I have nothing significant to say, but I desperately want to post something. Thusly, I will yammer on about what I've done over break so far, since I know you're all dying to know what oceans of excitement I've been diving into since school ended.
First of all, I've absolutely wrecked my sleep schedule. I've woken up at one in the afternoon at least three or four times, and the other days I've woken up at noon. Most days I also nap. Today, my dad made me get up before eleven, and I almost died. Granted, I've also been staying up until one or two in the morning, reading great literature and musing on the definition of life, so it's most likely my mental exhaustion is to blame.
Actually, considering how difficult last semester was, that's entirely possible. In my opinion I'm still catching up on all the sleep I lost...last year. I'm not even close to this year's quota, so everyone can just get off my back.
My internet usage is rather prolific; however, my roommate Kelly and I switched passwords before we left for break, and now neither of us have access to Facebook until we get back to school (unless she's hacked her account, which wouldn't be surprising, as she is something of a genius and another something of a sneaky devil) (in a good way). I did this so I wouldn't feel like I had to see everyone from high school or spend time at fancy parties or go out of my way to make crafty presents for the people I love. I will see who I want and I will procure presents on my own time, thank you. So I spend a lot more time on Pinterest, pinning away, usually food I'll never have the patience to make or clothes I'll never have the money to buy. The usual stuff. Today, I unfollowed everyone's wedding boards.
I have been spending more time on Twitter, but you can only do so much on Twitter. I usually end my internet sessions by Google-stalking news stories of people from the Bachelorette.
I'm babysitting chinchillas, which are like giant fluffy mice that sleep in the day and cavort haplessly in the night, which is a big part of why my sleeping has been disturbed. I didn't realize that chinchillas squeaked, but they definitely do. If you can call it squeaking, which you really can't. It sound like they're being suffocated. Here is a video (click the word video for the video); you can see for yourself. Two final fun facts concerning chinchillas: (1) they do bite, if you put your finger next to their mouths, but so far it's been harmless nibbling and I haven't had another medical episode, and (2) they hate water, so they bathe in dust, which is so counter intuitive I honestly don't know what to do.
Last Saturday, I had the privilege of meeting my good friend's fiancée. The experience in and of itself was what you would expect the experience of meeting your good friend's fiancée would be if you had never met any other fiancées that happened to belong to your good friends.
It was fine. He was great. But no one else that I care about is allowed to get engaged for a long time until I decide I'm okay with being a grown up.
In nerd news, I checked my grades for the semester and was overjoyed, and that's all I'm going to say about that. Also, I got A Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy for Christmas, the entire quintogy (like trilogy but there's five of them) (it's not a word), so...yeah. There's that. My family is mad at me because I don't talk to anyone anymore; I just read and read and then think about time travel until my brain hurts too much to do it, so I try reading again, creating a vicious cycle of frustration, which may or may not also have something to do with the fact that I'm not talking to anyone.
I saw the Hobbit, and, unlike everyone else of the entirety of people who saw it, felt ambivalently towards it.
I baked like a thousand cookies. My brothers ate all of them.
Actually. False. I did. Plus, I made a list of things I need to do, and I keep adding to it and never doing any of it and not caring.
EVERYONE I KNOW JUST GOT PREGNANT.
...I think that's it...
...yeah, that's it. Beyond that, pretty much the usual stuff: existential crises, frustrated grumbling over what the crap I'm going to do with my life, writing future best-sellers and then giving up after the first chapter, gagging on my toothbrush, watching the Big Bang Theory every day, and accumulating heinous debt in student loans.
Whatever.
OH AND I WROTE THIS BLOG.
MERRY DAY AFTER CHRISTMAS.
fin.
Wednesday, December 26, 2012
Saturday, December 15, 2012
Mice don't like to be saved.
This happened a couple months ago, and I wrote most of it then, but never finished it, oddly. Now it is done, annnnnd...um, tada!
I hope you all appreciate that I get into these ridiculous shenanigans just for you.
Actually, they're...not really for you at all.
