Unity Crying and Another U Word

So a few weeks ago I had this terrible day. I don't remember everything that made it terrible, but I do remember it culminating in a meeting with one of my professors to try and figure out what was going on in class. It's a very confusing class and, for whatever reason, this professor and I have a very difficult time communicating. Every conversation I have with him goes a bit like,

"What?"
"Huh?"
"No. Wait. No. What?"
"What?"

Anyway. I walked out of the meeting feeling really unhappy and I thought, in what seemed like a very rational manner at the time, You know what? I just need to cry. If I cry I will feel better and I will be happy.

I should clarify here that I cry a lot and I'm just going to blame it on chemistry. I just have to cry once a week about anything--commercials, stubbed toes, burned eggs, really bad chick flicks. If I can cry about something small then I don't get emotionally out of whack. So I cry and then I feel better. This is a thing, and it's fine.

Anyway, I was on the fourth floor which is where the English department is located and I know a lot of people in the English department, so I walked really quickly to the bathroom so I wouldn't have to talk to anyone I knew while in the almost-crying state.

Which, by the way, like the almost-throwing-up state, is the worst part of the whole process.

Mercifully, I made it to the bathroom and sat down in the stall and started crying. And after a while I was pretty sure that the person in the stall next to me was also crying. Because we were both just sitting there and all I heard was an occasional sniff.

And I sat there thinking about how nice this was, what good cohesion and unity it had. Because I was crying and they were crying and we got to cry by ourselves but also together, which has to be the perfect way to cry, right? Everyone should get to cry with someone else without having to actually see that person/feel obligated to offer any sort of comfort.

After a few minutes I've cried and I'm good and I'm done. And I get up to go and splash some water on my face and that's when I notice--there is a urinal in the bathroom.

Repeat: There is a urinal in this bathroom.

So I sprint out the door and down the hall and only then do I stop and make sure that no one is behind me, no one saw that. My boss isn't standing at the drinking fountain next to the door. My professor I can't communicate with is not standing there wondering why I'm running.

And then I start laughing.

Like A Disease, or Way of Kissing People

I have yet to really get back into the habit of quoting, but this is what I have for you, in honor of the end of the semester. I don't know what these quotes say to you, but I think it's fairly clear from them that 1) I go to a church school, 2) I am an English major, and 3) I have really weird friends.

"If he ever came to date my daughter, I would remove him. From the earth."

"Your bodily functions are stupid."
"Your face--"
"Your mom--"
"Your mom's face--"
"--The maturity points in this room just went down."

"I wonder what it would feel like to wake up looking like Brad Pitt?"

"Who knew Death would be so stinkin' adorable?"

"Were you like this with your boys?"
"No. The problem with girls is, they date guys. Dad's know about guys."

"A good way to receive answers to prayer is through farm animals."

"I stole a staple the other day."
"Judgement gonna be hard on you."

"Why are we sitting on potatoes?"

"I want to have a marriage like that, except for all the bad grammar and infidelity."

"It's like pregnancy, but with your mouth."

"I'm not trying to be suspicious, I'm trying to save turtles."

"It sounds like a disease or a way of kissing people."

"Faith is never ABC, it's A 7 green, with a little bit of ice cream."

"I don't feel comfortable having a crush on someone who actually exists."

"If they're going to be stupid they might as well be smart about it."

"I'm not going to have kids for a while. I like my car. I might get a dog."

"Who invited Darth Vadar to yoga? Whaat?"

"I do have great cheek bones. I'm practically Voldemort."

For the Love of Libraries

I discovered the library this semester.

I mean, it's not like it was hidden. It's a fairly large building. It sort of takes up a lot of room. And I've spent a lot of anxiety-filled, breathless moments in there, trying to print something out a few minutes before it was due.

But this semester I discovered the library. (Kind of like how I discovered YouTube when I was thirteen. Speaking of YouTube, do you know about the Vlog Brothers? I'm going to be John Green if I grow up.)

