Bored. No ideas; no connection.

By "no connection" I mean there's no connection between ideas because I don't have any.

Really, as of late, I've had no ideas. Over and over it's been the same routine this second semester: math, math, physics, Japanese, math, math, Japanese, math, physics lab, French essay. When I get to "French essay," I've got a problem. I have no ideas.

The majority of the people in the class either have trouble understanding the readings or writing grammatically well. I've lost my mojo.

No, I haven't gotten laid.

So that's the problem. I've lost my mojo, and, well, it shows in my writing. I'm relatively dispassioned about the stories we're reading for some reason, and I'm canny to blame that on the number flow through my head (e.g. math, math, physics, math), but you'd think I'd at least have some ideas. But my creative juice is gone.

And I miss playing the piano. O why, Tufts piping pipe system, did you have to explode over all the pianos? Yes, that's right, the pipes exploded and torrents of water came down and flooded our supply of the only thing I can play well that isn't a video game. (Frisbee in 2007? B-TEAM FOR LIFE!) I was just listening to Artur Rubinstein playing Chopin's first Ballade, and how beautiful can you get?

Flames to dust, lovers to friends, why do all good things come to an end? asked Nelly Furtado such that it would get her the #1 spot on Billboard's world-spanning pop charts. Well, the flow of the second semester has emptied out, and here I am, in the dullest of all possible worlds. By "I" I mean my creative process. Let's go.

Let's go, dammit, let's go!