Auld Lang Syne, yada yada yada.

It's that time of year again... When you were just getting used to writing '2008' instead of '2007,' they go and change it to 2009 before you can say anything...

I participated in the Art Pen Pal project over at C. Beth's, it was quite fun to make a card (I love making cards, I'm just too lazy to make more than one or two at a time, so this is the opportunity without the guilt!) then send it off to someone I don't know. Yay for new people and snail mail! (I also love sending and receiving [actual] mail, it is quite exciting to find an envelope in the mailbox.)

Although, you know, with my luck, my poor pen pal won't get that letter until, say, March or April. I tend to have bad luck with the Postal Service. Maybe I was a dog in a past life and ran after postmen? That must be it. It runs in the family, though, so maybe not. Here's a little sampler of mail anecdotes:

-My sister once sent a letter to my grandparents, and it took six months to get there. The reason? She forgot to write 'France' in the address. Plus, my grandparents live in a small, unknown town with a weird name, so it wasn't even recognizable as French (I'm sure that if they had lived in Paris, it wouldn't have taken as long. Even while going through Paris, Texas.) But she was only six at the time, so I guess we can forgive her.

-My Dear Godmother sent us a Christmas package, and we received it in May. The marrons glacés were a bit on the green and fuzzy side, and the chocolates had been stolen by the customs officers because they had firecrackers inside, but otherwise it was a very welcome arrival.

-My friend sent me a letter this summer while I was staying at my grandparents' house (the same pair, but a different house, in an even more obscure town, which in fact was not a town but a hamlet). She had the hamlet name straight, the zip code, and even the country, but since the hamlet has no city government (it has no public buildings, the baker comes by once a week in his truck), it is considered a part of the "Communauté de communes" affiliated with the closest small town. And that's the part she forgot. Also, the hamlet name is fairly common, albeit with various suffixes (-les-Bains, -les-Mines, -les-Vieilles, -les-Sapins) as well as by itself. The letter came back to her a month ago, she handed it to me in-between classes.

I know, I've told you a couple of these stories already, but now that there's actually a reason for posting them, well, here they are.

***

I would like to mention in passing my deepest hatred of leafblowers, because they make your bones buzz all the way to your skull, and even the magical, Hero-like scene they can create is not enough to offset m-m-my h-h-hands s-s-sh-shuddering f-for t-t-the r-rest of-f-f t-the d-d-d-day (Make that the end of the y-y-year, how cruel is that?)

***

I wish I had any resolutions to make for New Year's besides "you had better get an A in Ochem this semester, kiddo" and "that paper on benthic sedimental bacteria ain't gonna publish itself, y'know?"

Honestly, though, I like the way I've progressed as a person in the past year, and I think that if I can keep going in a general that-way direction, that would be just dandy. (I was going to put a clip from POTC 2 with Jack saying that, but it turns out all YouTube has is Sparrabeth film fanfic. *Sigh*)

Anyway, me darlin's, I wish you all a wonderful New Year and my best wishes full of luck and, er, something deep and thoughtful.

My castle in Spain

I've always dreamed of making a giant combination blanket/pillow fort, then sleeping in it. Last night was almost the realization of that dream. For the four of us, we hauled thirteen pillows, two sleeping bags, five mats, eight blankets, seven flashlights, three iPods, and ten books. Needless to say, it was quite fun.

There were a couple of setbacks due to the fact that, you know, we're in December (but not for long!). I slept with a sweater, socks, gloves, and a scarf on, yet managed to almost freeze to death. Additionally, waking up with condensation on your nose at four in the morning is not the most pleasant of feelings, but no one caught pneumonia, which I suppose could be called a success. The tent was soaking wet and most of the books (my internal library-ghoul was twitching at the mere thought) were warped from the humidity. We'd forgotten about the whole "four people breathing in enclosed spaces during cold weather creates condensation" thing. Lesson learned, I suppose...

Other than that, it was quite a lovely night. Sis had painted her nails with glow-in-the-dark polish for the occasion, and we spent most of the night looking up videos on YouTube through the faint WiFi coming from the house, listening to Mark Knopfler the Pink Panther soundtrack.

Very Smart Neighbor's mother, who is without doubt the most amazing woman on the face of the planet, suprised us with a tray of delicious hot chocolate and pancakes in the morning.

I must say, it was a success.

(Also due in great part to a long phonecall from The Boy late at night, but that's another story.)

The Adventurers

Tonight, I sleep outside.
In a tent.
In my neighbor's backyard.
With Sis, Bro, and my Very Smart Neighbor.
It will be quite fun.

If I am still alive tomorrow, I will tell you all about it.

Gambling the time away

I hate the uncertainty of waiting for something that may or may not happen. The tottering on the edge, deciding that the opportunity will not show, or that five minutes--just five more--might do it.

If it were up to me, I would go to bed early every night.

But it's not up to me. Because I am waiting.

I wait for hours on end, motionless; yet when I abandon my watch but for twenty minutes I come back to find that what I was waiting for has come, and gone.

I am the hunter in the bush chasing after the most elusive of creatures. I am the astronomer in his tower searching for a star. I am the watcher in the tree hoping for a glint of plumage.

Maybe I could change it. If I tried hard enough. If I could plan my life the way everyone seems to expect of me. But it is so hard.

I can't stop waiting. The hope--the faintest glimmer of the possibility of a chance--keeps me here, waiting, waiting.

I tell myself that I will wait until midnight, no more. But at midnight I will wait five more minutes, just five, then ten, fifteen, twenty. After a long, long, time, I will collapse, exhausted and desolate, and sleep until I wake up to begin my watch again.

It is hard. And yet I hope.

Dear god

I've reread my posts and realized my grammar has been horrible lately. I truly apologize.

Misery Business

I like helping people. I like making them feel better. I can't stand it when one of my friends is depressed, and I'll do anything to make him or her feel better. But there are boundaries.