I didn't use libraries growing up. My family doesn't excel at due dates, and my mom's running theory was that it was less expensive to buy books than to pay the late fees--and I actually think it was most of the time. Which meant I grew up in a house full of books, which was fantastic, especially because the libraries around my house are not impressive.

I don't know that the library here is impressive--I don't have a good point of comparison. But I love my library. (I actually have a shirt that says that. And, just after I typed that sentence, I looked down and found I was wearing the shirt that I have that actually says that.) On the fifth floor in the back corner there are rows and rows of literature.

I'm pretty sure that's what heaven looks like.

Anyway, I've been reading a lot of books this semester--a lot considering that I'm going to school full time and attempting to have a life. I mostly don't read great books. I read a lot of those for class, and as much as I love it does sort of numb my brain.

(Although? I fell in love with Ralph Waldo Emerson after I read: "In your metaphysics you have denied personality to the Deity: yet when the devout motions of the soul come, yield to them heart and life, though they should clothe God with shape and color. Leave your theory, as Joseph his coat in the hand of the harlot, and flee.")

I don't seek out great literature on my library trips; I'm just looking for a good read. I thought I'd give you three I've enjoyed.

The Rook: I don't know how to tell you about this book without making it sound extremely weird. Truth being, it's an extremely weird book.

So I'm going to skip the plot summary (google it, if you'd like) and skip to the stuff I like.

I like the plot. It's a bit bizarre, which makes it a bit unpredictable, which is awesome. I also really, really like the humor here. It's dry, understated, and sarcastic. If I knew boys who had this books sense of humor, I would be a lot more upset about not having a boyfriend. It's also a fairly quick and easy read, though by quick I don't mean short so much as I mean fast-paced.

Stuff I don't like? Some plot holes, some swearing. Not pervasive swearing, but when it's there the words are colorful.

The Disreputable History of Frankie Landau-Banks: This is such a girl book. I don't mean that in the usual way--it's not boy-meets-girl-fall-in-love-break-up and there is absolutely no bodice ripping. That's a thing, right? Bodice ripping?

It's a girl book because it's about a girl trying to figure some things out and because there's a fair amount of girl-power in it.

Things I loved? The girl power, the somewhat random (but totally awesome) factual side stories, and, again the humor. I read this out loud with my roommate and didn't do my homework very much that week.

Things I didn't love? The ending. By the middle of the book it was the only ending that made sense, but I didn't love it.

The Fault in Our Stars: Apparently everyone knew about this book and didn't tell me. I'm actually sort of annoyed about it. Why have you all been holding back?

This book was written by John Green, who is the newest addition to my hero list (others being Emma Thompson, Kim Yu Na, and my mother). I'm afraid if I tell you about this book you won't read it.

Please read it.

This is not the best book I've ever read, but dang it, I am so attached to it. It's funny, smart, sad at parts, but hopeful too. I love the characters in it. I love that the main character adores her parents, that she watches really bad television, and that she can complain without being in a perpetual state of sorry-for-myself. Also? If Augustus Waters was a real boy I would marry him, misused big words and all.

Basically, this book provided me with a new life plan: become John Green, marry Augustus Waters, and learn to talk awesomely.

It's a work in progress plan.

Quotes for You

I have been negligent on quotes this year. My apologies, friends. Here are some quotes. For you.  Because I love you.

"Uneducated, uncivilized, uncultured swine! I'm sure they're nice people, though."

"This character is the scariest guy I've ever met."

"If this soy milk were a man he would cook and speak Italian."

"He doesn't wake up. Because he has no head."

"You stole a pumpkin for me! That is true friendship."

"I'm very attached to my decapitated people."

"Get your vulnerability off of me!"

"Say no to cannibalism!"

"Listen to my explanation as a poke your butt."

"Men don't have feelings, you know?"

"Ouch! Right in the feelings!"

"He doesn't wake up. Because he has no head."

