2002-11-18 - 12:54 a.m.
Everything is more peaceful at a distance. All the rough edges are smoothed away, and things seem elegant and graceful.
At night, incidental lights create wonderful ambience. Motion becomes poetry, and everyone is beautiful and interesting.
I live in my head too much. The center of my grip on reality is seated well within the boarders of my mind. I can't really slow down this constant internal dialogue. It distracts me. It keeps me from ever being a good physicist. What good is a day dreamer to the world...one who scribbles diary entries in his notebook instead of deriving energy equations for degenerate Fermi gasses. I could give a flying fuck about Fermi or his spin-1/2 particles. Instead, I'd much rather think about her, or how nice and cool it is outside, or music.
Working at CD Whorehouse has been an interesting sociological experiement. It's taught me a multidue of ways I do not want to raise my kids. Recent discoveries have been that the average yuppy consumer is so fucking greedy, he/she will stand in line for an HOUR to save about 4 bucks on a couple of CD's during a liquidation sale. That same customer, upon reaching the counter, will have the nerve to be rude and complain to me about thier foolish behavior. They get mad when my response is that I don't care. It's not a bread line people...it's CD's. They never frequented the store before it was going out of buisness, but now that they smell blood in the water, they dismout from their oversized SUV's with overpriced mocha-latte-frappachino-esspresso's in hand and stand in line for an hour to buy a used copy of some old crappy Live album or Pearl Jam's 'Ten' like a decade after the fact. Then they expect sympathy from me...someone who only makes $6.00/hr and has basicly been handed his hat by the company, therefore rendering all requisite caring null and void. It's an interesting job I tell ya.
