Me leaving New York is gonna go a little something like this:

Pop Quiz Sleepy Baby

I’ve been having trouble sleeping lately. It’s not the kind of sleep trouble where I wake up every half-hour, but rather the kind where I am up till crazy late hours doing absolutely nothing that’s worth being up that late for, night cheese style. For some reason, come two o’clock in the morning, I cannot NOT watch an episode of Veronica Mars or check my facebook one last time cause, really, who knows what could be posted up there at that hour? A grammatically correct status update? A friend request from a vague high school acquaintance? The whereabouts of the Lindbergh baby? You see how tired I am? The freaking Lindbergh baby. THAT’S the most topical thing that my slow brain can think to make a joke out of. Yeesh.

So, yes. The point of this post is that I’m really tired. And it’s bumming me out because, call me crazy, but I like being a functioning adult rather that an over-sized baby who cries and thinks that it might be easier to wet herself rather than make the exhausting 30-foot trip to the bathroom. That last sentence, I think, signals my time to sign off.

Sweat

So, the Summer of '09 officially kicked off yesterday and I sit as living proof of that. I write, sweating my balls off, from my couch. Or I would be if I had balls... but even then, I wouldn't have balls because they would have been sweat off. Oy! This heat is making me talk crazy. Seriously, Wisconsin! Must we resort to such extremes? Cold and dry. Hot and humid. How about warm with a soft breeze? Too much to ask? Blah. I bitch, but Madison summers are known for being crazy awesome. All of the students are gone, so the townies get to reclaim their city for a few months, which means late night patio drinks, seeing free music at the Union, biking, and eating amazing local produce.

Speaking of fun summer activities, today I went with some friends to Lake Ripley in Cambridge, WI. Did you know that Madison's lakes are supposedly unswimmable? They are, which is why we have to drive a half-hour to go swimming. Not that I'm complaining. Lathering up with sunscreen, cracking a High Life, and blasting some Santogold- I don't think that I could ask for much more. It was so relaxing that I even fell asleep for a bit, face-down into my towel.

Tomorrow is going to be in the nineties and I'm searching desperately for some air-conditioned space to sit in for a few hours. I think the closest that I'll get is sitting in my mom's shadowy downstairs, drinking smoothies, and watching hours of Generation Kill (which, by the way, is turning me into an even angrier person). In the evening, I'll be celebrating my roommate's birthday with a soiree at our house that will include pizzas baked in ovens (ick) and whole bunch of white wine (yay).

This was the worst blog post ever. Sorry, but I'm feeling a complete blog-related lethargy (blogthargy?) and I fear that, if I don't push through it now, it might be September before I post again.

Better stuff to come, I swear.

My muffin top is all that

Internet, I have once again failed you. But I have excuses! Travel! Interviews! Exams! Funerals (boo)! Internet outages! House guests! Dance parties! See, I wasn't just watching Real Housewives marathons- I was actually leading a busy life. When I did have a bit of leisure time, I was sleeping. Perhaps it says something about leading a pretty privileged life, but I'm not used to actually feeling sleepy when I go to bed. Tired, sure, but it usually takes me at least an hour to actually fall asleep Lately, however, I've been out soon as my head hits the pillow.

I mean it sincerely when I tell you that I've missed blogging. So many weird things have happened that have made me think 'ah, man. I can't wait to blog about this,' but then I get home and my roommate's mom from Canada is sleeping on the couch or I realize that I've been living in squalor for the past few months and I can't put off cleaning anymore or another one of the billion things that I have to do pops up and I forget all about it. Either that or I pull a Dr. Spaceman and try to remember to blog about it later by repeating it three times out loud. Even now, I should be doing some stupid stats homework (summer classes make my heart hurt), but instead, I'm writing you. See, that is what I call loyalty.

What I'm really about to do right now is take said stats homework and go to the pool where I will proceed to blind everyone with my glorious white flab. Even worse, I couldn't find my flattering swimsuit so the other patrons will get a delicious dose of muffin top. Jealous?

I PROMISE I WILL POST TOMORROW.

I PROMISE I WILL POST TOMORROW. I PROMISE I WILL POST TOMORROW. I PROMISE I WILL POST TOMORROW. I PROMISE I WILL POST TOMORROW. I PROMISE I WILL POST TOMORROW. I PROMISE I WILL POST TOMORROW. I PROMISE I WILL POST TOMORROW. I PROMISE I WILL POST TOMORROW. I PROMISE I WILL POST TOMORROW. I PROMISE I WILL POST TOMORROW. I PROMISE I WILL POST TOMORROW. I PROMISE I WILL POST TOMORROW.

Saying it enough times will undoubtedly make it happen... right?

