The four-way-stop phenomenon

            I feel oddly at peace with humanity when we are all working together at a four-way-stop. When we unite to achieve a common goal. We're cordial. We wave to others to go first before proceeding ourselves.

__--_--                  _____
         
You've no doubt found yourself in the following situation:

1) The Realization: the strangers recognize their common path.
2) The Downward Spiral: The strangers try in vain to side-step around one another, only to discover that their movements are being inadvertently mimicked.
3) The Encounter: When close enough, one stranger will eventually give up, chuckle at the absurdity of it all, and lead the other by the shoulders to a new path.
4) The Recovery: Any embarrassment after the event quickly subsides when they consider that the other person feels just as foolish.
         
            I like to think that we subconsciously work together in situations like this to achieve a common goal: the crossing of the road or the brisk abolishment of an awkward tango.
            In my case today, the common goal should have been the avoidance of an uncomfortable meeting. But every now and then, one will have the unfortunate realization that there exists a human being that dismisses all social cues and crushes the four-way-stop phenomenon like...something delightfully fragile.

            I don't necessarily consider my time spent at the gym to be enjoyable; I go because I know it's good for me and I like to see results, which it generously gives to anyone who pays the monthly fee. I step in, shuffle around on the elliptical for an hour, and promptly see myself out.
            Today, in the middle of my episode of Friends, I discovered that someone who was included in my circle of friends from high school was just across the room sitting at the check-in counter. A thick horror dawned on me when I saw that I caught his eye and he took that as an invitation. Despite my hasty focus back to my show, he sauntered his tall, handsome, loathsome self over and leaned next to my TV screen.
         
           Allow me to explain: the reason that I was less than eager to catch up with this guy was that, simply put, he was a stupid jerk. We never enjoyed each other's company and actually went out of our way to have little spats that usually consisted of me going after his lack of class, and he going after my lack of social normalcy. We had no reason to be talking to each other now.
          But...

          The conversation began.

          Oh, how I wish you could feel this particular discomfort! The kind that is having no motive or reason to impress a person, but having the inescapable desire to do so anyway. My dripping make up from work was being caked to my face like ashes. My breath was coming out in shallow huffs, so I could only manage to give him head movements and sounds to make it clear that I was  aware of his presence. But I would not get off the machine. No, for that would instill in him the sense of power and permission to continue the dreadful conversation, that, you might remember, was not obligatory at all.

          My realization of that truth coupled with the fact he was insisting that we have this encounter regardless hit me with a surprisingly forceful amount of resentment. The only joy he could possibly be getting out of the situation was that it was vexing me to the point where my grinding teeth could have very well been heard over the whir of machines and televisions.

          The conversation ended, and he left. 

          I couldn't tell you one thing that he said to me.

          In a sour and spiteful mood, I drove home. When I approached the intersection by my house at the same time as three other vehicles, I threw all cordiality out the open windows and plowed through the street, laughing at them all the way.

          If he can shatter the phenomenon, why can't I?

-rae

Better Than __-Aye

            These days, there's gloom everywhere.

            Have you felt it? I can't stand it.

            So last night, I was thinking that February...bites some major concrete. I began to troubleshoot the problem so that March could be an improvement. 

            "Let's get to the root of this," I thought to myself. "What is the most general thing that needs to change?" Then I can work down to some manageable specifics.

Next month, I want to be happy--not happier--I want to be happy...in the first place.

I want to be happy.

I want to stop being so damn unhappy, you know?

            Today at work, I was visiting a semi-obnoxious table with a baby that had been making general (and loud) baby noises the whole evening. When I put my hand on the table, he immediately put his hand on top of mine and smiled up at me.

            

Cue sepia tone.  The chorus to I Hope You Dance. 

I'm being very serious.

Do you even know how soft baby hands are? It's incredible. 

            

            In the few seconds before his parents pulled his hand away, I mused about the fact that the tiny baby hands will start holding stuff and doing all sorts of things to get just a little bit tougher. Of course this is good; they'll be stronger and he'll be able to handle harder things. 

            Then I thought about how bold he was to grab my hand in the first place, especially compared to his older brother who shied away from me when I asked him how his pancakes were. Unfortunately, the soft, adorable part of baby will also toughen up. That sure trust he has with everyone will disappear and he'll be able to protect himself from random strangers. He'll learn that touching people's hands is just not something you do, no matter how good it feels sometimes. He'll grow up.

