Well, it's not an albino pidgeon...
Apparently nothing silly has happened to me this term, as I have hardly posted. Rest assured that, just because my eye is not oozing anything, my life is still full of silliness, such as this gem from last night:
I finally made it to The Bridge (bar/club) last night, which was fantastic, and had enough cheese and R&B to satisfy just about everyone. Tasha and I were by no means the last ones standing when we left at 1 AM, but we were there long enough to observe such fun moments as George almost getting into a fight after grabbing some random guy's ass (American John had to apologize profusely to the guy to get George - who was smiling cheerfully and unhelpfully the whole time - out of that one), and me nearly falling over in an unqualified moment of clutziness in my rush to get to Ben, who arrived at the club somewhat less than pleased after we forgot to call him when we left.
The night was pretty typical, clubbing-wise, but the true terror (read: silliness) happened after we got back to college. Tasha and I went by to visit Asia, and ended up staying there until about 2:30, by which time Sam had come by, and Tasha and Asia tried and succeeded in tormenting him by pretending they had a secret (Asia: "Have you told Simon?" Sam: "Told Simon WHAT? What's it to do with Simon? Have you stolen his semen? HAVE YOU??"). At 2:30 we departed and I began the lonely walk back to Liddon quad in the dark and light rain that never fails to freak me out on these early morning, because I am sadly susceptible to freak-outs. As I walked along, the thought occupying most of my brain was "zombies." Nothing really specific about them, just a generalized anxiety which never keeps me up at night, but does make me dislike walking alone at night. (I've considered whether this anxiety would be lessened or increased were someone to give me The Zombie Handbook; would I feel better prepared in the case of a zombie attack, or would I become obsessed with fear whenever I found myself in a situation with high zombie risk? These are the thoughts that occupy me, the reason I have been so busy recently. [Not really.])
So I did what any sensible person would do in such a situation, and called my mom. We chatted about the fun plane ticket I had just bought to Venice for $80, and how I will meet my parents in Venice when I arrive.* I got back to my room safely, but suddenly realized that I'd left my books in the library several hours previously, and decided to go get them before the librarian's 10 AM desk-cleaning. This was fine, until I had collected my books, turned off all the library desk lights, and suddenly found myself alone in the dark, with John Keble's ghostly white marble bust glowing at me from the end of the gothic, empty library. I hurried out of the library and headed back towards my dorm, listening for the tell-tale shuffle of zombie feet, when suddenly, I heard it.
I stopped on the stairs down to the quad and peered out to see a shirtless young man (and it's still kind of chilly here) stumbling towards the Porters' Lodge. I walked hesitantly down the remaining stairs, peering around to make sure he wasn't about to pounce on me from somewhere and possibly try to bite me. He wasn't. I was so distracted by watching his progress towards the Lodge that at first I didn't notice the stumbling noises from the passage between the bar and Liddon. When I did, I turned around to see the captain of the rugby team, a huge, muscly, tank of a guy, who is also a Steamer (the Steamers are a Keble drinking society, disbanded several years ago after attempting to gang rape a girl, now reformed under a new name), staggering along, hiccupping and bouncing off the walls.
I pretended to ignore him and walked a little faster. Then I heard him running to catch up with me. Just as I was about to speed up, he grabbed my arm. I squeaked and whirled around.
"Sorry!" I said. He leered at me. "Hi," I said, trying to appear more normal. "How are you?"
"Fine, how are you?"
"Fine, how are you?" I realized too late that I'd taken this one round too far. He was concentrating on walking a straight line and didn't answer. I then realized that he lives on my corridor, and would thus be going up the same staircase as me. I really didn't like the idea of fumbling with my keys and walking up a stairwell with him, so I said goodnight and kept walking to the next staircase in my dorm. As soon as I got into the dorm, I realized that this exercise had been rendered pointless by the fact that we were still going to end up standing in the same corridor together, with me fumbling stupidly with my keys. I decided to go up to the fourth floor and wait for him to get in his room before going into mine. I stood on the stairwell between the third and fourth floors and listening to him trundle down the third floor corridor and bang on someone's door. The noises sounded close, although I couldn't see him, and I skittered up into the shadows of the fourth floor, which is basically a very short corridor with only three rooms off it, and only one staircase down. The floor of the fourth floor corridor was cluttered with rugby gear and realized (there were many horrible realizations last night), that he lived on the fourth floor, not the third.
I heard the third floor corridor door bang open and him start to come up the stairs, and was left with no recourse but to casually walk down the stairs and hope he was too drunk to notice.
As soon as we encountered each other, he blocked my way and tried to focus his eyes on the books in my arms.
"What'rethose?" he slurred at me.
"They're books," I said, trying to seem helpful and non-judgmental.
He pointed up to his corridor. "Whatwuzzat?"
"Oh," I said, affecting a ditzy, embarrassed expression (not hard). "I just got confused and forgot which corridor I live on."
He held out his hand and I reshuffled my books so I could shake it.
"Thank you," I said as he released me. I edged around him and down the stairs. "Thank you."
