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.)
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.
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’m in a class called Fantasy Literature (which is AMAZING) and I have begun to realize that this whole thing is actually a social experiment. There’s no other explanation for how every single person in this damn class is so torturously attractive. I know, boohoo. Every week I get to listen to hot people discuss books. What a crisis. But I’m SUSPICIOUS. This is some kind of statistical anomaly, right? There CANNOT be this many good-looking people in one class. I took the discussion to Tara.
Me: Today I was in a group with yet another hot guy in fantasy lit, and as if THAT WASN’T ENOUGH we were also working with this girl with a British accent. I mean jeez. What was I even bringing to the table here?
Tara: Was she cute too?
Tara: Dear God.
Yesterday I got paired up with a guy who looked like a young Jim Sturgess. What are you doing to me, Universe? WHOSE BRIGHT IDEA WAS THIS?
My roommate and I are already at that point in the school year where we’re leaving to go to class at the last possible second. Three weeks ago, we were leaving half an hour early, ear buds in, bags fully packed with folders, writing utensils, and the assigned reading. Nowadays, however, you’re more likely to see one of us sprinting out the door when we should’ve left five minutes before, holding crumpled papers and a piece of toast and screaming, “I’M LATE, BYE.” No ear buds; there’s no time to untangle that shitstorm. We frequently don’t grab the right books and have to run back, screwing ourselves over even further. And when I use the royal “we,” of course, I really just mean me. I say we to make myself feel better. I think I saw her sprinting out the door, like, once. And even then she was wearing this really cute dress. I usually wear whatever’s on my floor because it’s within reach. I’m a perpetual life mess.
I receive e-mails from the University whenever a student gets robbed or mugged or what have you. Recently one came up that said somebody had gotten robbed a few blocks away from where I live. The guys demanded his wallet, he gave it up, and that was that. All I could think was that if someone robbed me, this is what I’d have to fork over:
I would hope we’d all get a few laughs out of the absurdity of the situation, and then they’d give it back out of a sense of newfound camaraderie and we’d go on our merry way. More likely they’d take a look at the two bucks and fifty cents (plus like 50 movie stubs going all the way back to 2004) I have in there and give it back, disgusted.
Last weekend I went to see a production of Les Mis at this theatre downtown. It was really excellent. I haven’t seen a live production of Les Mis since middle school, and I had been in the way back and could barely discern between characters. (I kept mixing up Valjean and Javert, but in my defense, they both looked exactly the same and I’m still not convinced it wasn’t the same person somehow playing two characters simultaneously. Or twins.)
Anyway, I was sitting up towards the front near a bunch of old people whose grandchildren or nieces or nephews were in the musical. The old people, however, had not actually seen Les Mis before, so I caught tidbits like this: “My niece is playing Fantine. I think she gets pregnant and dies.”
I reiterated this to my friend during intermission, and she said, “Well, she’s not entirely wrong.”