Category: General

Sleepy Time

So tired.

Sorry I haven’t blogged lately. School distracts me.

I think I’m becoming nocturnal. I sleep more during the day than at night. Usually I’m up writing for school. Other times, my friends are awake, so we study together or watch movies. I knew a kid who went to Japan and turned nocturnal. He dropped out of school for a while. I hope that doesn’t happen to me because I like my education and I don’t want to drop out because of bat-like sleeping hours.

My high school orchestra arrives on Friday! Hooray! I missed them.

Tattoo Girl was mediocre. They performed the contemporary dialogue classically, so it clashed. A talented writer produced it, though. You can tell.

I also attended the 10 Minute Play Festival. I wanted to submit a play, but I didn’t know how or when, so it didn’t happen. I thought the most powerful play was the last one, Little Lion Man, which centered on a suicidal lesbian and her imaginary lion-friend. You could tell someone talented wrote that one, too. Becky (who has black and red hair) liked the one about an abused daughter. I liked it.

Right now, writing class takes priority. I just wrote six pages of reviews for my classmates. I hope they appreciate because I usually don’t give detailed feedback when people give me work to read. Of course, it’s for a writing class, so I need to for a good grade, but they should still appreciate it because I really read their work and made the best comments possible.

I’m tired. Can you tell? I didn’t sleep last night.

I have class in an hour. I don’t want to go. I want to nap. You know, I used to hate napping. Now I can’t seem to stop. Modest Mouse background music isn’t helping. It’s soft and rhythmic, putting me to sleep…

The Disjointed, Random-ish Post

This semester, I’m getting a 4.0. I don’t care what you say or think. I want a freaking 4.0. I have side projects, twelve semester hours, five jobs and the motivation of a trucker in the desert, keeping his wits about him as air pressure and heat pound down upon his forty-ton, steel road machine. I’ve got the eye of the tiger, and this is the final countdown, and I don’t care who tells me no or don’t bother or why because I’m taking home a freaking 4.0.

Yeah.

On a different note, fifteen minutes ago, I stepped in something gross in the stairwell, and I don’t know what it is, nor do I want to look, so I’m pretending like it never happened.

I still need to return my rhetoric teacher’s book. I think I’ll stop by tomorrow. It’s called Deep Survival, and it’s about human evolution’s role in modern day society. The writing’s good—a little dry in some parts—but generally solid, and I’d recommend it to anyone who likes science because it’s factual and somewhat entertaining.

I’m stuck in a creative drought. Writing feels like starting an old engine because sometimes it runs, but most of the time it stutters and drops dead, but you can always replace an engine, and you can’t replace a brain. Maybe a muse needs to inspire me. I just read about them for Classical Mythology, and they always pop round to give a heads up or hello, so maybe they’ll visit soon. I don’t know, things are odd right now, and I think it’s because of the new semester, and everyone’s falling into place and getting used to the old environment.

This post will be random because I can’t think of any stories right now except for the brownie-thing I ate at breakfast today. Every time I eat this fudge-brownie-blondie thing, my stomach grows a little queasy, but I eat it anyway because it tastes good. Maybe it symbolizes my life, or maybe I just get nauseous easily, like the way I get with Papa John’s pizza. I mean, it’s not that I don’t like Papa John’s—I love them—it’s just that my friend, Eliana, and I ate Papa John’s as we watched Paprika, which nauseated me, so now every time I eat Papa John’s, I feel nauseous.

“I’m a horrible person,” she said (she isn’t. How could anyone who wants to host a Jewish girls segment on the radio with me be a horrible person?). “I scarred you for life.”

“No you didn’t.” She laughed. “I just feel queasy when I eat Papa John’s pizza now. It’s not your fault.”

“It’s all because of Paprika.”

“It’s just the colors and the motion.” I ate, but then set the pizza down because the thought of this freakish robot in the film made me sick.

“What’s Paprika about?” asked Molly (a journalist who wins every writing contest).

