Shame pt. 2

Last night I had an apocalyptic dream, and in that dream I was drunk.

NOTE: This post wasn't meant to be cryptic; I dreamt it was the end of the world, and on an unrelated note, I was drunk in the dream.

Good Things to Come

Figure 1: I wrote this note to a friend in Epidemiology. I believe it is representative to how the rest of my semester will go. Cheers!

Coffee Stains

aka things that seemed like a good idea at the time
aka maybe I do have some cognitive deficits


Despite the fact that I have zero words so far of my psych paper, I already have a title:


Please Don't Burn after Reading: Pyromania in the Adolescent Population.


Ha ha. aren't I clever.



Right now I am drinking an ice cold cup of jet fuel. Last night, I filled a bowl with water, microwaved it, dumped in some instant coffee, allowed to cool, and then poured it all into an empty milk container, and popped it into the fridge.



See, I remember this working much better last year. Here is what happened last night:




Figure 1: Yeah, that's a bowl of coffee spilled all over the floor. I see no problem with this situation.

As I got down on my hands and knees and tried to sop up roughly 8 oz of coffee, I reminded myself that hey, it's okay, it's not like I have one of those Pyrex measuring cups with the spouts...

shit.

You guessed it. We do have one. It's Alana's, and something tells me she wouldn't have minded if I had borrowed it.

Similar to solving the issue of "How do you get from the airport without any money?" my reasoning, once again, made very little sense and caused the biggest mess.

Oh well, I'd do anything for you, dear coffee.

Two weeks, and then what?

How do you properly say goodbye to an entire city?
If you know the answer to that, give me a heads up, because I am curious. I have exactly two weeks to say goodbye to Boston. Although I knew for months that moving back to New York this May would probably be indefinite, this week I got my acceptance to Hunter, and my dad lost his job. So it’s official; sorry Boston, despite your lovely brownstones and excellent restaurants, I can’t stay any longer.
Saying goodbye to individuals will be its own challenge. I assume it will be something like graduating high school, except I will be the only one scared and anxious about what the next few months hold for me, while everyone else will still be settled here. I think I wrote an article about saying goodbye to friends in my high school newspaper, but I honestly don’t really remember anymore. I’ll leave this topic alone now.
Back to saying goodbye to a physical place, though. At this point, I think saying goodbye to Boston will be harder than saying goodbye to individuals. The friends who I want to stay in contact with will be just a phone call away; the lifestyle I had here, on the other hand, will be a thing of the past.
Part of me wants to try and cram in whatever I missed in the last two years (albeit, it’s not much.) In two years I feel as though I’ve seen all that Boston has to offer. I could make a trip over to the aquarium, but I suppose that defeats the purpose of saying goodbye; I don’t have a sentimental attachment to places I have never seen before.
Earlier this evening, I sat alone on the top of the grassy divide between Storrow Drive and the BU beach. I faced the river during sunset and worked on a paper. I watched the runners along the Charles, and I realized that this was what goodbyes were about.

Shame

So this morning I awoke at 6:20 to get in some last minute studying for an exam at 8. I studied for about a half hour in the vestibule before the caffeine craving became too much. I got dressed, and by 7:10 I headed to Starbucks for my morning fix. I was ready to get my Sargent muffin and a sugar-free soy vanilla latte (I know, it's a bitch drink. Even I need a break from the classy Maxwell House every once in a while.) I march into SMG, my head happy that it will be getting its caffeine, and the Starbucks is dark.

I see the employees roaming around, but then I took note of the sign on the door. Mon-Fri: 7:30AM.

WHAT?!?

After my initial panic, I was ashamed. I felt like I had been told I had enough by the bartender, or no more crack by my crack dealer (not really.)

I finally got my drink, and ala GSU style, it was the wrong order. I took it, though, grateful for anything caffeinated, when I quickly realized that whatever this drink was, it was a double-shot.

Hmm...no complaints there.


Figure 1: I took this picture last year while I was trying to figure out how to adjust my flash. I love you Maxwell House!

It's Marathon Monday!

...and I'm doing orgo hw.

I went to the marathon last year, and it was quite fun. We walked around, watched people cross the finish line, and laid around in the park. I'm so behind on work from the last few weeks that I'm just staying in and doing practice problems and working on papers.