One of my guy friends is a problem magnet. Four months ago, we started talking regularly, and he told me he was depressed. I spent time and effort trying to make him feel better. I talked to him almost every night, comforting him and trying to make him see he wasn't worthless. I guided him through his breakup with his girlfriend, who incidentally is also one of my friends, and I put up with hours of listening to complaints about how horrible she was, how intolerant, how needy. Meanwhile, I heard the exact same story from her, so I didn't judge either of them.

Eventually, he started hitting on me. He hinted that he liked me, that he should take me for coffee the next time I was in town, that we should hang out together. He told me that he had found another girl, blah blah blah yada yada yada. He hinted heavily. He inquired about my love life, which at the moment was going through difficult times because of the transition to college. I didn't respond to his advances. He hadn't outright told me I was 'the girl' he mentioned so much when he told me of his new love interest, so I feigned ignorance. Eventually, he did, so I told him I wasn't interested. Sound like a big deal? Not really. This isn't the first time he'd turned to me for affection, and both times I've told him I wasn't interested.

Eventually, he gave up for a whole two weeks, then started talking about a girl again. A different girl. She lived three hundred miles away, and he hadn't seen her in a good while, yet he was smitten. He told me everything, how she was nice and smart and a wonderful person. How he was in love, yet was afraid of being hurt again. How he talked to her for two hours every night. How he wanted to ride his new motorcycle three hundred miles to go see her. He bought a second helmet so he could take her riding when she came to town for the holidays. He told me that he had turned down a quite attractive job offer that would make him move to another country in order to stay here with her. It made him feel better, and it was a change from the deep depression he was in, so I helped him. I gave him girl advice. I tried to help him interpret the signs. I told him he should tell her how he felt.

She came home for the holidays, and he spent lots of time with her. I told him that now was the moment, if he wanted to make his move.

But, before he could get around to it, or because of some other reason, I don't exactly know how he went about the subject, his heart's desire figured out what was cooking and told him she wasn't interested in more than a friendship.

He was crushed. He told me he smoked pot and got drunk the night after. He went back to being depressed.

I don't know how to tell him that love doesn't happen that way, that you can't just 'fall in love' with someone you haven't spent much time with in the past and have just recently begun talking to online. But no matter what I say, I'm pretty sure that within a month or two, I will begin hearing about another girl again.

He's my friend, but I'm tired of this. I'm tired of hearing every single one of his problems and telling him to do something about them, only to be told that it's hopeless, that there's no way around it, that his relatives are horrible people and they are out to get him. I'm tired to hear him complain about other people, saying how intolerant they are, and then having his views forced on me when I disagree. I'm starting to think he's the intolerant one, he's the hypocrite. All this time I've spent talking to him has made me less interested in helping other people, just because this one case turned into a dragging weight I have to face every day. But at the same time he's my friend. And I don't want to hurt him.

Guess I'll have to get out of this some way or another, sooner or later. We'll see what happens.

I Snort Kilobytes

I am way too much addicted to KoL for my own good. Although I am starting to figure out the game little by little. Also, I have (maybe) found a way to not waste all of my daily allowance of turns before the end of the previous day, go me.

On a different note, someone made me discover Igudesman & Joo, and they are awesome. Classical music and comedy, how can it go wrong? Riverdancing violinists, Mozart Bond theme music, ingenious ways around difficult reaches in Rachmaninoff pieces, ninja piano, and much more to brighten your day and tickle your musically-inclined funny bone.

Pre-New Year's Resolution: Spend less time on the Internet. Waaaaay less time. Maybe I should go outside and smell the roses? Oh wait, they're dead. Um, maybe I could finally bake that Yule log Mom has been asking for? Yeah, I think I'll do that.

Have yourself a merry little Christmas...

I spent the day in my pajamas, eating turkey, chestnuts, papillotes, and playing silly RPGs.

I am now the proud owner of a home-knitted scarf, hat, and nose-cover, thanks to Sis and Bro. The idea came from this comic, which is one of my very favorite.

Anyway, I'm exhausted and slightly depressed, for some unknown reason, so I'm going to bed.

Goodnight, Internet!

It's 19:08 and I'm exhausted... Why?

Mom took a vote for when we are going to the Christmas Mass. I voted for the Vigil Mass at 19:00, Bro and Sis, like any self-respecting kid with a parent-sanctioned opportunity to stay up past their bedtimes, voted for the Midnight Mass. They won.

It's going to be a looooong night. But hey, more Internet for me! And quite possibly chocolate. And games. And a movie? It's worth it.

Battlefield diary

D-day minus a few hours, the house is hectic.

I took Father Dearest to the mall this morning for the first time in his life. He picked out jewelry for Mom (with no assistance!) and gifts for Sis (with some guidance). Today might go down in the annals of History!

(He slightly ruined it by buying donuts instead of bread. Can't be perfect, I guess...)

I am at present up to my neck in wrapping paper and running low on time.

Mom is baking a chocolate-chestnut cake, which is the most delicious thing on Earth. I might post the recipe on here eventually, should I get it translated before the end of the millennium.

Anyway, I was going to post the song that's been running through my head the whole morning, but decided against it because it is slightly bawdy and also it is in French. Plus, it's not Christmas-related at all.

I do wish you a very merry Christmas, though, and a happy Hanukkah and a happy Kwanzaa too, and also a good day, and overall a satisfactory non-denominational capitalist wintertime gift-giving season!

Love,
The Archduchess

Christmas Mayhem

D-day minus 1: Shopping completed, wrapping extravaganza initiated.

I really am waaaaaaay behind schedule this year. *sigh*

Jouer cartes sur table

I love it when we play Tarot (the game, not the fraud of a quackery of a sham that is fortune-telling tarot) with Dad and he gets all sorts of messages and signals from the way we play and is surprised when one of us makes a really good move. And then plays stupidly.

The thing is, none of what we are "signaling" is actually intended. We just have no idea what we're doing.

Well, a bit.

It's just funny to see his face when something he doesn't expect happens.