            But for right now, it's whatever. Sure, let me hold your hand just because I can!
         
            Tyler Durden once said, "A moment was all you could ever expect from perfection."
            How perfect was this moment though?
            

            Instead of trying to communicate to the parents that their baby had just healed a shriveled, blackened part of me I had previously believed to be forever maimed by the world forcing me into their den of cynicism and despair, I said, "Well, hello, tiny one. Thank you for that."

            Next month, I'll hold more babies.

-rae

Memoirs of the Provo City power outage of July 10

July 10, 2012

11:16 PM

I was alone in the apartment when the power went out. As I headed towards the front door, I had only my dark form in various mirrors to keep me company until I found Levi and Mollie walking towards me on the second floor balcony. We survey the scene before us: although it’s just as dark inside as it is outside, many have migrated outdoors to the patio or the front lawn. Everyone seems to have been searching for candles. Flashlights. Matches. Lost Roommates... The air is filled with the light from cars and the previously thought useless strobe app on the iPad.

11:20 PM

Relieved to have found the security of my friends, we chat casually about when the power might return until an explosion in the mountains sounds through the valley. A few screams, laughs, and cheers follow. They may be fireworks or something more sinister, but the theories go flying anyway. Mollie concludes that this is one of three things. Maybe five. For convenience, I have compiled a list:

--Zombie apocalypse (not likely)

--Terrorists (not likely)

--Alien experiments (statistically more possible than terrorists...but still not likely)

--Armageddon (Levi's idea)

--Transformers (robots in disguise)

           

            11:32 PM

A few more have joined our gang at this point: Riley, Kirsten, Craig, and that judgmental kid that frequently creeps by our window to name a few. Hannah has returned from Smith’s as well. Together, we try to figure out when chaos will likely ensue. We come up empty. There’s really no way of telling with these kinds of things.

11:46 PM

            Text tones sound throughout the front lawn of the apartment complex; last minute attempts of contacting loved ones becomes a priority as none of the phones seem to have been able to charge adequately before the incident. About ten minutes ago, Hannah and Kirsten decided to go to their cars. They haven’t returned yet.

           

11:50 PM

That pimped out golf cart keeps driving past us, and I’m tempted to throw water balloons at them. Police lights are also seen, but we hardly believe there’s much that they can do about this situation.

11:59 PM

            I yell over the porch asking who is going to step up as leader. One girl scoffs and asks what we would need a leader for in the first place. The rest of the group agrees with her and carry on with their game. They've rejected my idea. Even though I feel like it’s my responsibility to inform people about the possibilities of mass hysteria, I have never had the heart of a true leader. I couldn’t handle a crisis like this. I suppose she and the rest of them will figure it out soon enough.

12:03 AM

            Riley, not impressed, returns home. As he departs, he walks tall. I haven’t realized how much of a friend he’s been to me in the past few weeks, and I fear that this may be the last I’ll ever see of him.

            12:17 AM

            Hannah and Kirsten update us on the survivors at an adjacent complex upon their return. It doesn’t sound good—people peeing off of roofs and setting the lawns on fire… The insane have officially run rampant. It’s only a matter of time before they begin looting our apartments. To relax, we sing songs with the guy that’s playing guitar. This attempt to calm down becomes increasingly difficult, especially with that person with the water gun shooting us down every few minutes.

            12:27 AM

            It seems as though Levi has stepped up to the plate; A leader in him has come forward. He takes inventory of our supplies, namely the items required for molotov cocktails. Unfortunately, those are not a legitimate possibility as we are still in need of a hose to siphon out the gas from someone’s car. And of course, none of our cars actually have gas because we’re in college and we’re poor. 

           

12:35 AM

It’s been over an hour. Hope seems bleak, especially when Mollie makes a comment about all these people reconnecting, until their limbs start disconnecting. (She was particularly set on this being an experiment conducted by aliens.)

12:37 AM

The power has come back on. Everyone is returning to their apartments and picking up where they left off. I, alone, remain outside, determined to finish these memoirs and to answer the following: What did this reveal about humanity? My mind is exhausted and I decide to mull this over later. Now, it’s time to get some shut-eye. It's been a long night.

The next morning--Conclusion

To be honest, I am still not definite on what the power outage was supposed to tell me. Perhaps it was simply to present to a part of the city the opportunity to let our vices go for one hour and get some fresh air. Maybe it’s embarrassing that we need an excuse like this to leave our air-conditioned, electricity-buzzing caves to interact with real friends and sing Tenacious D and scare the ever living out of ourselves, but if a reason is necessary… until the next power outage, my fellow tenants.

