Fish

Ahoy! All freewrites start with "Ahoy!"

It's a fish, that problem: life. But Frankl's got it; Victor Emil Frankl knows what's cookin'. What's cookin' is fish. Fish is cookin'. But in terms of philosophy, I think this Frankl character has discovered the meaning of life, although he failed to quantify it (anyone could have told him it was 42). He's got all the answers, this character.

But read some of his books: his logic is strangely mathematical, or at least that's the way I saw it, because that's the way I think, and that man connected. He reeled me right in. I'm done with these horrific puns. What the WTF? That's a new phrase I learned.

In any case, I would like to analyze my reasons for failing to write. I haven't written since my blog post in mid-February; I've written no papers, no freewrites, no nothing, although, get this: my English teacher from last semester has kept in contact with me (she's kinda cute too, but that's another story for another day, and another day I will tell another story), and she loves my writing, and she keeps bugging me to write, so I'm going to. But I haven't needed writing until this point. Life was great, life was fine, and one of two situations was the case; either my head increased its capacity to organize thoughts internally, or my thoughts were simple enough to be organized within my current capacity. I understood the universe, in the same way Zaphod thought he did. I suggest a combination. After learning much about the nature of Reality in my Fundamentals of Math Concepts course, I started seeing patterns in everything, and I could sort of store data post-analysis in my head, so it required less organization because of a good front-end for transfer, to put it in programming terms. I suggest, however, that my thoughts must still have been simpler than normal, because now things are increasingly complex—it increases with time, but it's not linear, hell no—try cubic—and I need space to organize.

Long paragraphs have few readers; did you know that FUCK YOU BOB Chris Hedges is one of the worst writers of all time? He's a reporter, and you can tell, because not only does he have no fucking clue how to use commas, he writes all sporadically like he's writing an article, and his information is all scattered about with no organization. English majors love it because they're all liberal pussies; mathematicians hate it because there's no pattern except the man's stupidity. The "FUCK YOU BOB" is something I picked up from a course called America at War. The teacher's name is Bob Dow; the teacher's game is playing connect-the-dots in a dictionary and calling it a fucking class. I wish it was a fucking class, because of the two girls, one of them is actually very attractive. He would make Furlong cry with his analysis of poems and novels. The only good thing to come of the class is the book list: it has three good books. We read "A Farewell to Arms", "Slaughterhouse-Five", and "Man's Search for Meaning". Other than that, FUCK YOU BOB we just spend two and a half hours trying not to fall asleep every Wednesday afternoon, and two to three hours watching a horrible movie, except we'll get to see Full Metal Jacket soon.

In other news, I've finalized my schedule for the rest of my four-year career; I'm going to have a Computer Systems Engineering major, a Mathematics major, and a Computer Science minor.

Peace out.