Crushes on Characters and Social Scripts

If people are defined by their relationship to the world then I may have some very serious problems.

Me and the world don't exactly hit it off. We have communication issues. And possibly a personality clash. That's OK. I see it as a sign that both me and the world have personalities. Which is good. I guess.

I just felt like telling you because I've been feeling minorly anti-social lately. Not majorly! Just minorly. I think I'll marathon three seasons of In Plain Sight, wrapped in my ugliest hoodie and most comfortable blanket, feeding my crushes on fictional characters, and making muffins on a Friday night minorly. See. Nothing to worry about.

You think I have problems now, huh? Yeah, so does my peer mentor.

I should probably stop typing now. What is really scary is that I probably won't.

Maybe this is why I have crushes on fictional characters. They don't judge me. They never think I'm weird for having crushes on them. That must be why I love them. Well, that and they totally rock. No real guy has anything on Rory Williams, because they'll never be endearingly dorky in the same way, or wait for their girl for two thousand years. No real guy has anything on Marshall Mann, who knows random facts about the invention of danishes and would take a bullet for his best friend.

How can a real guy hope to measure up? The only advantage he has is that he's, you know... real.

My friends are going through boy drama right now. She likes the guy and he doesn't like her back (probably?), the guy likes her and she doesn't like him back, or she can't decide which guy she likes. Or some combination of all of the above. I'm sitting on the sidelines enjoying the show. But, I admit, every once in a while I wonder if I'm supposed to be participating. It's like someone handed out the social script before I got here and now I'm twiddling my thumbs, wondering if I'm missing my lines.

I was talking to one of my cousins about this, relating my friends' dramas and talking about how I'm enjoying it. We were in the car and she turned around to look at me. "Marissa," she said, "you are not supposed to be watching. You're supposed to be doing." One of the guys I'd been talking about passed and I pointed him out to here. "He's cute," she said.

"Yeah," I agreed. "He's a really nice guy."

"No. He's cute." Then she tried to set me up on a blind date.

Dear person who hands out social scripts. I don't appear to be on your email list. Please rectify the matter before I do something truly terrible, or omit to do something terribly important.

P.S.

You're Welcome

I’ve been thinking recently about the peculiar kind of psychological damage that comes from being the daughter of college professors. (i am peculiarly attached the phrase “psychological damage.”)

I started thinking about it when my Tolstoy professor (i love my tolstoy professor) was telling us about how his daughter’s history text book makes him want to tear out his hair and rent his clothes.

He said that the textbook makes things too neat. Everything in history (in textbooks) was pre-planned, and happened exactly the way he was supposed. He said, “The textbook is like, ‘George Washington got up in the morning, then he was at the Delaware, and now we have a constitution!’ And I’m like, ‘No! It didn’t happen that way! Well, it did, but it didn’t really.’” And his daughter, his lovely middle-school-er, looks up and says, “Dad. I don’t care.”

Ah, those words.

I have said those words before.

So I mentioned it to my dad today. He said, “What blessings!”

“I didn’t say I resent the psychological damage,” I told him.

And I don’t. Not really. Most of the time it makes my life more interesting.

Like this one time last semester. I was walking across campus and came upon this saran-wrapped statue of an America Indian. I stood in front of it for five minutes thinking, “What does it mean?”

Is it a condemnation of modernity? The U.S.’s treatment of Indians? Capitalism, ensuing materialism, and its binding affect on individuals?

I walked away without coming to a conclusion and was still thinking about it in my class when my teacher said, “Hey, did you guys see that they wrapped up the statues for spirit week?” Apparently there was some concern that a rival school would come spray paint them.  Part of me felt stupid for spending time thinking about the significance of modern art that was not, after all, modern. But most of me enjoyed it. I mean, if my parents weren't professors I probably would have missed out on thinking about the symbolism of a saran-wrapped Indian. 

Heaven forbid.

 As a side note: how much are we expecting saran-wrap to help? If I drove all the way down to a rival campus to spray pain their statue, I don’t think saran-wrap would be very deterring.

