So here I am, writing for the very first time on my brand-new laptop. The first thing I did, after configuring the browser and connecting to my school Internet, was to come here to tell you about the beautiful and delightful and sad thing that happened to me this evening.
Tonight I went to Neil Gaiman's Night of Stardust at a concert hall just off campus. Neil Gaiman himself came and spoke to us about the fifteenth anniversary of Stardust, the history of the book and how he wrote it, and all kinds of other things--he read us an excerpt from his new book, The Ocean at the End of the Lane, which I now very much want. And it was lovely--he talks like he writes, and I fell in love with his accent, and was swept up in the story and his voice and the experience of being near one of the masters of storytelling.
Now comes the sad part. At the end of the talk, the audience were all invited to stand in line in front of six microphones, two on each level, and ask him questions. I was second on my side, behind a guy who waited fifteen minutes to ask a one-word question. By that point, I had to pee so badly it hurt, and I wasn't going to give up my spot in line--in fact, I asked that guy if I could go before him. No luck. So I stood there and waited, while Neil Gaiman answered questions at great length. He answered eight questions, as I stood with my mouth to the microphone, silently rehearsing my own question so I wouldn't forget it--and then the man who'd introduced him said we were out of time, and could Neil please read something, and could we all please sit down.
I felt like crying. I felt like my heart had sunk into my stomach. I felt like I had stood not fifty feet from God, incense in hand, and had not yet knelt to pray when I was told the temple had closed.
I can't imagine how anyone else was feeling.
Wednesday, November 14, 2012
Sunday, November 11, 2012
What a slut time is: another open letter to John Green
Dear John Green,
Here we are at the present, and your most recent book. And I can't help but see it through the lens of yoru first one. The characters are of a similar type: Hazel the Drizzle, (sixteen, thyroid cancer with mets in the lungs, and I'm okay) Isaac the best friend, and Augustus the Hurricane, who brings Hazel out of her shell and proves that dying is not all about dying.
And again our heroes live in the shadow of imminent death; and again, you show how three teenagers can encompass the entire world.
But TFiOS is something else beyond all this: it's a journey, on the epic scale of The Wizard of Oz. (This is, I think, what you tried to do but did not quite achieve in Paper Towns, Which ends after Q discovers his wizard is a Fraud, but Before she can give any Life-Affirming gifts.) Hazel makes the journey from her mundane yet doomed life to the magical city of Amsterdam, where she meets her own personal god and discovers that he's simply a crazy old man who no longer cares for the story he created, the myth that has sustained her. And she returns home by way of discovering love...and in the end, Peter van Houten is a good man, but a very bad god. Or, as Augustus said in his last letter, he's a bad man, and a good writer.
I suppose it's ironic that I'm reading this on Veterans Day. Or maybe it's just appropriate, because of Augustus's obsession with heroic sacrifices. I dare say that the people who fight cancer are veterans even more so than the people who fight wars, and I wonder what Augustus would say to that. And I suppose it's apt that I find Hazel drawing strength from the experiences of Anne Frank, reading as I am just after the anniversary of Kristallnacht, at which I wondered once again why it is important to be saturated with sad stories, and whether merely surviving is heroic. Augustus thinks not; I wonder what Hazel would say.
I was reluctant to read this for a long time because in the last few generations of my family there have been two cancer survivors, one of them my mother, and three victims. So I didn't think I needed another cancer story. But this was neither too much nor too soon. To be honest, I thought you were going to end the book mid-sentence; I'm glad that you chose the other sort of ending that this book needed, the ending that doesn't end.
John, your stories show us the universe within each of us that needs to be noticed. They give us forever within the numbered days, and for that I'm grateful.
Sincerely,
Mara
Here we are at the present, and your most recent book. And I can't help but see it through the lens of yoru first one. The characters are of a similar type: Hazel the Drizzle, (sixteen, thyroid cancer with mets in the lungs, and I'm okay) Isaac the best friend, and Augustus the Hurricane, who brings Hazel out of her shell and proves that dying is not all about dying.
And again our heroes live in the shadow of imminent death; and again, you show how three teenagers can encompass the entire world.
