Happy Friday, folks!
The second semester of school is officially underway. I’m taking two literature classes: one that focuses on authors who write both fiction and non-fiction; and a critical approach to literature. The former excites me to end, as my concentration is non-fiction, but I have a strong interest in fiction. The latter looks to be the bain of my existence for the next fifteen weeks. As someone who likes to “keep it simple,” my being rejects the very nature of literary theory and critique. My professor even stated: “Literary theory is like philosophy in that it takes things that appear simple and make them complicated.” Ugh. What’s going to get me through the semester is my stubborn pride. When my favorite rapper is famous for the phrase “I will not lose,” I can’t go around letting some old, pretentious literary critics kick my ass.
That said, what I’ve learned from last semester is that it’s okay to feel clueless, so the fact that I can’t keep up with everything in class doesn’t worry me. Had I not spent the first two months of last semester berating myself, I could have focused more on learning than healing my self-esteem. I plan to spend the first month of this semester with my head down and my ears and mind open. What I don’t know, I can learn. I’m a smart girl. And that’s kinda the whole point of the school thing anyway.
For the last week, I was tortured with the alleged “news” that the birth of Blue Ivy inspired Jay to remove the word “bitch” from his song lyrics. Perhaps it was my “stannery” showing or maybe it was common sense, but the whole thing sounded disingenuous and un-Jay-like from the beginning, especially when they said he revealed this information via a poem he wrote. A poem? Jay hasn’t even written down his song lyrics since the early 90s and now he’s penning sonnets and shit? In the midst of all the editorial responses about the “news,” I called bullshit. Sure enough, it was. Now how many of these scathing editorialists are going to retract their righteous indignation? Not a single one, I bet. Gotta love this “new media.”
Speaking of “new media,” my heart stopped on Wednesday when “news” hit Twitter that Peyton Manning had played his last football game. Then, I found out the alleged “source” of this “news” was Rob Lowe and I was both relieved and aggravated. There I was, on the verge of tears because my favorite athlete of all time was out of the game, because some dude who plays an Indiana state official on TV was talking out of the side of his neck. I say this, and the previous paragraph, to say, “Eff this ‘new media.’” Has “validate” become a four letter word in the last five years? Damn. Stop being so thirsty for a story and do some fact checking.
And I really need people to stop reacting to EVERY. THING. YOU. HEAR. until you know its fact. “Get the facts. Then, react.”
I hadn’t watched a Miami Heat game in awhile, but I decided to watch the “superstar” match up of Lakers at the Heat last night. Wade’s out with a sprained ankle. LBJ front-ran and show boated, and the Lakers need more people. Anti-climatic basketball at its finest. I’ll tune back in after the All-Star break. Or at least after the Super Bowl.
Speaking of the NFL, go Giants! With Peyton Manning’s future in the air, Eli has been my saving grace. I feel confident enough in the kid that if Peyton’s career is indeed over, I’m comfortable with making Baby Bro Manning my #1 quarterback.
The other day, after realizing yet again that I’m destined to be single for awhile because I reject authority in my personal life, I remarked “I don’t know how it happened, but somewhere in the last year or so, I’ve become George Clooney.” That’s not a bad way of looking at long-term singleness. George is aging gracefully, has an active dating life, and remains on the CGI (can get it) list of women, young and old. I’ll take it.
Thanks everyone for the interior decorating advice! I realized after reading your comments that I may be overthinking things. I’m going to take the process slowly, adding what I like, when I can afford to add. I’ll get it together slowly but surely, which appears to be my way.
“When Jena 6 don’t exist, tell em that’s when I’ll stop sayin’ bitch. Biiiiiiitch.”
Fin.
