Today was quite possibly one of the worst days I have ever experienced.
I'm generally a happy person. Sure, I work myself to death, but most of the time I feel like it's masochistically therapeutic.
Not today.
Today began at 4:50 AM after finishing my Arabic homework. Now, you need to understand something about me. I do all my work before I let myself relax. If I am doing homework at 4:50 AM, it is because I have been doing homework ever since class ended. I don't believe in taking breaks. Anyway, I finally finish my last page of simple sentences ("Did you have a blue car yesterday? No, I did not have a blue car yesterday. I had a red car yesterday."), tiptoe into my room so as not to wake the beautiful roommate I haven't seen awake in three full days (our schedules are entirely opposite), set four alarms (6:10, 6:12, 6:15, and 6:18), and fall into bed in the dress I wore to school.
Some time passes.
I awaken without any stimulus. It's strange, but for a moment I relish the feeling. Then I realize that there is sunshine in my room. I don't remember the last time I've seen sunshine in my room. Suddenly, I sit bolt upright. SUNSHINE??? I reach across to the dresser at the foot of my bed and grab for my phone. The digital readout offers me the information I'm looking for, indifferent to my swiftly accelerating emotional pace. 12:32. TWELVE THIRTY-TWO?!
I zoom to my bedroom door and open it right on top of my roommate, Christina.
"IT'S TWELVE THIRTY-TWO," I utter, crazed.
"Yeah...?" she replies.
"DO YOU KNOW WHAT THIS MEANS?"
"Did you just wake up?"
" I CAN'T BELIEVE IT. I T.A. FROM EIGHT TO TWELVE. I WAS SUPPOSED TO BE AT SCHOOL AT SEVEN."
"Oh my gosh...that sucks!"
"AAAURRRGH!"
In an act of childish frustration, I hurl the cell phone dangling from my limp fingers into the wall. I rush into my bedroom and rip a random outfit from my closet (disregarding the fact that it's freezing and raining), then comb through my hair and tear out the door. On the way to school, reality begins to set in. I missed five hours of work this morning. I let down a professor and thirty students. I didn't call, leave instructions, or otherwise arrange to be absent. What did everyone do? Did they wait for me? Did the professor have to skip another class to take over mine?
OH.
MY.
GOSH.
I have never failed in a professional capacity. I keep every commitment I make, whether that means I stay up all night performing reactions in my research lab or patiently tutoring people I don't have time to appease. I have very close to zero tolerance for those who don't feel as passionately as I do about professional obligations. What am I going to say to my professor? I have no excuse. I simply slept through class.
Sure, I'm taking 17.5 credits. Sure, I work three jobs. Sure, I maintain a 4.0. But that does not and should not afford me any leeway, not in my mind or in that of anyone else.
I slink my way into the Widtsoe building's elevator like a kicked puppy. I have become the person I hate. Upon reaching the seventh floor, I stand sapped outside the automatic doors, searching for words. Nothing seems adequate. Blankly, I walk up to my professor's office door, knock, and enter. "Hi!" He greets me with a smile, like nothing is wrong. I don't return his sentiment. "Hi," I reply shamefully. I sit down. "I have never been so professionally humiliated in my life," I offer. "Okay," he replies. Dispassionately, I string together the chain of events that led me to this moment, and he simply listens. I don't offer excuses or try and shift the blame to anyone but myself. I make it clear that I am absolutely embarrassed and incredibly sorry. We talk about my schedule and my life, and he tells me I'm crazy, that when I spread myself that thin, "everybody loses." I've been warned about this ever since I entered college, nineteen credits on my first freshman schedule and a backpack approximately the size and weight of a typical boulder. But for the first time in my life, this piece of advice clicks. Everybody loses. He's right. I have stretched myself so thin that my threads have finally snapped. I might have the willpower to live the life I've designed, but in all honesty, my body cannot take it. If I could, I'd stay up all night every night. Sleep is an annoyance; it gets in the way of my to-do lists. But it is necessary. Relationships, too, are necessary. Friends and ward activities and TV shows and creative writing and pleasure reading and aimless free time are necessary.
I am a person
and not a machine.
Today, this was made painfully apparent.
And maybe this time I'll learn.
On my way out, my understanding professor reassured me once again and offered me a fresh peach from his desk.
I took it.
It was delicious.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Quatrain.
So I wrote a lengthy tome about concision
Simply to display the fact I can
My professor, she's concerned about precision--
Ironically, she's now my biggest fan.