But TFiOS is something else beyond all this: it's a journey, on the epic scale of The Wizard of Oz. (This is, I think, what you tried to do but did not quite achieve in Paper Towns, Which ends after Q discovers his wizard is a Fraud, but Before she can give any Life-Affirming gifts.) Hazel makes the journey from her mundane yet doomed life to the magical city of Amsterdam, where she meets her own personal god and discovers that he's simply a crazy old man who no longer cares for the story he created, the myth that has sustained her. And she returns home by way of discovering love...and in the end, Peter van Houten is a good man, but a very bad god. Or, as Augustus said in his last letter, he's a bad man, and a good writer.
I suppose it's ironic that I'm reading this on Veterans Day. Or maybe it's just appropriate, because of Augustus's obsession with heroic sacrifices. I dare say that the people who fight cancer are veterans even more so than the people who fight wars, and I wonder what Augustus would say to that. And I suppose it's apt that I find Hazel drawing strength from the experiences of Anne Frank, reading as I am just after the anniversary of Kristallnacht, at which I wondered once again why it is important to be saturated with sad stories, and whether merely surviving is heroic. Augustus thinks not; I wonder what Hazel would say.
I was reluctant to read this for a long time because in the last few generations of my family there have been two cancer survivors, one of them my mother, and three victims. So I didn't think I needed another cancer story. But this was neither too much nor too soon. To be honest, I thought you were going to end the book mid-sentence; I'm glad that you chose the other sort of ending that this book needed, the ending that doesn't end.
John, your stories show us the universe within each of us that needs to be noticed. They give us forever within the numbered days, and for that I'm grateful.
Sincerely,
Mara
Friday, November 9, 2012
A few sad things
Today is the 47th anniversary of Kristallnacht, a series of acts of terror that effectively kicked off the Holocaust. I got to Hillel an hour late by accident, and discovered that the board had invited a group of local Holocaust survivors. I ate with some friends and left early to avoid getting punched in the feels.
Yesterday I had the fight to end all fights with my ex, who is one of about three people who reads this blog. It was the fight we should have had when he dumped me, except neither of us had the balls to let each other go then. That much at least I've learned about yourself. He may stop reading after yesterday; but I started writing this before anyone read it, and I will probably keep writing when no one reads it.
So I've been reluctant to start reading The Fault in Our Stars; I don't need more sadness right now. On top of that, I have projects I've been neglecting in order to read these--reading for pleasure seems to take up more time than it used to, even when the book goes as fast as John's do. But it will happen this weekend.
And now a happy thing: Yesterday I had a bit of an epiphany. In my music class we're studying gamelan, a kind of Indonesian classical court music. And ever since I learned what Gamelan was, I've hated it; I've thought it sounded jangly and cacaphonous and alien. But yesterday in my recitation we actually learned to play gamelan. And I realized it's like meditating, but in a group. Each instrument has a melody that repeats over and over, and they all fit together and it's beautiful. At least from the inside. I don't know whether I can stand to listen to it from the outside yet.
Yesterday I had the fight to end all fights with my ex, who is one of about three people who reads this blog. It was the fight we should have had when he dumped me, except neither of us had the balls to let each other go then. That much at least I've learned about yourself. He may stop reading after yesterday; but I started writing this before anyone read it, and I will probably keep writing when no one reads it.
So I've been reluctant to start reading The Fault in Our Stars; I don't need more sadness right now. On top of that, I have projects I've been neglecting in order to read these--reading for pleasure seems to take up more time than it used to, even when the book goes as fast as John's do. But it will happen this weekend.
And now a happy thing: Yesterday I had a bit of an epiphany. In my music class we're studying gamelan, a kind of Indonesian classical court music. And ever since I learned what Gamelan was, I've hated it; I've thought it sounded jangly and cacaphonous and alien. But yesterday in my recitation we actually learned to play gamelan. And I realized it's like meditating, but in a group. Each instrument has a melody that repeats over and over, and they all fit together and it's beautiful. At least from the inside. I don't know whether I can stand to listen to it from the outside yet.
Wednesday, November 7, 2012
Count the headlights
Will Grayson, Will Grayson is essentially a 180 from Paper Towns. Where on Monday I felt empty, today I'm feeling ALL the feels.
