da DUM da DUM

As a prerequisite to this post it is necessary to review the previous posting entitled "Urban Jungle."

Today I walked out of my new apartment and sitting on my doormat was a raccoon. Granted it was a dog toy with a bell inside, about the size of my forearm and probably belongs to the therapy dog that just moved in next door, but still. They are following me. WHOA.

Sustenance, Shelter, Sleep

I can't decide whether to make this first line a reference to the Jungle Book and "bear necessities" or something much more sophisticated like Thoreau's outline of our basic needs. Then again, The Jungle Book was based on Kipling, but I don't think there were any singing bears in the book. Probably I would choose the singing bear anyway. I'm not feeling very sophisticated.

Sustenance
I can't actually remember the last time I went to the grocery store, which probably means it was a really long time ago. During finals week--and ok, the two weeks preceding--my roommates and I collectively abandoned the kitchen. No one felt they had the time or energy to cook or clean and so it became a quarantined room that you avoided entering at all costs because the sink was full, the trash overflowing, and the smell permeating. Plus we had to be out in a couple of weeks anyway which would require a thorough cleaning so why bother, right? (apparently). At some point I had to stop drinking water at home because I couldn't fit my Brita pitcher under the faucet to fill it up. Also there has been no time for grocery stores and I wanted to avoid moving one ounce more than absolutely necessary. Now finals are over and I am finally in my new apartment and there has still not been any time for grocery stores. Basically I have eaten out more in the last month than probably in my entire life combined. I have had sandwiches from every place imaginable: Subway, Blimpie, Gandolfo's, Einstein's, Great Harvest, and even a vending machine once. I did eat at home this morning, I found some oatmeal in the bottom of one of my boxes. Currently I am at work drinking an orange soda. I don't think I have ever bought an orange soda in my life. It may in fact be the most artificial liquid on the planet. But after ten minutes of staring blankly at the bleak options in the vending machine, I had a sudden flashback to Kenan and Kel and somehow decided to buy an orange soda.

Shelter
On Wednesday night I finished my finals, and my best friend The Branbury decided to kick me out of my apartment at noon the next day. Lovely. Consequently I spent all of Wednesday night and Thursday morning frantically shoving things into boxes and scrubbing mysterious marks from walls in preparation for our "white glove cleaning check". When the RA's finally showed up it turned out to be more of a cleaning glance, which was a little frustrating since I had spent so long cleaning, but at least they didn't notice the holes in the walls where the mirror hung or the marks on the cabinets from the tape that held pictures up. Thanks to Christian and friends I was able to get my masses of possessions up the three flights of stairs at my new apartment, where I then did the best I could to make it look that I had not in fact just transferred ten million (slight exaggeration) boxes into the living room so that Missy could get passed off for moving out--I'm not technically allowed to move in for another week. My other two roommates are out of town until some unknown date so currently it's just me and my lovely boxes which I have not had one second to unpack. I've found if I can close my eyes fast enough when going to bed I can relax enough to sleep without thinking about the boxes. By all current estimations I will have time for those on Tuesday. There are also about 15 lamps to keep me company and one mysterious ottoman. The mystery remains as to how they all came to reside in the same apartment.

Sleep
I also haven't really slept in awhile. I mean, I've slept, just not for more than four to six hours at a time. Although last night I did get a rousing eight hours. Still, I think I'm due for a good long marathon of slumber. Maybe once the boxes stop talking to me in my sleep.


I forgot one last S. . . . .

SPRING!!!

Glory glory glory hallelujah.

Everything's Amazing, Nobody's Happy

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LoGYx35ypus

Oh to be ten years old. . . .

