I installed a lock on my back door so strange men don't trapse into my apartment at 6am
I admit, I haven’t written in here in quite some time. Some people expressed worries that I had fallen off the planet, or as Beca put it, that I had been eaten by a “box monster” during my move into a new apartment. Although a “box monster” sounds quite intriguing in a Where the Wild Things Are type of way, alas, I have not yet been gobbled up and/or transported to a world of pastel jungles.
What I have been doing: skittering away from little mice in my Little, Brown cubicle; attempting to turn my noisy room into a comfortable haven (aka a “home”) via obscure decorative ideas involving screens and lighting; completing a plethora of midterm assignments requiring far too much memorization of names from long ago and places that are like Greek to me (literally-it’s an Archaic Greek class-how fitting); trying to take up the hobby of jewelry making in a copycat way that has nearly failed; realizing that the clubs I once loved have lost their appeal; noticing that spider veins have developed on my legs; commuting about 10 hours a week and subsequently fainting on the T (apparently I have motion sickness AND claustrophobia); sleeping in my hot pink jersey sheets with Simba and sometimes Secret Agent Lover Man at my side; and trying to find my way around this dizzying world.
No, I will not bore you with more specifics. This semester I have felt enlightened and isolated all at once. I speak of Oxford as if it were the best time in my life. I romanticize, romanticize, envy, cope. Other people are terribly on track. I choose to live dangerously and self-destructively. I do not smoke, I hardly drink, but listening to Sufjan feels so good it hurts and I wonder if this intensely religious male knows how many couples out there have riotous sex to the beat of his music. I think about living in Japan and remember how I hate feeling lonely. So instead I eat sushi and feel quite satisfied with myself. I desperately want to take a road trip across the US and remember how I have no license or car. But I come fully equipped with a sense of humor and possibly a box of newly discovered Entemini’s half-moon chocolate goodness with a hint of cream filling in the middle. Also, I’m a talented radio station flipper. I rest not on Sarah McLaughlin but remember a little Run DMC always does the body good.
I’m critical but not pretentious and cupcakes make me elated. I wish Fezgig from “The Dark Crystal” could be my fuzzy little pet, biting intruders with his mouth full o’teeth. He would look cute guarding my bed with Simba. I can’t seem to find my 6th Harry Potter. Did I lend it to one of you? I’ve covered my closet door with photos of gardens so that the locations are nearly undecipherable. All of it comes to represent an “away.” This is possibly a keen character flaw. I threw away a box of couscous last night because there was an itsy bitsy bug carcass in it. I attempted to remain calm but panicked and instead ate microwavable macaroni and cheese for dinner. I am a bad cook. I have recently become obsessed with the comedic duo, Flight of the Concord. Contrary to popular belief, I do not want to birth Brit’s children. I merely want to imagine birthing Brit’s children and be his imaginary wife. Vitamin Water has a stellar ad campaign. I’ve fallen wholeheartedly. I worry in general, but get giddy at 1am. I’ll wake up early if I have to but this is a secret I tell no one. And sometimes I lie.
What I have been doing: skittering away from little mice in my Little, Brown cubicle; attempting to turn my noisy room into a comfortable haven (aka a “home”) via obscure decorative ideas involving screens and lighting; completing a plethora of midterm assignments requiring far too much memorization of names from long ago and places that are like Greek to me (literally-it’s an Archaic Greek class-how fitting); trying to take up the hobby of jewelry making in a copycat way that has nearly failed; realizing that the clubs I once loved have lost their appeal; noticing that spider veins have developed on my legs; commuting about 10 hours a week and subsequently fainting on the T (apparently I have motion sickness AND claustrophobia); sleeping in my hot pink jersey sheets with Simba and sometimes Secret Agent Lover Man at my side; and trying to find my way around this dizzying world.
No, I will not bore you with more specifics. This semester I have felt enlightened and isolated all at once. I speak of Oxford as if it were the best time in my life. I romanticize, romanticize, envy, cope. Other people are terribly on track. I choose to live dangerously and self-destructively. I do not smoke, I hardly drink, but listening to Sufjan feels so good it hurts and I wonder if this intensely religious male knows how many couples out there have riotous sex to the beat of his music. I think about living in Japan and remember how I hate feeling lonely. So instead I eat sushi and feel quite satisfied with myself. I desperately want to take a road trip across the US and remember how I have no license or car. But I come fully equipped with a sense of humor and possibly a box of newly discovered Entemini’s half-moon chocolate goodness with a hint of cream filling in the middle. Also, I’m a talented radio station flipper. I rest not on Sarah McLaughlin but remember a little Run DMC always does the body good.
I’m critical but not pretentious and cupcakes make me elated. I wish Fezgig from “The Dark Crystal” could be my fuzzy little pet, biting intruders with his mouth full o’teeth. He would look cute guarding my bed with Simba. I can’t seem to find my 6th Harry Potter. Did I lend it to one of you? I’ve covered my closet door with photos of gardens so that the locations are nearly undecipherable. All of it comes to represent an “away.” This is possibly a keen character flaw. I threw away a box of couscous last night because there was an itsy bitsy bug carcass in it. I attempted to remain calm but panicked and instead ate microwavable macaroni and cheese for dinner. I am a bad cook. I have recently become obsessed with the comedic duo, Flight of the Concord. Contrary to popular belief, I do not want to birth Brit’s children. I merely want to imagine birthing Brit’s children and be his imaginary wife. Vitamin Water has a stellar ad campaign. I’ve fallen wholeheartedly. I worry in general, but get giddy at 1am. I’ll wake up early if I have to but this is a secret I tell no one. And sometimes I lie.