Reminiscence

A friend of mine wrote on her FaceBook that she's increasingly ready to be done with Sarah Lawrence (she has two months till she graduates) and it reminded me of how I felt a year and a half ago in my last term at SLC. I laughed to myself as I thought about how it was like being at the end of a long, ready-to-end relationship. I commented thusly on her page, but without warning it went from funny to almost sappy.

It's like the end of a long relationship that has fizzled out. You know that you want out and maybe you're even keeping an eye out for other boys (or grad schools) and everything it does a even little wrong grates on your nerves, but for whatever reasons (his mom just died, you still have months of classes/thesis work left), you can't end it yet. So you sit and let it fester, growing ever more resentful with each new frustration or old habit of chewing noisily.

Of course there will be beautiful moments when you're still in harmony, when he makes you laugh like you used to, when you're drinking red wine on cool spring nights with your friends on the South Lawn or smoke a cigarette under the willow in Slonim Circle. Those moments will make you think, "Hey, it's not so bad. We can make this work. I may not be in love anymore, but if I can just know that we'll have more moments like this, it'll be worth it."

The anxiety, even the beauty, won't last; few things do.

When it's done, when you're gone, you might think wistfully back on those moments, but for the most part you'll be willing and able to let it all go. Even so, Lady Lawrence will always hold a special place in your heart.

Maybe, despite some of the rough times I had at SLC, I still love it. Maybe, despite some of the pain and desecration and heartbreak I experienced with Dan, I can still look back on our relationship with a bit of affection. Maybe.

Inspired by To-day, by Yeterday, and by To-morrow

Quiz on life/Observational humor, inspired by things I witnessed to-day:

"Oh, shit, I didn't take my Tylenol PM on time because I was distracted by my wine-drinking."
[ ] True
[ ] False.

Bonus question: "I self-medicate because, ohmigawd, I had to sit in the waiting room for 45 minutes, despite having set up an appointment ages ago. Medication via doctor takes too much time/effort/money."
[ ] True
[ ] False.

Bonus question #2: "My self-medication is a manifestation of my self-awareness. "
[ ] True
[ ] False
[ ] see latfh.com

Bonus meta-question: "The fact that I am self-aware enough to understand that my self-medication is, in part, a result of my self awareness ... that doesn't count, right?"
[ ] True
[ ] False
[ ] ... I have the number of a really great guy ...

With a Crunchy Outer Shell

I've been having a conversation via messages with a friend and in reference to my rejection from Oxford, I wrote the following. I decided that we're not quite close enough for me to send it to her, but I felt it was unusually honest and I didn't want to lose it.

I'm sure UCL will be a wonderful experience for me. I mourned Oxford for a day or two before coming to my senses, but I think the shock and resignation have faded and I feel the beginnings of bitterness stirring in my blood. Or perhaps that's just who I am these days. I was so stoic and together during most of my sophomore year and my year in Oxford, and I have been so pained since my return to the States, but the residue of these feelings seems to have hardened into bitterness, cynicism, and misanthropy.

Reject (n.)

I tried to prepare myself for it, I tried really hard. I thought of how I would feel and what I would think and what I would put as my FaceBook status (I know, shut up). But still, getting the rejection letter just knocked the wind out of me. I crumpled up, face and body, and started crying.

I just wanted it so badly, and a part of me (perhaps a larger part than I realized, a much larger part than is sensible) really thought I would get into Oxford.

If you need me, I'll be curled up on my bedroom floor, crying, with a bottle of wine clutched to my chest.

For the Future

So! Hey! I got into UCL!

Yes, that's right. Graduate school. In London. Me. Graduate school. It seems I'm still processing that information, no? I'm also waiting to hear back from Oxford, which is undoubtedly my first choice. (Just so you know, UCL would be a one-year taught MA programme in European History, while Oxford would be a two-year research MPhil programme is Modern British and European History. Better. Plus, in Oxford, so DOUBLE BETTER.)

I was very excited when I received the letter from UCL, as might be expected, since I don't think I really believed I would be accepted anywhere. Of course Daddy Dearest manage to take all the joy out of the experience. He and I don't talk -- like, at all -- so I thought it would be a nice gesture for me to share my good news with him. After a half-hearted "Congratulations," his first words were "How much is this going to cost?" and "What are you going to do to get this money?" Yes, these practical questions are important, but do they need to be the first thing he says to me? Can't he just let me enjoy the moment? Besides, I'm not asking my parents for any money on this -- I'm saving up money to spend and taking out loans for tuition and expenses if I don't get any scholarships. But as daddies do, he motherfucking killed the joybuzz.

In any case, if I get into Oxford, I won't let him do that. This might sound petty, but I just won't tell him I got in. There's actually no reason for him to know, since he's not involved in my life, I won't be asking him for money for school, and he'll never visit me. And this way I won't give him the satisfaction of taking away my joy and I won't have to give any of it up.

Whew. That does all sound a bit overly-emotional and childish, but considering our "relationship," I think it's pretty much par for the course. I don't know why I'm all upset about it really.

In any case: GRADUATE SCHOOL. ME.

City of Angels

"Sometimes you forget how mad this city is, and then you get on the roads and you see it up close and personal, smell the rotten stink of insanity on her breath. The people may seem like polite, well-mannered, well-adjusted folks, but then you hit those streets and you see how miserable they really are. There’s no regard for the sanctity of human life - mine, yours, their own - on these concrete rivers. Sometimes you’ll turn a corner and they’ll just be standing there in the middle of the road: Blank. Unaware. Waiting. Hoping. Praying for the sweet release of death."

-- Robert Brockway on Los Angeles

PS OK, this is really a bit from a nonsensical comedy piece of his on Cracked.com, but it is so brilliantly accurate.

Put the Kettle On

My good friends, the world is not flat (http://www.myspace.com/theworldisnotflat -- ohmigoodness, what a beautiful banner), have released a new album. As a friend and a FAN! (fan!), I bought it; it arrived this week. But! But. This album ("to both sides, dear") makes me feel so alone and warm and angry and strong and tired and pained and sad and renewed and (maybe?) hopeful. (I believe these emotions echo some of the the ones I felt when I heard their first CD.) This album is full of memories of the only place I've ever loved and the only me I've ever wanted to be.

I know there are many, many other influences and inspirations for this album, but the lyrics seem to have come from my own pain, my own pleasure, my own heart; "If I had to choose a place the day they run out of fuel and have to ground all the planes, you know that I would choose right here in this big, old house with you." It's January in England.

Gawd, I don't want to be repetitive, but Oxford, I miss you, I love you, I want you, I need you.

Roxy and Chris, you are everything I always wanted to be but never could.