***DISCLAIMER: This is completely unrelated to my life right now. I am not dealing with any grief, loss, or intense emotional pain. This is just a thought I had this morning and felt the urge to write. I am totally fine.***
Have you ever carved pumpkins? We did once, and it ended with a trip to the ER when the kitchen knife slipped and cut a major vein in my dad's hand. That might be why they sell kits with those tiny serrated knives: so mishaps like that are avoided.
Imagine lying on a table. The room around you is sterile, white with synthetic light and Clorox. An operating room. A man stands over you with one of those pumpkin-carving accident-proof knives. Instead of an anesthesiologist, there are four huge men holding you down - you couldn't move if you tried. With very little care, the doctor digs the blade into your chest. You struggle, attempt to sit up, try to stop him from carrying out this agonizing and apparently pointless task. But those hulking giants are there to keep you down, and they're very good at what they do. The sadist finishes a jagged circle in your chest; he reaches for an ice pick and rips out your heart without any consideration that you need it to survive. He flings it, still clamped in the pick, across the room, removes his gloves, and walks out of the room. The men release you, but you don't move: the pain keeps you where you are. Before all the men leave, one returns to the table and dumps a vial of acid on your gaping chest. Your scream chases him from the room.
Two more men enter the room. One has a camera and dances around the table, capturing your agony on film. The other carries a microphone and gets right up in your face.
"Wow, you look like you're really suffering here," he says, examining your chest. "Could you tell us how it felt when you had your heart cut out? Or maybe what you're feeling right now? Just one word for the camera, if you don't mind."
Would you really sit up and say calmly, "Yeah, it hurt like hell, but I know it'll heal eventually, might leave a scar, but I think I'll be alright, that's comforting enough to make me stop screaming now"? Of course not. You look at him in awe and think around the seering hole in your chest, "HOW CAN YOU EXPECT ME TO PUT SOMETHING LIKE THAT INTO WORDS?!?!!?!!" Instead of a well-formed response, you scream in his face.
In the past three months I've had several friends/acquaintances deal with death. Some lost parents, one lost a close grandfather, the anniversary of my own grandmother's passing was two months ago. As I watch those who have lost, I remember a little-known Proverb that says something like, "A comforting word to the grieving is like salt in a wound." How can we really expect those who are grieving to behave "correctly," to speak coherently, to express themselves logically, when their hearts are heavy and their lives now contain a void? To ask them to behave normally is just as unfair as asking one whose heart has just been ripped out to put into words how he feels. Let them grieve; let them be upset and angry and desperate and paralyzed. They'll come around when they're ready, but your kind words may only be comforting you, letting you think, "Wow, I did something nice, I encouraged them by saying 'they're in a better place' or 'there's a purpose in this'." (My personal favorite is "God works all things together for good" - how dare you imply that something about the loss of this cherished person is good.) Leave them alone, and don't expect more of them than they are physically able to give.
To you who are grieving: Don't feel pressured to muscle up an answer when a scream will do.
21 May 2012
15 May 2012
My God, My God...
This is a prayer I've had on my heart for a while but finally took time to write down last night.
God, You revealed to Ezekiel "living beings" who had faces on all sides of their heads and four wings. You directed them down the path you chose, and, despite their fearful appearance and power, they moved straight ahead to where You told them without turning to look at what was behind.
My God, give me faith like that.
God, You heard a couple's cry for a child and granted them a son, even at ancient ages. Then, as a test of his faith, You commanded the father to sacrifice that gift-child to You on an altar. Only when You reached out to stop him did he pause in carrying out Your will, even if it meant killing his only child, his miracle seed.
My God, give me faith like that.
God, a young woman was approached by a total stranger at a well. She was given gifts and told to come with him, that it was God's will for her to marry a man she had never laid eyes on. And when they asked if she would leave her home, her family, her life and set out toward an unknown future, she said without hesitation, "Yes, I will go."
My God, give me faith like that.
God, a man bowed before You in a garden. So many before him had been willing to do all that You said, but he begged for another way out. If there was an alternative - someone else to do what had to be done, a different way it could be carried out - if only it didn't have to be him. But You sent Your peace to him. You calmed his spirit like rain on a blaze, and he did what You commanded with a final phrase on his lips: "I want Your will to be done, not mine."