First: frustration. Will 1 reminds me of myself--but of John's protagonists that remind me of me, he's the least. He's dark in a way I'm not, resigned to his situation and determined not to care anymore. And Will 2 is lonely and depressed, living out a Facebook fantasy that dare not speak its name. And yet at the same time I can laugh aloud, because their observations about life are occasionally so pithy or maybe just so offbeat that I have to stop and wonder whether they have a point.
But both Wills will be redeemed; their saviors seems to be time, random chance and the rainbow-striped mass of emotion who goes by the name of Tiny Cooper. This story is really about him, and his attempts to find love, and his dream that someday he'll be appreciated for who he is.
Will 1 was right: he is more or less a moon, caught in the orbit of Planet Tiny. But that really isn't a bad thing--he's swept along and into and through adventures like Pudge in Alaska's orbit; and in the process, he learns to choose his own path without wandering away entirely. Likewise, Will 2, who's always been desperate to keep control of his misery, is caught in Tiny's gravity, and in falling, he learns how to land on his feet.
My name is not Will Grayson, and I appreciate you, Tiny Cooper. You've made my life a little bit more fabulous.
First: frustration. Will 1 reminds me of myself--but of John's protagonists that remind me of me, he's the least. He's dark in a way I'm not, resigned to his situation and determined not to care anymore. And Will 2 is lonely and depressed, living out a Facebook fantasy that dare not speak its name. And yet at the same time I can laugh aloud, because their observations about life are occasionally so pithy or maybe just so offbeat that I have to stop and wonder whether they have a point.
But both Wills will be redeemed; their saviors seems to be time, random chance and the rainbow-striped mass of emotion who goes by the name of Tiny Cooper. This story is really about him, and his attempts to find love, and his dream that someday he'll be appreciated for who he is.
Will 1 was right: he is more or less a moon, caught in the orbit of Planet Tiny. But that really isn't a bad thing--he's swept along and into and through adventures like Pudge in Alaska's orbit; and in the process, he learns to choose his own path without wandering away entirely. Likewise, Will 2, who's always been desperate to keep control of his misery, is caught in Tiny's gravity, and in falling, he learns how to land on his feet.
My name is not Will Grayson, and I appreciate you, Tiny Cooper. You've made my life a little bit more fabulous.
Tuesday, November 6, 2012
The most exciting part of the election is the most boring
I had no reading time to speak of today, since Tuesdays are one of my busiest days (the other being Thursdays). And after all my classes I went to an election watch party in my dorm...at which I was so bored I couldn't even come up with things to say to the few people who talk to me at such things. Though I did invite a male neighbor over...but if he was going to show up, it would have been fifteen minutes ago.
Why is the most important part of the election--the voting and counting of votes--the boring part? And it's arguably the most exciting part too--this is the part where people actually get to do something. I don't get it. Though I am wondering whether, if Romney should put my healthcare in jeopardy by winning, I should convince my mom that we all need to move to Canada or England.
I'll probably go to bed before anything is decided, but in the meantime I'm watching November videos from Brotherhood 2.0, and wishing I was in Nerdfighterlike with someone.
-.- So it goes.
Why is the most important part of the election--the voting and counting of votes--the boring part? And it's arguably the most exciting part too--this is the part where people actually get to do something. I don't get it. Though I am wondering whether, if Romney should put my healthcare in jeopardy by winning, I should convince my mom that we all need to move to Canada or England.
I'll probably go to bed before anything is decided, but in the meantime I'm watching November videos from Brotherhood 2.0, and wishing I was in Nerdfighterlike with someone.
-.- So it goes.
Monday, November 5, 2012
I ripped these out of your symbol: an open letter to John Green
John, I have a confession to make: While reading Paper Towns, I felt bored. Let me explain why: on the one hand, it's the book--it seems to move more slowly and say less than your previous two. Looking for Alaska had all the pretensions of a first novel. But I like those pretensions, the fact that when a writer is starting out, he or she tries to explain the whole world and everything in it, and how we the readers should live our lives. Which Looking for Alaska and An Abundance of Katherines both do quite well. Paper Towns seems shriveled by comparison, its moral being not that the world is an extraordinary place full of extraordinary people, but that we must, for reasons of living, see people as only ordinary.
