procrastination leads to new beginnings, and orgasmic exams
It's the night before my first exam here at Leiden University. This is my least favorite day of the semester, but my housemate Oliver lovingly described it as 'orgasmic', a dramatic buildup to a three-hour climax followed by complete and utter satisfaction and emptiness. It at least takes my mind off the negative feelings associated with trying to memorize which dead guy proposed which theory about literature, and then finally why I should even give a fuck.
A couple of my friends here suggested that I start a blog (I like the less nerdy term 'journal') about my life and travels and basic everyday experiences in the grand place of Leiden. Which is in the Netherlands. Which is North of France. Don't sneeze or you'll miss it if you're looking at a map. Also this journal hopes to serve as a way of salvaging my real (American) English roots and keep it from dissolving into some boring, colorless green idea.
Last night I slept furiously and woke up in a startle, as I did the night before, but usually it's just one big dream(nightmare) that sucks and everyone involved is either out to get me, or I'm pulling wads of bubblegum out of my mouth, or trying to run but having to crawl and claw my way to safety. I know it's random, but I have to share my succession of nightmares from last night (maybe someone out there relates). It started out at the fattiest of all fatty ice cream stores (Cold Stone Creamery), where I was just about to order a whopping sundae with cake batter ice cream, topped and rolled into peanut butter, chocolate fudge, marshmallow creme, and with a few M&M's thrown on top. Holy shit that was the tastiest looking thing ever. I could taste my drool,
and then suddenly it's night and I'm outside a dark house with my brother's huge-ass truck, a bike, and a mattress. I looked at my hands and then behind me and all around but I didn't see my ice cream anywhere--I would've fucking licked that off the street. But I knew I had to go on this next dream because I was here already. I somehow knew my task was to get the HELL out of there, but how could I bring the bike, the mattress, and the truck all at once? Put the bike and mattress in the back of the truck, you say? How logical you are. However dreams don't work like that; they make you use your dreambrain when you're already busy working out all the freaking details of the place you are in your dream. So I got on the bike, held the mattress under one arm, and the truck under the other. I tried to pedal but my arms haven't quite developed to hold a Ford F-250 Diesel under my left arm yet. Oh! So then 'eureka' I put the things in the truck and backed out of the driveway (trying to be as silent as possible for some reason). Luckily there was ice all over the driveway so my truck slid not down the driveway but did a 180 and slammed into the side of the house. My heart was pounding, I knew I had woken whatever beast was dwelling in that house. And to my unsurprise, the door opens and men with guns and other weapons come pouring out of the house and I reach for the Door Lock button just as the man's gun barrel taps the passenger window.
That's where the dream ends and my eyes flip open and my heart jumps sideways and I'm pissed because I still didn't even get to enjoy that delicious ice cream. Being awake, most people might think that waking up fully would be the best way to shake the nightmare, but the warmth of my covers provided too much security for me to let it go that easily. The only dream I remember of the quick succession of dreams I had after going back to sleep was that I had learned to fly a small plane. Great. I hate heights. And here I am, conquering a fear I never thought I'd have to encounter. I had the bird's eye view of myself, much like in video games where you can watch the crap getting beaten out of yourself, but you don't ever have to experience it first-person. Lucky me, well of course the gas runs out and I'm nowhere near land and we go down quickly, but for some reason once we hit the water, I expect to float to the surface. Fortunately, I remembered to lock myself in a cage before taking flight, so now I was sinking to the bottom of the ocean with no hope of survival--which ended that nightmare quickly. You know, I've heard of people dying in their dreams because they believe it to be so real! I wish I were unconsciously creative enough to have a special super power that conveniently relieved me of danger when I needed it. Not even Professor X would've survived, he can't even walk, and he only has a loyal following to back him up and a Jedi power of persuasion and mindreading that probably only gets him free tickets at the movietheater and a Diet Coke.
I haven't even said anything about the Netherlands. However that was really on my mind today and I just had to write it down.
I have a new apartment now. I used to live in an old renovated hospital, in a room smattered with Ikea, but my friend Nine was looking for someone to occupy her room while she's in Venice. So now I pay almost $300 less per month for rent, and observe the poor rent-raped residents of my old place walking around with enlarged assholes and bleeding vaginas from the school's housing company. Seeing the bulged eyes of other Dutch natives when I told them how much I used to pay for rent ($800/month), I sternly wrote the school's housing office to cut off my contract at six months and NOT to RENEW. To avoid any confusion with that rental company, I emailed them and used my CAPS-lock button frequently and reiterated my desire to NOT STAY FOR ANOTHER SIX MONTHS--I went to the main office and made wild hand gestures to seal the deal.
The Netherlands is/are always forgetting to tell me things like that.