Simply to display the fact I can
My professor, she's concerned about precision--
Ironically, she's now my biggest fan.
Guess what?
Do you concern yourself with your professor's hypothetical questions?
Do you take everything said in class as doctrine from the Enlightened?
Do you bother to be part of the collective reply when your professor asks something obvious?
Do you take (and subsequently memorize) overly specific notes?
Do you ask unnecessary, overly specific questions that do not concern the group?
I used to be one of you.
There is help.
It's incredibly easy to drown yourself in academic minutiae and lose all sight of the real world. Next time you find yourself losing sleep over the spacing on your perfectly formatted reference list, take a step back. Are you really wasting your time counting commas and spaces for a professor so wrapped up in his hyper-hyperspecialized research that his field of vision extends from one end of a beta-glucuronidase-stained Arabidopsis slide to the other?
Really?
You can do perfectly well in school without knotting your psychological well-being to your studies. I can't decide whether I wish I'd had this realization earlier or whether it will come back to bite me when it turns out my Molecular Biology notes are actually pathetic doodles of pathogenic hemoflagellates.
Do you take everything said in class as doctrine from the Enlightened?
Do you bother to be part of the collective reply when your professor asks something obvious?
Do you take (and subsequently memorize) overly specific notes?
Do you ask unnecessary, overly specific questions that do not concern the group?
I used to be one of you.
There is help.
It's incredibly easy to drown yourself in academic minutiae and lose all sight of the real world. Next time you find yourself losing sleep over the spacing on your perfectly formatted reference list, take a step back. Are you really wasting your time counting commas and spaces for a professor so wrapped up in his hyper-hyperspecialized research that his field of vision extends from one end of a beta-glucuronidase-stained Arabidopsis slide to the other?
Really?
You can do perfectly well in school without knotting your psychological well-being to your studies. I can't decide whether I wish I'd had this realization earlier or whether it will come back to bite me when it turns out my Molecular Biology notes are actually pathetic doodles of pathogenic hemoflagellates.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Peas, please!
Just now, sitting on my cheap, drab apartment couch, I realized the extent of my love for peas.
1) Peas are like vegetable Gushers. Each one is its own little explosive surprise in your mouth.
2) Peas are comfortingly warm. Next time you hold a bowl of peas, try this: While the peas are still hot, stir in butter, salt, and pepper and pour them into a nice bowl, preferably of thick material. Place the bowl at the base of your manubrium (see diagram) and enjoy the soothing warmth.
3) Peas are bright green. Nothing screams "Retinol!" quite like a 530 nm absorption wavelength.
4) Peas are healthy.
5) You can make peas in any quantity you want.
6) Peas aren't expensive.
7) Peas are a staple freezer food.
8) Peas are quick to make.
9) Peas are emotionally fulfilling.
10) Peas are DELICIOUS and wildly underrepresented on the vegetable scene.
Appreciate them!
This message brought to you by Google ImageSearch, some not-so-subtle copy-and-paste maneuvers, and half an hour I planned to devote to physics homework.
1) Peas are like vegetable Gushers. Each one is its own little explosive surprise in your mouth.
2) Peas are comfortingly warm. Next time you hold a bowl of peas, try this: While the peas are still hot, stir in butter, salt, and pepper and pour them into a nice bowl, preferably of thick material. Place the bowl at the base of your manubrium (see diagram) and enjoy the soothing warmth.
3) Peas are bright green. Nothing screams "Retinol!" quite like a 530 nm absorption wavelength.
4) Peas are healthy.
5) You can make peas in any quantity you want.
6) Peas aren't expensive.
7) Peas are a staple freezer food.
8) Peas are quick to make.
9) Peas are emotionally fulfilling.
10) Peas are DELICIOUS and wildly underrepresented on the vegetable scene.
Appreciate them!
This message brought to you by Google ImageSearch, some not-so-subtle copy-and-paste maneuvers, and half an hour I planned to devote to physics homework.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Age-related.
I'm not sure how old I am.
In my research lab, I'm 25. I control numerous things and people and speak with a confidence and maturity I don't always possess. In this atmosphere, I am regarded with intellectual respect. I can analyze and interpret results on the spot, answering questions and pointing out problems to my professor's delight. I walk in and am greeted by name, and people are paid for accommodating my requests.
In Arabic, I'm 5. I pronounce the letters of the alphabet with great care, memorizing what they look like and tracing their exotic shapes. Asking questions correctly and interpreting answers based on context is my game, and like a small child, I smile and nod when correctly understood.
