The Plague.

I feel like death. Mentally, physically, emotionally? All of the above.

Really, I'm quite pathetic when I'm sick. I like to feel sorry for myself. Or I simply like to tell myself that I have no passion for anything anymore and no one likes me.

I think I need some cheese with my whine.

It's that pull. (inside.)

So I'm not being normal.

And even though I'm quite certain
no one can sense any difference

I'm beginning to wonder
what the heck is up with me.

Just relax...?

The fun thing about living at home is that your parents sometimes do things for you. For example, the other week my mother bought me toothpaste. Sometimes they provide me with a personal mail delivery service, where if I'm out of the house when they fetch the mail I will find it conveniently located on my bed when I arrive home. However, today when I arrived home it was nothing of the sort...

I've been pondering the implications of my mother leaving an article titled "Just Relax! (Do you always feel stressed? Here's how to take control.)" on my bed. Does this mean it's simply time to face reality?

I essentially exist in a two-realm world: school and everything else. In one, I lack motivation; in the other, I have an abundance of it. I'm currently: confused on how this happened.

This article found in a September issue of some magazine my mother (apparently) reads is supposed to be my guide to better health. Indeed it's not just better health we seek but rather a straying from the typical American woes of wanting too much and having too little. And like all things American the article claims that you can "cut stress in minutes." Oh how I have a certain affinity for instant gratification. And just in case the process is too complicated, it comes in five easy to handle steps.

Look, I realize that "it doesn't have to be that way", AVH would tell me that all the time, that I'm 'choosing to feel stressed' and that I don't have to choose to feel that way. I could tell myself that maybe if I didn't procrastinate I wouldn't be stressed. I could also probably tell myself that I could not do all of my work and probably still be okay. I could tell myself that if my French teacher would give us a quiz on Tuesday I might just actually put some effort into the homework (or more realistically, I might actually do the homework). Then, perhaps only then, I wouldn't spend my week with that underlying "oh god I'm fucked (!!!)" feeling.

But here's the problem, the article is attempting to make us not be American. Seriously. I feel like Americans are born to be stressed, like it's supposed to be an element of our lives. Here are my rants.

1. Take a deep breath or two
The only way anyone is going to pay attention to their breathing is while they're sitting in the car driving. Or at least that's when I would pay attention to my breathing. These days we have cell phones and iPods which promptly remove any static time in which to clear our heads of those voices...

2. Think of good stuff
Yeah, like how I'm lucky to be alive but how Food Snob likes to remind me that we're all going to die because of an oil crash, or something. Thinking good thoughts inevitably leads to me thinking about bad stuff. For example the sequence would go as follows: 'aw AVH sent me an SMS' to: 'la;skfnaw;len why can't he be here?!'

3. Slow down
Multi-tasking = no, no. Like, yeah right. If you even try to go the speed limit people get pissed off. Heck, people get pissed if I ride my bike too slow on campus.

4. Change the tape
I suppose if I stopped telling myself that I'm fucked I would probably feel better. Ok, I'm not really fucked. At least I'm not if I start doing homework on the weekends.

5. Let it go
Ok, so maybe I can't do 4 clubs, 16 credits, and ride horses. I think letting stuff go is good though, but not letting important homework assignments go. Or going to the dentist. Or doing my French homework...


I tend to be in a negative mood on Sunday nights when I sit down to do the work I didn't do on Friday and Saturday. Ok, I choose to be in a negative mood. It stems from the fact that I would simply rather be in bed... mm, bed.

Or maybe it's just the fact that I have four daunting days ahead of me before the next weekend when I can slack off.

I don't think I need to de-stress, I think I just need to improve my work-ethic. I am starting to understand why university is supposed to be a four year process rather than a five year process.

I think I will be de-stressed when I'm sitting on a beach (like the woman in the article) with my face turned to the sun. Really.

You are....

so wonderful!

(thanks for staying up to talk with me tonight)

I'm a happy lady.