“It’s about this detective who enters other people’s dreams with this technological device, and then the device gets stolen, and the line between reality and dreams blurs.” Eliana glanced at the pizza “Do you want the last slice?”

“No, you can’t have it,” I said.

“I feel bad taking all your pizza.”

“Don’t. I feel queasy.”

“Do you want it, Molly?”

“No,” she said. Libby (who works at Hillcrest and got an awesome hair cut over break—short in back, long in front, brown) also denied the slice, so we gave it to Kelsey (who has fake candles that smell like pumpkin pie).

I’m also hungry because I didn’t have time to eat much today. I went downtown with Alyse (funny and wears large, rainbow-framed glasses) because I lost my textbook and had to buy a new one (I believe the old one was klepto’d), and I purchased tickets for Tattoo Girl (a play).

Yeah, that was pretty much my day. I also scored full marks on my quiz and wrote an essay and a play. Tomorrow, I have class, which will keep me fairly preoccupied, and then I have work on Thursday, Friday and Saturday.

Hoorah!

Iowa City Part II (Spring Semester)

I really hope my father doesn’t kill us.

Now that I have your attention, you’d be interested to know I’m heading to Iowa City to commence second-semester fun. This semester features a playwriting, creative writing, non-fiction writing and classical mythology class, and two of them actually take place outside of the dorm, which means I only have to leave the dorm twice a week. I can hibernate all winter long!

Hooray!

However, I may not make it to second semester because my father (the restless, driver) insists on taking us down a 70 mph road when he’s running on low energy from playing Call of Duty—I mean, working.

The road to Iowa City is long and dreary with many dead fields and run-down farmhouses. It’s nicer in summer and spring, when the fields are green and alive and whatnot, but right now it just looks dead. Don’t get me wrong, I love fields and crops and wide, open spaces, but the trees are bare and the roads are empty, and the sky is gray and dull like the pages of My Life is Average.

In the front seat, my mother quizzes my sister on her lines in the play Sleeping Beauty as my father switches between opening the window, playing the radio and different seating positions. As it stands, I’d rather not be in the car right now because I fear for my safety as well as that of my mother and sister, but (although he occasionally snaps when my mother offers to take the wheel) I trust his judgment. He’s still my dad, and he did a great job with raising me and my sister, right?

I don’t think we’ll die.

Returning to Iowa City feels kind of weird because Iowa City reminds me of those teenage clothing stores, and everything looks pretty and cool, but the quality of the fabric rips and tears easily. It’s like the city was made for college kids by college kids, and even though things look awesome, the quality is a little weird. Maybe it’s because I’m returning from the church capital of the world and you know what to expect around every corner (a church), but I’ve always felt this way about Iowa City. Things are odd and different, and I don’t know if it’s because of my hometown or the environment.

I can’t wait to start the radio again, though. For those who don’t know, Zach and I co-host the KRUI show Fresh Meat (Sun. 12-1pm), which gives musicians and writers the chance to perform/read their work on-air and interview afterward. So far, we’ve tried to work the station about four times, but I’m confident this coming weekend, we’ll have an EPIC premiere. Additionally, I can’t wait to return to music and IT staff because I met Kate Nash through music (she said hi to me) and developed the station’s technology on IT (over break, I straightened pictures!).

My mother attempts to convince my father to let her drive, and my sister repeats the lines of her social studies homework as I type and Doris (my father’s GPS) orders him to turn. I think we’re closer now, and I can’t wait to see the people and things I’ve missed the past four weeks, and I’m confident this semester will rock its predecessor. I mean, I don’t know what’ll happen the next couple months, but it beats hearing:

Father: You have a dull, boring voice.

Mother: I was a thespian!

Father: I’m not turning over.

At least in college, no one has cars. Therefore, no one can criticize their friend’s driving.