As a program director and TA, I'm 23. Seniors are my students and volunteers, and as their non-PhD reference, I must know everything they know and how to integrate it with the course material I teach. In this context, I must understand and thoroughly answer unclear and misphrased questions, and the things I say are written down to be memorized before an exam.
My birth certificate tells me that last month I turned 19, though I don't feel like the number describes me. Nineteen seems both too old and too young, especially when my age varies so much by situation. I lose credibility when someone I talk to asks about my age before my resume, but gain nearly as much as I lose when someone asks about my accomplishments without realizing my age.
It's an arbitrary concept, really. Age isn't determined by a date on a birth certificate. Age is an emergent illusion that derives from the combination of the way I look, the way I speak, and the way I present myself to a new and judgmental audience.
For two years, my solution has been thus: I present myself as the Generic College-Age Pre-Professional Student, and nobody has to wonder whether the girl at the front of the classroom teaching techniques in immunohistochemical staining is still technically a teenager.
In my research lab, I'm 25. I control numerous things and people and speak with a confidence and maturity I don't always possess. In this atmosphere, I am regarded with intellectual respect. I can analyze and interpret results on the spot, answering questions and pointing out problems to my professor's delight. I walk in and am greeted by name, and people are paid for accommodating my requests.
In Arabic, I'm 5. I pronounce the letters of the alphabet with great care, memorizing what they look like and tracing their exotic shapes. Asking questions correctly and interpreting answers based on context is my game, and like a small child, I smile and nod when correctly understood.
As a program director and TA, I'm 23. Seniors are my students and volunteers, and as their non-PhD reference, I must know everything they know and how to integrate it with the course material I teach. In this context, I must understand and thoroughly answer unclear and misphrased questions, and the things I say are written down to be memorized before an exam.
My birth certificate tells me that last month I turned 19, though I don't feel like the number describes me. Nineteen seems both too old and too young, especially when my age varies so much by situation. I lose credibility when someone I talk to asks about my age before my resume, but gain nearly as much as I lose when someone asks about my accomplishments without realizing my age.
It's an arbitrary concept, really. Age isn't determined by a date on a birth certificate. Age is an emergent illusion that derives from the combination of the way I look, the way I speak, and the way I present myself to a new and judgmental audience.
For two years, my solution has been thus: I present myself as the Generic College-Age Pre-Professional Student, and nobody has to wonder whether the girl at the front of the classroom teaching techniques in immunohistochemical staining is still technically a teenager.
Monday, August 31, 2009
And scene.
It's that time again!
MY SOPHOMORE YEAR OF COLLEGE HAS COMMENCED.
Cue class assessments.
Research Lab: This morning I got up at 5:30 AM to vie for publication space with sixteen hungry male pre-meds. I picked up a cool project and will be able to head it up myself, but only time will tell whether I get my name on anything major. The pressure! (As an aside, I completed today's Times crossword with no help, and the first major piece I got read, "Publish or perish." Great.)
Phil 350: History and Philosophy of Medicine turns out to be a straight-up technical philosophy course. I'm one of four girls, which I can definitely handle. We're responsible for 25-page term papers, though, which have to be written in assigned groups (wtf). Hopefully I'll get a few kids who I can easily intimidate into doing things my way. :-) I just hope the professor's a fan of the Socratic approach. I'm jonesing for good questions.
Arabic 101: Man! This class is going to be a whirlwind. It's taught by a grad student, which should be...interesting. Not to brag, but I'm pleasantly surprised at how quickly I seem to pick things up. I remember things well and pick up on patterns. I'm excited for this one!
Tomorrow--TAing!, molecular biology, Arabic, & physics.
MY SOPHOMORE YEAR OF COLLEGE HAS COMMENCED.
Cue class assessments.
Research Lab: This morning I got up at 5:30 AM to vie for publication space with sixteen hungry male pre-meds. I picked up a cool project and will be able to head it up myself, but only time will tell whether I get my name on anything major. The pressure! (As an aside, I completed today's Times crossword with no help, and the first major piece I got read, "Publish or perish." Great.)
Phil 350: History and Philosophy of Medicine turns out to be a straight-up technical philosophy course. I'm one of four girls, which I can definitely handle. We're responsible for 25-page term papers, though, which have to be written in assigned groups (wtf). Hopefully I'll get a few kids who I can easily intimidate into doing things my way. :-) I just hope the professor's a fan of the Socratic approach. I'm jonesing for good questions.