I feel a bit melancholy as the year draws to a close. I've lived in Boston for almost two years, and I have loved it for the most part, but once I go home this May, that is probably it. And it's okay, too. As much as I have loved the independence, the food, and the late nights, all in all, Boston hasn't been great for me in the areas that matter a little bit more, which is my academic career. Sometimes I wonder if I had gone to another college what would have happened these past years; would I have had great grades and still been on the path to becoming a doctor? Would I have had great grades at the sacrifice of a social life? Would I have been miserable? Happier? In a relationship? I don't torture myself with this, but I can't help but think about these things from time to time.

The spring semester hasn't been great here. I've had some fun, and there have been some great moments, but I feel as though it is easier to leave now than it would have been this time last year when I felt like things were just getting going. I can appreciate my home life more for what it is; I could end up sacrificing some of my social life to go home, but at least I can rest assured that the people I surround myself with at home are genuine, loyal, and actually care about me. I've started to see my life up here for what it really is, and even though things are still okay, I feel like maybe I'm jumping ship just before things really turn sour.

So a bit of a pensive post for today, but everything is okay. I wanted to make a post about my experiences on Thursday night, but most of the stories are so inappropriate that I didn't want to post them, because they will lose some of their charm when I take out the offensive phrases. We can talk about them in person--I promise, the stories are kind of funny. To start, I was put in a man's gown. It was all down hill from there.

I owe this to you

Because I am in love with each and every one of my readers, I owe this to you. These are photos of a project I did in kindergarten. This construction paper booklet has not been touched since 1994, when yours truly added the illustrations. Enjoy.

Figure 1: The cover

Figure 2: My mother had to speak to the teacher over this. The teacher her asked my mom if she saw why this was a problem; My mother's response: "No."

Thanks JFK for being awesome. NOW FEATURING THE LATE EDITION EDIT

The weather is quite gorgeous; no wind, 50 degrees, not a cloud in the sky.

My flight is delayed an hour and a half.

So thanks JFK, for wasting this hour and a half of my life that I could be using to do anything else, but will instead spend roaming the internet. I could do some reading for class, but I'm pissed and don't want to, so I'm not going to.

Fuckies.

Oh, and there is a man walking around with a rather sick looking baby. (Disclaimer so you do not think that I am an entirely cold hearted bitch) I feel bad that the baby has a cold, really, I do, but if there is a snot covered baby next to me on the flight, it would just be icing on my already hour-and-a-half-delayed cake.

EDIT: Yes, really. I am going to now recount the remainder of my evening, in all of its nauseous glory.

So my flight, initially delayed from 7:30 to 8, and then until 8:30, didn't actually leave the ground until 9:30 because we taxied for about 45 minutes. Thank you Port Authority for closing one of the runways for the holiday. I like to celebrate Easter by causing inconvenience, too, so I totally get where they are coming from.

The plane took off, and despite my full knowledge of the fact that I will get sick from doing so, I pushed my face against the glass to get that one last look at my city. (I can't help it, I'm a voyerist. I watch when blood is drawn, too. I know I'll feel sick, but I do it anyway.) The city looked stunning. The bridges, the flickering orange lights, the darkness of the water against the light polluted sky. It took my breath away.

And then the wing tipped, and we dropped a bit. In that moment I regretted that canoli I shoved down my throat on the car ride over to the airport. The rest of the flight was turbulent, and seeing as how this was the first flight that I haven't drugged myself for, I felt ill. I wished I had taken some sort of allergy medicine to clear my ears. The cologne on the 13 year old boy sitting next to me compounded with the stuffy cabin was not helping matters. Actually, I wished I was sedated with some sort of sleeping aid as I have been the last 4 or 5 flights I have taken.

"Chips or cookies?"

For the first, and probably only time in my life, I refused blue chips, arguably God's greatest joke of a snack food ever created. I wanted to ask if there was a third option of Valium, but I refrained from saying anything at all, for fear of unleashing projectile vomit on Makai (the 13 year old boy's name. I heard his mother use it. Really guys, who the hell's name is Makai?)

Then came the final decent, and in that moment I regretted ever eating anything in my life. I could feel it coming. I started counting. I stared at the letters on the back of my chair. I willed the vomit to stay where it belonged. I didn't pray, though, because Jesus has much bigger fish to fry, and plus, its Easter. He is probably celebrating or something.