We’ve just crossed the Mississippi River, and it looks as icy and gray as the land around it, but I think it’s better than the developments we’ve passed. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s developments. All the houses look the same and you can’t put some things on your lawn, and where’s the originality? Sometimes, I don’t like dorms because they all look identical, and you wonder how your room is different than anyone else’s, but I lucked out with Currier because all the rooms are sort of different. In Currier, a single on the first floor doesn’t resemble a single on the second, and some rooms have sea-foam walls and others have egg-white.

“I’m in charge of the car.” My father takes my sister’s notes.

“We’re pulling over at the next stop,” my mother says.

“No.”

“You’re annoying.”

“No, you’re annoying…Can’t listen to the radio, can’t sing…”

We pulled over at the rest stop and my father said to my mother, “You’re always grumpy when we travel.”

“Can you guess what song is stuck in my head?” My mother faced my sister and I.

“Vacation personality,” we said (a jingle we created for when we travel). My sister and mother broke into song.

My mother guided us to the vending machines and selected a Milky Way for the road. “I’m going to put some stuff in the car.”

My father browsed the vending machine with my sister. Glancing out the window, I saw my mother running toward the car. My sister said, “Can you believe how many vanilla cookies I can get for one dollar?”

“That is a lot of cookies,” I said.

“That’s way too many for one person.” My father watched me retrieve my Three Musketeers from the machine. “You too.”

“Hey, do I put the dollar in this way?” my sister asked. “Or do I put it in this way?”

We left the vending machines, and as we approached the vehicle, my father threw a snowball at my sister and I. He missed, and saw my mother in the driver’s seat. He slid into the car and said, “You can’t drive.”

My mother didn’t care, and neither did I, but my sister gave him some vanilla cookies and my mother praised my efforts during my first college semester, and everything felt better. We talked about high school and middle school and elementary school and indulged in nostalgia, and everyone was kind of happy and things were good.

Some of you probably wonder why I didn’t offer taking the wheel. Well, to put it simply, driving freaks me out. It’s the most dangerous activity I do on a daily basis, and even scarier than high-speed driving with a restless father is high-speed driving with a teenager girl who doesn’t even like to light the Bunsen burner in chemistry. I’m not saying I’m terrified of every semi-dangerous activity—just most of them. I prefer a life of education and beautiful surroundings, like sitting in a library or playing Brain Age by Niagara Falls. Driving about a mile-per-minute on a stretch of tar doesn’t fit the standards of this existence, and I also don’t want to crash, burn and die.

Anyway, that’s about it. I can’t wait to start next semester (as a sophomore!) and I think we’re approaching the city soon, so I should probably save and close. Have an awesome next semester, friends, students and teachers.

Dear Campus, I Miss You

(Alas, my tablet and I are separated by miles. Sad face.)

I miss college and I’m not lying. I miss having food besides cereal and also quiet because there’s a firefight in the living room thanks to Call of Duty. I want to study Dinosaurs and write my speech about voting. Also my cat has a limp, which is annoying because I feel bad shoving her off my keyboard and books when I need to work. She kind of hobbles away and I think, man, I didn’t have these problems in college. When I wanted my friends to get off my computer and books, they just left. They also didn’t make me feel bad because their legs weren’t broken.

Anyway, my sister seems kind of irritated about that opening paragraph, which is upsetting because my college audience would probably laugh at it (or maybe they would think I’m a horrible person. I don’t know).

“We don’t know that Stacey’s leg is broken,” she said. “And also, the only reason you have cereal all the time is because you don’t eat anything else in the fridge.”

Not my fault, though I am hungry for some Burge food. Maybe it’s because I grew up in a household where no one cooked, but I enjoy the cafeteria menu. I eat real food there, not the stuff you pour water in and microwave for thirty seconds. It’s a nice change for someone who grew up on canned dinners and take-out.

I kind of wish my Dad would turn down Call of Duty. I mean, at the dorms, I could just knock on someone’s wall when I wanted them to lower their volume. Instead, I must go all the way downstairs just to say, “Dad.”

