I Hate Jane Austen

Because of this abhorrence of a paper I have to write!

Maybe I'm over-thinking this. Maybe I'm just blowing this out of proportion. But goddammit, I don't know what to write! Either I've got a bad case of writer's block, or I'm just plain stupid...

Actually, this isn't a first time. I've always been terrible at writing papers on novels. Short stories, like Heart of Darkness, I can do. Papers on Aristotelian Courage or Platonic theory of forms and Love I can proudly say I've done with flying colors. But that's because the latter has forced me to apply something I've learned to situations and the former is a short story - there isn't as much to consider when it comes to literary analysis. But goddammit, I cannot do novels. There are too many themes, factors, and events to consider - and where the hell do I start?

I've brainstormed, I've slept on it, and I still haven't been able to come up with on outline about it. I mean, this paper that I'm supposed to write to so...

Alright, enough of me bitching. I just need to get into the gist of writing. Maybe I should have another practice in stream of consciousness.

Stream of consciousness. Interesting concept. Talking off the top of your head. Or in this case writing. Okay, not much of a concept. But interesting in the sense that you see a persons id - or ego? or super ego? How would Freud put it... Or was it Jung? Welcome to the Jungle! We got fun and games! Speaking of games, I wonder when my Guitar Hero should be coming in the mail... I snagged myself a copy on Amazon during the Black Friday rush. Well, it really much of a rush for me - I just bought it at home.

Ugh, I have that essay still pressing on my mind... Dammit, wireless internet access out here is pretty shitty. It's like - oh, what's a good analogy... Well, it's a hit and miss. Maybe I need to clear my mind. Blank sheet. John Locke - everybody is born with a blank slate for a mind - only the impressions of external influences can affect what is on this slate.

Descartes tried something to this affect - he tried to rationalize that human knowledge comes from the mind. He does this through denying everything - from his sense, to his own existence. He reduces himself to nothing but a thinking thought. It's the fact that he's thinking that he proves that he exists - thence, the term - "I think, therefore I am."

Then he tries to prove God's existence along this very same train of thought - pretty much, to paraphrase, I have the idea of an powerful, omniscient force. But where did this idea come from? Obviously, this omniscient force - it gave me this idea as an imprint of its existence and my being a product of its creation." Or something to that extent. A nagging feeling in the back of my mind says that I might be wrong, but after this quarter of thinking, I've kind of doubted the human mind. In fact, this quarter has taught me to hate philosophers. It's one ambiguous question after the other, and ends up in circular logic.

Hmm... Descargo, Escargo. Snails. Naked snails are slugs, right? Then what's a naked hermit crab - or a naked turtle. You know, it seems like all of these are edible in some way. Funny - Americans believe that bugs and reptiles should not be eaten, but mammals and sea life are alright for the consumption. I wonder where we got this idea. I mean, traveling to other countries, they've adopted reptiles and bugs into their diets - I've had escargot, crocodile, snake, and... well, that's about it. I mean, what's wrong with eating bugs and reptiles? They look disgusting to some, sure - but compare that to a pig. Pig's roll around in their own filth. After all, it is banned in some religions to eat pork.

Reminds me of Pulp Fiction, the diner scene where Jules Winnfield is talking to Vincent Vega about how he doesn't eat pork because he believes they're disgusting creatures. In the same vein, sewer rat can taste like the greatest thing on earth until you realize that you've eaten sewer rat. Isn't there a place in China where they serve Mountain Rats for food? They at fruits as opposed to... well, sewage, so I guess that makes'em healthy to eat... Not so sure I'd want to try it though. Not unless it's deep fried. I mean, the crocodile meat I had was deep fried, and it actually kind of tasted like chicken.

Fried chicken. Now that's something I haven't had in months. Huh. You know what, now I'm actually in the mood to write. I wonder if anybody really does read through these blogs... Well, obviously you are. You must be thinking this blog quite preposterous - or at least a bit interesting - in comparison to others. Don't exactly know where I'm going with this. I usually don't nowadays.

But it seems like Tristan - the Caucasian - is right - I should just write some shit down, just to get into the gist of writing. The Caucasian - maybe that should be his nickname... Kind of reminds me of the Big Lebowski; the Dude always orders a White Russian, or as he sometimes calls it, a Caucasian. So quite honeslty, not exactly naming him after his ethnicity, but rather a cocktail. That happens to be his ethnicity. I could call him the White Russian, but he really isn't Russian, he's German. And a lumberjack. Maybe I should start calling him Jack. Cause of his lumberjack backgrounds. I've seen that guy without his shirt off, it shows that he's done some work with lumber (No homo).

Alright... Maybe I can finally get to writing my paper. Hopefully I can get that shit done. I still don't know what I'm going to do, but hey, at least I got my typing fingers back.

Let's get to work.