(no subject)
So I'm leaving in two hours to go to the Summer Welcome at Austin Peay State University, which appears to be where I'm going to school, mostly by default. Well, I'll stay at my uncle's house overnight, and then get up early and go to the Summer Welcome, because of course the best time to sit down with your faculty advisor and plan out your future life is at 8:00 a.m. at the beginning of summer break.
Not, of course, that my faculty advisor would have much luck with me, even at a reasonable hour on a decent day, as I'm probably only capable of sitting there, repeating forlornly, "What do you mean, APSU doesn't have a linguistics department?" and weeping into the bad coffee. I briefly considered the idea of using what the polite relations call my "force of personality" to cause a linguistics department to be developed just for me, but was cruelly disillusioned on this point by my uncaring parents, who pointed out that bureaucracy was created to prevent exactly my sort of person from happening to large institutions, and that all I would succeed in doing is making my faculty advisor cry bitter tears along with me. Which, while satisfying, would be a poor consolation prize. Clearly I will be forced to study Computer Science and Information or Communications instead. Woe.
I've also been invited to the banquet in honor of the scholarship and award recipients. Which I-- get this-- must pay for. Yes, I have to pay to be worshiped for receiving large amounts of money. There's something fundamentally wrong American with this situation.
An hour and a half now. Am I packing? Am I taking that shower that I so desperately need? No, of course not. I am sitting around reading my f-list and drinking more cups of tea than should be strictly legal, particularly before a long car ride, particularly when I'm driving. (If you see a Honda screaming through Nashville at about 95 mph with a cackling harpy in the front and two very sensible looking parents trying to claw the windows down like crazed squirrels in their desperate attempts to exit the vehicle, that would be me. Honk!)
I feel that doing everything at the last minute is the solid option, though, and what am I if not a responsible individual who never ever forgets anything important, like underwear? Or soap?
I have however packed the Official Mother-Approved Clothing. Allow me at this point to say, my mother is insane. I am going to an advisory meeting and a banquet, not out clubbing, but then, who am I to argue. Although the invitation did say, "Please sit at your special program's table so we can start getting to know you," and I feel nothing lets people get to know me better than platforms and pleated skirts with enormous amounts of hardware all down the front. Who knows, I may even be persuaded-- nay, asked-- to dance on tables, and that would be even better than linguistics.
It's probably unnecessary to say the old pater doesn't know about that particular attempt at "dressy". He wailed when he saw my attire for today, and we're only going to my uncle's.
HIM: We're going to your conservative relatives' house and they have kindly allowed us to stay the night! Just pretend to match before I die of shame!
ME: You say that as though fuschia sneakers and camo fatigues are out of the ordinary for me. [pause] As though your hope will make it true.
HIM: It was the war of bitter reality against false optimism. I have seen the light. And it is pink. And green. Together.
Also, this Scottish holiday tea, which is I'm going to assume supposed to taste like a Highland Christmas, has a distinct air of bananas. Bad form, Twinings Scottish Nog-that-was-on-sale-in-May, bad form.
Not, of course, that my faculty advisor would have much luck with me, even at a reasonable hour on a decent day, as I'm probably only capable of sitting there, repeating forlornly, "What do you mean, APSU doesn't have a linguistics department?" and weeping into the bad coffee. I briefly considered the idea of using what the polite relations call my "force of personality" to cause a linguistics department to be developed just for me, but was cruelly disillusioned on this point by my uncaring parents, who pointed out that bureaucracy was created to prevent exactly my sort of person from happening to large institutions, and that all I would succeed in doing is making my faculty advisor cry bitter tears along with me. Which, while satisfying, would be a poor consolation prize. Clearly I will be forced to study Computer Science and Information or Communications instead. Woe.
I've also been invited to the banquet in honor of the scholarship and award recipients. Which I-- get this-- must pay for. Yes, I have to pay to be worshiped for receiving large amounts of money. There's something fundamentally wrong American with this situation.
An hour and a half now. Am I packing? Am I taking that shower that I so desperately need? No, of course not. I am sitting around reading my f-list and drinking more cups of tea than should be strictly legal, particularly before a long car ride, particularly when I'm driving. (If you see a Honda screaming through Nashville at about 95 mph with a cackling harpy in the front and two very sensible looking parents trying to claw the windows down like crazed squirrels in their desperate attempts to exit the vehicle, that would be me. Honk!)
I feel that doing everything at the last minute is the solid option, though, and what am I if not a responsible individual who never ever forgets anything important, like underwear? Or soap?
I have however packed the Official Mother-Approved Clothing. Allow me at this point to say, my mother is insane. I am going to an advisory meeting and a banquet, not out clubbing, but then, who am I to argue. Although the invitation did say, "Please sit at your special program's table so we can start getting to know you," and I feel nothing lets people get to know me better than platforms and pleated skirts with enormous amounts of hardware all down the front. Who knows, I may even be persuaded-- nay, asked-- to dance on tables, and that would be even better than linguistics.
It's probably unnecessary to say the old pater doesn't know about that particular attempt at "dressy". He wailed when he saw my attire for today, and we're only going to my uncle's.
HIM: We're going to your conservative relatives' house and they have kindly allowed us to stay the night! Just pretend to match before I die of shame!
ME: You say that as though fuschia sneakers and camo fatigues are out of the ordinary for me. [pause] As though your hope will make it true.
HIM: It was the war of bitter reality against false optimism. I have seen the light. And it is pink. And green. Together.
Also, this Scottish holiday tea, which is I'm going to assume supposed to taste like a Highland Christmas, has a distinct air of bananas. Bad form, Twinings Scottish Nog-that-was-on-sale-in-May, bad form.