Survival of the not-so-fittest Wolverine.

I've only been stung by a bee once in my life. I was ten years old and it stung me on the top of my left foot. Last weekend an ultra persistent bee was so attracted to me that it stung me three times. (I didn't even think that was possible.) It somehow hitched an unbenounced ride with me into the house after its outdoor mass attack and, henceforth, upon discovery, created a chaotic explosion of screaming children throwing each other out of the way (remember you're dead meat if you're last) which subsided with me being paranoid for the rest of the afternoon.

I seem to have reached a plateau of inability to do physical activity without existing in pain which extends to time periods of several weeks at a time. After a week of limping around I decided that if I ever want to run consistently for any length of time substantial enough for me to do at least a 5k race I will need help. Despite being irked at the fact that I have to drive (at least) an hour, I'm going to see my orthopedic surgeon. Of course, after scheduling the appointment I've noticed that the pain has subsided. I would assume that this sort of situation would occur (especially in my life). Thus, I plan to remedy the present situation by re-inducing the (mysterious?) pain in my left fibula (or tibia or knee?) by consistently running for one week prior to the appointment. Jin suggests I just take a sledge hammer to the thing, and although that's a probable option I sense that insurance might not be keen on that idea. So henceforth, running on hard cement.

Amongst items survival related, I seem to disappear (for some people) when I let my education dictate my existence. It's not only the hours spent in class or at the library, it's the fact that I'm inclined to the idea of attempting to teach myself how to do schoolwork in my dreams; my logic being that perhaps in my unconscious I can be more creative coming up with ideas for wooing my professors into rewarding me with better grades (or at least getting them to help me figure out what I'm supposed to do with my majors).

Besides that fact, $70, 200+ pages, one semi-all-nighter, and a class period of fret (and thoughts of potential class abandonment)later the political science paper of death doesn't seem so bad (this is, of course, after grade affirmation). I honestly couldn't tell you much about quasi-experimental designs and causal inference but at least I'm putting forth a valiant effort. I had the desire to pat myself on the back but then I realized that I still have five more papers to go. Right.

Along the lines of mental sanity (which I'm lacking with this newest potential endeavor) I have become adamant in the idea that I need a horse. It has moved past the stage of simply wanting one. It has become necessary. For my mental clarity. For my existence in this world. Heck, I don't even need a horse, a pony would suit me just fine. Just something of the equine species that has decently forward motion and isn't potentially a death wish.

Oh. I defaced AP property today. Really. It's Bek's fault. She was the one who taught me how to steal oranges from Citrusdal. It has extended cross-continentally. I am not ashamed of my actions (afterall, I did it with pencil, I can't be that badass).

I'm having serious deprivation of Freskpak Rooibos. [insert string of cussing here] Well, not quite yet. But at the rate I'm going I will need preparation for impact when it actually does occur.

But, perhaps most importantly: I miss AVH. Like the way I miss watermelon in the winter. Much to the extent where I have actually prevented myself from writing him letters or sonnets or journals. Although (thank heavens) I'm not overwhelmed with sadness there is often a lingering sense that someone (him) is missing (physically) from my days. I've come to the point where I consciously think about how much I depend on language (not even that which is verbally spoken) and my interpretation of it. So I can't really think of it as 'one less day' till the visit. Besides the fact that AP prevents me from thinking more than one week in advance, it seems a shame to wish this (academic hell) year by (although I rightfully admit it's only human to want that French test to be over with). Maybe it extends to the bigger picture of wondering where I'll be in a year, or two, or five. Really, I could be anywhere.

Yeah, yeah so maybe I'm not the fittest but (sometimes) much to my surprise I find that I do a fairly decent job of surviving.

Hey Mom, I think the milk has gone bad.

Although I often come off as high-powered overly stressed I rarely feel that sinking sense of doom where you really know things are going wrong.

Unfortunately, tonight after 6 hours of class, 4 hours of teaching at the barn, and an hour on the phone with my Father attempting to learn Microsoft Excel, I sat down, looked at my week and thought to myself: I am fucked.

