Rules: Why I hate, them continued

Look at that weird title. A small part of me is irritated by it even now, but I'm not sure why. Let me rephrase that: I know why it bothers me, but I hate that it bothers me. I have this nagging compulsion to edit it and make it look right. But, what is right? I guess you could say grammatically it doesn't look right. But who invented grammar, presumably not a single person.Who invented the comma, the semi-colon, the em dash? STOP!

Before you even think to tell me who invented what, know this: I don't care. I could google it right now, but I won't.  Why, you ask? Because knowing will do me no good. It won't make me enjoy writing more, or less. It won't make me a better writer. Knowing proper grammar is useful, to a point. It allows us, the uneducated, unwashed masses to communicate effectively through... email, and... letters? Does anyone send letters anymore? Ok, maybe its useful for instructions, and lists, and areas where exact meaning is exactly what you need. But, what about when it comes to expression?

Our whole lives we are told the proper way to write by people who have no idea how to write themselves. I mean, they understand the semantics, they know subjects and predicates, they know periods and commas, they can spot a gerund a mile away; but, their command of semantics is married to a deficit in passion. They go to university and they get degrees with distinction -- distinction in mimicry. They learn that an essay has an introduction and a thesis, that each paragraph has one point (by necessity, of course), that the page number goes in the top right corner only, that hanging indentations must be used in a bibliography, and that any font other than "Times New Roman" is blasphemy; they learn that the second person is weak, that they should shun being too informal, they learn to detach themselves from their emotions and think critically, they learn to avoid rhetorical flourish -- in short, they learn to become robots. Robots programmed to act and think in their programmers image.

 I am not a robot, and so, every time I write a University essay I die a little inside. My latest philosophy paper was particularly taxing. I had to detach myself completely from my feelings and write some on an abhorrently boring subject in an abhorrently boring fashion. I just about wrote "I think", when suddenly I heard a voice in my mind, it was my monotone philosophy professor. In his characteristic manner, and by characteristic I mean devoid of any character, he parroted "your opinion doesn't matter." That's right, in philosophy your opinion doesn't matter, all that matters is the ability to rationally prove your point. Rhetoric, imagery, emotion, these are the bane of philosophy. I can already see that philosophy will be the bane of my soul for the next three months.  

I've decided to continue to add onto this whenever I encounter rules and conventions that bother me. For now my paper rage has fizzled out. More to come, that's a guarantee

Ps. This is an older post rewritten. I'm not sure how other people write, but this is how I do it. Usually the first time I write something it's shit. The first post was basically all rage, I like to think of this as a slightly more refined rage.

I Hate University and Aspergers

Let me just say something. I hate being bored. I think that if you can't keep me interested in what you're saying, then what you're saying is valueless to me. In fact, I'm in the process of hating right now -- a massive raging hate that won't allow me to stand until I get it out. Instead of writing a paper on the "philosophy of the mind" I  am going to rebelliously sit here and pour out all my hate and frustration for this ridiculous subject. I simply cannot believe people dedicate their lives to the study of this abominably boring and pedantic subject.

Before I tell you what "philosophy of the mind" is I want you to imagine something. Relax. Close your eyes.

 A middle-aged man in a tweed suit is sitting at a desk in a cramped University office room. This room has a small window on one side, a bookshelf on the other and his desk on the last. His desk faces the wall, and on that wall lies a large semen stained poster of Immanuel Kant. Sitting on his desk, worn, and dog eared from near daily overuse, is his thesaurus, Encyclopedia Obscurica. On his bookshelf lie two books: a self-help book called "The Dangers of Being Interesting" and an instructional called "The Virtues of Pedantism". The air is humid and punjent; punjent, not just with the smell of mold, but also with his smug self-satisfaction and complete disdain for anything practical. Open his door after he's been in their a few hours without ventilation and the fumes are likely to cause hysterical obsessive compulsive disorder, a contagious disease with a large footprint in almost all Universities. Ask him anything and you will get a rhetorical question in response; that is, if your grammar is perfect, otherwise you will be ignored because he doesn't know who or what your pronouns are referring to. If you asked him, conversationally, who he would be if he could be anyone in the world, he would respond with: "how can I be sure I am anyone right now?" That, or simply "Spock." Yes, here lies this middle-aged man, and his name is Every-philosophy-professor-ever.

This is who I imagine writes the philosophy of the mind papers that are crammed down my throat three times a week. But, I suppose I am being unfair. I guess you could extend this illustration to encompass mostly any University professor, with a few tweaks here and there.  

I am tired of writing now.