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| As I wiped with toilet paper that doesn't completely obliterate my funbits, it finally occurred to me that I am indeed home and shall remain here for another 45 or so days. And I don't really know how I feel about that.
Packing up and moving out of the dorms is kind of the same deal every year: mild nuisance at best and total clusterfuck at worst. This year it was more toward the nuisance end of things given that I wasn't still writing a paper as my parents arrived and was actually already halfway packed and halfway ready. But for some reason it's harder to leave this year than it was before.
It's just that last year it felt like I was coming back to something whereas now I am leaving something behind. I mean, that's not entirely true because I am still coming home to my family and that's always nice but, the way I see it is, my family is (luckily) a constant. And when you calculate out, you know, whatever, the constants are ignored. Clearly my mathematical knowledge is too fail to allude to anything more than this vague notion of ignore the constants when you're doing whatever, but I'm sure most of you know what I'm talking about anyway. So you can go ahead and wipe that smug look off your face because I have preemptively admitted that I fail at this, and clearly, I don't give a shit that I do. But the point of this half assed math analogy is that many of the variables in my life have changed (such as the fact that I no longer have a roommate who loudly deflowers white, virgin, college boys who grunt too much in the middle of the night while I shift uncomfortably in my bed) and now I am left in a situation where I'm more sad to leave than I am happy to be home.
I mean, the toilet paper at the dorms are sort of thin and scratchy, but there's also not enough fibers in them to leave lint all over my ladyparts like the twenty-ply ones from home do. So I guess you win some and lose some.
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We usually take I-5 between The Bay and LA because despite the cow patch and the lack of scenery, it is much shorter and straighter than the coastal 101. And I'd much rather endure five minutes of manure stench and hours agricultural monotony than a whole day of winding and turning which concludes with me vomiting all over myself.
There really is absolutely nothing to look at when you're on I-5. You know what this field looks like? The other field you just passed by an hour ago. You know what this yellow Congress Created DUST BOWL sign looks like? The seven other ones you saw intermittently over the past four hours. This went on for about five hours or so until I started to drift off, my head dangling from my flaccid neck, bobbling up and down in front of my chest with every bump in the road. When I woke up I had a killer crick in my neck and thought for a split second that I was in Econ 11. And the sun was setting.
It had been overcast all day, and now that the sun was ten minutes from disappearing into the horizon, the clouds decided that they would finally start to part ways. You're about 12 hours too late, assholes. It was a beautiful sunset, the horizon was perfectly straight, unobstructed by hills or buildings, being that we were, after all, in the middle of a fucking field. Strips of dense purple clouds sat on the horizon, and in between them was the brightness of the sky still illuminated by a sun that had already sunk into land. It was like a Siegfried & Roy show, tiger stripes everywhere! Everything below the horizon was emerged in complete darkness. Headlights and taillights a-shining. It was as if the lower half of the world was already at night but the upper half just wasn't quite ready yet. A surreal sight for sure.
It was then that I had a fleeting moment of clarity. I was glad I have parents who would drive six hours to pick me up and six more hours to bring me back home. I was glad I had woken up just in time to see this free tiger show. I was glad that I knew someone who would later sit there and listen to me ramble on about a sunset they did not see.
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| Sometimes, as in, right about now, I wish I was one of those people who could write feverishly, like Virginia Woolf.
But alas, I find my participation in the activity to be always slow and at times contrived.
But at least I wouldn't have to throw myself in a river.
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| I'm blogging because Josh told me to and when Josh says jump I say how high?
The latter is absolutely untrue because when Josh says jump I say you jump and then I pinch his fleshy limbs with my incredibly agile toes and then I make him hit himself in the face with his own hand and repeatedly ask him why he's hitting himself in the face with his own hand.
But really, I haven't posted anything in a long time not because I don't have anything to say but because, well, I just haven't gotten around to it. I also haven't gotten around to going to the gym in a long time. And in both cases, getting there is the hardest part, but once you're there it's no biggie. Like it took me all day to sit down and start typing, and now that I started I'm just rambling; my fingertips are on fire from typing so fast, somebody hand me some aloe vera por favor.
