Lowlights

2004-09-23 / 10:29 a.m.

Left my course tutoring class early. I feel sort of crappy (physically), and could use a few moments to decompress. I just made an appointment for what I am sure will be the most expensive and the most painful series of dental appointments EVER. I'm scared, of the pain and of the expense but it's less frightening than being toothless. Frankly, I don't like either option all that much. I also realized that I made the appointment for the same day that I had scheduled my senior pictures. Oops. I don't care, really. I suppose I'd like a good portrait of myself, and I'd like to be in the yearbook, but it doesn't really seem worth the $15 sitting fee and agonizing over what I'm going to wear.
Time for ballet now. I'm strangely not in the mood to go. This makes me sad, as ballet is usually the highlight of my Thursdays. Alas. This will probably make today's highlight going to bed--and that's a long way off.

A positive.

2004-09-22 / 7:53 p.m.

I read my essay in class today. It was mediocre writing, but went over okay when read aloud. The professor told me she liked it, but I'm wondering if she wasn't just trying to boost my confidence--she knew I was having trouble getting something together. Who knows, maybe she really did like it, that would be a trip. Anyway, for lack of something better to post, I'll stick it up here. It isn't edited very carefully, because no one saw the actual text but me. Comments are welcome, since I'll probably end up revising this one. We have to choose at least two out of these first four to revise and lenghten. The latter will be a piece of cake (ironically the last thing I need right now. :) heh). I always feel limited by the 600 word business. The actual revising and improving though, that's going to be a bit more of a stretch. Whatever. I'm not going to let something I'm taking pass/fail stress me out too much. Anyway, here goes:

           I was seventeen when I donated for the first time. I was afraid, but put up a brave front. It seemed silly to be intimidated by a procedure that couldn�t kill me, and could save the life of others. Besides, I couldn�t back out now. I had lectured sanctimoniously to my less bold friends that donating it was a noble and worthy sacrifice, and maintained a composed fa�ade that revealed nothing of my apprehension of the shiny silver needles and warm bags of crimson blood.
��          ���People find all sorts of wonderful and generous ways of charitable giving. Time, talents, material possessions and money have all had a long history of being handed out to those less fortunate. Out of all of these sacrifices, I find giving blood the most intriguing. An ultimately vital substance, it is the thing we can give that is literally closest to our hearts. More than going to the �less fortunate� or even the most deserving, blood is usually distributed on a first come first serve basis to those who truly need it.
          �����As his illness worsened, my father received eight blood transfusions while in the hospital. After his death, my mother committed herself to donating at least that. While I never felt the same urgency, it is her dedication that set the standard for me. I did not know where my blood would go. Years after the fact, it certainly wouldn�t have anything to do with my father. For all I knew, it could flow directly into the veins of a serial killer, bank robber, jay walker, or other unsavory character. Still, the urge was nearly palpable. As an unemployed, unskilled, everyday average teenager, it was one of the few ways I could give back.
����          �The blood drive was held at my high school, so on the afternoon of the donation, I was granted permission to skive off chemistry and analysis. The usually stale-smelling wing of the school where athletics and vocational classes were taught had an uncharacteristically sterile aroma. A large and friendly looking black woman checked my ID and questioned my travel history and my genetics before directing me to wait for my pre-donation testing.
����          �While in line, I watched my best friend get turned away for low iron, and my boyfriend because his veins were too difficult to tap. I secretly hoped that I too would be unfit for blood donation and turned away before the iodine ever stained my inner elbow. The checkup revealed that my veins were prime real estate though, and I was sent to the chair. I reclined in the apparatus and was struck by how comfortable it was once you allowed your spine to conform to its angles. I could see something like this becoming common furniture for trend-conscious twenty somethings, advertised in Ikea and touted as medical pragmatism meets poolside repose.
��          ���Ever determined to remain calm, I focused on the poster on the adjacent wall: an almanac of curious facts about your blood, my blood. How much blood I had, what it was made of, and how deviant activities like drinking, smoking, piercing and tattooing would contaminate it.
����          �A matronly woman in white scrubs approached me, and I knew my time had come. My �first time donor� sticker obviated any need for me to warn her of my veiled apprehension, and she handled my arm like something sacred and fragile. Ritualistic application of antiseptic and a mark of ink where the needle would go prepared me. The rest was far less traumatic than I ever imagined it. With a sharp intake of breath, the needle was in, and my blood was slowly filling the plastic bag. The feeling of the needle under my skin was somewhat disconcerting, but only because it was foreign, not because it was painful.
���          ��The whole experience was surreal in a sense. The only connection I made to the red liquid in the bag being part of me was caused by the warmth of the tube taped to my arm. Sterile and painless, it lacked the romance that part of my subconscious had assumed it would have. Still, I felt good and generous and helpful�twenty minutes in a chair, and I might give someone a second shot at life. I left the room with a tangible sense of satisfaction and a free cookie.

This is a black out

2004-09-22 / 5:26 p.m.