Arabic 101: Man! This class is going to be a whirlwind. It's taught by a grad student, which should be...interesting. Not to brag, but I'm pleasantly surprised at how quickly I seem to pick things up. I remember things well and pick up on patterns. I'm excited for this one!
Tomorrow--TAing!, molecular biology, Arabic, & physics.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Lapse.
Yesterday I started to move out of my apartment, so I went through all my things to determine what I should bring with me. I was making wonderful progress until the unthinkable happened: I stumbled upon a box of books. Uh-oh. Three hours and one novel later, I realized it was 1 AM...and that my new roommates might think I'm creepy for trying to move in in the middle of the night. What kept me busy was this:
Written from the perspective of an autistic child, this simple, creative story will leave you emotionally exhausted in the best possible sense. Author Mark Haddon describes the world through Christopher's eyes with abject force, and the child's lack of situational understanding and context will strike any reader as both hilarious and painful. Christopher's father, Ed, is the character for whom I feel most sympathy--it's a quick read; pick it up and find out why!
Written from the perspective of an autistic child, this simple, creative story will leave you emotionally exhausted in the best possible sense. Author Mark Haddon describes the world through Christopher's eyes with abject force, and the child's lack of situational understanding and context will strike any reader as both hilarious and painful. Christopher's father, Ed, is the character for whom I feel most sympathy--it's a quick read; pick it up and find out why!
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Blast off!
CAPABILITY! CONFIDENCE! CREDIBILITY!
Resuming interactions on BYU campus is reminding me that, there, I am Someone. :-) The last thing I thought I'd take from Jerusalem was a battered self-image, but I'm realizing that though I had the most amazing time of my life, I've been on a self-low for most of the summer. Now, I am back in action as a force to be reckoned with (haha) and haven't felt this good in a while.
I've been pleasantly informed that the director of the Jerusalem Center has given my name to a few influential people with the tagline "the best writer in the Center" (!!!), so a few new and exciting doors in editing and composition are opening for me (with financial compensation, no less!). I'll let you know if things in this area are further solidified. I've also gone over plans for this coming semester with the professor I'm going to TA for, and I've been pleased and grateful to find that he seems to truly value my opinions and input. I helped design a major term paper assignment today for which I'm going to take full responsibility--editing drafts, grading, etc.--and I can't wait! It's going to be an amazing semester. Plus, I've been in contact with the Center for Service and Learning in conjunction with my position as a new program director, and I'm putting on a poster demonstration tomorrow afternoon at the New Student Orientation Service Fair. I haven't visited with my lab professor yet, but I'm planning on starting in a new position (hopefully immunohistochemistry or electron microscopy!), and I can't wait to jump back into research.
My classes sound exciting, too, especially History and Philosophy of Medicine. It's a small 300-level philosophy class with one of the best-reviewed professors I've seen, and judging from the text, I can't wait to share what I already know about the subject (I've read a lot about the early history of medicine, but haven't studied it from an etiological or philosophical perspective!). And I can't wait to start studying Arabic more seriously; learning a non-Latin language will be an interesting intellectual challenge.
I have (most of) my books, I move into my new apartment tomorrow, and I'm psyched to start the new life I've worked so hard to create for myself.
Resuming interactions on BYU campus is reminding me that, there, I am Someone. :-) The last thing I thought I'd take from Jerusalem was a battered self-image, but I'm realizing that though I had the most amazing time of my life, I've been on a self-low for most of the summer. Now, I am back in action as a force to be reckoned with (haha) and haven't felt this good in a while.
I've been pleasantly informed that the director of the Jerusalem Center has given my name to a few influential people with the tagline "the best writer in the Center" (!!!), so a few new and exciting doors in editing and composition are opening for me (with financial compensation, no less!). I'll let you know if things in this area are further solidified. I've also gone over plans for this coming semester with the professor I'm going to TA for, and I've been pleased and grateful to find that he seems to truly value my opinions and input. I helped design a major term paper assignment today for which I'm going to take full responsibility--editing drafts, grading, etc.--and I can't wait! It's going to be an amazing semester. Plus, I've been in contact with the Center for Service and Learning in conjunction with my position as a new program director, and I'm putting on a poster demonstration tomorrow afternoon at the New Student Orientation Service Fair. I haven't visited with my lab professor yet, but I'm planning on starting in a new position (hopefully immunohistochemistry or electron microscopy!), and I can't wait to jump back into research.