Not that I would ever do that. I snuck two loaves of Jewish bread into a no-eating zone of the library two days ago, and felt really guilty about it. Is it sad that this is the extent of my rebellion as a college student? I didn’t even eat the bread while I was there.

I seem to have dropped the thread of continuity in this post. Not that that’s unusual. It is why I’ll never take up knitting, though.

You drop threads in knitting, right? Or is that crocheting? Or… something else?

And is crocheting the things you do with needles or balls and wire loops in the ground?

Wow, the thought process in this just keeps deteriorating, doesn't it? I’m going to stop now. This is what happens when I get less than eight hours of sleep. If I ever pull an all-nighter I promise not to write a post the day after.

You're welcome

Run

I don't like running. I never have.

In elementary school my friends and I played freeze tag, boys against girls. The boy I liked then always chased me as soon as the bell rang (ah, elementary school) and tagged me before anyone else. Once I asked him why. (i wasn't just fishing for confirmation of affection, i was also distracting him from my friend who was attempting to un-tag me.) He told me, "Because you're slow."

And I was. I am.

Over Christmas break I went with my cousin to a special store for tennis shoes, and all other things running. They had her run on a treadmill, analyzed the way her feet hit the ground, and brought out six paris of shoes for her to experiment with.

It made running look cool. Like when you look at those special blenders they demonstrate at Costco, and suddenly cooking is so much cooler. Because--Look! You can make smoothies, and soups, and world peace in that thing. They never mention the clean-up. I bet it's killer.

In any case, that trip to the highly expensive tennis shoe store convinced me that I should like running. I was meant to like running.

So yesterday, in a fit of self-righteous productivity, I went running. I don't think I lasted five minutes.

Excuse the Bad Grammer, I Didn't Edit Because I Don't Care

I've had a number of blogging freak outs, of various sizes. Perhaps most notably was my first day home sick post. That was a terrible day. I went to class and fought back tears, and then I went home and let them loose. I was so home sick that the sight of 808--the area code from home--made me tear up.

I sat on my bed for a full day, thinking how most of the people who loved weren't even on the same continent as me. And I cried. It has only recently occurred to me how uncomfortable that must have been for the apartment next door. After all, you can hear everything through those walls, and I was sobbing for hours. Part of me feels bad for them. Part of me thinks that they should have knocked on my door and brought me cookies and made sure I was OK.

I haven't been home sick like that for a few months now. I've missed home, but I've been happy. Home sickness became an ache for hugs or a craving for salad, instead of lung crushing sobs.

Until today. Today I went to print off my itinerary and found out that I'm not actually going to be home tonight at 9:30. Nope. At 9:30 I'll still be in Utah. I don't catch my flight home until 3:18 Monday.

A few days ago, when I was desperately studying for astronomy, I looked online and saw that one of my final grades, which was a 99% when I walked out of the testing center, was and 82%. I freaked out. Really. My cousins were unsure how to handle me. I went through every possible scenario, sent an email to my TA and called every friend I had in the class. After about forty-five minutes of panicking a friend explained what had happened and how everything was OK, and I was fine again.

Today was so much worse.

Two days. Forty eight hours. Two thousand eight hundred and eighty minutes. That's how much time I no longer get to spend at home. It feels stolen.

It's been about two hours. My face is stiff with salt, the impatient airline lady assured me it was my fault, my head feels pounded and it is time for me to get out of bed and figure out how to be happy again.

The funny thing is, if I'd always known that I was leaving Monday, today would be a great day. I'd hang with cousins and there would only be two days left until I got home! Just two! Days! Not counting down my months anymore--actual days. But now that's two days that I'm not home.

I've read about so many writers who speak about writing as a compulsion. It's something that they have to do. I remember one woman saying that she had to write everything, otherwise it seemed like it never really happened. It's funny how, in a certain way, we can only experience through words. Any shape we give to the world around us comes through consonants and vowels. That's why, when I was done talking to my parents and done crying, I pulled out my laptop and wrote to you.

What good therapy you are.

Rambling

Do you remember that Christmas story? About oranges.