"Today! I bought a head!"

"We'll have sexy face practice."

"I'm not sure it's ethical, but I have to do it.  It's like testing rats."

"I want to be a concubine!"

"I accidentally murdered Kaia in the hallway. Twice."

"It's like a double wedding, but of the funeral variety."

"My bones were being fat!"

"I don't like you."
"I don't like you eiher."
"I didn't like you first!"
"You sing good!"

"I think I picked the wrong concubine..."

Happy Valentines. I Wrote You a Poem.

I had to write a Spencerian sonnet last night. I don't know how much you know about sonnets, much less Spencerian ones, but let this suffice: They're really, really, really hard to write. They're supposed to use iambic pentameter (and hexameter) and rhyme all over the place.

I can't rhyme. Can't. So, like the sport I am, I whined about it for a few hours. Then I sat my roommate down and informed her we were writing a poem.

This is what we came up with:

I once fell down the stairs and hit my head

            And then my dog became a giant rat.

            My heart grew cold in one moment of dread

            Behind, I heard my cat yell out “Oh drat!”

And from my bag I pulled a wooden bat,

            With which I knew I could defend my Sam

            (And Sam, of course, he was my noble cat).

            I stood and faced the beast and shouted, “Scram!”

The rat, he swelled, he grew big as a tram.

As I thought of my ancestors of lore,

 I knew this was a test, or an exam,

            A quest to test the greatness of my core.

And as I stood and thought I knew that I was doomed,

            So quickly I ditched Sam, and off away I zoomed.

We wrote it at eleven last night, at which point the entire thing was hysterical.

I felt even better about when I wrote my short analysis that ended thusly:

The theme of the poem is the discovery of one's flaws, in this case, cowardice. Even in his dream, the narrator is unable to face his fears or defend the things he cares about. 

Here's hoping my professor has a sense of humor. And no particular commitment to poetic aesthetic.

Happy Valentines.

(http://www.hangupurban.com/valentines-specials)

A Few of My Favorite Things. Again. I Have Lots.

There's this one building on campus where people are always talking about the newest fantasy story they're writing. Or about whether or not '?!' is acceptable (general consensus--no, but we're probably going to use it anyway). They're talking about BBC TV shows. And The Last Airbender. And foreign films.

They're such nerds, guys. Really. Nerds. And the first time I really stopped and listened to them I thought, I've found my people!

Anyway, upstairs in this building there is a board where they ask questions and leave sticky notes, and you get to answer them. This week it was What Is Your New Years Resolution?

These were my favorites:

       Be less creepy.

               Get into Hogwarts.

          Floss everyday.

                       Live like an art project. 

   Be even more awesome (will be hard).

                 Find a cure for the zombie apocalypse. YOU OWE ME!

Steal a snowman.

                Crash a wedding.

       Overcome my depression. (Accompanied by scribbled, encouraging notes.)

Stop the apocalypse (get the salt!!!)

             Don't kill ANY moths.

Don't you kind of love people?

In case that didn't do it for you, try this. (He's a local photographer, and I love him. He makes them look interesting.)

                  

Ah! And this. (It's a New Yorker story. And it makes me laugh, really hard. There is swearing, as a heads up.)

And this. (I'm totally not crying.)

Hey, guys, how do you think you steal a snowman?

(From http://www.vintageseattle.org/2008/02/22/seattles-great-storm-of-1916/)

Anxiously Engaged

So I tried a new thing with New Years Resolutions this year. The new thing is that I actually have one.

This year I want to be "anxiously engaged."  I think this may be a Mormon term--I mean that I want to be active, out, doing things, interacting, participating.

It kind of terrifies me.

I have this ridiculously long list of things that I should be doing. Know what I should be doing?

Trying to stop the last of my Chinese from slipping through my fingers and into the abyss from which it will never be recovered.

Regularly going to the meetings for a school journal I joined last semester.

