Today I came out of the Richards Building and into a dazzlingly beautiful morning. The sun was warm and cozy, the trees and grass and flowers all vibrant - as if doing a final performance before the onset of fall. I didn't have my next class for another hour, so I decided to let my busy concerns run ahead without me, and I just stood there being happy. I watched a dragonfly zooming around the lawn for at least fifteen minutes. I just let it all go and marveled at nature.
Practically walking on air, I finally made it down the steps away from the building, bidding my dragonfly farewell. But nature had capture me, enraptured me, and I was not willing to let go of the delightful, engulfing peace I had found. I found a spot on a hill that was drenched in sunlight, and I set down my bag. I lay on the grass, face toward the sun and arms behind my head, feeling completely free. My face was set in a permanent smile. I thought I'd never be unhappy again. I looked around: above me, to the side, and down my legs.
There was a huge spider on my leg!
I shrieked in terror as the twisted, brown spider skittered around my leg and down my calf. I jumped up, whacking at my jeans and shaking my legs. To anyone who passed by, the sight of a screaming, flailing girl might have been a bit unnerving. But what had they to be unnerved about? They weren't the ones with a horrible, ugly spider crawling on their legs!
After a few moments of thrashing, I finally knocked the spider back into the grass. It stared at me, daring me to kill it. I didn't want to go near it. Besides, we were outside. I knew this was his territory, not mine. So I scooped up my backpack, trembling, and hastily walked away.
The message was clear. Mother Nature wanted me to get off my butt and go back to school.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
61 Days: A Good Day
Things I did today:
* woke up not feeling completely miserable (which, at 3:00, is saying something).
* put in a full shift at work.
* finished my scripture reading on the walk to the bus stop (reading aloud, which admittedly may have seemed odd to anyone I passed).
* participated in class and actually talked to the people sitting next to me.
* wrote a biology paper in 20 minutes.
* turned in all of my assignments on time.
* ran into a couple of friends on the way home and got to chat.
* took my little sister to dinner and had a blast (though I did NOT come home with the number of the attractive male waiter, much to my sister's disappointment).
* managed a blog post before running off to bed.
All in all, I'd say I'm a pretty accomplished person. A toast to me!
* woke up not feeling completely miserable (which, at 3:00, is saying something).
* put in a full shift at work.
* finished my scripture reading on the walk to the bus stop (reading aloud, which admittedly may have seemed odd to anyone I passed).
* participated in class and actually talked to the people sitting next to me.
* wrote a biology paper in 20 minutes.
* turned in all of my assignments on time.
* ran into a couple of friends on the way home and got to chat.
* took my little sister to dinner and had a blast (though I did NOT come home with the number of the attractive male waiter, much to my sister's disappointment).
* managed a blog post before running off to bed.
All in all, I'd say I'm a pretty accomplished person. A toast to me!
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
62 Days: The Voices
A breeze whips through the trees, ruffling Jessica's hair and whispering something in her ear. She looks over her shoulder in panic, her eyes wide. No one there. She hesitates for a moment, wary, then turns around and keeps walking, faster this time. She keeps her eyes forward, but she can hear the soft, murmuring voices behind her. They're getting closer, their message more insistent. Jessica breaks into a run, her backpack bouncing heavily, trying to escape. But it's futile. Soon the invisible hordes are at her heels, and their words are pounding in her head:
"Marriage. Marriage. Marriage. Marriage. . . ."
She makes it into the nearest building, slamming the door shut behind her. She can hear them pounding on the door, their words slithering underneath and swarming around her ankles. Barring the door, she runs up the stairs, knocking over her fellow students in her terrified flight. She bursts into the women's bathroom and locks herself in a stall, ripping off long pieces of toilet paper and shoving into her ears, hoping to keep out the madness.
When she had started school at Brigham Young University one year ago, she hadn't believed the stories everyone told about "the voices." These voices were supposedly omnipresent, worming their way into the students' heads and causing chemical imbalance that resulted in an insatiable desire to get married. Jessica knew the folklore: women went to BYU to get their M.R.S. degrees; returned missionaries used BYU like a hunting ground, quickly felling their prey. But Jessica had always figured it was a natural result of growing up in the arms of Mormonism, if a bit extreme.
There was nothing natural about this.
It was a craze. Students came to BYU with no unusual background, and within three weeks they were all hooked up with a boyfriend or girlfriend. The relationships usually lasted about a semester at the longest, and if the couple wasn't engaged by the end of that time, they recognized the experiment as a failure and broke up. Then they ran off to find someone else to replenish the earth with. There was no thought except to appease the voices rampaging their skulls.
The professors were an interesting case as well. Most of them were married, of course, but prolonged exposure to the voices had morphed their minds. Each of them was constantly - unwittingly - speaking for the voices in the middle of class lectures. Computer Science teachers spoke of the need to get off the computer sometimes and date. Church History teachers explained how to use your patriarchal blessing to find a suitable partner for eternity. Each professor had their own way of doing it, but they were all working for "them," doing everything but making their students' dating lives worth 50% of their grade.
The students reeked of eagerness. The professors taught classes with sly, giggly hints. The trees, the mountains, even the air seemed to be full of some kind of brain-neutralizing, marriage-inducing toxin.
But Jessica had come to BYU reluctantly, grudgingly. She was not like other students. While her classmates all raced to get friends, Jessica walked between them indifferently, her nose in a book. She laughed when she saw the instant-couples, mocked the quickly-engaged even as she dutifully swooned over their shiny rings. She thought herself above the animalistic drones who scampered around everyday sniffing for a mate.
After all, she was not a huge fan of dating, having proved quite inept at it in high school. She had never had a boyfriend, never had a first kiss, even her hands were untouched. But she didn't really mind. She had plans, goals, ambitions, and lots and lots of books to read. Marriage was not high on her list of priorities. So she had strolled onto the campus without any protection but her own disdain. She believed herself immune to the voices.
She had underestimated them.
The voices swirled around her from the beginning. When she seemed unaffected by their call, they gathered in huge masses and tried sharp, sudden attacks, the pinkish fumes wriggling in through her pores, infecting her blood. She felt the effects after a few months, when her eyes started filtering out everything but her male classmates. If any of them looked at her, she immediately began to feel breathless and lightheaded. She felt sick. She started reading more feverishly, keeping her eyes on the black print and her mind off of the boys.
Soon the voices were with her constantly. They converged upon her when she got off the bus in the morning, and they drilled in through her ears to her brain, eventually driving her to the point of madness. Thoughts, that were not her own, hijacked her mind. In the middle of writing a paper she would suddenly find herself scribbling little hearts in the margins, or breaking off in the middle of sentences to write things like "love is all you need" or "true love's kiss." In lectures, she would be unable to concentrate, finding herself imagining romantic encounters or even a handsome husband, playing with her child.
She was getting desperate. She left campus as soon as her classes were over, breathing deeply the sweaty-smoky smell of the bus, trying to clear her head. Instead of reading on campus, she tried audiobooks, shoving the headphones deep in her ears and turning it up. The voices would not relent however. They came upon her when she least expected it, and it soon led to her sprinting from class to class, trying to escape the rose-tinted atmosphere and the heavily perfumed flowers that grew all over campus and which she suspected of being drugged.
This is how she came to be locked in that bathroom stall, squeezing her eyes shut and humming loudly. The door to the bathroom was opened suddenly, by another student, and she heard the voices cackling as they swarmed inside. She could almost see them crawling under the door to her stall. Screaming, she yanked the toilet paper out of her ears and broke through the stall door in her haste to escape. She ran up a few more staircases, the voices laughing evilly on a wind behind her, until she emerged on the building's rooftop.
Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. Now there were voices flying at her from all over campus, a great storm of hormones rushing her way. She was surrounded, and she was terrified. After all she'd done, it was going to end like this? There were only moments now. She was feeling faint already. The voices screamed at her now, "MARRIAGE! MARRIAGE! MARRIAGE!" and her body, mind, and soul were just too tired to fight anymore. She swayed on the spot, struggling to maintain control of her conscious mind for only a few more seconds. . .