In Which I Discuss Lighbulbs, Globes, and Questionable Ornaments

I would like to salute the genius of those who decorate their houses, for Christmas and the enjoyment of passers-by. Some of it is real genius, much of it is sheer quantity, and the rest is overwhelming bad taste.

I've seen houses that are pretty because all of the lights make a pleasing combination. I've seen houses that are pretty because their owner managed to create a lovely scene with tasteful lighted elements, but those are quite rare. I've seen houses that are just a pile of decorations. And I have seen utter monstrosities.

I can't stand inflatable decorations. Snowmen, snowglobes, polar bears, helicopters, Santas, they are hideous. One of the houses I saw this evening sported a lawn peppered with decorations of the kind, each more disgusting than the last. A barrage of three snowmen barricaded the entrance, holding the inhabitants hostage and forbidding visitors from entering. Under a large lantern, a ghoulish bear adorned with a scarf rocked back and forth in the wind.

It was truly a vision of terror.

Fortunately, not all decorators are as inept. I had the immense pleasure and the intense delight of witnessing a marvel of engineering. One family had set up a light-and-sound show. A home-based radio station with a radius of no more than 50 feet broadcast Christmas music perfectly timed and synchronized with the lighting and fading of different sections of the house. The trees boomed with the bass, the driveway with the bells, and the wreath on the door with the chimes. Scales and arpeggios traveled from the bushes to the roof in a blinding symphony of color and sound. I can only think of the hours of programming, tinkering, timing, and adjusting it took to produce this wonder.

I'm walking in a winter wonderland.

Miracle? Quite possibly.

The tree is up. It looks like it was decorated by a horde of angry five-year-olds with a boxful of crafting material. I think it's the best tree we've ever had. Every single ornament-looking-thing in the house is on that tree. Instead of a star, we have my brother's hand-knitted Mexican hat topping the tree. Garlands, bells, lights, baubles, paper cutouts, school project, everything we've ever made, bought, or brought home in any other way, is attached, more or less precariously, to a branch. Sis found cutouts of my hand I had made as a three-year-old ensconced in snowy Belgium with my great-aunt and -uncle, and added them to the tree. It was unsettling to compare my hands to those small, clumsily colored shapes from a memory so distant it seems like a dream. Bro, after much protest, agreed to let us put up the paper frame with a picture of him in elementary school, as well as a construction-paper wreath doubling as a fractions worksheet. Sis, for her part, added a gold paper lantern and a plastic star from her preschool days.

Mom said it was the most beautiful tree she's ever seen.

Also, and for the first time in our lives, we went shopping as a family. We visited every shop listed on the Notecard Of Places That Need Going To For Top-Secret Christmas Business. Things were bought. Bargains were had. Even Dad, who never, ever shops, who hasn't bought anyone a present in over eight years, came up with gift ideas for everyone, and is spoiling us rotten. He even humored all of Mom's comments and avoided possibilities for two different fights. I swear, that month off made him a new man. That, or it was the serious kick in the ass he needed. Mom still needs to gain several pounds on the tolerance scale, but I'm glad she's a lot more relaxed.

Oh, and Dad let me back the car out of the garage, and it went as perfectly as could be. I am quite happy. This whole driver's license thing at the end of the month seems possible, after the four hours I've spent turning around in that church lot. (You know, the one with all the twists and turns and hairpins and SLOPES [oh god I hate slopes, they are scary] and trees, none of which I've hit so far.) I can get up to 3rd gear now, I'm glad we have a standard and not an automatic, that way I'll know how to drive both and I won't be stranded in France the next time we visit. Plus, Mom officially approved of the Plan To Finally Let That Kid Drive So She Can Stop Bugging Us And Drive Her Sister To Trumpet Lessons, so it could not get any better. (Hm, I guess she does deserve major points for that.)

I must say, I am amazed. Maybe miracles do happen.

Bittersweet

Sweet, because Mom's suitcases were filled with goodies of the kind we haven't seen in years. Relative, friends, neighbors piled her with food, chocolate, and gifts for our family. Grandpa sent three bags of his second-favorite papillotes, the kind that have witty sayings but lack the small firecrackers (those are his favorite) that the customs confiscated when he last sent us a package in the mail. Grandma bought a new present every day, for missed birthdays, Christmas, and to make up for not seeing us as often as she'd like. My aunt (who doubles as my godmother) sent presents for everyone, money to buy me a camera, and, a true sign of love, overcame her aversion and bought eight pounds of Clément Faugier. My other aunt sent a light-up Santa hat and plenty of (dirty) jokes for Mom to retell us, despite the fact that my mother is much more of a prude than her sister (which means we won't be hearing those jokes anytime soon... Alas.) Our old neighborhood sent two bags of orangettes and plenty of good wishes. My family has been celebrating Christmas by itself for over eight years, because we move so much and cannot afford to visit more than once every year or so. This year, it will feel sweet because so many people thought of us and sent a little bit of their Christmas cheer. This year, around the tree, we'll have our largest family yet.

But this Christmas will also be bitter. Because it is one of the last. Mom told me this morning that, after being away for a month, she has decided that she will completely separate from Dad. She doesn't know where she will live, but she knows that she can't leave Sis and Bro behind. The thing is, she can't take them with her either. By himself, my father is a horrible parent. By herself, my mother is a horrible parent. Together, they are merely terrible.

I don't want to live in a family that's broken. I want to see my sister, my brother, my mother, and my father. I want them to be happy.

My parents can't be happy together. They have to be apart.

My siblings can't be happy with just one parent. They have to be together.

But life at home is so terrible, so violent, that it's unbearable.

It's an impossible choice. That's why I refused to go to college in the same town where we lived. That's why I moved out. And sometimes, all the time, I wish I could take my siblings with me.

Family

Mom is home.

Christmas can begin.

The wonders of Bureaucracy: The Sequel.

(To read the first installment of the Story Of My Life, click here.)