O, my God, my God. Give me faith like that.
God, You revealed to Ezekiel "living beings" who had faces on all sides of their heads and four wings. You directed them down the path you chose, and, despite their fearful appearance and power, they moved straight ahead to where You told them without turning to look at what was behind.
My God, give me faith like that.
God, You heard a couple's cry for a child and granted them a son, even at ancient ages. Then, as a test of his faith, You commanded the father to sacrifice that gift-child to You on an altar. Only when You reached out to stop him did he pause in carrying out Your will, even if it meant killing his only child, his miracle seed.
My God, give me faith like that.
God, a young woman was approached by a total stranger at a well. She was given gifts and told to come with him, that it was God's will for her to marry a man she had never laid eyes on. And when they asked if she would leave her home, her family, her life and set out toward an unknown future, she said without hesitation, "Yes, I will go."
My God, give me faith like that.
God, a man bowed before You in a garden. So many before him had been willing to do all that You said, but he begged for another way out. If there was an alternative - someone else to do what had to be done, a different way it could be carried out - if only it didn't have to be him. But You sent Your peace to him. You calmed his spirit like rain on a blaze, and he did what You commanded with a final phrase on his lips: "I want Your will to be done, not mine."
O, my God, my God. Give me faith like that.
12 May 2012
Orange
Classes have been over for a week, and I am sitting at home. Very un-cool for a Friday night, but I got in somewhat late from working an eight-hour shift today. Now that school is out for the summer, it's back to the more grown-up responsibility of working forty hours a week. This is the second summer I've worked at a grocery store. It sounds very shop-around-the-corner-esque, but in reality I am part of a huge, impersonal, commerical machine. There is nothing very picturesque about us.
During my first few weeks of work last year, older employees were constantly asking me, "Are you having fun yet?" And really, how could I lie and say "yes"? Not much about my job is fun. Especially in the first few days back, I clock out, stagger out to my truck, and peel my socks and shoes off my blisters. I roll out of bed in the morning with a groan and stump down the stairs, stiff all over from bending and kneeling and seven-and-a-half hours of walking every day. The environment is potentially toxic, what with the politics and the gossip and the stupid questions and the inevitable battle of relationships (in the span of about a month I've managed to attract, be asked out by, refuse, and piss off one of my coworkers...but I really shouldn't be surprised, I've been told men are confusing wherever you find them). Throw in stupid customer requests, furniture sales and pick-ups at stupid times in the evening, frantic deliveries of product during the last twenty minutes of the closing shift, and you'll understand why I tend to sit and stare when I come home at night.
Though my "Christian school bubble" pops every time I walk on that back dock (it's actually refreshing to get away from the religious and be around "real-world" people...is that bad? : / ), I am appreciating the lesson in perspective. The other day a fellow worker told me when I asked if she was alright, "There's really no point in complaining, everybody else is going through the same thing I am." I chose to complain regardless after cleaning up the toy aisle multiple times in half an hour, and when I declared I'd "had enough," one gentleman sighed, "Man, I know what you mean. I leave here at ten tonight and have to be back here at eight in the morning, and this is my sixth day of work this week."
Comments like that usually shut me up. They put me to shame.
It's days like today when I struggle to overlook the blisters, the grime caked on my hands, the sore muscles, the frustration burning in my head, the way my life constantly revolves around going to work, being at work, or coming home from work, the wonky scheduling that frustrates my family as they demand my asking off when I know I'm frustrating my boss when I ask off because my family wants me to, which makes me frustrated at them and them even more frustrated at me. (It's a vicious cycle...) But I feel that my gratitude is getting as much of a workout as my thighs. I have a job. I am earning meager but apparent pay. I haven't had to completely rearrange my sleeping schedule to adjust to third-shift hours. I typically get two days off. And being employed at the grocery store most used by my family means we get to take advantage of the very nice discount on groceries.