I hope you enjoy this epic regardless.
Once upon a time, there was a little mousey who decided that today, he would sit on the steps of the science center and bother the crap out of everyone. Mousey was fat, with a pointed nose and the longest mouse tale ever beheld by mankind. He nuzzled himself into the wall and prepped for a long day of being irritable and inconveniently positioned.
Back story.
I have an embarrassingly powerful obsession with small rodents. Once, I found a website dedicated entirely to 1500 photos of baby hamsters, and it was the best day of my life. I have never owned a small rodent, but I have spent enough time staring at them longingly in Petsmart that I might as well have. There has never been a time in my life that I have not wanted a rabbit. (I realize that rabbits aren't rodents - they're lagamorphs, obvi - but nobody knows that besides you and me, and...I mean, I know I'm a loser, so maybe you should come to terms with yourself.) My freshman roommates described me once as a "true mouse advocate." I also babysit chinchillas for Emma and Nolan when they go to Oregon. Now I'm kind of in a kitten phase...or bears. I like bears. But the rodent thing isn't a phase so much as it is a lifestyle.
End of back story.
As the diligent little science major I am, I'm on my way to lab with my sandwich, and unlike all the people I was walking with, happen to notice mousey in his hideaway at the edge of the stair. Naturally, I gasp, really loudly and embarrassingly, and squeal a lot and jump up and down and then say goodbye and eat my sandwich, because I get pretty hungry after micro lecture.
I know. I should have left it at that. I know.
Trust me, I know.
So anyway. Om nom nom. Sandwich is consumed. I wander back over toward the direction of our mouse friend and find with some concern that he has moved onto the step, right into the line of foot-stepping-ness, but hardly a foot from where he was before. I assume he is sick, so I stare at him for a little while like a complete lunatic. This is right at the end of a lecture block (of COURSE), so all of these freshmen are coming out of their classes and thinking, what is this chick doing just standing on the stairs, but I stand strong and continue as a protective force to his minuscule existence.
After a while, a small crowd gathers, and some freshman gives him a handful of Captain Crunch (word to the wise: mice don't like Captain Crunch), and I decide that, because there are literally five people standing and looking at him and some kids STILL aren't noticing that he (we're assuming it was a boy mouse) is there, someone has to take it upon themselves to remove him from the danger zone.
You can probably guess that person was me, because I'm the only one stupid to make that judgment call in the first place.
I dash heroically into my micro lab (not really dashing, because you're not allowed to run in lab) and obtain a pair of nitrile gloves in order to preserve myself from the rampant bacteria crawling through its fur. A little struggling ensues, but eventually I have a hold of mousey and am running down the stairs with metaphorical fanfare blasting in the background as I go to release him into the ravine where he will be safe from the feet of the unobservant science majors. And right where the hawks can get him. But that's not important.
I'm sure you know what's coming.
chomp.
So now I'm standing at the bottom of the stairs holding an angry, squirming rodent, and I can see blood pooling under my glove, and I think to myself, everything my farm-raised, mouse-hating mother has ever taught me has gone to waste in this moment. In honor of that achievement, I say a bad word.
Still the job has to be done, so I chuck him into the ravine (he bit me, I'm not going to tuck him in). With renewed vigor, I run upstairs and my lab instructor tries not to laugh while we start performing necessary hygienic procedures that involve rubbing alcohol and squeezing out a lot of blood and my entire class laughing at me and my friends signing as witnesses to my stupidity and me filling out paperwork and crying in front of my supervisor.
They tell me I have a big heart. It doesn't make me feel better.
Fast-forward.
I'm at the health center. The doctor is telling me I need antibiotics because, of course, there's something called rat bite fever. Oh, and I need to get assessed for a rabies shot.
Yeah. Rabies. I could have rabies.
Excellent.
Since things can't really get any weirder, I text my friends and threaten to bite them.
That night, during the lab I TA, I look up the health center the doctor told me to talk to about the vaccination, and this page opens up with the biggest font I've ever seen saying, "STD Clinic," right in front of all my little first-year chem students, but I close it really quickly so I don't think they notice.
