x5: She craves attention

My name is Scott Williams.

No, wait, let me repeat that properly. My name is Scott fucking Williams.

I been one pretty messed up cat lately. I nearly broke down in the midst of Newsrooms Without Walls yesterday, citing the overwhleming nature of my classes. Things were starting to get heavy, and even worse when Mary Lynn started broaching the topic of internships. And then when talk started of the administration* attempting to take away our newsroom and replace it with... nothing... well that's when the blood starts to boil under the skin.

*Imagine them as a sinister hand stroking an evil cat** like Dr. Claw in Inspector Gadget.

**This is redundant, all cats can be assumed to be evil. Where was I? Oh yeah, breakdown.

But I didn't have a breakdown. Although I been pretty melodramatic over the past few days and weeks, I've gotten re-aligned. Re-focussed. I've got perspective. After that class, I ran into Bileski and he asked how things were going. I told him fine, although I was expecting to have a "nineteen-year heart attack any day now." The ensuing conversation can be paraphrased as follows:

"You're nineteen? Man, you've got all the time in the world. When I was your age I was out in Calgary and I didn't know what I was doing. I didn't really get started until I was 24, 25... there's no pressure man, are your parents pressuring you?" (they're not) "Then just relax! There's no need to push yourself too hard." Et cetera and so forth in that vein.

Now this, I found extremely re-assuring, because I'm not used to having people endorse my slacking. But he's right. There's time. There's plenty of time, and I don't need to run myself ragged thinking there isn't. That's just silly bullshit I'm worried about.

And a good friend known only as Fists appeared and gave me some good advice. "Cheer the fuck up, yo." Now, nobody who knows me is ever gonna mistake me for a cheery guy, but every now and again I can remember myself and how shit is actually pretty good. It is.

I describe SWP as the "anti-blog." It provides no informational service, no entertainment, no viable content whatsoever. Yet it's seemingly more than your typical "personal blog." I treat it with a little more dignity than that.

This weekend is Fake Christmas, that bizarre tradition chronicled every November on this blog. I still can't really explain it, but I'll try. Every November, my family gets together, and gives gifts... except the gifts are chosen at random and can be swapped around. Seem pointless? It is, because we also celebrate regular christmas. Basically, since the family started its baby boom earlier this decade, certain parties have found travel unmanageable during the holidays. So in November, before any major snowfalls, we make a last stab at a family gathering. And because as a family we love to torture ourselves with unneccesary rules and regulations, we all*** agreed to this crazy new christmas tradition game thing.

***Of course not all of us. Just those with kids.

The first year, it was held at my cousins' place in Palmerston, because they were the ones who instigated it. The following year, I missed because I was shooting Maim in Vain during a crucial day at Josh Kershaw's dad's office (and I still thank him so much for that.) The next year, it was held in the common room of my grandma's building, where we hold many of our family functions. This year, it's back to Palmerston, which makes sense. For one, Elizabeth gave birth six months ago (and much to her chagrin, I still haven't met the little tyke,) and for another, her sorta-not-husband Mike has been laid up for weeks following a car wreck. And then it was supposed to be last week, but Mike's grandmother died (or some such, I'm afraid I wasn't privy to the details,) and so it was rescheduled for this saturday. The strange, sordid tale of fake christmas (for which there is no other official name, by the way,) condensed to even greater pointlessness. Deeelicious.

I'm still sick, but I swear I'm getting better. I'm noticing less of a phlegmy aftertaste when I eat things. I'm only coughing severely in the mornings, and it gets lesser as the day goes on.

But I fear tomorrow, I shall still be afflicted. Dayum.

Them's the breaks, duder. But it's not so bad. I'm thinking of giving myself a nametag that reads "I CAN ONLY COMMUNICATE BY COUGHING." That'll show 'em.

Who? Exactly.

Keep on rockin'
-Scott