The story of How My Passport Came To Be began this summer, in the préfecture of a quaint little town in France. It went something like this:

"Hi, we would like to renew my daughter's passport."
"Of course. May I see your ID card, please? Oh, this address is in Paris. You'll have to go there to renew your passport, as it is your city of residence."
"Actually, we live in the United States and we're in France for the summer."
"Then why don't you get an American passport?"
"Because we are not American."
"Well, I can't make you a passport here because you do not live in this town. You'll have to go to the préfecture of your city of residence."
"Our city of residence is American and does not deliver French passports because they have all of ten French people there, and five of them are us."
"Then you will have to go to the American Consulate in Paris."
"But we are not American!"
"But you live in the United States, yes?"
"Yes, but the Americans cannot give us a French passport!"
"Then you will have to go to the French Consulate in the United States."

[Exeunt us, Dad fumes and grumbles something not very polite]

Six months later, my passport has expired.

Dad drives me to [city] this morning. We arrive at the sixth floor of a rather nondescript building and passed two locked doors to finally find the French Consulate General.

The nice French lady asks for my ID papers, takes them, and asks for a photo. Which we immediately realize we forgot to bring along. She directs us to the nearest Walgreens, where a friendly employee takes my picture and then takes forever to print it.

We make it back to the Consulate, hand over the pictures and the papers, and ten minutes of utter absence later, the lady comes back with a paper version of my passport info to check for accuracy and sign at the bottom, if you please Mademoiselle, in black pen.

Everything seems in order, and I am about to sign, when I notice that the address does look weird...

[name]
[street][city]
[another city][zip code]

I know the whole college thing might confuse people, but one of these cities isn't even remotely related with me. Maybe it is the default city for people who don't have cities? It didn't even match my zip code...

I point it out to her, she goes to fix it, and comes back with the following:

[name]
[street][city]
[same city][zip code]

I guess they really wanted to make sure I lived in one place? Well, she fixed it again. Then she said it cost $75.95.

Then she came back with an envelope that I needed to write my address on so that she could send me a notification when my finished passport arrived from overseas (they have to make them in France. In France! What's with the convoluted shipping back and forth?). Father dear, being the type A personality he is, made a weird face when she said we would have to come back in person to pick it up, and told her to ship the passport directly to us (you could clearly see he really wanted to tell her she should ship it, um, where the sun don't shine, but he refrained himself, which is good, because the last thing we need is a diplomatic incident and Interpol on our trail for assaulting a government worker) so we didn't have to make the drive back in the seven weeks or so it would take, at which point she mentioned it would cost an additional $16.50 to ship, and they didn't take credit cards, and that there was an ATM downstairs. He ran out the door grumbling (as always), and the lady took the opportunity of his abscence to tell me that I really should have a driver's license, why, her daughter could drive when she was fifteen, my parents must be so terrible, to not let their daughter drive! At which I thought, lady, you have no idea. I have only been arguing the point for, what, three years now?

Dad came back with the money, got impatient some more, the envelope got addressed and stamped and for some reason stapled so it wouldn't be lost. Meanwhile, a young woman and her infant came in with a request for a passport for the baby, and were denied because his eyes were closed in the picture (Well, he's a baby and he sleeps. It's what babies do. A lot.) Also, French passport pictures are ridiculously complicated and guidelined.

And then office lady started talking to this elderly couple who apparently came here often, and in the fashion of French elderly couples, knew everyone's business and inquired after everyone's family's health and talked nonsensically for an hour about the papers they had to turn in and the lady they were legally responsible for, and how to look up someone's phone number on Yahoo! (at this point I wanted to tell them that White pages was a lot better, but, like most elderly French couples, technology is past them.) Eventually, they had a fifteen-minute discussion about how they wished 'Happy New Year' in their home region(s) (Good year, good health, and Heaven at the end of your life), and left, wishing us a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year as per their aforementioned regional affiliations, and inquiring in the process whether we were going to France for the holidays.

After finishing her conversation with them, the lady asked us why we weren't gone yet, so we had to tell her that she had my birth certificate and it was the only copy I had of it and could we have it back please? At which she grumbled but complied (after spending ten minutes at the copier).

I then asked to register to vote, because the deadline is December 31st. After fumbling on her computer for a bit, she said that I was registered and should be receiver my voter's card in the mail at some unspecified point in the future.

I very politely thanked her, grabbed Dad by the arm, and left. Steam was starting to come out of his ears.

(Fast-forward to this afternoon, DPS office at home [guess that little lecture had some effect on Dad. He wants me to have my license by the time I go back to school in January]. As with usual offices of any kind in the US, there are about a million people in line.)

"Hi, I want to get a driver's license."
"Do you know how to drive?"
"No."
"Here is a booklet. Come back when you know it and take the test, then you will get a learner's permit and a week later you can pass your driver's license. It will cost $5 for the permit and $24 for the license. Are you American?"
"No."
"Then you will need your Green Card and Social Security card."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome. See you soon!"

Clearly, it takes about the same amount of time to get stuff done in the US and in France. The only difference is, you don't have to wait in France but it takes forever to get it done, and you wait hours in the US but it is over with in five minutes.

(Except doctors' offices. I don't understand doctors in the US. I'll have to say French ones are much more efficient. You don't have to wait, there are no nurses to deal with or papers to fill out, AND it is over very fast. You call the doctor to make an appointment, show up five minutes before, he takes you to his office, asks you how you are, my, how you've grown, pokes you with a stick, tells you what's wrong, gives you a prescription, swipes your health card for the records, asks how your family is doing, tells you to get well soon, and shows you out the door. Quick, fast, and painless. Usually. Plus, Sécurité Sociale pays for it, so it's pretty much free.)

I'll be home for Christmas

I'm home.

Finally.

When I walked out of that Organic Chemistry test, though, I did a little victory dance and smiled as I walked back ...home?... to my dorm.

Then, as the car pulled in the garage several hours later and many miles away, I hit the red button to close the garage door out of habit and walked through the door.

