The words and the bees

It is so cold today that the children don't have school. It was warm before today. My father said, "Maybe that Al gore is on to something." It took him a while to come along, I'm surprised they denied it ever. The way he demonizes the gays as minions of Satan or whatever (never listened that closely to his tirades), I'm surprised global warming wasn't previously considered a part of the Fullness of Times. The latter looks to sell.
It feels like a cold day, like it should be. There hasn't been much snow. The ice was caking and cracking on sidewalks. I like to step on the edges where it arcs over the land it covered previously, even though I drift side to side on the sidewalk, looking like an ass, trying to stomp them. It makes a satisfying crunch, sometimes a crack. Wonderful.
I did some research; terrifying. It was for a grade, why else would I face such abyss? It was silly really. It is silly. Why would I want to become a beekeeper? How could I become one? Why would I want to be a writer? How could I become one? Neither is viable; they require support. I have too much of a fondness for the semicolon anyways. Beekeepers never use the semicolon. Really, it's funny looking. I think that's why everyone hates the semicolon. And no one knows what it does. I do, but still wonder if I should. It's like a drug, the semicolon. I rarely use the colon anymore. It makes me think of poop. Maybe I need more fiber.
I stole it: The data. I stole it. The terms of service say I can't do a lot of things with the data without their written consent. They posted it on the Internet. They don't want it cached without their consent. I wonder if Google wrote them. I don't think I'll mention it. None of you mention it either.
I've been thinking a lot lately, but not enough about my classes. Though really, beekeepers don't need to go to college. Bees sting them all the time, and apiarists don't even give a crap. Like ninjas. Everything seems to go back to that. I suppose it is childish, but I see no harm in the vice, moreover, I have no desire to release it. I thought it was rather silly, perhaps that is not the best word, but my procrastination period grows dimmer by the minute thus I have no time to revise, that the career research library on campus does not include criminal as an option. That is, it was not in the file cabinet, I suppose I should have asked the secretary. There are any number of illegitimate careers they aren't training us for.
It's become a terrible thing, the way I've been thinking of things. That fiction class and that career class. Horrible things. I can't shake narration. I sit on the toilet and think about the duality of myself and its applications in literate possibilities. When urine sprays, obfuscated by a rogue hair, I leave the water closet thinking of how that could be used in a novel. I haven't been writing it all down as I should have; I don't want to believe it's come to that yet, or I just can't focus myself, I haven't been doing it yet. I still fall victim to that silly belief that I may be able to recall all these things later. I don't have any stories yet. I don't know. I can't shake my constant feelings of confliction. Conflict Ion. That's what it suggests. Oh, blogger, you are a machine.
I don't feel well. I will blame the pressures this weekend present, never myself for dealing with them poorly. I blame myself for much bigger things than failing to reread novels. I've already read it, isn't that enough? No, it isn't; I know this, but will I actually bother to? Probably not. I don't make wise decisions.
I should start using the first person plural. That is how We feel. Conversations of inadequacies bring it up, though I never state it. How silly is it to blame only part of yourself? At that moment, We blamed the part that was, but also the part that wasn't for making the other part be not it. We are sure that doesn't make sense. But really, I should be speaking as a singular, because there are never two of me at once. I blame that part of we, but cannot help but feel that I, being a product of that we, am also to blame for not being I all the time. It is confusing, I am sure. I think about Duality a lot, but I've never even looked up the word. It sounds nice though. I don't expect you to understand (yet), I think that may be my life's work, though I also hope it isn't; it seems so insignificant. I aspire to greater things, but we do not. You can see, I am conflicted. Can you love Me, but not We? I feel like you do.
But feelings change. I hate I, being I, because he is so moody. Really, We are so moody. I heard it described: lambda. That's how I think of it now. It was very reassuring to know that I wasn't going crazy, or rather that it wasn't a symptom of it. I am being nondescript; I apologize. Does that make it easier? It's easier to when the variables are undefined, but what does it mean then? The blog doesn't have units for those sorts of things. There are other reasons I hate I, and it is important to realize that I is a function of time, being present now. I don't expect understanding, I would not demand it. Now I use words again with different meaning. Does anyone understand what I am saying. I am merely typing it. The flow. I don't think I want to write stream of consciousness, I am not that great at reading stream of consciousness. I don't think I have the imagination for it, at least, compared to people in my fiction class who described a sort of self-substitution with the protagonist. It seemed strange, a sort of empathy so honed, or the opposite, that disbelief was suspended, characters not only became real, but became Them. I didn't even think the book was that good. Perhaps I couldn't suspend my disbelief as well. Seriously.
I suppose I should stop. I didn't know where it was going. Perhaps I should allow that to continue further in other things, but do I have the time for such endeavors? I cannot be certain, though I suspect 'No'. With so much time spent trying to figure out who I am, or We are, or whatever. We am. I don't know why, but I find it quite euphonious. Maybe I need a typewriter. Maybe I need to stop letting(?) my thoughts hijack myself. Perhaps I need thoughts. This isn't going anywhere. I'm not going anywhere. Read into that, I'm not sure what it means.
Accidental symbolism. Like when I cut my finger on my Career Inventory Surveys that I printed out, also for that class. I just thought of that now, or rather was reminded of it. It was something I thought of in a creative writing class I took in high school. I really sucked in that class. I had no stories to tell. I am out of time. But the thought I had then was simply to insert things that might have some symbolic meaning, or c/would acquire them through the course of the narrative, that the reader could then differentiate at their own pace, with little effort on my part. It strikes me as odd now, that I have learned that both Faulkner and Hemingway did similar things, though such is a rather bold statement on my part. And perhaps rather inaccurate as well. Hemingway had his iceberg theory and Faulkner was so dense that... I don't know. I'm out of time to write, still have things to finish, and I don't have time to refine and support such bold arguments on my behalf. Perhaps later, I tell myself, but I know this to be a lie. I'm getting pretty good at telling those. Really, I should be done now.