RyanHarne.com

Jeremiah: How are you celebrating imperialism today?

Ryan: I suppose I can covet material possessions; I’m tempted to buy these.

J: Those are hott.

J: I’m going to use Windows out of observance.

Later…

R: I’m going to hold off on the shoes; I believe it’s the coveting that exemplifies our imperialism, rather than the actual acquisition.

J: Ok.

Now that I think about it, imperialism truly is exemplified by acquisition, especially unethical acquisition. So, should I wish to commemorate this occasion, I should grab those shoes. This makes thoughts.

Forever, the intersection on the drillfield is known as the thoroughfare for propaganda traffic (in the link, the intersection is the only actual asphalt pathway intersection, fyi). There has been everything being passed out at this point from PETA literature to people carrying crosses and shouting at students to Greek tables seeking rushies. It’s an eclectic point every week; some clubs randomly pass out hot chocolate at the point during the bitter cold months for unlucky 8am class-goers.

During the past two weeks, there has been an effort to get students registered to vote. Naturally, the focus began at the Great Intersection. Several tables with fresh forms waiting were placed with students at them, while others with “VOTE” trucker hats walked the area asking the occasional person if they were registered. This week the effort intensified.

There were never any more tables at the intersection, but the students with hats began to ask every single passerby whether they were ready to vote or not. It required an impressive stamina to continually ask the same question over and over. Of the several times that I must pass through this area, I ultimately expedited their process by just holding my thumb up before the question was through. They got the signal and went to the next soul.

Then… they spread. Somehow they got permission to call upon students outside of dining halls. On the way to dinner Thursday, I was asked three times in 30 feet whether I had registered or not; somehow the others never noticed I was asked, or wanted to make sure my integrity was put to the test. Later, while entering a cheap ice cream place to get a shake for my, now famous, espresso shake I was asked if I had registered. That blasted trucker hat! What does it do to THEIR MINDS?!

Yesterday, while walking around town with some friends, we decided to stop by Bollo’s for a to-go jolt. You would NEVER guess who was lurking inside the door. It was frightening, the culmination of a week’s worth of harassment and tedious Q&A had infiltrated my most sacred abode.

But the odd thing, the piece I can’t understand just yet, is that as I was leaving I noticed the girl, the girl in the VOTE trucker hat, was not there anymore. She also was nowhere to be seen outside the shop or around the street. Oh gosh, now I’m hallucinating these minions for voter registration. ::shivers:: Horrifying, horrifying, people.

Some time last week, late into the night, I returned to my dorm and was met by a few guys talking in the hallway, or I guess I should say I was walking by them to my room. One asked if I was going to see Mike Jones in the next week. To which I replied, “Who is Mike Jones?” They each immediately laughed while I stood in a temporary pause, then I turned and continued on (it’s not necessary for me to understand punch lines, so I will occasionally forego the gleaning).

A few days later, Fluxblog posted a mash-up of “Toxic” and some other song by a one “Mike Jones”. The mix is great, actually, something worth adding to the collection. My knowledge of this Jones character increases all the more. And tonight, tonight only, Mike Jones is performing in Burruss as a segment of our homecoming week. Good. Good for him.

My schedule lately hasn’t exactly allowed me time to indulge in the many events and seminars that are forever taking place here on campus. Granted I did see Waiting for Godot but that was necessary since my past weekend would have been entirely composed of homework and studying were it not for some break. There are many amazing speakers I miss and I know that I miss them. If I was ignorant to the fact that Victor Wooten had played last spring, it wouldn’t have bugged me; if I actually never realized Elie Wiesel was speaking last spring as well, I would have not shed a tear.

My combination of school and work is rough and there is a rigorous balance in play. The best image I can provide of it is the way I handled a certain Deforms test problem last night. In summary: derive an equation for determining shear stress given this object. Ok, so here we go… and off! TOTAL TOTAL TOTAL CHAOS ON PAPER. Conclusion! And the answer was even one of the choices. W-o-a-h. It actually got so bad, that at one point I covered the full sheet of test paper and had to start randomly erasing portions to get room to write more. Oh, but when I left the test the professor had posted the answers, and mine was correct. Yeeeessssss.

Have you ever listened to people talk? You know, eavesdropping on conversations? Sometimes you’re in a spot and cannot entirely ignore the chatter, even if you wish to stay out of their business.

While I wait for my next class to get moving, I’ve been sitting in Squires Student Center unwillingly subjected to a conversation occurring to my immediate right. Or immediate east. But I’m not sure if I follow the cardinal directions or not; perhaps, if I did, then that would grant me an axis of rotation. And the fascination with having an axis of rotation would require that I derive some formulae about how I exert a gravitational force on the bodies around me.

Ok, sorry, I was studying dynamics prior to writing this. But these people are talking, right. I have a hard time not laughing with some of their jokes; it’s innaproptiate to laugh at a joke not offered firsthand to you. I don’t want to be mooching on their good times just so I can have a good time. That’s rude, isn’t it? Maybe.

And there is someone studying/slumbering across the semisphere of couches. And now this group to my right is gossiping and talking about oatmeal from Au Bon Pain.

And they are gone. And left their trash. Thanks, I’ll clean that up in a second.

And the world goes round. Habit is a great deadener. Can you tell? I saw Waiting for Godot.

Ever slept on your arm wrong and woken up with it tingling? Have you had the delight to wake up with this numbness and be dumbfounded as to why it doesn’t go away while your day progresses? Has this numbness ever spread to your forearm?

Yup. Yup. Yup. After a doctor’s visit today, I found out that I severely compressed a nerve during my sleep last night, or at least that was the preliminary diagnosis. I need to wear an arm splint in the meantime until I regain feeling in my left hand. Luckily though, I haven’t lost much use of that hand; I can still type and hold books and slap enemies around and all of the other necessary functions of my collegiate life. It’s just odd, you know, because I can’t feel much of my hand at all.

I do wish it was a bit more exciting. Maybe, like if my hand started to fall off and I was constantly duct taping it back into position. Or maybe I could get a hook installed in its absence. Or maybe… maybe… maybe I could trade in my left hand for some rocket launching gear. Niiiiiice.