Entry tags:
come and rest your bones with me
Why I will never ever ever play futsal: Look, I'm failing at Bio30, I'm failing at the whole concept of time management, I am failing at being a functional human being, and I can't even write except to go on about how badly I am failing at everything. That is: very badly. When I say that I am failing everything I am not even exaggerating. The last thing in the world I need is somethng else to fail at.
Why I am going to try to play anyway, pride be, if not damned, then at least temporarily outweighed: Because it's both physics and whatever I've picked up from getting up at 3:45 in the morning to watch ten people chase a ball rolled together and given a semi-practical application. Because when I'm kicking a ball I'm not thinking about how much I want to shoot myself in the head, or how much I want not to shoot myself in the head but feel that I have no other option. Because I have it in my brain that I will be a nigh-complete failure at it, and so even a ball vaguely going along the trajectory I expected it to follow is a triumph of me over the corporeal world. Because it's a relief to be able to be melodramatic and self-deprecating and have a visible reason for it. Because we ate at McDo at 11:30 at night and then walked home singing Sunday Mornings. Because it was fun, self-mockery and all, and tomorrow we die, because tomorrow means Bio30, and if I'm giving up on greatness I intend to make it, not worth it, but less wallowingly miserable.
Why I am going to try to play anyway, pride be, if not damned, then at least temporarily outweighed: Because it's both physics and whatever I've picked up from getting up at 3:45 in the morning to watch ten people chase a ball rolled together and given a semi-practical application. Because when I'm kicking a ball I'm not thinking about how much I want to shoot myself in the head, or how much I want not to shoot myself in the head but feel that I have no other option. Because I have it in my brain that I will be a nigh-complete failure at it, and so even a ball vaguely going along the trajectory I expected it to follow is a triumph of me over the corporeal world. Because it's a relief to be able to be melodramatic and self-deprecating and have a visible reason for it. Because we ate at McDo at 11:30 at night and then walked home singing Sunday Mornings. Because it was fun, self-mockery and all, and tomorrow we die, because tomorrow means Bio30, and if I'm giving up on greatness I intend to make it, not worth it, but less wallowingly miserable.