OblivionsTouch's Xanga

Thursday, January 11, 2007

Thu, 11 Jan 2007 16:28:15 GMT

My blog has been moved. www.ethoshq.com

Sunday, December 31, 2006

Sun, 31 Dec 2006 01:56:16 GMT

I'm still alive. Possible Top 10 Things I Learned... list coming when my break is over.
_-Clay-_

On Being a Student and a Christian

Wed, 06 Dec 2006 00:41:34 GMT

My semester is coming to a close. I've grown weary of the essays. I'm tired of argument and opinion; politics and editorials. There's a lot of relief in the Christmas lights. Simple joy can rip stress off easily. I haven't been super busy. I've had a very laid back semester, to match my personality.

I've had a lot of good times so far, and I'm very excited about the next three and a half years, and excited still about what may come after that. In other words, I'm excited about the rest of college, and I'm excited about living in a box. I'm going to study something I love and want to study: English. I don't know where that will take me. My future is, indeed, uncertain. I wanted to make that sacrifice, though. I will give up certain success and achievement to do something I love. Perhaps that is what I have truly been studying these past few months: the art of sacrifice for love.

Yeah, I mean Christ. I'm talking as a student and as a Christian. I'm speaking as a person who realizes that classes need to be pushed aside, studying needs to be put aside, even my love for English and literature needs to put aside if that's what it takes to truly seek after Christ. The experience of being a student and being a Christian will continually get more interesting, and I think that is the only certainty in my future.

Growing up (which, I guess, I'm still doing), I've watched people go off to college. There's not been a single one of them, who stuck with, it that didn't change. You expect it. People change, for better or for worse, when they make it to higher education. I had a friend, when I asked if he'd go do something with me, my girlfriend of the time, and one of her friends, tell me, "Clay, there's a line that a girl crosses when she gets to college. Once you see that, you don't want to be with one on the other side of the line." That was his unique way of telling me no, and it's a word of advice that has stuck with me ever since.

So I've crossed the line, and I like it over here. I grew up in a household where an education was, basically, expected. Both of my parents have college degrees, and a little further; one who is a certified nurse, and the other a seminary graduate. I found myself being a creative soul as I got older. I could have chosen to try and run with that, I suppose. Me and my bass guitar could have hit the streets of Oneida ready to rock the world. To some people, that is a logical path to choose, and it has worked out. I'm not one of them, though. I always knew I would be going to college.

Now that I'm here, that knowledge makes sense. I can't think of any one time in my life when I have said that God put me somewhere, or that God told me to make some decision. I'm not sure I want to say that now. It doesn't seem like God put me here, and I still haven't heard God tell me to do anything; it seems like God made me to be at this place. There wasn't any "No no no, Clay, you can't stay there. I, God, am picking up and placing you at the University of Kentucky. I'm God. I can do that, and you'll like it." I think that would have been kind of fun to hear, but I didn't hear it. I decided to come here. Other than growing up and kind of being sick of the Church of Kentucky Basketball, I felt no opposition to being here. It used to be the last place I would have chosen, but here I am and I couldn't feel more comfortable. So no, God didn't have a one-on-one and tell me what to do, and God didn't pick me up and throw me two hours down the road, God made me as a person who would be on UK's campus. Can you dig it?

I feel that is one of the most important things about being a Christian going off to college: that feeling, that comfort, that ease that comes with going where you were created to be, at least for part of your life. I encourage any reader to apply this to whatever they might be doing with their life or wherever they may be in this world. I don't know if a "calling" is an actual calling of sorts or not, but I believe God created us as different people, and we have different places to be so that we bring Him glory. You can call that calling if you want. I call it life.

The idea of higher education itself scares some young Christians to death. When I graduated, I had recently reached an amazing point in my faith: I came to know the Gospel. Weird huh? You can live your whole life around Christians and in a Christian household where the Gospel is very apparent, but still be too stupid to understand it. When we Christians reach new and key points in our faith, we don't want to let go of them, just like anything else good in our life. I was listening to a fellow student last night speaking at a worship service on many topics, and one was giving things to God to let Him show you how beautiful they truly are, but we do not want to let them go. As truly strange as it seems, that applies to "spiritual enlightenment". When you discover more of the truth and want to hold it and hug it, give it to God.