Fast-forward.
I'm on the phone with the Monrovia Health Center, who doesn't administer rabies shots but who tells me the phone number for a place that actually does, but I get nervous and lie about having a pen so I don't write it down. I google some more and eventually find a place that advertises having them, so I call them.
"Do you administer rabies shots?" (There's one heck of a conversation starter.)
"Yes, we do, did something happen?"
"I was bit by a mouse yesterday."
"Ohh, okay! Well we do give those; did your doctor say you needed one?"
"He said I needed to be assessed for one..."
"Then you probably do."
"Okay, well how much would that cost?"
"Well, there are five shots, one you take blahblahblahblahblah and the last you take twenty-eight days later, and they're $295 each."
"Two hundred ninety-five each?" Please, Jesus, let there be a decimal.
"Yes, and you can make your appointment..........."
I forget everything else she said. You would have, too, if an ungrateful rodent was about to cost you fifteen hundred dollars.
It was around now that I start to realize that despite my best efforts, I am probably going to have to inform my financial beneficiaries of my misadventure.
Excellent.
"...hello?"
"MOM! HOW ARE YOU?"
"...good...how are you?"
"GREAT!"
"...uh huh. Is everything okay?"
"OH YEAH EVERYTHING'S FINE!"
"Did you fail something?"
"NO!"
"Okay?"
"No..."
"...um..."
"No, this is beyond failing."
Fast-forward.
Mom takes impending financial deficit rather well. She also calls every health department in the state, all of whom tell her, "We don't give rabies shots for mouse bites." Which puts me in a predicament, because Dr. What'shisface told me I might need one, and the lady at the clinic told me that if he said I might need one then I do need one, but Mrs. Nursefrompasadena told my mom that I don't need one, because mice don't carry rabies. Also, if I do need a shot, but I don't get a shot by tomorrow, I can't get one. Ever. Also, RABIES KILLS YOU.
To add insult to injury, everyone keeps asking me why I didn't pick it up by its tail. I'm not sure why the whole world assumes that's a universal precept, because...I've never heard anything about it.
The next day, because I'm at my wit's end, and because I might maybe be looking for a chance to suck up, I inform Dr. Microbiologyprofessor of the predicament, and he looks at me like I'm a nutcase for a few seconds. Then he discusses the general lack of rabidity in mouseys, and describes the symptoms involved just to keep me informed, adding that now that I know what it means to have them, I will think I'm having them until I'm sure that it's impossible for me to have them, and even maybe after that.
That didn't make sense and I'm not fixing it.
Eventually, more very grumpy people from various clinics inform me multiple times that I don't need a shot. Dr. What'shisface confirms that his comment was only investigatory, not actually diagnository.
Conclusion: Lydia forgoes rabies shot. Everyone else is 99% sure that I don't have rabies. I'm only 80% sure, but I'm also the only one who was dumb enough to pick up a mouse. And the only one whose life is in jeopardy, but no one seems to remember that. Maybe next time if I get bitten by an angry bunny rabbit people will care. Or a bear. I bet bears give you rabies.
Technically, the incubation period for rabies is up to a year, meaning that the virus can decide to not kick in for basically forever until after you get bit, which makes no sense, but viruses are incapable of logic. So I'll let you know what's up next October.
Oh and my antibiotics made me throw up. But that's beside the point.
Fast-forward:
Nicole and I are walking past CVS, and Dr. Microbiologyprofessor - the one who I talked to about the bite, and also the one who told the whole story to my class, which was AWESOME - walks out, and before we can recover and greet him sufficiently (seeing professors in parking lots is a weird experience), he says, "It's the mouse lady, as forever and always you shall be known! It's your legacy!"
Excellent.
fin.
I hope you all appreciate that I get into these ridiculous shenanigans just for you.
Actually, they're...not really for you at all.
I hope you enjoy this epic regardless.
