What is so great about privacy? We live in a society that is conversely obsessed with both privacy and celebrity. We want to know everything about the lives of celebrities and public figures but still want to believe that there is something mysterious and unknowable about ourselves that does not come across in the pictures, videos, and whatnot that we post on social media. It’s unhealthy. (That, by the way, is coming from a guy who has no interest whatsoever in running for president, yet ironically has never been photographed streaking or vomiting on a police car. I’m not sure what skeletons from my past my opponents would dig up to claim that I am unfit for command as honestly, I’ve never even smoked a joint. Hell, Barack Obama did coke, and I still voted for him twice.)
I think what I’m really trying to say is that I’m fed up with people acting as if that picture of them showing up to their mother’s funeral dressed as Hitler doesn’t reflect poorly on their judgment. It kinda does, doesn’t it? It’s not so bad. (Actually, the Hitler thing kinda is, but bear with me.) Some people really have no business being president. Let them be doctors or lawyers or janitors or chefs or whatever the hell they enjoy doing that doesn’t involve being the leader of the free world. The POTUS is as much a symbolic position as anything. I don’t have much respect for the people who voted for Barack Obama just because he’s black, but I don’t think it’s unfair to take that into consideration. After a while, people just want to see somebody in office who isn’t a straight white Christian male. Barack is 3/4 (technically 3.5/4, but never mind). It’s progress, albeit very measured progress.
Many of my friends think that the culture will someday become so saturated with media chronicling our youthful indiscretions that we will all stop caring. I am not so sure. It’s one thing to mess around a little as a young person. It’s another to be a full-on heroin addict or a sex criminal. Would you want a convicted rapist serving on the Supreme Court? Okay, how about somebody who sexted once or twice? The latter isn’t so bad, although I, personally, would prefer not being able to find a picture of Scalia’s ballsack through a simple Google search. That a person sexts may not reflect poorly on their character, but it does tell you something about them. We must try not to see their behavior in isolation from all other aspects of their character. It’s a part of them, nothing more, nothing less. Whether you can let it slide depends on the exact circumstances and whether or not you believe that they truly have left behind the person that they once were. Sometimes people change, and sometimes they don’t. Or rather, some things about them change and others don’t. And it isn’t so hard to tell the difference once you learn to cut through the bullshit.
As I write this, I’m gearing up for spring break. I’m graduating in just over two months and still haven’t figured out what I’m going to do once I get out of this place. More than anything, I feel kind of tired. Almost ten months have gone by, and I just want to say, “That’s it?” I don’t mean that it’s all gone by so fast, as it hasn’t, but I was sort of hoping I’d have a slightly clearer idea of what the fuck I’m doing by now. I don’t, and I wish that would change. Somebody will point out that nobody really knows what they’re doing and that we’re all just faking it. To that person I say, “Okay, fine. But I still want to have sex with Jeremy Renner, and I’m not going to stop dreaming until it happens!” I’m a simple man with simple needs, you see. Just my own private island, a 200 foot-tall statue of me in Washington D.C., and a harem of Abercrombie models to keep me company, that’s all I ask.
I tried to find some way to pay for my education that didn’t involve just taking out a lot of loans. Believe me, I spent quite a lot of time looking for a scholarship or fellowship program that worked for me, but my school didn’t offer me a fellowship, and I had just under four months to search before getting the acceptance letter and hopping on the plane for New York. Nothing I found was a good fit–either the application deadline had already passed (and my program lasts only twelve months, meaning that I would not be able to apply for the next school year the following spring), I didn’t quite meet their requirements (Oh, you want a feminist Greek high jumper who likes philosophy? Let me go find one!), or I just didn’t have the time to apply. I applied to a couple of small-time scholarships (basically, short-form writing contests with $500-$1,000 in prize money) and was genuinely hopeful about my chances, but never won anything. I hate hope. Faith is useful, hope not so much, as the former is harder to destroy, the latter only useful in setting oneself up for disappointment. Basically, all I’ve got now is a part-time work-study job that will help me take the edge off of this mountain of debt. Hooray, I guess. And I still don’t have any prospects for a job. Well, maybe one.
I’m not going back to California for my vacation. Too much to do over here. Make of that what you will.