Talking to all of my teachers from last semester and letting them know that I think they're fantastic and I want them to hire me. For anything. Like, maybe dusting.

Volunteering at my school's radio station, so that I can muster up the courage to apply for a This American Life internship. Because even just applying for that would make me cooler.

Doing yoga. Writing consistently. Spending at least two hours on every one hour in class. Actually going to the majority of the church activities. Going to the swing club on Saturday nights. Getting my printer fixed. Publishing a paper in a school journal. Possibly sending that paper to a conference. Publishing something (yes, anything) in an online magazine. Learning how to whistle with my fingers and play the guitar and the harmonica. Getting a job. Talking to my professors. Talking to people.

I look at this list, sometimes even one thing on this list (hello, This American Life application. And Chinese), and I want to crawl under my comforter and hibernate through the Winter. And possibly the rest of my college experience. Resign myself to mediocrity (or whatever is right below that), and just let it go. Read a few good books, listen to some bad pop music.

Yesterday I called my mom. I hadn't realized it before I talked to her, but I was freaking out.

She suggested I drop the "anxiously" from my goal.

Insomnia and Divine Intervention

I am now at the end of the semester. Please, hold the applause. It was nothing. I was hardly involved.

In all seriousness, though, friends. I'm sitting on my aunt's couch, done with finals and not feeling particularly sick. And I'm really not sure how I got here.

Because, here's the thing. Dinner last night was the first decent meal I've had in two weeks. I've been emptying out my fridge and, for the last few days, I've been living off cheese, tortillas, and oranges. Also, one ill-advised pie shake.

But, because that isn't bad enough, I haven't really been doing well in the sleep area either.

I go to bed. And then I lie there. And think about filial piety. The morality of white lies. Unicorns. British poets. (Byron was a creeper, guys.)

I have tried every trick in the book. I count backwards from a thousand. (Sometimes in Chinese, because maybe that helps? Somehow?) I listen to soothing music. I listen to really boring documentaries, which invariably turn out to be really interesting. I count sheep. I twist my brain around itself while trying to figure out eternity's lack of a beginning. (Tried so hard to understand the Big Bang. Failed.) I write apocalyptic short stories in my head.

It doesn't work.

What works for me, as it turns out, is crying. If I can cry, then I can go to sleep. Maybe it's a chemical thing?

So I lie there at two o'clock in the morning trying to make myself cry. Be sad. Be sad. Usually I can talk myself into it, but two nights ago I ended up rereading the death of one of my favorite characters ever and then watching Bible videos.

A couple times I head to the living room to nurse my insomnia without disturbing my roommate. And almost whenever I do another one of my roommates is out there. Teaching themselves a Jack Johnson song on the guitar. Watching a Korean drama. And I end up reading to them, or we talk about things (I can never remember what) while I force myself to yawn. Is insomnia contagious? It think my apartment caught it.

All this to say, what with my lack of my sleep and actual food, the fact that I got through finals without a break down means two things: There must be a God, and He must love me.

Oh, and guys.

I'm going home!

Unicorns are Totally Real

Sometimes I just crave adults. I realize that I am now twenty, which makes that last sentence a little suspect, but true nonetheless. I certainly don’t feel twenty. Twenty(s) is when people get married. They start being mature. They get jobs. They talk about politics.

Friends, I still blow bubbles regularly. I’m about a hundred times more likely to read a food blog than a political article. And a few nights ago, when I couldn’t sleep, I spent a half hour coming up with ten reasons why unicorns could totally be real.

Let’s not be hasty in our application of the term “adult,” huh?

Anyway, as much as I adore being at college, being surrounded by people who are in this thing they call the prime of our life, I sometimes feel like walking up to my teachers and begging them to talk to me. Not about essays, or tests, or anything that has anything to do with whatever it is I study in their class.