“Eh.”

“Dad, can you turn down the volume?”

Then the little volume bar would inch its way back a notch or two.

“Thank you.”

In fact, I’m done listening to men dying in battle and gunshots. I’m going to enact that conversation right now.

Well, that went nicely. We had a chat about the amount of work I needed to complete, which includes my speech about voting and studying. I’m happy with the flashcards I made for Dinosaurs, which I created on a flashcard website (The Flashcard Machine). The site turns all your flashcard terms and definitions into a multiple-choice quiz and it’s helpful for studying for the real thing.

I wish I weren’t so afraid of homework. Maybe I would get it done faster if I didn’t feel like it were a hassle. I bet if I look at it as a challenge, I’ll feel differently, but I’m reserving that for later because I want to finish this blog post.

Zach says I should write more about the campus. He seems to think I give too much experience and not enough Iowa, so here’s a brief campus walk-through:

The University is pretty. In autumn, the leaves change to a lovely set of browns and golds and everything looks pretty wonderful, especially at sunset, when the sunshine makes everything heavenly. Sometimes it gets weird at night because people have haunted rooms and you remember their stories and suddenly every creak and whistle becomes another ghost out to get you. This feeling mostly follows horror movies, though, so try not to watch them in the windy seasons, like autumn and winter, because it gets dark early and the wind howls like crazy.

The river flows by the main dorms, separating the east from the west, and everyone says it’s beautiful, but I haven’t had the time to gander. Sometimes I think about heading out there to write since everyone else does, but then I remember work and stay inside. It’s warmer there anyway.

The people are a nice, well-tempered crowd with their faults and flaws like any group of people. Occasionally conflicts arise and people get angry, but it’s not so much their fault—it’s more the fact that they all live together. Other times, competition finds the worst of people and tensions rise, but I wouldn’t say it comes from the experience. It’s mostly because we’re teenagers and we walk in believing we’re the best. However, I wouldn’t blame anyone for it because we’re still lovely people.

The classes are alright—I prefer smaller groups to lectures, but with Gen-Eds, you can’t do much else. If you do your work and show up on time, people tend to like and notice you, but if you fall behind, there are ways of making up work. Sometimes, you need to stay up all night and obliterate your homework like The Elite Four in Pokémon Red, but it’s usually well worth it.

That said, if you finish your work before it’s due and you’re a god of smarts, you’re well ahead.

…And there’s a ton more, but I should really write my speech.

I miss you, Iowa. Much love.

Thoughts in Art History

The colors of nature.

Today is purple day! Everyone is supposed to dress like a plum in mourning for the gay teens who committed suicide, but class starts in one minute and there are about five violet-clothed students here. What is this? I did not dress like a grape on Monday (accidentally) for nothing (I cared enough to dress like an eggplant twice). Where’s the fighting spirit? It’s like that New Yorker article…maybe the internet weakens activism. I mean, it was a Facebook event—it was created and spread virtually, so maybe people forget more easily or care less because the activists aren’t in their face, shouting, “HEY: Wear purple on Wednesday, capiche?”

I also cannot breathe out of my right nostril. I think I need more fruit because I keep getting sick. Maybe I should get more sunshine too. My father always says the people who live above Washington D.C. don’t get enough sunshine. Still, I wish they had tissues in class because—although I love listening to lecture—I kind of want to run out and find a tissue box or something.

The girl ahead of me is looking up Uggs. Now she’s on Facebook. I bet she doesn’t have a stuffy nose. I envy her.

Looking around the classroom, there’s a bunch of people missing. It seems like time and class size are negatively correlated: the more time passes, the less people show up for class. They probably get notes from discussion or something. I wouldn’t miss class unless I had to, though, because I like learning about art. The professor explains history through masterpieces as far back as an overweight, faceless, stone woman (Venus of Willendorf) and keeps it pretty interesting.