Young Christians holding on to their great love for Christ do not want to let go. And then we graduate. That's when we remember all of the things our friends and leaders have told us about how evil scientists are. Now college is in jeopardy. After all, college campuses are breeding grounds for white-haired, wrinkly, angry, evolution-teaching, atheistic scientists who will stuff my carcass in a test tube after their done listing off my logical fallacies for an hour. That, of course, leads us to small-campus, "Christian" schools with classes like Puppet Ministries 101. I don't want to dis those schools or their students, but I do really hope that people actually feel that they should be there and didn't run away from Angry Atheist Einstein in the Chem-Phys building. I really think that happens more often than not. I don't know why.

Here I am on a gigantic campus, with a fine science department, mind you, and I've never been around the Gospel as much as I am now. It's in the air, and the walk to class. I see the Gospel when I attend a weekly campus ministry meeting, when I go to a Bible study, and when I hear people puking themselves to sobriety in the bathroom stall.

Being a Christian and a student is a great American mission-field. What more do you want? We have hundreds of humping, puking, drunk people just like ourselves, running around every weekend. Where do you find a better opportunity to separate yourself, to let Christ shine through you, and to see what we're all like at heart? I need to see what my flesh wants before I can understand why I need Christ. I'm taught what my flesh wants in the classroom. I hear what my flesh wants on the walk to class, I see what my flesh wants in the vast potpourri of girls skimpy outfits, and in partying drunks.

This is what I believe it should be like to be a Christian student. You can learn from the smallest events and the biggest, whether or not they involve Christ. Christianity involves some learning; learning from Christ as we know Him more and more. Christians, we're all students, no matter what you're doing.

Sunday, December 03, 2006

Sun, 03 Dec 2006 23:16:22 GMT

Did you know that I have a mother? Well, I do. And she's having a Star Wars Christmas Music Game Thing on her blog. Go participate.

Read some of her articles too.

Friday, November 17, 2006

Fri, 17 Nov 2006 16:23:27 GMT

It's time for a little carefree blogging. Actually, I don't know exactly what the proportion of this blogging will be.

I need to type. I need to write something because it's Friday, I go home in five days, I'm going to a concert tomorrow night (Jars of Clay, I think I know one of their songs but it's time with my folks), I'm listening to a new CD, I've had a good week, and I just ate a spicy beef wrap. I feel good. I feel real good. Why not write about it?

I was always told that my college years are the years in which I would develop into the person I am going to be. It's an interesting concept, and kind of dreamy when you hear about it in High School. For some reason, at the same time you are told you get become a true human in college, you are also told that High School holds your best years. A bit contradictory, but it actually seems to be true. I guess experience is the best teacher after all. In High School, you have a functional brain that is able to come up with what it believes and listen to who it wants. You're being challenged and discovering some things about yourself: likes and dislikes, favorite teachers, what you like to study, how much food you can eat in one sitting, what you're attracted to, what others find attractive about you, how to smoke, that no matter how hard you try you'll never be as cool as the Fonz. You know, the basic facts of life. The best apart about it all is that you have a constant sense of security. The majority of teenagers in High School have a home to go home to, and at least one parent there taking care of them. Others are spoiled and doted upon instead of cared for, and others experience neglect and need to be cared for more. Once you reach college (for a lot of people but not all) that security is minimized. You are on your own, and it can be kind of scary.

Apparently I have been blessed. Whenever I meet students older than myself who have seen me around at various places but have never met me, they are always surprised to find out that I am a Freshman. "I thought you were at least a Sophomore" they'll exclaim. I am told, "You just seem so comfortable with college." And that statement is truth. I really am comfortable with being at college. Sometimes it does even surprise me. But at the same time, I have nights where I ask myself what I'm doing here and if I really think I'm going to make it. What am I doing out of my mountains, off of my back porch with my journal and a cigar, listening to the crickets sing with the silhouette of hills against a midnight-blue, star speckled sky. And here I am in this busy place with all of these people, traffic, crosswalks, and only thirty mouths that could tell you my name. Why am I on the fourth floor of this sperate planet placed in the middle of campus? The biggest symbol of capitalism in the city, with money poured into it. A ceaseless river of crispy, green dollar bills crashing down and leaving leather chairs, computers, and movable bookshelves in its wake. I read last night that Wendell Berry writes in a treehouse.

