Half-Empty

I've been in an ugly state these past few days, often wondering exactly why school exists for any other reason than to make me crazy; its boring and cruel disregard for intelligence is forcing me to sleep in class instead of learning in class, and I'm fairly certain that I missed something — the ability to be smart comes with the ability to be ignorant — and I'm left somewhere in-between, thinking about the things that drive me to happiness and the things that drive me to anger, typically in the opposite order stated above. My brand-newish firewire hard drive, for example: it no longer seems to want to mount, so I'll be forced into a situation of anger and hate due to the fact that updating from 10.4.3 to 10.4.5 while it was plugged in totally obliterated my data, of which I hadn't backed up yet. (I didn't have anything to back it up to, for one thing.)

But evils, necessary as they may be, still push me to what Kali so eloquently describes as "my man period," of which I honestly hate— I hate hating, I hate writing about how I hate hating, and I honestly wish hating was less hateful so I won't hate myself nearly as much when I hate on other people. Oh bloody well, mate, 'cause it's not going to change anytime soon, for me at least— I've got many more people to mistreat, in some valiant effort to prove that I'm useful, and not a worthless slob incapable of gathering the motivation necessary to read a book and take a drivers' test, because I'd rather have a new computer to play with. The people I choose to take on are not the weakest, but the middle-class of the social structure in school, insecure in their friendships, moods, and dress. They're the vulnerable ones; they're the ones to bully if you have to bully, because they get hurt the most, and take it the most personal— easy targets with ripe rewards, and, once, again, I find myself hating what I write and how I think once more, but who cares. It might be all a charade for all I know.