Then, quite suddenly, she threw back her head and bellowed, "GHOSTBUSTERS!"
They appeared immediately, almost out of nowhere, leaping out from behind fixtures and dropping down from helicopters. They ran forward in their funny suits, the high-tech vacuums on their backs, and unleashed on the voices. The sound was loud, the voices shrieking as they vanished into oblivion, and within two minutes it was over.
Jessica was on the ground, leaning up on one hand as she looked around. The voices were gone. A blissful silence filled her head. She sighed in relief. One of the ghostbusters came forward and pulled her to her feet. "Are you alright, Miss?"
"I am now," she said. She smiled. "Thanks."
"That's what we're here for," the man replied, hoisting his weapon. "If there's something strange in your neighborhood, who you gonna call?"
She replied with a laugh. "Ghostbusters!"
"Marriage. Marriage. Marriage. Marriage. . . ."
She makes it into the nearest building, slamming the door shut behind her. She can hear them pounding on the door, their words slithering underneath and swarming around her ankles. Barring the door, she runs up the stairs, knocking over her fellow students in her terrified flight. She bursts into the women's bathroom and locks herself in a stall, ripping off long pieces of toilet paper and shoving into her ears, hoping to keep out the madness.
When she had started school at Brigham Young University one year ago, she hadn't believed the stories everyone told about "the voices." These voices were supposedly omnipresent, worming their way into the students' heads and causing chemical imbalance that resulted in an insatiable desire to get married. Jessica knew the folklore: women went to BYU to get their M.R.S. degrees; returned missionaries used BYU like a hunting ground, quickly felling their prey. But Jessica had always figured it was a natural result of growing up in the arms of Mormonism, if a bit extreme.
There was nothing natural about this.
It was a craze. Students came to BYU with no unusual background, and within three weeks they were all hooked up with a boyfriend or girlfriend. The relationships usually lasted about a semester at the longest, and if the couple wasn't engaged by the end of that time, they recognized the experiment as a failure and broke up. Then they ran off to find someone else to replenish the earth with. There was no thought except to appease the voices rampaging their skulls.
The professors were an interesting case as well. Most of them were married, of course, but prolonged exposure to the voices had morphed their minds. Each of them was constantly - unwittingly - speaking for the voices in the middle of class lectures. Computer Science teachers spoke of the need to get off the computer sometimes and date. Church History teachers explained how to use your patriarchal blessing to find a suitable partner for eternity. Each professor had their own way of doing it, but they were all working for "them," doing everything but making their students' dating lives worth 50% of their grade.
The students reeked of eagerness. The professors taught classes with sly, giggly hints. The trees, the mountains, even the air seemed to be full of some kind of brain-neutralizing, marriage-inducing toxin.
But Jessica had come to BYU reluctantly, grudgingly. She was not like other students. While her classmates all raced to get friends, Jessica walked between them indifferently, her nose in a book. She laughed when she saw the instant-couples, mocked the quickly-engaged even as she dutifully swooned over their shiny rings. She thought herself above the animalistic drones who scampered around everyday sniffing for a mate.
After all, she was not a huge fan of dating, having proved quite inept at it in high school. She had never had a boyfriend, never had a first kiss, even her hands were untouched. But she didn't really mind. She had plans, goals, ambitions, and lots and lots of books to read. Marriage was not high on her list of priorities. So she had strolled onto the campus without any protection but her own disdain. She believed herself immune to the voices.
She had underestimated them.
The voices swirled around her from the beginning. When she seemed unaffected by their call, they gathered in huge masses and tried sharp, sudden attacks, the pinkish fumes wriggling in through her pores, infecting her blood. She felt the effects after a few months, when her eyes started filtering out everything but her male classmates. If any of them looked at her, she immediately began to feel breathless and lightheaded. She felt sick. She started reading more feverishly, keeping her eyes on the black print and her mind off of the boys.
Soon the voices were with her constantly. They converged upon her when she got off the bus in the morning, and they drilled in through her ears to her brain, eventually driving her to the point of madness. Thoughts, that were not her own, hijacked her mind. In the middle of writing a paper she would suddenly find herself scribbling little hearts in the margins, or breaking off in the middle of sentences to write things like "love is all you need" or "true love's kiss." In lectures, she would be unable to concentrate, finding herself imagining romantic encounters or even a handsome husband, playing with her child.
She was getting desperate. She left campus as soon as her classes were over, breathing deeply the sweaty-smoky smell of the bus, trying to clear her head. Instead of reading on campus, she tried audiobooks, shoving the headphones deep in her ears and turning it up. The voices would not relent however. They came upon her when she least expected it, and it soon led to her sprinting from class to class, trying to escape the rose-tinted atmosphere and the heavily perfumed flowers that grew all over campus and which she suspected of being drugged.
This is how she came to be locked in that bathroom stall, squeezing her eyes shut and humming loudly. The door to the bathroom was opened suddenly, by another student, and she heard the voices cackling as they swarmed inside. She could almost see them crawling under the door to her stall. Screaming, she yanked the toilet paper out of her ears and broke through the stall door in her haste to escape. She ran up a few more staircases, the voices laughing evilly on a wind behind her, until she emerged on the building's rooftop.
Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. Now there were voices flying at her from all over campus, a great storm of hormones rushing her way. She was surrounded, and she was terrified. After all she'd done, it was going to end like this? There were only moments now. She was feeling faint already. The voices screamed at her now, "MARRIAGE! MARRIAGE! MARRIAGE!" and her body, mind, and soul were just too tired to fight anymore. She swayed on the spot, struggling to maintain control of her conscious mind for only a few more seconds. . .
Then, quite suddenly, she threw back her head and bellowed, "GHOSTBUSTERS!"
They appeared immediately, almost out of nowhere, leaping out from behind fixtures and dropping down from helicopters. They ran forward in their funny suits, the high-tech vacuums on their backs, and unleashed on the voices. The sound was loud, the voices shrieking as they vanished into oblivion, and within two minutes it was over.
Jessica was on the ground, leaning up on one hand as she looked around. The voices were gone. A blissful silence filled her head. She sighed in relief. One of the ghostbusters came forward and pulled her to her feet. "Are you alright, Miss?"
"I am now," she said. She smiled. "Thanks."
"That's what we're here for," the man replied, hoisting his weapon. "If there's something strange in your neighborhood, who you gonna call?"
She replied with a laugh. "Ghostbusters!"
Monday, September 27, 2010
63 Days: Chaucer
Chaucer is lucky to be dead.
Were he still alive, I would gather a mob of English students
to chase him down,
tie him up like a swine,
and then throw him onto a very large scale.
And if he weighed the same as a duck . . .
Were he still alive, I would gather a mob of English students
to chase him down,
tie him up like a swine,
and then throw him onto a very large scale.
And if he weighed the same as a duck . . .
Sunday, September 26, 2010
64 Days: Hold My Heart
Sometimes music communicates better than simple words. This is a song I heard on the Christian radio station 107.5 - Positive Encouraging K-Love. It's called Hold My Heart, by Tenth Avenue North.
God loves us. More than we can ever know. He is with us in our sorrows, and it is the greatest miracle in my life.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
65 Days: Rag Doll
Some days I feel like a rag doll sitting on a shelf in a department store.
I watch the other dolls leave in the arms of a child and I know that some of them will be colored on with crayon and chewed on by dogs, but I also know that some of them will be loved forever and ever.
At first, I'm really happy for the dolls that get bought and taken to a nice home. I wave goodbye with my stitched-on smile firmly in place, eager for the day when it's my turn, when I'll get to leave the store and finally belong to somebody.
Then the weeks and months go past, and I'm still here, getting dusty on the shelf. Lots of kids come down the row, smiling and laughing and pointing at all the cool toys, but they always leave me here.
And slowly I come to the realization that nobody wants me.
I'm always going to be here on the shelf, smiling and waiting, until the day they clear out the aisle and pack me in a storage box in the back of the store.
. . .
I hate days like this.