I have experienced a lot of change in only three months, that's for sure. I can't name anything specifically, because I'm me. Other people are best at noting the change of a person. Change always interests me. It's a bittersweet experience and one of my favorite parts of being a person. One of my favorite quotes: "Sometimes a change is so constant that you don't know it's happening until it's all over." I've been listening to an album that I acquired in a perfectly legal manner that did not involve the internet. The whole album is amazing and seems to be centered around change and some kind experience with Christ. The second track is one of my favorites. It documents, in its own little way, the pain and anger that comes with change. "I used to be such a burning example, I use to be such a lucky one. I used to care I was being careful. Made sure to show it to the ones who I love... I used to pray that God was listening. I used to make my parents proud. I was the glue that held my friends together, now they don't talk and we don't go out." Sure, some of this pain hurts. It hurts to be on my own. It hurts to have a shitty mattress. It hurts to know I may never see some of the faces I graduated with again. Honestly, it hurts to make new friends. I feel like I'm replacing something that I shouldn't have to replace. It's all bittersweet, like I said. So at the same time, it feels amazing to meet and love new people.

I have to admit that a big part of the change I'm experiencing is me and Christ getting a little closer. One of my best friends is reading Blue Like Jazz and he reminded me of one of my favorite lines from the book the other day. Don says that he doesn't know what Christianity is. He can't define Christianity for you, all he knows is that he has a relationship with Jesus and that he loves Him. That's so beautiful, and a large part of what I've been experiencing. When I was seven years old I went to this Backyard Bible Club. One day the youth were asked to give testimonies. I clearly remember one guy saying "Jesus is just... he's like..... well, he's like the best friend you can have." All of them said that, and even at seven I could tell it was some kind of stock answer. It has a lot of truth in it, even if it was uttered completely void of meaning. When people feel alone, like in the midst of a great change, we find something or someone to cling on to. This change has given me a chance to rely on Christ for a lot of things, mainly with relationships. I realized a week ago, while I was in St. Louis, that I have barely had any friends in my life. I love people, and I love to love people. I want to show people that I love them. But I realized that I have this serious problem with giving other people the opportunity to truly love me. I don't let people inside of my true character. There are three or four exceptions to this pattern in my life, but I drug a guy out in the hall and cried in front of him this past Saturday telling him "I've never had any friends". That's change. Hell, that's an epiphany. I'm reminded of another line from that album I mentioned "Jesus Christ, I'm alone again, so what did you do those three days you were dead? 'Cause this problem's going to last more than the weekend."

I still have a lot to experience. I have a journey ahead of me. You want an example of my change? Here's one: I'm excited about the journey.

Change

Mon, 30 Oct 2006 21:09:25 GMT

This site is basically going to be "closed down". Don't expect anything major to be posted on here. If I'm really compelled something might show up. The reason: I have a domain name that will be in use before too long (but I don't know exactly how long that will be). Anyway, when that's up, expect it to kick off with a series of posts on the subject of art. You should be able to find updates on occassion on my poetry site, but that will eventually be moved as well. www.xanga.com/EthosHQ (also on my subscriptions).
Great love for all of you who read a single word on this page. Kiss my picture.
_-Clay-_

Happy Happy Joy Joy

Tue, 24 Oct 2006 22:40:54 GMT

I used to read these books as a child. They were always called Mr. "Whatever" or Mrs. "Adjective Here". I remember Little Miss Shy being popular in my house. Little Miss Shy told the story of a little shy miss who overcame her shyness and spoke to someone. If it was a Hollywood movie, Little Miss Shy would have gotten laid by Mr. Right, who she had, for some unexplained reason, introduced herself to as Little Miss Out-Going. When Mr. Right brings her flowers at work the following morning, no one knows Little Miss Out-Going, but they point him to Little Miss Shy, and the relationship is now in jeopardy all because of one petty lie. They cry by the phone while REM is playing. Finally Little Miss Shy calls Mr. Right, who confesses to loving her despite her saying she was someone different then she truly is. They put the gem back in the donut (that is an excellent innuendo, write it down), and the credits roll while something happy, like Aqua (as long as we're on the subject of innuendos, might as well give props to that one album Aqua put out). Everyone is happy. Boyfriends leave the theater with girlfriends on their arm, satisfied with the illusion it left on their girlfriend, knowing that the night is young.

If you turn on your TV right now, or go for a drive across town, and look at the ads (and I hate to be another guy saying this, but) you see smiling, happy people. America is possibly the best place in the world to find depictions of happiness everywhere. Dollars and dollars are spent on things so that people will seem happy. The person in the advertisement is happy, so therefore we can be too. Happiness in America comes from doing what makes us feel good or look better. If you ever help another person out, make them feel good, or make them look better, you might notice that it feels a little better; that's a whole other piece I could write.