My classes sound exciting, too, especially History and Philosophy of Medicine. It's a small 300-level philosophy class with one of the best-reviewed professors I've seen, and judging from the text, I can't wait to share what I already know about the subject (I've read a lot about the early history of medicine, but haven't studied it from an etiological or philosophical perspective!). And I can't wait to start studying Arabic more seriously; learning a non-Latin language will be an interesting intellectual challenge.
I have (most of) my books, I move into my new apartment tomorrow, and I'm psyched to start the new life I've worked so hard to create for myself.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Villanelle.
Soap Bubble
I dipped my wand into the smiling light
And pressed my lips into the tight, glossed shine
The shape I saw was far too quickly gone.
I blew and gasped a little; it was bright
Through pretty lips I don’t believe were mine
I dipped my wand into the smiling light.
You blossomed, grinning, much to my delight
And melted me before we could entwine
The shape I saw was far too quickly gone.
But never was I doubtful or contrite
It’s my fault, then; I couldn’t see the sign
I dipped my wand into the smiling light.
Though rare, sometimes you wandered from my sight,
Your velvet shadow ripped from my design—
The shape I saw was far too quickly gone.
A bubble can’t put up a valiant fight
And time must first erase, then recombine
I dipped my wand into the smiling light
The shape I saw was far too quickly gone.
I dipped my wand into the smiling light
And pressed my lips into the tight, glossed shine
The shape I saw was far too quickly gone.
I blew and gasped a little; it was bright
Through pretty lips I don’t believe were mine
I dipped my wand into the smiling light.
You blossomed, grinning, much to my delight
And melted me before we could entwine
The shape I saw was far too quickly gone.
But never was I doubtful or contrite
It’s my fault, then; I couldn’t see the sign
I dipped my wand into the smiling light.
Though rare, sometimes you wandered from my sight,
Your velvet shadow ripped from my design—
The shape I saw was far too quickly gone.
A bubble can’t put up a valiant fight
And time must first erase, then recombine
I dipped my wand into the smiling light
The shape I saw was far too quickly gone.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Leyendo.
As usual, xkcd can describe my day better than I can: xkcd.com/294
Four hours at Barnes and Noble took me through "The Book of Lost Things" by John Connolly, a delightfully macabre narrative romp through the shadowy realm of the Brothers Grimm. David, a boy recently devastated by his mother's untimely death, embarks on an Alice-esque coming-of-age quest only to encounter a twisted all-star cast of folk tale villains along the way. Written for adults, this creative mythological survey will remind you why you hid your head under the covers during "Hansel and Gretel."
(Can you tell my mom's an endorsement editor? I've helped write pithy quotes for the backs of books for as long as I can remember.)
Yesterday in my bubble bath I finished "The Bell Jar" by Sylvia Plath, the literary jewel of the woman for whom I've harbored a morbid three-year fascination. I'm familiar with most of her poetry, but hadn't picked up her iconic novel until the day after my return from Jerusalem. I'm glad I saved it until I turned nineteen (same age as protagonist Esther Greenwood); there were many instances of age-related resonance I felt privileged to share. Plath's imagery, too, functioned beautifully within its context--accurate without overstepping its boundaries.
Four hours at Barnes and Noble took me through "The Book of Lost Things" by John Connolly, a delightfully macabre narrative romp through the shadowy realm of the Brothers Grimm. David, a boy recently devastated by his mother's untimely death, embarks on an Alice-esque coming-of-age quest only to encounter a twisted all-star cast of folk tale villains along the way. Written for adults, this creative mythological survey will remind you why you hid your head under the covers during "Hansel and Gretel."
(Can you tell my mom's an endorsement editor? I've helped write pithy quotes for the backs of books for as long as I can remember.)
Yesterday in my bubble bath I finished "The Bell Jar" by Sylvia Plath, the literary jewel of the woman for whom I've harbored a morbid three-year fascination. I'm familiar with most of her poetry, but hadn't picked up her iconic novel until the day after my return from Jerusalem. I'm glad I saved it until I turned nineteen (same age as protagonist Esther Greenwood); there were many instances of age-related resonance I felt privileged to share. Plath's imagery, too, functioned beautifully within its context--accurate without overstepping its boundaries.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Discovery.
TODAY I DISCOVERED SOMETHING AMAZING:
American Lit podcasts from 11th grade.
I sampled a few of them and couldn't help feeling my eyes get a little glossy (talk about unexpected). I listened to Mr. Ostenson explicate motifs in The Great Gatsby and tried to name the familiar young voices I heard making comments. It's been three years since junior English, but, listening to Mr. Ostenson again, I wish I were in a literature class with a professor half so thoughtful.