Friday, September 24, 2010
66 Days: Strange
Do you ever wonder if you'd notice if you went crazy?
Don't freak out. I'm not insane (I'm pretty sure). But with the pervasiveness of the word "crazy" in our culture, people saying things like "he drives me crazy!" and "if I have to take one more test, I'm gonna go crazy" makes me wonder where exactly the line is between sanity and insanity. Is there a definite line at all, or is it just something that we get to vote on? This guy's crazy, that guy's not crazy, how on earth are we supposed to know?
And I always wonder if crazy people know that they're crazy. I think maybe there's a point during the downward spiral when they must understand that something is happening to them. I wonder if they're afraid.
It's fascinating, isn't it? I have this great story idea in my head where a girl is driving home from school and hits a pedestrian who appears out of nowhere. She stops the car and jumps out, terrified and appalled, and tries to help the man but he's already dead. In shock, she runs to a friends house and begs him to come with her. He sees how scared she is and they run back to the spot of the accident . . . only no one is there. No corpse, no blood, no dent in the car. She can't understand it. And that's how it starts, her slip into madness. Can she fight it, or is she too far gone? Can her friend help her come back to reality before it's too late?
(*shivers*) Ooh, I love a good insanity story. Nothing is what it seems, everything is questionable. You never know what's going to happen next or even what's really happening now. Head trip! I love it!
Anyway, I'll stop rambling before I freak out anyone else. I'm not particularly fond of psychiatrists, and I'd rather not be reported for strange fantasies. But then again, I'm not too worried that any of you are going to do something. After all, you're not real. This is only a dream . . .
For your sake, you better hope I never wake up.
Don't freak out. I'm not insane (I'm pretty sure). But with the pervasiveness of the word "crazy" in our culture, people saying things like "he drives me crazy!" and "if I have to take one more test, I'm gonna go crazy" makes me wonder where exactly the line is between sanity and insanity. Is there a definite line at all, or is it just something that we get to vote on? This guy's crazy, that guy's not crazy, how on earth are we supposed to know?
And I always wonder if crazy people know that they're crazy. I think maybe there's a point during the downward spiral when they must understand that something is happening to them. I wonder if they're afraid.
It's fascinating, isn't it? I have this great story idea in my head where a girl is driving home from school and hits a pedestrian who appears out of nowhere. She stops the car and jumps out, terrified and appalled, and tries to help the man but he's already dead. In shock, she runs to a friends house and begs him to come with her. He sees how scared she is and they run back to the spot of the accident . . . only no one is there. No corpse, no blood, no dent in the car. She can't understand it. And that's how it starts, her slip into madness. Can she fight it, or is she too far gone? Can her friend help her come back to reality before it's too late?
(*shivers*) Ooh, I love a good insanity story. Nothing is what it seems, everything is questionable. You never know what's going to happen next or even what's really happening now. Head trip! I love it!
Anyway, I'll stop rambling before I freak out anyone else. I'm not particularly fond of psychiatrists, and I'd rather not be reported for strange fantasies. But then again, I'm not too worried that any of you are going to do something. After all, you're not real. This is only a dream . . .
For your sake, you better hope I never wake up.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
67 Days: More Pithy Literature
It started with an innocent kiss.
He tasted like peanut butter.
So I ate him.
He tasted like peanut butter.
So I ate him.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
68 Days: Simile
I wrote this poem for my Fundamentals of Literary Criticism class. We've been talking about figurative language, and one of the things we were assigned to do was to write our own poem that used an extended simile as its basis. We all had the same topic, too: "When I'm at work, I am as . . . "
Anyway, here's my poem. And I tried to use some of the weirder tools of poetry (adding accents to words, removing syllables from words, that sort of thing) so if it doesn't work, that's only to be expected. Also, I'm too haggard to really think straight, so . . .
Simile
When I am at work, I am as
A crumpled, uséd groc'ry bag.
I tumble on a gust of wind;
Without deciding, I come in.
I move always unconsciously,
But still they find a use for me:
They fill me up and plot the course
(I'm empty without outside force).
And when the work is done, I'm then
Discarded on the road again.
I tumble on without a care.
It's as if I were never there.
- Jessica Grosland
Poems in 10 Minutes Inc.
Anyway, here's my poem. And I tried to use some of the weirder tools of poetry (adding accents to words, removing syllables from words, that sort of thing) so if it doesn't work, that's only to be expected. Also, I'm too haggard to really think straight, so . . .
Simile
When I am at work, I am as
A crumpled, uséd groc'ry bag.
I tumble on a gust of wind;
Without deciding, I come in.
I move always unconsciously,
But still they find a use for me:
They fill me up and plot the course
(I'm empty without outside force).
And when the work is done, I'm then
Discarded on the road again.
I tumble on without a care.
It's as if I were never there.
- Jessica Grosland
Poems in 10 Minutes Inc.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Monday, September 20, 2010
70 Days: An Award?!
So . . . surprise! My humble little blog has been given an award by my oh-so-incredible neighbor and friend, Kazzy.
I know! I was surprised, too. Apparently, my blog is love-r-ly. (*chorus sings* "Love-r-ly...")
To tell the truth, even though I love writing my blog and - even more - having people read it, I've never quite understood why people like it. As far as I can tell, I spend most of my time blathering incessantly about my life and the rest of the time complaining about it. I'm not a particularly exciting person, either. I have no adventures to share with the public (unless you count my custodial escapades...) and I have no monumental insights to impart.
My blog is not a forum for my many essays. It is not a place where I wax philosophical or put forward political opinions. All I do is write something. I have no themes, no boundaries, no outline. I just sit down at the keyboard, and I write something.
What I do try to do, however, is make sure that whatever I write is honest. I think writing comes through so much clearer when the author isn't pretending just to try to impress. My so-called talent at writing comes entirely from the fact that I communicate best through the written word. If I stop saying what I mean, I have no words left.
So thanks, Kazzy. And thanks to all you readers, from the ones who comment every day to the ones who just came upon this page by accident. And I will be passing the award along in due course, but tonight I woke up with my face tucked into my textbook, and I think it's about time I got to bed.
P.S. Kazzy said in her post that she likes my blog because I give her a youthful perspective on life. But I don't know what she's talking about. I'm nearly twenty years old!
I know! I was surprised, too. Apparently, my blog is love-r-ly. (*chorus sings* "Love-r-ly...")
To tell the truth, even though I love writing my blog and - even more - having people read it, I've never quite understood why people like it. As far as I can tell, I spend most of my time blathering incessantly about my life and the rest of the time complaining about it. I'm not a particularly exciting person, either. I have no adventures to share with the public (unless you count my custodial escapades...) and I have no monumental insights to impart.
My blog is not a forum for my many essays. It is not a place where I wax philosophical or put forward political opinions. All I do is write something. I have no themes, no boundaries, no outline. I just sit down at the keyboard, and I write something.
What I do try to do, however, is make sure that whatever I write is honest. I think writing comes through so much clearer when the author isn't pretending just to try to impress. My so-called talent at writing comes entirely from the fact that I communicate best through the written word. If I stop saying what I mean, I have no words left.
So thanks, Kazzy. And thanks to all you readers, from the ones who comment every day to the ones who just came upon this page by accident. And I will be passing the award along in due course, but tonight I woke up with my face tucked into my textbook, and I think it's about time I got to bed.
P.S. Kazzy said in her post that she likes my blog because I give her a youthful perspective on life. But I don't know what she's talking about. I'm nearly twenty years old!
Sunday, September 19, 2010
71 Days: Primary Kids
I teach a Primary class at church for a group of five-year-old kids, and they are the greatest. I love teaching them; they are just so much fun. Some of them don't pay attention very well, but they're always full of energy and happiness and love. They have the cutest smiles, and I love to make them laugh. And I've never had a better audience for stories. They always gasp and cheer and giggle in the right places, as long as you can keep their focus.