I whine. A lot. And I know in my head that I shouldn't. And though I sometimes think, when I ponder the futility of my job (like when I straighten an entire aisle of toys twelve times a day), "I could really do without this", I do appreciate what I'm getting out of it: a paycheck, nicely-shaped leg muscles, and a few life lessons on the side.
Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to throw up from the precious wrap-up to that thought. :) Oh, and Happy Mother's Day.
During my first few weeks of work last year, older employees were constantly asking me, "Are you having fun yet?" And really, how could I lie and say "yes"? Not much about my job is fun. Especially in the first few days back, I clock out, stagger out to my truck, and peel my socks and shoes off my blisters. I roll out of bed in the morning with a groan and stump down the stairs, stiff all over from bending and kneeling and seven-and-a-half hours of walking every day. The environment is potentially toxic, what with the politics and the gossip and the stupid questions and the inevitable battle of relationships (in the span of about a month I've managed to attract, be asked out by, refuse, and piss off one of my coworkers...but I really shouldn't be surprised, I've been told men are confusing wherever you find them). Throw in stupid customer requests, furniture sales and pick-ups at stupid times in the evening, frantic deliveries of product during the last twenty minutes of the closing shift, and you'll understand why I tend to sit and stare when I come home at night.
Though my "Christian school bubble" pops every time I walk on that back dock (it's actually refreshing to get away from the religious and be around "real-world" people...is that bad? : / ), I am appreciating the lesson in perspective. The other day a fellow worker told me when I asked if she was alright, "There's really no point in complaining, everybody else is going through the same thing I am." I chose to complain regardless after cleaning up the toy aisle multiple times in half an hour, and when I declared I'd "had enough," one gentleman sighed, "Man, I know what you mean. I leave here at ten tonight and have to be back here at eight in the morning, and this is my sixth day of work this week."
Comments like that usually shut me up. They put me to shame.
It's days like today when I struggle to overlook the blisters, the grime caked on my hands, the sore muscles, the frustration burning in my head, the way my life constantly revolves around going to work, being at work, or coming home from work, the wonky scheduling that frustrates my family as they demand my asking off when I know I'm frustrating my boss when I ask off because my family wants me to, which makes me frustrated at them and them even more frustrated at me. (It's a vicious cycle...) But I feel that my gratitude is getting as much of a workout as my thighs. I have a job. I am earning meager but apparent pay. I haven't had to completely rearrange my sleeping schedule to adjust to third-shift hours. I typically get two days off. And being employed at the grocery store most used by my family means we get to take advantage of the very nice discount on groceries.
I whine. A lot. And I know in my head that I shouldn't. And though I sometimes think, when I ponder the futility of my job (like when I straighten an entire aisle of toys twelve times a day), "I could really do without this", I do appreciate what I'm getting out of it: a paycheck, nicely-shaped leg muscles, and a few life lessons on the side.
Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to throw up from the precious wrap-up to that thought. :) Oh, and Happy Mother's Day.
03 May 2012
Institution
In about twelve hours I will be a college junior. Counting that unavoidable extra semester (the perils of changing majors so late in the game) I am almost halfway through my college career. Only one more final stands in the way...but it's fundamentals of grammar...not exactly worth a proper freak-out.
At this time, ladies and gentlemen, it is the custom to reflect on the past year and see what I've learned and how I've grown. Sophomore year is supposedly harder class-wise than freshman year - you're getting more involved in major-related classes and they expect a little more of you than the gen eds. But you're used to the way things work: how you study best, exactly what defines "clean" for roomchecks, maybe three months is a little too long to keep chili in your fridge (not personal experience), how long you can make a half-gallon of milk last between you and your roommate. In theory you have a good idea of who you are by this point, where you fit, where you are most "you". You have a pretty set group of friends, you know which buildings go by which acronyms, and you know to avoid the meat at the cafeteria's Mexican bar (we aren't exactly sure what it's made of, but calling it "meat" is a little vague). And most importantly, you don't stick out as a freshman, using a tray in the cafeteria (the only way we know who's a visitor) and studying a campus map with a scared/lost look on your face.