No, I don’t want help with the assignment. I want wisdom. I want someone to tell me a story that comes from experience. Preferably someone who has had more than twenty years of experience. I want my English teachers to show me things they wrote when they were my age, and invite me over for dinner. I want them to tell me about their lives and ask me about mine.  I want to go up to them and say, “If you knew me, and knew what was going on with me right now, not only would you not assign this essay, you’d take me out for ice cream and lend me a few really good books.”

But I don’t. I don’t annoy my teachers with my craving for the influence of people—but especially women—older and wiser than me. And thus far I haven’t gone in to talk to any of the school councilors. This is partly because I don’t think craving adult supervision qualifies as therapy worthy, and partly because if it does, I don’t really want to know about it.

So instead I blow bubbles, read food blogs, and wonder about unicorns.

I don’t need therapy.

http://lair2000.net/Unicorn_Dreams/Unicorn_History/modern_unicorns.html

Camel Humps

I've developed a sort of fascination with my finger joints. I mean, look at yours. They're a few pieces of bone sewn together with skin and cartilage. And they move so easily! Without squeaking! Which puts them at a definite advantage over many of the doors I've encountered lately.

This is what happens when I go to college. I can't decide if it's because I get so tired that I'm a little fuzzy in my skull or if college pokes the monster that is my curiosity and the beast doesn't like being approached. So I get curious, and interested. In everything. Maybe it's a self-preservation mechanism. I'm being fed all this information and my mind is like, well, as long as it's here...

Listen, say there is a landslide, right? And there are some houses on the land that slid. So House A slid down onto to Land B where House B used to be. Who is responsible for removing the house? Most of the people I've asked roll their eyes at me, especially when they find out that it's purely hypothetical.

Was the Star of Bethlehem literal, or is it a methaphor?

Did they build my school at the top of a hill for the metaphorical value (you know, a city that is set on a hill cannot be hid), or was it just general cruelty?

What are camels humps made of?

*http://animals.nationalgeographic.com/animals/mammals/dromedary-camel/

Notes From My Phone *typos included in the spirit of authenticity

“Failure is a part of life. Not my life, but, you know, some people.”

“Have you been asking any of your hipster boyfriends if they’re selling a bike.”

“no.”

“but I want a hipster bike!”

“I haven’t had a hipster boyfriend in like two monthes now! I’m going clean!”

Pr 6058 A68828 C 461999

Modernization and tradition, interpersonal relations, and between the living and the debt.

It’s funny how any negative feelings can suddenly become homesickness. Physical pain, anger, lonliness, it all turns into this organ hollowing desire to be laying on the grass in my front yard and hear my calling me in to dinner.

G17X5

Only kings, professors, and madmen use the royal we.

Razors. Olive Oil. Baggies. Beans. Nuts. Tortillas. Canned Soup. Fruit. Yogurt. Feta.

No matter how far the human race advances we cannot seem to get over our obsession with shiny things.

1 c brown sugar

½  sugar

1 T vanilla

1 c butter

½ t salt

1 b soda

My dad wrecked three cars growing up. He paid for one of them. I don’t know if it was the first one or the last one. He spent a summer at Zions in 103 degree weather, digging holes to make up for a few moments of confusion that ended in the dismemberment of two car doors.

My Teeth May Be Afraid of Heights

There's weird thing right now. In my mouth. My teeth hurt. But only when I jump. Or walk down stairs.

I can eat carrots, and apples, brush my teeth hard, push at my gums. My teeth are fine. But walk down stairs? Spare us! It's like my teeth have suddenly developed a fear of heights. Or gravity has been gravely offended by them.

What does gravity have against my teeth?

Actually, while we're on the subject, what does gravity have against me in general?

My random tooth aches are one among many random pains I have been experiencing recently. Like, on Tuesday, my feet decided they were done with me for no apparent reason.

Fine. They might have had a reason. I wore heels that day. What? I felt short when I woke up. (does that every happen to you? my dad laughed at me when i told him that, but he's a guy, so he might not count.) So I wore heels. Not I-have-a-date-with-my-little-black-dress-heels (i don't own those kind of heels. or that kind of dress). They were more like I'm-wearing-jeans-oh-look-at-that-I'm-three-inches-taller-heels.