-rae

It crumbles

            Not quite ready to go back to my apartment, I find myself walking into the cafe that I work at. I sit at the bar and look at myself in the mirror: I can't stop slumping over the counter, but my hair does look better than I thought it would for being tied in a giant knot.

            "Are you hung over?"
            "I'm not old enough to drink yet."
            "Then technically you're not allowed to sit at the bar."
            I take my sunglasses off. "Can you get me something to eat?" My co-worker goes to bring me the biggest salad we have. With all the things I ask to be left off of it, I know it's just going to end up being a big bowl of lettuce with bacon bits on it, but it's the biggest salad we have.
            I turn my head a little to peek at the guy sitting at the other end of the counter. He's already looking at me and I look at him full on now. He doesn't look away, but I realize he's actually watching his server behind me coming with his eggs benedict.

            "Are you hung over?"
            "I was out late last night. And I'm sick."
            "I probably can't swing by with getting you a coffee, but I'll bring you a drink." My other co-worker leaves and brings back a soda.
            I see the Sloans sitting in their usual booth. Mr. Sloan, short and fat with his dark crop of hair, flip-flips, cargo shorts, and hawaiian shirt; Mrs. Sloan, exotic and threatening with her weathered skin, dry hair, wedge heels, and giant rings. Whenever I'm working, my boss disappears for at least twenty minutes to go and schmooze with these regulars. I wonder if they're important people or if they've just managed to make a name for themselves here.

            "Do you need a towel for your forehead or something?"
            My boss laughs at himself and fills the rest of my glass with water before leaving. The server who brought me a drink comes back with a pain killer and sets in on the counter. I take it but my soda's too watered down to drink anymore after that.
            "Are you okay?" she asks.
            I yawn. She starts rolling silverware.

            The first server comes back with my salad and I leave a dollar on the counter for her before I leave. I salute them both goodbye and then wave at the Sloans and my boss sitting together as I walk outside. They look, but don't wave back

            Before I put my sunglasses back on, I look in the bag at my food. I forgot to ask for no bleu cheese. It's going to take forever to pick it all out.

______--_-____________________'__

-rae

The Sage's Query

Last summer, there was--as much as online bird guides have been able to tell me--a sparrow. I don't know the exact time it would start chirping, but I remember lying in bed and waiting for it. I could pick it out of it's several other buddies because it sang the same song every morning.

I'll admit--hearing the same tweet approximately 420 times per hour started out as tedious, but I eventually paid close attention to the pattern.

There's something special about this bird I recall musing.

It was only a week or two before it quit it's perch when winter neared that I was able to put a name to the pattern. The bird would chirp frantically for five seconds, then sing the same three notes, then the intonation of a last fourth note would rise significantly. Immediately after, it would lower it's pitch and slow down, asking the same four note question.

I'm home again, but only for the weekend. Instead of that old bird waking me up every morning, it's awkward distant cousin shrieks, "Soot soot--TRILLLLLLL!" at me instead about three hours into the morning when I'm already awake.

Though the old bird's incessant pondering made it nearly impossible to go back to sleep, there was something to be said about it's diligence; it would ask the same question every morning, over and over again, until it decided it was time to accomplish whatever important tasks birds have to do all day.

The question could have been one of those difficult one's that no one can really answer. It could have been a fairly simple question, just being asked in the wrong direction.

There are endless possibilities to the meaning of the last four notes--ranted in a frenzy the first time, but then solemnly reiterated soon after...

It scares me to think that the bird might have given up. After waiting too long for an answer, it moved on to a completely different life. It could be asking the same question somewhere else, hoping the right person will finally hear, but I really wish it would come back and continue it's questioning where I can hear it.

It could help me start asking again too.

It swallows me whole

I think that there's a certain beauty in handwriting--the way that everyone dots their i's and j's in their own order or has a unique way of constructing a k (by far the hardest one for me...) It's a most subtle movement that differentiates it into something that will always be your own creation, whether or not what's actually being written is original.

My handwriting looked like chicken scratch. Only a few months ago did I resolve to practice my penmanship whenever I had free time, mostly because I was determined to make it distinctly mine. Identifiable like my dad's all caps or enviable like my mom's elegant script. I ended up resurrecting cursive back from the third grade where the rest of the world left it. Who did I know that used it let alone could write a z with it?