And the lessons are so straightforward. Unlike adult classes, whose lessons are always titled something like "The Implications of Priesthood Dispensations," the lessons I get to teach are called things like "I Can Be Obedient" or "I Will Be Kind To Others." Really, you could just read the title and you'd be good. And the kids all know the most basic principle: they're supposed to be nice. And they genuinely want to be good! Oh, to be so fresh in the world!
They love instantly; they're quick to forgive; they want to learn more; their eyes are bright; they look up to you; THEY ARE THE PERFECT STUDENTS!!! I LOVE THEM!!!
The blond boy who cant sit still to save his life and always prays that "Jesus will come back to the Earth."
The dark-haired boy who is a scholar-to-be and squeezes his eyes closed during singing time to check his memorization.
The little girl with freckles spattered across her nose who giggles at everything that's said and loves to be complimented on her hair bows.
And especially the adorable autistic boy who is so quick to pick up the music and sings right on pitch every time.
I hope you all get a chance to teach little kids, whether it's at church, at school, or even in your own home. Because they are so full of light they will leave you beaming for the rest of the day.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
72 Days: Hunger Games
This is a good book. And when I say it's a good book, I mean it possessed me for three days. I tried not to read it for too long at a time, but whenever I wasn't reading it I was thinking about it, so I didn't get much done anyway. I have now finished the book, only to discover that our copy of Catching Fire (the sequel to Hunger Games) has been loaned out. I am left hanging.
Sigh. I should probably do my homework or clean my room or something, but how important can those be in comparison with finishing the story? Really!
Friday, September 17, 2010
73 Days: To Sleep, Perchance To Dream
When you have to wake up at 3:00 in the morning to get ready for work, sleep becomes very important. Not just pleasant, but vital. You begin to understand that, like water, you have to get the right amount of it in order to survive. You can actually die from not having enough sleep.
It's from this custodial job that I've learned such things, learned that when I don't sleep enough the consequences are more than a grouchy attitude. I can't think straight. I can't focus on my classes. I can't process emotion, thought, or anything my dulled senses are trying to report to me. If I become sleep deprived, I can become physically ill.
So when I "lay me down to sleep," sometimes my brain is in a panic, calculating how many hours I have before work and hoping desperately that it'll be enough. Other times, I just lay there underneath my fluffy comforter and soak in the fact that I don't have to be conscious for the next few hours.
And when I get to the weekend, and I know that I don't have to wake up and go to work in the morning, my idea of celebrating is not to hang out and party all night long. My idea of celebrating is to go to bed early, and just sleep and sleep and sleep.
Maybe that makes me boring. But it also keeps me from homicidal nervous breakdowns, so really, who's going to complain?
It's from this custodial job that I've learned such things, learned that when I don't sleep enough the consequences are more than a grouchy attitude. I can't think straight. I can't focus on my classes. I can't process emotion, thought, or anything my dulled senses are trying to report to me. If I become sleep deprived, I can become physically ill.
So when I "lay me down to sleep," sometimes my brain is in a panic, calculating how many hours I have before work and hoping desperately that it'll be enough. Other times, I just lay there underneath my fluffy comforter and soak in the fact that I don't have to be conscious for the next few hours.
And when I get to the weekend, and I know that I don't have to wake up and go to work in the morning, my idea of celebrating is not to hang out and party all night long. My idea of celebrating is to go to bed early, and just sleep and sleep and sleep.
Maybe that makes me boring. But it also keeps me from homicidal nervous breakdowns, so really, who's going to complain?
Thursday, September 16, 2010
74 Days: A Dreadful Wrong
I was driving. The accident was my fault.
My little sister and her friend were in the car with me. They were laughing and telling stories, and I was distracted. The intersection was loaded with cars, but that fact seemed not to register in my mind until it was too late.
I was laughing, I was happy. And then it happened:
I ran a stop sign.
(*hides face in shame*) I know, I know. It was a terrible, unlawful thing to do, even if it was an accident. I almost hit another car as I blasted my way through the intersection. And then I realized retrospectively that there had been a stop sign on my side of the street too, and I cried out in shock.
I just ran a stop sign. What an awful thing to do! I would never do something like that! I just didn't see it - oh, but I should have seen it! Why didn't I see it? I'm a criminal and a thug, and I'm a menace to society. Oh, what have I done?
I had to pull over to the side of the road, not 30 ft from the intersection. I pulled over and waited for someone to come yell at me. I waited for a cop to come and arrest me. But no one came. Feeling shameful and filthy, and having no one around to punish me, I put the car in park and turned off the engine. When my sister and her friend opened their mouths to ask what was going on, I explained, "I just did a very bad thing. I need to sit here for a while and think about what I've done."
Yes, I put myself on time-out.
I had a moment of silence, apologizing a thousand times in my head. My young passengers were bewildered, but they kept quiet. After a full minute, I shook myself out of it and started the car again. And I was very alert for the rest of the ride home, you can be sure of that.
Thus begins my life of crime. I just wanted you to have this post as a reference point ten years down the road when I'm dealing drugs in prison. When you ask yourselves where it all went wrong, you'll have this blog post to remind you. It all started with a stop sign.
(Hey, that's kinda funny. Starting with a stop sign? Gosh, I'm so clever!)
My little sister and her friend were in the car with me. They were laughing and telling stories, and I was distracted. The intersection was loaded with cars, but that fact seemed not to register in my mind until it was too late.
I was laughing, I was happy. And then it happened:
I ran a stop sign.
(*hides face in shame*) I know, I know. It was a terrible, unlawful thing to do, even if it was an accident. I almost hit another car as I blasted my way through the intersection. And then I realized retrospectively that there had been a stop sign on my side of the street too, and I cried out in shock.
I just ran a stop sign. What an awful thing to do! I would never do something like that! I just didn't see it - oh, but I should have seen it! Why didn't I see it? I'm a criminal and a thug, and I'm a menace to society. Oh, what have I done?
I had to pull over to the side of the road, not 30 ft from the intersection. I pulled over and waited for someone to come yell at me. I waited for a cop to come and arrest me. But no one came. Feeling shameful and filthy, and having no one around to punish me, I put the car in park and turned off the engine. When my sister and her friend opened their mouths to ask what was going on, I explained, "I just did a very bad thing. I need to sit here for a while and think about what I've done."
Yes, I put myself on time-out.
I had a moment of silence, apologizing a thousand times in my head. My young passengers were bewildered, but they kept quiet. After a full minute, I shook myself out of it and started the car again. And I was very alert for the rest of the ride home, you can be sure of that.
Thus begins my life of crime. I just wanted you to have this post as a reference point ten years down the road when I'm dealing drugs in prison. When you ask yourselves where it all went wrong, you'll have this blog post to remind you. It all started with a stop sign.
(Hey, that's kinda funny. Starting with a stop sign? Gosh, I'm so clever!)
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
75 Days: One Quarter of the Way
Woot! That's twenty five days down, only seventy five to go! I'm one quarter of the way done with this ridiculous venture.
And you know what? I've blogged too much today already. Long story. The short version is this: I had a huge biology assignment due that involved researching a "current biological issue" and posting all of our info on a special blog. (If you care, my project's blog is at biology100currentissue.blogspot.com)
So instead of talking to you guys, I'm going to sleep. Right now.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
76 Days: What Am I?
I'm a little black rain cloud, of course.
The other day, my mother made mention that I looked like I had a black cloud over my head. I really like that saying, because it's very accurate: the rest of the world goes on cheerily, but for some reason your corner of the world is still dark and gloomy. So I had that image in my mind these last few days, and today when I realized I have a huge biology project due tomorrow that I haven't started yet, I was overwhelmed with emotion and burst into song.
(I know, it's odd. But it's my way.)
And you know what song I burst into? A Winnie the Pooh song!
Now, I assume that some of you had the misfortune of not growing up on the many adventures of Winnie the Pooh. (You poor, sad little people.) My mother happens to adore Winnie the Pooh and all of his friends in the Hundred Acre Wood, so I received more than a fair helping of the show growing up. But you know what? I just never got enough!
So because I'm too busy to talk to you, I'm going to just put on here some good ol' Winnie the Pooh and let him entertain you for the rest of the day.
