Thursday, February 28, 2002
An emergency root canal disabled my professor thus resulting in the cancellation of my class this afternoon. The announcement came just seconds after I popped open my can (can, not bottle—I didn't have the $1.25 to invest in a re-sealable beverage) of Diet Coke.
Now normally, any announcement that class has been cancelled is, of course, quite wonderful. And even though an emergency root canal really probably isn't a great reason to get all excited and say things like 'That just made my day!'—well, cancelled class of any sort kind of is a great reason for doing just that.
But there I was, sitting with my cold, newly-opened carbonated beverage (a poor, liquid substitute for purchasing a solid meal because, well, I am broke and even more importantly, lazy) and all I could think was goddamnit, I just opened this and it's completely full still.
When fortune smiles upon you, be sure to scowl right back at it. It's good practice for being bitter.
[12:54 PM EST] [3]
Tuesday, February 19, 2002
It was the late part of early on a Thursday night and I'd just wrapped up a draft of a paper and was heading back to my dorm, feeling by all accounts, extrodinarily lucky. I had some time to kill and the air—though cold—was not too windy to prevent my lingering.
I hadn't ventured back inside the Quad gates since mid-September, and even then, it was only to pick up a roll of film from someone before hurrying back to finish before it got to be much after deadline. But now, I didn't particularly have any reason to hurry anywhere, so I did stick around a bit.
I crossed the courtyard I had thousands of times before, remembering all the stupid cracks I used to step to avoid. I opened the heavy door, heard its familiar squeak and decended into a hall that no longer really resembled my hall from last year.
The walls were painted a brighter, more sterile white; the ancient carpeting replaced by neat green tiles. New doors, new people. Last time I stopped by this hall, they were all just moving in, barely aquainted and hardly adjusted. In in the intervening months, entire social heirarchies have evolved.
I took a trip out over Junior Balcony, recalling the times I'd spent out there, furtively puffing on a cigarette in my solo rebellion. Or the night of Fling Liz and I spent out there, discussing matters ignorantly. Or the night Michelle and I spent with a bag of Tostitos, paranoidly munching away. Or the night Zara, Jon and I sat and talked over meatball subs from Wawa.
It was a long, long time ago.
I went up the steps that I can still remember my dad telling me he'd gone up hundreds of times before. I could never picture a younger, college-version of him living there. I still can't. Last year, I couldn't picture any moment but the one I lived in as being true to life—and now, even that is a hard one to see.
[12:17 AM EST] [1]
Tuesday, February 12, 2002
I'd just like to state, for the record, that I am a very, very Stupid Girl. If you added up the amount of time and energy throughout the day that I spend thinking about, pondering over and generally obsessing on the truly silly and trivial, you too would be forced to come to this conclusion. So I'll just save you the time and tell you that up front.
Some of it isn't entirely me, some of it is brought on by circumstances and social constructs which I cannot ignore (or perhaps that's what makes me stupid—were I able to rise above and ignore them, I would be a far, far better person). But alas, I cannot—there it is, right on my daily planner, a completely empty and unmarked 'February 14' and, in smaller letters printed underneath, 'Valentine's Day.'
Ah, yes, it remains completely empty as of yet—no plans, no scheduled meetings or dinner dates or little heart smilies. Just empty. And I'm being very stupid about it.
I'd like to believe (and there is still time) these circumstances shall change—he should call, email, or some act of God shall intervene and there will be plans. Dinner, maybe. I'm not asking for much. I don't demand flowers or chocolates (please, no) or wrapped gifts of any sort. (OK, well, if plans are an impossibility, flowers or something, something would be appreciated.) I just want dinner. And maybe a bit of clarification.
Oh, I know. Modern woman of the 21st century and all, I should not be so stupid as to think I can't call him myself and make these plans. But I am still bound to stupid old rules that somehow mean something to me. And it's Valentine's Day, and I've never actually, in nineteen years of Valentine's Days, spent the actual holiday with someone I was romantically interested in. I'd like that, really, just once (or maybe a lot more than just once, but I'm only asking once of him).
This is where the stupid girl part of it all comes in. Because any rational human being would not spend nearly the amount of time and effort and energy that I have spent dwelling on, thinking about and obsessing over this quasi-relationship. (Ah, another point of stupidity—when is it a safe to breach the 'what-are-we-anyway' conversation? When is it too soon, when has the boat passed me by entirely? When am I not going to be so fucking stupid?)
A rational person—she would not do these things. But never call me rational, my friend. I'm just not. Not with this, not with a lot of things.
Anyway. I blame this stupid holiday as well as myself (and him, partly, because really. It has been four days and he has not called yet, and while I know he's been away some of that time, should he really assume my life is just so boring that I have nothing better to do than drop my non-existant plans and spend time with him at a moment's notice. (Even if that is sort of the case.)). It's right there on the calendar, and you really can't ignore it. Not with all the flyers (Special! One Dozen Roses! Order now and avoid the rush!) staring you in the face. And if you do choose to pretend as though you didn't notice, your silence in itself speaks volumes. And if you choose to acknowledge it, now what—and how much?