I think the biggest thing I've learned this year is to let things go. Especially last fall, I ran around with a vendetta toward everybody. I was constantly up-in-arms about this and pissed off at that and just couldn't stand that person at all. I would get frustrated, sometimes downright angry for absolutely no reason; my mood would flip on a dime, and I would get so upset, I couldn't see straight. Or worse, I would sit and fume until I exploded over somebody who breathed wrong. This spring particularly has been a new start and a lesson in not caring so much what other people do. I got especially fed up with a guy in one of my classes; every time he opened his mouth, I would flair at his ignorance and closed-mindedness. But as a very wise friend of mine told me, "He is NOT my problem." I'm learning to ditch the "angry young man" theme and go more with that Zac Brown Band song: "save your strength for things that you can't change, forgive the ones you can't, you gotta let it go." I mentioned this to Linus the other day, and she pointed out how freeing it is to live focusing only on controlling yourself and leaving other people to do for themselves. It's still a work in progress, but at least there's been progress.
Our room is packed away, the walls are bare, and we rebunked our beds. By this time tomorrow we'll be gone, another year will be in the bag, and we'll be one step closer to adulthood and all the pain and joy it has to offer. As I sit on my bottom bunk, looking at this room that will only be mine for a few more hours, I try to savor it for a minute. I can't help but grind in my heels just a little against the clock and say, "I know I have to keep growing up, and I have to be responsible this summer, taking an online class and going back to work full-time on Monday. But hang on just for a minute. Let me sit in this room where my only responsibility is to be a student. I'll keep going down that path toward the grown-up world tomorrow. For now, just let me be."
At this time, ladies and gentlemen, it is the custom to reflect on the past year and see what I've learned and how I've grown. Sophomore year is supposedly harder class-wise than freshman year - you're getting more involved in major-related classes and they expect a little more of you than the gen eds. But you're used to the way things work: how you study best, exactly what defines "clean" for roomchecks, maybe three months is a little too long to keep chili in your fridge (not personal experience), how long you can make a half-gallon of milk last between you and your roommate. In theory you have a good idea of who you are by this point, where you fit, where you are most "you". You have a pretty set group of friends, you know which buildings go by which acronyms, and you know to avoid the meat at the cafeteria's Mexican bar (we aren't exactly sure what it's made of, but calling it "meat" is a little vague). And most importantly, you don't stick out as a freshman, using a tray in the cafeteria (the only way we know who's a visitor) and studying a campus map with a scared/lost look on your face.
I think the biggest thing I've learned this year is to let things go. Especially last fall, I ran around with a vendetta toward everybody. I was constantly up-in-arms about this and pissed off at that and just couldn't stand that person at all. I would get frustrated, sometimes downright angry for absolutely no reason; my mood would flip on a dime, and I would get so upset, I couldn't see straight. Or worse, I would sit and fume until I exploded over somebody who breathed wrong. This spring particularly has been a new start and a lesson in not caring so much what other people do. I got especially fed up with a guy in one of my classes; every time he opened his mouth, I would flair at his ignorance and closed-mindedness. But as a very wise friend of mine told me, "He is NOT my problem." I'm learning to ditch the "angry young man" theme and go more with that Zac Brown Band song: "save your strength for things that you can't change, forgive the ones you can't, you gotta let it go." I mentioned this to Linus the other day, and she pointed out how freeing it is to live focusing only on controlling yourself and leaving other people to do for themselves. It's still a work in progress, but at least there's been progress.
Our room is packed away, the walls are bare, and we rebunked our beds. By this time tomorrow we'll be gone, another year will be in the bag, and we'll be one step closer to adulthood and all the pain and joy it has to offer. As I sit on my bottom bunk, looking at this room that will only be mine for a few more hours, I try to savor it for a minute. I can't help but grind in my heels just a little against the clock and say, "I know I have to keep growing up, and I have to be responsible this summer, taking an online class and going back to work full-time on Monday. But hang on just for a minute. Let me sit in this room where my only responsibility is to be a student. I'll keep going down that path toward the grown-up world tomorrow. For now, just let me be."