So I took cursive and I wrote the living wits out of it. But I've realized that being able to look back on my notes in school was something of a necessity so, in no time at all, I've changed it again with a disturbingly low amount of difficulty.

It's unsettling because, among the many things you can learn about a person, I think there are three that say absolutely nothing and a whole lot of everything at the same time:

3. the shoes they are wearing

2. their favorite pizza toppings

and 1. their handwriting

I'm pretty confident about my boot collection, and I'm convinced that pepperoni, green peppers, and onions are the best pizza toppings in the known universe...but shoes and pizza have nothing on handwriting. I liken it unto a person's fingerprint; it is that telling and personal.

Because my handwriting is constantly changing, who's to say that I won't randomly develop a liking for Tom's or that I will no longer find pineapple and olives on pizza to be completely abhorrent?

Weeks ago, I loved the dark loops and density of my cursive, so why do I now prefer this wide and faint writing instead? From where have I pulled the patience that allows me to give each letter deliberate consideration?

I could be fooling myself because I'll always be cursive at heart... or maybe, even further back, I'm truly chicken scratch.

This handwriting might not even be me.

Maybe I don't have one particular style.

Maybe it's the change itself that says it all.

-rae

P.S.--Happy Valentine's Day! How lovely it'd be to see your handwriting on a love note.

Two Hundred

When I made this blog, I had a misconception about satire.

Save maybe a few negligible posts about elevator outlets and emergency feed knobs, this blog has never been what I now know to be satirical.

What I read in my literature class makes me feel small for wanting to write satire

witty like Twain and Bukowski,

or gracious like Pope and C.S. Lewis,

or bitter like Heller and Golding.

Palanhiuk, Bradbury, Orwell...

Ignorance truly is bliss

until we're blindsided by Swift.

I turn my eyes up to the mountains. I don't see them as I used to; I'm learning that they're probably the most insecure part of this area. I'm expecting the worst and am frustrated that everyone seems to be preparing for the best. My irrational fears occupy my thoughts, as they are wont to do.

Ignorance truly is bliss

until our city sinks into the ground.

Underneath the mountains is the other end of my building. My side is reflected in the glass so I can't actually see into the lobby, but I can imagine someone else doing the same thing as me. We're looking into each other eyes and don't even know it. Maybe that's why I feel unsettled.

Eye contact does that to me. The real, 'I am looking at you' eye contact.

It electrocutes me; it's oppressive and invasive, but I can't just let go. When I somehow finally manage to tear away, I'm tingling with the memory of it and all I want to do is look back to see if I exaggerated the sensation.

The moving sun makes the opposite room more visible.

Ignorance truly is bliss

until we realize that no one is looking.

I really should have called it 'coffee-flavoured thoughts' or 'coffee-flavoured musings.'

Where are those careless observations? That bliss from 200 posts ago?

I still don't write satire, and though I write far better than before, I can't help but consider the cost. I'd never actively seek out the influences, but I will confess to taking advantage of them when they do come.

I write in a room of mahogany, with bookshelves for walls and echoes for company, where I can see the dust in the air because the sun is blaring. The chair I sit in is so uncomfortable that it makes my back ache for days after, but that's the cost for using the room.

I imagine what I must look like from the doorway--a chair, a lamp for nighttime, a side table with clear liquid in a clear cup.

All are dark forms against the bright window behind me.

A silhouette

and a shadow.*

I endure sitting in the chair because when I get up to stretch and look back on my writing, it's illuminating.

I am aware.

-rae

*Plato's Allegory of the Cave

See here.

When I was diagnosed with ADD, so much was explained: the frequently missed (and NEVER completed) assignments; the bizarre ability to be occupied by my own thoughts for hours; the moments when I'd simply not hear what anyone had been saying for the last twenty minutes.

But one thing I've never understood is something my dear mama calls my "hyper focus".

I don't understand how someone who is very clearly an Avid Day Dreamer can enjoy spending hours doing the same, monotonous task such as ripping paper into even squares, or copying paragraphs from textbooks.

I don't know what possesses my mind to make it believe that mastering a rubix cube, memorizing world countries and capitals, or, more currently, the periodic table of elements is without a doubt amongst the top of my priorities. (Let alone FUN).

It does take a different form though.