Once upon a time, there was a little mousey who decided that today, he would sit on the steps of the science center and bother the crap out of everyone. Mousey was fat, with a pointed nose and the longest mouse tale ever beheld by mankind. He nuzzled himself into the wall and prepped for a long day of being irritable and inconveniently positioned.
Back story.
I have an embarrassingly powerful obsession with small rodents. Once, I found a website dedicated entirely to 1500 photos of baby hamsters, and it was the best day of my life. I have never owned a small rodent, but I have spent enough time staring at them longingly in Petsmart that I might as well have. There has never been a time in my life that I have not wanted a rabbit. (I realize that rabbits aren't rodents - they're lagamorphs, obvi - but nobody knows that besides you and me, and...I mean, I know I'm a loser, so maybe you should come to terms with yourself.) My freshman roommates described me once as a "true mouse advocate." I also babysit chinchillas for Emma and Nolan when they go to Oregon. Now I'm kind of in a kitten phase...or bears. I like bears. But the rodent thing isn't a phase so much as it is a lifestyle.
End of back story.
As the diligent little science major I am, I'm on my way to lab with my sandwich, and unlike all the people I was walking with, happen to notice mousey in his hideaway at the edge of the stair. Naturally, I gasp, really loudly and embarrassingly, and squeal a lot and jump up and down and then say goodbye and eat my sandwich, because I get pretty hungry after micro lecture.
I know. I should have left it at that. I know.
Trust me, I know.
So anyway. Om nom nom. Sandwich is consumed. I wander back over toward the direction of our mouse friend and find with some concern that he has moved onto the step, right into the line of foot-stepping-ness, but hardly a foot from where he was before. I assume he is sick, so I stare at him for a little while like a complete lunatic. This is right at the end of a lecture block (of COURSE), so all of these freshmen are coming out of their classes and thinking, what is this chick doing just standing on the stairs, but I stand strong and continue as a protective force to his minuscule existence.
After a while, a small crowd gathers, and some freshman gives him a handful of Captain Crunch (word to the wise: mice don't like Captain Crunch), and I decide that, because there are literally five people standing and looking at him and some kids STILL aren't noticing that he (we're assuming it was a boy mouse) is there, someone has to take it upon themselves to remove him from the danger zone.
You can probably guess that person was me, because I'm the only one stupid to make that judgment call in the first place.
I dash heroically into my micro lab (not really dashing, because you're not allowed to run in lab) and obtain a pair of nitrile gloves in order to preserve myself from the rampant bacteria crawling through its fur. A little struggling ensues, but eventually I have a hold of mousey and am running down the stairs with metaphorical fanfare blasting in the background as I go to release him into the ravine where he will be safe from the feet of the unobservant science majors. And right where the hawks can get him. But that's not important.
I'm sure you know what's coming.
chomp.
So now I'm standing at the bottom of the stairs holding an angry, squirming rodent, and I can see blood pooling under my glove, and I think to myself, everything my farm-raised, mouse-hating mother has ever taught me has gone to waste in this moment. In honor of that achievement, I say a bad word.
Still the job has to be done, so I chuck him into the ravine (he bit me, I'm not going to tuck him in). With renewed vigor, I run upstairs and my lab instructor tries not to laugh while we start performing necessary hygienic procedures that involve rubbing alcohol and squeezing out a lot of blood and my entire class laughing at me and my friends signing as witnesses to my stupidity and me filling out paperwork and crying in front of my supervisor.
They tell me I have a big heart. It doesn't make me feel better.
Fast-forward.
I'm at the health center. The doctor is telling me I need antibiotics because, of course, there's something called rat bite fever. Oh, and I need to get assessed for a rabies shot.
Yeah. Rabies. I could have rabies.
Excellent.
Since things can't really get any weirder, I text my friends and threaten to bite them.
That night, during the lab I TA, I look up the health center the doctor told me to talk to about the vaccination, and this page opens up with the biggest font I've ever seen saying, "STD Clinic," right in front of all my little first-year chem students, but I close it really quickly so I don't think they notice.
