Add as friend

By George, it's been a while since I've posted something substantial!  (I mean, being tweeted by a certain French maid is significant to me, but I only published my most recent post for the sake of coming full circle to the strange quest I had previously set out upon) I naturally blame my lack of devoting time to my blog on the obscene amount of time I have had to delegate elsewhere: the last day of class is in grasp, and I'm thankfully on the denouement of my hectic academic schedule.  Only one essay left to write - only five pages, I can write that in my sleep - and one final test to study for and I'm in the clear.  Hopefully my liberation from the suffocation of the semester will bring about a reinvigorated ignition to my creative blogging process; I realize even when I have had free time lately, I've directed the entirety of my writing efforts toward my NaNoWriMo novel - which I'm pleased to report is now sitting at a total of 25 000 words, but the daunting task of matching the very same amount before next Thursday remains.  Have faith in me!

Two posts ago, I offered some sort of implicit apology for writing so many posts in recent history without cohesive thought; if one was to look back at my previous writings over the year I've had my blog (excusing the lack of style - I've only come to really love the way I write as of late, and I can hardly bring myself to read what I've previously written), they would find posts existing under an overall general theme.  Whether I wrote about religion or about my thoughts on the Christmas season (another post on the topic will be inevitable this year, I can promise that), about love or about my quirks pertaining to my strange eating habits or neurotic tendencies, one would certainly find a shift from cohesive themed writing to the fragmented style I've adopted.  Not that I dislike my "subheading" work; I find it's a great way to review any given period of time with a subjective, broad and sometimes humourous eye, but I'm sure I've lost reader interest through my essentially schizophrenic scatterbrained posts.  And thus, my wordy preface winds down to its thesis: I will be writing about one solid abstraction today, and I am striving for a return to the format of my blog's past.  (I won't eliminate the "subheading" business: I feel that format greatly suits posts more about the personal recounting of my life, and I can fuse posts like that with more formal ones to preserve a blend of personal droning and opinionated outlook - that is, after all, the purpose of a blog, no?)

I feel as though I can't advance without another preface - and I'm sure, my beautiful reader, you are probably groaning at your monitor, but keep holding on.  I can't continue without speaking to my thoughts on the danger of becoming far too personal on a blog.  I've previously spoken to my thoughts on blogging: a blog should not and should never serve as a diary because of the fundamental aspect of what makes a blog a blog - it is a public facet.  At least, that's my view: you will never find me blogging about the emotional traumas and hardships of my past because, firstly, the accessibility to a blog is far too easy and personal matters become severely inappropriate for a public forum, and secondly, as a reader myself, I roll my eyes when I read some sort of melodramatic and poorly written account of how sad you are because of whatever happened and because so-and-so did x.  To that, I say broadly: keep it private.  And thus, you will never find Haus of Matt becoming a place for me to divulge into my deepest and darkest of secrets, because I'm mature and sensible enough to realize that private thoughts stay private - or, at the very least, between yourself and another person (not an anonymous reader: a friend) with whom trust is present.

That being said, I might just become a bit of a hypocrite today.  The topic in which I'm choosing to write about, friendship, is a highly personal one, but I am making it my conscious duty to remain absolutely subjective to the theme and I will do my best to treat it as much as an abstract concept as possible.  If I become too melodramatic or what have you, you have permission to punch me in the face.


I feel like the institution of friendship has been completely deconstructed in the modern era of technology.  What used to transpire over an hour-long phone call is reduced to a rapid-fire dialogue of text messages, completely removing the sense of tone or, truly, personality from either participant; the process of befriending someone has been marginalized to the click of the "add as friend" button, yanking away the traditional building of a relationship's foundation out of human interaction.  I've encountered people who've officially marked me as a "friend" on Facebook moments after meeting me in passing for the first time; admittedly, I've done the same, but I tend to think (nowadays, at least) my practice of Facebook-friending is based on the intention to legitimately maintain a friendship with someone, and in that respect I think Facebook is fantastic because it allows for prolonged connectivity with people whom you would not have had the regular chance to do so with.  On the flip side, the same connectivity carries a rather negative connotation, because highly I doubt people with large amounts of Facebook friends give a damn about every single individual appearing on their list eight hundred people long.