My point is, when Josh told me that I should go blog, I figured that this was as good a reason as any to.
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This is something I've been thinking about quite a bit lately... Oh, by the way, this is going to be vague and conceptual and boring and if you're here for some cheap and easy laughs, then today is not a good day for me and I suggest that you stop right here and go search dog rapes kid playing Wii on Youtube instead. No, go ahead. It's much funnier and I promise I won't be offended.
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Most of the time, I feel a certain way about my life, and/or elements of my life. Things are good; I'm happy. But every once in a while I'll have moments of downs where I feel very differently about the way things are. These are often fugitive thoughts, short-lived and fleeting.
But my question is, which is more reflective of the absolute truth? The ups or the downs? The up state is fairly constant, which leads me to believe that the downs are flukes, or simply required by some cosmic forces to just, y'know, keep things in balance. But the downs sometimes hit me so tremendously and profoundly with such a strangely sobering effect that I can't help but wonder.
To drive the point home, I will take the risk of never being taken seriously ever again by any of you and go ahead and just pull out my Matrix analogy. It's like, you spend your entire life in the Matrix. But some, on strange, rare occurrences, come close to crossing over to the other side, to the true reality outside of the Matrix. Of course this is speaking under the given premise of the movie that the Matrix is false and what is outside is true. But then again, why wouldn't the Matrix be your reality if everything you've ever known was built upon this supposedly false reality? In fact, I think that alone may be all that is necessary to constitute the Matrix as reality. Fuck this Zion bullshit.
I mean I know that this is not the best analogy because as you find out in the second Matrix movie, Zion is essentially just a big cave which resembles more a damp night club than the holy city it claims to be, in which everyone just has sweaty, sexy raves. All the time. Very unreal. Not to mention that the entire Matrix franchise is built upon a fictional concept made up by two balding Polish dudes, effectively rendering my analogy void of any credence. But you get the gist of it.
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In news more pertinent to the here and now, today is the last day of my five-days-long memorial day weekend and I did nothing. I never know what to do with myself on the last days of vacation. It's a very conflicting predicament I find myself in. On the one hand, it's the last day in which I bear no scholarly obligations. On the other, I never really stopped bearing these obligations in the first place and maybe I should really get my shit together before having to physically be in class the next day.
So predictably, I occupied myself with unnecessary mundane tasks, like changing my sheets and eating seven Diddy Riese cookies, to procrastinate from actually doing anything I should be doing. While I did this, Jenn started packing up all her shit prematurely, three weeks before we actually move out. Just to be ready, to get a headstart, I don't really need any of these things out, anyway, she says. But we both know that these are just the same old deflection techniques everyone else uses. Some of us have more fattening ones than others.
Am I ready for the week ahead? Not really. How do I feel about it? Whatever.
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| I'm usually the last person to admit something, anything. Not because I have too much pride, not because I'm stubborn, and though this last one does sound like something I would do, not because I'm trying to be an ass and just fuck with you. It's just that denial and self-enforced ignorance are things that I can sit comfortably in for a very long time, like Snuggies. And just like a Snuggie, it's cheap, mildly scratchy, absolutely ridiculous, just seconds away from falling apart, and in all honesty, I really shouldn't be in one. Unlike a Snuggie, however, I can't claim that I'm so hip as to be wearing it ironically if someone were to catch me in one.
Yesterday was the day I realized that I was encloaked in a cheap polyester piece of shit. I suppose realized isn't the best word as I can't say that I was completely unaware of the fact. Perhaps acknowledged. The point is, I'm naked without my Snuggie and I don't know how I feel about it. Probably the same way I feel about actual nakedness: I like it but it also scares the shit out of me.
Things calculate out a lot cleaner in plans and on paper than they do in actuality. There are never remainders in plans but always remainders in life. So what do you do with unaccounted for remainders?
In accounting they teach you to simply debit or credit it to cash over/short, or error, and close it out to miscellaneous revenues/expenses and call it a day. But what about feelings over/short, or errors of the heart? Where do you close that out to?