I landed without incident. The vomit stayed in. I staggered to the T, and made my way back. It was uneventful; two men got on the T who were rather attractive. One looked exactly like Jin from Lost, and the other like a more realistic version of Chase from House. Then one opened his mouth and his er, uh, sexual preference swirled around him like a pink, glittery cloud, and my interested immediately dissipated and I road the rest of the way back to school wallowing in my nausea.

So that's that. I realized that I racked up a lifetime of bad travel karma when I was 3 and my mother flew back with me from Florida while I had a fever high enough to keep me passed out from a double ear infection and strep, yet still somehow allowed me to projectile vomit for the entire flight. That must have been really fun for every one else on board.

Let's celebrate the Resurrection by listening to Tupac: Resurrection

Since I've been home, my mother has told me that she was eating M&M's because "Jesus wanted her to," and she has also asked me when I'm finally getting those implants ("little ones, like your second cousin's.")

Being home has been rather fun; I've dyed Easter eggs with my friends, started cooking for tomorrow with mom, and watched Moonstruck while playing cards.

I promise some pictures when I get back, but I don't have the wire to upload anything right now. In the mean time, here's a picture from Easter 2006:

Figure 1: Dad and my nephew, Jonathan, when he was 2 months old.

I have no explaination for this.

Figure 1: SHE WOLVES. Taken August 2007. I believe that is Kelly's hand in the photo.

Roid Rage

I trudged through most of yesterday feeling utterly exhausted. All day I thought of crawling into bed and passing out cold.

Yet, as soon as I hit the sheets, my mind was racing. Not with thoughts about what I had to do today or what I forgot to do yesterday, but koala bears.

Koala bears??

Yeah. I have no idea why, but the little furry creatures became the target of my thoughts. I was suddenly thinking about this picture I had seen a few months back from the Australian wildfires where an Australian firefighter was taking a koala out of a tree.

Ha! What a picture!

Then I was thinking about getting canolis to take home for Easter. Would they get soggy? Could I bring them to Passover on Thursday? No, no, they aren't Kosher.

My thoughts were flashing like that adult ADD commercial (you know the one--where the woman keeps seeing flashes of different pictures, including a life size bunny?) and I realized that I suddenly felt so happy that I was almost giddy.

And then I remembered that I was on steroids. And not a low dose, either.

Despite my still unusually happy mood this morning, I decided that I would buck what the "doctor" at Student Health prescribed (I put doctor in quotes because the training of all the medical personal at Student Health services is rather dubious,) and I would follow the advice of my doctor from home and gradually wean myself off the steroids instead of just stopping cold turkey in a few days.

So that's that. Here are some pictures!

Figure 1: I googled the picture for you. This was all over the news a few months back when all of Australia was on fire.


Figure 2: I referred to this picture in yesterday's post; I saw two pigeons having sex and my camera was already out. This was Karma's reward for something good! I saw two sparrows going at it in front of the School of Management the following week, but unfortunately I didn't have my camera that time. Lightning doesn't strike the same place twice, I suppose.

Figure 3: The afterglow. Take a lesson from the pigeons.

The Jesus Piece and other Funzies

Recently a professor said with mild sarcasm that we would solve an extra problem "just for funzies." I have no idea why, but I thought that was intensely funny.

I'm heading home on Thursday for the holidays. It is Easter week, and regardless of where I stand in my fair-weathered relationship with Catholicism, I always get religious during this time of year.

Which brings me to the "Jesus Piece." During grade school and high school, every year we were given tiny religious pins that I would wear on my tie (grades 1-6,) bolero (7,8), or lapel (9-12.) I never thought anything of these; everybody, both the boys and girls, would usually pin them somewhere on their uniforms. The thing is, when I came to college, my mother explained to me that sometimes people find religious jewelry "offensive." I was a bit surprised by this, but nevertheless, I rarely put my cross on for fear of "offending."

Now, I've come to realize that I have never once been personally offended by somebody of another religion wearing a piece of jewelry that shows pride for his or her religion, therefore nobody should be offended if I want to wear a cross. I rarely, do, though--generally just during the religious times of the year.

To be honest, I'm not sure if I want to wear my cross because it's getting close to Easter or if it is because I keep hearing Kanye, The Game, and Biggie referencing Jesus Pieces. Come to think of it, they also reference crack quite a bit, and I've started using that, too, so I think maybe it is the rap.