It still hasn't hit me that I'm home. That it's over. That I won't be going to class for the next four weeks.

Maybe the disorientation stems from the ambiguity of the term 'home.'

'Home,' of course, is here with my family. In this house where no one has to be self-conscious or care about their appearance, a little private haven in this busy, busy world.

The thing is, I haven't lived here in four months. I haven't been part of the family. I haven't missed Mom's absence for the last month because I've missed all four of them. I haven't spent time with my little sister, helping her through the living hell that her life is and mine used to be. When I am here, I feel like a guest.

'Home' is also where I live. My little, crowded, cold room. The room with the posters on the wall and the decorations and the plants and the fish. The room where I go to sleep and wake up. 'Home' is where my roommate snores and the faucet drips and only two of the showers work.

The thing is, I will only be living there until May, and then I'll move to some other 'home,' somewhere else on campus. I'm not attached to this room, and even though it is where I live, I constantly have to watch myself. I have to arrange my schedule around the roommate, the roommate's friends, the loud people on the floor, the loud people on the floor's friends, the two showers and twenty girls fighting for them, and the classes.

'Home' is the place your friends visit. None of my friends ever visit much, either 'here' or 'there.'

'Home' is where the heart is. I don't know where my heart is.


I guess I'll have to wait a bit longer to find my own home...

Sudden Death

One down, one to go.
I'm done with biology, remains chemistry.

I have not suffered from test anxiety since at least junior year in high school, and severe anxiety since seventh grade. But today was a living nightmare. I knew I was prepared, yet I could not stop going through hundreds, thousands of scenarios in my head and breaking into a cold sweat.

I am not enjoying this. I am not enjoying studying. I am not enjoying memorizing hundreds of reaction mechanisms. I am not enjoying coming back late from a final and rushing into the next one.

This isn't like high school where finals were a laugh. This is college, where the final is two thirds of your grade, a grade that consists so far of two tests. The stakes are so high...

It's not a pleasant thought. I have been on the verge of breaking down into tears for the past three hours.

The darkest hour always comes right before dawn, I guess, but I really wish it didn't. I wish I could be home and careless already like so many other students who left a week ago.

But wishing isn't going to get me anywhere, so I guess all I have to do now is scrounge whatever food I have left in the cupboard and the lukewarm can of Dr. Pepper sitting in the defrosted fridge, turn on Bach, and get back to the books.

Wish me luck, I'll need it.

...Or not.

Clearly the Internet is too distracting.

I've made it through one practice final and an old Cell Bio exam, but I desperately need to brush up on my chromosome mapping skills, and don't even get me started on epistasis, recessive or not.

But this is more interesting. As is this. And this.

It's OK, though. Apparently, I am not the only one afflicted by the debilitating disease called Intertubitis. Surfers everywhere are silently suffering, suppressing the yearning for sweet, satisfying cyberspace sprees.

Enough with the literary cleverness, back to work.

Really.

I should stop making lousy chemistry jokes and get back to work

as I have a final tomorrow.

From now on, I shall do nothing but biology.

Wanted:

I am resigned to the fact that I may have lost my copy of Shadow Baby forever.

I haven't seen it in years. In fact, I don't think I've seen it since I wrote my summer essay over it in eighth grade. It is quite possible that it got lost on the move back from France. Or, the thought just hit me, left in the room of the house where we stayed the night before taking the plane, where my father made me abandon at least ten books because he said my suitcase was too heavy. I can remember I left The Werewolf Syndrome, a couple Molières, and a copy of Descartes' Pensées, but I cannot remember which others I abandoned. I am terrified that this is what happened.

I miss it. I bonded with that book.

All-nighter?

I don't know what's happening.

I wasn't sleepy, so I didn't start getting ready for bed until around 1:30 am. Then I got distracted and went to bed around 2:30. I couldn't go to sleep, so I got back up at 3:00.

I cleaned the sink and finally got rid of the yellow stain at the bottom.

I cleaned the fridge, because my roommate spilled God-Knows-What, and it made a solid layer at the bottom of the fridge. Also, under no circumstances, ever, should there be a reason for someone's hair (not mine) to be in the fridge.

I swept, sprayed, dusted, disinfected, sanitized.

And then, since I still wasn't sleepy, I started packing to go home on Tuesday.

Then I got distracted and played dress-up. Playing dress-up is my secret guilty pleasure, and sometimes I wish I could be a professional costume lady for movies and plays. Tonight, I invented costumes for The Librarian, The Geisha, The Victorian-Era Lady, The Hooker, The Ninja, The Medieval Noblewoman, The Clubgoer, and others which had no definite name or function or remotely resembled anything.

With the contents of my closet. Clothes I wear every day. I should probably mention that 1) my wardrobe is rather small and 2) I have, shall we say, eclectic taste in clothing.

I eventually got tired of it, and now I don't know what to do. Maybe I will write my aunt because it was her birthday Thursday and she sent me that card with the demonic light-up, sound-effect sheep for my birthday.

The Roommate From Not Quite Hell has gone home today. Her side of the room looks empty. Also, it is quiet. No one is snoring, no one is listening to death metal, no one is watching online episodes of Family Guy. She did leave a copious amount of cleaning to do, but at least it's a bit less than there could be. Also, she got me a Christmas present. I feel bad for not getting her anything. Maybe I will get her something when we get back from break.

It's almost 5:00 am now. I have never been that unsleepy that late before.

I should use this energy to study for finals. The thing is, I've had the whole week to study, but I just don't have the motivation to. I only need a 72 on either of the tests I am taking to get an A in the first class and a B in the second. In theory, if I got a 98 on my Chemistry final, I could get an A in the class. But it is the kind of test that has "Find the meaning of the Universe using epoxide reactions, and show the mechanism. a) What is the meaning of life? b) Are there parallel universes? c)Does Markovnikov's rule apply, and why or why not?" as the last question. The kind of question that the answer to is not 42.