(mind you, this feeling also comes after the 44 emails which I received between the hours of 11am and 10pm... seriously.)

This all comes after I spent a (in my opinion) vast majority of my weekend catching up. This comes after I finally admitted to myself that I was where I realistically wanted be in 4 out of 5 classes.

I calculated that if I didn't sleep for the next 3 nights I would be where I want to be (not even where I should be).

Where's Table Mountain when you need it (to jump off of)?

To be (a friend) or not to be (a friend).

Friend. Friendship. Girlfriend. Boyfriend.

I have been pondering these words for quite some time now; or at least for a substantial amount of time this year. However, as of recent the topic seems to be in my face like a French man trying to get laid on the first day of spring. The best way to deal with a situation such as the aforementioned is: to speak French. Right. And if you can't speak French (ah hem) you must outwit him with an intellectual jab or at least know the French word for lesbian. Hence, to put the pondering at ease I went on a mission... to find a dictionary.

Here's the funny thing about dictionaries, they're never around when you need them. Say for example, when we were trying to start a camp fire in the Kalahari, didn't see any dictionaries then. Or say when I'm trying to look up the word 'friend'. I prowled for a good five minutes (my mum would say that's not long enough) muttering, 'there must be an Oxford English Dictionary somewhere here' and it shifted, 'ok Webster's Dictionary' and yet again, 'ok POCKET Dictionary' and finally, 'arghl;ksmaflke Google.' I just decided that when I have my own house I will keep a dictionary on the coffee table, even if it's a pocket dictionary.

Dictionaries are actually pretty cool. [I mean, besides the fact that today in Cultures of Mod we spent two hours arguing what the definition of 'society' is.] Really, this isn't the point.

friend·ship
n. Germanic origin, related to Old English freond.
A term used to denote co-operative and supportive behavior between two or more social entities. This article focuses on the specific to interpersonal relationships. In this sense, the term connotes a relationship which involves mutual knowledge, esteem, and affection. Friends will welcome each other's company and exhibit loyalty towards each other, often to the point of altruism. They will also engage in mutually helping behavior, such as exchange of advice and the sharing of hardship. A friend is someone who may often demonstrate reciprocating and reflective behaviors. (so on, so forth) [thanks wiki]

Well, it's pre-packaged but it does the job.

Now to be fair, I don't claim to be a good friend. In fact, or en fais, I think that many times I'm a terrible friend. So perhaps it's contradictory for me to point fingers, I'm not quite sure how that stands. Anyways, my reasoning for pondering the definition of this word had boiled down to who was 'worth it' (for lack of finding a better term, it's late and I have stacks of PS498) for me to invest in. [I sense that my father would insert a witty financial analogy here.] But, it makes sense. Life is short and if I'm going to spend time with non-equines they better be pretty good friends.

I decided not to adopt the '3 strikes you're out' rule because three seems somewhat arbitrary to me. I'm no math whiz but I know that bad things happen in threes (or at least that's what DM tells me, and she tells me often enough that I've actually started to believe it).

Perhaps I haven't reached a full conclusion yet. But one thing I have decided: I greatly dislike when people tell me that we're 'friends' when clearly we're not. We need to get our definitions out of the mud. If we don't talk we're clearly not friends. Perhaps I should offer the definition for 'acquaintance' instead? (i.e. facebook, I walk by you on the diag, you sit 4 rows behind me in class, I snogged you like once 2 years ago).

Clearly you should pull out a dictionary and redefine your terms.

How you know you're celebrating too hard:

1.) You have no idea where you are.
2.) Neither does the pig, wearing your pants.

Fortunately, I didn't party hard enough to get lost or let a pig (or wolf) steal (or remove) my pants.

When you get old birthdays are pretty much what you expect them to be. Mine was, for the most part, what I expected.

