Interwebs Acronyms
Currently Gordon sits next to me, a temporary roomie before the lease here ends. Tea still occupies much of one kitchen counter. My pile of books/papers/magazine/sketchbooks still covers one end of the couch. The xbox sits in state amid his pile of games. Wool litters the dining room table, as I ponder what it wants to turn into. There is rice in the rice cooker, milk, bacon, cheese, and yogurt in the fridge. None of these things have changed.
The clothing piles are being reined in, half of them packed away. This weekend begins the slow migration of books and things from the back room to the bedroom, to make room for Gordon, despite his paucity of possessions. The sounds of League of Legend are more common than Rainbow Six or Red Dead Redemption. I share tea that I make. There's leftover potato soup in the fridge. These things are not the same.
I created a fake, cheap knock-off of a onmyodo warding strip thingy. It hangs above the door, blue hands warding off unnecessary worrying. Where will I get the money for school? How will I get into medical school? Do I have enough pads? What am I making for dinner? Why do I have so many clothes? When will I hear from Eric again? Where did I put my ring? Why have so many parts arrived? Who will be my new coworker? Will I have time for even one game once I start volunteering at St. Mary's? Will my TB test for St. Mary's come back positive? Why do I worry so much?
Fortunately there are always friends. There's always Exalted. There's Mass Effect. There's Neal Stephenson and William Gibson. There's my sketchbook. There's FRO. There's baking bread. There's the blessed internet (does it count as a singularity?).
I do not get where I am trying to get to. My plans don't work out. Bad things happen through no fault of my own. But I am still not dead in a cardboard box on the street. I still have a plan. Another plan. A backup plan for that plan, and a plan for the zombies. I still have my combat boots.
Past Becca in high school was not anticipating me as her future. She was looking forward to some murky time, where we were doing something, in a place we liked more, with people we liked more. I have that, but I'm not who she was looking forward to being. Past Becca in college was also hoping we would be doing something else, making more money, dressing in suits with long hair that we had professionally done. Becca-now is looking ahead, hoping we'll end up in a white coat and scrubs, picking apart bits of flesh and figuring out what went wrong. None of us were particularly anticipating where we are now (especially very little Becca, who was quite convinced we'd be on Mars by now). Nevertheless, I think of myself as a chain of Beccas, all holding hands, extending from 1984 and into the future, and we're all sharing this. That's always gotten me through to the next day.
The clothing piles are being reined in, half of them packed away. This weekend begins the slow migration of books and things from the back room to the bedroom, to make room for Gordon, despite his paucity of possessions. The sounds of League of Legend are more common than Rainbow Six or Red Dead Redemption. I share tea that I make. There's leftover potato soup in the fridge. These things are not the same.
I created a fake, cheap knock-off of a onmyodo warding strip thingy. It hangs above the door, blue hands warding off unnecessary worrying. Where will I get the money for school? How will I get into medical school? Do I have enough pads? What am I making for dinner? Why do I have so many clothes? When will I hear from Eric again? Where did I put my ring? Why have so many parts arrived? Who will be my new coworker? Will I have time for even one game once I start volunteering at St. Mary's? Will my TB test for St. Mary's come back positive? Why do I worry so much?
Fortunately there are always friends. There's always Exalted. There's Mass Effect. There's Neal Stephenson and William Gibson. There's my sketchbook. There's FRO. There's baking bread. There's the blessed internet (does it count as a singularity?).
I do not get where I am trying to get to. My plans don't work out. Bad things happen through no fault of my own. But I am still not dead in a cardboard box on the street. I still have a plan. Another plan. A backup plan for that plan, and a plan for the zombies. I still have my combat boots.
Past Becca in high school was not anticipating me as her future. She was looking forward to some murky time, where we were doing something, in a place we liked more, with people we liked more. I have that, but I'm not who she was looking forward to being. Past Becca in college was also hoping we would be doing something else, making more money, dressing in suits with long hair that we had professionally done. Becca-now is looking ahead, hoping we'll end up in a white coat and scrubs, picking apart bits of flesh and figuring out what went wrong. None of us were particularly anticipating where we are now (especially very little Becca, who was quite convinced we'd be on Mars by now). Nevertheless, I think of myself as a chain of Beccas, all holding hands, extending from 1984 and into the future, and we're all sharing this. That's always gotten me through to the next day.