But of course that was the day that I forgot my class was in the library, so I walked across campus twice in ten minutes. And then my writing teacher decided we were doing a "writing marathon"--this thing where you go to random places and just write. Places that, of necessity, are all over campus. So I spent another hour walking.

Oh my feet. They ached. I don't appreciate when repercussions for my vanity are physical.

On a happier side note, sitting in an elevator and writing with three other people is awesome. The weird looks. The awkward and unsure movements of people who want to press the buttons that are directly above your head. The cramped legs. The bumps and bruises. The part where you crack up because you're pretty sure you know that guy.

Everyone should do this. Possibly once a week.

I Went Running and The Front Fell Off

We're being random and throwing transitions out the window in this post. Just so you know.

I went running again today. This is the part where you're proud of me. You should be clapping right now. I went running. Aren't you impressed?

Was this the first time that I've gone since the last time that I told you about it?

Um. Yes.

Did I last longer than five minutes?

A little. Maybe.

Am I going again tomorrow?

You know what, I really don't want to talk about this anymore. Moving on.

I have something for you. It's a youtube video.

What? I'm cheap.

We watched this in our writing class. Our teacher turned to us afterward and asked with a totally straight face, "Was there anything wrong with his argument?"

That made you smile, right? Good. We can be friends.

But only if this makes you feel soft inside: After her father's death Emily Dickinson wrote to her friend and mentor (a Mr. Higginson), "I am glad there is immortality, but would have tested it myself, before entrusting him."

I wonder if she spoke like that. Is it possible for language like that to come to a person as naturally as speech?

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.

I'm Not a Cat

My understanding of football is sort of like my understanding of calories.

With football, teams want to go to the opposite end of the field. It can, apparently, get more complicated

But that's the basics. (i also understand there are fouls. which i can't really comprehend in a tackle sport, but whatever.)

With calories, more is bad. At least, as far as I can tell.

So... that's good right? Twenty-five is good?

In both cases my ignorance is purposeful.

I'm not sure what I'm protecting myself against with refusing to comprehend football (long conversation with football nerds? having to go to games? actually liking it?), but I think my motivation for not understanding calories is pretty obvious.

For example, when I'm drinking chocolate milk (the chocolate milk that everyone has spent the past four months telling me is delicious, the one i bought even though i don't really like chocolate milk, the one that helped me discover... i really don't like chocolate milk). And the girl sitting next to me tells me not to look at the nutritional facts until I'm done (in that same warning voice everyone uses when i say that i'm enjoying the coolish temperature and everyone says, "just... you... wait"). I can look at the nutritional facts right then with relative composure, feeling pity for the girl who understands them and not thinking about my rapidly expanding thighs.

So I'll have to agree that, to a certain degree, ignorance is bliss.

But just to a certain degree. The degree that covers understanding football and calories, but misses the incredible quirkiness of Doctor Who, the crunch of bell peppers that came off the plant ten seconds ago, and the fact that scarves are not fashion statements. They're actually useful.

There are things I don't want to know about. Probably. I can't think of too many. I actually want to know about most things. I want to know about black holes (did you know, they aren't actually holes? they're objects of such incredible mass that their gravity draws everything to it. you can't hit a black hole, but if you get sucked to close you'll be falling infinitely towards it, because its gravity is so insanely powerful that it bends time). I want to know about how to fix cars (there isn't a class for that at my college, can you believe that? i mean considering the seriously weird college courses available, i fell like a car fixing course wouldn't be too out of line). I want to learn about the ideology behind horror movies, and how to make apple sauce, and...

Curiosity killed the cat, but I'm not a cat, so I should be OK, right?

(plus, didn't the cat have nine lives anyway?)

Moanings and Groanings

WARNING: Look at the title. Good, now you've been warned.

