Freeways...or Fearways?

Major highways have the one good quality of moving people and goods at an accelerated pace. And that's all there is to say about that because, otherwise, freeways suck hard.

If, while speeding along at 65 mph, you miss an exit, you often drive for another .5-50 miles before finding another exit that allows you to turn around. And don't be mistaken: if a road sign says "Dover," it may OR MAY NOT be true. Or that road actually will lead to Dover, but only after removing you from the highway that ALREADY WAS leading to Dover.

Instead, you will find yourself on a mangy highway still covered in snow, ice, and unrelenting stoplights. You will be forced to stare at all the happy cars as THEY drive over this (safe and salted) highway bridge:
Can you sense the peaceful calm that this driver exudes as he drives over the interstate bridge?

But no such luck for you. Because you are already on the mangled sideroad, you are preparing to cross THE OTHER bridge:

You seem to think I'm kidding. But after your petrified little sedan leaps over the monster potholes, skirts the hunks of unsalted ice, and manages to avoid slipping off either side of the 30-degree slope, you will find yourself to be...rather agitated?

Agitated is the right word.

So learn from your own misadventures: stay away from the freeway. It'll kick you off just as soon as it can, and you'll never find your way back.

on the moon

A week after torrential rains, we settle into torrential 30-degree weather. The mud puddles that dominate campus have all frozen, with shoeprints still embedded, so our campus looks like the light side of the moon where astronauts dip their feet once, and the prints remain forever.

One more exam remains, and I hang by the lingering thread of a 48-hour caffeine cycle. I do not sleep much. I have become very still.

Laundry Rage

In it's entirety, the note I was forced to hang in the laundry room this evening:

Look, douche, next time can you wait 5 minutes before you touch a girl's underwear and throw it on top of a dirty laundry machine?

--------------------

Update: After throwing a can away later this evening, I heard two of the guys across the hall come outside to check to see if "something" was still in the laundry room. It was. I admit to being curious. Did they expect me to steal the douche's laundry? Or did they leave a retaliatory note? Or did they booby-trap the laundry room, expecting my return? Either way, I hope the housekeeper won't be insulted in the morning. But I think she would side with the girls.

We are Such Stuff as Dreams are Made On*

While dozing this morning, I had a truly fantastic dream, so despite the cold, I was in a great mood. While approaching the dining hall for lunch, I remembered half of the dream that I had forgotten, so I got a second round of great mood.

I also got to see some directing scenes (very cool), play ping pong, and eat tilapia. Good day.

Then I got a phone call from home about how not immediately going to grad school could f-up my loan repayment, and how long I'd have to wait until being able to afford grad school, and how there would be more (disappointing) discussions about this in the near future.

There goes the day. I'm actually getting depressed thinking about it again.

So let's end this post with that dream, shall we?

I was in high school marching band (but not wearing the uniform) with my best friends Lauren and Marin. So we got to hang out. Because it was a football game, the opposing team's band was doing the pregame show, where I saw my great friend Colin (as drum major), who went to another high school. So we got to hang out, too. Then I walked through the student center here at school, and there I saw Aubrey! Just studying while some other kids watched TV. By now, I've seen representatives from all of my dearest groups of friends. The dream of dreams finished with a scene in which my crush basically declared his love for me (which indicates he left his current girlfriend) (and no, it's not Corey, for the record).

Is that not a kick-ass dream? What a great night. Even though I hate the idea of someone dumping his girlfriend to be with me, the whole us-getting-together thing was pretty nice. Plus I got to see all of my friends...

I want to go back to sleep.


*The Tempest IV.i.156-7

Hit the Ground

There is a new building on campus that--as I've commented to several people--I find to have an exceedingly precarious staircase. It's really tall, it's really hard, and the top layer of paint is already coming off.

Therefore, it could be considered dangerous to the average climber of stairs, or in today's case, the average descender of stairs.

I was wearing a pair of boots that have a slightly loose heel, and at the top of the stairs, one shoe decided it didn't really want to do it's job of protecting my feet any longer. So I slipped, grabbed onto the rail, and shouted a few well-chosen obscenities as I slid into Nate and Travis, who also shouted for fear of being dragged down the staircase by a crazy chick with a bad heel and too-heavy book bag. I came to a halt by twisting my body and ramming my leg into the wall.

Fortunately, I only tripped down a few stairs, twisted nothing, and bruised nothing (this may change in the morning). But until the bruising, I can happily say:

I was right. Someone is going to fall down those stairs. That someone is me.

Why I Don't Like You

Recently, I've been thinking about some of the people at school who I find to be exceptionally disagreeable. It's not that they are jerks every time I see them (though a few are). Some even seem mildly pleasant on a daily basis. It seems that I may dislike some because of old grudges, which would be my own fault.

But then I realized: for me, it's the first impression. If you act like a tool kit during orientation, I won't forget the douchiness during subsequent interactions. If--for an entire year--you stomped all over the floor in the room above me, that's how I'll remember you. When my first four encounters with you all involve discussing your drunken rampages, I will forever consider you less than classy.

This is why I don't like people sometimes. They weren't impressive the first time, and it'll take a lot for them to move up in my book.