One of the reasons I love the book Fear And Loathing In Las Vegas, by Hunter S. Thompson (God rest his angry soul) is it's subject matter: the American dream. The book follows two men, allegedly sent to Las Vegas to report on some kind of race. The report given is instead about searching for the American dream. The setting is what makes it so great. Two guys are driving around in a beautiful rental car described as a "shark". They cruise around the desert of Nevada, completely high off of their asses the entire time, searching for what has been fed to them as the source of ultimate happiness. At one point they are told about an abandoned building where the American dream is said to be. In the course of hallucinating about bats, seeing people as giant reptiles eating one another, and even kidnaping a girl, they surprisingly get no where.

What is happiness? The demi-god that is Wikipedia has an entire page devoted to happiness. Any dictionary will define the word for you. You and I don't want a definition, we want a meaning. What we truly want is a source.

At the age of eleven, I discovered what it meant to really being attracted to a girl. I don't know how you define being attracted to someone, but it's always been more to me than thinking a girl is pretty. When those butterflies came, that's how I knew that I "liked" her. In elementary school, I once made up my mind that I liked a girl. I eventually decided that was stupid. I could still get offended if the boys said "You like her don't you?", but I felt nothing. A little less than a year before my deciding I should be attracted to women my age, I was infatuated twice my age. If I could remember any kind of physical feeling that came with that point in my life, I would make some feeble attempt to describe its elementary beauty. I was kissed atop my shiny, blonde head by the most beautiful girl in The High School. That evoked me to feel whatever I felt and to have whatever aspirations I had in that area. Needless to say, nothing came of it.

I discovered feeling, you know, the butterflies. From then on, I think I lived for it. That was seven years ago, and I still struggle with it. Before coming to understand the Gospel, the search for that feeling brought me meaning, and even more so when I accomplished finding it. Up until the final months of my senior year, that seemed to be what I sought: the feeling. It was different every time, but it was still what made me feel the most happy. Searching for it always turned out to be half of the fun. It gave me the opportunity to have conversations with myself, create situations that I was supposed to make happen. The best part was having the person of my choosing give the correct responses to any questions I asked. Every woman could be the perfect woman, and it brought me some kind of happiness.

The odd part turned out to be what made the happiness leave. When I found myself in a relationship with someone, I would lose that "funny feeling in my tummy". Mission accomplished. You can go home now. You finally achieved the best part of that emotion you don't understand: you caused someone to have it for you. Now do your best to make it seem like it is still there, and all will be okay.

That's the way the cookie crumbles, right?

There was only one woman all of that time who made me feel happy time and time again. I didn't question why I was with her, even when the butterflies left. That satisfaction is what made it all the more tragic when the relationship ended due to both us seeking happiness in our own ways. Me through her, and her through substances she had told herself time and time again did not bring her happiness. Completely renouncing the Christian faith did not add to my search, and did not help when my relationship hung itself.

I had one other relationship after that one, and I was confused as hell the entire time. Somehow, before it all began, I decided that I believed in God again, but I hadn't quite reached to believing and understanding the Gospel. I started reading. I kept reading. I read my first non-fiction book, and it happened to be about "Christian Spirituality". I read about love. I read about a kind of love I had never payed attention to: the love of Christ.

I thought about lazy afternoons when I told my girlfriend I loved her. I didn't want that anymore. I saw vanity in it. I was loving her so I could feel good. My eyes became opened up to what love really is. Love your neighbor as yourself, Clay. Love your neighbor. That's the person passing you in the hall. That's the person beside you in class. Love them all.

That made my relationship seem so inferior. Kissing a girl was dirt on my shoe compared to loving as Christ loved. Loving as God loved; enough to kill Himself so that I don't have to be dead forever.

Happiness lies in beauty, goodness, and love. If you've ever seen Moulin Rouge, Euwyn McGregor's character announces at the beginning of the movie that he believes in love above all. And then he tries to date a hooker and belts out some really sad melodies that tell us he got no where. He's in bat country.

I struggle today, I struggle a lot with not thinking that the almighty butterflies bring my life meaning. It's a hard battle that I fight with daily. I fought with it just today, and came out feeling a little disappointed and confused, but there was only thing to do: Praise God for loving me, whether or not I find something that feels like Him on this earth.

