When my parents pushed a "real" degree (as they like to call it) into my smoke stained hands, I will readily confess that I ran from the house and towards my local coffee shop. It may have been the idea of basement labs and formaldehyde that provoked my outrage or perhaps the devious suggestion that I may even meet some smart men while I was at it, but I couldn’t help but cringe from the thought. I would much rather sit by the ocean gazing off into the distance trying to find the inspiration in construction cranes than dig through pig cells to discover the meaning of life. Interesting it may be (the process of pig cell extraction would admittedly have me sitting on the edge of my seat), but I have a hard time believing any of that is necessary to my own unplanned future.
Oh sure, the science types may be characteristically nasal and bound to be incapable of human interaction, but even I couldn’t deny that there is a certain prestige to a person who has endured hours of lecture willingly. Occasionally while sipping coffee black enough to chip teeth, I’ll notice the frazzle of my roommate’s hair or the glaze in her bloodshot eyes. Further inspection (or in my case, yelling “What the hell happened to your face?”) has taught me that there is a price to be paid for the esteem of intelligence and that “hard work” is apparently more than just a word yelled by parents. However, even after months of my own hard-won research, the belief around my house remains that exam aneurisms make for better stories than the ones that find their way onto my pages.
Getting calls from home only serves to highlight the difference in view points, between what I call work and what my parents call lying around on my ass. My father will ask what I plan to accomplish during this waste of time, my mother will insinuate the question of when I mean to land a ring, and to both I shrug and explain that it really just takes time to uncover the true meaning of inspiration; you can’t rush an artist.
Besides, who wants a smart man?
Oh sure, the science types may be characteristically nasal and bound to be incapable of human interaction, but even I couldn’t deny that there is a certain prestige to a person who has endured hours of lecture willingly. Occasionally while sipping coffee black enough to chip teeth, I’ll notice the frazzle of my roommate’s hair or the glaze in her bloodshot eyes. Further inspection (or in my case, yelling “What the hell happened to your face?”) has taught me that there is a price to be paid for the esteem of intelligence and that “hard work” is apparently more than just a word yelled by parents. However, even after months of my own hard-won research, the belief around my house remains that exam aneurisms make for better stories than the ones that find their way onto my pages.
Getting calls from home only serves to highlight the difference in view points, between what I call work and what my parents call lying around on my ass. My father will ask what I plan to accomplish during this waste of time, my mother will insinuate the question of when I mean to land a ring, and to both I shrug and explain that it really just takes time to uncover the true meaning of inspiration; you can’t rush an artist.
Besides, who wants a smart man?
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