That one. The one with the little girl (was she an orphan?) who got one orange a year, and she always looked forward to it--its roundness, its smell, the way the peel broke open and juice squirted out. Every time I ever read that story I suddenly desperately wanted an orange. But no orange I got ever tasted as good as hers.

Last night I had an orange that was as good as the orphan girl's. I hadn't had an orange in six months. They're expensive at the grocery store I shop at, and they always look ill. So I opt for the apples in a stand across the street instead.

But I am now at my aunt's--an actual house with people are not college students, more food than is needed for a week, a fireplace, and a beautiful piano with accompanying sheet music. And oranges. Orange Christmas bulbs in a glass bowl on the counter. I've had one and a half. And I've been here less than twenty four hours.

Am I pathetic?

Don't answer that.

It feels so good to be away from college. Yesterday, at three o'clock (ish) I finished my last final.

My Book of Mormon teacher told my class that when we finished our last final we wouldn't care if we passed or not. We would be delirious with joy. We'd dance down the street, singing, and laughing maniacally. My Book of Mormon teacher lied. I'm still waiting for the delirium, Brother Merrell.

When I walked out of the testing center for the last time I called my mom and consoled myself by spending money and gaining unneeded calories because the (over) twelve hours of studying I devoted to studying for Astronomy did not earn me an A. It's one of the only times I can think of that I gave something everything I had and didn't get what I wanted back. That probably sounds prideful but think about it--How often do you give something everything you have? How many things do you actually do to your utmost capacity? How many times do you work so hard that you literally do know what more you could have done? Not very often, right? Or is that just me?

To do something the very best you can, and then for that not to be good enough... I hate that feeling.

My dad says this is very good for me. I believe him. That doesn't stop me from hating it. In any case, I've had a talk with my four-point-oh and informed it since I know it's going to break up with me when fall semester grades come out I need some emotional distance.

I should have known from the beginning. GPA's like that will only love you and leave you--when you are me, anyway.

It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter it doesn't matter it doesn't matter. Itdoesn'tmatterdoesn'tmatterdoesn'tmatter. It's just a letter. Just a letter.


I wonder if this is what I'm going to be like after a break up? Because that would really stink for my roommates. I hope I go more All-American Reject than Taylor Swift, but who knows. Maybe I'll sit in a corner and cry instead of jumping up and down and screaming to vengeful music.

Man. I started this post with oranges and now I'm hypothesizing about future break ups. I worry about me sometimes. Definitely time for a subject change.

I will be home tomorrow night. Where Christmas is green and bright, and the sun will shine all day and all the stars at night. I can see myself standing outside of the airport, my red suitcase on the ground next to me and my backpack on my back. Eleven hours of traveling behind me. Warm, wet air around me. My family will be late (because they're my family) but when they get there they'll all jump out of the car and give me hugs. I have missed their hugs.

I have this feeling it will be ten o'clock and we'll be driving through the pineapple fields, and Prairie Home Companion will be just going off the air, and I'll the see ocean rising over Haleiwa...

And I'll completely forget that the last six months have happened.

What We Talk About in College

I like listening to people talk. I really, really do. So I know that my religion teacher (like many older men in Utah) says, "hwhat," and "hwhere," and "hwhen" instead of the usual what, where, when. I know that my popular culture teacher says, "d'ya know" as a filler when he is trying to figure out if we're following him. And that my roommate says "y'all," even though she firmly denies it.

Anyway, my obsession with the way people talk is responsible for the quotes below. They're just things I've heard people saying over the semester. Some of them made more sense in the context. Some of them really didn't.

Enjoy:

"I speak truth, you speak ideology."

"Sorry, right, we're talking about Nazi's. Not my cat."

"The guys in black are evil."

"Burning alive from a nuclear thing sucks."

"I get violent when I wear glasses."

"I'm a little squishy on the issue."

"Our attention now needs to be drawn back to Batman."

"Let's talk about the overall organization of hell."

"I look in the mirror and look at these eyebrows and I'm like, 'Wow. I feel like I should be feeling contempt for everyone ever.'"

"Did you eat the muffin? Did you like it? Did it taste like the laughter of small children and water relief in Africa?"

"I stole a golf cart today."