30 April 2012
Void
Every year on my birthday, I go off by myself and watch "1776." Being born on Independence Day, I've heard the same cliche my entire life: "Oh, you're so special, the whole country celebrates your birthday." (People are the same the world over, and cliches are unlimited by time or space.) I know it's a musical and subject to Hollywood-y influence; but I like to think it embodies a lot of the tension and frustration and agony that went into creating this country. It's refreshing to think that this land wasn't always the "land of opportunity," that we came from a rebellion, and we were formed by arguments.
There's a scene toward the end where the Secretary of the Continental Congress is reading a dispatch from General Washington, and he sings the general's words: "Is anybody there? Does anybody care?" It's a simple, three-tone melody, sung in a dark, solemn room. You can practically feel Washington's desperation through his words: is anybody paying attention to what I'm saying?
I thought about that scene when I was starting this blog. I wonder if there's any point. I watch the page-view statistics; I see the single-digit view-counts on each post. I feel like Meg Ryan in "You've Got Mail", sending her words out into the void to some unknown reader. I've been told to give myself more credit for what I write, that I have something to say and say it in a nice way. But my greatest fear is to be selfish and credit-seeking; I'm not the type to demand to be listened to, because I shrink back into my natural "please, please, please don't pay attention to me" shell when the spotlight suddenly focuses on me. But I wonder if anything I post on here makes someone think, makes someone laugh, makes someone pensive. Is there a reason? Is it doing any good?
Is anybody there?
Does anybody care?
There's a scene toward the end where the Secretary of the Continental Congress is reading a dispatch from General Washington, and he sings the general's words: "Is anybody there? Does anybody care?" It's a simple, three-tone melody, sung in a dark, solemn room. You can practically feel Washington's desperation through his words: is anybody paying attention to what I'm saying?
I thought about that scene when I was starting this blog. I wonder if there's any point. I watch the page-view statistics; I see the single-digit view-counts on each post. I feel like Meg Ryan in "You've Got Mail", sending her words out into the void to some unknown reader. I've been told to give myself more credit for what I write, that I have something to say and say it in a nice way. But my greatest fear is to be selfish and credit-seeking; I'm not the type to demand to be listened to, because I shrink back into my natural "please, please, please don't pay attention to me" shell when the spotlight suddenly focuses on me. But I wonder if anything I post on here makes someone think, makes someone laugh, makes someone pensive. Is there a reason? Is it doing any good?
Is anybody there?
Does anybody care?
29 April 2012
Ketchup and Onions
Woke up around 11 today, was dragged to lunch by two of my unit mates crashing into my room saying, "Come on, you're going to eat with us NOW," then finished my mother-of-all-others American Lit paper (a friend of mine once said she felt like she was giving up a child when she turned a paper she was proud of...I'm proud of what I wrote, but I'm more in the mood of throwing it in my prof's door as I run past her office...a deliver-and-run) before heading over to the biggest celebration on campus other than Campus Christmas. Typically thrown within the last two weeks of school, it's a time for us to celebrate the accomplishments and talents of students from earlier in the year. Athletes, "unsung heroes," musicians, designers - they're all recognized in between music performed by students. It's big, it's loud, it's crazy, everybody dresses up in either formals or costumes, and, according to my older friends, this year's was the best we've had yet.
And it was - it was great. Downright awesome. But the fun started for me after we changed clothes and headed off campus.
We didn't do much, just a handful of girls and two guys from our brother unit going to Graeter's for ice cream. The car I was in detoured at McDonalds/Burger King (hey, we wanted ice cream and burgers - save your judgment), then we came back to campus. Simple. But it was awesome in its simplicity and made for one of the most fun nights I've had in...gosh, months. We honked at a couple making out outside our dorm, then sped away in case they'd recognized us. We had twelve-year-olds in the car in front of us flirting with our driver in the Burger King drive-thru. We drove down the road screaming "TONIIIIIIGHT WE ARE YOUNG SO WE'LL SET THE WORLD ON fi-IRE, WE CAN BURN brigh-TER THAN THE SUUUUUU-UU-UUUUN" with mouths stuffed full of hamburgers. Two girls sat flinging Dutch Blitz cards at each other, while we took turns holding my four-foot-eleven roommate's head with extended arms and watching her flailing as she tried to hit us. We played cards and were entirely too loud for 12.30 in the morning.