Fast-forward.
I'm on the phone with the Monrovia Health Center, who doesn't administer rabies shots but who tells me the phone number for a place that actually does, but I get nervous and lie about having a pen so I don't write it down. I google some more and eventually find a place that advertises having them, so I call them.
"Do you administer rabies shots?" (There's one heck of a conversation starter.)
"Yes, we do, did something happen?"
"I was bit by a mouse yesterday."
"Ohh, okay! Well we do give those; did your doctor say you needed one?"
"He said I needed to be assessed for one..."
"Then you probably do."
"Okay, well how much would that cost?"
"Well, there are five shots, one you take blahblahblahblahblah and the last you take twenty-eight days later, and they're $295 each."
"Two hundred ninety-five each?" Please, Jesus, let there be a decimal.
"Yes, and you can make your appointment..........."
I forget everything else she said. You would have, too, if an ungrateful rodent was about to cost you fifteen hundred dollars.
It was around now that I start to realize that despite my best efforts, I am probably going to have to inform my financial beneficiaries of my misadventure.
Excellent.
"...hello?"
"MOM! HOW ARE YOU?"
"...good...how are you?"
"GREAT!"
"...uh huh. Is everything okay?"
"OH YEAH EVERYTHING'S FINE!"
"Did you fail something?"
"NO!"
"Okay?"
"No..."
"...um..."
"No, this is beyond failing."
Fast-forward.
Mom takes impending financial deficit rather well. She also calls every health department in the state, all of whom tell her, "We don't give rabies shots for mouse bites." Which puts me in a predicament, because Dr. What'shisface told me I might need one, and the lady at the clinic told me that if he said I might need one then I do need one, but Mrs. Nursefrompasadena told my mom that I don't need one, because mice don't carry rabies. Also, if I do need a shot, but I don't get a shot by tomorrow, I can't get one. Ever. Also, RABIES KILLS YOU.
To add insult to injury, everyone keeps asking me why I didn't pick it up by its tail. I'm not sure why the whole world assumes that's a universal precept, because...I've never heard anything about it.
The next day, because I'm at my wit's end, and because I might maybe be looking for a chance to suck up, I inform Dr. Microbiologyprofessor of the predicament, and he looks at me like I'm a nutcase for a few seconds. Then he discusses the general lack of rabidity in mouseys, and describes the symptoms involved just to keep me informed, adding that now that I know what it means to have them, I will think I'm having them until I'm sure that it's impossible for me to have them, and even maybe after that.
That didn't make sense and I'm not fixing it.
Eventually, more very grumpy people from various clinics inform me multiple times that I don't need a shot. Dr. What'shisface confirms that his comment was only investigatory, not actually diagnository.
Conclusion: Lydia forgoes rabies shot. Everyone else is 99% sure that I don't have rabies. I'm only 80% sure, but I'm also the only one who was dumb enough to pick up a mouse. And the only one whose life is in jeopardy, but no one seems to remember that. Maybe next time if I get bitten by an angry bunny rabbit people will care. Or a bear. I bet bears give you rabies.
Technically, the incubation period for rabies is up to a year, meaning that the virus can decide to not kick in for basically forever until after you get bit, which makes no sense, but viruses are incapable of logic. So I'll let you know what's up next October.
Oh and my antibiotics made me throw up. But that's beside the point.
Fast-forward:
Nicole and I are walking past CVS, and Dr. Microbiologyprofessor - the one who I talked to about the bite, and also the one who told the whole story to my class, which was AWESOME - walks out, and before we can recover and greet him sufficiently (seeing professors in parking lots is a weird experience), he says, "It's the mouse lady, as forever and always you shall be known! It's your legacy!"
Excellent.
fin.
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
Study break.
I'm sitting in the library, blogging, which probably constitutes some form of illegality, and before I start rambling, I want everyone to know that I am poised and ready to throttle anyone who crosses me, because I am so not in any rational or socially forgivable or moderately humane place of mind.