I am at work in the Learning Resource Center at the Harold B. Lee Library on Brigham Young University campus two days before finals. I am at work, surrounded by frantic students with rumpled hair, some odd imprints on the sides of their exhausted faces (the unmistakable sign of an unplanned nap on a keyboard or textbook), stacks of books slipping out from under each arm, barely-honor-code-appropriate 5 0'clock shadow on their faces, and clad in the same sweatshirts and old jeans they wore yesterday which were doubtless picked indiscriminately from a pile on their floors that has been there since the last time they did laundry--if they can remember when that was. Yes, everyone is in a state of frenzied half-consciousness, exchanging knowing glances with passers-by, acknowledging the fact that a wave and a smile might just suck up the last of their energy if they tried it. Everyone, that is, except the blond-haired, blue-eyed, rosy-cheeked ten year old standing in front of me. There he stands, using our phone for the seventh time in the last twenty minutes to call his mom who works upstairs, smacking his gum, and carelessly spinning his neon orange yo-yo in ten feet concentric circles which I can't help thinking could easily take out a sleep-deprived freshman. I can hear him trying to convince his mom that he cannot complete the rest of his homework alone, that it would be more fun if they could do it together later, and that he should therefore just watch TV until she gets off of work. Yep, I totally wish I was this kid. I want a neon-orange yo-yo, and I can already think of five solid arguments as to why I should watch TV and not do my homework.

Coping

I have discovered that with great stress comes great addiction. I'm serious, I find myself thinking constantly of the next food/beverage I will consume--my sole consolation in a day of paper writing.

When I discovered they sell these babies in the ever-so-convenient twilight zone of the bookstore, it was pretty much over. One on a good day, three on a bad one. This can't be good. But it is, it's soooo good.

Other coping strategies include: Cottage cheese, Olive Garden, goldfish, impromptu yoga, and excessive hand washing and teeth brushing.

P.S. Don't judge me, I'm watching a movie for homework right now, it's multi-tasking not time-wasting.

Metaphor

As I was standing behind the desk at work gazing absent-mindedly (aka staring down super creepily) at the patrons (that's the fancy name we employees call them) walking through the library, contemplating the gloom and destruction known as finals that lay before me, I came up with the perfect metaphor. It's almost an allegory really. I should give some credit here to Amber, my lovely coworker, who, after being subjected to my metaphoric musings, suggested I write a blog about it (as far as I can figure, this could be for one of two reasons: a. she noticed I haven't posted on here for a month, or b. (and maybe more likely) she thought there was a good possibility that I would stop talking and sink back into thought with this suggestion). So here it is in all its glory (or not):

I was canyoneering several years back with my dad and sister, and we came upon a swim about halfway through the canyon. We stopped for a moment, as one does before any obstacle, and I stood at the brink of the dark abyss of water before me feeling masses of dread and anxiety weigh heavily on my body. This was the. last. thing. I wanted to do. Seriously, the last. It was freezing. The water was stop-your-breath-lump-in-throat cold and there was no sunshine reaching this cranny of the canyon. The canyon was narrow and winding, making the length of the swim impossible to determine--no end in sight. The water's depth was impossible to tell and my feet wouldn't touch bottom. The water was dark and rotten-smelling with a thick film of dust and slime on the surface. And possibly the best part, there was a dead rabbit floating about ten feet into the swim. A dead, unavoidable rabbit. Dead for long enough to be half decayed but still recently enough to be disturbingly recognizable as a close relative to Thumper. As I stared at the cold, narrow, winding doom that lay before me, the inevitability of it started to sink in. I realized that there was absolutely no way I could avoid this. I couldn't turn around; it's not like you can climb back up 60 foot rappels. Even as I realized this my body reeled back in obstinacy. I didn't want to do it. I really, really didn't want to. I remember the feeling of absolute dread as I realized I HAD to do it, that there was no alternative. Needless to say, I did it, I survived, and I accidentally kicked some stinky dead rabbit water in Angelica's face.

This, that I have just described, is what finals are like. They are there, they are unavoidable, they appear to be never ending. Even though every fiber of my being is searching for a way out, I know there is none. They are a necessary evil and I cannot get around them. I honestly cannot see the end of the next two weeks, it does not exist in my psyche. I have to overcome the all too natural resistance and force my body forward. And I might even get some dead rabbit water kicked in my face. So it goes.