Ernest the Betta Fish made his fishbowl incredibly dirty in a very short time. It's crazy the amount of poop such a small thing can generate. Too bad for him, I'm not cleaning until Tuesday when I transfer him to the travel container.

Looks like I'm going to be up for a while more. Maybe after today I will be able to sleep again, like I haven't been able to in a week.

Playing Christopher Columbus

More like Amerig0 Vespucci, really. Or Magellan. One of those guys who actually explored. Ooooh, or the Vikings. Cool guys, those Vikings.

Anyway, I went on another exploration of Terra Incognita Downtownia accompanied by my trusted fellow nerd.

We explored many interesting places, and established a list of those interesting enough to come back to. These include, and are yet limited to:
-Ikea (Oh come on. Who doesn't love going to Ikea?) (Also there is not an Ikea downtown, but we want to go there anyway)
-The Gelato Place of Awesomeness. I have never tasted gelato until today, and it made my brain explode. Gelato tastes like an ice-cream version of whatever it is flavored as. In fact, you could be eating that thing and not know it, because it tastes EXACTLY like it. If not more so. Well, I guess that the cold and creamy part would give it away, but that is not the point. Gelato is flavor beyond flavor. It is quite literally an orgy for your tastebuds.
-The Little Shops of Not Quite Horrors Which Is Too Expensive To Buy Anything But Is Fascinating Nonetheless.
-The (insert city here) Children's Museum. It is vair vair amazing and fun and has a great giftshop. We visited the giftshop. I don't usually like stuffed animals, but I quite literally melted over those we found in the baby section, because they were adorable and cute and fuzzy. Unfortunately, most of them had some sort of noise action, so they were not as awesome as they could have been.
-The Very Colorful Breakfast/Burger Place on a sidewalk. It has pretty chairs and really awesome lights.
-SoCo, because it needs going to, and I am the only one who has gone there so far. But we will see that tomorrow as there is a bazaar there and we plan on attending.

Also, today was one of my childhood friend's birthday, and we celebrated in the same place that we celebrated my twelfth birthday together. Nostalgia! Vegetarian food! Blacklights! Bowling! Etc.

Oh, and I sold two of my textbooks back to the bookstore, which is good.
The good news: I am reusing my two most expensive textbooks next semester, which means I only have to buy one book and that one is listed as $45 by the most expensive bookstore in town, so I think I should be able to get a decent price on the Internet. Also, the set quota for Psychology textbooks had not been reached, so they bought mine for $45 instead of $22.
The bad news: No one is buying my third book. No one. Anywhere. Even on the Internet. And that sucks.

Victory

· · · –

This stands for V, one of the two letters I know in Morse code. It also is the opening theme of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony. Which happened to be played by the Allies at the beginning of every secret radio broadcast from London during WWII.

Why? V for victory.

Today, I aced my German final with the professor's felicitation. She even introduced me to one of her colleagues afterward to enroll me into an advanced class next semester. I guess I might end up being trilingual by the time I graduate after all!

Today, I finished my application for the science honors program I have lusted after for a whole year. I just have to apply Step #11 of the 12-step Application Essay Process: Edit the Essay and Step #12 of the 12-step Application Essay Process: Coerce A Friend Into Reading Over Your Essay. I resent the 500 word limit, though, as it is challenging to prove the meaning of life/disprove the existence of free will in only a page of single-spaced, Times New Roman 12-point font. But as some guy said, We Shall Overcome, and I have, so there.

Today, things with The Boy smoothed over, and everything is (almost) back to normal, and once we're all home and safe with only our grades to haunt us (perhaps?) life should slow down and be peaceful for some time.

Among other things, I also:
-Received a letter that traveled all the way to France, to three different cities with the same name, and back to Texas, from the hands of the friend who sent it (it came back to her) five months ago. When I read that letter, it seemed like more than five months had passed. It made me realize how fast things change. It made me sad, and happy at the same time.
-Found that a bird has made a nest in the bush it has been guarding for days.
-Went on a late-night cookie-and-coffee run for one of my friends who stayed up late writing an essay. The University offers free coffee and cookies at night during finals week to keep up the morale, so I took advantage of the fact and brought a sizable hoard to my friend. The coffee smelled so good I even got a cup for myself and took a sip before I remembered I can't stand the stuff.
-Listened to enough Christmas music to keep me humming the "Hallelujah" chorus until next April at least. Also, a friend gave me a version of a French carol I hadn't heard in years but grew up singing.

Plus, IT SNOWED. Which never, ever happens. But it did. This year is definitely under good omens.

Writer (on the) block

Step #3 of the 12-step Application Essay Process: Go to the Writing Center to get help from a student slave volunteer:
They are booked until next July at least, and by then the application deadline will have passed. I think I'll just go to the next step.

Step #4 of the 12-step Application Essay Process: Brainstorm:
Brainstorm ideas on a sheet of paper*.

* If genius strikes, skip ahead to Step #10 of the 12-step Application Essay Process: Write the Essay.

Daily Bonus: developments pending on the guy front.

Choices

So it's your standard story:
Girl meets boy on the first day of seventh grade, girl and boy become best friends, girl has a crush on boy, girl moves to a different country, girl comes back a year later and in a different city, girl still has crush on boy, girl sees boy two years later at a competition, boy reveals he had a crush on her since they met, girl and boy start dating, girl and boy live wonderful love story, girl and boy graduate from high school, boy breaks up with girl because he don't think he can handle college long-distance, girl is heartbroken, girl moves to boy's home city for college, girl and boy talk it over, girl and boy get back together because neither really wanted it to end anyway, boy moves across the country for college, boy visits home and girl a couple of times, boy's grandmother dies, boy goes through emotional trouble, girl's mother moves out for a month, girl goes through emotional trouble, boy tells girl he feels confused and worthless, girl doesn't know what to say because she feels pretty confused and worthless herself, girl tries to decide what she should tell him, girl is afraid something might happen if she says the wrong thing, girl begins to wonder if she screwed up everything, girl still needs to figure out what to say, ???

