parenthetical.org (where the stars go blue)

Thursday, May 31, 2001

I haven't said much because there seems to be very little to say these days.

It has dawned on me more than once (and yes, that's how I am, things have to dawn on me several times sometimes) that my endless complaining about home isn't necessarily kind to the people that are at home. I don't mean anything personal by it, of course, but I'm sure it's not always interperted as such.

Part of the problem, I know, is this anti-social streak in me. Sometimes, if left to my own devices, I know I will just hibernate. I won't go out, I won't deal with people, responsibilities, life, etc. I'll sleep. Except then I get noctural: sleep in the day, click away at the keyboard at night.

Only I have nothing to say, really, so there's more silence than clicking.

It's this sad, self-perpetuating cycle: when I am bored, I am not very creative. When I'm not very creative, I don't come up with much and when I'm not coming up with much, I'm well, bored.

I want to redesign (again) and I owe Zara a design as well, but lately, I open notepad write a few lines and think, nope, nevermind, maybe later, and nothing comes.

Sometimes, so much of my life seems like a vote for the status quo. I come home from school to the same job, the same messy piles of junk in my room, the same people I don't call as much as I should — even my grades arrive in the mail to inform me my GPA is essentially unchanged(slightly higher, but before I rounded up a bit. Now, to be fair, I have to round down a bit. But it's still the same).

And maybe there's nothing terribly wrong with all that — it's safe anyway. However, there is really not much to be said for it either. And so silence reigns.

[03:27 PM EST] [reply?]

Friday, May 25, 2001

I said it would never happen, I swore, up and down, over and over that I would never go back.

I went back.

For seven hours yesterday, I soft-served, scooped, rang-up and cleaned in my crappy kiosk (not even a real store! I think I deserve at least four walls) while the newly-installed security camera recorded. I sold my summer to TCBY for $7.50 an hour.

But this is not enough, I fear. Actually, I know.

It's a small store, they don't have that many hours to give out. I need hours. Lots of them. I need money. Badly.

By my calculations, I'll need something like a thousand dollars per semester (that's $2,000 for you slower ones) to survive in a mildly comfortable way at school. By my records, I have much less than that remaining in my bank account.

I like there to be at least some padding. Ideally, I will go back to school with something like four grand in my account. Realistically, $3,500 would be ok. At current rates, I would be just fine — if school started in, say, November.

And so I look. I look high, I look low, I look everywhere. I need a job.

Ok, so maybe I only filled out a few applications and stopped by a few places, but still. It's not looking good.

I am not a picky person about jobs. I mean, really, I am the person who spent two years at TCBY with Satan as my boss. Prior to that, I worked at what was essentially a cult's living quarters as a servant. I cooked, I cleaned, I scrubbed toilets, I served food, I washed dishes (in that order too, ew...). They made us listen to lots of brainwashing-type religious talk. ("How is your relationship with God doing, Caroline?" *).

So you see, I am pretty desperate here. I am not looking for much, just maybe $8.50 an hour or so, and if at all possible, nothing before 8 am.

I don't mind food. I don't mind retail. (OK, I do sort of, but not that much. If it comes down to it, I'll do it.) I am ok with money, I like computers, and I type like a mean mother-fucker (ok, well, I type moderately fast with a fair number of typos, but up until college, most people seemed very impressed by my typing abilities. Then I went to a school where everybody is a geek, even if they pretend they aren't.)

I am ok with kids, I show up when I am supposed to and I am so polite to customers that I made $21 in tips all by myself yesterday evening.

So you see, what you are looking at here is a goldmine of untapped opportunity. I am young, fairly strong, fairly desperate and I have no social life to speak of this summer so what you've really got is an unlimited ability to exploit me.

And if not, well, it currently looks like I will be forced into either the wonderful world of telemarketing (Please! Kill me now! I hate confrontation, I hate making phone calls, I hate asking questions and I take "no" for an answer almost immediately.) or filing papers in my dad's office which really, I don't want to do.

So please. Come on. Hire me. I'll work hard, I promise.

* My boss actually asked me that once. It was hard not to laugh. (back up)

[02:55 AM EST] [4]

Sunday, May 20, 2001

"I am going through my closet," she says. "Old boyfriend box, keep or pitch?"

My first instinct — that pseudo-independent woman part of me — says chuck it. Really, do you need fifty ticket stubs and some old, dried out flowers that are probably crackling, breaking and making a mess of your closet?