Then we came back in our room and took down all our pictures and posters, since all the walls have to be cleared by Monday for moving out.
As Linus (my roommate - I call her such because she is short and wise) and I sat playing cards, she said, "You know what I'm looking forward to? Heaven. Because then we'll be able to hang out and make memories and never have to say goodbye and make them end. That was my sad and pensive thought for the evening, now we can play cards again." Later we were reminiscing about the night, and she said that's what college is all about.
It's the last weekend before summer break, and we've just now realized what college is about....is it sad that it's taken us this long?
And it was - it was great. Downright awesome. But the fun started for me after we changed clothes and headed off campus.
We didn't do much, just a handful of girls and two guys from our brother unit going to Graeter's for ice cream. The car I was in detoured at McDonalds/Burger King (hey, we wanted ice cream and burgers - save your judgment), then we came back to campus. Simple. But it was awesome in its simplicity and made for one of the most fun nights I've had in...gosh, months. We honked at a couple making out outside our dorm, then sped away in case they'd recognized us. We had twelve-year-olds in the car in front of us flirting with our driver in the Burger King drive-thru. We drove down the road screaming "TONIIIIIIGHT WE ARE YOUNG SO WE'LL SET THE WORLD ON fi-IRE, WE CAN BURN brigh-TER THAN THE SUUUUUU-UU-UUUUN" with mouths stuffed full of hamburgers. Two girls sat flinging Dutch Blitz cards at each other, while we took turns holding my four-foot-eleven roommate's head with extended arms and watching her flailing as she tried to hit us. We played cards and were entirely too loud for 12.30 in the morning.
Then we came back in our room and took down all our pictures and posters, since all the walls have to be cleared by Monday for moving out.
As Linus (my roommate - I call her such because she is short and wise) and I sat playing cards, she said, "You know what I'm looking forward to? Heaven. Because then we'll be able to hang out and make memories and never have to say goodbye and make them end. That was my sad and pensive thought for the evening, now we can play cards again." Later we were reminiscing about the night, and she said that's what college is all about.
It's the last weekend before summer break, and we've just now realized what college is about....is it sad that it's taken us this long?
24 April 2012
Calzone
There comes a point when you look at the essay that's due tomorrow, think, "Oh my God, I can't remember what I just wrote two minute ago...and I'm not entirely sure it was two minutes ago or forty...", save what you've written, and resolve to finish/edit it before class tomorrow. You still have time.
It's really not that late - it hasn't even clicked over to midnight yet. Today was my day to sleep in, I only had one class, and the only thing of product I did was write three more pages on my mother-of-all papers due Monday for American Lit. I have no reason to be tired. But I can barely hold my eyes open. Except Sam is singing "Rent" from the shower. She keeps me from falling asleep, but not in the state of mind that will get me a good grade on my paper. Whatever I write won't be worth it.
By all accounts I should have no drive to write for myself. It's Tuesday - last week of classes before finals - and I've already written two complete papers and five pages of the American Lit doozy. Presentation tomorrow morning, two papers due tomorrow afternoon, paper due Friday, paper AND presentation due Monday, three final exams and two final papers next week. I mapped it out in my planner over the weekend, and it sounded much worse then than it does now that I'm actually knee-deep in it. As my dad says, "One day at a time, one project at a time." In my case, one headache at a time. I talked to a few friends who are engineering majors, and they moan their calculus, C++ (something design-related, I think - they've explained it to me several times and I still don't get it), and computer courses. One said (a little arrogantly as I conveyed my paper-writing woes), "I had to write my second paper of the semester this week." I glared at him and wondered if it was too late to switch out of the English department.