What happens next?

Bug-topia

I made the mistake of YouTube-ing today, and have discovered a series of adorable animations. THERE'S TOO MANY OF THEM. I have not done anything productive today other than stretch this morning.

Here's my favorite (so far). Feel free to explore the others at will, but only do so if you have hefty amounts of time to lose.

Note: They are French, so some of the cultural references might be lost if you are not French, but they are still adorable.

Disclaimer: NOT responsible for hours wasted. Not at all. Enjoy!

Now, tonight is Free Pancake Night, so I'm going to go enjoy a stack of nice steamy pancakes with chocolate chips, whipped cream, maple syrup, powdered sugar, butter, etc etc. Maybe not on the same pancake. But I plan to try out every single topping.

Also, Mustache Monday. I must make a mustache in time to attend the World Literature Performance properly attired.

Men In Black

I sat next to a mysterious gentleman dressed in a black suit and a confused-looking Indian guy. I thought they were professors discussing professorly things over a sandwich, as many professors (such as my father) (and THE professor who absolutely DOES NOT serve as my role model nor would I marry him AT ALL given the chance) (*eep!* fangirl obsession!) do. Then, because they were not talking of professorly things, I assumed they were professors who talked about, um, normal things over a sandwich. As many people do. And then I noticed one of them seemed to be talking more about his family and the other was guiding the conversation and taking notes. So maybe they were a psychologist and his client talking over a sandwich. As I suppose happens sometimes. And then I heard the guy in the suit say "Now, do you know the Scientology term for that?"

I was shocked.

I know that the Church of Scientology is very active in this city, but I never suspected they were that obvious about it. Every time I walk in front of their building with the large "Welcome students!" banners, I tell myself that next time, I will walk in and pretend to be a misguided student in need of spiritual guidance. But I am too afraid to do it, and that is probably a good thing.

Scientology is a cult. Like all cults, it uses the concept of the foot-in-the-door phenomenon to recruit people. They first have a small request, then gradually work their way up to taking your entire income.

The Scientology guy was trying to get the other one to sever ties with his family (that's one of the steps, too. If you believe your family is against you, then you become closer to the cult. Plus, as you severed the ties to your family, no one is going to try to rescue you).

I didn't know what to do. I don't know if I should have said anything. Truth is, I was scared to death. I was scared of that guy in the suit. I was scared that, if I spoke up and told the other guy that this wasn't good at all and he should run away from that man, fast, the guy in the suit would follow me home.

I saw a policeman outside and wanted to tell him to go and arrest that man for taking away another human being's freedom. But cults are legal, so there is nothing I could have done.

I don't know why people want to hurt others like that. I just don't understand.

Laundry-room meditations

As I fold my laundry, I can see the city sprawling below. From nine stories up, the world looks so small. And so wide. I can see for miles. At night, houses and buildings are lit up, and a single church spire stands above the rest, bathed in a golden glow. I admire the patterns formed by the streets and moving garland of light that is the highway.

Meanwhile, my pile of warm clean clothes grows higher. Every once in a while, I drop a sock or two behind the dryers and wriggle my way against the window to retrieve them.

Eventually, I place everything in my basket and head back to my room.

Note to self:
-I cannot stand people who do not take the lint out of the filters despite the "CLEAN OUT LINT" sign.
-My sock-folding skills are at an all-time low. I don't know what's happened, I just can't seem to be able to neatly fold them anymore. Maybe I should practice more.
-Someone forgot a navy-blue sock in the dryer.

Gym class epiphany

This morning there was an email I most definitely did not want to read waiting for me in my inbox.

It made me so depressed, restless, crazy, and riled up that I bought a pair of gym shorts and ran four miles on the track.

Now, as the endorphins are running through my system, I am thinking that the running was a great idea, things aren't so bad after all, I should do this more often, I just read through the email too fast and only noticed the bad parts and misinterpreted the rest, and I think that I will make it my goal to run four miles or more every day, because if every day was like today, I would be fit enough to either look like a million dollars or stuff myself with cookies and food over the break guilt-free. Mostly.

Moral of the story: Why didn't I think of this before? If I had gone running every time I had a bad day, things would be a lot better. Clearly, this is something I must do again (the running, not the bad day). (Also, I'm pretty sure 'they' have been repeating this to me in every single PE or health class I have ever taken, I just never listened to them.)

My life: the musical.

Classes are officially over! Now, all I have to do is take three exams. Yay!

Tonight, I went to a holiday party for my research group, there were only ten people or so, but it was fun anyway. It was supposed to be karaoke, but the karaoke machine was broken, so it was mostly everyone belting out whatever Disney songs they could think of out loud. And then a frenzied game of Taboo, and then mad dancing to random techno/rap/pop music. It was fun. There was a lot of food, and I got a bunch of leftover homemade cookies. Delicious!

Also, I went to a Christmas piano concert after that. It was quite good.

I have been listening to Christmas music for the past two hours, and now I am about to go to the ballroom dance club's holiday dance. Good thing I used my time wisely this afternoon to learn the cha-cha, and yesterday the rumba. I can waltz pretty well, but I don't think I can tackle tango yet. It ought to be fun, though. And I will be spending the night over with friends because a) most everyone has gone home for the weekend/week (next week is the "dead" week before finals) b) my roommate is spending the weekend with her boyfriend, so I am cold and lonely at home with my fish Ernest.

I almost lost my iPod today. The iPod touch with my two email accounts permanently signed in? With addresses and phone numbers for my entire family and friends? Yeah, that one. In a dorm cafeteria that sees about 10 000 people per day. But I found it after a frenzied race halfway across campus (and after scaring the crap out of two Korean girls who were sitting at the table I dropped it under).

Busy day, busy day.

Now, if you'll forgive me, I'm off to cha-cha the night away.

