In Our Time

Dear Diary,

In Our Time, the skeptical schools of philosophy. Pyronian and Academic schools, to Hagel and Hume, very cool man. Even if I don't wake and bake, but instead tea, toast, and porridge.

Another rubbish day, I took the recycling out. Still mooning over K. Imagined snuggles that never will be.

Diogenes Laertius. Neitzch. In Our Time rocks man! Apelles the painter tried to paint the foam of a horse, became frustrated that he couldn't depict it, so he hurled the sponge he used to clean the paint at the canvas: the splodge it made on the canvas recreated exactly the technique he desired. Very cool man. Very cool. The suspension of judgment leads to tranquility. Cicero, Sextus, Augustine, neither affirming or denying anything.

This day bodes more catching up on the course. I will spend the day note reading, researching, and making notes to be uploaded to the blues band (Blue Team) for our Making Sense of Things section.

I am incredibly motivated about my studies. I could have moved straight to level two, but wanted a good foundation of knowledge and preparation for the next stage. That and to acquire a Certificate of Higher Education. It's like who wants to be a millionare (but instead of gaining money you lose cash, in exchange for knowledge). Unless of course you are born in Scotland and study there. It is grossly unfair, we should thaw out Cromwell and move north of the border. Cannabis is class C up there, taxes were capped and frozen, medication is free, as well as education. It's the yanks. I once saw a photo of Blair, Brown, and Clinton, all at University together. America bribed those elections years before. I have lost my nation to corruption and beurocratic bribery. Cogito Ergo Sum. (Descartes, Waggle-dagger, and before that Marlowe.)

Having the monetary power to drink for two days means I have combated my alcoholism. Willpower, volontaire, Voltaire. Aye. I never get the shakes, testament to a battle won, even if the war against the daemonic drink has an uncertain outcome.

I lost my 1940's edition of Jane Eyre whilst on my way to the Conference. It matters not, as at least I had signed it, that some stranger who finds it might know that it is mine.

Eyes down, back to the grind. Aye.

Stay On the Flex,

Maxx