Everyone within a hundred mile radius of me is going to a football game tonight. I see them streaming under my window, a stream of blue shirts. Everyone except one of me and one of my roommates. She is sleeping in the bunk above me right now, utterly exhausted after six and a half hours of serving up pizza. I'm sitting at my desk and not doing homework, going shopping, or doing laundry.

I remember one of my religion teachers telling me once that not a whole lot changes after you die. You don't magically become a good person, strap on angel wings, skim around the stars singing praises. The idea is to be a good person when you go. But somehow we think that big changes in life (like, for example, life ending) make us different. We're usually waiting for them to fix everything.

I hadn't ever really thought about what I would be like after death before. I'm a teenager. I still think I'm invincible. But I do remember thinking that when I got to college everything would magically right itself. In my head there was a whole group of people waiting for me. People who were like me, but not so much like me that it was annoying. People I could call up at any time and say, Hey, I'm bored. People who were cool but not too cool to be my friends.

Kindred spirits is the term. I thought there would be seven or eight soul siblings just waiting on my front porch when I turned up with my suitcases. Unfortunately, as it turns out, I don't have a front porch and I seem to have missed the kindred spirit opening social. Everyone told me I would make life long friends in college, and I kind of feel like I'm missing the boat.

How do you catch a boat? Do you hail it like a cab? I have never successfully hailed a cab. (has anyone else ever noticed how many double letters there are in successfully? it's really fun to type.)

I know it's only three weeks in, and my parents and various other adult relatives assure me that there are lots of other people just like me. We're all insecure teenagers, sitting in our apartments, craving love and affection, doing homework and watching Doctor Who. And while I'm sure they're right (except for tonight when, as previously stated, everyone and their goldfish is going to the big game) I don't find it very comforting. If everyone is just like me then we'll never get anywhere.

Besides, that isn't what I see outside my window. People are jogging together, going to lakes together, getting in their badly parked cars and turning the ignition with a purpose together. They go to each other's apartments and magically have each other's phone number.

That's the part that really confuses me. Where, when, and how are these people getting each other's numbers? It's like it all happens under the table, some black market trade I know nothing about. I turn my back and they all pull out their phones.

I was never popular. I never had a ton of friends. I was that girl everyone waved to in the hall, but no one ever thought of when they were thinking of doing something. And that was fine. I always had a few great friends, the kind that always make things better. I'm turning into that girl again--the wave in the hall girl who no one dislikes, but no one particularly likes either. Except this time I'm missing my soul siblings.

What I really would like is a Laurie. I want a best guy friend/older brother. I never had a big brother and I think it's about time I got one. The whole (failed) romantic line of that Little Woman's story isn't what interests me right now. I want a buddy.

And I have no idea how to get one. It doesn't seem to be the kind of thing you put an add in the paper about (laurie wanted. must be funny, fun, mildly annoying, smart (preferably good at explaining astronomy), and extremely comforting. bow tie optional).

...Now I really want to put an add in the paper.

I'm so much cooler in my head. Really.

OK, pity party over. Thanks for listening. Tune in next week.

What We Like to Call College Cliches

I have to tell you about this because it made me laugh.

A few nights ago I was sitting in my room skyping with my parents. One of my roommates, Kelsey, was there too, doing homework and being generally productive. It was actually dark outside, so it had to be pretty late when we heard this thud against our window.

Kels and me gave each other a look and I said to my parents, "Wait a second, I think someone just through a rock at our window or something."

We headed over to the window and there were six guys standing there. I didn't recognize any of them. They stood there staring at up us and we stared back down at them.

"You have the wrong room, don't you?" I asked.

They all gave vague indications of assent. Then one of them said, "Do you want some black licorice?" That's what they'd been throwing at our window.

"No thanks."

They walked away and we shut our window, looked at each other, and cracked up.

There are just some classic scenes that seem to linger in our cultural and romantic imaginations. Often they become cliches.

Ah, college. We have our own set of cliches.