Like, for example, who has the right of way in the street? Apparently it's pedestrians with a death wish. The Dutch can walk wherever the hell they want, but I, on the other hand, am a law-abiding American, frantically searching for the nearest crosswalk so I can feel safe and collect insurance on any potential reckless driver who hits me. What's great is that people here are actually good drivers. You won't see the wasted teenagers with four friends packed in the back of a Geo Metro, listening to awful music on their rice burner's loudest volume--granted I've witnessed it here, it's kept to a minimum. I still don't ride my bike for fear that I will somehow encounter that reckless driver, and also riding my bike in the city isn't something I want figure out by "trial and error". I have enough trouble trying to walk on the sidewalk and dodge people who don't freaking walk like normal traffic ("stay on the fucking right!"). It's always a guessing game of pedestrianism which turns out to be this quick footwork of a football move moments before physical contact, usually me against a wall of Leiden residents.
It's nice that they've at least outlined little paths on the streets for bikes. (Next should be lines on the sidewalk for pedestrians.) However I never received the guidebook for bike-riding in the Netherlands, which is probably pretty self-explanatory, yet I always manage to complicate things. You must stick your arm out to either side of you to let people behind you know that you are turning, which is especially important for vehicle-ists. Unfortunately this was a gesture I learned the hard way, almost ending up underneath a Turkish delivery truck. I mean, I thought to myself 'I'll turn left right here' which was of course in the middle of traffic--I have a hard enough time trying to stay on a bike and not veer into traffic on my left, much less be able to slow down and throw one hand to my side. So I received some harsh Dutch words and a flustered look from the driver when I steered right in front of him. My fright blocked out his mutterings as I glided into safety of the next uninhabited street to analyze what had just happened. The only other time I rode my bike was two weeks after that, to affirm that my bike-sculinity wasn't entirely removed and that I still had some balls. So I got high on a Saturday night and went for a ride to discover what it'd be like to bike to school. Basically as soon as I got outside and was riding, I realized "wow there sure are a lot of people out tonight" which was something I thought twice more as I biked toward my school. I hit the main street (called the Breestraat) and looked around, drunk people filled the streets which caused me to simultaneously realize that it was Saturday and people were out and about. I mentally said Fuck This and turned onto the nearest empty street, but because I haven't ridden a bike in years AND I have no common sense (and I was stoned), I misjudged the size of the curb to the next street and took a graceless spill in the eyes of what felt like a captive audience. Paranoia struck and I pedaled away shamefully, then laughed triumphantly with a private giggle at the end, and then cut the night short and went home.
Well, everyone rides their bikes here it seems, and I'm just too much of a pansy to man-up and follow the masses. Though I know that isn't my style. I'll do what I want. It's my party and I'll cry if I want to. Living in Leiden really is like this huge enjoyable party, a nice little break in the middle of my undergraduate years.I look forward to sharing it with whoever the crap actually reads this.
A couple of my friends here suggested that I start a blog (I like the less nerdy term 'journal') about my life and travels and basic everyday experiences in the grand place of Leiden. Which is in the Netherlands. Which is North of France. Don't sneeze or you'll miss it if you're looking at a map. Also this journal hopes to serve as a way of salvaging my real (American) English roots and keep it from dissolving into some boring, colorless green idea.
Last night I slept furiously and woke up in a startle, as I did the night before, but usually it's just one big dream(nightmare) that sucks and everyone involved is either out to get me, or I'm pulling wads of bubblegum out of my mouth, or trying to run but having to crawl and claw my way to safety. I know it's random, but I have to share my succession of nightmares from last night (maybe someone out there relates). It started out at the fattiest of all fatty ice cream stores (Cold Stone Creamery), where I was just about to order a whopping sundae with cake batter ice cream, topped and rolled into peanut butter, chocolate fudge, marshmallow creme, and with a few M&M's thrown on top. Holy shit that was the tastiest looking thing ever. I could taste my drool,
and then suddenly it's night and I'm outside a dark house with my brother's huge-ass truck, a bike, and a mattress. I looked at my hands and then behind me and all around but I didn't see my ice cream anywhere--I would've fucking licked that off the street. But I knew I had to go on this next dream because I was here already. I somehow knew my task was to get the HELL out of there, but how could I bring the bike, the mattress, and the truck all at once? Put the bike and mattress in the back of the truck, you say? How logical you are. However dreams don't work like that; they make you use your dreambrain when you're already busy working out all the freaking details of the place you are in your dream. So I got on the bike, held the mattress under one arm, and the truck under the other. I tried to pedal but my arms haven't quite developed to hold a Ford F-250 Diesel under my left arm yet. Oh! So then 'eureka' I put the things in the truck and backed out of the driveway (trying to be as silent as possible for some reason). Luckily there was ice all over the driveway so my truck slid not down the driveway but did a 180 and slammed into the side of the house. My heart was pounding, I knew I had woken whatever beast was dwelling in that house. And to my unsurprise, the door opens and men with guns and other weapons come pouring out of the house and I reach for the Door Lock button just as the man's gun barrel taps the passenger window.