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| I don't know what it is about today and what sort of substance the government is releasing into the air but I could barely stay conscious through the day. I really have no excuse for this, either. I went to bed at 10:30 last night, like a child. Nevertheless I was hit with a serious wave of afternoon coma today, which isn't really anything new, but it was so bad on this particular day that I actually left in the middle of class to go back to my room and nap.
Maybe it's because of the fantastic and, more importantly, long ass weekend I had that everything else just bores the consciousness out of me in comparison. This is also why I haven't blogged in like, ten days, because I ran out of things to complain about! But you know, here I am now, complaining; I wish I could quit you.
My weekend started on Thursday. Two of my three classes were canceled due to the whole swine flu epidemic scare, which knocked my 8 hour day of classes down to 3, effectively warranting a fuck yeah! and a fist pump. The only class I had to go to was English. Here's my beef with English. I stayed up until 4 in the morning writing for this goddamn class and I didn't even get to share it, and I'm sure half the class have similar stories to tell. I have a love-hate relationship with this class. On one hand, the stories are interesting, I enjoy the writing assignments most of the time, I like the readings most of the time. On the other, the utter lack of structure stresses me out more than any of my serious classes. I can't stand the idea of sitting there for three fucking hours every week, not knowing whether or not any of my comments were considered insightful, or if the professor even noticed I showed up or not because he's too busy talking about himself. It makes me twitchy and anxious and I don't know how I'm doing in the class and I absolutely cannot tolerate the thought of possibly getting a B in a class I'm taking for fucking fun. Holy fucking shit I'm stressed out just thinking about it I'm going to throw up in my fucking lap.
This is why I like accounting. It's mind-numbingly easy once you get it, it's not subjective, you either do it right or wrong, and when you do it right, you get credit for it. Sometimes a girl just needs a little order and structure, yadigg?
But other than that, my weekend was marvelous, meaning, filled with gluttony, sex, drugs, rock and roll, and hipsters. No, just kidding, it was mostly just hipsters. Stephanie and I went to this sort of a, local designers convention thing. I suppose the best description of it I can muster up is Etsy, but live. It was cool. Some people make some pretty inspired things, like stainless steel mesh origami jewelry and felt organs and jingly stegosauruses. Some people are just douchebags. Like the guy who tried to convince us that his shitty printed T shirts usually sell for $80 and that we're being offered a fantastic deal at $30. Hey buddy, go fuck yourself.
I didn't end up buying much because everything was either too awesome and expensive or uninspired and shitty. Either or. The only thing I ended up buying was this teeny tiny bag of pistachio toffee brittles that cost me 6 fucking dollars. But pistachio is my favorite nut aside from myself and these toffee brittles are just too delicious and nutty and buttery and I will never stop eating them. It took a copious amount of self control to not inhale all of it before I got home; I've never wanted something that is not attached to a boy on the other end to get inside me so badly. Just kidding. Oh god that was an incredibly filthy joke that I just made there. You see what I did there? Don't even pretend you didn't enjoy it or at least thought about chuckling.
What else? Went out for Persian ice cream on Friday night. If you've never tried Persian ice cream, you should. It's the consistency of gelato except everything has rosewater in it and is therefore at once fragrant and delicious. I guess you wouldn't particularly enjoy it if you don't like rosewater but, then again, if that is the case, we wouldn't want your kind here anyway. My favorite flavor is date. I know that sounds disgusting and like it would give you the runs but trust me, it is absolutely delightful and does not, in fact, give you the runs, I think you're thinking about plums, not dates. It's always hard for me to pick a favorite ice cream because it's like asking me to pick a favorite child except not at all because I don't like children and do not plan on having any so I guess it's really more like asking me to pick a favorite pair of shoes: it tears me up inside and I just can't do it! But Persian date is undoubtedly in my top five. I will never stop eating it, oh my god get inside my mouth. You see what I did there? I added mouth because I can't use the same joke twice in one entry.
I just predictably ended up talking about food again. No apologies.
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