I am sitting in a cafe, trying to come up with a good “theme” for my blog.  It’s not as though I can’t design something myself, it’s just that I’m too lazy.  Being too sick to work but not too sick to walk to a cafe would make anyone pretty lazy.  I rock back in my tall chair, sifting through the page WordPress has given me.  I am innately drawn to the dark ones, and that makes me feel stupid and cliche, but there it is.

I have a lot to work on.  Number one, I have been sick for the past month or so, and am really behind on writing papers.  What’s weird about this class I decided to take this term is that my writing for it feels more sensationally journalistic than scholarly, probably because the professor professes in such a manner that seems…well, sensationally journalistic than scholarly.  I met a girl at a party at my house the other night who’s in my class and who feels the same way.  We’re being talked down to.  This is new territory to me: I am used to being dumbfounded by classroom discussions of mind.  Philosophy professors are pretentious, and so they’re confusing.  I have a thing or two to say about the flowery language of analytic philosophy.  (I blame it, mainly, on the legacy of Continental philosophy.)  I should tell my psychology professor to stop lecturing as if everything he says is spectacularly mind-blowing.  It’s really not.  It’s actually old news for me, and at least a few of the psychology majors in the class.  “You wouldn’t believe it if I told you,” he seems to be saying.  “But I’ll tell you anyway.  Consider yourself lucky.”

I am chewing on ice cubes from my espresso.  This, I am told, is either a symptom of an iron deficiency or sexual frustration.  Although I’m thinking it’s probably a symptom of the fact it’s humid as shit in Ann Arbor and my house has no air conditioning.  Even twenty minutes of sitting in an air conditioned cafe doesn’t quite shake the feeling that I’m melting.

If I’m not working on my sensationalist psychology paper about the Loss of the Creature I at least should be working on my novel, or my screenplay.  Today I don’t really feel like I care about either.  I spent two hours reading magazines in Borders today, mainly for the air conditioning but also for the fact that I am sick and can’t work and am effectively broke.  I read, cover-to-cover, XLR8R, SIGNALtoNOISE, and the American Scholar.  Everyone in the functional world is smarter and more talented than me.  It doesn’t exactly matter that most of the people I just read or read about are, at the least, a decade older than me.  It’s discouraging.

Espresso, espresso, ice cube.  I’m actually pretty bored by the prospects of writing anything.  I have been feeling really stupid and uninformed lately.  I tried to buy Philosophy and the Mirror of Nature at Borders.  It didn’t work.  I only have $20 to my name right now.  Richard Rorty just died recently.  Someone told me not too long ago that I might like him because I’m so sick and tired of the trappings of analytic philosophy, but I hate this deconstruction crap.  I think this is why my recent ex-girlfriend and I broke up.  (Not literally, but the fact that she loves “French guys who get it” and Derrida makes me sigh wearily is somewhat indicative of the way we each operate.)  So, you know, if someone wants to get me a belated father’s day gift, I think Rorty is the way to go.

Subsisting on 600 calories a day does wonders for my boyish figure.

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