Caution: opinion(z) included.

I really wanted to start this post off, “Ladies and gentlemen!” but alas, this post is going to be horrifically discriminatory, and the phrase, “Ladies!” is so often connoted with, "...ladies,” which you have to read in a majestically deep man voice to be funny, and I didn’t know how to type that.

So.

…ladies.

I realize I go off on you a lot, which is really too bad, but you seriously need to get a hold of yourselves. Really, I need to get a hold of myself, so we’re all in this together. And once we know who we are, we’re all stars, and we see that. And that will show where we stand, hand in hand, TO MAKE OUR DREAMS COME TRUEEEE OHHHH… EVERYBODY NOW!

That actually summed up my sentiments pretty well, and I didn’t have to be purposefully cheesy. Next point.

You don't have to listen to anything I say. Except this: stop telling yourself you aren't good enough. You are freaking fantastic. You are unique and I know you tell yourself it's a bad thing that people don't understand and obsess over everything about you, but it's so completely a good thing. I promise. Your incongruencies are not inadequacies.

Also, incongruencies is not a word. Yet.

Well, it's too bad that got all mushy, because I'm honestly (no, dishonestly) just going to write out a long list of frustrations and only say one thing that's a little meaningful, maybe. I should probably just go ahead before it gets any worse. This might cut deep. The thought process behind it was this one time my ministry professor talked about how defining our vocabulary was our primary concern, because we so often throw around words we don’t actually mean or understand. This followed that plane of thought.

Happy crying.

Girlcabulary (I know, so creative, right?)

1. Boys: fluctuations in confidence.

So hopefully we’ve established that boys don’t have cooties anymore, but I guess they don’t have feelings either. I don’t understand why it’s fair for them to only matter as long as we’re okay with it. So they like you. So you don’t like them. So freaking what. Stop stringing them along like your plaything where if you push a button nice words come out and you feel good. It's pretty rude.

2. Conversations: periods of extended whining.

Example: this blog post.

3. Awkward: that one time when you didn’t elicit cheering as a response.

I’m going to be real with you: you not being unfathomably sexy every second of the day does not constitute as “awkward.” I was homeschooled. In the boondocks. You don’t even know awkward.

4. Social justice: being nice to people who are ostracized collectively.

I’m all for protecting people who have been served an injustice by culture. Just keep in mind, a lot of those people include all of those friends of yours who are, how do I say this… a lot to handle. As in, hanging out with them isn’t a chill night at the movies, it’s probably playing therapist. Or maybe their interactions have confused some of your friends with a lower “awkward” tolerance, and you don’t want everyone to know how close you actually are to them. Or, probably, they’ve been set up for a great joke right now, maybe at their expense, but hey, they aren’t here, and it’s not like it isn’t true…

I mean, thanks for playing, but just because they don’t have a show on TLC doesn’t mean they don’t deserve your respect either.

5. Ex-boyfriend: not actually proof of anything.

You know what phrase I’ve heard a lot? “Well at least you’ve had a boyfriend.” Do you know what phrase I said a lot in high school? “Well at least you’ve had a boyfriend.” Do you know what phrase literally makes no sense at all?

Hint: it’s a pattern. Figure it out.

Taylor Swift has like eleven thousand ex-boyfriends. She also has like eleven thousand million billion dollars because she wrote songs about them.

These are really the only positive results that have ever come out of a breakup.

6. Let’s get coffee: you’ll never get coffee.
Awk.

7. Eating: something to be embarrassed about.

WOMEN. STOP FREAKING OUT EVERY TIME YOU EAT. MY GOODNESS GRACIOUS IT IS FOOD. IT IS FOR YOUR BODY’S CONSUMPTION.

So you like chocolate. Eat chocolate.

Don’t announce to the planet you ate chocolate and are so embarrassed you did so. Obviously they understand. It’s flipping delicious.

8. Thin: better than being fat.

9. Fat: worse than being thin.

Do you even know what fat is? Or thin? Do you even know what healthy weight is? The only person who is allowed to tell you you’re “fat” (or thin) is your doctor, and he does that to help your heart, not your appeal. Beauty is not a mold you have to fit into, and if you don’t, then rough life. Don’t even freaking go there. First everyone liked curvy women, then Twiggy-like women, then white women, then ethnically diverse women, then oh look, the cultural norm shifted, because that’s never happened before. There is something pretty darn attractive about you someone just hasn’t brought up yet. Wait it out.

10. Feminism: women have the right to be terrible people.

Before any of you pee your pants with indignation, let me explain. I don’t have issues with women’s rights. I think women are just as capable as men, and that it is wrong to be treated differently. What I’m tired of is feminism that involves yelling at men who offer their seats to you in the bus or bashing all of the opposite gender because they are incompetent (unless it comes to having babies, then bash away) or tyrannical or promoting the oversexualizing of women. I’m not saying they all aren’t, because some of them definitely are. But you play along with it. I don’t care if men want you to look like a Victoria’s Secret Model every morning, noon, and evening; you’re the one who’s walking around basically naked.

