Death by Final Exams

Another semester, another final exam week that takes me completely by surprise. It’s like I never expect that the lessons are actually leading up to something. I guess I just thought they’d drop off anticlimactically and then we could all go home.

I screwed myself over just a tad by not reading half the books for one of my classes. (In my defense, I was busy reading the books for other classes, and Super Mario Sunshine wasn’t going to play itself.) This particular final exam is the last one I have to take, so I’m going to spend this entire week power-reading one book a day. It’s exactly the kind of crazy, desperate plan you’d only put into action if you were an English major with poor time management skills and a weakness for Super Mario Sunshine.

I bought myself one of those chocolate oranges to reward myself if I ever got through this mess. I then ate it before I’d finished reading anything. I had to. There was a CRAVING. You’re supposed to smack them against a hard surface to break up the chocolate “slices,” though, and I can’t imagine my roommate was very happy to be woken up by a loud BANG at 3 AM, followed by “OH SHIT.” (There was a lot of gusto. Chocolate went everywhere.)

Of roommates and frostbite

I had a Roommate Situation about two weeks before the school year was supposed to start. I probably shouldn’t go broadcasting her private affairs all over the Internet, so I won’t go into it, but the long and short of it is that I now have a new roommate. She’s from California, where she goes to school, and she’s taking a semester off to do an internship here. She’s been a good roommate so far. She doesn’t blast her music late into the night and she restocks the toilet paper, and that’s really all I’m looking for.

However, I did overhear her on the phone a few weeks ago saying, “How is it this cold ALREADY?” It was sixty degrees. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that the university had to shut down last year because people were getting frostbite at the bus stops, but I feel like somebody should.

I like long walks on the beach, wearing the same thing over and over again, and not contracting illnesses

I was supposed to have a sort-of date yesterday. He had to cancel because he’s sick. It’s probably a bad sign that I was relieved. The relief didn’t have anything to do with him, though; I was relieved because a) now I could leave the house wearing the same sweatshirt I’d had on the last time I saw him, and b) I’m a germaphobe. I don’t like sick people. When I’m the one who’s sick, I don’t even like myself.

Happy Halloween, everybody! I’m going as Spider-Man. More accurately, I’m going as the loser standing over in a distant corner of the party wearing a Spider-Man hoodie and eating all the food. I was this last year also.

I can’t tell if the universe is screwing with me

My professor randomly announced today that he was canceling the midterm exam on Wednesday. He also decided he was canceling class on Friday. This sounded swell to me, because I was already planning on a) studying very little and b) not attending Friday’s class, because I have tickets to a concert. However, I’m concerned. I don’t know if this is the universe’s way of saying, “Excellent! Bask in this good fortune! You deserve it! Life is a technicolor musical, and YOU know every song and dance step,” which would be grand… or if it’s the universe’s way of saying, “Yep. That’s it, slack off. Enjoy it while it lasts. Here comes the reckoning.”

I’m So Smooth Sometimes I Think I Should Just Date Myself

There is a boy I sit next to in one of my classes whose name I don’t know. You’re probably thinking he’s noteworthy because I find him attractive, and you would be right. Sometimes he wears a suit to class just for the hell of it, and his face is very agreeable, and amazing things are happening with his hair. Our entire relationship consists of him glancing up when I come bursting through the door at full sprint with just seconds to spare. Sometimes I ask him for today’s date, but mostly I just appreciate that we occupy the same physical space three times a week.

Anyway, my professor the other day was lecturing about two lovers in our text who had been reading a book about sexy times, looked up, made eye contact, and gone at it like a couple of rabbits. But our listless, apathy-riddled group of Monday morning zombies was just not getting this. The professor was agitated. He was practically jumping up and down. “This is important stuff!” he cried. “All they did was LOOK AT EACH OTHER and then they wordlessly embarked on a passionate love affair! You’re college students! You know what that’s about! Okay, everybody–RIGHT NOW, turn to the person next to you and communicate to them with your eyes the phrase ‘I WANT TO HAVE A LOVE AFFAIR WITH YOU.’ DO IT.”

So long story short, the cute guy in question and I shared a sideways glance and then we both just kind of snorted. The romantic potential is off the charts.

I’m in Love with My Microwave (and I DON’T CARE WHO KNOWS IT)

Buckle up, everyone, because this is going to be one of those posts where I claim to be romantically involved with appliances.

I’m a senior in college this year, and it occurred to me today (while I was heating up some leftovers and pretending there weren’t any dishes in the sink literally six inches away from me) that my microwave is a keeper. My microwave has stuck with me through good times and bad. It’s presided over late-night pasta binges and early morning hot chocolate heat-ups because I don’t drink coffee or tea and winter in Michigan is frickin’ cold. My microwave doesn’t judge me on my inability to actually cook anything. It doesn’t care that I use it more than I should. It just lets it happen.

I won it in a raffle at the Senior All-Night Party when I was in high school. That was four years ago. It’s outlasted most of the crap I bought when I first came to college. It’s outlasted most of my freshman year friendships. Is that pathetic? Am I bad at making friends? Let’s move past that. I just wanted to take this opportunity to reflect, and publicly proclaim my love, and bask in its eternal glory.

I got me a fancy shmancy writing internship!

I’ve noticed a trend in my blogging: I like to blog when something’s gone really wrong (like, I don’t know, a tornado, or a blizzard, or a broken foot… did I ever mention that? I didn’t actually break my toe, I broke two of my toes and fractured the top of my foot, which I misconstrued as a broken two because I’m a stupid idiot, but I digress), or when things go really right (like… I don’t know, I can’t even think of an example for this one… getting a dog, maybe? Or eating really good brownie?). But this time around, things have gone really right. I got a writing internship!

I’m with the same internship program I was with last summer, except this time I’m actually doing something that caters to my skill set. Last year I was the sandwich intern. Really. No, not really. Well, kind of. I was equal parts office intern (which meant I answered phones) and runner intern (which meant I went out and bought outrageous quantities of office supplies), but even more than that, I was the concessions intern. I was in charge of all the paperwork for event concessions, and I had to get up every morning at 5 and help sort the concessions snacks for distribution, after which I had to go sell tickets at a venue office for six hours. I also had to get people to sign things. Not exactly my forte, but I did eat a lot of sandwiches. (Maybe it was exactly my forte.)

Anyway, this year I’m writing. I’m proofreading things and writing press releases and handling social media promotion. That was probably the most adult thing I’ve ever written in my life. I used the term “apostrophe police” in my Skype interview, which I think really sold it. I also had to change my entire profile, because my picture was this


for absolutely no reason that I can think of. My gender was also “male” and my location was, like, Ireland. I haven’t used Skype in about two years, it was just a mess, and I think I had my name spelt deliberately wrong just to bring it all home. But anyway, here’s to adult things!