Update

They never did get back to me.

I can't say I'm terribly disappointed or particularly shocked, but I sure am disappointed.

What would Hanoch Piven do?

Small things, small minds

Last year I didn't have to worry about managing my time. My activities were limited and easily controlled.

This year, things have changed. For one thing, I have a job where I earn monies. It's not a particularly cool job, but it still sucks up time. For another, I am trying to write and produce a relatively involved film AND write and produce a satire on 90s television while keeping on top of an ever-increasing pile of essays.

Am I forced to do these things? Of course not.
Will I let myself give up? Of course not.

Once I take on these tasks, I feel like I must see them through. It's a part of my new decision-making process:

"What will be the more interesting chapter in my autobiography? Do that, then."

With this new process whirling around my head I came across a sign, "FIVE MALE ACTORS WANTED FOR NEW PRODUCTION OF ROMEO AND JULIET, AUDITIONS 6PM". Oh hey, that could be interesting, but then again I was thinking about going home for dinner...

Wait, it's raining outside. I will audition.

I get lost in an unfamiliar building, eventually ending up in the basement. I ask a friendly janitor with a giant boil leering at me from beneath his eyebrow for directions.

Including myself, there are three people auditioning. I notice the other two quickly doing some maths and liking the odds of getting offered a part. I ask what parts are on offer.

Romeo
Benvolio
Tybalt
Mercutio
Paris

The hell? That is every major male part in the entire play. Something's up.

They give us each a reading, which I perform with my usual cynical detachment and lewd gesticulation. So far, so good. "Now we'd like each of you to go and prepare a song."

The hell? Romeo and Juliet isn't a musical. Something's definitely up.

They assure me that I am quite wrong. I explain I cannot sing. The other two start warming up with some scales. I reiterate my lack of singing ability. They tell me to do my best. The other two smile smugly at me. I decide they are talentless hacks. I walk to the other side of the room and pick up a chair. The other two are surprised. I place the chair one metre away from the producer and director. I have everyone's complete attention. I pose outrageously on the chair. The other two are less smug. I perform a spoken word rendition of Rocketman. All of it. I hold my end pose for a full 10 seconds. The director is stunned into silence. Shatner would be proud. I collect my coat and walk out the door.

I find out tomorrow whether I got the part.

For dinner I ate my last steak and a slice of wholemeal granary loaf. I washed this down with a litre of 100% pure Florida pink grapefruit juice (not from concentrate).

How has your day been?

Prevarication

The module is entitled Approaches to Political Science and is an introduction to the various ways of studying why people make certain political choices. As usual, it is a very interesting topic taught by a disturbingly boring man. The reason I bring this up is that, for the most part, the workload is infinitesimally small, especially when compared to most other courses. This leaves me free to pursue my other interests (eating, sleeping and making pitifully self indulgent student television). Occasionally however, I am required to submit an essay in order that I can remain a part of this fine institution.

I cannot motivate myself to write something unless I am inspired. Those currently teaching me inspire me only to distance myself from the material, lest I end up like them, a hollow shell of regurgitated opinion.

I have made as many sandwiches as one can reasonably get away with, so I am forced to turn to other ways of avoiding work through debatably productive diversion.

Hi.

How convincingly can rational choice theory account for political behaviour?

Looks tricky, going to need another sandwich.

Dropping in to see what condition my condition is in

The most boring conversational topic revolves around one of the most interesting conversational enablers. Of course I am referring to the hooch, specifically those people who insist on recounting the exact volume of each beverage they drink. I was so wasted last night, I drank nineteen pints of raw ether, thirteen flagons of absinthe and my bodyweight in fine whiskey.

These lists annoy me because they serve no useful purpose.

I annoy others for a similar reason.

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A correlation

The more I drink, the better I become at bowling. Why is this so? I know not.

Could I bowl a perfect game? I think so. I would need, however, to imbibe ferocious amounts of alcohol. A challenge is extended, but I fear that accepting it might lead to death, or worse, to DEATH!

My path is clear.

The fat is in the fire now

What? There is no insight here. This is congealed self indulgence.
I care not for it.