I miss leaves.
At the present moment I am sitting at a comfy booth in the Corner Bakery in Orland reveling in the fact that I just laid the smack down on two out of my three final papers for the semester. Having completed these two papers I feel completely justified in doing a happy dance. Summer seems so much closer now that some of the weight of the Mariner's bird has been lifted from my neck.
Finals not withstanding, I'm done with school. Done. I'm excited for next semester and terrified, but the simple fact that I will no longer have to measure my life by semesters in less than a year feels so liberating.
April 21, 2009
April 16, 2009
fuck-ups.
I really really really really really really really really really hate my job.
I also hate Jean Paul Silva.
and I'm not too big a fan of my new fulltimers.
and I miss Malcolm.
I really miss Malcolm.
I also hate Jean Paul Silva.
and I'm not too big a fan of my new fulltimers.
and I miss Malcolm.
I really miss Malcolm.
April 8, 2009
Nothing unusual, nothings changed, just a little older thats all.
I have spent a significant portion of my life ridiculing the type of women that read Cosmo for dating advice and spend copious hours obsessing over whether or not this or that current insignificant infatuation will ever reciprocate. Until recently, I was never one to be terribly concerned about the status of my relationship, nor was I the type to hypothesis about the activities of my significant other when they were not in my presence.
Two things have occurred in the recent past to change this.
I read in a book somewhere, I do not remember were, but I don’t suppose that is terribly significant at present, that in a relationship one person is always more in love than the other. Until recently I have never been on that ass end of that equation. I don’t know that I believe this quotation to be scripture true, but I do believe that it has applied to every relationship I’ve been in thus far. Both of my prior long term relationship placed me in the position of cherished goddess of sorts, allowing me to act pretty much as I pleased and get away with it, make nearly any demand and be accommodated, and have as much or as little access to their time as I might like. Suffice it to say, I am a bit of a relationship princess.
In my current relationship I have been relegated to the status of one who chases after, and I am neither accustomed to, nor appreciative of my role. Our ridiculous schedules, though relatively similar, do not allow for much face time, which leads to me inevitably vying for attention with his friends on the weekends, and perpetually self conscious of my actions when I am around him so as not to irritate, offend or otherwise disturb his disposition.
Since the reification of our relationship, my significant other has had an insatiable need to go ‘out’ to clubs/bars/house parties, and drink. While I do not oppose his alcoholic consumption, I do have certain misgivings regarding the situation that he places himself and, vicariously, me in. The club situation, from my limited experience in it, being more the type to read books and rollerblade than to participate in partially clothed group copulation, seems absurdly sexual. From what I have seen and heard of the culture, it places a large group of horny, drunk 20-somethings in a dark room with loud, sexually charged music with very few restrictions. While I do trust my significant other, I do not trust alcohol, women, or the combination of the two. From a moral, relational, or personal perspective, despite the fact that it has become culturally acceptable, I cannot accept my significant other putting his hands, or any other body part, on another woman, drunk, sober or otherwise. I am also not terribly at ease with him placing himself, again and again, in a situation designed to foster such an action.
Unfortunately, my opinion on the subject does not seem to be terribly significant.
So, I will go to work and do my job. I will come home and do my Shakespeare homework, and I will wake up in the morning and attend my biology lab. Then from Thursday night until Sunday when he returns, I will spend every unoccupied moment begging myself not to think about where he is or what he’s doing while he’s at Wesleyan. I will try not to wonder if the real reason that he has never invited me to go out with him, and patently refused to if pressed, is that he does not want me to bare witness to the goings on. I will spend Friday night out with anyone that will go out with me so that I am occupied until I am so exhausted that I will not be able to reflect before I sleep. I will spend all day Saturday writing papers, working out or cleaning compulsively to maintain my distraction until I can go out again and repeat the previous nights technique. Sunday I will pull on my Easter dress and paste on a smile and endure the questions of my extended family and offer the simplified truth when his absence is questioned. Then Sunday night when he returns I will beg his audience and sit in the straining silence for as long as I can stand it as a pauper at his side waiting for the scraps of his affection.
Two things have occurred in the recent past to change this.
I read in a book somewhere, I do not remember were, but I don’t suppose that is terribly significant at present, that in a relationship one person is always more in love than the other. Until recently I have never been on that ass end of that equation. I don’t know that I believe this quotation to be scripture true, but I do believe that it has applied to every relationship I’ve been in thus far. Both of my prior long term relationship placed me in the position of cherished goddess of sorts, allowing me to act pretty much as I pleased and get away with it, make nearly any demand and be accommodated, and have as much or as little access to their time as I might like. Suffice it to say, I am a bit of a relationship princess.