Spent the morning at the barn, attended a wedding reception, had a lovely dinner with the Rental Units at a fancy pantsy restaurant downtown. Fetched a coffee, met the Ideal Roomie (and some others) at the bar and then proceeded to Owen to see some of my old mates.

My mother even called me at 1am to see if I was drunk and needed a ride home. I couldn't believe it. I was standing on the front steps of Owen, as un-drunk as I could ever be, staring at my ringing phone ("Home").

[This event was proceeded by a Pretentious Drunk Boy attempting to tell me that Jane Austen is a waste of time. Knowing that attempting to argue with pretentious drunk people is a fruitless attempt at burning calories I had stood biting my tongue, because, afterall, JA and I had a forced but somewhat intriguing love-hate relationship (oh 313, how I don't miss you!). Anyhow, not only did Pretentious Drunk Boy realize he somewhat offended me (which is surprising at his level of drunkenness), he attempted to win me over by informing me that he could name all of the Kings of England from some dude until the Tudors (or something like that). I raised my eyebrows in concern as he began reciting, thinking that I was going to have to spend the next 10 minutes listening to his, um, list.]

Then mum called. I did a little shimmy-shake dance in my pants, which I found myself still wearing (could I get any cheesier?!) and scurried away from the PDB.

But, what we really care about is all the stuff on my birthday list that I didn't get... but I can give and take and am honestly happy with what was received, and unexpected.

In short:
- a gigantic map of Southern Africa (from B.rock, so I can decide where I want to live or just because she couldn't afford to buy me a plane ticket, aw thanks buddy!)
- running shoes
- big, big poster prints of photos I took of CPT (thanks JR!)
- phone calls, from the RSA, Italy, and Ohio (aw, I felt so loved.)
- Calamity Physics (because the Rental Units want me to be an author)
- lotion (I swear to god, lotion.)
- a CD (that I haven't listened to...yet...)
- a gift certificate for a 1 hour full body massage (*sigh* tough life, eh?)

So I have no complaints. My fam is awesome, I have some great friends, and getting a little older isn't so bad.

Thus, I have concluded that 22 was a great year around the sun.

Days of wonder and confusion playing all its games.

(I don't think I will be able to justifiably articulate myself. Oh well.)

I can feel my instinct creeping up, that logical sense that time can't out-rule. I want to claim to be honest, but many times I'm not...but this isn't really about those times, it's about this time.

In a way I seem to have forced these words, things I don't want to read, or even consider. I want to push you away. No. I don't want to. But I feel like I should. (one thing you've taught me has been to clarify myself.)

Ugh, fuck.

These feelings aren't new. Part of me wishes they were, then I wouldn't know what I've jumped head-first into. But my head tells me where this goes, it tells me the words that I've asked so many other people here and on my travels.

So I simply want to wrap myself up, exist in the world of headphones and "Love in the Time of Cholera". Homework, horses, libraries. Buried in pillows on my bed. Transfer the effort to 498 or 301. Give up easier.

I'm scared that I don't want to look elsewhere. I find myself feeling like I should. I want you to tell me I shouldn't. I want to know, from you, that it's worth it to wait.

Sometimes it takes distance to realize this stuff.

I just need an affirmation. From you. That what has and is happening does mean something.

(and if it does, then I just have to let myself believe it.)

Another rotation...around the sun.

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Politics students?

I really hate to be let down. Really.

But sometimes academia is quite surprisingly a delight. Let's take for example my American Political Parties course. Where Professor W incorporated the insaneness of the American political party system into the spoiled-ness of us undergrads romping around with our iPods and BMWs (he had this thing with BMWs, either he really wanted one or one crashed into his car and he now loathes them). His agenda of frequent swearing, observing students walking by the lecture hall through the windows, and cutting class short (because, let's be honest, none of us wanted to be there anyways) made him quite the popular professor. Even his illegible writing didn't deter my interest.