Feminism is not when the prince shows up and looks bravely up at a lava-surrounded castle’s tower and cries out, “Princess, let me save you from the fire-breathing dragon and your stifling isolation!” shouting over the roar of said fire-breathing dragon—who happens to be gnawing at her window and breathing fire, as usual—brandishing his sword and his newly purchased bridge-building kit, and looking all studly and capable, only to hear her call out, “No thanks, I got it, and I’m insulted that you think I’m not capable enough to manage my own affairs!” and then she is swallowed, and the prince is like, “What?”

Feminism is when the prince shows up and looks bravely up at the castle tower and yells, “Princess, let me…wait, what?” and notices suddenly the body of a once-fire-breathing dragon spanning the moat of lava, and the princess brandishing her fists of steel, saying, “Thanks for the sentiment, but I figured it out,” and the prince is all, “Cool, wanna make out?” and the princess says, “No thanks, I have standards.”

But that’s just my opinion.

11. Flirt: why someone else is a slut, but it doesn’t apply to you.

Why is everyone opposed to flirting? It’s great. Oh, that annoying girl is doing it, and she’s totally coming on to him, and SHUT THE FRONT DOOR SHE TOUCHED HIS ARM, oh my gosh, what a whore.

COOL IT. Yeah, flirting is annoying, but it’s part of life, and I don’t really think you can control it. If you can, and that works for you, then…well, fine. I mean, I can control my flirting, but it involves me staring at the floor and not being responsive to certain individuals.

“Hi, Lydia, how’s it going?”

“…….” *runs away*

That’s how I get men.

Don’t not flirt because other girls will judge you. As we’ve already established, we’re all horrible people. You can totally flirt and be classy, and you honestly probably will end up having to do just that someday. And if a boy doesn’t realize you like him, and you want him to realize you like him and that maybe he should like you, you probably should laugh at his jokes and tell him he has nice hair.

---

Well, sorry that was long. And offensive. And probably all wrong. Just remember: everyone matters. 
Including a lot of other people who happen to not be you.

And you.

fin.

Party in the library.

This one is short, but it's a verbatim transcript of the thought process that went down in the library tonight.
Well...maybe not verbatim.
It's basically right.
Happy studying...studs.

the thirteen phases of OChem homework.
(actual number of phases may vary by experience and interpretation)

8:30 p.m.
The Pep Talk.

Okay. Okay. Okay...okay.
I have three days until the test.
I have extra time off this week.
I am going to be fine.

9:00 p.m.
The "Nomenclature" Phase.

Bro I am so good at this ish. Check me out. No. Don't. Check out freaking 4,6-dimethyl-5-(1-propynyl)-5-octene and then CHECK ME OUT.

9:15 p.m.

You know, I probably should have brought my answer manual, because I have no idea if I'm actually doing any of this right.
I also have no idea what any of this means.
WAIT WHAT

9:16 p.m.

ALL THESE WORDS ARE SO BIG. WHY.

9:18 p.m.

HOLY RICHARD F. HECK THAT IS A LOT OF SUBSTITUENTS.

9:19 p.m.
*Regroup*

...

9:25 p.m.
The "Copy The Notes" Phase.

Wait, this is so fun! Where are my markers!? Let's make this a rainbow! A rainbow of chemistry and happiness! Dr. OChemTeacher, I love you so much!

9:40 p.m.

I HAVE TO KNOW ALL OF THIS BY FRIDAY WHAT EVEN

9:45 p.m.

WHY ARE ALL THESE WORDS SO LONG

9:50 p.m.

HAVE I REALLY BEEN STARING AT THIS PAGE FOR FIVE MINUTES

10:00 p.m.

Literally everything in this book sounds like a supremely questionable sex act.

10:10 p.m.
The "Screw It" Phase.

Screw it.


12:30 a.m.

WAIT WE HAVE A QUIZ TOMORROW

...there's that.

Hello, America.

I suppose I forgot to mention that I wrote two posts while I was on break and didn't post them on Facebook because I gave away my password for Facebook. They're both under the December heading. You are welcome. Merry late Christmas to you and I'm sorry I'm not better at gifting.

Writing a blog post is an elaborate process. It involves starting a post that I never finish, briefly editing and revamping several other posts I never finished, and thinking and wishing and almost getting to something good while my ideas slosh about, until, three weeks later, and right before a significant assignment is due, usually, it suddenly erupts into some variety of weird volcano that doesn't make coherent sense but still explains how I'm feeling.
Today, I was musing upon what the heck I was going to write about next, and when the heck I was going to find time to study for my OChem quiz (the answer to that question is right now...oops), and who the heck was going to have to clean up the remains of my psyche once my impending meltdown hits, and how the heck many times can I use heck in one sentence, and so on and a heck of a so forth. I felt sick, but I went to class, and I went to see my mom, walked to the store, made myself some food...
...and here we are.
And now, here we are not, because it's 3 days after I wrote that last paragraph. I didn't have the patience or the time to finish it, because I was...tired...and I had Cell lab at 6 and I think I started it at 5. Oops.