In my current relationship I have been relegated to the status of one who chases after, and I am neither accustomed to, nor appreciative of my role. Our ridiculous schedules, though relatively similar, do not allow for much face time, which leads to me inevitably vying for attention with his friends on the weekends, and perpetually self conscious of my actions when I am around him so as not to irritate, offend or otherwise disturb his disposition.
Since the reification of our relationship, my significant other has had an insatiable need to go ‘out’ to clubs/bars/house parties, and drink. While I do not oppose his alcoholic consumption, I do have certain misgivings regarding the situation that he places himself and, vicariously, me in. The club situation, from my limited experience in it, being more the type to read books and rollerblade than to participate in partially clothed group copulation, seems absurdly sexual. From what I have seen and heard of the culture, it places a large group of horny, drunk 20-somethings in a dark room with loud, sexually charged music with very few restrictions. While I do trust my significant other, I do not trust alcohol, women, or the combination of the two. From a moral, relational, or personal perspective, despite the fact that it has become culturally acceptable, I cannot accept my significant other putting his hands, or any other body part, on another woman, drunk, sober or otherwise. I am also not terribly at ease with him placing himself, again and again, in a situation designed to foster such an action.
Unfortunately, my opinion on the subject does not seem to be terribly significant.
So, I will go to work and do my job. I will come home and do my Shakespeare homework, and I will wake up in the morning and attend my biology lab. Then from Thursday night until Sunday when he returns, I will spend every unoccupied moment begging myself not to think about where he is or what he’s doing while he’s at Wesleyan. I will try not to wonder if the real reason that he has never invited me to go out with him, and patently refused to if pressed, is that he does not want me to bare witness to the goings on. I will spend Friday night out with anyone that will go out with me so that I am occupied until I am so exhausted that I will not be able to reflect before I sleep. I will spend all day Saturday writing papers, working out or cleaning compulsively to maintain my distraction until I can go out again and repeat the previous nights technique. Sunday I will pull on my Easter dress and paste on a smile and endure the questions of my extended family and offer the simplified truth when his absence is questioned. Then Sunday night when he returns I will beg his audience and sit in the straining silence for as long as I can stand it as a pauper at his side waiting for the scraps of his affection.
April 1, 2009
Somethings may change; but somethings, they stay the same, like time.
I passed the English content area test.
In the wake of this blessed miracle my life has begun to spin into and out of control at high velocity, and also in the same motion. This morning I was accosted by Dr. Jones my Shakespeare professor who informed me that the likelihood of ENG 380 being made a night class, and I would therefore be able to be able to take the class, was slim to none. What this means for me is that my academic fate would ostensibly being riding waves on limbo beach until the fall of 2011, the next time the class is offered.
Shortly after this abrupt information was foisted upon me I sought out Prof B-C, the man that evidently found humor in dangling my bachelors degree inches out of reach, to see what he had to say for himself. Our brief encounter spiral rapidly from a polite question and answer to an all out assault on my plan to teach and work in the same semester. B-C informed me that if I attempted to do so, even if I was working only 2 days a week, I would either be dead or in a mental institution by Halloween.
On the up side, he did provide a recommendation to the Education staff to place me in an Urban school. It was a decent little ego boost to hear a man whose teaching style I so envy inform me that he had reassured a skeptical secretary that I was more than capable of teaching in the city, and also that he “could not be more confident in my abilities.”
Go me.
I do hope he’s wrong about that whole dying thing.
In the wake of this blessed miracle my life has begun to spin into and out of control at high velocity, and also in the same motion. This morning I was accosted by Dr. Jones my Shakespeare professor who informed me that the likelihood of ENG 380 being made a night class, and I would therefore be able to be able to take the class, was slim to none. What this means for me is that my academic fate would ostensibly being riding waves on limbo beach until the fall of 2011, the next time the class is offered.
Shortly after this abrupt information was foisted upon me I sought out Prof B-C, the man that evidently found humor in dangling my bachelors degree inches out of reach, to see what he had to say for himself. Our brief encounter spiral rapidly from a polite question and answer to an all out assault on my plan to teach and work in the same semester. B-C informed me that if I attempted to do so, even if I was working only 2 days a week, I would either be dead or in a mental institution by Halloween.
On the up side, he did provide a recommendation to the Education staff to place me in an Urban school. It was a decent little ego boost to hear a man whose teaching style I so envy inform me that he had reassured a skeptical secretary that I was more than capable of teaching in the city, and also that he “could not be more confident in my abilities.”
Go me.
I do hope he’s wrong about that whole dying thing.
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