So I've been receiving some forcible reminders that I'm not a kid anymore. I mean, duh, age is an indicator. And I'm not even that old. A mere 20. (Granted, that's a fifth of a century... which makes me sound older...). But there are other things that remind me how far I've left childhood behind:
I'm a cleanliness nut -- Okay, so this can only be a good thing. After all, who likes living with a slob? But when you plan a movie night to chill with the girls and suddenly you walk in the kitchen and go "Oh no, I can't function like this!" and start cleaning, there starts to be a problem. When your other roommate comes home an hour and a half later and says, "Hey, I thought you were going to watch a movie..." and your roommates reply, "Well, we were, but Lynnae's on one of her cleaning rampages again," in that world-weary "this happens all. the. time" tone, you know you've got a problem. Oh, and when you spend three hours scrubbing the floor to get all the grime off and you're happy about it; or when your roommate is thoughtful enough to do the floors for you, since you always do them, and you're disappointed because you didn't get to do the floors yourself, you're definitely dysfunctional. Or just old. Which was my point to begin with.
I dream of having my own house -- no seriously. I dream about it. Literally.
I'm drawn to aisles in the store that I just shouldn't be drawn to -- okay. Remember how, when you were a kid, you'd tug on Mom's sleeve and beg her to take you down the toy aisle so that you could stare longingly at all the toys? I remember loving when we went to Toys R Us. It was like a fantasy playland. As I got a little older, my favorite store morphed into Borders and I always detoured down the book aisles in any given store. My favorite store now? Bed Bath & Beyond. I don't go in there often, but I love it when I do. And just the other day, when my roommate and I were shopping, we were looking for some supplies for our kitchen and I stopped by the dishware aisle, glanced at her shyly and said, "Can we just... I really want to go down this aisle." So we did. And spent like, ten minutes of our somewhat tightly-pressed time just looking at dishes and silverware. Then we looked at each other and were like, "Oh. My. Gosh. What are we doing?" Dishes?!?! Really?! You'd have thought we were two kids in the candy aisle, caught with our hands in the bin.
My mother would be proud.
27 April 2010
10 April 2010
Return of the L-Jack
It's been a long time. Welcome back. Or perhaps I should be welcoming myself back, since I'm the one who took a... 7 month hiatus. I promise I did at least look at this blog from time to time. I just felt like I was lacking in funny stories to tell. It's taken me a while to figure out that I don't necessarily have to be witty and brilliant all the time. What can I say? I'm slow on the uptake sometimes.
But the thing about being a writer (and an English major) is that there's never truly a lack of things to write about. I should technically be able to come up with something to say about anything. After all, aren't English majors the classic BSers? :P
I always try to argue against that philosophy, referring the skill it takes to construct a sound argument and the attention to detail necessary to make sure people understand where I'm going with a point. But when it comes right down to it, I write all the time about subjects I don't always believe in. How many times have I written a paper pretending to care about a book that secretly I just wanted to rip to shreds because it held no meaning whatsoever for me? Oh, too many to count. But I do anyway, because as long as my professor thinks I care, I'll do well in the class. I'm totally BS-ing.
Or am I? Somehow, no matter how much I hated or didn't get the reading material, I always found myself caring about it by the end. I always care about what I write. Sometimes too much. Example: I had a paper last semester for my British Lit class that was essentially a 4 page research paper. Easy beans, right? Hahahahaha. No. Not if you're me. I received several incredulous looks when I bemoaned the length of the paper. My complaint? It was too short. I needed more space.
Now that's just sick. Who wants more pages in their paper? Me, apparently. Remember that little ditty about being a glutton for punishment? That's what everyone else -- everyone normal -- thinks when they listen to me talk like that. But I honestly did want more space to write that paper. Research, to be done properly, requires adequate space to develop an idea. By the time I'd finished discussing the sources I needed, my paper was done. No room for thoughts of my own. And that drove me nuts.
Only something like that. Of all the things to drive me crazy, it has to be that. It's a good thing my friends and family love me, because I'm kind of nutty. And you know what? I love every minute of it.
But the thing about being a writer (and an English major) is that there's never truly a lack of things to write about. I should technically be able to come up with something to say about anything. After all, aren't English majors the classic BSers? :P
I always try to argue against that philosophy, referring the skill it takes to construct a sound argument and the attention to detail necessary to make sure people understand where I'm going with a point. But when it comes right down to it, I write all the time about subjects I don't always believe in. How many times have I written a paper pretending to care about a book that secretly I just wanted to rip to shreds because it held no meaning whatsoever for me? Oh, too many to count. But I do anyway, because as long as my professor thinks I care, I'll do well in the class. I'm totally BS-ing.
Or am I? Somehow, no matter how much I hated or didn't get the reading material, I always found myself caring about it by the end. I always care about what I write. Sometimes too much. Example: I had a paper last semester for my British Lit class that was essentially a 4 page research paper. Easy beans, right? Hahahahaha. No. Not if you're me. I received several incredulous looks when I bemoaned the length of the paper. My complaint? It was too short. I needed more space.
Now that's just sick. Who wants more pages in their paper? Me, apparently. Remember that little ditty about being a glutton for punishment? That's what everyone else -- everyone normal -- thinks when they listen to me talk like that. But I honestly did want more space to write that paper. Research, to be done properly, requires adequate space to develop an idea. By the time I'd finished discussing the sources I needed, my paper was done. No room for thoughts of my own. And that drove me nuts.
Only something like that. Of all the things to drive me crazy, it has to be that. It's a good thing my friends and family love me, because I'm kind of nutty. And you know what? I love every minute of it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)