Alas, I annoy myself. And stare at it as I might, I cannot will my phone to ring and I cannot force emails to be sent to my box. I can only wait and remain the stupid girl—or, by some amazing display of willpower and strength, ignore the whole trivial mess altogether and actually write my English paper, which incidentally, is due the 15th.
Post Script: Fifty minutes after the completion of this entry, I recieved an email invitation. Dinner—Wendesday. I remind myself this is fair, I know he works on Thursdays afterall, but still, it is the day before Valentine's Day, and I can't help but think this says something. Or maybe that I read into these things too much. But alas—on with that English homework.
[12:08 AM EST] [1]
Thursday, February 7, 2002
So, yeah. . .
I have a habit of doing this...thing...that takes perfectly normal, healthy, free-flowing conversation and turns it into stifled, limping along conversation. I don't mean to do it, it just...happens. Or something.
Anyway. yeah.
Just like that. I'll be going along, expressing a sentence, you'll express your sentence and there will come that natural pause—normal and healthy thing that it is—but I won't let it sit there. Oh, no. No, no, no.
There's the inhale. The pause of breath—and right there, with that very motion, I've forced myself to say something. But I have nothing to say. But that won't stop me. Out comes the, "So uhm," or, "Yeah... I don't know..." or my most recent favorite, "I'm tired..."
Though none of these things are especially great to blurt out on an repeated basis because they have a habit of making silence that was once just there turn to silence that is now awkward and overly noticeable, the last one is especially troublesome because it doesn't exactly sound like filler. It sounds like you are tired. A tired, bored, boring person.
The thing is, it's true—at least the tired part for sure (probably the boring part as well). I'm just always tired. I can never get enough sleep. I'm not sure a thing called "too much sleep" exists. Even "enough sleep." One can never get enough sleep. It just doesn't happen. Oh, sure, we've had enough to function, to make getting out of bed a more comfortable option than remaining in bed (due, largely, to our need to eat and relieve ourselves) but that's not really enough sleep, it's just functional. But underneath the surface, I'm still always tired. And when there's nothing else to say at that very moment, that little factoid often comes bubbling to the surface.
I need to make this pesky little habit end, for fear of scaring away all friends and potential more-than-friends with what would appear to be a massive case of sleep deprivation, but it's really quite hard, you see, because when you get right down to it, sometimes I just don't have a damn thing to say.
[12:20 AM EST] [3]
Friday, February 1, 2002
Adding to that wonderful list of accomplishments I have gone and gotten myself a job. Oh, yes. Employed once again.
This time, it's not serving food or doing the data entry thing, but I think it probably falls somewhere in the ugly zone of employment: telemarketing.
It's not exactly telemarketing, though. Really, I swear. I just feel like a dirty, bad person when I do it.
I work for the school. I call alumni. I ask them for money. They don't usually give it to me.
I've worked a Monday night and a Tuesday night thus far, collecting a mere $25 and $100 in pledges, respectively. The first night, I worked three hours. At $8.50 an hour (you'll note the same amount I sold my soul to PartyLite for) I cost the school more money than I earned them. Granted, Tuesday night sort of made up for it, but still. It's awful.
Mostly, I get answering machines. Mostly, I don't mind this. Answering machines can't hang up on you, they can't yell at you, they can't tell you never to call again. But they also can't give you money and don't count as a "contact" and generally don't make you look very good to your supervisor (not that I care. But still.)
I have resolved to work because I need the money, but also resolved to be pretty half-assed about it. Two shifts a week, three hours each. A mere six hours of work. It's not really slaving away, but it's something. I think.
The problem is that I have a newly-born addiction to shopping—one which I managed to avoid all through high school when I religiously deposted every paycheck, in full, into my bank account with loving care. But now, I've decided I will enjoy my money while I have it because God knows I will be in debt some day shortly and life will not be nearly as much fun then.
I blame the Internet, mostly. It's just too easy to click around a bit, type in a credit card number and get a package a few days later. There's no unflattering dressing room lighting, no waiting in line, and amazingly, I get mail that consists of more than just credit card applications.
In December, I did the bulk of my Christmas shopping through Amazon, determined to get the free shipping for an order over $100. This free deliver on orders over $100 is truly a device of the devil, designed to make me spend $30 or $40 more than I ever would have normally. Yesterday, I managed to spend a skilled $101.36 at Victoria's Secret, and now, I'm fighting off the urge to indulge in J.Crew's clearance section. (Restraint! Restraint!)
If you're running those figures through your head—$101.36 a week on underwear, six $8.50 an hour at work—you're probably realizing what I ought to: I am screwed. But alas, there is always the food budget to cut into.
[01:04 PM EST] [6]