In my senior year of high school, there were three things I wanted more than anything:

•To be in the top a cappella choir,

•To be elected into student council,

•To be accepted into a certain university.

Within the past few months, I've become conscious of a problem: a mutated form of tunnel vision.

I think tunnel vision can be a great quality for some people: you see what you want, there are no other options. Therefore, you do everything required to reach the end of that tunnel.

But my tunnel vision mutation not only switches off, but completely disconnects the helpful reminder in my brain that says, "consider your options."

When I essentially failed to reach all of my goals, I was absolutely lost. I searched for a fall back, but there was none that I was satisfied with because I hadn't constructed any "worst case scenario" detours in my tunnel. The only exit had closed, and I was trapped in the cold and the dark without any food or books for the long trek back to the beginning.

This focus literally exhausts me. I put so much energy in the mere act of wanting something, let alone in the steps it takes to achieve it.

But 'wanting' isn't the right word.

I didn't want to be in student council,

I needed to.

I don't like learning completely trivial information,

I have to.

And I don't simply fall for someone,

I throw myself off of a cliff and then fall. Hard and fast.

It feeds on my thoughts.

It eliminates my other goals.

It numbs my reason.

Now, I'm sitting here, almost wishing that someone would zero the counter, just so I can start over.

So the smoke that was coming from the end of the tunnel of what I knew to be a brilliant bonfire will stop choking me, and seep into my clothes and furniture instead, reminding me that there was a fire. That there was warmth.

Maybe a better reason for letting the smoke permeate my mind would be to remind me that getting so high off of my hopes leaves me with virtually no one to blame but myself when I come back down.

But I know myself too well to believe that would work; Instead of turning back around the other way, I entertain the notion of waiting to see if the end of the tunnel could possibly re-open--that I might restart the fire once it stops raining.

-rae

Also, the fly... if you could take care of that too, please.

My back and neck hurt from poor posture. I thought that ten years of piano lessons would beat that out of my system. I could sit up straight, but I don't like the cracking noise.

One year for career day I dressed up as an architect. The curious reader should know (I've been reading Swift) that I was under the impression that an architect actually physically built houses. This desire to swing hammers and eat lunch on scaffoldings came from my growing realization--and pride--of my strength and general lack of girlyness. I silently viewed with the possible amount of contempt that an elementary school student could even possess at several of my friends who had dressed up as teachers.

It's fascinating when people discover something about themselves.

Like an obsession for Nutella, not knowing of it's existence until having a meal plan that allows one to buy near endless amounts of it during Freshman year.

Or a love for squished pennies because they are so compact and stylish. Disregard the fact that one pays near a dollar for it.

Or an inability to sleep without a clock next to one's ear.

Or a preference of bedspreads and blankets to clash with each other.

Or the revival of a routine in the best time in the world--the earliest.

I've missed my mornings

because I've found that this is the only time I can very truly have to myself. This and running. Not even to do anything crazy or personal; just to notice the quiet and the peace and think to myself for a few hours before the rest of the world wakes up.

I would normally cringe at the idea of waking up this early without anything to do, as unoccupied time leads to an uncontrolled thought process which never ends well for me.

This is fortunate because I, of which mini elementary-school-agéd me would disapprove, am in school to learn how to be an English teacher.

Or the discovery of one's calling.

Glory--there are still those mornings that no amount of reading and homework can keep me from thinking too much:

Dear...friend,

I'm trying very hard to come back. Thanks for helping despite my being undeserving of your help. I love and miss you.

-rae

I'm pretty sure chivalry is dead because people like me killed it.

I accompanied a fellow to a wedding reception last night. After he introduced us to part of the family, the father of the bride shook his head and repeated my name a few times before lifting my hand to kiss it.

Here's the thing: I love me some classy times. This reception had jazz music and toasts and blue raspberry saltwater taffy.

But it may or may not be obvious at this point that I am not a romantic... (even having the car door opened for me makes my teeth chatter). An exchange of this caliber, though, is a prime example of many other similar situations that just make me uncomfortable to the point where I have no other choice but to create an awkwardness so pervasive that it effectively kills all the lovely moments.

Regardless, I was so unbelievably flattered and couldn't help but think that this "enchanté" hand-kissing business does not happen enough anymore.

-rae

"Plankton: 1% evil, 99% hot gas." Shout-out... you know who you are.

Last night I was conversing with my dad about a lot of things. I don't know how, but we got into the subject of probability, and I was like those one dogs that lock their jaws and won't let go.