TTFN: Ta-ta for now!
Piglet: HELP!
Tigger: Oh, relax, Piglet, old pal. There's no difference between plunging 10,000 feet to the jagged rocks below and tumbling out of bed.
Piglet: Oh? Really?
Tigger: Why sure! Except for the splat at the end they're practically similar.
Rabbit: (singing)
Never trust that thing between your ears.
Brains will get you nowhere fast, my dears.
Haven't had a need for mine in years.
Eeyore: End of the road... nothing to do... and no hope of things getting better. Sounds like Saturday night at my house.
Christopher Robin: What I like most of all is just doing nothing.
Winnie the Pooh: How do you do just nothing?
Christopher Robin: Well, when grown-ups ask, "What are you going to do?" and you say, "Nothing," and then you go and do it.
Winnie the Pooh: I like that. Let's do it all the time.
Christopher Robin: You know something, Pooh? I'm not going to do just nothing anymore.
Winnie the Pooh: You mean, never again?
Christopher Robin: Well, not so much.
The other day, my mother made mention that I looked like I had a black cloud over my head. I really like that saying, because it's very accurate: the rest of the world goes on cheerily, but for some reason your corner of the world is still dark and gloomy. So I had that image in my mind these last few days, and today when I realized I have a huge biology project due tomorrow that I haven't started yet, I was overwhelmed with emotion and burst into song.
(I know, it's odd. But it's my way.)
And you know what song I burst into? A Winnie the Pooh song!
Now, I assume that some of you had the misfortune of not growing up on the many adventures of Winnie the Pooh. (You poor, sad little people.) My mother happens to adore Winnie the Pooh and all of his friends in the Hundred Acre Wood, so I received more than a fair helping of the show growing up. But you know what? I just never got enough!
So because I'm too busy to talk to you, I'm going to just put on here some good ol' Winnie the Pooh and let him entertain you for the rest of the day.
TTFN: Ta-ta for now!
Piglet: HELP!
Tigger: Oh, relax, Piglet, old pal. There's no difference between plunging 10,000 feet to the jagged rocks below and tumbling out of bed.
Piglet: Oh? Really?
Tigger: Why sure! Except for the splat at the end they're practically similar.
Rabbit: (singing)
Never trust that thing between your ears.
Brains will get you nowhere fast, my dears.
Haven't had a need for mine in years.
Eeyore: End of the road... nothing to do... and no hope of things getting better. Sounds like Saturday night at my house.
Christopher Robin: What I like most of all is just doing nothing.
Winnie the Pooh: How do you do just nothing?
Christopher Robin: Well, when grown-ups ask, "What are you going to do?" and you say, "Nothing," and then you go and do it.
Winnie the Pooh: I like that. Let's do it all the time.
Christopher Robin: You know something, Pooh? I'm not going to do just nothing anymore.
Winnie the Pooh: You mean, never again?
Christopher Robin: Well, not so much.
Monday, September 13, 2010
77 Days: Failing Literally
“Formalism, or New Criticism, emerged out of the hostilities present in the aftermath of the American Civil War. However, the assumptions that were given life during this period are still highly applicable to those studying the theory of literary criticism, and you will find them very useful in your future classes.”
One most excellent coping strategy I've found is watching hilarious YouTube videos. So in honor of my sanity, the world cup, and Lord of the Rings, I give you this video. (PS. If you don't know what a vuvuzela is, I'd suggest you look up both it and the controversy before watching this clip. It will be much funnier that way.)
The bald, aged professor walked slowly back and forth across the front of the classroom as he rambled. His words were lost on the students, and it wasn’t because the lecture content was beyond their understanding. This professor dealt out his lectures in a vile fashion, spluttering through overly moist lips so that his words were nearly drowned in saliva. He licked his chops and continued. “So, first thing to know is that the object of Formalism is to remove the text itself from all other factors: authorial intent, reader perception, historical context, that sort of thing. Many people, however, say that when a text is removed from its context, much of the meaning is lost.”
He stopped pacing, smacking his lips together one more time as he looked out on his class. “What do you guys think?”
The room, which only moments before had seemed to be a feeding ground for fidgeting fingers, became as still as stone. It was as if the students had been replaced with cardboard cutouts. Eyes were cast every which way except for towards the teacher, and no one was foolish enough to scratch their nose. No student makes it to college without understanding that in the immortal pause after a teacher has asked a question, any twitch of the hands will be taken as an irresistible yearning to share something with the class. The sprinkler-mouthed professor waited patiently for a few more moments, with the sharp eyes of a predator.
Quite suddenly, as if breaking the spell, someone sneezed.
“Yes, Jessica?” the professor ejaculated, bouncing forward as if to say gotcha!
The girl at the back of the room looked up in terrified shock. Her pupils shrank to pin-pricks as her face grew ever paler. The professor smiled encouragingly, brandishing his slimy molars at her. “Well, Jessica . . .” – he glanced down at the seating chart – “Grossland? What do you think about the validity of Formalism’s claims?”
She was silent for a moment.
Then she burst into tears.
She wailed and sobbed, blubbering nonsense as the students in the desks closest to her pulled back in fear. Then she scooped her books off the desk and snagged her backpack before running out of the room, nearly toppling the professor as she pushed past him.
The professor watched the door swing on its hinges for a minute, and then he turned back to the class. He coughed once, straightened his posture, then said, “Anyone else?”
Okay, so this didn't actually happen. But that's only because the professor never called on me. For someone who used to feel like school was a happy little home away from home, I have suddenly developed an extreme aversion to scholarship. I feel too stupid to handle even the simplest assignments. And trying to tackle five or six of them at a time . . . well, it generally encourages the crawl-into-a-hole-and-die side of me.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
78 Days: Building on Quicksand
A seminary teacher once told me, "Testimony has a very short shelf life." He was explaining to the class how - unlike mayonnaise, which is going to taste the same no matter what century it is when you eat it - there are certain foods that have a "short shelf life," which is a way of saying that they expire quickly if just left on the counter. He said that our testimonies were like that, too. If we just put them away on the shelf and never take them out, they'll expire quickly. It takes constant attention to keep a testimony strong.
This was a nice sentiment for me to hear, but I already had my own analogy, which had been sitting on the back burner in my head since about seventh grade. Even at that age of incredibly shortness and excessive glasses-wearing, I had noticed that when I had a great spiritual experience, my testimony was really firm for only a few days or hours before I started to forget the things I had learned. If I ever let myself think that I was done working on my testimony, it fell into a swift decay.
And so I began to think of my testimony as a wall of colored wooden blocks.
No, really. I thought, building a testimony is kind of like trying to build a tower out of blocks. But you're not building the tower on the floor, you're building it on quicksand. So if you build a really tall tower, but then walk away from it and leave it alone, it's going to sink and sink until the whole thing has disappeared. You have to stay right next to it, and keep putting blocks on top so that your tower is always ready when you need it.
Wouldn't it be terrible to run back to your tower in an hour of great need, only to find that it's fallen over in your absence?
I was reminded of this principle today in my regional conference meeting. Many of the speakers talked about enduring to the end, about building our faith through works, about not giving up halfway through anything. And I was really glad to have been there and heard those words, particularly when I've been feeling like school was steamrolling me.
So I'm going to recommit to my little tower of blocks. It doesn't take a lot; just one little block every day. But I want to make sure my tower is tall and steady when I need it.
Because it may just look like a little tower of blocks, but it has the power to overcome hellfire.
This was a nice sentiment for me to hear, but I already had my own analogy, which had been sitting on the back burner in my head since about seventh grade. Even at that age of incredibly shortness and excessive glasses-wearing, I had noticed that when I had a great spiritual experience, my testimony was really firm for only a few days or hours before I started to forget the things I had learned. If I ever let myself think that I was done working on my testimony, it fell into a swift decay.
And so I began to think of my testimony as a wall of colored wooden blocks.