Here's a sample, verbatim:
"Bottom of 187? Thanks. They were careless people, Tom and Daisy. They smashed up things--which ought to connote a car accident, right? A smashing, a crashing--they smashed up things and creatures and then retreated back into their money or their vast carelessness--and by carelessness, that's a loaded word, because what might that mean? (Lee, tentatively: Carefree? Hyung, loudly: Bad driving.) It might mean they're carefree, that they have no responsibilities, no obligations. It also might mean that they don't emotionally care, right? Either one fits nicely with Tom and Daisy, but the key is, what affords them this carelessness? (Class: Money.) It's their affluence and their wealth, right? So here's a very biting class commentary with cars and driving..."
Awww. I don't often miss high school, but now I wish I could have just one last literature class with the old high school AP set.
American Lit podcasts from 11th grade.
I sampled a few of them and couldn't help feeling my eyes get a little glossy (talk about unexpected). I listened to Mr. Ostenson explicate motifs in The Great Gatsby and tried to name the familiar young voices I heard making comments. It's been three years since junior English, but, listening to Mr. Ostenson again, I wish I were in a literature class with a professor half so thoughtful.
Here's a sample, verbatim:
"Bottom of 187? Thanks. They were careless people, Tom and Daisy. They smashed up things--which ought to connote a car accident, right? A smashing, a crashing--they smashed up things and creatures and then retreated back into their money or their vast carelessness--and by carelessness, that's a loaded word, because what might that mean? (Lee, tentatively: Carefree? Hyung, loudly: Bad driving.) It might mean they're carefree, that they have no responsibilities, no obligations. It also might mean that they don't emotionally care, right? Either one fits nicely with Tom and Daisy, but the key is, what affords them this carelessness? (Class: Money.) It's their affluence and their wealth, right? So here's a very biting class commentary with cars and driving..."
Awww. I don't often miss high school, but now I wish I could have just one last literature class with the old high school AP set.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Meh.
I haven't spent a summer at home since I was 14--for good reason. I'll only be here for two weeks, but I'm already incredibly frustrated.
Ready for a rant?
(ahem)
MY SUMMER DAY
My friends all have jobs, so I have no life until after everyone gets off (10 or 11 pm). I stay up and play until 2 or 3, then crash on my couch (I don't even have a bedroom here) until I wake up at 6:30 (thank you, Jerusalem), gulp down some pills, and again render myself unconscious until 11 or so. Then, depending on my mood, I will exercise, take hot baths with books, and/or compulsively complete crossword puzzles until I'm sick of everything. After this, I shower and get ready for the day, taking all the time I possibly can to do my hair and makeup. By this time, it is 2 pm, and I prepare to enter the single worst part of my day: the three-to-seven time block, in which I inevitably make frustrating realizations: I have nowhere to go. I have no one to see. I can't think of anything I want. I can't think of anything at all to keep me busy. Life drags on in front of me. Somehow, I make it until seven or so, when I eat dinner (a highlight) and flip on a movie or something until my phone rings and I finally get out of my house.
Basically, I'm counting the HOURS until I can move out again and throw myself into my schoolwork.
I NEED places to go, appointments to keep, people to interact with, and things to stress about.
Ready for a rant?
(ahem)
MY SUMMER DAY
My friends all have jobs, so I have no life until after everyone gets off (10 or 11 pm). I stay up and play until 2 or 3, then crash on my couch (I don't even have a bedroom here) until I wake up at 6:30 (thank you, Jerusalem), gulp down some pills, and again render myself unconscious until 11 or so. Then, depending on my mood, I will exercise, take hot baths with books, and/or compulsively complete crossword puzzles until I'm sick of everything. After this, I shower and get ready for the day, taking all the time I possibly can to do my hair and makeup. By this time, it is 2 pm, and I prepare to enter the single worst part of my day: the three-to-seven time block, in which I inevitably make frustrating realizations: I have nowhere to go. I have no one to see. I can't think of anything I want. I can't think of anything at all to keep me busy. Life drags on in front of me. Somehow, I make it until seven or so, when I eat dinner (a highlight) and flip on a movie or something until my phone rings and I finally get out of my house.
Basically, I'm counting the HOURS until I can move out again and throw myself into my schoolwork.
I NEED places to go, appointments to keep, people to interact with, and things to stress about.
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