"The Rents"

Fri, 20 Oct 2006 09:38:37 GMT

My parents, Michael and Denise Spencer, joined forces to write a response on my "Qutting Soccer" (post below) geared towards being a parent dealing with your child's phases, dreams, and abilities.

"As a senior, Clay finally learned how to listen in class. He took notes. And he discovered that the teacher made the subject way more interesting than he had originally thought. Clay also learned the fine art of studying."

Quitting Soccer

Mon, 16 Oct 2006 23:43:42 GMT

All children have a lot of energy. I wasn't any different. When I was nine years old I began to put on weight. I called it "getting fat", but it was just growth (around the waist). During that year of my life I wore Big Dog tee shirts, forgot my homework a lot, and I was in love with a beautiful 18 year old woman. I was out of luck, though, because she was dating a Brazilian. He was much older and better looking than myself. Campus was full of Brazilians at that time.

I don't know if it's fact or not, but knowing some Brazilian folks for at least a year or two, I deducted that soccer is a big deal in Brazil. Being around some of the folks from the other America got me very interested in soccer. I somehow became subscribed to a soccer equipment magazine. I'd flip through the pages and look at stuff. I think I owned a soccer ball. I remember one of the Brazilian guys pointing at a soccer player in a magazine and telling me he was the best in the world. The athlete was, of course, Brazilian.

Having a young and impressionable psyche, soccer was my favorite sport. I didn't play regularly. I didn't know the rules, and I still couldn't tell them to you today. I knew to kick the ball. Elementary school P.E. doesn't constitute professional knowledge of a sport, but I did not know that. Soccer was very glorious. It was my area of expertise, and I knew nothing about it. What I did know is that there were people I looked up to who liked soccer. I wanted to be Brazilian. White men can't kick. I wasn't Brazilian, and I didn't even know how to play soccer, but I loved the sport.

I had another year of elementary school left. I never stopped saying that Soccer was my favorite sport. I hoped to be a soccer player, but I have never been an athlete. I have always been a dreamer. In different stages of my life, dreaming has taken on different forms. At times I dream with my imagination, driven by books I've read. My brain alters reality to make it fantastic. At times, I dream of my future. I dream of my children, a wife (this one occurs frequently), a career as a writer, a house somewhere with plenty of nature around it where I can grow old and die. Recently I have begun dreaming of having a house where people in need are always welcome and cared for. I don't know where these dreams will go. It takes a lot of courage to fulfill your dreams.

As a nine year old boy, I had dreams of being a soccer player. I don't recall if I wanted to play professionally, or just to play, but I was going to be a soccer player. This goal lasted for the rest of my elementary and middle school education. In my entire career of being a soccer dreamer and even a player, I learned a few new things about soccer, but I haven't touched a soccer ball in years.

At the age of twelve, I decided to go to a hybrid Church and Sports camp on a college campus. It was one of those "fuge" things. I don't remember the name, and that should give you an idea of how profound it was. The most memorable part was my bratty roommate who threatened me by saying "I have a 21 year old brother, and he can beat you up." I was going into the Eighth Grade, and resided on a floor of Fifth Graders. They once had a pillow fight in the hall, and I dominated.

I had to play two sports a day. Two sports? I couldn't dedicate my time to anything other than soccer, so I had to pick something that sounded easy. "What's Team Handball?" "I think that's where you throw a ball against a wall." "Okay." Team Handball is much more complicated than that, and there aren't any walls in sight when it is played. That was the true learning experience.

For some amount of time every morning for a week, I practiced soccer. It had always been my dream to play Goalie. After all, they got to use their hands and wore a different uniform. Does it get any cooler? At camp, learned about being a Full Back, and that was my new love. I vaguely remember feeling that I was good at running backwards, and that was essential the position. Those mornings made me pretty damn miserable. I was not the slimmest, most in-shape kid on the block, and those soccer practices helped me realize that those were facts of my life. I felt good about myself, none the less. I'm not athletic, but it always feels good to feel like I am. It goes back to my imagination, and sometimes I can feel like an all-star. Humility is key, but I'm a super star none the less. Don't mess with a super star.

Even if I did feel like a super star, one week of morning soccer practices was the most experience I had at that point in my life. The next summer, I was done with eighth grade which meant I could now join the soccer team at school. That summer, the coach decided to have evening practices with anyone who was interested. I was all about that. I didn't, to my knowledge, miss a single one of those summer practices. We practiced technique, received lectures on formation and plays, and scrimmaged no matter what the weather was. I remember an evening playing soccer in a thick rain. My glasses were soaking wet, but I was very dedicated to what I was doing and put forth all of my effort. I had a lot of fun at those practices.

