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16 AUGUST 2014
Scheisse.
This kind of thing gets worse with each passing decade. Embracing some ridiculous fad just to remain inconspicuous. And each time there’s a bizarre tipping point when you start to draw attention to yourself for not participating in whatever passing fancy is au courant in the world of humans, and I do not want such attention.
This time around Mother’s insisting that this “social media” be part of our little charade. This age has a markedly reduced ability to construct original thought — since there is no need to be alone with one’s thoughts, ever — and, case in point, Willy-boy seemed quite taken with his shiny new smartphone. Schmeichler. I asked Mattie if she was under compulsion to be one of these “Twitter” or “Tumblr” lemmings, and once she stopped cackling like a hyena she asked me if I was ever going to realize that blending in and being different from everyone else were mutually exclusive concepts and that trying to do both was an exercise in futility. I hung up on her.
The blood coffin may be long gone but clearly my punishment is far from over. Not only did the dean assign me to a triple room in the dorm, but I was also made to act as a Frosh Week chaperone. Forget what they say about herding cats; herding children is far less rewarding. The other chaperones are barely in their twenties and yet they keep talking about how the incoming classes “look younger every year.” Ha. That sensation never goes away. You just get used to it.
My two roommates, predictably, were horrid. They must have been on Mother’s list. She’s pragmatic enough to make the list longer than it needs to be; inevitably some of the targets fall through. This has only been the case since I reprised my role as a lure. Not sure if she’s noticed that particular coincidence. I’ll need to be more careful. At dinner the other night she chided me for not properly applying myself… though she did allow me to select the evening’s wine. That cellar of hers gets more impressive every time I see it.
Nonetheless, my “attitude problems” must have worked if the dean is already assigning me to a new room. It’s too bad, in some ways. The cupcakes of my now-former dorm room were easy on the eyes. I’ll say one thing for Silas: the comely nature of its coeds is quite a bit higher than that of the general populous. But when this place becomes a bit too absurd — and it frequently does — at least I have an excuse to spend time with normal people like Sartre, Kierkegaard, and Camus.
And in the spirit of being someone whose mind watches itself I’ve decided to start keeping this diary. An actual pen and actual paper and liberation from the prison of 140 characters.