On the other hand, there's me. Because I was a friendless misfit at a high school just like Q's, I feel I know the meat of the story already and don't need to be told it. I remember being awkward and rejected at dances, not going to parties and then feeling alone in the crowd when someone was nice enough to invite me, feeling the "high-school-is-ending-so-we-have-to-reveal-that-deep-down-we-all-love-everybody-bullshit." I've had Q's experiences, all but the frantic road trip that forms part three of the book, but including the painful realizations that accompany its end...and I don't need to be told that these things happen.
The thing I do wish is that I'd had a Ben and a Radar, people I was actually friends with, or thought I was--by sophomore year of high school I was thoroughly disillusioned with my classmates. I wish I'd had friends, I wish I'd had that kind of adventure...and yet I can't envy Q, because I have perspective he doesn't. Being in college, I know life will get better for him without Margo and without high school. He'll go to Duke, find love (or at least lust) there, learn to imagine people--and himself--more complexly, without the sad paper girl who has haunted his dreams all his life. I'm glad I didn't have a Margo Roth Spiegelman, because I can make my own adventures; I don't have to follow someone else to make my life interesting.
To be fair, John, I copied down a lot of quotes. Your books (thus far) are extremely quotable, which is good because I like reading things I can savor on my tongue like bites of a GoFast bar. But I'm not reading this one aloud, because in the middle it bored me, and at the end it made me feel empty, the kind of emptiness I expected from Looking for Alaska, which made me scared to read it for my whole first year of being a Nerdfighter. (Listening to you read a draft of Paper Towns in a Youtube video from 2007 is what inspired me to read all your books together. Now that's ironic.)
But the end of Looking for Alaska was beautiful and uplifting, and I'm certainly not complaining about the male stripper. In Paper Towns, however, the quest leads only to a dimensionless girl, in a town that exists only on maps, and so instead of a book of ideas, this was a paper book. It baffles me how, during the wondrous time that the first years of Brotherhood 2.0 must have been, you created a story that was this empty.
Tomorrow I shall start Will Grayson, Will Grayson. It isn't all yours (cowritten); but perhaps it was time for that. I hope it's one I can read aloud.
Most sincerely,
Mara
On the other hand, there's me. Because I was a friendless misfit at a high school just like Q's, I feel I know the meat of the story already and don't need to be told it. I remember being awkward and rejected at dances, not going to parties and then feeling alone in the crowd when someone was nice enough to invite me, feeling the "high-school-is-ending-so-we-have-to-reveal-that-deep-down-we-all-love-everybody-bullshit." I've had Q's experiences, all but the frantic road trip that forms part three of the book, but including the painful realizations that accompany its end...and I don't need to be told that these things happen.
The thing I do wish is that I'd had a Ben and a Radar, people I was actually friends with, or thought I was--by sophomore year of high school I was thoroughly disillusioned with my classmates. I wish I'd had friends, I wish I'd had that kind of adventure...and yet I can't envy Q, because I have perspective he doesn't. Being in college, I know life will get better for him without Margo and without high school. He'll go to Duke, find love (or at least lust) there, learn to imagine people--and himself--more complexly, without the sad paper girl who has haunted his dreams all his life. I'm glad I didn't have a Margo Roth Spiegelman, because I can make my own adventures; I don't have to follow someone else to make my life interesting.
To be fair, John, I copied down a lot of quotes. Your books (thus far) are extremely quotable, which is good because I like reading things I can savor on my tongue like bites of a GoFast bar. But I'm not reading this one aloud, because in the middle it bored me, and at the end it made me feel empty, the kind of emptiness I expected from Looking for Alaska, which made me scared to read it for my whole first year of being a Nerdfighter. (Listening to you read a draft of Paper Towns in a Youtube video from 2007 is what inspired me to read all your books together. Now that's ironic.)
But the end of Looking for Alaska was beautiful and uplifting, and I'm certainly not complaining about the male stripper. In Paper Towns, however, the quest leads only to a dimensionless girl, in a town that exists only on maps, and so instead of a book of ideas, this was a paper book. It baffles me how, during the wondrous time that the first years of Brotherhood 2.0 must have been, you created a story that was this empty.
