I woke up one day and had a massive panic attack because I couldn’t write anymore. A year and a half of immersing myself into physics, chemistry, biology and other entirely too rational sciences had finally taken its toll. Everything I wrote either sucked or sounded like a science report. I had become someone else, too mature and too reasonable for me to like myself, or for myself to like me. And before anyone objects, yes, I am taking far more liberties with drama for drama’s sake than I should. Take it as an early disclaimer that I make big deals out of small things, I never say the right things at the right time and that odd things lay ahead. Anyway, as I was saying, things were becoming too serious and so, in an wicked reverse-psychology thing, I decided the best remedy was to tackle the most serious thing of all: the meaning of life. That’s a satisfying ambition: Attempt to find the meaning of life, and fail at it.
All joking aside, this project was born before I even knew something was happening and has since developed a mind of its own, mercilessly thwarting any attempts at letting reality and sanity come in the way of Life. It started quite innocently, actually. Something happened and I didn’t want it to become another fleeting moment. I needed tangible proof that something as wonderful and as cherished had occurred. That’s when I decided that… I’d like to prove that my painful time as an anthropology/psychology student wasn’t just a waste of time and that it gave me a better understanding of human nature. It’s a rather pretentious ambition but here it is: I hereby auto proclaim myself social/love anthropologist.