Ten years ago, I entered my name in a drawing at the parade of homes. When we came back, I waited by the phone (it sounds so cliche, but it's true) and waited for them to call me and tell me I was the winner. My mom found me.

I explained the whole situation to her, and, unfortunately, she explained it right back at me (in a caring, 'don't-want-to-break-it-to-her-but-have-to' manner.)

"There are probably thousands of names in that drawing," she told me. "You don't have a very high chance of being picked."

But I didn't understand. "I have the same chance as everyone else though."

"Yes, but somebody else is going to win most likely."

"What makes them so special? Aren't they thinking the same thing, that they have no chance? Why will they win?"

"Because somebody has to."

"Why can't it be me though??"

I was really frustrated.

To this day, I still can't comprehend probability. It's just one of those things, you know? Some people don't understand eternity, some people don't understand fate vs. free will... I don't understand first grade math.

Person A could put their name in the bowl 99 times, and Person B may only have one entry, but Person B could still get picked. It's not right.

I find it difficult to communicate my frustration. My dad explained it very well, and I'm happy enough with what he told me.

Out of 100 students (nice number, huh?) in my geography class, the teacher took MY name out of the pile of index cards to get spotlighted.

Thanks to dad, I was able to look past my frustrations concerning probability and appreciate the irony.

-rae

For those who have EVER been carsick

Every family car trip of my childhood:

Brother takes the whole middle set of seats.

Sister wedges herself in the space by the window.

Mom reads John Grisham and eats beef jerky.

Dad grudgingly shares his coke with her.

Oh yeah, and none of them change the radio station for me.

So I chill in the back of the car, content with the fact that I can be preoccupied for hours with just the thoughts in my head (which I later learn can be written down. Huh...)

But then we start driving up the twisty, rocky, vomit-inducing road up the mountain. Did I mention we're going to the cabin? We're always going to the cabin.

My stomach turns, the coke and beef jerky smell becomes absolutely repulsive, I lose the ability to swallow properly, and the AC can't seem to be cranked up high enough because everything but my pinkies rises in temperature.

The pinkies get colder... I don't know why.

So at this point, I decide that I'm going to take this bout of car sickness and make it into as big of a deal as possible so I can make up for the other attention that had been withheld.

Some campus art to keep you going.

Brother tells me to stop whining and tough it out.

Sister suggests that it's all in my head and that I can make myself not be sick.

Mom calls me "Moan-aaaaaa... waaaaah" and offers me some coke.

Dad gets really nervous and gets ready to pull over at any given time.

Oh, but no.

The relief of expelling whatever is having a raspberry chipotle cream cheese fiesta in my stomach is too easy of a way out.

No, I just need one thing. But how can there possibly be NO water left in the car whatsoever?

My bottle is empty... where did it all go--? Oh. That was that Maverik stop an hour ago.

Mom offers me her coke again. (gross)

Brother and sister hide their Sobe. (gross)

Dad keeps asking me when he needs to pull over and let me out. (not necessary)

I lean over and squeeze my head and see something on the floor.

Oh for the love...

Yes, it's what I need, but it's that arrowhead water bottle that has indefinitely taken residence underneath all the car seats from who knows how long ago.

I pick it up. The plastic is all soft from being roughed around so much, there is hair stuck on the place where the label peeled off, and it's about a gulp full of hot water that no doubt has that tangy aftertaste of "natural spring water."

And I have no other choice.

So now, I'm staring cautiously at the water bottle next to me with the promise, "ENHANCED WITH MINERALS FOR A PURE, FRESH TASTE.

This is why water bottles have been and will be denied my trust for my entire life.

-rae

Bumblebee. Bumblebee.

Today is interesting.

I am not ecstatic.

I am not devastated.

I am not happy.

I am not sad.

I am not content.

I am not blue.

I am zero.

My voice teacher used to tape record warm-ups during my lessons.

On the recorder, there was a button that would make some moving numbers next to it turn to zero whenever I pushed it. I eventually figured out that it was a kind of bookmark. (I just looked it up, it's really called a tape counter.) Like if I set it to zero when my teacher started warm-up number three, I could fast-forward or rewind all I wanted and warm-up three would always be at zero.

Most of the time, I started the tape over, so I didn't have a use for this little gadget.

Except I played with it a lot.

I pushed it at random times while singing and pressed it rapidly when I rewound or fast-fowarded.

