Postmodern Thought and the Teenage Lang

Y'know, like, how some people you meet, like, you notice they, like, say "like" like every other word?

I have a theory that this actually stems from Postmodernism.

See, part of Postmodernism is this idea that noone can really know what is real and unreal outside of their own mind. You know your mind is real because you are your mind. "I think, therefore I am." But beyond that, all your sense impressions, all your interactions with other people, could be your own imagination or someone else's. I'm told the Matrix is essentially based on the idea that half the world is living in a computer-generated world and doesn't realize it. (I haven't actually seen it, so correct me if I'm wrong.) It also reminds me of The Truman Show. I've even entertained the idea myself that everyone around me is in this vast conspiracy and places like London or New York or India or Alaska don't really exist, I'm just made to believe they do. Postcards are all CGI. I mean, if movies look real, reality could be fake! But I'm waxing loquacious.

If everything could just be an appearance of reality, for all we know, we can't make any definitive statements at all about what we see happening around us. We can only say it was "like" it happened.

So, I'm, like, sitting at my computer. And, like, I've got these blog friends that, like, comment on stuff I say. But I don't know if any of it is really there or not.

So, it's the sixth week of college...

...about time for an update on all those questions I had before orientation.

First, the good news. Piano is continuing, although on an every-other-week schedule. I'm in Concert Choir and that's wonderful. I tested out of a year and a half of theory, I'm doing well in all my classes and handling the load well - so far I'm getting A's in all my classes except Speech. I'm meeting a lot of new people and I am enjoying that.

Bad news: I'm not in any music classes besides choir and I miss that a LOT. I especially miss orchestra and am thinking about asking Cascade if they'll let another viola in a month late. Even though I'm meeting a lot of new people, I don't really see any good friendships developing from that except for one. I'm doing well in all my classes and handling the load well.

What? I said that was a good thing too? It's both. The scoop is that I'm not sure I'm really learning and being challenged to do my best, now that I've grown accustomed to the schedule. Here is a little taste from today's writing class.



It's ten or fifteen minutes from the end of the period. The teacher says "We're a little tight on time, so we're going to switch gears. I want to hand out your papers now."

This is the first paper we've done for the class, and we're all a little apprehensive about our grades. She's mentioned that if we get a B- or lower, we will need to go to the writing center for editing on all our future assignments.

Our teacher continues, "Some of your papers were good..."

Mine's probably in that category, I think. From what I've seen in the peer editing sessions, I'm one of the stronger writers in the group.

"...some of them were a little scary. And one of them was outstanding."

I hope that one's not mine. Please let there be a really good writer here.

"...so good, in fact, that I wish I'd written it myself."

A feeling of certainty and dread rises in my stomach. I'm positive she's talking about mine, and she's giving it compliments it doesn't deserve.

"So I'm going to read it out loud to you. The author will remain anonymous."

Augh. Undeserved honors. Here it goes, she's gonna read mine and I'll blush or do something else obvious so that everyone knows it's mine...

Michelle, the girl next to me, an outspoken personality I've spent a lot of time with, says, "I bet it's McKenna. Her comments are so good."

I turn to McKenna, the pretty, intelligent blonde behind us, and agree quickly to hide my nervousness. "Yeah, I bet it's you."

More half-articulated thoughts impose themselves quickly over each other as she pulls out the paper and prepares to read. The people who edited mine in peer editing will know it's mine. It can't be mine. It's going to be mine. Why do I always react this way to honors? It's not something to blush over. I don't want to be singled out as the best writer in the group. I want company.

She begins by reading the title. "A Split Reality."

It's mine.



I'm feeling a little lonely today. Anyone else have these days?