This topic has stuck with me since writing about it briefly in a paper for one of my courses.  I feel like, nowadays, friendship has become a commodity: one gauges their own popularity by the amount of "friends" they have on Facebook or on other social media outlets, and in doing so, the very institution of what it means to be in a relationship with another person is completely broken down to the material.  When one clicks "add a friend" on Facebook, they are not looking to build a friendship upon which they can spend time with the other person and divulge secrets and braid each other's hair and promise to be friends forever: instead, to "add a friend" is to inflate your repertoire of friends by one.  Really, to say you have a friend is just as meaningless as saying that you have five cars and a mansion: you don't put emotional stock in your material possession (friends have, in all actuality, become material possessions), but knowing they're there and that you have them builds your confidence up.  I'd hazard a guess that those with hundreds upon hundreds of Facebook friends pride themselves on being "popular" and "well-liked," but at the end of the day, for me, I'm content with knowing that I upkeep legitimately substantial relationships with the few whose company I enjoy.  I would never say that I have a plethora of friends, but I really don't care: I'm happy that with the friendships I do have, they're meaningful, and down the line I'm sure I'll maintain contact with many of these people extending beyond seeing their most recent photo album coming to the forefront of my Facebook newsfeed for ten seconds.

To say these things and to act as if I don't partake in the economy of superficial friendship would be a blatant lie.  In the height of the Facebook craze for my generation (I mark this as high school), I pursued a rapid-fire adding of everyone I knew - regardless of if I ever had a physical conversation with them, and even looking at my friends list now I fail to recall real life interaction with some - because my friends had Facebook and they had many Facebook friends.  As I've already touched upon, I value the relatively small array of friends I have.  (when I say "small" it sounds like I have something like five friends - not the case: I mean small in comparison to Sally Facebook with 750 "friends")

I like to think that I still hold the concept of friendship up to be "sacred," for the lack of a better word.  Friendship, to me, is a relationship, first and foremost, existing in the real physical world beyond a social website on a computer screen.  A friend is a person who you enjoy spending time with; they make you laugh, they make you think, they make you evaluate yourself.  A friend is someone where boundaries don't exist - and no, I don't mean "since we're friends I can sexually harass you, no boundaries!"  (although I can think of one of my best friends who knows no boundaries whatsoever) I mean instead that inhibitions are dropped; the mask that you might wear in public disappears and you are candid, actually becoming yourself.  For a friend, you'll find yourself go out of your way to make them happy; you'll listen, regardless of what you're doing, because you know they'll return the sentiments when you need them most.  A friend does not, then, trample over you; they do not disregard the things you do for them; they do not exist in a hurricane of fury and expect for you to crawl to them only when they've deemed their own mood as "good enough" to interact.  I hope I've avoided becoming to sentimental or cliche or personal, but these things are unavoidable.

Now being an adult I've come to value the friends I have.  I know those I give a damn about will be the same people who will still be speaking with me in five years.  Interestingly, the past few weeks have set up more definitive resolutions in my mind: I've grown closer with some friends by an exponential factor, and with some, I spend my time in caution - at times, even in frustration - signalling to me that they really aren't someone I care to be around.  That's the luxury of being an adult, though: one is fully able to govern the relationships they have, given the possibility of selection when it comes to friends.  Unfortunately, I feel that things like Facebook work in the opposite, prolonging superficiality by hiding behind the notion that more Facebook friends means more popularity and therefore more happiness.  So be it.  I'm happy with my knowledge that in ten years when I have my own family, I know exactly who I'll still be talking to, inviting them and their significant others and children over for dinner parties, or what have you.

It's because I'm Armenian

(title is a reference to the fact that her character.. uh, "seduced" an Armenian man on the most recent episode of American Horror Story.  I use seduced lightly because her second seduction of him involved.. well, biting, and ended in his murder)

Can we all just recall who this is?

I can die happy now.*


*this, much like my tweet, is what's called a hyperbole.

Obligatory title devoid of creative flourish

It's been a while since I've written a post - not from a lack of trying at all, oh no; I can't count the times that I told myself to sit down and write a blog post only to be disappointed by my lack of inspiration.  (looking back at my previous post, it seems to be listed as being posted on the fifth - I guess that was the day I wrote it, but I didn't post it until a week after, last Saturday; I guess it doesn't time stamp with the date of publishing?  Hum) Truth be told, I'm still rather uninspired, and this post will become one of my run of the mill (can I use anymore cliches in one sentence?) posts, disjointed and incorporating a whole slew of unrelated topics.  For some reason, writing isn't coming to me as freely as it once did; I attempted to write on more obscure topics such as love or accomplishments, but I found my words were spent after just a paragraph or two and it'd really be a shame to post something so short and unsubstantial.  Not to say that this is any more substantial by any means - I just need to post something.