There's a pedophile in the school

Alright, one midterm paper down and another to go by Friday. Totally doable. Maybe I'll even try to finish it tomorrow so when Thursday night rolls around and I'm all "OH MY GOD, I HAVE A PAPER DUE TOMORROW!" I can tell myself to take a deep breath and relax cause that shit is done, son!

In other news, I've faced two vigorous academic critiques in the last two days and I am burned out on criticism. Last night, my short story was workshopped for the first time this semester. The instructor for this class is kind of a big deal in the literary world (not to give it away, but she's been published in The New Yorker, is frequently mentioned in the New York Times, has published several successful books, and will casually mention hanging out with John Updike (RIP) like it ain't no thang). Needless to say, I was pretty nervous, especially because I didn't think that my short story was all that great. Thankfully, she loved it. The rest of my class? Not so much. I really like receiving constructive criticism, but struggle when it's coming from a group of college-aged boys who possess the emotional intelligence of the lamp that's currently lighting my keyboard. These are people who can't understand that marriages and families can fall or drift apart without someone cheating or a bomb exploding. Bleh, maybe I'm not open to constructive criticism as much as I thought. When reviewing my classmates' work, I try to be very honest and put social niceties aside. My inner narcissist tells me that this is why a lot of them said the things that they did about my story. You know, to get back at me. In truth, they were probably doing me the same favor that I try and do them. Even the positive response from the professor is getting me all agitated. This class is now mine to lose and my next story needs to be even better...

Moving on. Today in theater class, we worked my scene in front of everyone. My character carries the majority of the lines for the part that we were working, so I got to experience my drama teacher in her full-on crazinesss, with hardly anyone else to distract her. Have any of you taken drama classes? If you have, you'll have found that the instructors for these classes are some of the most intense and wacked-out people in the world. Take Mr. G for example. This is what I deal with twice a week:


(she actually has made us participate in improve exercises similar to Mr. G's evacuation procedures).

This afternoon, she kept saying, "What is your motivation here?" "Um," I'd say. "Power?" "Simplify!" she'd yell. So, I'd say "being right?" "No, more complex!" And that's when my head exploded and I had to leave the class to go to the hospital and have it slowly and painfully put back together. Even now, in recovery, I can hear her shouting "Consistency is the death of acting!" right in my purple and bleeding ear. She's right, but jeez, it's not worth a girl's head exploding and all.

Needless to say, I'm having an intense need for coddling and self-assurance, so I guess I'll go spoon my pillow and stroke my own hair. Admit it. You want my life.

PQK, it's your birthday. Happy Birthday, PQK.

Do you remember that episode of The Simpson's where everyone forgets Lisa's birthday? The one where she sings "Happy Birthday to Me" while sitting in the dark, eating a lone cupcake? And then Bart cowrites a song with Michael Jackson and everything is all better?

Like I mentioned in my last post, my own birthday is coming up pretty quickly. Do to my recent lethargic attitude towards everything, I've been feeling pretty blah about it. I want something low-key and low pressure. I have no desire to have a party or go to a nice restaurant like I usually do. Instead, I'd rather go eat some samosas at my favorite Himalayan restaurant with my nearest and dearest before hitting up a bar and then returning home, relatively sober, by one.

Even with what I consider to be pretty frickin' low expectations, I'm already beginning to feel the dreaded clouds of disappointment gathering above my head. So far, it seems like everyone who I'd want to be with has to work. Some have even picked up shifts, knowing that it's my birthday. I also wrote in my facebook status that I would like people to come out. So far I have one response and it's from my friend S who would probably agree to go out and celebrate anytime you had a particularly satisfying jog. If the jog didn't go so well, he'd probably want to go out anyway. The calm, reasonable, and mature PQK tells me that these slights have absolutely nothing to do with me or how these people value my friendship. The louder less mature PQK is saying "WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!" So, right now I'm feeling pretty bummed. About a birthday that I didn't think I cared about in the first place.

Believe me, I know how immature I sound. But also believe me that I have a history of having parties that nobody showed up to, of people forgetting to pick me up on New Years, or, less painful maybe, sitting in a restaurant for a half hour before anybody else showed up. I would love to be a person who didn't care at all about my birthday, but every time it comes around, no matter how everything else in my life is going, I revert back into a sixteen year old girl, all dressed up for a celebration that only my parents will show up for. I hate how that sixteen year old version of myself manages to take over so easily, like the last six years of my life never even happened.

I just told my roommate that I don't want to do anything at all. I'm not sure if that's entirely truthful because, right now, all I can think about is sitting in a dark kitchen as I sing "Happy Birthday" to myself. I'm pretty sure that no one has time to team up with Michael Jackson and write a song for me. Besides, I don't really want to meet Michael Jackson anyways.



Urgh. I promise that this blog will get less maudlin any day now.

