Monday, September 26, 2011

Don't ever bring your purple belt to work, because someone might steal it.

Once upon a time last week, the new season of  The Office began. And while I do think it's only a matter of time before the whole thing flops without Michael Scott, I very eagerly participated in this joyous occasion, not only watching the new episode but my favorite old clips as well. And in this roundabout way, after I watched the one with Dwight's purple belt, I began to think about advice.

What I think is this. I have a lot of problems that I have no idea how to solve, and a lot of things about myself that I don't know how to fix. And the funny part is that I have all the right answers in theory. But I am beginning to realize through a painful process that most things in life are much easier said than done. Infinitely easier said than done. Thus, a lot of problems with half-solutions, because really, some of the solutions are problems too.

Like the whole problem with making friends in college. I have never had a hard time making friends, and I have never felt super left out. What I have realized, though, is that I was always really intensely involved in a group setting when I was the happiest. But here in college, everything is so dang individualized. I can't find a group where I can do some good work. I can trace all the best times of my life through the groups I have belonged to. Magnet program, Academic Team, Journalism, Graces, Spotlights, Production staff, Madrigals, Brighton staffers, the M*A*S*H club at work, you get the drift. I need to produce in collaboration for the sake of my own sanity and I just can't find it here.

So because I have this problem, I also have a really hard time making friends. Which is a problem, because all my close friends throughout the years now live in different  cities, states, and countries. There is a lot of good stuff going on in my life. I am functional and productive, and goal-reaching, and also the loneliest I've ever been. The logical answer to this would be: find a group, get involved, go meet people, be outgoing, organize outings, etc.

This is another one of those bits of advice I give myself every day. I have the advice. I have the answer. But the execution is a little elusive.  I want to dominate the office so bad, but Jim Halpert keeps getting in my way, and Michael won't recommend me for his replacement. I feel like somebody stole my purple belt. I am knocked out of my element and straight into some limbo called college. Really, it's not so bad. I am comfortable here. I have a favorite chair on the fourth floor of the library, and people I pass every day on my way up the hill. I habitually trip on the stairs outside Ray B. West, and I know all the spots to avoid because the sprinklers make the grass soggy. But I do all that stuff by myself most of the time, and that is not what I am used to. I don't want to be Dwight anymore.  I need a place, and I need my purple belt back.

Thursday, September 22, 2011

This is why I'm an English major.

So I was reading The Merchant of Venice. And mostly it is a play about a whole heap of people who are spiteful and vindictive, which explains why this caught me by surprise. There I was, slugging through.

Spite. Vindictiveness. Controlling sexism. Thievery. Threats. More Spite. Shamless manipulation.

....look how the floor of heaven is thick inlaid with patens of bright gold.....

more manipulation. more lying. wait a second. go back.

look how the floor of heaven is thick inlaid with patens of bright gold.

seriously. look. sheesh. oh shakespeare. champion. That made the whole stupid book worth it. That one sentence. I am speechless. (read: ceding to shameless use of poor grammar, lack of punctuation, and incomplete sentence structure.)

No idea what job I'll ever get, but I am satisfied nevertheless with my pursuit of literary studies.


That was an unintentional hiatus. For the two people who read this and care, my sincerest apologies. I have just emerged from an epic battle wherin the gods of blogging, internet, and email all ganged up and decided to make me want to drive to Hoover dam and jump off.

What is equally frustrating is that I am not entirely sure if the war is over, but as long as we are talking strictly battle time, I won. Blogger will once again acknowledge that I am the author of this blog.


So here I am. I haven't written anything in nine years. So I might be playing catch up for a while. Cause while I was not blogging, I was doing other stuff, most of which was great, some of which sucked a whole lot. But mostly not, cause I have aspen trees outside my window, so really, life can never such that much.

kay. catching up will happen someday. maybe.

* I don't care that the real version is boom roasted. eat it.

Saturday, September 10, 2011

If I could just make it come out of my freaking fingers!

This writing in my sleep thing is driving me crazy. It was bad this summer, and then I came back to school. Now I spend all my time explaining why William Blake used an iambic meter pattern on that one line even though the rest of the poem is in trochee, arguing over the anti-Semitic aspects of Shakespeare, and hashing out dysfunctional family relations in nineteenth century western culture identified through the lenses of Shelley, Godwin, and Wollstonecraft.

Long story short, I spend a huge hunk of time reading the magnificent compositions of people who are a lot more talented than I am, and suddenly the sleep writing has jumped into hyperdrive. (and astro-turf!)

Which is great, except that it makes writing in a cognizant state that much more difficult, because apparently, I can't write on that level whilst awake. It's like Bob Ross and painting. It never comes out of my fingers the way it looks in my head. It's kind of like the difference between botanical gardens and a shrubby chrysanthemum. Which is only more frustrating now because I know it's in there, floating around in my subconcious.

On that note, back to Frankenstein. 
P.S. I'm so tired of Victor. No wonder his family didn't complain when he took off for college and didn't write or call for six years. I'll be glad to get rid of him too.

Wednesday, September 7, 2011

The horse may be dead already, but whatever.

Once upon a time last year, we decided that Sarah was the devil on everybody's shoulder, and Ruthie was the angel urging us to give blood and kiss babies. The two have been shouting at me all week. Because. 

It happened, folks. My new job is great, aka I now have unlimited access to a coke machine. 

All I really have to say about it is that this year will be an enormous exercise in self control and making myself listen to Ruthie, possibly with high dives off the wagon to visit Sarah during finals weeks.

In other news, my reading load is insane this semester. I have seventy pages of Frankenstien, a constitution, some Articles of Confederation, ten pages about sixteenth century theatre laws, and some serious poetry analyzation due tomorrow.

aka, bye.