That's where the dream ends and my eyes flip open and my heart jumps sideways and I'm pissed because I still didn't even get to enjoy that delicious ice cream. Being awake, most people might think that waking up fully would be the best way to shake the nightmare, but the warmth of my covers provided too much security for me to let it go that easily. The only dream I remember of the quick succession of dreams I had after going back to sleep was that I had learned to fly a small plane. Great. I hate heights. And here I am, conquering a fear I never thought I'd have to encounter. I had the bird's eye view of myself, much like in video games where you can watch the crap getting beaten out of yourself, but you don't ever have to experience it first-person. Lucky me, well of course the gas runs out and I'm nowhere near land and we go down quickly, but for some reason once we hit the water, I expect to float to the surface. Fortunately, I remembered to lock myself in a cage before taking flight, so now I was sinking to the bottom of the ocean with no hope of survival--which ended that nightmare quickly. You know, I've heard of people dying in their dreams because they believe it to be so real! I wish I were unconsciously creative enough to have a special super power that conveniently relieved me of danger when I needed it. Not even Professor X would've survived, he can't even walk, and he only has a loyal following to back him up and a Jedi power of persuasion and mindreading that probably only gets him free tickets at the movietheater and a Diet Coke.
I haven't even said anything about the Netherlands. However that was really on my mind today and I just had to write it down.
I have a new apartment now. I used to live in an old renovated hospital, in a room smattered with Ikea, but my friend Nine was looking for someone to occupy her room while she's in Venice. So now I pay almost $300 less per month for rent, and observe the poor rent-raped residents of my old place walking around with enlarged assholes and bleeding vaginas from the school's housing company. Seeing the bulged eyes of other Dutch natives when I told them how much I used to pay for rent ($800/month), I sternly wrote the school's housing office to cut off my contract at six months and NOT to RENEW. To avoid any confusion with that rental company, I emailed them and used my CAPS-lock button frequently and reiterated my desire to NOT STAY FOR ANOTHER SIX MONTHS--I went to the main office and made wild hand gestures to seal the deal.
The Netherlands is/are always forgetting to tell me things like that.
Like, for example, who has the right of way in the street? Apparently it's pedestrians with a death wish. The Dutch can walk wherever the hell they want, but I, on the other hand, am a law-abiding American, frantically searching for the nearest crosswalk so I can feel safe and collect insurance on any potential reckless driver who hits me. What's great is that people here are actually good drivers. You won't see the wasted teenagers with four friends packed in the back of a Geo Metro, listening to awful music on their rice burner's loudest volume--granted I've witnessed it here, it's kept to a minimum. I still don't ride my bike for fear that I will somehow encounter that reckless driver, and also riding my bike in the city isn't something I want figure out by "trial and error". I have enough trouble trying to walk on the sidewalk and dodge people who don't freaking walk like normal traffic ("stay on the fucking right!"). It's always a guessing game of pedestrianism which turns out to be this quick footwork of a football move moments before physical contact, usually me against a wall of Leiden residents.
It's nice that they've at least outlined little paths on the streets for bikes. (Next should be lines on the sidewalk for pedestrians.) However I never received the guidebook for bike-riding in the Netherlands, which is probably pretty self-explanatory, yet I always manage to complicate things. You must stick your arm out to either side of you to let people behind you know that you are turning, which is especially important for vehicle-ists. Unfortunately this was a gesture I learned the hard way, almost ending up underneath a Turkish delivery truck. I mean, I thought to myself 'I'll turn left right here' which was of course in the middle of traffic--I have a hard enough time trying to stay on a bike and not veer into traffic on my left, much less be able to slow down and throw one hand to my side. So I received some harsh Dutch words and a flustered look from the driver when I steered right in front of him. My fright blocked out his mutterings as I glided into safety of the next uninhabited street to analyze what had just happened. The only other time I rode my bike was two weeks after that, to affirm that my bike-sculinity wasn't entirely removed and that I still had some balls. So I got high on a Saturday night and went for a ride to discover what it'd be like to bike to school. Basically as soon as I got outside and was riding, I realized "wow there sure are a lot of people out tonight" which was something I thought twice more as I biked toward my school. I hit the main street (called the Breestraat) and looked around, drunk people filled the streets which caused me to simultaneously realize that it was Saturday and people were out and about. I mentally said Fuck This and turned onto the nearest empty street, but because I haven't ridden a bike in years AND I have no common sense (and I was stoned), I misjudged the size of the curb to the next street and took a graceless spill in the eyes of what felt like a captive audience. Paranoia struck and I pedaled away shamefully, then laughed triumphantly with a private giggle at the end, and then cut the night short and went home.
Well, everyone rides their bikes here it seems, and I'm just too much of a pansy to man-up and follow the masses. Though I know that isn't my style. I'll do what I want. It's my party and I'll cry if I want to. Living in Leiden really is like this huge enjoyable party, a nice little break in the middle of my undergraduate years.I look forward to sharing it with whoever the crap actually reads this.