Right now he’s explaining how the Arabs oppressed India, which reminds me of Slumdog Millionaire, which I’m (mostly) watching with Zach and James. Sometimes I still have to hide because I don’t like watching violence, but I read the book so I know what happens. Also, the movie is better than the book, which is weird.

Tonight I’m also going to the KRUI meeting with Zach. In case you didn’t know, that’s the University’s radio station. I kind of want to host. I don’t know what he wants to do (he’d make a good DJ or something), but we’re excited for it. I also have a Writer’s Gallery (you post writing on a website and it’s archived forever) meeting tonight and an AIHS (honors kids meeting at which we discuss masquerade balls and get coupons) meeting too.

There are two minutes left in class and I want to sneeze, but I know it won’t be pretty. I don’t want to sneeze. I can hang on for two more minutes. I can hang on—

YES: class ended and I didn’t sneeze.

I’d say that was a pretty successful lecture.

Also, Dan (from many posts back) wants a mention of his music. Dan lives in the Writers Community with me and owns a guitar named Constantine. He sings with Constantine and sits in the hall with Constantine and loves Constantine with all his heart, so he wants to share the glory of Constantine with the world (http://dandemarco.bandcamp.com/) and hopes you love Constantine too.

I need to study for two exams now. I hope you have a very nice day. <3

PS: I was also going to upload a video, but the Youtube uploader isn’t working. :< Maybe next time, kids.

The Line-Jumping Rant and Studying

Attack the food from the front, not the side.

Line-jumping (the act of moving ahead of someone in the lunch line) is not illegal. It’s not forbidden or, as Zach puts it, “cheating”. If I want one item from the array of food and there’s a line of twenty people, believe me, I will skip ahead to get it. It’s not morally wrong. It’s not taboo. It’s survival of the fittest. I’m perfectly content with moving ahead of others, and they should be too.

In fact, I propose a new food-gathering strategy. Instead of attacking food from the side, we should attack it from the front. That way, we won’t have to stand in twenty-person lines to pick up our food—we can just walk up to it, scoop it up and go.

Unfortunately, some people don’t approve of this approach.

“Excuse me,” I said to the girl in front of me. “I’m just going to get some mashed potatoes.”

“Well, honey, I’ve been in this line—”

I kind of tuned her out and scooped up my mashed potatoes.

“Would you like some?” I asked.

“No.”

I shrugged and walked away.

Ugh.

Maybe next time I won’t get so lucky. Maybe a giant food fight will initiate because of my line-jumping tendencies and the mashed potatoes will end up in my hair and then I’ll throw food back and other people will join in and it’ll be like one of those scenes from the Disney Channel movies where the whole cafeteria gets involved. Unfortunately, as fun as it would be, I don’t want to waste food like that because the signs around the stations say not to and I’d hate washing marshmallow surprise out of my hair.

Other stuff includes my latest novel endeavor (which I may workshop with the rest of the Writer’s floor), final projects for my first-year seminar and general studying (exciting, right?).

Studying kind of feels like psychic pressure. There’s not really any work, but you feel pressure anyway. Maybe it’s because the syllabus is like your warning sign and as dates approach, it’s like, “Hey…Hey…HEY. YOU HAVE A TEST.”

That would explain the stress, I guess.

Sometimes, kids don’t realize they have tests and essays because they don’t check the syllabus, like when James had to write his essay in twelve hours. He and Zach and I were chatting when he glanced at his syllabus to ensure everything was fine for tomorrow’s class.

It was like a surprise boss level in a videogame.

“Oh [expletive],” he said.

He didn’t really sleep that night. He spent it in the ITC writing like a chicken with its head cut off, and the next afternoon when I stopped by to tutor Zach in chemistry, he was still asleep.

“James,” I said. “James, you have to get up.”

“What time is it?”

“It’s 6:00 (-ish, maybe? It’s hard to remember).”

There was a muffled response and James rolled out of bed.