Of course, I have a prime example of "slave till it's done" dedication about six feet from my desk. My roommate, who is one of the most driven people I know, will say what she has to do without necessarily whining, as I tend to do. She puts me to shame with her constant good mood, her nose-to-the-grindstone-even-if-it-means-losing-my-nose mentality, and, above all, her ability to stay up until dawn's early light and still keep going. Last week she was averaging three or four hours of sleep a night. For a straight week. She's a veritable machine. That's one thing that sets me apart from most college students I know: I am physically incapable of pulling an all-nighter. (I did once, though completely not school-related: I went to the midnight premiere of "The Hunger Games," and since we weren't allowed back on campus until after curfew was lifted, we drove around until 5 in the morning. Since I had class at 8 I decided not to go to bed. My own dedication shone through when my 8am class was cancelled and I still managed to survive until 10 that night with only about an hour of sleep. I said I would do it, I did it, and I'll probably never do it again "just for the heck of it.") I've tried, I really have. I sit at my desk, staring at my computer, thinking, "It's one in the morning and I have just started this paper, I can do this." About 1.45 I wake up in circus-like positions in my desk chair, with nothing grand at all about my paper except that I spelled my name correctly in such a condition. So for every night in two years (except one last year), I have gone to bed before my roommate. Before I drop off, I shrink under the covers in shame: "I should be working, I should be at my desk doing something. I don't have anything else due tomorrow, but there's gotta be something I can work ahead on into the wee hours."
But after about 12.30, I start to be useless, and by the time 1am rolls around, I'm completely out of it. Unfortunately, tonight is one of those nights when my useless phase hits at midnight, and I'm the grandma of the unit, calling it a night while others have just begun.
Another night of shame, I guess. -_-
It's really not that late - it hasn't even clicked over to midnight yet. Today was my day to sleep in, I only had one class, and the only thing of product I did was write three more pages on my mother-of-all papers due Monday for American Lit. I have no reason to be tired. But I can barely hold my eyes open. Except Sam is singing "Rent" from the shower. She keeps me from falling asleep, but not in the state of mind that will get me a good grade on my paper. Whatever I write won't be worth it.
By all accounts I should have no drive to write for myself. It's Tuesday - last week of classes before finals - and I've already written two complete papers and five pages of the American Lit doozy. Presentation tomorrow morning, two papers due tomorrow afternoon, paper due Friday, paper AND presentation due Monday, three final exams and two final papers next week. I mapped it out in my planner over the weekend, and it sounded much worse then than it does now that I'm actually knee-deep in it. As my dad says, "One day at a time, one project at a time." In my case, one headache at a time. I talked to a few friends who are engineering majors, and they moan their calculus, C++ (something design-related, I think - they've explained it to me several times and I still don't get it), and computer courses. One said (a little arrogantly as I conveyed my paper-writing woes), "I had to write my second paper of the semester this week." I glared at him and wondered if it was too late to switch out of the English department.
Of course, I have a prime example of "slave till it's done" dedication about six feet from my desk. My roommate, who is one of the most driven people I know, will say what she has to do without necessarily whining, as I tend to do. She puts me to shame with her constant good mood, her nose-to-the-grindstone-even-if-it-means-losing-my-nose mentality, and, above all, her ability to stay up until dawn's early light and still keep going. Last week she was averaging three or four hours of sleep a night. For a straight week. She's a veritable machine. That's one thing that sets me apart from most college students I know: I am physically incapable of pulling an all-nighter. (I did once, though completely not school-related: I went to the midnight premiere of "The Hunger Games," and since we weren't allowed back on campus until after curfew was lifted, we drove around until 5 in the morning. Since I had class at 8 I decided not to go to bed. My own dedication shone through when my 8am class was cancelled and I still managed to survive until 10 that night with only about an hour of sleep. I said I would do it, I did it, and I'll probably never do it again "just for the heck of it.") I've tried, I really have. I sit at my desk, staring at my computer, thinking, "It's one in the morning and I have just started this paper, I can do this." About 1.45 I wake up in circus-like positions in my desk chair, with nothing grand at all about my paper except that I spelled my name correctly in such a condition. So for every night in two years (except one last year), I have gone to bed before my roommate. Before I drop off, I shrink under the covers in shame: "I should be working, I should be at my desk doing something. I don't have anything else due tomorrow, but there's gotta be something I can work ahead on into the wee hours."
But after about 12.30, I start to be useless, and by the time 1am rolls around, I'm completely out of it. Unfortunately, tonight is one of those nights when my useless phase hits at midnight, and I'm the grandma of the unit, calling it a night while others have just begun.
Another night of shame, I guess. -_-
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