In other words, today is another one of those days upon which we will attempt to show yet again why I am not destined for any vocation that is even remotely related to philosophy.
Also, I just read through it all again, and it's kind of boring and preachy, so...sorry.

Some (like eight) Reasons Why Life Is Exactly Like Chocolate Pudding.

You can't see into it.

Can you see into the future? No. Nobody knows whether or not you're going to be rich or famous or dead (ooh, morbidity already?) in ten years. You don't even know what color your hair will be. HA! Everyone seems to think the future is this crystal ball we can look into and rely on as a standard for what we should be working on now, but maybe staring into a bowl of pudding would be just as useful, because either way, you won't be able to know what will happen, except that you will probably be hungry, and when that happens, you will have a bowl of pudding.


It's riddled with uncertainty.


Speaking as a college student, who muses everyday on the chance that nothing I'm learning will ever be valuable to me, I'd say that it was a semi-accurate statement that a lot of us don't trust the system. Who cares if we get an education? Who cares if we fail this class? Who cares if we study for Chem? I probably won't get a job anyway! Why do you think I'm writing this? I have a Chem test in five days! Do I care? NO! No. Yes...yeah. I care a little.

Eh.

All personal procrastinatory (not a word) tendencies aside, how are we supposed to know? All our friends who didn't go to college have jobs and apartments and fiancés/fiancées (did you know that word was gender-specific?) and we have dorms and dependence on our parents and homework. All we can do is go by the numbers, that people seem to be better at getting jobs if they go to college. We go by the instructions on the box, that even though expecting pudding to come out of a giant bowl of milk and two spoons of powder seems like the most counter-intuitive thing we've ever done, it might end up as something delicious and wonderful. Until then, all we can be sure we amount to is oblong lumps floating around in disappointment.

It is a mystery.

Going off of that, I don't understand how cells become babies or how whatever is in that funky little box becomes the ultimate center of deliciousness. The miracle of life, the miracle of Jell-O.

It is easily shelved.

When I was young, I was of the opinion that the unexpected or the uncertain were things to be avoided, or not meant for me. GUYS. I still think that. You still think that! Right? Oh...
Well. Okay.
I don't know what to write here.
Hm.
My point was going to be that as human beings (not robots), we tend to be very go with the flow, not in the sense that we take things in stride, because that's a good thing, but more in the sense that we tend to shift our equilibrium towards disappointment. (Chemistry joke, anybody?) I was going to say something about how we need to not be satisfied with boredom, or maybe that our potential needs to be made kinetic (there it goes again), and in order to experience life at its finest, or be ourselves at our fullest, we may need to raid the pantry. I was also going to throw something in about how after long hours (or ten minutes, let's be real) of searching for a snack on a set of packed shelves, a box of pudding is often the reward, and it would have gone unnoticed for weeks, maybe years, at my house, if we hadn't gone looking for it.
I just couldn't figure out how to word it.



It is intensified about a hundredfold when you're on your period.


My friend's boyfriend asked me what happens when girls are menstruating (which may be the most uncomfortable word in the English language, which is why I prefer to say it in a British accent), and I told him that we cry, yell, write nonsensical blog posts, spend too much money, and fall over a lot. Speaking and walking become nearly impossible. Living becomes the hardest thing we've ever done. At the same time, we also develop an insatiable taste for chocolate, especially chocolate pudding, which magically becomes a hundred times better right at that time of the month when you need it most.
For the record, the same principal applies to Oreos and cookie dough and sometimes buffalo wings.


It used to be gross.

Back to the concept of blobs of lumps in milk. Really, though. It's pretty nasty. I don't know how else to describe it. It was gnarly, yucky, chunky, moderately offensive, possibly resembling vomit. LIFE CAN DO THAT TOO. Believe me when I say that everyone has a crap ton of struggles and problems and issues that they fight through every day. People have screwed up. And yet, even through that pain and that overwhelming yuck, they become the heroes that they are. Against all flipping odds.

I definitely just almost threw in a plug for Jesus. 
But really. Jesus.

It comes out of nowhere.