He was exhausted, but at least his paper was finished. For that, I commend him. Commendations, James.

Post-Midterm

Post-Midterm

Despite the surrounding birthday balloons and birthday mail, I feel sad. I blame my midterms, which threw me into a funk because I studied for them every day since receiving the material, but didn’t get the desired grades. When I took my midterms, I felt pretty confident and knew most of the answers, but my grades suggest otherwise.

I guess I should study more. Once my first year seminar ends, science and art history will dominate my life. Did I mention I have to make a giant comic book for my first year seminar? It’s not difficult or anything. It’s just work and I think that’s behind most A’s in college: diligence. You need to focus on schoolwork all the time and you can’t think about or do anything else because it’ll distract you from the task at hand. Maybe that’s why so many kids take unprescribed Ritalin—maybe they don’t have the discipline to sit and study for a couple hours.

I don’t really know, but I do know I tutored Zach in chemistry for the better half of last week. It was more difficult than I expected, seeing as he’d never taken a chemistry class before and I barely remembered the material from two years ago, but I scored well in the course and wanted to help him.

Sometimes we worked in circles, going over the material several times before moving to a different task. The worst was valence electrons because I didn’t remember it and he didn’t understand it. We spent three-ish days on it, and by the end, we had enough of electronegativity.

In the middle of our studying, he would roll around on the floor and ask, “Can we take a break?

“Like lunch or something?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.” I’d gather my things. “And we’ll study when we get back?”

“Yeah.”

We never studied when we came back. We usually watched Glee or read bad fan fiction or something. Sometimes we’d take another break and then study again. It was a good routine, but I felt like we didn’t do much those days. Maybe it’s because I’m used to intense studying, so breaks throw me off, but maybe we could have done more if I’d pushed. Maybe not. Who knows?

Earning grades is a little tougher than I expected, but I think I’ll pull through. I study every day, and I know it didn’t earn me A’s from the get-go, but I’ll study harder and then everything will improve. The most intimidating classes are science and art history because there’s a heap of material to memorize and it’s not as much understanding as it is recitation, but I’ll be okay.

Another thing: my birthday landed on my art history midterm. Isn’t that lovely? When I should have been celebrating my 18th, I was identifying ancient coins and corbelled architecture. Maybe I’m being harsh, but it was my 18th birthday and who wants to take a midterm during their initiation to adulthood? I hope it went well. A poor grade would make a terrible birthday present. :<

In response to the snail comment, name your sluggish little pet whatever you want. Gary would be creative (even though I’m not a huge Spongebob fan) and it’d be nostalgic. If I had a snail, I’d name it something lame like Shelly or Goo. Isn’t that lame? I wish I were as good at naming snails as you. Please tell me if/when you buy it and what you decided to call the darling little molluscan.

Anyway, I’m going to study dinosaurs until someone comes along to talk. Right now, we’re learning about ceratopsians. They have bones on their upper jaw that don’t connect to their nose. Hooray!

Zombies and Clothing

Alyssa, Zach and I bought zombie makeup.

THIS WEEKEND WAS ZOMBIE WALK. BRAAAAINS.

I was a zombie doll for Iowa City’s annual zombie walk. Alyssa the Fabulous did my makeup and Alicia the Fantastic recorded. You can watch the makeup tutorial here:

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I’ve never really cared about my clothes before Iowa, but since I’ve been here, I’ve considered revamping my closet a few times. People have told me I look like a hobo (affectionately) and at least three people offered to shop for/with me (we’re planning a mall trip), but I don’t really think it’s necessary. Just because I dress in flannel, wear beaten down sneakers and carry a purse comparable to an outdoor seat cushion doesn’t make me any less fashionable than the next girl.

Well, except James told me so once. Maybe twice, but it wasn’t as bad as the second time. The first time, I didn’t really care because we were in the dorms and I could change into a better outfit. The second time, we were hunting for zombie outfits for yesterday’s zombie walk and my unstylishness was addressed in public.

