggae, but not by much. Any reggae mentioning 'Jah', 'rain', 'Zion', or 'Babylon' is especially perilous.

4. Whether the driver is wearing a do-rag under a baseball cap, and or a Tupac or Bob Marley t-shirt, especially if the later also features a lion, if he is male.

4b. The height of the driver's hair, and it's practicality, as well as the length of her nails, if she is female.

5. The shininess and apparent cost of the car's hubcaps.


There are several other factors, such as whether or not the driver has a moustache, and how thick it is. The upholstery of the seats. The age of the driver. But the ones listed are the easiest.

//he drinks a lager drink·he drinks a cider drink