An Open Letter (To Myself)

Dear Self,

Stop wallowing at your pity party. Winter happens to everybody and it's not an excuse to throw away your entire education. That's right. Now pick up your textbook and read a little Emerson. Yes, I know that you don't want to and that you'd rather be sitting in your sad worn-out underwear, stuffing your face with fig newtons. No, just because they have figs in them does not mean that they are healthy. On that note, go to the freaking gym. You're a student and it's free. They have these awesome machines that allow you to run in place while you watch TV or there's this other machine that allows you to walk up stairs that lead to nowhere. Throw a couple This American Life podcasts on your ipod, make a Prince playlist, and hustle. Not only will you look better, but you'll feel better, too. Trust me, I know you.

Now, once you do that, start putting other things into place. This blog? Severely neglected. Put your fingers to the keyboard. It's okay if you don't get any comments. It's just good to have it out there. While you're in front of the computer, set a little non-internet related writing time aside. You've had some short story ideas floating around since Christmas. Don't those ideas deserve to become tangible? And how about typing up a cover letter and applying for those internships that you were so excited for? I know that it's scary to apply and risk being rejected, but, if you don't, you'll never get anywhere. Remember that movie about that guy who sat around and never did anything exciting? You don't because they never made that movie. As a friend, I want your life to be bio-pic material. Think of who could play you! Dakota Fanning, perhaps? Deroda from Gossip Girl? The list goes on.

As soon as all of that mental clutter is cleared up, move on to the physical clutter. Actually, why wait. Get on it now. Girl, your room is disgusting. I thought that you had standards, but, being the you have to wade through wrinkled sweaters, thrice worn t-shirts, and the occasional crumpled-up shopping bag just to get to your closet, I was obviously wrong. You're not a lost cause, but you will be if you don't do some laundry. You'll appreciate this when you realize how much nicer people are to you when you don't have wine and cheeto stains down your front.

Did you know that next Saturday you'll be twenty-two years old? Can you figure out why that feels so much older than twenty-one? I'm not sure why, but I'll take a stab at it. I think that it's because you've made a lot of progress in this past year. Yeah, give yourself a pat on the back for confronting some things that certainly weren't easy and coming out the better for it. The process isn't over, which can be discouraging, but I'm sure that you can keep going. Don't pull the covers over your head, only to peer out when there happens to be something with Jon Hamm on T.V. Hop out of bed, slap on your reading glasses, some running shoes, and better yourself.

Lastly, give yourself a goddamn break. That's right, I'm a flip-flopper, but sometimes you gotta flip and other times you gotta flop. And no, this not an excuse to skip Emerson.

Love,
Me

Grrr.

My people, I'm in a bad way. For one thing, I keep sensing Spring right around the corner and you know what? It most definitely is not right around the corner. Not by a long shot. That's right. We've got February, March, and probably most of April. I don't understand why my mind would play such a cruel trick on me. I'm like one of those dogs that starts to think that a stuffed animal is its puppy. Either way it ends in heartbreak. Not only am I ready to move on from winter, I'm sick of complaining about it and I LOVE to complain! I'll leave the winter rant at that.

There are other things holding me down, y'all. Work? Busting my balls. On the list of things that I complain about the most, weather is #1 and work is #2. Right now, there isn't a lot of benjamins being tossed my way with this whole economy fiasco. That's bad enough, but the bosses are choosing this time to be all "we're not providing uniforms anymore" and "you need to get your shirts dry-cleaned" or "blah blah teamwork through hard times." And I'm all "teamwork goes both ways" and "no, I won't pay to have my shirt cleaned because I'm not making any money." Plus, I kind of feel like I've somehow stumbled onto my manager's bad side and don't really know when this happened. All I know is that lately she's been scolding me like I'm in elementary school. I think that I'll shift back into her favor because, well, we're friends. Like 'have hung out outside of work' friends, but until that time when I'm welcomed back into the fold, I'll just have to give her no reason to be annoyed at me. When she picks me out of the crowd to quiz me on what grape varietal a Vouvray is, I can say "chenin blanc" and then we'll high five or maybe have a toast.

And then there's school life. It's not all bad. My classes are pretty interesting and I only have one day a week when I have to be on campus before noon (that day is Friday so some of my crankiness might be explained). Still, it kind of feels like my mind is still on vacation or maybe it's already graduated. It's the same with living in Madison. I'm here and will likely continue to be until I graduate (which is at least a year away), but my mind feels about a thousand steps ahead. Perusing Chicago apartment and job listings are a weekly event for me... or maybe it's just weekly torture.

In short, all I want to do is quit my job in exchange for one at The Daily Show, move to a big city (because then all of my problems will be solved, right?), and live in a world where it's only winter for a month out of the year. Or at least have a marathon of The Wire this weekend and not think about school or work or the cold. Until one of these options becomes true, I'll just look at this photo: