Ben Bonkoske

I’m so steaming-hot mad that I could pop a boner. No sugar. Cold feet. Hunger. I woke up this morning somewhat surprised by how long I have been able to not become irrecoverably bored with my daily routine and lifestyle. I swear I’m becoming the worst writer. I remember when I used to talk about my individualized degree, and I could bullshit relatively well and make it seem like I truly cared about a noble cause, but that was the only reason why I did it, so I could sound like one of those snobs who care to make a difference. That is not to imply that I don’t have a heart or have candid reservations and progressive ideologies, I just don’t want to bunker down my whole life committed to an image. By being less socially virtuous I’m technically being less superficial, and frankly, there is a true shortage of people whose vanity wouldn’t make me borderline vomit. I would be honored to be unfollowed by any of them. But today, a highlight was discussing with a dean of UChicago my daring leap into something that makes me remotely happy to wake up and think about (even if the book I am reading is nauseating…well it’s not half bad, but I’m reading it just so I can say I read it and fall into the same trap as my pre-college initiative). I think about how many years it would take for me to create my own voice if this pandemic hadn’t happened. I look forward to my own aftermath. But there is no giving up, not anymore. I really think I could happily do what I’m doing until the day I die. Always striving, never improving. That all being fine and dandy, I have an article that is absolute rubbish, is not going to help anyone. I only got the opportunity to write it because of what I majored in. Writing is hard. I never knew.