Actually, that's a little extreme. I won't hurt you. Even if I tried, I'm pretty shrimpy, and I haven't even looked at a workout machine since high school. I haven't used one either, to eliminate the possibility of me exercising blindfolded. I also have these things called inhibitions that choke me when I get angry, and therefore the cruel comments and the hapless yelling and even the mean texts are prohibited by my all-powerful filter, even when they're worded perfectly and would nail the point home better than anything I would ever say again. Nope. Not on your life. Save them to the Drafts folder and look at them when you're hormonal.
That being said, if if I tried to punch you, my arm would probably whip back at my face and break my own nose.
That's a good place to start. I hate to see people hurting. When I do let myself throw caution to the wind (I lied about the filter's omnipotence) and say something...straightforward (rude), I regret it within a span of 2.5 nanoseconds, and feel guilty for about 2.5 years, and finally forget about it...OH WAIT I don't. And I have a lot to feel guilty for this week.
I'm tired of arguing with people and taking everything personally. I'm also sick of feeling apathetic...I'm also not sure if that sentence is logical. But what is logical!? Because if I'm going by how everyone else is feeling, I'm being completely logical, because everyone I know is one or more of the following:
Actually, that's a little extreme. I won't hurt you. Even if I tried, I'm pretty shrimpy, and I haven't even looked at a workout machine since high school. I haven't used one either, to eliminate the possibility of me exercising blindfolded. I also have these things called inhibitions that choke me when I get angry, and therefore the cruel comments and the hapless yelling and even the mean texts are prohibited by my all-powerful filter, even when they're worded perfectly and would nail the point home better than anything I would ever say again. Nope. Not on your life. Save them to the Drafts folder and look at them when you're hormonal.
That being said, if if I tried to punch you, my arm would probably whip back at my face and break my own nose.
That's a good place to start. I hate to see people hurting. When I do let myself throw caution to the wind (I lied about the filter's omnipotence) and say something...straightforward (rude), I regret it within a span of 2.5 nanoseconds, and feel guilty for about 2.5 years, and finally forget about it...OH WAIT I don't. And I have a lot to feel guilty for this week.
I'm tired of arguing with people and taking everything personally. I'm also sick of feeling apathetic...I'm also not sure if that sentence is logical. But what is logical!? Because if I'm going by how everyone else is feeling, I'm being completely logical, because everyone I know is one or more of the following:
- Stressed.
- Angry.
- Overwhelmed.
- Touchy.
- Sleepy.
- Fighting off gastroenteritis.
- Constantly complaining.
And HUZZAH! SO AM I! LOOK AT US! WE ARE THE FUTURE.
Listen.
I'm not an expert.
I'm not that wise.
I'm completely guilty of everything on that list and everything I said I'm not guilty of in the second paragraph.
But this is not okay.
In light of the lack of okayness, and because of the desperation we are all undergoing, and through the lens of the reminder that I really am not thinking rationally and you can't hold me completely accountable for this because I'm malnourished...
Some Tips For Finals/Dead Week.
1. You are not going to die.
Contrary to the universally accepted title of "Dead Week," no one actually dies, and neither will you. Anyone who has ever gone kaput while studying has done so due to an unrelated medical condition. Stay healthy and don't push yourself too far, but chill the frick out, because quite honestly, I'm getting sick of hearing everyone use that phraseology.
2. You are not going to care in ten years.
Actually, you aren't going to care in ten months. Stop treating yourself like you're an application to grad school. You deserve so much better - in fact (don't freak out), you deserve to be happy. WHAT!? I KNOW! Weird, right? You deserve to take care of yourself and appreciate your surroundings, and, most importantly, to respect where you are right now. You'll figure out life. Well, okay. You won't. But you'll figure out enough of it. If you get a B in Philosophy, you're not going to end up a homeless pigeon lady.