Note: goddamnit.  This was originally entitled "A week in review" until I just realized I already have a post called that.  Goes to show how absolutely uninspired I am.

Another note: leave it to me to go with the wryest and most apathetic title known to man.

Last note: I promise my next post will have a legitimate theme.  I don't know any better, but I'm not sure how well-received my posts with multiple subheadings are; they annoy me sometimes, and I can't imagine what the general you must think.

Last last note: please read this.


Homestretch

I constantly talk about how "it's hard for me to believe it's already [insert day or month here]!" but, really, it's hard for me to believe it's already more than halfway done November.  I'm moving back home in just twelve days.  I really lucked out this year, only having one final exam during the exam period on the 8th of December; given that the last day of class is the 28th, it'd be truly senseless for me to stay on residence for another ten days, considering 1. I hardly ever study so it's not like I'd be cracking down on my books for a week and a half, 2. I'd run out of things to do after the first day of having free time and consequently would go crazy, and 3. I'd go crazy anyways.  I really am looking forward to returning home for a month; my visits home on the weekends got progressively more and more nostalgic, and having just been back this previous weekend (and seeing two of my best friends making life seem normal again) it got a bit tougher to leave, but the feeling was pacified in knowing I'd be back in two weeks, anyways.  That, and when I was home I bought Batman: Arkham Asylum for PS3 and I'm already missing it because it's so damn good.  Oh, and I guess I miss my family.

Although the distance in time is quickly winding down day by day, the hurdles of schoolwork ahead of me still tower over me as tall as ever.  I'm down to just two essays to submit in addition to three final tests I have leading up to and occurring on the final day of classes; not overly difficult to survive, but the fact that next week houses a test on both Tuesday and Wednesday as well as one of the essays being due on Friday is slightly stressful.  (if you're keen you might've deduced that the final essay and test are due/occur on the last day of class, so in two Mondays I'm sure I'll be the epitome of joyousness) I don't mean to head into the last two weeks with an ego, but given that this semester has been my most successful semester of university, I can't help but inflate myself with confidence when writing my essays or studying for my tests.  That being said, I'll go the extra mile, considering I want my (hopefully) good marks to be that much better.

Like a regular novelist

As a refresher, I'm participating in this years National Novel Writing Month, the aim of which is to attempt to write a full work of fiction with at least 50,000 words.  How rude of me to announce my participation and neglect to provide updates!  (not really that rude) The good news is, I'm finally happy with my concept.  For the first little while I found myself writing a few thousand words before trashing it in favour of a minor plot tweak or because I wasn't pleased with what I had written.  That's how I seem to function: I don't move forwards until I'm absolutely content with the introduction, and it only took killing one of the main characters immediately to get me such happiness.  I sound vile.  I do not condone killing.  I found my writing was constantly ramming itself into a brick wall - that is, until I decided that one of the characters was to die, and in my sadistic murder I found rejuvenation; the death has become the central plot point, naturally changing everything else I had planned.  Because of that, I'm really writing without a direction, making up the plot quite literally as I go - something that the officials of NaNoWriMo encourages.  (writing without thinking, that is.  The editing is to come later) I'm afraid I'm not enclosing any more of a synopsis.  I haven't told anyone else, and I don't actually know if I will.  I'm sure down the line when it's complete and you ask nicely - I take cash only, and I'd like material gifts, too - you can read it.

My progress?  Last night, I just cracked 10k words.  Given the structure of the activity, I've squandered away the first half of the month to only come away with one fifth of the minimum of what's required.  I've read tweets on Twitter (follow me.  @m_spad) to the NaNoWriMo account, reporting of astronomical numbers - I saw someone saying they're over 100,000 words, and that distresses me.  I have just about two weeks left to reach 50,000 (that is, if my story even comes to a definitive conclusion with 50k words), and as previously lamented my next two weeks is full of academic misfortune, so I'm already accepting that I will not complete the task by the end of November.  Fear not, however!  I'm not abandoning hope altogether.  I've never truly been as enthralled with my project as I am with my current one.  I know that past the end of the month, regardless of word count, I'll be intent on continuing my writing.  For the sake of a goal, I hope to complete an entire first draft of my story by the end of the year, and given that I have December in its entirety for free time, I should likely succeed.  That's my plan for December.  That and finish Dexter.  It's so good.

