¡No Más!

In English we're still reading The House on Mango Street. Still. At this point, I'm looking forward to reading Oedipus, the charming story of a guy who marries his mom and subsequently stabs his eye out with a poky needle. Will we ever be done? Not only that, but now I have to write versions of Cisneros's vignettes for myself, mimicking her style. So... Un... Manly...

On the other hand, my "My Name" vignette was actually a pretty neat piece of writing. However, my blog is not a place to whine about my invented tragic past. It's a place for me to whine about my 

(not nearly as bad as I make it out to be) present. 

So, I'll include a short summary of my "My Name" vignette:

MY NAME MAKED ME SAD BLAH BLAH NO IDENTITY BLAH I DON'T EAT ERASERS BLAH I CHANGED MY NAME BLAH BLAH IT DIDN'T MAKE ME HAPPIER BLAH BLAH NAMES DON'T MAKE PEOPLE, PEOPLE MAKE NAMES BLAH.

Ah, philosophical insights into the deep feelings I have concerning the true nature of my identity, and how my name may or may not represent it as I desire.

Speaking of psychology, while googling "Oedipus" to correct my spelling, I noticed this article on Wikipedia called "Oedipus Complex". Do NOT look it up. For some reason, Freud saw Oedipus on stage once and thought, "Hmm. I'm a pretty influential psychologist. I bet I can declare the grodiest psychological complex ever, and write some documentation on it, and EVERYONE WILL TAKE ME SERIOUSLY!" Freud was then kicked out of the theater for disruptive maniacal laughter.

Thanks, Freud. Now Oedipus is gonna suck too.

This blog still is mostly Englishy. Huh.