3. You still need to eat. You still need to sleep.
I say this because I keep having inconvenient revelations about what an unhealthy place college is. First of all, you're under a lot of pressure to constantly do better. You're stressed. You're surrounded by stressors that remind you of your stress and consequently cause you more stress. You're on a time constraint, meaning that you end up sacrificing things like working out, sleeping, or eating healthy, all of which are pretty stellar for your immune system. And you know what else is at college? Sick people in close quarters and relatively unsanitary apartments due to their lack of desire to clean the bathroom. When you get to the point where your health is your second priority, you might need to reprioritize.
I recognize this is coming from a girl for whom the only reason she was late one time to OChem because she was throwing up in the library bathroom. I'm not saying it was a good decision. Maybe your week will force you to pull stunts like that, but make sure you take the best care of yourself you can.
4. Do not let what other people are saying about their crap influence how you see it.
If you feel confident about this test, if you think you've studied enough already, if you have that gut intuition that maybe an all nighter would do more harm than good, then block your ears and let them verbally process their ish. You don't have to stress because other people are in a panic.
Trust me, this one's sneaky. All of everyone I have any class with seems to have this self-confidence thing where they feel great about a test and then someone, in passing, maybe not even in the same class as we are, or the same school, will say, "Oh, I don't know, the Scantron part was really hard," and all the way home they'll think, "I literally got every question on the test wrong. Oh my gosh. I literally failed because of the multiple choice. UGH. That Scantron..."
My friends say literally a lot. Interestingly enough, they also get A's a lot.
I bet you're not super different.
5. Do not let this be an excuse to treat other people like they don't matter.
This is more of an apology to everyone I know...which could serve as a warning? I don't know. There is a point to which we are all on an edge and about to lose our minds over it, but there is also a point where you cross the borders of respect. Neither way is a good way. I know it's hard, but I bet you'll feel better about it later.
6. Your academic prowess and motivation does not give you an excuse to complain more.
I am allowed to say this because I live every day of my life (except Thursdays and weekends) surrounded by biology majors. Yes. Some of them have a wonderful outlook on the future and a realistic motivation that doesn't hurt them and a true love for what they're doing. But some are hanging on to fishing line, hoping that maybe if they pull hard enough they can reel in Johns Hopkins, but if they don't, they'll starve to death, because they didn't pack anything else to eat, and they're on a rickety boat in the middle of the ocean.
I'm not saying that it's a bad thing to want to go to grad school and to have a concern for your future and your career goals. That's flipping wonderful.
It's a BAD THING when I can talk to an English major (probably complaining, honestly; we're all in this together) about a test I have tomorrow, and they'll say, "Oh, that one with fifty diseases and ten pages of notes on the immune system?"
Guys, really? We don't even have classes on the same campus. And all of them know our problems. We whine more than any other major, without competition. I don't care if you're pre-med or scared about grad school or convinced that you're in the hardest class offered at this college, we are not better than anyone. I'm sure there are hundreds of people who would love to see us struggle through a Music Theory class, and you know what we would do?
COMPLAIN.
7. Seriously, take it ONE thing at a time.
Stop stop stop stop STOP reminding yourself of things. Make a list, a complete, thorough all-encompassing list, and let it sit on your desk for reference so you can stop bringing it up to yourself. Most of you don't know this, but the back of your mind is a wonderful place for this stuff to be! And when I say back, I actually mean the back. Because when people say the back of the mind, it's usually involved with the sentence, "You've been in the back of my mind all day," which translated means, "I learned as much in class as I would have if I was asleep because I was dreaming about your abs."
Anyyywayyyy...something tells me that all the effort and stress and hours you've spent talking about it aren't going to let you completely forget about it. Okay? So pick a thing and go hard on it and then eat a pop tart and switch gears! Enough with the double dipping. And I don't know if I can say this, but really, enough with the worrying. I have this theory that if you keep listing out all the crap you have going on for people, especially in the context of, "I have to do ALL THIS by NEXT WEEK," you're going to feel worse and worse about it every time.
