This post is incoherent, even by my standards.
The vast majority of my stuff is packed up and in a car heading towards Jersey. My bed is on the floor in pieces (I didn't get accidentally injured even once!), my posters are all thrown out (I decided I don't want TV posters anymore, because I am a grown-up who intends to decorate with picturebook art), I have a grand total of three videotapes in my possession (two are reality television-related and one is Young Americans, aka the BEST SHOW IN THE UNIVERSE OMG IT MAKES ME SO HAPPY), and the only stuffed animals in the vicinity are Elijah the Cheetah and Big Bird the... um, giant yellow bird. Which seems appropriate, really.
I'm kind of fascinated by what I decided I need for my last week here. Also I am deeply regretting packing all my picturebooks, becaue it is much harder to tell yourself a bedtime story out of Reality TV, Affect, and Intimacy: Reality Matters than something about a pigeon and his desire for a driver's license.
(I settled on The Stingray, an unauthorized biography of Richard Hatch, which is one of the books I picked up for my school project on reality television but hadn't read yet. 90% of the books currently in my apartment are for school, with the hopes that this will make me actually do my work. The remaining 10% are what I consider my YA lit essentials. What if I need to quote Jellicoe Road at some unexpected moment???)
I was backreading my LJ this morning (I should note that I've divided what I need to do this week into three categories- "Work on Project A", "Work on Class B", and "Finish Packing"- so I am finding new and exciting ways to procrastinate) and it's not that I think it's a poor representation of myself, per se, but I'm surprised to notice the proportions of what I post. I really think of myself a talking more about children's/YA lit than reality television. I realize both of these are approximately equal in levels of what the rest of you care to hear about, and I've long since passed the point where I'm ashamed of my love of reality television, but it still feels weird somehow. I don't think most people realize that, if you spend more than a few hours with me, you're much more likely to get a book pushed on you than an episode of a television show. I can't swear that's not just because I know the odds are better there, though.
(Incidentally, since a bunch of people have read it since I first created and linked: jellicoe_road. I've been meaning to post there since I listened to the audiobook, but I never really get past the part where my hands flap around a lot and I make high-pitched noies only dogs can hear.)
Today is my last Sunday in my apartment. The countdown starts now. :(
I'm kind of fascinated by what I decided I need for my last week here. Also I am deeply regretting packing all my picturebooks, becaue it is much harder to tell yourself a bedtime story out of Reality TV, Affect, and Intimacy: Reality Matters than something about a pigeon and his desire for a driver's license.
(I settled on The Stingray, an unauthorized biography of Richard Hatch, which is one of the books I picked up for my school project on reality television but hadn't read yet. 90% of the books currently in my apartment are for school, with the hopes that this will make me actually do my work. The remaining 10% are what I consider my YA lit essentials. What if I need to quote Jellicoe Road at some unexpected moment???)
I was backreading my LJ this morning (I should note that I've divided what I need to do this week into three categories- "Work on Project A", "Work on Class B", and "Finish Packing"- so I am finding new and exciting ways to procrastinate) and it's not that I think it's a poor representation of myself, per se, but I'm surprised to notice the proportions of what I post. I really think of myself a talking more about children's/YA lit than reality television. I realize both of these are approximately equal in levels of what the rest of you care to hear about, and I've long since passed the point where I'm ashamed of my love of reality television, but it still feels weird somehow. I don't think most people realize that, if you spend more than a few hours with me, you're much more likely to get a book pushed on you than an episode of a television show. I can't swear that's not just because I know the odds are better there, though.
(Incidentally, since a bunch of people have read it since I first created and linked: jellicoe_road. I've been meaning to post there since I listened to the audiobook, but I never really get past the part where my hands flap around a lot and I make high-pitched noies only dogs can hear.)
Today is my last Sunday in my apartment. The countdown starts now. :(