You don't understand how pleased I was to feel the little shift when the wheel reset itself to zero.

It was remarkably satisfying.

Except the wheel eventually couldn't reset itself as easily as before.

It would either take a few tries or it would slip back to the number it was at before if I didn't hold it down.

I was a little bummed about my new toy being broken, but then my lessons ended and I forgot about the tape recorder until... now.

Today, I have:

gone on a run,

watched a movie for class,

received bad news,

chatted with several old friends,

received great news,

read Great Expectations,

napped in the JFSB,

missed French...

Like my old tape recorder, it's apparently very simple for someone to just toggle with my counter as well... because whether each of these activities brought me joy or discontent, I can't tell you, as someone keeps zeroing my counter.

And I can only sit here neutrally and hope that they don't break it.

-rae

Honestly. Vile. Abhorrent. REVOLTING.

Whenever my parents went on one of their many trips to Europe, I would stay at a friends house.

She would play The Nutcracker so we could go to sleep dreaming of sugar plum fairies, despite the fact that it was summer outside.

The Nutcracker is very relaxing.

However, my friend falls asleep super fast.

I don't.

So I would lay (or is it 'lie', anyone know?) for hours listening to lovely trilling flutes and all that jazz (not jazz. Classical...)

BUT

on the first night I slept over, I found out that when The Nutcracker CD ends, it's replaced with...

Simon and Garfunkel.

And not just Simon and Garfunkel,

but the song Mrs. Robinson.

Just MRS. ROBINSON.

Over and over and over again MRS. ROBINSON.

I would lay/lie/lye awake every night, listening to that dreaded intro to the song with the twangy guitar and the "dee dee dee doo doo doo..."

You can hear it, can't you?

Only now am I realizing that I really really love Simon and Garfunkel's music.

Especially Sound of Silence.

Though I'm not a fan of Cecelia.

And I still refuse to listen to MRS. ROBINSON.

I haven't even seen The Graduate, but I almost sure I already hate Mrs. Robinson with a passion.

See, isn't it annoying seeing her name over and over again?

You really wouldn't think I would still be bitter about it, but I still hear the song when I'm just barely falling unconscious.

Which may finally give us an explanation for my issues with sleep.

...and Dustin Hoffman.

And here's to you, Mrs. Robinson...

I REALLY hate you more than you could know.

-rae

P.S. (Wo, wo, wo...)

MISERABLE WRETCH! FOUL DAEMON!

I am currently sitting in my favorite study spot on campus.

There's a wide window where I can see the mountains right in front of me which only made this experience all the more... well, just read on.

This spot was a little more inhabited than usual, but I sat down anyway in the only available seat and resumed my reading of Frankenstein.

I am about to make what I have recently learned is called tangent:

I hated this book in high school. My tenth grade English teacher made me read it and he (along with what seems like every other English teacher) completely exhausted me of any appreciation I might have had for the book prior to his class.

The list of detested books also includes The Great Gatsby, My Antonia, and The Chosen, all of which are probably outstanding works.

Well... maybe not My Antonia.

To be honest, I didn't even finish Frankenstein the first time.

Anyways, the book just pops up on my reading list for British Literary History (the history about literature from Britain) and I curse this professor that I haven't even met yet.

Well, the first time I felt like an idiot was on the first day of class

BECAUSE

the teacher whom I thought must be terrible to assign the reading of such an abhorrent book turned out to be one of the most passionate and sincere and donut-providing teachers I've ever had.

But hold on, I'm shamed even further.

(Tangent ceased.)

I actually did finish reading Frankenstein the second time.

I didn't really realize what was happening until the kid next to me tapped me with the highlighter I must have let drop from my fingers.

I took it and then looked at him.

"Thanks," I said.

"No problem," he said and continued to look at me strangely for a few more seconds before asking, "are you okay?"

I blinked in confusion, and then felt something wet on my face.

No... I couldn't actually be crying-

Oh, for the love...

I turned my face away quickly and showed him the book.

"Ah," I heard him say in understanding. "'Nuff said."

That was the second time I felt like an idiot. And not necessarily because I was crying in front of someone, which was bad enough, but because it was this story, this once despised, disgusting monster (haha no pun intended) of a book that had made me cry.

"No creature had ever been so miserable as I was; so frightful an event is single in the history of man."

No, that's not how I felt.

It was just a good quote.

-rae