I then ran into my room, locked and chained the door, and sat down for a while.
Oh, the things I do to scare myself.
*This is the only serious part of this post.
I finally made it to The Bridge (bar/club) last night, which was fantastic, and had enough cheese and R&B to satisfy just about everyone. Tasha and I were by no means the last ones standing when we left at 1 AM, but we were there long enough to observe such fun moments as George almost getting into a fight after grabbing some random guy's ass (American John had to apologize profusely to the guy to get George - who was smiling cheerfully and unhelpfully the whole time - out of that one), and me nearly falling over in an unqualified moment of clutziness in my rush to get to Ben, who arrived at the club somewhat less than pleased after we forgot to call him when we left.
The night was pretty typical, clubbing-wise, but the true terror (read: silliness) happened after we got back to college. Tasha and I went by to visit Asia, and ended up staying there until about 2:30, by which time Sam had come by, and Tasha and Asia tried and succeeded in tormenting him by pretending they had a secret (Asia: "Have you told Simon?" Sam: "Told Simon WHAT? What's it to do with Simon? Have you stolen his semen? HAVE YOU??"). At 2:30 we departed and I began the lonely walk back to Liddon quad in the dark and light rain that never fails to freak me out on these early morning, because I am sadly susceptible to freak-outs. As I walked along, the thought occupying most of my brain was "zombies." Nothing really specific about them, just a generalized anxiety which never keeps me up at night, but does make me dislike walking alone at night. (I've considered whether this anxiety would be lessened or increased were someone to give me The Zombie Handbook; would I feel better prepared in the case of a zombie attack, or would I become obsessed with fear whenever I found myself in a situation with high zombie risk? These are the thoughts that occupy me, the reason I have been so busy recently. [Not really.])
So I did what any sensible person would do in such a situation, and called my mom. We chatted about the fun plane ticket I had just bought to Venice for $80, and how I will meet my parents in Venice when I arrive.* I got back to my room safely, but suddenly realized that I'd left my books in the library several hours previously, and decided to go get them before the librarian's 10 AM desk-cleaning. This was fine, until I had collected my books, turned off all the library desk lights, and suddenly found myself alone in the dark, with John Keble's ghostly white marble bust glowing at me from the end of the gothic, empty library. I hurried out of the library and headed back towards my dorm, listening for the tell-tale shuffle of zombie feet, when suddenly, I heard it.
I stopped on the stairs down to the quad and peered out to see a shirtless young man (and it's still kind of chilly here) stumbling towards the Porters' Lodge. I walked hesitantly down the remaining stairs, peering around to make sure he wasn't about to pounce on me from somewhere and possibly try to bite me. He wasn't. I was so distracted by watching his progress towards the Lodge that at first I didn't notice the stumbling noises from the passage between the bar and Liddon. When I did, I turned around to see the captain of the rugby team, a huge, muscly, tank of a guy, who is also a Steamer (the Steamers are a Keble drinking society, disbanded several years ago after attempting to gang rape a girl, now reformed under a new name), staggering along, hiccupping and bouncing off the walls.
I pretended to ignore him and walked a little faster. Then I heard him running to catch up with me. Just as I was about to speed up, he grabbed my arm. I squeaked and whirled around.
"Sorry!" I said. He leered at me. "Hi," I said, trying to appear more normal. "How are you?"
"Fine, how are you?"
"Fine, how are you?" I realized too late that I'd taken this one round too far. He was concentrating on walking a straight line and didn't answer. I then realized that he lives on my corridor, and would thus be going up the same staircase as me. I really didn't like the idea of fumbling with my keys and walking up a stairwell with him, so I said goodnight and kept walking to the next staircase in my dorm. As soon as I got into the dorm, I realized that this exercise had been rendered pointless by the fact that we were still going to end up standing in the same corridor together, with me fumbling stupidly with my keys. I decided to go up to the fourth floor and wait for him to get in his room before going into mine. I stood on the stairwell between the third and fourth floors and listening to him trundle down the third floor corridor and bang on someone's door. The noises sounded close, although I couldn't see him, and I skittered up into the shadows of the fourth floor, which is basically a very short corridor with only three rooms off it, and only one staircase down. The floor of the fourth floor corridor was cluttered with rugby gear and realized (there were many horrible realizations last night), that he lived on the fourth floor, not the third.
I heard the third floor corridor door bang open and him start to come up the stairs, and was left with no recourse but to casually walk down the stairs and hope he was too drunk to notice.
As soon as we encountered each other, he blocked my way and tried to focus his eyes on the books in my arms.
"What'rethose?" he slurred at me.
"They're books," I said, trying to seem helpful and non-judgmental.
He pointed up to his corridor. "Whatwuzzat?"
"Oh," I said, affecting a ditzy, embarrassed expression (not hard). "I just got confused and forgot which corridor I live on."
He held out his hand and I reshuffled my books so I could shake it.
"Thank you," I said as he released me. I edged around him and down the stairs. "Thank you."
I then ran into my room, locked and chained the door, and sat down for a while.
Oh, the things I do to scare myself.
*This is the only serious part of this post.