Life? Don't talk to me about life.
Some are born to sobriety and clean living, some achieve it naturally, and some have it thrust rudely upon them.
I feel I fall into the latter camp. So much so that, indeed, the very idea of rude thrusting is a novel one at this point.
Well, first, my old clunker of a car gave up the ghost at a most inopportune moment, forcing me to buy a new one a month or so ago. This seemed like a considerable improvement over my former mode of transportation, being able to go from A to B without a detour through C (the nearest auto repair shop) via D (the tow truck of fail). Indeed, it was quite an enjoyable experience to no longer resemble a modern day highwayman in that wherever I went, I held up traffic, although the £2500 outlay had put something of a dent in my finances.
Since my new car had gone an entire six weeks without either breaking down or having a vital bit fall off in the road (and having to stop your vehicle to retrieve something important that just dropped off is somewhat undignified), fate duly intervened this week in the guise of a Scottish gentleman and his Citroen. Needless to say, after a 50mph (combined speed) head-on collision, the car no longer resembled a car and was instead doing a credible impression of a concertina, while my neck felt and feels as though a very fat man has decided to sit on my head and bounce gently up and down. No permanent damage, just a case of whiplash. Insurance and things are still going through, though a hire car has been furnished for me. To add insult to (neck) injury, it’s considerably better than the thing I was previously driving…
Work? Well, my average working week is between 37 ½ and 75 hours, which leaves but little time for … well, anything else at all, really, apart from the performance of the most basic bodily functions and studying. However, the job’s rewarding, and it keeps the little withered organ that is my social conscience happy (or at least still twitching occasionally and not decomposing any further), so I really can’t complain there.
As for that, university goes well too; on the basis of the single and solitary essay I’ve had returned so far, I’m currently on track for a 2:1. This is something of a surprise, since I had sneaking suspicions that perhaps going from never having written a university-level essay of any sort to the most difficult final year module in an essay-heavy subject wasn’t one of my better ideas, but all thus far seems to be working out acceptably. It’s been another novel experience to … well, to have work returned from my tutor at all, but especially to have work returned that hasn’t been befouled by the dreaded Red Pen of Doom and had something very angry scrawled across the bottom. The only downside of all this is that there are monks in silent orders who have more social activity than me.
Despite the ludicrous working week, I’m also permanently broke - academic books are quite horrifically expensive. I rather suspect that even a crack habit would be cheaper than a philosophy degree. On the bright side, considering the size of some of the tomes I have to carry around with me, should I ever again be waylaid on the street I could doubtless beat my assailant to death with Leviathan. That said, I'm actually enjoying as opposed to enduring studying, although I have the horrible suspicion that taking political philosophy will not only make me even more argumentative than I already am, but will make matters even worse by ensuring that I actually have some chance of achieving a measure of correctness and coherence, both of which will be great strides above my usual standard of incoherent burbling.
So… yeah. Things are partly good, partly bad, but it seems that all will continue to be quiet on the Bolton front until I’ve got at least some things sorted out.
Semjaza, over and out.
I feel I fall into the latter camp. So much so that, indeed, the very idea of rude thrusting is a novel one at this point.
Well, first, my old clunker of a car gave up the ghost at a most inopportune moment, forcing me to buy a new one a month or so ago. This seemed like a considerable improvement over my former mode of transportation, being able to go from A to B without a detour through C (the nearest auto repair shop) via D (the tow truck of fail). Indeed, it was quite an enjoyable experience to no longer resemble a modern day highwayman in that wherever I went, I held up traffic, although the £2500 outlay had put something of a dent in my finances.
Since my new car had gone an entire six weeks without either breaking down or having a vital bit fall off in the road (and having to stop your vehicle to retrieve something important that just dropped off is somewhat undignified), fate duly intervened this week in the guise of a Scottish gentleman and his Citroen. Needless to say, after a 50mph (combined speed) head-on collision, the car no longer resembled a car and was instead doing a credible impression of a concertina, while my neck felt and feels as though a very fat man has decided to sit on my head and bounce gently up and down. No permanent damage, just a case of whiplash. Insurance and things are still going through, though a hire car has been furnished for me. To add insult to (neck) injury, it’s considerably better than the thing I was previously driving…
Work? Well, my average working week is between 37 ½ and 75 hours, which leaves but little time for … well, anything else at all, really, apart from the performance of the most basic bodily functions and studying. However, the job’s rewarding, and it keeps the little withered organ that is my social conscience happy (or at least still twitching occasionally and not decomposing any further), so I really can’t complain there.
As for that, university goes well too; on the basis of the single and solitary essay I’ve had returned so far, I’m currently on track for a 2:1. This is something of a surprise, since I had sneaking suspicions that perhaps going from never having written a university-level essay of any sort to the most difficult final year module in an essay-heavy subject wasn’t one of my better ideas, but all thus far seems to be working out acceptably. It’s been another novel experience to … well, to have work returned from my tutor at all, but especially to have work returned that hasn’t been befouled by the dreaded Red Pen of Doom and had something very angry scrawled across the bottom. The only downside of all this is that there are monks in silent orders who have more social activity than me.
Despite the ludicrous working week, I’m also permanently broke - academic books are quite horrifically expensive. I rather suspect that even a crack habit would be cheaper than a philosophy degree. On the bright side, considering the size of some of the tomes I have to carry around with me, should I ever again be waylaid on the street I could doubtless beat my assailant to death with Leviathan. That said, I'm actually enjoying as opposed to enduring studying, although I have the horrible suspicion that taking political philosophy will not only make me even more argumentative than I already am, but will make matters even worse by ensuring that I actually have some chance of achieving a measure of correctness and coherence, both of which will be great strides above my usual standard of incoherent burbling.
So… yeah. Things are partly good, partly bad, but it seems that all will continue to be quiet on the Bolton front until I’ve got at least some things sorted out.
Semjaza, over and out.