The school year started up and I was there at the first soccer meeting. I was there at the first practices. I was there and I was pleased with myself. My parents had shelled out a lot of money on buying me some cleats, which, to them, meant that there was no option for me to quit. They had invested in the sport, so now they were involved as well.

I had heard tales of how much running one does while on a soccer team. Many laps around the track and a lot of time up and down the field. For some reason, running was not a major part of our practices when we started off. We jogged at the beginning of every practice while keeping a grid formation and flailing our arms in strange ways. It felt good to be out there, most of the time. I was small and still not at all in-shape. Sometimes the more experienced players would express frustration towards me. As a Freshman, it was intimidating, but I dealt with it.

I was there for a few games. Once I wore boxers under my uniform. They were black with flames on them. They hung a little lower than my shorts and a lot lower when I was running. Some people laughed at me. Oh well, I was still in a uniform. I even got in that game for a few minutes. I got in at least two games, and I was on the team for three or four. I touched the ball once.

In a lot of confusion at a home game, still not even knowing the rules of the sport, I was running around on the field trying to play some D. The ball was in open grounds for a moment, and it was near me. I bolted at it. At the same time, so did a guy from another player. It was now not about controlling the ball, or even passing it accurately, but keeping it out of their possession. I beat the other guy to the ball and gave it a well-driven kick, sending it somewhere. The other player and I collided. I hit the ground hard and my mother got worried, but I hopped up and ran around some more until I was taken out.

Then it came. The coach came to practice and asked if we had all brought our running shoes. Practically no one had, so he gave us 15 minutes to go to our dorm room or house and get them. I had been dreading this day. I went and got keys to my house and then went to my house and got my shoes and then went back to the field. I didn't go as fast as that sentence reads. I intentionally took my precious little time. The coach will have to be easy on me, I had to go get a key and that takes extra time. I moseyed down to the field, shoes in hand and not on my feet. "Clay," I heard the coach say kind of sternly. "Next time you're coming to the field after everyone else, could you at least look like you're in a hurry?" That did not feel good, but I sucked it up.

That day I wound up running the fastest, and what I wished to be the last, mile I have ever run. Eight minutes and thirty five seconds. Yes, very slow. It was a struggle for me to even run it. I didn't walk the whole time. Looking back, that is kind of a miracle. The girl in front of me pulled off after her second (of four) laps and told the coach "I have asthma", and she was done. After that, I over exaggerated my breathing when I passed the coaches, but to no avail. I ran all four laps.

I came home in a state of misery. I probably cried. I probably made a point to at least seem like I was going to cry as I entered the house and collapsed. I told my parents that I wanted to quit. I don't know how much of their reaction was about the cleats, but they didn't particularly want me to quit. I received a letter from my father the next morning telling me that they would respect my decision and that it was up to me. My mother asked me, "If you quit, are you sure you won't regret when all of the other guys are on stage getting awards?" Of course not.

I walked up to the coach that morning. I said "I don't want to be a part of the soccer team anymore." He asked if I was sure and I said that I was. And that was final.

It was a very strange and emotional storm inside of me as I said those two sentences to my coach. My eyes watered, but no tears fell. I still do not know whether my coach, who to this day remains an important friend of mine, took notice. I walked away, and I felt empty. Something was missing. The nine year old in me was crying his little heart out. He was watching as the Brazilian flag was reduced to ashes, and his dreams burned under it.

Monday, October 16, 2006

Mon, 16 Oct 2006 10:50:45 GMT

I had a new experience today: I accidentally missed class.

I knew it would happen sometime, just didn't know when. When you sign up for Sociology at 8:00AM, there's no way you'll make every class. In the words of Lewis Black, "It's hard to learn anything through one bloodshot eye."

I had my alarm set for 7:10AM, ten minutes more sleep than I'm used to on a monday. I woke up at 8:27AM. Outloud I kind of whimpered, "W-What?", realizing that something had gone wrong. I looked, and the alarm was not on. I strained my brain to try and remember if I had heard it go off and flipped it off, but had fallen back asleep. I didn't remember anything, but that doesn't mean it's not a possibility. I think I just hadn't flipped the switch all the way. Oh well, I had some extra time before my next class.

_-Clay-_