5 Things I Learned First Semester

I may not be blogging, but I am vlogging lately!

This is Why I Can't Room with Strangers

I am sick of my roommate. She wonders why she can't find anyone to room with her next semester. HA HA. WONDER WHY.

She has become the biggest Debbie Downer that I've ever seen. I want to get the little theme that plays on SNL when she comes on, just to play it when my roommate is being especially annoying. First sunny day of the season? It's obviously not pretty, just look at the mud. Awesome that they're serving pancakes at lunch? Off course not, her's aren't the exact shade of wheat. Great that we're having a snow day? Now she can't drive home.

C'mon, life isn't a damn misery for you, you little spoilt brat. Get over yourself.

Now, though, she's crossing the line.

I've dealt with her leaving the television on when she leaves the room and I'm still there, even though I don't have the remote and never watch my own television.

I've dealt with her randomly rearranging the room into the worst possible arrangements, even if she does it when I'm at work.

I've dealt with her moaning about missing her boyfriend when he's less than an hour away, when mine is sixteen hours from here.

I've dealt with her ignoring the fact that I use headphones whenever I watch television online, a concept that she will never grasp.

I've dealt with helping her with homework for months.

I can't fucking stand her touching my stuff too. If we had previously agreed that it was a shareable item, I wouldn't mind. Television, microwave are cool for her to touch. Just like I use her printer and fridge. But lately, she's been crossing the line.

The other night, I came home to lights around our room. Meaning that she'd climbed all over my bed to hang them. I can deal with that, even though my laptop is always on my bed and I'd rather her keep a five foot radius from it.

Then my nightstand, which happens to be near her since she rearranged, had all of my stuff pushed into the drawers. Okay, moron, that stuff wasn't yours. That was mine. Why are you touching it?

Then my desk. I cleaned it this morning, only to find that she has raided my popcorn that I bought for movie night. No. Not shareable food. That's why it wasn't in the bin.

Finally, tonight, I notice my trashcan was touched.

Me: Were you under my bed?
Her: No.
Me: My trashcan was moved. (Obviously it was you, there are only two of us)
Her: I might have moved it.

Thank you for admitted you lied to me seconds before. Kindly stab yourself in the uterus so you can never spawn, and fail out like you're destined to do.

I'm happy you lost your job. I'm happy you can't find a roommate. You're intolerable. A spoiled brat. I'm so done with you.

Lowered Expectations are the Easiest Way to Contentment

Things in my life seem to be getting easier and harder at the same time.

My expectations have gone down considerably, but I really can't see that as a bad thing. My stress levels are no longer off the charts. I'd rather have that than unreachable standards any day.

My Political Science professor handed back our first assignment yesterday. One page, double spaced. He didn't bother to explain it to us, so it seemed like we were to summarize a news article and hand it in. Those who did just that received C's. As a Lit. major, I analyzed why the article was important and how it related to our class. I received a B and the comments: 'Decent analysis, but hated your writing style.'

Oh, really, now? C'mon, I know I'm not Dickins, but this is a Political Science class. I didn't have any spelling or grammatical errors. I don't care if you personally hate my writing style. That is not what this class is about.

I'll talk to him about it tomorrow. I'm hoping it will be on the fact that my paragraphs were shorter than they could have been. If it's anything else, I'm going above his head. It's ridiculous to scam me out of a grade just because you dislike the way I express my writing. I don't appreciate e.e. cummings as I should, but I don't refuse to do my assignments concerning him.

I have my first essay due in my Writ 102 course tomorrow. I have to clarify my thesis, add in my citations, and I'm set. I can analyze. Grasse seems set on giving us personal time to talk to her about our papers. I loved that with Kauth last semester and I'm extremely grateful that Grasse chooses to do the same.

My test in Biology today was riddled with errors in the questions. About a 1/5 of the answers were wrong for the questions. I'm hoping the professor cancels that grade. It's not fair if he doesn't, considering the amount of leeway he'll have to give if he doesn't.

Beyond school, I'm working twenty eight hours this week. Work actually relieves me of stress. I can yell at people for being loud without getting yelled at myself. It's great.

Dave and I are fantastico. I'm working on a box full of gifts for him this March. The friends who have heard what's going in the box think it's marvelous, so that's great.

Things with my friends have settled down. Benca are dating now. They're utterly adorable. Sam is getting her life set before she moves on to another guy. I'm dealing with my roommate the best I can considering that she's Debbie Downer.

Life is good. I couldn't ask for better. Well, I could, but who would listen?

Oh, Man.

So, in five hours, it will be Valentine's Day. I'm currently torn between being utterly miserable and completely excited.

Those are two polar opposites and I just can't decide between them.

On one hand, my boyfriend absolutely loves me and he got me a necklace and a book for Valentine's Day. I picked out the book and he picked out the necklace. Both of them are ultra!fail, but that's beyond the point. If I was home, we'd be that cute couple that you just love to hate. And there is the problem. I'm not home.

Part of me wants to wallow in self pity because I'm sixteen hours away from Dave. I want Ben and Jerry's ice cream, sappy chick flicks, and my pajamas all day. I can't do that. I have classes. I'm even skipping one to pick up more hours at work.

Instead, I'm throwing myself into making things for my boyfriend that he'll get in March.

I've made him two mixed CDs.
I wrote him a Valentine's story starring the both of us.
I'm framing a picture of I Love You written in Binary.
I am making all sorts of odds and ends for him.
And I'm trying to find other stuff too, just to distract me.

I hope I don't break down tomorrow.

February: The Month of Evil

Many things have happened in the last few weeks. Most importantly, I lost my Google password and had to get a new one. I didn't abandon you. My password abandoned you.

So, life hasn't been absolutely rainbow and puppy dogs like last semester. Somehow I'm already a third through my second semester and I feel like I have no grades. That being said, I feel like I'm doing worse because I have nothing to base my achievement on.

Beyond that, I've been falling into a depression. I don't want to be here and it's obvious to everyone around me. Well, except for my roommate who keeps insisting that she "shares my pain", despite her living only forty minutes away. But everyone else sees it. My parents, my friends, my professors, my employers, and my poor pair of sweatpants know that I'm utterly despondent.

Mostly it is to be blamed on the month of February. February is a terrible month, you see. It hold Valentine's Day, Dave's birthday, and our anniversary all within two weeks. Along with that, it's the month that I have to pay my car insurance, cell phone, and loan payments. I'm confronted with two huge problems: Money is extremely tight, totally robbing me of my sanity. I'm lonely to the point where I write random lines in my journal.

The latest: My wire DNA is rusting. I feel like that should be analyzed. As someone afraid of death, I like to pretend I'm made up of machinery and gears, so that I don't feel so fragile. So, the worst thing that could potentially happen to me is rusting. Kind of emo. Very emo. Oh, Gosh, do you see what February is doing to my brain?

Please leave, February. I dislike you.