Functioning normally. Kind of. Not really.

Spring semester started today. This means numerous things: I have to wake up at a normal time two days a week, I'm responsible for actual work, and I'm a handful of units closer to never attending school again. After months and months of having nothing productive to do, it's a nice change from what became the norm for me, waking up at noon and hissing at the sight of a productive activity. 

Strangely, or perhaps not so strangely(I can never tell), I currently feel as if I have no body. I'm just a floating brain/head/consciousness, typing with my invisible and nonexistent hands through sheer force of will. Is this what waking up at 7:30 does to a person? Or is it just me? When you're not in school and you have no job, these questions aren't present in your life; your biggest worry is whether or not you have enough Lucky Charms to last the rest of the week.

But never fear, I'm in no real danger of work overload this term. Thanks to the forces of the universe conspiring against me, I managed to miss my registration date by a whopping three weeks, meaning I could only obtain seven units this semester. That's right, seven. Three classes. Music 101 and 102, knocking out my Arts & Humanities requirements, and Introduction to Yoga. I feel like complaining whatsoever about my class schedule this semester is worthy of getting my ass kicked, a punishment I might find myself partaking in if it were to happen. While I'm not sure if I can literally kick my own ass, as it's not something I've ever attempted to do, I'm positive I could provide some assistance to my righteous assailants in causing myself some form of bodily harm.

I attend class from 9:30-12:30  and then 7:30-9:00 on Tuesdays and Thursdays, so it's not as if I'm on campus somewhere north of 10 hours a day, multiple days a week, like many students are. But hey, I'm also not dumb enough to major in something that requires that many obtuse classes. The joke's on you, science and math majors! While you're making your cushy six-figure salary, I'll be enjoying an ample yearly sum of $55,000-$100,000 a year as an accountant. If that's what I choose to do, anyway. Have I mentioned that I have no idea what the hell I'm going to do once I graduate? Because I don't.

Accounting is one option I'm considering pretty seriously. It involves math, a subject I've grown to loathe, but most of it is practical math, something that I somehow manage to excel at. If you stick me in a Statistics or Calculus class, it would be no different than dropping me in the middle of rural China and asking me to communicate and survive. It makes no sense in my mind. But if you apply math to things like money and economics, it clicks. There's no rhyme or reason to this numerical madness, but like many things in my life, you have to be at least a tiny bit insane to understand my special form of cognition. 

My first music class, Music Appreciation, consists of two papers, two tests, and note taking. The papers have to be five pages long, which will take me a grand total of 45 minutes each to speed through(all the while earning an A, I can guarantee), and the tests are open note. My second class is titled Intro to World Music, and is almost identical to the first, with the exceptions being our papers have to be 2-3 pages long, we have 6-10 in-class/take-home quizzes, all of which are open note, and a final that is also open note. Somehow, if all classes could follow this structure, I think a whole lot more people would be interested in obtaining a college education. Unfortunately for me, music classes lend nothing of great value to my major or potential career options, aside from assisting in the destruction of my General Education requirements.

And so, this will be my life until the last week of April. I haven't attended my yoga class yet, but something tells me it's not going to be academically challenging in any way. In a perfect world, yoga would consist of little more than the Child pose, and the teacher would just let me sleep the whole time. Though I suppose that might be asking a little too much.

Scrambled eggs.

I woke up at 7:30 this morning to my mother telling me that someone was kind enough to egg my car. How obnoxious. In my mind, the only people that egg cars are 12-year-olds with some kind of inferiority complex, whether that stems from bullying or being unloved by their goldfish. Regardless of the situation, it's still kind of a dick move.

Fortunately for me, whoever did it obviously isn't very smart, because egging someone's car when it's misty, rainy, and foggy outside won't really do a whole lot besides force me to actually wash my car. Typically, egging a car is something you want to do when it's hot and sunny outside, because the egg bakes into the paint and you literally cannot get it out. By the time I got out there to wash it off, most of it had been washed away and only a small patch remained. Ha, morons.

I never really partook in the destruction or defacement of other people's property. Sure, I TP'd a couple houses, but I don't really consider that to be a major offense. I've always thought it would be fun to fork someone's lawn though, because if someone did that to me, I would think it was hilarious; doing it to someone else can only bring more hilarity. I can picture the face(s) of my would-be victim(s), awaking to find their front yard full of...forks. 

Another thing that always seemed fun was filling the yard with dish soap, and then when it rained or the sprinklers turned on, the foam and bubbles would be everywhere. I don't even understand how anyone could be bothered by this, it's almost like snow; have a bubble fight, build a BubbleMan, bitch about shoveling the sidewalk! I might even do this to my own house. Well, probably not, I doubt my parents would be okay with just letting it go away on its own, and I don't want to be the guy outside cleaning up bubbles. I'll look like a schizophrenic.

By the way, person who egged my car, if you're reading this, I hope you feel bad. Not about making me wash my car, because as I alluded to earlier, I needed to do it sooner or later; no, that is not the issue. The problem I have with your ovum affront on my 14-year-old Acura CL with an already shitty paint job is that I got woken up at seven-fucking-thirty. I went to sleep at 2:30. This is not cool. Do you know what it's like to be standing in the middle of your street before 8 AM with a bucket and sponge, washing your car in penguin pants, a t-shirt, and slippers? No, you will never know that kind of humiliation.

I think the worst part of it was, I planned on having eggs for breakfast this morning. Instead, I had oatmeal. I hope you feel guilty.