And I promised other funzies, so here is a picture of two pigeons makin' babies.

Figure 1: I don't know what I did to deserve to witness this but it must have been something good.
EDIT: I just realized how inappropriate it was to include a picture of two pigeons having sex in a post that also discussed Easter and religious jewelry, so I took it out. I didn't want to leave a blank space, so here's the basket again. Enjoy.

Figure 2: My Jesus Piece looks exactly like B.I.G.'s

Goodbyes and an itchy behind

Its Friday night and pouring out. This is the last weekend of the semester I could be out there drinking or doing other "fun" things, but instead I'm sitting in my room with an itchy ass.

That's right. My lower back, ass, and thighs are coated in hives. I won't bore you with the details, I'll just say that I took two medicines yesterday and got hives from one, and then I took a gamble tonight and only took one.

I picked the wrong one.

So before I drug myself into a good night's sleep, I want to say a word about the finale of ER last night. It's a poor introduction, but I don't want to waste too much time; it's me versus the benedryl.

When I was 10 years old, I settled on a repeat of ER one evening. My mother said absolutely not, so I snuck up to my room and played with the bunny ears on my crappy little TV until I got something of a picture. That was my first taste of it. For whatever reason, my mother decided that 12 was old enough to watch all the sex, violence, and gore that ER had to offer. I was utterly hooked. Also addicted was Kelly, and we bonded over it. Benched at the St. Gregs softball games, we would discuss last week's episode for all 6 innings.

While I had flipped between doctor and meteorologist as my possible future career since the age of 8 or 9, at 12 the decision was made. I would be a doctor, just like the ones on TV. On an aside, obviously I have not pursued a career in health care because I still want to be a doctor like the ones I saw on TV. I realized when I was 14 and started volunteering in a hospital that the doctors on TV were very, very fictionalized portrayals of the real deal. Nevertheless, I would have never volunteered in the first place if it wasn't for my ER obsession.

Back track a bit from when I was volunteering at 14 in a hospital. At 13, I meant Sinead. She was doing her Spanish homework. She told me she had to become fluent in Spanish because she was going to volunteer with Doctors Without Boarders one day in Central America. I asked her if she watched ER. We've been friends ever since.

I remember watching with my entire family the episode when smallpox came to the ER. I remember watching the season 8 opener with my brother Michael. I remember spending my summer afternoons ridding my bike over to Kelly's to give her the episodes I had taped that morning. I remember watching the ER/Third Watch crossover with Kelly and discussing adding another drama to our habit, and then bonding with my dad over developing a cop show addiction.

The spring of 2002 was the beginning of a great time in my life, and although the timing is coincidental, that also happened to be when I started watching ER. The memories are good ones, and it was bittersweet to say goodbye to a piece of culture that defined a really great part of my life.

EAST COAST

I am currently listening to the song "Ten Crack Commandments" by Notorious B.I.G.

I grew up listening to hardcore rap and Phil Collins. While my (embarrassing but unwavering)love of Phil Collins manifested itself while I was young, more recently I have discovered just how awesome rap is.

Yesterday I went on my quest to find out which rapper got shot in front of Hot 97, New York's rap station in Hollis, Queens. I ended up schooling myself in the whole East Coast/ West Coast war. Did you know that Biggie, Tupac, and Jay-Z all sold crack? Biggie actually continued to sell crack during his early rapping years to support his daughter. The whole thing is kind of fascinating; that was back when rappers were actually talking about their struggle. Listening to Biggie's lyrics about being ready to die and Tupac's desire for change really make Kanye seem like such a pussy. He shops so much he can speak Italian; they sold crack and got shot. Hmmm...

As far as the East Coast rappers vs the West Coast rappers, considering I am from Queens I feel as thought I should prefer the East Coast rappers. You can't deny Biggie, and Jay-Z is awesome, but really nobody raps quite like Tupac did. The Game was pretty sweet, too.

So uh, the purpose of this post? To tell you that rap is awesome. And also, in case any of the members of the Backstreet Boys read this, listen to "Dear Mama" by Tupac and then try writing a song dedicated to your mothers.

EDIT: Lots of people got shot in front of Hot 97 but the one I was thinking of was actually 50 Cent.