Don't bother me I'm writing

I was listening to a couple of Microsoft engineers talk about college tonight. One guy mentioned how strange it is that the Moscow Institute of Physics and Technology -- The Russian MIT -- has no humanities. "In India we had to do all of that philosophy sh*t and ..." "We don't do that in the East Block," the other guy interrupted. "We have polytechnic schools for math and science. I was studying computers. I had no need for the other bullsh*t." I laughed, and he stared at me alarmed. "I'm sorry if I offended you," he said. "No. That was awesome," I assured him. But it wasn't awesome. It sucked, because I was bullsh*t in the context of that discussion. What is it they say; the truth hurts? You don't want an artist on your team in the race for ultimate greatness. You want someone like John Nash who sees the algorithms in daily life. You want someone who can mathematically ...

I love myself, I hate myself, I love myself, I hate myself ... Every day is like that game little girls play with daisies, except I don't need the flower. I know as soon my fingers hit the keyboard, whether or not I will love myself. If I make it through the first sentence without stopping -- without hitting the backspace -- it will be a good day. Unfortunately I haven't had one in quite some time. There's no predicting exactly. I can guesstimate. If I'm not feeling well; if I'm spread too thin; if I eat too much; my concentration and thus my writing will suffer. I wish it was so easy to spot a good day -- then I could replicate it. But I don't know what happens on those rare occasions that my brain and fingers work together. When they do it's magic. When they don't I hate the world and everything in it -- Grrawr! I try to keep track of things on good days -- where I was sitting; what I was wearing; what I ate; what time I woke up; what time I...