“Laura told me I look like a hobo,” I said as we looked through jackets.

“Well, you kind of do,” he said.

“James.”

“James, that was mean,” said Zach. “You can’t just tell people they look like a hobo.”

“You think I look like a hobo?”

“It’s just your jacket.” He looked through some jackets. “I don’t like it. It looks like something a homeless person would wear.”

That stung a little.

“I like your jacket,” said Zach.

“Thank you, Zach.”

“Are you alright?”

“I just feel a little deflated is all.”

“See what you did, James? You made her sad.”

“Aw, I’m not sad.”

“I wasn’t trying to be mean,” said James.

“It’s alright.” I looked through another rack of clothes. “You’re fine.”

I had actually been at the store a few days before with Alyssa and Becky (who wears the wickedest clothes I’ve ever seen), shopping for an outfit for Alyssa and her Jersey Shore party.

As she tried on golden bras, fishnet sweaters and leather daisy dukes, I tried on wool hats. Becky brought me a pink one and said, “Here, Rebecca, I think you’d look really good in pink.”

“Thanks.” I tried it on and looked in the mirror. It was flipping adorable. “Aw, it’s cute.”

“It’s so cute.”

“Thank you. I might get it.”

“You should.”

“Hey, you guys,” said Alyssa from the dressing room. “Come see.”

We entered and saw our sweet, bubbly friend dressed in a low-cut gray vest, leather shorts and a golden bikini top. We laughed and she changed into her regular clothes as I admired my hat in the mirror and Becky looked through jewelry. Alyssa and I joined her at the front of the store.

“I really want this.” She showed me the ring on her finger. “It’s the white rabbit. It’ll go with my costume.”

(Becky wants to be Alice of Alice in Wonderland for Halloween. I think it might be cool. She could pull off edgy Alice or something.)

“Well, are you ever going to wear it again?” I asked. “It’s kind of a waste of money if you only wear it once.”

“Yeah…”

She set it back. She paid for her $3.00 sweater-dress, I paid for my pink wool hat, and Alyssa bought her golden bra-thing, leather shorts and gray vest.

It was a pretty successful shopping trip. I’d say people are preparing for Halloween all over campus. It’s nice that we got a head start.

(Also, Kelsey, I think you should get the snail if it’s allowed. You’d have the coolest pet on the floor and I’d envy you. Thanks for all the comments on the art, you guys. 🙂 )(Also, James is really awesome. He left me a note at my door this morning basically telling me so. Thanks, James. You rock. 🙂 )

Busy

(And shout-out to my girls, Alyssa and Kelsey. Love ya, dearies!)

I have thirty minutes before lunch, so this is another quickie.

Tonight’s Rosh Hashanah—my first real attempt to visit temple since I’ve moved here—and tomorrow’s the Alpha Xi Delta cowboy dance party. Then, I have various errands to run and homework to do, making for a busy couple of days.

I’m also a smidgen worried about my first year seminar. As it turns out, I’m a B grade comic artist (NOOO) and I have tons of reading to finish before the semester’s worth of homework is complete. I already finished my Rhetoric curriculum’s reading (both recommended and required), but there’s still much to do for Art History, including an appointment with the Writer’s Center and Works Cited page for my essay.

So. Much. Stuff.

Aside from that, my friends, Kat and Kristen, created a crumpled paper-pet for Rhetoric. They tried to sell it to me yesterday, but since we can’t have pets in the dorms (save for goldfish, which would die in my care anyway) I declined.

It was a shame, though. It was cute in a quirky, mismatched eyes, random-daisy-popping-out-of-a-spinal-column sort of way. It would have made a cool pet.

Also, in response to a commenter, I spoke with Zach today his morals and the horrible things he could have done while I was gone for Labor Day weekend. He stopped by for a second and I asked, “Hey, Zach, would you hang my underwear to the door if I were gone?”