But then, I think, they're there, in my room, and actually, a lot of the ticket stubs aren't even away in a box.

When I come home at night, I usually empty my pockets out onto my desk. At home, at school, it's always the same — any change, dollar bills, receipts and ticket stubs — all are deposited onto my desk. Change goes into the ever-so-useless change cup, bills into my wallet, receipts into the trash most times, and ticket stubs go (depending on the night) into a small box I have.

On my desk at home, in one of those boxes, are a pile of ticket stubs, the most recent of which probably reads something like June 11. (Mission Impossible II, and that night was actually a pretty good night as far as I can recall — OK movie and no big fights or anything, which seemed like sort of a feet at the time.)

There is really no reason to keep those things, I mean, I am not about to make a Dave Scrapbook and paste pictures of us, ticket stubs, cards and letters in. I threw out the flowers he gave me because after a while, they do start to dry out and make a mess, but I think, somewhere, in one of the books on my shelf, there are flowers pressed and flattened and I think if I let myself think about it hard enough, I could identify those books and remove said flowers, but I can't quite bring myself to do that. Or throw out the ticket stubs.

"Some of this stuff is pretty dumb," my friend admits. An Arizona iced tea bottle? A Sobe bottle? Why she saved these things, I don't really ask, I'm sure she probably remembers their significance, but then, you don't really need to have the physical reminder to keep with you always.

And then there are other things I'm not so sure about.

Pictures?

You'd probably regret it if they were gone, but do you really want to look?

The IM conversation in which we break up?

Oh.

For a while there, I hung onto everything with some vauge feeling that if I really needed to, I would produce them as proof. As evidence.

I don't know, it was a strangely paranoid feeling that someday, he might deny everything and then, aha! I did not just buy this ticket to see Being John Malcovitch on November 27th in Harvard Square at 7:30 pm alone! Nor did I forge this Christmas card or fake this IM! There are dates and timestamps and physical forms of evidence you can't deny.

But that hasn't really been necessary, and it became apparent it wouldn't be necessary quite some time ago. And yet, these things remain on my shelves.

There are other things — a drawer in my jewlery box filled with used calling cards, probably several hundred dollars worth, if you add it up, although I never did. A disk filled with emails and IM's that I'm not even sure how to open on my computer anymore because I saved it in a weird format, on purpose, but thinking I would not forget. There are pictures, somewhere, and folder filled with yellowing letters and I know, eventually, I should get rid of these things because you can't just go your whole life amassing random scraps of paper that once had significance because eventually, you will run out of space, or into problems, or something —

But I am not very good at throwing these things out.

In good time, I'm sure I'll chuck the ticket stubs and the calling cards, but probably hang onto the letters, conversations and dried out flower petals. At least for now.

For those interested parties, there are also, sitting on the top shelf of my closet, precariously placed on what my mother created as my "memory box": one blue and white blanket and one bunny that probably smells like my room by now. I'm keeping them there, unless you want them.

[02:44 AM EST] [8]

Monday, May 14, 2001

Well, here it comes. The I Am Bored entry. You had to know it was coming the moment I got home.

Well, I'm sorry. It's true.

Currently, I have no car, no job, and apparently, no friends. At least, friends who are nearby. At least, nearby and available. At least, I think so, if I called them, I would probably know more about this.

My room is on its way to being messy again — boxes, garbage bags and random items have been unpacked and settled into the corners where they are very likely to remain for the next few months. (But really, is there any sense in unpacking sweaters that surely, I will not be wearing for the next three months, and I will just be taking away in a few months? I'm sure we'll all be doing ourselves a favor if I am just allowed to keep them there, like that.)

Tomorrow, I'm planning on working on that job part of things. A few applications here, there, and I guess in a way, the friend thing will be helped at bit since Liz is coming home. Gonna have to (once again, for the millionth time in the past few days, it seems) have to help someone pack and unpack, but she'll be back. And hopefully, Wednesday, my mom and I will trek up to my grandparents house to drive off with my what was my grandfather's car.

Do not interpret my saying that it's a big, grey, old person sort of car (I think it's a Lincoln Towncar? Maybe an '89?) as a complaint, because I am very, very grateful that I will have something to drive this summer. (Even if I must share it with my sisters.) And I know I have been very fortunate in the past to always have a car (to share) and I should not complain at all.