"Dang it--he's on drugs! Good comment! I missed that--I wanted him to just be nuts so badly--but he was on drugs!"

"Superman is basically an eagle scout in tights."

"Lets face it, James Bond should have died by now."

"This marker is potent. I might get high. If I get high just, treat me gently. Sit me down and give me a glass of water, or something."

"His face is just too attractive for Sunday."

"Dating is a socially acceptable lie."

"I don't hate you. I don't want to fail you. I don't want you to loose your scholarships. I'm sure all of your therapists are very expensive."

"The U.S. birthrate is almost down to nothing. That's why we need Mormons."

"If everyone is in debt... where did all the money go?"

"You're walking across campus and suddenly the thought comes to you--kill your roommate. And you think--I should have had lunch."

"It'll be potluck. Heavy on the luck, light on the pot."

"In the West we're greedy, needy, self-serving, egomaniacal, and technologically advanced. It's not a good combination."

"Babies have disproportionately large heads."

"I'm going to say something offensive now."

"My kitten could play that guitar solo. OK, not maybe my kitten, but my fully mature cat could definitely play that solo."

"I read in the National Inquirer that we found Eskimos on Mars."

"My eyebrow hurts so bad."

"Imagine what marriage would be like if you couldn't say, ‘you know, um, sometimes your shoes are ugly.’"

"I'm going to respond to the stink positively."

"He turned back and said in the loudest voice pssible, "I hope you rot in hell." That is love, my friends."

"Things need to add up to one hundred. It makes me feel warm inside."

"He makes the classical music version of rap videos."

"I'm going to kill them, for the record. They will soon find their dorm room violated by my batweapons. I have a utility belt--Don't mess with Texas!"

"I don't agree, and I'm not 100% sure I care."

A Note From A Worn Out College Student Who Is Tired of Coming Up With Titles

Yesterday the people one apartment over were playing Christmas music. It made me happy because I'd been wanting to set my Pandora to holiday for the last two weeks, but I've been abstaining to relieve my conscious, which is already suffering from the obscene amount of sugar that I've consumed recently and my Friday City Hunter marathon (i blame you, kelsey). However, with my next door neighbors playing Christmas music I can take pleasure in it without feeling any guilt. Bless you, Josh Groban and Bing Crosby fan.


The walls in my apartment are so thin. I can hear my next door neighbor's cell vibrate when it's on her desk. I hear them laugh at two o'clock in the morning. I don't mind that. I'm just slightly wary, wondering what it is that they're hearing from my apartment.


Sorry, neighbors. When they start killing people off in my shows I get angry. Also when my TA's don't update my grades, when I know the update will take me to an A(-). It's OK. I'm sure we all get close by sharing our emotional trauma, and the secrets that slide between the relatively few atoms in the dorm room walls.


One of my teachers mentioned how dorms are never quiet. I hadn't realized it before, but it's so true. It snowed Friday, and I didn't notice (city hunter marathon). When I mentioned it to one of my friends she said, "Didn't you hear everyone freaking out?"

"It was Friday night," I told her, "Everyone is always freaking out on Friday night."

And it's true. They're out there until two o'clock in the morning singing songs that were born in the nineties and, if the world were fair, would have stayed there. Forever. Which is fine with me, as long as it's Friday. Tuesday? Totally different matter. A couple nights ago certain tenants were being unusually rambunctious. I laid there cursing them in my head, until my roommate yelled, "SHUT UP!"

I appreciated my usually mild-mannered roommate screaming, mostly because I didn't have the courage.

It's funny what exhaustion and stress will do to people, though. The last couple weeks I've seen it in my classmates faces. The skin flanking their eyes is black, and there is a sort of hollow look that accompanies anything a teacher says. Something along the lines of, "Wait... You're actually still expecting us to be capable of thought processes more complex than what it takes to work a can opener? This late in the semester?... Are you sure you have a doctorate?"

I think Thanksgiving will do us all some good. My teachers are as ready for a break as my classmates. All of them canceled class on Tuesday, even though the university has made it very clear that cancelations are immoral in nature. No one really cares at this point. We want to get to the turkey.