Trailermania

I love movies.  (no way) This week was a particularly good one in terms of fantastic trailers hitting the internet for upcoming movies, and they've sent my heart aflutter with serious excitement.  Aside from what I'll spend time talking about, I'm 100% excited for Snow White and the Huntsman after watching (and re-watching) the bloody fantastic trailer for it.  The visuals are delicious.  I'm able to buy that even Kristen Stewart can be the fairest of them all, because she looks pretty fine in this trailer.  Scuse me, I feel like I need to wash my hands for calling Kristen Stewart attractive..

Over the summer, I read the entire Hunger Games book trilogy in three days.  Imagine my excitement to hear that Jennifer Lawrence, or, freaking Mystique from X-Men: First Class which is only my favourite movie of the year, was to play Katniss.  Admittedly, I had my reservations about the film adaption; I worried (and actually still worry) that the love triangle will become too much of a centralized plot point to cater towards the idiot Twilight fans of our generation.  But, by god, my worries were quite literally erased after watching the trailer: goddamnit, it's amazing.  I've seldom been more pleased with a book-to-film adaption; this is the first time that I've been a legitimate fan of a book before it was translated onto film.  (I admit, I think that I read the first Harry Potter book right before the first movie came out.. regardless, I didn't have the time to establish in my mind my own interpretation of the world, so therefore as I read through the rest of the series feverishly, I couldn't really shake the images of Dan, Rupert and Emma from my mind when I read about Harry, Ron and Hermione) Perhaps the other time I was able to do so was with Watchmen, but I'd rather not think about that movie.  I digress: the trailer has, literally, captured exactly what I had in my mind.  Specifically, I'm not exaggerating when I say that the training room sequence is 100% exactly what I pictured as I read the book, and it's got me questioning if the creators of the movie entered my brain and thieved my ideas.  I get chills as the countdown sounds at the end of the trailer, ending in a far too short glimpse of the actual Games with the tribute's frenzy.  Can't wait for March.


For a post about incoherence, that's excessive.  I promise a cohesive theme next time - and maybe less words.  (looks like I got into the spirit of NaNoWriMo!  Damn, I could've used these words for my total..)

Things I Absolutely, Positively Hate

I'm not entirely sure if my blog has "staples" - and what I mean by "staples" are recurring features; nowadays my blog has become somewhat scatterbrained, but if anything, I like the new direction of my humourous cynicism towards my own life, because not everyone enjoys reading woes.  There's no point to living without a touch of humour, and there no point to writing if there's no point to living (considering I write what I live), and thus by default there's no point to writing without a touch of humour.  (aha, an enthymeme; Aristotle would be proud) I've digressed.  Back to my original point: I've read many blogs where recurring features such as weekly questions-and-answers or what have you are featured, and I don't think I've ever really done that, but if I had to pin down the closest I've come to creating this, I can come up with two: the first, My Drunk Blog, which in reality only exists to make my drunken ramblings "redeemable" (if that's possible), is a bit too unpredictable, a bit too problematic and a bit too despicable.

The second - and we finally get to the meat of my intended point (if you feel the need to punch me because of my verbal embellishment, do so; it's like an untamed monster that's been once again released due to the amount of academia language I've had to use for my schoolwork) - would be the Things I [adverb] Hate, which are always quite fun to write because it lets me get unabashedly heated towards the things that make my skin crawl.  In the past, I've had such posts as Things I Hate, More Things I Hate, and, most recently (and, curiously, most verbally polished; hooray for a visible progression of the quality of my writing!), Things I Really Hate.  Christ on a stick, I'm a hateful person!  Again, I'm not entirely sure I'd count this as a concrete staple to my blog (given that I don't have a scheduled time in which I post these - I think a biweekly hate would be a little bit too much), but on the flipside, I should hope that when you, my fine reader, think about my blog to yourself, one of the first things to stick out in your mind is "that Matt sure hates a lot of things - but it's so funny!  And, goodness, he's attractive."*

*optional

You might have concluded by now - well, you have had a fair bit of time to do so.. - that I'm about to launch into yet another Things I [Absolutely, Positively] Hate post, because 1. it's been a while and 2. there's only so long I can go with this internal hatred before I explode from not sharing it.  (oh, and I guess another big clue might've been the title..) You'll notice that I'm sometimes only half serious, because, recall, I base a significant amount of this on humour; even with that in mind, my troubles do come from a real place, but in some cases, just rest assured that I am not actually as worked up about it as it might seem - the magic of hyperbole!