(The plants were fine, by the way. He watered the bonsai and majestica like I asked. They were a little brown, but the orchid blossomed, which was nice. He added ice cubes to the soil like I requested and even refilled the tray.)

Response: Shock and disgust.

“NOOO.”

“Somebody commented saying that.”

“I don’t want to see anyone’s underwear.”

“Alright then.” I typed our conversation on my computer. “I’ll defend you.”

This sentence is Zach’s official defense. I hope you’re happy, Zach. /thumbs up/

Yesterday, I also spoke with my Rhetoric professor about the recommended reading (Stiff, Mary Roach: a book about cadavers and how they become crash test dummies, medicine, fertilizer, and other amazing and useful things).

“Remember the part about the brains?” I asked. “They can be detached from the body and they live in a state of permanent memory.”

“Well it depends on your definition of memory. There’s physiological memory and memory as society interprets it.”

“What do you mean? Do they differ vastly?”

“Physiological memory is literally memory running lines through your brain. It’s like when military airplane fliers permanently ingrained the way they’re supposed to land on the docking station. If they come in from the wrong angle, they can drive their plane straight into it.”

We talked airplanes, memory and elasticity. I like how I can learn things at college even when I’m speaking recreationally.

Aside from all the stuff I’ve yet to finish, college is pretty awesome. You can have dance parties at midnight, watch free foreign films, buy physically impossible pets and do a ton of random, cool things.

It’s nice, and I love it bunches.

Thursday Night and The Morning After

I did my laundry with Alyssa last night. She returned from Rush in this adorable purple dress with a pearl necklace and matching earrings. I looked like a hobo (albeit a fashionable one—the jeans were well tailored), but I didn’t mind. I like comfy, hobo-esque clothes—they keep you warm.

“I want to look like one of those 50s housewives—” said Alyssa “—the ones who do laundry in their dresses. Would you mind taking a picture of me?”

“Not at all,” I said. She posed with the laundry detergent. I took the picture with her camera. “It looks cute.”

“Let me see.”

I showed her the picture.

“That is cute.”

We talked about hometowns and her friends until the laundry finished. She told me how she and her friends compared themselves to the characters of Sex and the City.

“That’s interesting,” I said. “Most people compare themselves to the Disney Princesses where I come from.”

“We do that too, but I’m Charlotte. She’s the conservative, traditional one.”

I saw it, I guess, but I still preferred Alyssa to Charlotte.

“You know, I haven’t had any superficial conversations with you,” she said.

“I don’t really like them.”

She hid her face behind her elbow and spoke.

“Hey, there’s an echo. Do you hear the echo?”

“I hear the echo.”

“I guess we just had a superficial conversation.” She laughed.

The laundry finished and we carried it downstairs.

When I reached my room, I looked at the clock—1:00am—and crashed.

I woke to NPR. I had slept for six hours.

Because Zach requested mention in my posts, here’s his cameo:

Zach spoke with me before I left for today’s class. I asked him to water my plants while I was away for Labor Day weekend.

“Do I have to play Mozart for them?” he asked.

“Yes.”

(Mozart’s “Eine Klein Nachtmusik” boosts problem-solving ability by 15% for fifteen minutes. It also enhances plant growth. It’s also catchy.)

“Okay…”

(Zach doesn’t like “Eine Klein Nachtmusik”. He finds it “crappy”.)

I left for lecture, where I watched slides about petrified poop and decapitated birds. Then I went to discussion, where I learned about mud bricks.

I ran home after class and spoke with Zach’s roommate, Jimmy/James, an organic food lover. He offered me an organic Oreo, which I ate.

“Zach’s supposed to water my plants. Can you give him my key?”

“Yeah.”

I handed him my key.

“Use this wisely.”

I ran to the IMU and caught my bus. I took a three-hour nap on the way home.

I am tired.

PS: I drew a picture of my friend, Amanda, which I’ll post in the next update with another drawing. I don’t have it with me right now. Sorry for the wait. :<