No, really. I thought, building a testimony is kind of like trying to build a tower out of blocks. But you're not building the tower on the floor, you're building it on quicksand. So if you build a really tall tower, but then walk away from it and leave it alone, it's going to sink and sink until the whole thing has disappeared. You have to stay right next to it, and keep putting blocks on top so that your tower is always ready when you need it.
Wouldn't it be terrible to run back to your tower in an hour of great need, only to find that it's fallen over in your absence?
I was reminded of this principle today in my regional conference meeting. Many of the speakers talked about enduring to the end, about building our faith through works, about not giving up halfway through anything. And I was really glad to have been there and heard those words, particularly when I've been feeling like school was steamrolling me.
So I'm going to recommit to my little tower of blocks. It doesn't take a lot; just one little block every day. But I want to make sure my tower is tall and steady when I need it.
Because it may just look like a little tower of blocks, but it has the power to overcome hellfire.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
79 Days: Obscure Talents
Having cultivated in my youth a desire to be totally awesome, I have often diverted off the road-taken-quite-frequently in order to learn how to do things that would increase my stature as a person of high coolness.
For example, here are some things I can do now (though no promises that I can do them at all well):
Yeah. It makes me want to vomit, too.
For example, here are some things I can do now (though no promises that I can do them at all well):
- Juggle
- Drive a motorcycle
- Play the guitar
- Tap dance
- Play racquetball
- Whistle
- Use self-defense to put a man on the ground
- Spell supercalifragilisticexpialidocious ... to song!
- Play goalie in soccer
- Speak a bit of Spanish
- Win many staring contests
- Write a sonnet, a haiku, an ode . . .
- Sing all the words to countless Elvis songs, tons of 80s songs, and about a billion songs from musicals. Plus, you know, approximately 70,000 other songs in various categories.
- Make a very - unfortunately - convincing monkey face.
- Beat-box
- Play Flash Flash Revolution (it's like DDR for your fingers)
- Say a few words in Russian
- Stare into someone's soul
Yeah. It makes me want to vomit, too.
Friday, September 10, 2010
Thursday, September 9, 2010
81 Days: The Wheel
Life is like a wheel that just keeps on turning, no matter what. It makes me think of that one part in the second Pirates of the Caribbean movie. That one scene? Yeah, the coolest fight scene EVER?
My beloved Will Turner on top of the wheel, fighting with James Norrington, represents the good times in life. The times when we are doing the things we want to do, and doing them well, and we feel like we could run like this for eternity, just enjoying the view.
But then, like the great Captain Jack Sparrow, we sometimes get run over by the wheel. It smashes right over our heads and we get picked up and carried along with it, helplessly hanging upside-down as we roll down the path of life.
Or maybe, like Jack, we find ourselves in an even less desirable predicament:
Harsh.
Anyway, this is just a little pick-me-up post to say, "If it ever gets this bad, just remember: Jack's been there too, and everyone still loves Jack Sparrow the most."
My beloved Will Turner on top of the wheel, fighting with James Norrington, represents the good times in life. The times when we are doing the things we want to do, and doing them well, and we feel like we could run like this for eternity, just enjoying the view.
But then, like the great Captain Jack Sparrow, we sometimes get run over by the wheel. It smashes right over our heads and we get picked up and carried along with it, helplessly hanging upside-down as we roll down the path of life.
Or maybe, like Jack, we find ourselves in an even less desirable predicament:
Harsh.Anyway, this is just a little pick-me-up post to say, "If it ever gets this bad, just remember: Jack's been there too, and everyone still loves Jack Sparrow the most."
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
82 Days: School is Messing with my Head
Seriously. Every time I go to class, it's like the professor takes my brain out of my head and plays with it for a while, like Play-Doh. He or she attempts to make it into the shape of a star or a smiley face, but my brain doesn't hold shape very well and always reverts to being just a bunch of squishy gray stuff. My professors always dump it back on my desk, tsk!-ing in disgust, and I am left to try to squeeze it back into my ear.
A few of the questions and factoids buzzing around my head right now:
A few of the questions and factoids buzzing around my head right now:
Solomon Mack fell down a lot.
Kennings are hyphenated words like "whale-road."
What is the nature of God?
Was the study of English promoted as a way of replacing religion?
Stomata are the tiny holes that plants use to emit oxygen.
Wellness implies personal responsibility for one's health.
John Lathrop was an ancestor of Joseph Smith, Harold B. Lee, Marion G. Romney...
Do I have "latent divinity"?
Are English teachers playing into the hands of Capitalist pigs?
Beowulf is really, really long.
Family lines are preserved by God to bring certain individuals into the world at the right time.
How fast can I run a mile and a half?
Why do humans depend on photosynthesis for life?
And, of course, the most important question of them all:
Is it too late to join the circus?
Kennings are hyphenated words like "whale-road."
What is the nature of God?
Was the study of English promoted as a way of replacing religion?
Stomata are the tiny holes that plants use to emit oxygen.
Wellness implies personal responsibility for one's health.
John Lathrop was an ancestor of Joseph Smith, Harold B. Lee, Marion G. Romney...
Do I have "latent divinity"?
Are English teachers playing into the hands of Capitalist pigs?
Beowulf is really, really long.
Family lines are preserved by God to bring certain individuals into the world at the right time.
How fast can I run a mile and a half?
Why do humans depend on photosynthesis for life?
And, of course, the most important question of them all:
Is it too late to join the circus?
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
83 Days: Working on the Crew
When I was just a bright-eyed ensign, I was assigned my first posting at the JFSB: waste-removal officer. I used to push around that huge garbage cart - which was grey and dingy like an old elephant - and apologize every time the wheels squeaked near one of my superior officers. I emptied each of the 133 garbage bins on my floor, then took the elephant-cart down to the dock, where I dumped it all into the trash compactors. The responsibility of my assignment weighed heavily on my mind: the knowledge that, without me, the entire building would be spilling over with rotten apples and old newspapers by the end of the week.
But, while I knew my job was important, I used to sneak glances around the corner at the duty station I really wanted, the job held in the highest esteem by everyone on the custodial crew. Only the most trusted officers were allowed to perform that job, though, and so I kept to my rancid trashcans and focused on working my way up.
Soon I was moving up through the ranks. As a Lieutenant Jr. Grade, I was moved to floor detail; I swept and scrubbed every inch of the immense, tiled floorspace. After a few more months I was reassigned to the South Hall, where I did everything from replacing dry-erase markers to vacuuming to scrubbing the walls. I was promoted to the rank of Lieutenant by the end of my first year, before leaving on a temporary assignment to Jupiter for four months.
When I got back, that venerated job I had always wanted was finally given to me. Having proved myself dedicated and hardworking, and having outlasted several crew reorganizations, I was finally assigned to the most envied post on the crew:
Bathrooms.
I know: You're confused, right? Or else you think I'm being sarcastic. Well, I'm not. Though it may sound odd, I'd much rather have this job than any other on the crew.
First off, I'm not going to pretend that scrubbing toilets is glamorous or even hygienic. (I'm sparing you the very, very many "crap" jokes, at this point.) Cleaning bathrooms has proved to me that toilets are far more disgusting than I ever imagined. There is just no way to pretend that it's fun when . . . ah, never mind. I'm losing readers enough as it is without all the descriptive bathroom stuff.
But all custodial jobs involve cleaning up after people, and we are always dealing with gross stuff: Soiled milk that spilled out of the garbage bag, chewed gum that's been stomped into the floor, TARANTULAS!!! (*shudders and looks over both shoulders*) At least in the bathroom you expect it, and get to work with really yummy-smelling chemicals! ...which I don't sniff...of course, because that would be bad . . .
And here are the awesome things about working bathrooms:
1) I get a partner, and when you're working in an empty building at 4:00 in the morning, it's nice to have someone around to hang out with.
2) There's variety; many of the jobs here involve repetitive, boring tasks, but since I'm on bathrooms, we switch off jobs at every new room and there's always a million things to do in there.
3) I get to stay in the same room for up to 45 minutes, instead of wandering from room to room to room the whole shift.
4) I can see the progress and get a real satisfaction, knowing that my job is vital to the daily functions of the university.