However, I would be really happy if I didn't need a car. If there was some decent way of survival around here on foot, and maybe if I worked at Bert's (the restaurant down the street) and I relied only on the beach (note: the words "Plymouth" and "beach" are not usually preceded by "beautiful" "spectacular" or "swim" without the word "not" somewhere very nearby) for some sort of social life, really, that's just not going to happen (well, I hope).

I miss city blocks that are neatly grided out, dozens of restaurants within walking distance, friends across the hall. I miss Wawa and the fact that no matter what time of day or night you went, there would always be a line, and chances are, someone you knew in the store.

I also really, really miss my ethernet and all the songs on my playlist. My little sister has the wonders of Linkin Park, Papa Roach and a New Found Glory on here. Something really must be done, but right now, I'm off to finish Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone. Because that's something to do at least.

[11:10 PM EST] [3]

Friday, May 11, 2001

It was a frantic rush in the end, the cabs, the luggage, the confused parents rolling carts everywhere. A busy street corner with two cabs waiting with meters running is not really an ideal place for a goodbye.

But it was how it was, the quick hugs, the hurried shove of bags and the last minute "Wait-you-forgot-your-keys".

You don't live here anymore. This isn't your room.

Last night, I pulled down all the posters off my walls and the curtains off my windows. I'd already packed a lot (and I have until six tonight) but somehow, it still felt like I was going to be staying too long. It looked to much like my dorm has looked for the last few months, a bedroom that someone lives in.

After pushing, pulling and willing five loads of those damn rolly carts four blocks down 37th, then up one block to 38th almost all of my friends' worldly possessions had left their rooms, or were neatly packed away in boxes and suitcases waiting to go home. It just didn't seem right that my room looked like it always had.

So I tore down the posters, threw more things in boxes and did what I could to turn a bedroom into a summer camp bunk. We sat around in a room for hours, spartanly furnished with sheets and a few boxes and suitcases last night. Drinking and talking and realizing but not quite realizing how much had gone by.

I am half terrified of going home because I don't know how I am going to react. I'm afraid of this strange, intangible feeling that sometimes seeps into my moods when I'm home. I feel very small, very much not in control and very useless. Sometimes, anyway.

Then again, there are the times here when I feel so bitter, so annoyed with people, I mean, I really want to hurt them. I form abstract definitions of what I believe a "real person" is and judge people by my standards, even though I know it's not really fair. But a lot of people seem so fake so much of the time. At least, I tell myself, people at home are real. I think they are, anyway.

There are half-packed boxes all around me and moving in seems so recent now, granted, so long ago and so much has changed since then, but oh how fast it went. I am scared at how fast time is flying by now — is it just me, or really, did this past year slip through my fingertips when I wasn't looking? This is one quarter — twenty-five percent — of college. Gone.

I feel like it's senior year all over again and I'm listening to what was my junior prom theme on my computer (Bob Seger's "We've got Tonight" — I'm sure there's a good chance that at some point, it was your prom theme too) and this is getting to be a little much. (I consider attending my high school's graduation for a moment and know this is definately getting too dramatic. Maybe I will stop by to visit. But graduation? Once through was enough suffering for a lifetime, I am sure.)

There are only three and a half months seperating me from anxiety over tests and late nights studying and frustration and melodramatic cries of "I am dropping out of school!" And there will be six (five, discounting a possible semester in London) more semesters of that to face.

And now, as I finish my last lunch of freshman year and longingly wish that the crepe truck would become a chain event (I suppose they would probably first want to open an actual store, not just a food truck) I tell myself to cheer up, that things will be ok and you'll be back sooner than you think.

Goodbye School. I'll miss you.

[02:43 PM EST] [3]

Wednesday, May 9, 2001

I am suddenly panicking. I don't want to be going. I don't know what I'm going to do when I get home. I can't believe so much has gone by so fast.

With each drawer I open to pack into boxes, I find myself looking at different artifacts from a year gone by. Letters home, letters from home, ticket stubs and inside jokes. So much has changed since I first arrived. I sound ridiculously cheesy (as will much of this entry, so you cynnical, edgy, non-cheesy types can just continue on elsewhere) but I really feel like a different person.

So, has it been a good year? someone asks me and I have to pause, running a mental tally of all the bad things that have happened since last spring (I guess that constitutes a year? When does a year begin? January seems such an arbitrary date, things are always mid-point then) and match them against all the good. The end result, though it takes a moment, is a strong yes.