The whole point behind chocolate pudding is wanting to eat something gooey. Most people would imagine that the process by which you achieve gooeyness is to mix together two things of the gooey variety. In the case of some puddings, especially ones that involved mashed bananas, this is true. However, I am poor, and the Jell-O variety is all we have; therefore you are going to have to roll with the metaphor. Jell-O pudding comes by taking something that is very dry and lacks all the characteristics of gooey and mixes in milk, which is far too, um, milky? and runny, and not gooey either, and magically, you get pudding, which is goo at its finest.
My mom always told me that before the occurrence of my father, she never wanted marriage or children, or anything that even slightly resembles anything that she has now, which so happens to be marriage and children. I think a lot of young people run around saying they know what they want, and they know how to be happy. A lot of old people thought that too, and say now that they were wrong. They fell in love. They found their calling. They were hired to some job that changed their life. And they let go of whatever they thought made them happy, because they knew that in comparison to what they have now, they were sad. My mom's happier than she ever thought she could be. Or else, she better be, because, hello? Me?
The key to enjoying chocolate pudding is not thinking about the fact that it was powder and milk literally minutes ago, and accepting the fact that it's delicious. The key to enjoying life is trying not to think about how your parents had to have had sex in order to make you. GROSS I'm kidding. And you just thought about it.
I actually don't know what the key to enjoying life is. I think maybe having hope is a good idea though, that maybe the ick has a chance to become something delicious, if pudding is a reliable standard.



It doesn't work unless you stir it.

IT TAKES EFFORT, FOOLS. GET ON THE BALL.
I'm kidding.
But seriously.

fin.

Happy boring day!

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.

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.

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:

1. Stressed.
2. Angry.
3. Overwhelmed.
4. Touchy.
5. Sleepy.
6. Fighting off gastroenteritis.
7. 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.

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.

Turkey and happiness.

As per Juliana's request. ♥

Yesterday was Thanksgiving...in case you...forgot...and are stupid. Or in case you are foreign. Today is Black Friday, because most of America finds comfort in shopping and acquiring new belongings, and acknowledging that we maybe are supposed to be content is kind of stressful for people.
This week, we made a lot of food. I ate a LOT of food. And pie. Pie is food, but it deserves to be recognized separately. I saw a lot of people I care about and had some good conversations. But I think I and most of the kids that are in the same boat as I am would agree that the best thing about this holiday is not the food. Or the pie. Or the shopping. Or even the people. Well. Okay. It probably should be the people, but I'm going to be honest...it's not. Or it is. Or...it is tied. With being at my house.

And these are my thoughts on the subject.

Things I have missed about home:

• The family.
• The puppy.
• A closet that is entirely mine, and entirely messy.
• A stocked refrigerator.
• Not having to sleep in constant terror that I will plummet eleven feet to the ground in the event of a violent sleep spasm, a.k.a., the lack of bunk beds.
• FREE LAUNDRY.
• Movies On Demand….and a television.
• A shower head that is actually taller than I am.
• An abundance of marshmallows.
• A dishwasher.
• Not having to log into the school’s internet system every time I open my computer.
• The tangerine tree and its tangy blessings.
• Knowledge concerning the location of the chocolate stash.
• (Notice most of these are about food).
• The new rod hockey set upon which I am going to prove my inadequacy.
• All of the warm clothes that I needed last week.
• Endless distractions from homework.
• Chick-fil-A within a reasonable distance from my place of residence.
• TWO bathrooms.
• Christmas decorations…and being able to burn candles that smell like Christmas.
• Not needing to call my mom in the event of a meltdown.
• Odd African baskets that show up where we need them least.
• Baby brother saying things like, "Can I tell people I'm from Brooklyn?"
• The “shell mantle,” which is the only part of our house that is actually decorated.
• New couches that ALL RECLINE except for the middle seat on the big one because there’s no logical place for the lever.
• Actual ice packs, not leaky bags full of ice wrapped in socks.
• Not having to go out of my way to avoid awkward passing encounters with people I’m not sure I’m friends with.
• Living with only one other person who drinks coffee and has a tendency to make too much of it.

And, because I'm not entirely a sap...

Things I have not missed about home:

• The emaciated goldfish that have taken up a dwelling in the living room.
• Having to locate my clothes in the vortex that is our laundry.
• Commentary from EA Sports’ “lifelike” virtual basketball announcers, ALL DAY.
• The realization that I did actually take all my underwear with me to college.
• Endless distractions from homework.
• The return of the unidentifiable mass of pollution at the bottom of the pool.
• Throbbing headaches from the unending commotion (this is why I was so pumped about the ice packs).
• Said family turning on the washing machine while I am in the shower.
• Being 45 miles away from Donut Man.
• Food comas…actually those are kind of nice.
• Flies that never leave the ceiling.
• Being away from people I love.
• Being away from the oatmeal I love.
• Nervous anticipation for the inevitable battle with the ant colony that will take place upon my return.
• The constant reminder that my dog doesn’t love me.

Have a beautiful weekend and remember to be grateful! And to snatch all the leftovers you can possibly fit in your luggage.

You will be in good company.

fin.