Then there was African Politics. You know, a whole lot of waking up early for the 8:30am course only because attendance counted (and let's be honest, when courses are that early attendance should count). That was the point when I discovered that the less work I did the better grade I received. I also learned that I shouldn't spend $90 on 100 page books I won't ever read.

And then there was Ethnicity, Nationalism and Politics... and I was shaking in my panties. No joke. I'm sure my jaw wasn't the only one that hit the floor when I read: Research paper 25-50 pages. Come on, this isn't a thesis people, this is a 3 credit course! Needless to say that course is on the backburner as other options are explored.

But in all honesty, we are politics students. There's a large possibility that some of us will one day hold a political office. Perhaps many of us will go off to law school. And maybe I will just end up riding horses.

People often ask me about becoming a polititian or law school and my response has, of late, been that being a Politics major has taught me that I don't want to be involved with Politics. For the love of Hanes Walton this was not supposed to be the outcome! If I weren't in so deep I would turn right around and do something useful, like Astrobiology. (really, what happened to that prospective major? I should kick myself.)

The thing is that we're supposed to know something about politics. Like, let's be honest, I don't even know what or where Abkhazia is (was that in a Harry Potter book....?) See, I just want to attend a Politics course that is useful to me, not just a bunch of terms and graphs that muddle together and are forgotten at the end of the semester. Maybe I just need another South African Politics course, at least it was relatable to life.

So? Henceforth begins the quest for the best of the worst Politics courses. Thanks AP, I think you're going to owe me for the stresses (and possible hours of dullness) on this one.

The city's turning all my love to sin.

So I had some really fun stuff to write about, like all my interpretations of F-week and a brief trip to The Greatest State in the Union... but then I arrived home, putzed around, and fell into somewhat of a pre-AP slump. How to explain?

I've reached the point where I have to begin to seriously consider what the heck I'm supposed to do with my life post-AP. The problem seems to be too many choices, not lack thereof. Fuck. There are GREs, CHAs, CTMs (if you can figure this one out you get 5 points).

While perhaps I'm not as concerned about school as I normally would be (usually I have all my text books by now, but perhaps I'm just too poor to actually purchase them) there is this lingering hesitation of being so-very-close to knowing life without school (that is, if that's the path I choose). I still found myself skittering about tonight, doing laundry, folding clothes, sifting through paperwork, organizing my life.

I have this white laundry basket next to my trashcan that is filled with everything from The Adventure and tonight I decided I would try to put it in some form of organization. It's been sitting there for a month now (has it been that long?), just long enough for the top layer to be items of intrusion (car repair receipts, new cell phone box, old school papers, maps of the US). I started to spread piles around me on the floor, receipts, tourist brochures, pictures, memories.

And honest to goodness I started crying.

It's difficult to shuffle papers with blurry eyes so I tossed everything back into the basket; I think it's going to be there for a while. I'm starting to learn that sometimes I can't look at the pictures and now I can't look at the physical items because it's just too tough. I don't want it to be that way but I also have to respect the impact that entire experience had on my life.

Tonight was one of those conversations with AVH that left me feeling odd. I figured a quick run would clear my head (and fill it with, um, leg pain) and when it didn't I figured a nice shower would perhaps do a better job, but no luck there either. So that's the way it goes with situations like this. It's very testing of myself and there's such a huge part of me that wants to be able to make something (what?) happen... but there's also a part of me that isn't so certain I'm capable of it. I hate these cycles. I also hate that when I'm feeling like this I can't cuddle into your shoulder and not care about the world.

Thinking about the future is inevitable because it seems like such a prevalent issue in the upcoming months. I'm afraid to admit to myself (let alone to others) that I think I'm willing to give up quite a lot to make some things happen after I graduate. What exactly does that mean? I'm still confused with where I'm at.

Why do I always have to doubt the good things? (and how many times can you continue to make me feel wonderful again?)

Are we just stupid and naive and living some fantasy of self-created idealism? This is the question I've been asking myself of late, I've just been delaying bringing it up.

Please forgive me for embracing the emo status.