New Year's Scrooge

Oh and by the way: fuck new year's eve too.

Nineteenth lesson of academic logic

Somehow, I have recently found myself answering inquiries of how I am doing/feeling by referring almost exclusively to my work. Granted, it might be a rather common resource to respond to a question that is mainly an attempt of smalltalk (what a strange word, if you think about it - what is small in smalltalk?); a social ritual of politeness in which neither the questioner nor the questionned are really actually interested in the fundamental or existential well-being of one another.

But here's the strange thing: I noticed I was talking that way not only in smalltalk situations, but even to my family and friends.

Two possible, correlative explanations for that behavior:

My work in general and my thesis in particular have become such an integral part of myself that I automatically and without thinking refer to them when questioned about how I am doing.

I don't really want to talk, let alone think about my self or the part of my self that doesn't have anything to do with my work.

Conclusion: If things continue at this pace, I'll be finished writing this goddamn PhD in no time.

Zwischen den Jahren...

... denominates the time between Christmas and New Year's Eve in German. The expression seems strangely accurate to me; these days seem as if fallen out of time; out of regular life; out of everything. And I am immensely happy it is a time I have entirely to myself this year.

Happy fucking birthday Jesus

I know you died for us a couple of years ago, but right now, I can't really feel thankful for it.

It much rather feels like you were born to turn out to be a royal pain in the ass, because seriously, I'm quite fed up with people sacrificing themselves for other people without ever asking those other people whether they really want any of that fucking sacrifice in the first place. I, for my part, could do without being involved into any sacrificing business, because, say what you may, in the end it turns out to be this huge self-gratifying enterprise that is really not about other people, but only about yourself. And what happens then is of course that you're royally out of this shit because you died, and we - supposedly the beneficiaries of the whole story - are left to deal with this huge mess alone.

But I might be mixing things up here.

Time to make inventory

2009 new year's resolutions:
# 1 Write a substantial part of my thesis.
-> check. Allright, I haven't written a substantial part, but at least I've started writing.
# 2 Have more sex than in 2008.
-> check
# 3 Do sports for at least an hour at least twice a week.
-> check
# 4 Ammendment to # 2: Have good sex.
-> check
# 5 Go away for a two-week vacation to a place that is not Austria or France, and without any work related books.
-> nope
# 6 Make some essential progress or breakthrough in my analysis.
-> check

Heyyyyyyyyyyy, that's five out of six - you ain't done so bad dahlin'!

Quote of the day

Der Todestrieb ist in der Tat nichts anderes, als uns gewahr zu werden, daß das Leben unwahrscheinlich ist und völlig hinfällig. Begriffe dieser Art haben nichts zu tun mit irgendeiner Art lebendiger Tätigkeit, denn die lebendige Tätigkeit besteht präzise darin, seine kleine Passage zur Existenz zu machen, wie all jene, die uns auf der selben typischen Linie vorangegangen sind.

Jacques Lacan - La relation d'objet

Consolation

Apparantely, Boris Becker declared that he feels sorry and empathical for Tiger Woods.

Clearly, there are people far worse off than me.

Seriously, how much lower can you sink if Bumbum Becker feels sorry for you?

Answer

- of course it can, you goddam fool.

Day X minus 2

At this point, I wonder whether it can really get any worse.

Being Scrooge

I don't want this coming week to be this fucking exceptional thing. I wish life could just go its normal way; I wish that there was something of a daily routine; I wish I could go to work to my office and to my analysis like I do every week, and that I wouldn't have to bother being anxious about just getting through this huge mess in a halfway decent way.
Which brings me back to last year's promise I made to myself and broke: When am I ever going to be rich and smart enough to fucking get out of this place at that time of year?
Oh, how I dream about China, Dubai or any other obscure place without Christmas.

Fucking shit. Fuck. Shit. Fuck. Fuck.

Amen.

To speak in FB slang: I like.

Pass time

If you're every highly bored and/or utterly desperate, try the following game:

Pick anything you've been waiting for (letter, email, phone call, ...).
Choose a time, say, 11pm.
Tell yourself: if you won't check your mailbox or phone my 11pm, that letter, email, phone call you've been waiting for will surely arrive. All you have to do is hang on until 11pm.
Then, at 11.01pm (it is very important for you to stay put until 11.01pm), check your mailbox.
If the message isn't there (which, honestly, shouldn't come as a surprise to you, although it does), repeat the process in 10-minute-intervalls. If you're really bored, you can also do 5-min-intervalls.

Confession

I know some of 'em feminists are not quite going to like this, but I have to admit that I am quite in love with Lacans texts; I think he is a pretty brilliant guy.