Tomorrow I shall start Will Grayson, Will Grayson. It isn't all yours (cowritten); but perhaps it was time for that. I hope it's one I can read aloud.
Most sincerely,
Mara
Sunday, November 4, 2012
A Cabana Enshrined Toe Funk
Today I read An Abundance of Katherines. Actually, I reread it--the first time was in high school, well before I knew who John Green was. I expected to enjoy coming back to it, since I usually love rereading books...but I didn't. And I think I know why.
I have Asperger's, and I've worked very hard (albeit with a lot of prodding from my mom) to get to a point where you can't tell in casual conversation. And spending time with people who remind me of my junior-high (or even high-school) self makes me uncomfortable. I don't want to go back to that.
I'd forgotten how much Colin Singleton reminds me of me.
But as I kept going, half-ignoring the footnotes I remembered loving, I realized that Colin has made the same journey I have, and, at the end of the book, is about where I am now. He set out on the path toward appearing normal the day he met Hassan, who not only tolerates Colin but actively helps him, telling him when he's going off on tangents that ordinary people find uninteresting and steering him towards actually having social skills. I don't remember having a Hassan, besides my mom, so I'm not sure how I got here, either because looking back is painful, or because I don't actually remember the process.
Whatever the case, I think An Abundance of Katherines does a very good job of explaining me, both to myself and to other people. I wish it had existed during the years my mom tried to make me read boring nonfictional books about autism. When I have children who are at least nerdy, if not on the autism spectrum (because I intend to marry someone who's as nerdy as I am, if more socially savvy), and they don't understand why people at school don't like them, I will give them An Abundance of Katherines and tell them that it's about a boy named Colin, and at some level about a boy named John--but most importantly, it's about them, and it's about me.
There's a scene early in the book where Colin, at about three years old, reads the fable of the tortoise and the hare, and The Missing Piece by Shel Silverstein, and doesn't understand that they're about him. Seeing that, I realized how far I've come, and how far Colin has come, and how, in a way, without knowing it, we're making the journey together.
PS The title of this post is one of a shit-ton of results I got from plugging "An Abundance of Katherines" into an anagram generator. (Given that Colin makes anagrams like I make bracelets, it seemed appropriate.) Here are some of the other funny results:
A Cabana Kneed Nosher Unfit (yeah, cabanas are like gazebos. You don't want to anger them. (Comment if you got that and I'll come up with a prize to give you.))
A Cabana Kenned Our Fishnet (that's smart of it)
A Cabana Kenned Shire Fount
A Cabana Feed Neutron Knish (I'm not sure why this thing is fixated on cabanas, but there we are.)
PPS The other bit of media I consumed today was a truly terrible movie called Fright Night. I watched it with a friend (yes, I have a female friend) and took screencaps of David Tennant.
I have Asperger's, and I've worked very hard (albeit with a lot of prodding from my mom) to get to a point where you can't tell in casual conversation. And spending time with people who remind me of my junior-high (or even high-school) self makes me uncomfortable. I don't want to go back to that.
I'd forgotten how much Colin Singleton reminds me of me.
But as I kept going, half-ignoring the footnotes I remembered loving, I realized that Colin has made the same journey I have, and, at the end of the book, is about where I am now. He set out on the path toward appearing normal the day he met Hassan, who not only tolerates Colin but actively helps him, telling him when he's going off on tangents that ordinary people find uninteresting and steering him towards actually having social skills. I don't remember having a Hassan, besides my mom, so I'm not sure how I got here, either because looking back is painful, or because I don't actually remember the process.
Whatever the case, I think An Abundance of Katherines does a very good job of explaining me, both to myself and to other people. I wish it had existed during the years my mom tried to make me read boring nonfictional books about autism. When I have children who are at least nerdy, if not on the autism spectrum (because I intend to marry someone who's as nerdy as I am, if more socially savvy), and they don't understand why people at school don't like them, I will give them An Abundance of Katherines and tell them that it's about a boy named Colin, and at some level about a boy named John--but most importantly, it's about them, and it's about me.