5) I get to go into the boys' bathroom every day. I feel like a total rebel!
Anyway, next time you use a public restroom, take a few seconds to think about the people who wake up freakishly early every morning, get on their hands and knees, and scrub that place from top to bottom so that you don't get some terrible disease. The people whose work is never noticed when it's done right, who are like elves in the night.
And if you see a custodian walking around, tell him thanks. We don't hear it very much.
But, while I knew my job was important, I used to sneak glances around the corner at the duty station I really wanted, the job held in the highest esteem by everyone on the custodial crew. Only the most trusted officers were allowed to perform that job, though, and so I kept to my rancid trashcans and focused on working my way up.
Soon I was moving up through the ranks. As a Lieutenant Jr. Grade, I was moved to floor detail; I swept and scrubbed every inch of the immense, tiled floorspace. After a few more months I was reassigned to the South Hall, where I did everything from replacing dry-erase markers to vacuuming to scrubbing the walls. I was promoted to the rank of Lieutenant by the end of my first year, before leaving on a temporary assignment to Jupiter for four months.
When I got back, that venerated job I had always wanted was finally given to me. Having proved myself dedicated and hardworking, and having outlasted several crew reorganizations, I was finally assigned to the most envied post on the crew:
Bathrooms.
I know: You're confused, right? Or else you think I'm being sarcastic. Well, I'm not. Though it may sound odd, I'd much rather have this job than any other on the crew.
First off, I'm not going to pretend that scrubbing toilets is glamorous or even hygienic. (I'm sparing you the very, very many "crap" jokes, at this point.) Cleaning bathrooms has proved to me that toilets are far more disgusting than I ever imagined. There is just no way to pretend that it's fun when . . . ah, never mind. I'm losing readers enough as it is without all the descriptive bathroom stuff.
But all custodial jobs involve cleaning up after people, and we are always dealing with gross stuff: Soiled milk that spilled out of the garbage bag, chewed gum that's been stomped into the floor, TARANTULAS!!! (*shudders and looks over both shoulders*) At least in the bathroom you expect it, and get to work with really yummy-smelling chemicals! ...which I don't sniff...of course, because that would be bad . . .
And here are the awesome things about working bathrooms:
1) I get a partner, and when you're working in an empty building at 4:00 in the morning, it's nice to have someone around to hang out with.
2) There's variety; many of the jobs here involve repetitive, boring tasks, but since I'm on bathrooms, we switch off jobs at every new room and there's always a million things to do in there.
3) I get to stay in the same room for up to 45 minutes, instead of wandering from room to room to room the whole shift.
4) I can see the progress and get a real satisfaction, knowing that my job is vital to the daily functions of the university.
5) I get to go into the boys' bathroom every day. I feel like a total rebel!
Anyway, next time you use a public restroom, take a few seconds to think about the people who wake up freakishly early every morning, get on their hands and knees, and scrub that place from top to bottom so that you don't get some terrible disease. The people whose work is never noticed when it's done right, who are like elves in the night.
And if you see a custodian walking around, tell him thanks. We don't hear it very much.
Monday, September 6, 2010
84 Days: Wake Me Up When September Ends
Well, it's that time of day again. Blog Post Time. The time when I get to sit down at a blank computer-simulated sheet of paper, and stare and stare until I finally just give up and bang my fists on the keyboard for five or ten minutes.
Obviously, I'm experiencing a bit of Writer's Block. I'm beginning to understand how very many posts there are between 100 and 1. It's a lot.
But I suppose I'd better let you in on where I am, so to speak. Last week was a little messy, if you recall. Evil, money-grubbing textbook manufacturers; vicious bodily infections; school . . . (*shudders*) And yet, here I am, still alive and able to link words together to form sentences. I amaze myself.
Speaking of which, if I were a superhero, what would my name be? (I'm serious, guys. Any comment I get without a suggestion doesn't get posted. Mwa ha ha!) (Now you see who really has the power, don't you?)
I didn't have to go to school or to work today, which means I spent the entire day in my salmon-colored choir tour shirt and lip-print pajama pants. I watched six or seven episodes of the old TV show News Radio and practiced singing "White and Nerdy" to make sure I still have all the words memorized. Oh, and I did some homework or whatever.
Because I had to rearrange so many of my classes last week, I still haven't attended all of them. I'll be able to brief you on them by Wednesday or Thursday.
And . . . that's pretty much it. Happy Labor Day, everybody!
P.S. Do not be alarmed by the strange design layout. I just clicked a random button, I'll fix it tomorrow.
Obviously, I'm experiencing a bit of Writer's Block. I'm beginning to understand how very many posts there are between 100 and 1. It's a lot.
But I suppose I'd better let you in on where I am, so to speak. Last week was a little messy, if you recall. Evil, money-grubbing textbook manufacturers; vicious bodily infections; school . . . (*shudders*) And yet, here I am, still alive and able to link words together to form sentences. I amaze myself.
Speaking of which, if I were a superhero, what would my name be? (I'm serious, guys. Any comment I get without a suggestion doesn't get posted. Mwa ha ha!) (Now you see who really has the power, don't you?)
I didn't have to go to school or to work today, which means I spent the entire day in my salmon-colored choir tour shirt and lip-print pajama pants. I watched six or seven episodes of the old TV show News Radio and practiced singing "White and Nerdy" to make sure I still have all the words memorized. Oh, and I did some homework or whatever.
Because I had to rearrange so many of my classes last week, I still haven't attended all of them. I'll be able to brief you on them by Wednesday or Thursday.
And . . . that's pretty much it. Happy Labor Day, everybody!
P.S. Do not be alarmed by the strange design layout. I just clicked a random button, I'll fix it tomorrow.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
85 Days: A Simple Song
"I belong to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
I know who I am, I know God's plan.
I'll follow Him in faith.
I believe in the Savior, Jesus Christ;
I'll honor His name.
I'll do what is right. I'll follow His light.
His truth I will proclaim."
Saturday, September 4, 2010
86 Days: Bankruptcy Essay
Yes, I'm cheating. I don't feel well, and I might actually be going crazy this time. I didn't want to post. So Jessica-From-The-Past is bailing me out. This is an old essay I wrote for a class in high school that I hated: Financial Literacy. My teacher and my classmates were so full of it, that I just couldn't take it seriously. That's why this little bankruptcy essay may seem a little ridiculously dramatic. I was BSing my way through the whole thing. But it IS rather entertaining to read.
By the way, I got an A+ on this paper.
By the way, I got an A+ on this paper.
Dusk! As the red light of the setting sun wafts in through Anthony’s expensive satin curtains there is a knock at the door, and our hero’s heart is struck with fear. He rises slowly from his armchair and inches toward the front door, peering out through the peephole. When he sees the familiar man with the sharp business suit and awful salmon-colored tie, a briefcase in his left hand, Anthony staggers back from the door, his hand at his throat. The debt collector has come a callin’.
Anthony collapses in his chair, deciding to pretend he isn’t home. He thinks of what has caused this disaster, what has brought him to the edge of bankruptcy. The divorce, he realizes, and buying a house he couldn’t afford. He also figures that he shouldn’t have gotten all those credit cards. He has six, and he’s behind on payments.
He is not alone in this despair, however. Six credit cards is actually average for an American, and his peers – Generation X – make up 35% of those who file for bankruptcy. He knows many of them. In his mind’s eye he sees Tammy Wright, an old high school friend who filed for bankruptcy after a flood destroyed her home. He sees Roger Davies, dying of skin cancer, who filed bankruptcy when he could no longer afford to pay his medical bills. And the Tippits, his next door neighbors, who filed for bankruptcy after they both lost their jobs in the same month.
As the banging on the door continues, a rebellious tear courses down his cheek. He knows what he has to do next, but the consequences are so severe. If he files a Chapter 7, it will wipe almost all of his debt away. But they might repossess his home, his car, and the black mark will remain on his credit for the next decade. A Chapter 13 would at least allow him to salvage some credit and possessions, but it would take so much work! He’d have to come up with a plan that the courts would accept, and then he’d have to try to pay enough to fulfill that plan, paying 25% of the debt in five years. Who’s to say that was even possible?