Things I Absolutely, Positively Hate

Victims.  No, I don't mean victims to crime.  How the hell could I hate someone who's been robbed?  I'm not that bad of a person.  Many times in my life - for reasons unbeknownst to me, but I guess I'll always be trapped in this sort of cruel cycle - I've had to deal with people who, when thrust into sticky confrontations, immediately retreat from said confrontation, and through their stepping away from responsibility they assume the role of the victim and thereby push the role of the "villain" (or, in plainer, non-comic book superhero terms, the one who's "over-reacting") onto the other (or, me).  It's infuriating, because the second a person steps away from actually assuming responsibility in an issue, they assign themselves total innocence and therefore make the opposite person seem like they're a raving lunatic.  I'm hoping this makes sense.  This isn't just at a basic level of a discrepancy between to people, no; what I've spelled out can be translated to any significant hardship in life, and the moment something goes the slightest bit awry, victims curl up in defeat.  These people who constantly whine and insert themselves into victimized situations need to grow up and face the reality of the world - one can't expect for everything to get better if one traps oneself in a nest of "woe is me," and brooding in this nest won't pacify anything.  The world is tough.  Things don't work out.  Something I've learned to accept is no matter how mature you are or how positive you are in your outlook, there will always be someone around you who's still stuck in self-depreciation or who has a twisted outlook on what they do or say; that's the world.  For goodness sake, don't take solace in making yourself the victim: live up to your maturity and tackle your pitiful problems in stride.

Mature students.  I love the idea of an older person (I use the term "older" cautiously, but I mean not of the average age of a university student) returning to a post-secondary institution for a degree, but I hate it when these older people become the shining pupils in your classes and therefore make you (and the rest of your similarly aged peers) look bad.  Take for instance an older woman in one of my English classes; she answers every one of my professor's questions, and it's to the point where my professor has even made remarks like "why don't the rest of you care as much as [this person] does?"  I realize I'm coming across as a total douchebag with respect to this subheading, but recalling some people I've had this conversation with in the past, they agree with what I'm saying because they, too, have had this elusive older student upstage them.*

*I am seriously not an asshole.  It's refreshing to see someone like that still passionate about school, and I have nothing but respect; but shush already.

Participation marks in class.  What the hell is the point of allocating 10% of your final grade to participation?  I'm at the point (in my third year) where I've nearly become an entirely autonomous student; that is, I attend lectures and take notes on what my professors have said, but I make my own understandings of the material through my own learning at home both before and after receiving the framework of the critical thinking from my instructors.  That being said, I don't enjoy speaking in class - you'd think I'd advocate it, what with just explaining how I make my own ideas about things which would probably benefit others reading it, but they can suck it.  It irks me when professors, at the beginning of the semester, say "it's alright if you don't like speaking up in class, not everyone is comfortable with that" - only to implement "10% of your mark is based on your conversation in class."  What?  I even, a few weeks ago, had a professor compliment one of my papers (it set the rest of my week off to be fantastic), and whilst talking to me she said "you're really shy, and I can tell!  It's okay you don't speak in class" - only to call on me twice during the lecture.  "Matt, why don't you give us your thoughts?"  No. :(

Manufactured pop singers.  It's no secret that current popular music (and by "popular," I judge what's put on heavy rotation on the radio and what's topping the Billboard charts) is largely dominated by women - think about it: we're in the time of Gaga, Adele, Britney Spears, Katy Perry, Rihanna, Nicki Minaj, dare I even say Ke$ha (she somehow keeps returning to that number one position..), Beyonce, and Justin Bieber.  Naturally, I'm all for Gaga (no, really?), and I love her because her sound is fresh, her image is intriguing and underneath it all she has the voice to back it up.  What bothers me is the kind of success that people like Katy Perry and Rihanna are receiving, when I would fully argue that neither is particularly a good live artist, but rather, they're heavily reliant on the manufacturing of their songs.  It bothers me that a song like "We Found Love" is able to top the Billboard 100 when a song like "The Edge of Glory" cannot (and I don't say that with a personal bias: Edge of Glory is simply a flawless pop song, and it's undeniable); it bothers me that WFL consists of perhaps ten unique lines of lyric repeated constantly; it bothers me that Rihanna touts her eleventh number one when she quite literally put in the minimal effort - as far as I'm concerned, the most shining aspect of the song is the beat, and she has nothing to do with that. And don't even get me started on Katy Perry: she is 100% a manufactured machine to spew out hit after carbon-copy hit destined to invade the public's iPod and car radio.  At the end of the day I'm not overly bothered by this; I'm able to retreat to the music I consider to be good, and as far as Lady Gaga is concerned (it's a crime she's only had three number ones..), her success is astronomical, and she'll be the one remembered in twenty years.  Katy who?