There's a scene early in the book where Colin, at about three years old, reads the fable of the tortoise and the hare, and The Missing Piece by Shel Silverstein, and doesn't understand that they're about him. Seeing that, I realized how far I've come, and how far Colin has come, and how, in a way, without knowing it, we're making the journey together.
PS The title of this post is one of a shit-ton of results I got from plugging "An Abundance of Katherines" into an anagram generator. (Given that Colin makes anagrams like I make bracelets, it seemed appropriate.) Here are some of the other funny results:
A Cabana Kneed Nosher Unfit (yeah, cabanas are like gazebos. You don't want to anger them. (Comment if you got that and I'll come up with a prize to give you.))
A Cabana Kenned Our Fishnet (that's smart of it)
A Cabana Kenned Shire Fount
A Cabana Feed Neutron Knish (I'm not sure why this thing is fixated on cabanas, but there we are.)
PPS The other bit of media I consumed today was a truly terrible movie called Fright Night. I watched it with a friend (yes, I have a female friend) and took screencaps of David Tennant.
Saturday, November 3, 2012
The Labyrinth of Suffering
I got it into my head this week that I should read all of John Green's books. All five, in a row. A classmate lent me the first four, and today I'm reading Looking for Alaska.
I didn't like the first few pages; it took me a while to sympathize with Alaska and the Colonel and to understand just how desperate for friendship the narrator was. But once i got past that little, I was hooked. I'm reading it as fast as I read anything, but when I slow down, to savor a quote, I hear John reading it aloud in my head. This book is very him; not, perhaps, anything he ever wished to be (which is what I base my writing on), but certainly something he could have been.
The narrator is obsessed with learning famous people's last words. Of these the most relevant to Alaska is Simon Bolivar's: "How am I to get out of this damned labyrinth?" In the first third of the book, Alaska challenges the narrator to tell her what the labyrinth is, and later answers the question herself: suffering. And she has an answer to Simon Bolivar: straight and fast, which is what convinces the Colonel that her death was suicide.
I believe it, even three-quarters of the way through, when the narrator still refuses to. And at some level, I'm dealing with Alaska's death as intensely and deeply and personally as Pudge and the Colonel are. This is why, in spite of my first-page misgivings, I think this is a great book. It makes me live its characters' lives.
And I have an answer to Bolivar's last question, a challenge to poor Alaska and to Pudge, who resents being left behind among the living, and to every single person who lives on this planet. It comes to me through the scenes in which Mr. Hyde discusses Buddhism, and has echoes of my favorite album, The Complex by Blue Man Group. Which I intend to listen to after I finish this book. (I guess that's a mark of a great book: you have to recover from reading it.)
How are you to get out of this damned labyrinth? By climbing the walls. I can't do it, sobs Alaska, already drunk and tired of life. I don't have the strength. Bullshit, I'd tell her, and give her a boost.
PS The awkward-blowjob scene? Not worth banning a book over. Though if I had to come up with a list of reasons to ban a book, I'd probably give you a blank page.
I didn't like the first few pages; it took me a while to sympathize with Alaska and the Colonel and to understand just how desperate for friendship the narrator was. But once i got past that little, I was hooked. I'm reading it as fast as I read anything, but when I slow down, to savor a quote, I hear John reading it aloud in my head. This book is very him; not, perhaps, anything he ever wished to be (which is what I base my writing on), but certainly something he could have been.
The narrator is obsessed with learning famous people's last words. Of these the most relevant to Alaska is Simon Bolivar's: "How am I to get out of this damned labyrinth?" In the first third of the book, Alaska challenges the narrator to tell her what the labyrinth is, and later answers the question herself: suffering. And she has an answer to Simon Bolivar: straight and fast, which is what convinces the Colonel that her death was suicide.
I believe it, even three-quarters of the way through, when the narrator still refuses to. And at some level, I'm dealing with Alaska's death as intensely and deeply and personally as Pudge and the Colonel are. This is why, in spite of my first-page misgivings, I think this is a great book. It makes me live its characters' lives.
