I'm into the swing of things with my rides now. There's no fear I won't get to where I need to be, just a bet on when I'll arrive. South Carolina is muggy with an unengaging coast line. This seems odd coming from the parallel lines of Georgia pine forests, but whatever it was about Georgia, it has a more enjoyable peripheral view. Patterns of straight pines rolling by is more interesting than the constant flat landscape of reed marshes and wide, open woods.
I got to Charleston with the knowledge that there were hostels as a last resort, keeping me from the same panic I felt entering Savannah. I start prowling the busiest street, profiling hipsters and asking where their colony was. I met a girl who called around and found a place for me with Ron Chalest. Ron has toured from Oregon to San Francisco in the past and knows the deal. Incidentally, he's roommates with a guy I requested to stay with on Couch Surfing who never responded. I wouldn't have responded either. My request probably had something slightly gay in it about us both having red beards, like "cool red beard, I too like cocks."
I ran into a biology professor I had at FSU in Charleston University. When I was in school I had given him organic, squishy balls of gel from Tampa Bay to do a DNA analysis of them. (It came back inconclusive.) He recognized me and we talked a little bit. Before leaving he talks about a nuclear bomb lost in the swamps of South Carolina near Charleston. He misspeaks and says, "The world is stranger than reality." There's not much relevance of this to anything, but the statistical probability of us running into one another is zero. It is logically impossible what occurred. The universe has been destroyed and reformed like three times because of this incident.
The campus here has a three to one female to male ratio. I got a ton of looks when I was wearing my jersey with a loaded bike, all of which I'm sure were of a sexual nature and not because I look like a tool in Lycra. Now I'm riding around in regular clothes and not getting glances. That's why I took this trip: it's a two thousand dollar ice breaker that may or may not get me laid. I hope these ladies are into fingerless glove tan lines.
Local Ron Paul supporter, quoth "Don't tread on me, bro"
I'm writing in the science department on campus, a single building downtown. Touring the school I missed mine and wished I was still able to exploit the free seminars and student privileges. Then I remembered that's a stupid idea and that I wouldn't have used that ability any more than I did. I have a weird feeling of superiority being here. I'm writing in a diary for fun and these kids are drawing the chemical structure of complex carbohydrates. I want to tell these nerds to stop working because they'll never have graduated before me. Earlier = better than.
I don't think it exists, but I'd like to know if there's a disease where someone has no sense of ownership. The confusion of someone who couldn't conceptualize belongings and privacy for himself or others would be awesome to see. The oddity of it wouldn't appear when they're alone, but with others it would be an absurdly alienating issue.
The local stroke victim grafitti team kOOit and BleviR have no respect for ownership
Having no idea of ownership seems like a theoretical possibility, but why doesn't it happen in reality? Is there no one place in the mind where ownership as a legitimate concept exists? If not where does the idea come from? Is it an amalgomation of other ideas arising from the needs of survival? If I want to survive I need a conception of what food is mine, what house is mine. I think it's less of an ideological belief than the result of a basic evolutionary need. Sharring is nice but a nigga gotta eat.