That's quite enough hate for one day.

No life November

It's November and the rate at which time has passed since beginning the semester is baffling.  It seems like only yesterday I moved onto residence, acquainting myself with my class schedule and my independent domestic capabilities (which, I say, still suck, considering my room needs a dusting and much of the food I eat is from a box); instead, I lay in my bed with thick socks staring at my calendar on the wall filled with an obscene amount of readings and work to be done between now and the last day of classes, November 28th.  The optimist in me idolizes the idea that we're 13.333% percent done the month of November already; the pessimist weeps and plans my own funeral.  I'm left with three final tests and four major essays to hand in - the last full week of class makes me shudder, as two of the tests and one of the essays land someplace during that week - and the procrastinator in me chooses to write a blog post instead of starting an essay (and by start I mean even looking at the essay question, because I haven't) due on Thursday.  As to not entirely ruin my weekend, I'm planning on visiting my assignment on Sunday evening, where my [projected] hangover from the [hopeful plans of the] night before will have finally faded.

My work motives have been put at a handicap by two rather large factors, one significantly more meaningful than the other.  The first, for some reason, is because I've rediscovered [NERD ALERT: do not read on if 1. you do not think highly of me, because you will think less of me, and 2. if you do think highly of me, because you will think less of me] Pokemon after discussing it feverishly with a friend.  By Pokemon I clearly mean the game (do they even still make the cards?), which I have downloaded an emulator for so I may play on my computer.  I don't think I'll ever fully move on from those games from my childhood, probably because, well, they were my childhood, but also because even still to a 20 year old they're pretty amazing and the nostalgia while playing is intoxicating.  (people never really understand unless they played them when they were a kid.  I know this because I get weird looks from these people) Excuse me while I go read Aristotle or watch an R-rated movie or buy scratch tickets or liquor as to remind myself that I am a 20 year old..

The second, and, as you might have guessed, the more meaningful of the two, is because I'm participating (like many failed times in the past) in NaNoWriMo, or, if you don't know what that stands for, National Novel Writing Month.  It's a "contest" (for the lack of a better term) where one may challenge themselves to write a 50 000+ worded work of fiction in the month of November; editing is discouraged, but given that I'm an extreme perfectionist, I rewrite passages twenty times until I deem myself fit to continue.  Another general stipulation (if I recall correctly; I didn't "officially" sign up this year online because my user account with two failures on it is depressing enough - point is I haven't acquainted myself with the official rules) is that the story to write must be 100% original to the month of November, and that previous planning is discouraged.  Well, screw that.  The novel I'm writing is one that's been in my head for at least three years - the concept and characters, that is, who never saw the light of day due to my many failed attempts at writing it as well as a general lack of incentive.  So I guess I'm breaking the rules in that it isn't completely original, but it's still my original work, and judging on my previous failures with NaNoWriMo, I think it's a safer bet to go into it with framework.  It's all very exciting to me; I've long forgotten about how passionate I get when I actually have the chance to write, and it's all I think about, given that I'm not already thinking about the essays I need to write or the Pokemon I need to catch to complete my team.  (goodness)

My progress?  Zero words.  I was up to about 2000 yesterday but after letting it sit in my mind I'm once again displeased.  As I said, it's all because I'm a perfectionist.  I've written far more in the past, but success only comes after I'm entirely pleased with my exposition; from there, I have enough strength to move past weaker segments of the body of the work and just keep writing, because I know my foundation is solid.  I have yet to strike gold, but that's why I've allocated my Sunday evening to my schoolwork as to allow for the rest of tonight and the majority of tomorrow (given I don't occupy myself otherwise..) to writing.  I guess it's sort of a punishment: don't work on meaningful things for school until you've written the opening to your story goddamnit!

As usual, I pull through.  I have the utmost faith in myself as an essay writer since I've never received horrifying marks on the ones I've written, so I know I'll get the work done; it's just a matter of so many to-do things hanging over me that I collapse by the mounting pressure of "get this shit done and get it done now."  I'm hoping my writing (fictional, that is) will provide for me the means to maintain my sanity by the month's end, but here's hoping that my novel doesn't drive me crazy like my schoolwork, too.  Send creative brainwaves my way!