Webcomics and Chemistry

We were supposed to have a recitation section for Organic Chemistry today. Seven people out of the 60 or so in the class showed up. We waited for 15 minutes for the TA to arrive, long enough to hear a couple of roommate horror stories from one of my two favorite people in the class (who, in passing, has the most amazing sense of style I have ever seen in a human being), discuss three different geeky webcomic, toy around with the idea of finding the TA's office and reenacting "The Return of the Undergrads III: A Night of Terror*," decide against, and go our separate ways.

I'm going to miss this class.

* This was meant to be the title for a bad horror movie. Which doesn't exist. Yet. This is pretty close, though.

The Lone Ranger

I realized how much I like to be alone.

When you're alone, you don't have to compromise with anyone. You decide. No one tries to tell you where to go, or when to go, or that they don't want to go somewhere you do want to go. No one tries to make conversation with you. No one tries to show you things.

When you're alone, the only one you have to reason with is yourself. You don't have to persuade yourself to do something you don't want to, you don't have to face peer pressure to do or not do something.

I loved being by myself tonight. I took a random bus and ended up in Southside. I'd been in the area two years ago, and I knew an interesting shopping district, so I attempted to get there, got somewhat lost, and probably walked more than I had to. I don't regret it, because I got to walk through quaint little streets with the beautiful, colorful wooden homes that are the trademark of this city. I saw an apartment complex where every building was a different color and each apartment came with a built-in porch swing. I saw a mother and her two daughters carry on a conversation in sign language. I saw a trailer park cafe where fires burned in the open and BBQ was served in paper plates on wooden picnic tables next to a sawdust dancefloor, a green cafe with cactuses and plants aplenty, and a dry streambed entirely covered in bright yellow leaves. Had I been with any one of my friends, someone would have been complaining about the heat. Someone would be complaining about the distance. Someone would be complaining about the cars, the hobos, the dogs, the alignment of the planets. But I was by myself, and so I was able to enjoy the world around me.

When I finally got to where I wanted to be, I wandered in and out of several stores. Here being what it is, every single one of them was weirder than the last. I took my time and looked at everything--every single thing. I looked around, up, down, picked up, put down, read, flipped through, admired, mocked, dusted, stroked, and played at my leisure. I didn't buy anything. Had any of my friends been here, I know that someone would have been bored after five minutes. Someone would be asking if we could go now, someone would be complaining that she is hungry, and others would be grouchy because, as they have kindly informed me, time not spent making out with their significant other is wasted time. Thanks for the friendship, pal. Apparently I'm not worth your time.

Eventually, night fell, so did the temperature, and the wind began to blow. I embarked upon the craziest and most rebellious leg of my journey so far--I walked. Instead of taking the bus, I walked back to the river, over the bridge, and up ten more blocks before taking a bus. I had trouble walking because the wind was so strong. At one point, I would have been blown over into the river had the railing not been there. I walked through downtown, past the towering granite and marble lighted monuments that constitute the skyline, with their tens of lighted Christmas trees and glistening, impeccable floors. I walked past stylish haute-couture establishments, restaurants that would have charged me the entirety of my bank account for so much as a glass of water, and, further up, smoky nightclubs at the top of ensconced staircases squeezed between two massive buildings. Had any of my friends been there, I am certain, someone would be complaining about their feet hurting, the cold, the wind, the distance, the hill, the cars passing by, the price of gas, the time, hunger, the sniffles, homework, a movie they'd rather be watching, or how many minutes it had been since they had made out with their significant other, and how cruel I was for making them be apart so long.

I know, I sound like--for lack of a better word--a bitch. And boy, does it feel good to be the bitch for once. Someone spent the entire lunch glaring at me because she wasn't able to sit next to her girlfriend for once, even though they practially live together and haven't spent more than a couple hours apart in the past three months because they do everything together, and somehow their not sitting together was my fault. I hated every minute of it, and even though we are supposedly friends, I wanted to bash in the face of everyone at that table.

Obviously, another reason I can't really stand other people is that I have a huge ego and can't stand to be ignored or blamed for wanting to live a normal life, i.e. a life where I have the freedom to sit in any chair I choose regardless of social optimization.

Also, I don't like to talk. I recently realized that the total number of sentences I have uttered over the course of the last semester probably numbers under the thousand, if not the five hundred. I prefer to listen, because I usually don't have anything to say, and when I do, no one listens anyway.

Oh well, whatever. I enjoy my own company, I always agree with myself, and I don't have to talk or converse in any way. It's a win-win situation.

...For me, of course.

A Revelation

I am starting the slow descent into the world of hermits. I've recently noticed that I don't really go anywhere or do anything with other people... I tend to walk by myself or stay somewhere secluded. I talk even less than I used to, and I just zone out when I am around people, because I don't pay attention to their conversations. They don't talk to me, I don't talk to them.

It would be good if I were productive in some fashion or pondered the meaning of life, but instead I stare blankly at a computer screen all day.

I'm starting to live life inside my head more than in real life. I'm daydreaming and brooding and muttering dark thoughts and generally depressing myself.

I need to do something. I need to clear my brain. I need to see the world.

Well, it's only 3:15 pm and I don't have any homework, so I think I will just grab a bus and explore the city like I haven't in the past four months.

Maybe my trusty map and unfailing sense of disorientation will bring me to an epiphany? Only time will tell.

Time to clear my brain.

It's the last time this semester, I promise.

Tonight I wanted to write about something that's been on my mind for some time.

But tonight I also have to edit the final draft of my paper.

Sorry, world. You'll have to wait.

Lions and tigers and ...funding? Oh my!

We presented our research today and the paper is due Wednesday morning.

So it's all over.

...Or is it?

Because I was just offered funding to finish the research in the hopes of getting actual results, aside from the research stream I will be following for the next two semesters.

My very own funding so I can publish my very own paper.

I will be conducting two projects side-by-side, which is suicide. The first will be guided, the second will wander into the uncharted territory of cutting-edge-research. I will not sleep for another year, but it doesn't matter. I'm in geek heaven.