Anthony wishes he had done something to prevent this. He could have cut back on his luxuries instead of getting into more debt by buying that motorcycle. He probably also should have paid more than just the minimum monthly payments instead of spending the money on his beloved boating trips. But all of this regret was too little too late. Anthony steeled himself and got up to answer the door.
* * *
It has been a week, and Anthony now stands before the judge, who glares at him with cold eyes. Thanks to the new bankruptcy law, Anthony has been barred from filing a Chapter 7 because he has above-average income. Despite the counseling he’s been required to go to, Anthony still speaks with a lump in his throat. Surrounded by financial wolves, feeling terribly alone, Anthony says, “I’m here to file for bankruptcy.”
And the dying cry of independence is finally silenced.
Friday, September 3, 2010
87 Days: Micro Fiction
a definition: Micro Fiction is the telling of an entire story in as few words as possible. It is shorter than a novel, shorter than a novella, shorter even than a short story. But it isn't a summary. It's a story all by itself. Here's mine.
Once upon a time, in a land of many magics, dwelt a small dragon with turquoise scales and a pink nose. The dragon lay in the shade of a weeping willow, his wings folded out over the soft grass, which swirled slightly in his hot breath as the dragon softly snored. It seemed that such a scene of serenity and natural beauty was never to have been beheld. And the villagers of the nearby kingdom, who even now rested in the belly of the sleeping dragon, never would behold anything quite so lovely, ever again.
Once upon a time, in a land of many magics, dwelt a small dragon with turquoise scales and a pink nose. The dragon lay in the shade of a weeping willow, his wings folded out over the soft grass, which swirled slightly in his hot breath as the dragon softly snored. It seemed that such a scene of serenity and natural beauty was never to have been beheld. And the villagers of the nearby kingdom, who even now rested in the belly of the sleeping dragon, never would behold anything quite so lovely, ever again.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
88 Days: Of Course
Murphy's Law proves true once more. It can always get worse, and it usually does.
Let's review my week so far:
Monday: School started, and I was unhappy about it.
Tuesday: Work started, and I started being sleep-deprived as well as stressed.
Wednesday: Stupid Spanish textbook makes me rearrange my entire schedule in order to avoid throwing $200 down the drain.
Thursday: ...
What's wrong today, you wonder?
On top of everything else, I have a head cold. The deluxe package, which comes with a runny nose, a sore throat, and general lack of wellness AND makes very little physical appearance, so to the rest of the world I look perfectly healthy, with no excuse for slacking off.
(*blows nose*) Gawl, I just want this week to be OVER.
Let's review my week so far:
Monday: School started, and I was unhappy about it.
Tuesday: Work started, and I started being sleep-deprived as well as stressed.
Wednesday: Stupid Spanish textbook makes me rearrange my entire schedule in order to avoid throwing $200 down the drain.
Thursday: ...
What's wrong today, you wonder?
On top of everything else, I have a head cold. The deluxe package, which comes with a runny nose, a sore throat, and general lack of wellness AND makes very little physical appearance, so to the rest of the world I look perfectly healthy, with no excuse for slacking off.
(*blows nose*) Gawl, I just want this week to be OVER.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
89 Days: Outrageous
from a text I sent earlier today:
"I want to kill someone. I want to bash in their brains with a mallet. Then I want to throw their body off a tall building."
- - -
Now, you may ask - as well you should - what transpired to inspire such a hostile desire? (Though you may have asked it less poetically.) Let me tell you. It involves a conspiratorial gang of thieves with a habit of robbing poor people and leaving them for dead on the side of the road. They call themselves textbook manufacturers.
I was the victim of a new-edition heist. The way this heist works is simple:
Step One: Sell thousands of copies of the book "Fuentes 3rd Edition" and make it required for all beginning Spanish students. This textbook should normally carry them through two semesters of class, which is why we can make them pay $200 for it.
Step Two: Before the next semester starts, "edit" the book by changing the numbering of questions and moving sections around. You don't need to add new material, you just need to switch around a few pages.
Step Three: Publish the "new" edition. Colleges will require this new book for their students who have already gone halfway through the old book. Now if students want to continue their education, they have to spend another $200 to get the 4th Edition, which they will only use the last half of. (See our brilliant evilness?!)
Results: Spanish students will end up paying $400 for the use of a single textbook. Ha ha!
Anyway, this is what happened to me. They tried to get me to buy the new book. I thought that was a load of garbage, plus I couldn't afford it anyway, so I went to my professor. She said that she was going to work around it, letting us work out of the third edition because the only differences between the two books is numbering. Then, being a confused grad student teaching for the first time, she went to the department head for reassurance. She came back today and told us that we actually do have to buy the new book if we want to stay in her class, because even though she thinks it's unethical, that's just the way it is and we have to deal with it.
Well, I can't just deal with it. I can't afford that book. I can't get it used or rent it from anywhere because BYU is the only school that's using it!
So I dropped the class. All I can do is wait until next semester, when I can get the 4th edition used, because I need the class as part of my major requirements.
But it wasn't as simple as that. Because I have a scholarship to live up to. I need to have 14 credits in order to keep my scholarship, and when I dropped Spanish, I went down to 10. So in order to replace the credits I'd lost, I had to sign up for TWO new classes: Biology and New Testament. And now I have to buy three new books (which, by the way, are cheaper all together than the one Spanish textbook they wanted to make me buy).
Needless to say, my already unpleasant re-entry has gone even farther downhill. I am now lying at the bottom of a cliff, with debris all around me, cursing every single molecule in that campus.
Happy September.
"I want to kill someone. I want to bash in their brains with a mallet. Then I want to throw their body off a tall building."
- - -
Now, you may ask - as well you should - what transpired to inspire such a hostile desire? (Though you may have asked it less poetically.) Let me tell you. It involves a conspiratorial gang of thieves with a habit of robbing poor people and leaving them for dead on the side of the road. They call themselves textbook manufacturers.
I was the victim of a new-edition heist. The way this heist works is simple:
Step One: Sell thousands of copies of the book "Fuentes 3rd Edition" and make it required for all beginning Spanish students. This textbook should normally carry them through two semesters of class, which is why we can make them pay $200 for it.
Step Two: Before the next semester starts, "edit" the book by changing the numbering of questions and moving sections around. You don't need to add new material, you just need to switch around a few pages.
Step Three: Publish the "new" edition. Colleges will require this new book for their students who have already gone halfway through the old book. Now if students want to continue their education, they have to spend another $200 to get the 4th Edition, which they will only use the last half of. (See our brilliant evilness?!)
Results: Spanish students will end up paying $400 for the use of a single textbook. Ha ha!
Anyway, this is what happened to me. They tried to get me to buy the new book. I thought that was a load of garbage, plus I couldn't afford it anyway, so I went to my professor. She said that she was going to work around it, letting us work out of the third edition because the only differences between the two books is numbering. Then, being a confused grad student teaching for the first time, she went to the department head for reassurance. She came back today and told us that we actually do have to buy the new book if we want to stay in her class, because even though she thinks it's unethical, that's just the way it is and we have to deal with it.
Well, I can't just deal with it. I can't afford that book. I can't get it used or rent it from anywhere because BYU is the only school that's using it!
So I dropped the class. All I can do is wait until next semester, when I can get the 4th edition used, because I need the class as part of my major requirements.
But it wasn't as simple as that. Because I have a scholarship to live up to. I need to have 14 credits in order to keep my scholarship, and when I dropped Spanish, I went down to 10. So in order to replace the credits I'd lost, I had to sign up for TWO new classes: Biology and New Testament. And now I have to buy three new books (which, by the way, are cheaper all together than the one Spanish textbook they wanted to make me buy).
Needless to say, my already unpleasant re-entry has gone even farther downhill. I am now lying at the bottom of a cliff, with debris all around me, cursing every single molecule in that campus.
Happy September.
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