Anyyywayyyy...something tells me that all the effort and stress and hours you've spent talking about it aren't going to let you completely forget about it. Okay? So pick a thing and go hard on it and then eat a pop tart and switch gears! Enough with the double dipping. And I don't know if I can say this, but really, enough with the worrying. I have this theory that if you keep listing out all the crap you have going on for people, especially in the context of, "I have to do ALL THIS by NEXT WEEK," you're going to feel worse and worse about it every time.
Chill pill.
8. Do not feel bad about isolating yourself.
If you study better without people...leave the people.
9. Please stop whining over how little you're getting done.
Every time you decide to go on Hulu instead of do homework or sleep instead of write your paper or make gourmet dinners instead of studying for your Micro final, you are consciously - CONSCIOUSLY - making a decision to do one thing over the other. And the things you decide not to do may not be necessarily bad. If you decide that you're going to, hypothetically, write a blog post instead of writing your book report on Knocking on Heaven's Door, you are thinking, "I am going to write a blog post instead of a book report on Knocking on Heaven's Door." I don't understand, but it sounds like some people think they become possessed by this unproductive demon that sits there and controls their hands so they click on the wrong internet sites and then wake up four hours later confused and unintentionally procrastinating. YOU ARE ON THE INTERNET RIGHT NOW. You are thinking, "I am going to read Lydia's blog instead of study for this test." And I'm not angry that you are doing these things! They are wonderful things! Eat! Sleep! Do it for fun or as a break or for whatever reason inspires you. But recognize that your priorities are what they are, and that your needs will have to be fulfilled on the schedule that you put yourself into, and that whatever time you spend doing things other than studying is YOUR FAULT.
And also recognize that you are also going to consciously make the decision to get frustrated and whine about it instead of studying after the whole deal. So you could also stop getting so pointlessly frustrated with yourself and move on.
Okay? So cook! Finish this post! Pin to your travel board after you're done! But don't get upset with yourself for doing it. Fricking do it on purpose and party while you're at it.
10. Someone within earshot has more to do than you do.
First of all, I'm not sure if I care how much you have to do at all. It depends on the tone of voice you approach me with. Sassiness may be appreciated. Desperation and groaning and diva-esque-ity, I will probably turn around and walk away. No, I won't, because that's disrespectful. But it's also disrespectful to assume you're the only person struggling. And to talk about it like your world is crashing harder than someone else's... I dunno. Maybe think about that before you push them over the edge, because you may run into that person who has a test and a paper and a presentation in every one of their seven classes. And that would be awkward.
And you know what? It's disrespectful even if you do have more than they do, because maybe inferiority isn't a mindset that would be super beneficial to them now. Or, like, ever. But surely not during finals week.
Finally, avoid the, "Oh my week is easy after I finish this," phrase. I'm happy for you if this is true. But odds are, another person who is also in earshot has everything going on next week and might tell all his friends in his class, and then you have a lynch mob outside your apartment...and no one wants that.
11. Stress isn't all bad. But some of it is.
A lot of people employ stress as a way of motivating themselves. This is super nifty. It's a reminder that they have things to get done and that they need to be done on time, and it helps them kick into gear. This is a good thing. It's not uncommon and not something to be hated on.
A lot of people take stress and blow it up like a balloon and then spend hours ranting or lying around muttering confusedly (I do this a lot; I promise I'm not crazy) to get rid of it. This doesn't work, and it's also very bad for you, and as a side bonus, you tend to not get much done. And you get sick! And you lose motivation because you're angry at yourself...and you fail all your classes and die.
For further reference, the "Ned's Declassifed School Survival Guide" episode on stress is golden. Some medical and psychological studies could be just as helpful.
--
I know this week and next week are awful and that I am an awful person for saying these things. It's okay if you disregard me because I threatened to strange you; you probably deserve it. But please please please please please please stop beating yourself up. You are worth more than your grades. I will say it again, more emphatically.
YOU ARE WORTH MORE THAN YOUR GRADES.
Calm down.
Breathe in...
...
...
...
...and breathe out.
You're almost there.
fin.
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