And I have an answer to Bolivar's last question, a challenge to poor Alaska and to Pudge, who resents being left behind among the living, and to every single person who lives on this planet. It comes to me through the scenes in which Mr. Hyde discusses Buddhism, and has echoes of my favorite album, The Complex by Blue Man Group. Which I intend to listen to after I finish this book. (I guess that's a mark of a great book: you have to recover from reading it.)
How are you to get out of this damned labyrinth? By climbing the walls. I can't do it, sobs Alaska, already drunk and tired of life. I don't have the strength. Bullshit, I'd tell her, and give her a boost.
PS The awkward-blowjob scene? Not worth banning a book over. Though if I had to come up with a list of reasons to ban a book, I'd probably give you a blank page.
Thursday, November 1, 2012
Dreams, headaches, and the fine art of being a sycophant
I think I've been too busy watching Vlogbrothers videos to notice that October has ended? Well, it has, all of a sudden, gotten cold and wet. Thank G-d the hurricane didn't come this far inland.
Monday night I had the best dream I've had in a while. It involved four different incarnations of the Doctor, Elijah Wood, and that's all I'm going to say for the sake of keeping this blog family-friendly. Not sure why Elijah Wood...maybe I'm just excited for The Hobbit.
But it's been sort of downhill from there. The last two nights I've had trouble sleeping (and some really weird dreams last night), and today I woke up with something that may now (at 3pm) be a full-fledged migraine. I rarely get headaches, but when I do they're bitches. Trying Ibuprofen and chamomile tea.
Wednesday morning was quite nice too...I dressed up as a Turing machine for my Mind and Machine class. The prof probably won't give me the free A he promised, but I'm pretty sure I made his day, especially because I was the only person who took his idea to heart. Wish I'd taken a picture...I used my scarf and some binder clips for the tape and symbols; the symbols I deleted were MnMs. That was a fun last-minute costume.
So, all I ended up doing was sucking up to the teacher. I am now officially a sycophant, and I can't say I care, not this late in the semester anyway. And in half an hour, I'm off to do some more brownnosing in my Comparative Poetry class. I'm one of those people who doesn't look like they're paying attention but can still answer all the questions correctly. That being said, I'm not a fan of the prof. She's the kind who insists she's right about everything, and says the same things over and over. Not to mention I really don't want to go to another class today...this morning I was so tired I was practically high off lack of sleep (just ask my linguistics classmates); the nap before Chinese didn't help--and then the nausea and headache showed up. But I can't miss today, since we're starting the Western half of the class (a lot less than half now...we've got what, five weeks left?).
So I shall soldier on reluctantly...and then go to bed very early.
Monday night I had the best dream I've had in a while. It involved four different incarnations of the Doctor, Elijah Wood, and that's all I'm going to say for the sake of keeping this blog family-friendly. Not sure why Elijah Wood...maybe I'm just excited for The Hobbit.
But it's been sort of downhill from there. The last two nights I've had trouble sleeping (and some really weird dreams last night), and today I woke up with something that may now (at 3pm) be a full-fledged migraine. I rarely get headaches, but when I do they're bitches. Trying Ibuprofen and chamomile tea.
Wednesday morning was quite nice too...I dressed up as a Turing machine for my Mind and Machine class. The prof probably won't give me the free A he promised, but I'm pretty sure I made his day, especially because I was the only person who took his idea to heart. Wish I'd taken a picture...I used my scarf and some binder clips for the tape and symbols; the symbols I deleted were MnMs. That was a fun last-minute costume.
So, all I ended up doing was sucking up to the teacher. I am now officially a sycophant, and I can't say I care, not this late in the semester anyway. And in half an hour, I'm off to do some more brownnosing in my Comparative Poetry class. I'm one of those people who doesn't look like they're paying attention but can still answer all the questions correctly. That being said, I'm not a fan of the prof. She's the kind who insists she's right about everything, and says the same things over and over. Not to mention I really don't want to go to another class today...this morning I was so tired I was practically high off lack of sleep (just ask my linguistics classmates); the nap before Chinese didn't help--and then the nausea and headache showed up. But I can't miss today, since we're starting the Western half of the class (a lot less than half now...we've got what, five weeks left?).
So I shall soldier on reluctantly...and then go to bed very early.
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