Yes, I am good and yes, I have enjoyed myself and I'm glad I came and I have no regrets. Well, one or two, or maybe a couple, but not enough to really keep me up at night. At least not often anyway.

(What keeps me up at night are the people in the longue next door, who praise-be-to-Jesus, will not be there next year. Or maybe they will, but I won't be in this room!)

So this end, this becoming-a-sophomore thing is not really so bad. It has its perks. I get new roommates next year, and a single — at least for first semester.

And there will be no more papers, no more of this frantic late nights, at least, not for three and a half months. No more of this exam crap for a blissful summer season.

More of this rant later, I am sure. Next week, when I am home and reaching the utter depths of boredom, I'm sure you'll also notice more crap. Maybe even emotional-type stuff too. Now, I think I need a walk.

[11:00 PM EST] [2]

Monday, May 7, 2001

I sputtered out obscenities at the printer, causing people in the lab to raise their eyebrows and glance over. And stare.

I didn't care. I stood there, not just noticing (except, of course, I do, because I always notice things, I just pretend I don't see them sometimes), nervously tapping my leg as I grabbed each page as it came out. And then I was off.

Clutching a folder (a portfolio, really) to my chest, I sprinted across campus. In my other hand: a stapler, a pen (ironic typo/slip: penn), and my wallet with the keys hanging off it, jingling as I run. I'm sure I must've look pretty silly, flip-flops flapping, exasperated expression, frantic rushing.

I don't care. I turned my paper in on time (barely).

And then I was free. Almost, anyway. Close enough.

Later that night — after assignments have been completed, staplers returned to desks, good food and the horrors of public transit, I leisurely make my way back to my room. Through big, leafy trees (campus looks so green) I see a moon and it's a little past (or not quite — I don't know) full and I think things are good. I am happy and only good things will come, I tell myself. Or mostly good things, anyway.

I think tomorrow, I will go get my hair cut. I feel like it's time for a change.

[11:54 PM EST] [1]

Saturday, May 5, 2001

I know I need to clean up. There are papers for classes I'm no longer attending scattered about: notebooks and looseleaf, books, bulkpacks and an endless ream of photocopies.

This is my last Saturday here.

Well, no, actually, it's only my last Saturday here for a few months, but that seems long enough. I am overly scared and sentimenal and right now, I don't really want to go home. Wherever that is.

Not that it won't be nice to get home and see my family and friends and all the old places I haven't been in months. And to drive, like in a car, like wherever I want.

Last night we took Septa down to the Ritz and saw Bridget Jones' Diary. There's something about the subway — the cool air, the smell of trains, I don't know what, but I find it sort of peaceful. Subways smell different in different cities, I think, or maybe it's just that I never have really lived in the city, taking the subway every day, so I just think it's different. I don't know.

We walked back. Stopped at Little Pete's halfway, but walked all 37 blocks (39 the way we went, 39) and it was a warm night, but no longer sticky hot and sat in my room and talked and asked questions and it was nice, and I will miss nights like this next week or so when I am home and nobody else is yet.

I will pack later.

Later, when I really have to, I will take out the trash and all those unnecessary scraps of paper that litter my room. I will fold my clothes and put them into boxes and garbage bags (the benefit of having my mother come pick me up — no need for storage). I will take down the posters on my wall and I'm not sure if I'm keeping them or not because they have all that gummy stuff on the back and I can't imagine that'll pack real well, especially in this humidity, but I will do something with them. And I'll take down all the photographs on my wall, which are all of friends I will be seeing soon enough anyhow, so I really can't be so sad about putting them away.

My walls will just be empty.

I have taken my last final for the year. I still have a portfolio to finish and another paper to write, but the hours of reading are done. Mostly, the stress is over with too. And soon enough, all of this will be as well — at least for the summer.

I am too sentimental.

[01:07 PM EST] [2]

Thursday, May 3, 2001

Though the green grass and undiluted sunlight call my name, my pale (pasty, really) Irish skin has never been one for much exposure and my tolerance for heat -- 85 degree heat, that is, in very early May -- and I find myself retreating to the cool, air conditioned safety of the library.

I love reading days, even when the determination to study is tempted by beautiful weather and more free time than I've had in months. I love the peaceful anonymity found deep in the dark corners of the library. So there I was, again.

