Friday, December 17, 1999

This is my last night on campus. Tomorrow morning at 10:00 I return home for one month of "vacation." Right now I feel as if I'm on the edge of the world, and I'm just waiting for someone to shove me off. I really wish that whoever it is who intends to do the shoving would just do it already.

I was feeling only a little melancholy earlier this evening, but at this point I've gone full-blown depressed. It's a very strange sensation I'm carrying with me at this moment. While I was walking back from downtown Potsdam, I felt a little down. I was finding it hard to break a smile, and I generally had my eyes fixated towards the ground. When I got back to my dorm, and sat down at my computer, I suddenly felt like something had fallen out of my chest, leaving a hole. I'm now staring at my screen as I type, trying to ignore a strange ache in my chest.

To further the problem, I feel as if I'm about to cry. This is laughable, to me at least, since I've been unable to cry since my dad's funeral. Sure, I'll feel sad, but no tears ever flow. It is as if my tear ducts are blocked, but I know they work, because I can tear up whenever an eyelash or a piece of sand falls into my eye. As far as the emotional connection however, it's simply non-existent. My face may show my feelings of pain and sadness, but there will be no tears to back it up. When they buried my dad, it's like one of my emotional outlets was buried as well, and this inability to release has been helping me to decay internally ever since.

I'll begin with when I woke up this morning. Here I was, stumbling out of bed, trying to begin my last day on campus so I could get through it. I showered in the "10 minutes of cold water to 20 minutes of scalding water" stall, returned to my dorm and got dressed - all blue today (generally I either wear all black, all blue or all gray, my preference being all black). I made it in to WAIH to do my final show of the semester.

I had been thinking of the two remaining British girls all morning. They were leaving, going back to Europe. The Tall Guy and I would not be seeing them again for a long time; perhaps we'd never see them again. I had gotten their email addresses last night, but I wish I could have done more - maybe played a song for them to send them on their way, like I did for the British Goth (she was easy to please - anything from Nine Inch Nails' The Fragile). These two remaining girls wanted to hear The Divine Comedy, but I didn't have the disc available to me at WAIH. So, I lacked. The Tall Guy hung out with me in the studio though, and he had brought a few of his CDs, so I played a double shot of Mr. Bungle.

Once my show ended, I bunkered down in my chambre to finish up my delinquent assignments (namely the ones for my writing class). It took me three hours to do, but I managed to hammer out the papers I needed to. Somehow I even found the ability to type a self-review of my writing. Unfortunately, it basically said that I couldn't judge my writing without sounding pretentious or self-defeating.

I clicked to print my document over the network (basically I click an icon on my computer desktop and my documents come out of a printer in a computer lab on campus) and went to pick up my papers. When I got to the lab, my documents weren't there. So, I went to another lab to see if they'd been misdirected. Nothing there either. At this point, I gave up searching labs and transferred my documents to a disc so I could print directly from one of the computers at the lab. Two treks across campus later, I had my documents printed.

I went to the faculty offices to turn in my papers. My writing professor wasn't in her office, so I went to the mailroom to turn in the assignment. While there, I ended up running into my Language and Linguistics professor. I was supposed to do a paper for that class, but never got to it, as I had given priority to writing. There's nothing quite like walking past a professor you were supposed to do a paper for, but never did with four documents in hand for another professor. Oops.

The Tall Guy and I ended up going downtown this evening. A couple of mutual friends of ours had just gotten an apartment and we were the first visitors to the interior. After spending a few hours there, we all went downtown for a midnight coffee run.

While in the coffee shop, a friend of one of my former friends (and one of P's former conquests, specifically, the one before and during the conquest of X's roommate) recognized me. Awkwardness set in as she told me that she knew me through this former friend. Now, I'd written a song about being betrayed by this person (former friend), namely because she, like X had lied to me. The former friend's reaction to this song, as heard by me through the grapevine, was less than favorable (not surprising, when one considers the true, yet abrasive lyrics).

So, this friend of a former friend had heard of me, through this former friend. When I considered the circumstances surrounding the demise of my relationship with this former friend, I kept thinking to myself that anything she had to say about me would not be too endearing. I tried to make light of it, asking how my former friend was doing and whatnot, eventually eschewing the subject entirely. The Tall Guy caught wind of my plight when I began humming the notes to my song.

[There is really much more to the story between myself and this former friend. It is really a story about false fronts, misconceptions and deception. I wish I had the time and space here to explain all the details, but I don't. I may, at a later date, tell the complete story as it should be, because it is not only relevant, but sets forth another explanation as to why I am the way I am.]

Hanging around downtown brought me even more throwbacks to high school. While The Tall Guy and I were standing outside of the pool hall, some drunk roller-blader started hanging around us. He came up to me, and said, "Hey, how old are you?" Before I answered, he said, "You're little brother's in 8th or 9th grade, isn't he?"

"Tenth," I replied.

"Oh yeah, I kicked his ass."

"Really," I shot back, feeling my sarcasm reserves begin to charge, "Am I supposed to be impressed by that? Do you feel better about yourself for doing that?"

I started to become enraged. The Tall Guy was spouting sarcasm as well, but I was ready to start throwing punches, or worse, get out my Swiss army knife and start cutting (or, if I was in a creative mood, I suppose I could have corkscrewed him to death). I'm not sure why, but I was really angry. Allegedly this guy had kicked my younger brother's ass. Not only that, but he was so proud of himself and so deluded as to think that it was necessary to tell me that little tidbit. Did he think that I would shower him with praise or something? Not so, if anything, I was ready to shove him to the ground and start kicking until blood flowed from his mouth.

You want to take me back to high school motherfucker, I was thinking. How about I let you experience firsthand how it felt? [Mental butchery] Doesn't feel so fucking good to be hurt now does it? You're not so fucking high and mighty now that you're vulnerable - now that you're the one being oppressed!

The night kept spiraling downward when one of my regular tormentors in high school walked past me, but didn't fail to recognize me. With his greasy smile and serpentine eyes he said, "Seth, old buddy, how ya been?"

"Fine," I muttered somehow as he grabbed my hand to insincerely shake it. Luckily, I had my fleece sleeve slipped over my hand, so there was no flesh to flesh contact. Such a thing would have made me vomit under such hypocritical conditions.

I finally decided to walk back to the campus alone. I was just going to lose my mind if I saw anyone else from my high school, that was a given. It wasn't even the whole high school rehashing that was bothering as much as it was the bad elements of it. The abuse was symbolizing itself to remind me what I'd gone through. The memories were in front of me, saying that they were still alive and well. They were still strong, viable and unstoppable.

So I left Potsdam and returned to S.U.N.Y. Potsdam - the two places are entirely different. I have to leave S.U.N.Y. Potsdam for winter break - about a month - and return to Potsdam by 10:00AM tomorrow. I still have to pack. This means clothes, my beloved G3 (must continue The Project on a proper computer) and a few select CDs. Maybe I'll just do it all tomorrow morning, although rush jobs usually turn out badly. I can cross that bridge when I come to it.

I wish I could cry.