I came back to my room to eat a quick dinner before spanish movie nite, and was struck by the odd lighting this afternoon/evening. Rather than the pleasant last bits of sunlight that come through my blinds, today I have black tarp. I suppose the workers are working on my half of the building now, and their work entails depriving me of natural light. Way to go, TheCollege: you've multiplied my funk today by 7. Nothing like blacked out windows to remind you how much things can suck.

consequentialism and dentology

2004-09-21 / 7:54 p.m.

My teeth are going to rot and fall out before I'm 22. People will see me as a hideous bumpkin freak. I hate to be so superficial, but I'm seriously terrified. You may read the "hideous bumpkin freak" line and think that I'm kidding around. I'm not. Someone told me a few days ago that I had a pretty smile, I'm really sad to think about losing it.

Hang on...where's that tiny violin?

2004-09-20 / 10:56 p.m.

It�s absurd the dumb things that can absolutely destroy my mood. I swear. I might as well be fucking bipolar. Furthermore, I get disgusted with myself for getting unhappy about the things that make me unhappy; thus making me even more unhappy. The title of the entry before last still stands as an accurate description.

I burned a CD with my favorite Ben Fold's Five songs on it. I have excellent taste. You know I do.

The gnome is still chewing.

I�m still a blocked (would be) writer for this week�s essay. We did a guided free writing in class that wasn�t helpful. The end goal following the exercise should have given you key words/phrases to think about and different facets of your personality to discuss. Any interesting aspects of my personality that came up in the exercise (few) weren�t things I would want to write about. The �key words� I obtained are as follows:

�Misplaced� �Traitor� �jealousy� �talent� �desire� �fa�ade� �cheap� �victory� �and �unconventional.�

Holy shit! Negitive much?! And what isn�t negative is kinda� bizarre. I didn�t realize how terrible my collection of words was until I re-read the free writing. It�s the ego destroying freewrite. Cripes, I�ve got to knock that off. I wrote kind of a framework for a piece about giving blood, but it didn�t go anywhere. I wrote the beginnings of the story of my mom and the pot, but that didn�t work out either. Funny, yes...but it didn't have a logical ending, nor is it really appropriate for class. heh. I guess if I�m still stuck tomorrow, I�ll use the revised essay about being my dad�s �chef�s assistant.� Mediocrity ahoy!

I wish I had a better sense of what I�m doing, where I�m going, and what I want.

The dress I bought in Buenos Aires that I wanted to wear to investiture is too tight now, and looks terrible. Completely unwearable. Gah, that makes me feel so fucking unattractive, dude. You remember a few paragraphs ago when I talked about petty things destroying my mood? Yeah. This is a very, very typical example. Aside from that that, spilling my giant bottle of water everywhere, an unpleasant conversation with The Mother, not understanding elementary statistics, and getting reprimanded (and �written up� as they say) by the housing staff for burning incense (my room smelled like ass after the dampness that Ivan left in its wake) I�m feeling pretty shitty. I�m going to go sulk now.

A good bleedin' is all she needs

2004-09-20 / 1:45 p.m.

I have a new pain in my leg, totally separate from the might-be-a-stress-fracture pain. It's on the inside my ankle, and it's making me cranky. I have no idea what's causing this one...Victorian science might assume an angry gnome chewing on a tendon, to be treated with some kind of gnome poison applied in a poultice--but I'm thinking of seeking a second opinion. When I got to the gym this morning, 75% of machines were occupied. I'm going to have to start getting there really really stupidly early (as opposed to just �really early�) if I want to exercise in a way that doesn�t further anger the gnome. Particularly frustrating this morning, as I was marking today to begin attacking my post-Argentina weight gain with renewed zeal.

I'm a complete victim of writers block. This week's essay for nonfiction should be something easy--there are relatively few parameters--only that it should be meant to read aloud. I wish I hadn't used my soapboxy McDonald's essay last week. Any ideas? Anyone? Bueller? The creativity well's gone dry, Pa. An interesting thing I�ve learned recently in this class is what while I�m okay taking criticism on my academic writing from people I don�t know, often to the point of begging for it, I don�t take criticism on my creative writing as well. Criticism coming from people I know really well, and whose opinions I have relied on for awhile is one thing--that I always like to hear; but when someone in my class that I don�t know as well critiques my work, my inner voice gets all huffy and arrogant and assumes that I�m write and they�re wrong. I should work on that, lest it carry over to another part of my life.

Oh, oops. It�s quarter �till 2:00. You know what that means: �...and then I went to math class.�

I suck

2004-09-20 / 7:46 a.m.

The fact that Roger linked to me makes me think I should write something readable. Actually, I probably will sometime today, after I finally stop dragging my feet and write the fucking Gaucho paper. I might even remember to cut and paste the code for comments into the entry. Go me.

But, for those of you keeping score at home, I'm back in joja. Happy, healthy, and mostly unscathed. Like any good vacation, I ate too many terribly wonderful things, slept later than usual, and shopped (though that only goes for vaca.'s with Hillary). I also rode a Segway. That's right, watch out.