In which I speak in secret code.

20090326192527If neurotic is wanting two mutually exclusive things at one and the same time, then I am neurotic as hell.

— Sylvia Plath


Oh what– a trend?

What Being a Lit/Writing Major Means to Me

It occurs to me that this is a common subject. It’s really about as personal as I’m willing to get on a public internet blog, so I suppose that has something to do with it. I hope it doesn’t come off too heavily as whining (though at times, I realize it can be) or obsession (which it probably can quite easily become). With all its zany professors and unusual characters, despite all its exhausting pains and draining passions, even considering its relative uselessness… I wouldn’t change it. Life just wouldn’t be as interesting. I can’t even describe the ridiculous classes or unbelievable situations that have stemmed from these small, fateful decisions leading me to lit/writing. I hate to say it, and I wish my descriptions could do it justice, but you actually do need to be part of it to understand. When I think about it, in any other major, in any other field, I don’t think I’d be nearly as neurotic or excited or challenged as I am now. All in all, I really love my major.

So please excuse the ranting and the repetition. Some things you just can’t help.

“Stay gold, Ponyboy.”

Nature’s first green is gold
Her hardest hue to hold
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.




I thought I would introduce a little poetry back into my life.

Thank you, Mr. Robert Frost. It always seems to be the case that a little poetry can do a lot of good.

Flight of the Conchords.


We are creatures of emotion.


I don’t remember when it was, but Casey and I were talking about all-nighters one day. He was telling me (in a manner that was entirely unique and completely Casey) that he had not pulled an all-nighter for years. I couldn’t help but think of the previous night and the present morning, the way they blended together in a flurry of sweetened coffee and breaking light.

There have been so many mornings, quiet and haunting. Freshman year, I used to sit in the cramped space of our “nerd box,” facing east and watching a strange glow spread across the face of AP&M. It’s not really as great or as epic as you would imagine it to be. But after staying up all night, I always felt like I needed some sort of reward. Reciprocity, you know. I stayed up all night so I could watch the sun rise. Yeah, except not.

It’s so weird now because I don’t even do that anymore. It’s become such a constant. I’ve seen those sunrises, and they’ve lost their thrill. At least, the view from the inside of a building has. I think there should be one day when I stay up without having anything to do and actually go outside to watch the sun rise. That would be a departure from my horrible norms. I keep forgetting why I even started to write anything. I guess that’s what happens when you write things late at night (or is it early in the morning?). Whatever. The point is, I stay up so late that nothing really surprises me about all-nighters anymore.

I’m so unaffected, it’s frightening.

That isn’t to say that I don’t feel the effects. Despite what many have claimed (cough), I am not a robot. My body probably hates me, and it tells me every so often. Sometimes I’m so out of it that I bump into people. I fell asleep on the bus once and my water bottle leaked all over my pants. It was a double shot of weariness and humiliation, but what else is new? On top of that, I’ve developed a coffee addiction I never thought I would ever fall prey to, and I’m pretty sure I’m losing years off my life.

But it doesn’t shock me anymore. Nothing really shocks me anymore.

I guess what I’m trying to figure out is how I can be so nonchalant about my unhealthy lack of sleep, but so high strung over each and every assignment. I freak out sometimes. I mean, logically, shouldn’t it be all or nothing? Shouldn’t that indifference towards my twisted schedule carry over into an equally apathetic approach towards the reason why I have that schedule? I just think it makes more sense. If pulling an all-nighter doesn’t shake me, neither should the things that fuel those all-nighters.

I always think of myself as logical. I am intelligent and focused and rational.

By all reasonable means, I should be as chill about all the ridiculous crazy things that keep me up late as I am about actually staying up late. Does that even make sense? I can barely follow my own thought process. To ask anyone else to attempt such insanity would be cruel. I can’t even remember my point. I can’t even remember if I had one at the very beginning of it anyway. Hm. So, I think I let the wrong things sway me. Logically, I should have control over that. It makes sense. But that isn’t the case, and so I guess there’s nothing to conclude except to realize that I’m really not as rational as I thought.

Perhaps we are not creatures of logic or sanity or calm. We are creatures of emotion, wild and passionate and unbearable. And I guess that’s it. It is what it is, we are what we are. So let’s just leave it at that.

Curiouser and curiouser

Alice in Wonderland

If I had a world of my own, everything would be nonsense. Nothing would be what it is, because everything would be what it isn’t. And contrary wise, what is, it wouldn’t be. And what it wouldn’t be, it would. You see?

— Lewis Carroll

“Man, when you lose your laugh, you lose your footing.”

Housing, Amy Casey