Except, apparently, many people had this plan as well.

It was crowded, to say the least. Before I knew it, I found myself on the sixth floor, seeking solace deep in the stacks which still held people. I found myself at one of only a handful of empty desks in the library -- yet still isolated and more or less out of sight, which is really how I'm best off if I have to study.

Words were read, pages were turned -- I think notes may even have been taken, but I'm not sure the words "study" or "comprehend" can quite be applied. I'm not sure.

My problem is partly that I get so easily distracted. I look up and read the comments scratched into the desktop and bookshelf nearby.

"I miss sex :("

"I miss sex and good food!"

"I miss fine girls, but we'll always have Penn...

Not exactly fasincating, or even really witty stuff (although someone had drawn a rather amusing penis cartoon to accompany the drawings) but I was bored. I continued to look for more quasi-graffiti.

"Carra and Jeff 12/12/86" and then beside it, "Are you still together? 12-10-90"

Carra (or was it Jeff?) never replied, so I suppose we'll never know. Why I care, I don't know, but I always notice when people scratch weird things like random intials and dates into places. I find myself staring, daily at the graffiti scratched into the third shower stall in the bathroom, proclaiming "Grand Master Greg, SAE, Peace out fo' tha 9-7" and "1996: Representin' on the East Coast, Maintainin' game on th' West"

You'd have to be pretty lame, I think, to include punctuation like apostrophes and to call yourself the "Grand Master Greg" in your freaking freshman dorm shower stall, but hey. Welcome to my school.

I think it's this strange, nostaglic, sentimental side in me that pays attention to things as stupid as what some kid scratched onto his shower stall wall five years ago. I don't know. I always wonder who they were and what they were thinking, and if I wrote anything, would anybody I know see it later?

Probably not, and probably anything I would think to write would be pretty lame, and nobody really wants national monuments defaced with "Caroline wuz here 6/2/00" but I don't know.

Anyway, peace out, yo.

[02:32 PM EST] [reply?]

Tuesday, May 1, 2001

Outside, as it's just after dark and the air is still warm, I pass people. Dressed up, going out.

Greek formal season is upon us, except of course, not really, since it's upon a few and they're the few that I pass on my walk home. Long gowns, tuxes, gowns and suits -- some with flowers, some with whole bouquets that a girl will awkwardly take in her arms with 'thank you's' and 'aw, they're beautiful's' in the air, wondering to herself what, exactly, she should do with them.

Throngs of well dressed people clog the entranceway to the Quad and I look down -- tank top, old jeans and sandals that make loud, slapping noises with each step.

The smell of a familiar cologne catches my attention and causes me to turn my head, although I'm not quite sure what I'm expecting to see. Some smells still do that to me, though.

I can't help but think of the proms, the semi-formals, graduation dances and graduation itself -- all the stupid occassions that, I guess, mark something, and are at the very least, a reason to go out and buy flowers to for another person to wear. Prom was a year ago today, I think.

I think I've come a long way since then. I remember that night -- the dress, I didn't like so much as the one the year before, the hair that I just don't know what the hairdresser was thinking when she created and the stupid drama that of course, finds its way into everything.

After the prom, I remember pacing around, upset and distracted.

"Do you want to have a cigarette with me?" my sister asked.

"I don't smoke. You know that --"

"I know. That's the point."

And maybe she did have a point. I went outside, she said she'd be right out.

Once outside, I crumpled -- or to be more precise -- threw myself across the hood of EJ's car, still sort of warm. I cried.

I cried for a lot of dumb high school reasons, like I didn't know what was happening with my relationship, because things were ending, because there were problems in my family I couldn't deal with, and because I couldn't help but feel that I was terribly alone and that in a very few short months, I would be completely alone, and completely lost.

As things turned out, maybe not. But as things wind down and months turn into weeks and days, I'm starting to be afraid of going back. I associate a lot of that with feeling lost -- like if I have nothing immediately around me to show for my accomplishments, they may as well not exist.

And then, as I was walking back to my dorm again, later -- this time from studying (or trying to, at least) I encountered the formalwearers again. But this time, it was more of a trickle than a rush -- the cabs pulling up with one or two couples, the quiet walks back to dorms. And once again, my old sweatshirt and jeans made me wonder if maybe I wasn't just a little lost afterall.