she doesn't even go here

I swear I'm not TOO much of a freak. Dark & twisty definitely, overbearingly morbid, never. I got to tag along with my friend's Gothic Literature class to High Gate Cemetary on Friday morning. I know, I woke up early on a day I didn't have class to go on another classes trip, to a cemetery none the less. What can I say for myself.

It was bangin.



Alas, I have a large novel to read (and a scandalous one to finish . . oh Humbert).

xoxo & cheers,
D

"All I ever wanted" was just time to watch the Tudors!

I have to take a break from synthesizing thoughts & do something besides reading. 25 days left and it's pretty much nose to the grindstone, but I'm really into it.

Today I wore a skirt without tights. It's really spring, I think.

Break over. Back to thinking & being.

xoxo & cheers,
D

Bieber Fever

When I'm in the library and really working, I like to sit with my ankles crossed and streched out in front of me. This normally lets me scoot my chair close to the table, so I can sit upright while also supporting my lower back. Very comfortable. It's a popular position; the problem, however, is that if the person sitting across from me does the same thing, our feet make contact. That's just awkward.

You don't know the person and you suddenly find yourself playing footsies with them. What do you do?

I typically say excuse me, getting dirty looks for those around me because to make any sound (even an apologetic utterance) in the stacks in a cardinal sin, and quickly tuck my feet under my chair in order to continue working. It's funny, though, because the person across from me does the same thing. We both compromise our comfort for each other out of awkwardness. In reality we could just navigate the space better, perhaps each shift our chairs an inch to the right, and avoid the problem all together. Thus all that awkwardness, the disruption of both our concentration/comfort and that of others (due to our rude condolences to each other for invading person space) could easily be avoided.

Except we never think to just move the chair.

xoxo & cheers,
D

Remember that time we went to the club & then took the bus to Chicken?

I promise I have a life.
I promise I have thoughts that extend beyond my color-coded planner and what books I have to have read by Wednesday.
I promise I'm not Paris Hilton, nor will I ever be.
I promise that I was really excited about a nice, long, self-satisfying blog post today . . .

But then I watched the first episode of The Tudors . . .

And then I went to Tesco with friends to get birthday cake, to surprise our friend on her birthday with cake, singing and flowers.
And then we went to grab some dinner.
And then I had to listen to "First Dance" by Justin Bieber again in order to enlighten my roommate to how it is, in fact, not about dancing.
And then I had to finish the reading for Monday and Tuesday and Wednesday and suchs.
And then I had to go through some books & do some research.
And then I had to Skype my mom. ♥
And then I had to answer my emails.

Because I still need to write my Shakespeare posting.
Because I still need to plan/outline (rough planning and outlining, mind you) an essay.
Because I still need to finish the novel I've been reading for pleasure this semester (I also need to keep dreaming that that will happen).
Because I still need to respond to a few more emails and such.
Because I still have to check my email constantly (NC Gov. School where you at?!)
Because I still have 4 weeks left.
Because I still need to re-organize my self.
Because I still have to watch an episode (or two) of The Tudors.

But I will share the story related to the title of this list someday, eventually, maybe.
. . . when I get some down time . . .

Here's to volcanic ash clouds NOT disrupting my plans for the upcoming weekend.

xoxo & cheers,
D

And so it is

I'm breathing but not blogging because my love-hate affair with Brecht and Billy continues tonight. Tomorrow, I'll have something to say. I promise.

xoxo & cheers,
D

But I just can't be with you like this anymore, Alejandro.

So I sincerely thought that I would have lots of really cool postings after/during Spring Break. I thought wrong. It just didn't happen. My break wasn't dull, but I just didn't have time nor desire to write anything, mostly time.

Visiting with my mom and Sheldon and Janet and Doris and Janet's friend Rene was lovely. I cannot express how much being abroad has even further increased the love & appreciation I have for my parents.

But I have 34 more days here, and I hope to post lots. I also have 6 papers and a few thousand more pages, so I'm going to be booked. (YET there is also 2 days is Madrid and 3 days in the Lakes District to look forward too, mostly the oppressing weight of papers and books. It's okay - I'm mildly obsessed.)

Anyway . . .
I've been told multiple times (more like all the time) that I'm weird, something is not right with me, I'm strange. I got it. I acknowledge it. I like to think I'm merely awkward, but that I own my awkwardness. (Right Mary Ellen?) I do, however, like to insist that despite all my circus-like childhood experiences, I'm normal. I think I might be wrong. I'm certainly not better off or worse off, but I'm not normal (I don't know if anyone at NYU is). I really just think that it's taken me 20 years to realize that I've done a lot of things that most people don't really do, making my overall demeanor more removed? harder to impress?

Someone said (when I was about 11) that they felt sorry for whoever I married/dated because I would expect a lot, being exposed to so much. I used to brush off the statement, thinking "not really." False. I do & will continue to do so.

On another note . . .
I need sleep so I can be at the library doors when they open tomorrow morning. . . if I get up when my first alarm goes off. Goal for the next 5 weeks: get up on your first alarm, Dorothy! I think this winter is finally over and in anticipation for spring fever I have added notes like "SERIOUSLY" and "FOOL" (in all caps & color-coded highlighter) to my deadlines for getting drafts done and such. I think the adverb and direct address will really help.

That's all I know, aside from a new other perennial surprises that always seem to pop up - no loose strings, though, I'm tired to tripping over united laces.

xoxo & cheers,
D

Back to Paris

You can tell we're American by the way we clonk down the metro stairs. We drag our over-sized suitcases as the wheels thug on the concrete steps and we attempt to figure out which line to take to get from Gare du Nord to Rue du Bac. We don't even have to be speaking loudly. Heck, we could even be dressed in chic suits rather than trainers and sweats. You hear the clonk-clonk-clonk and you know immediately.

I think every American should have to travel to places where he or she becomes immediately self-conscious of the inherent American-ism that are so deeply ingrained in us we often fail to notice their existence.

At home, I have no problem pulling my suitcase down the 12 stairs despite having a modern machine that could do it for me. I know the modern machine is not an option for me in the Paris metro, and the clonk sound is slightly dulled in my house due to carpeting. Standing in the metro rush on a Friday evening, though, I feel the necessity to pick up my suitcase and carry it up and down the many stairs we encounter on our two transfer-three train journey from the train station to the apartment. The disregard I feel towards my luggage at my house becomes something inherently linked to my pride/self presentation to the world in the metro, as if dragging my luggage is a sign of greater lapses in judgement, those of apathy and disregard. Things I do not want to associate myself with.

I want to be caring and passionate. I want to leave a mark that's greater than tire tracks of small rubber wheels.

Then again, though, it's just a suitcase. It's meant to be lugged.

a bientot & cheers,
D