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Category Archives: Dorm Life

Goodnight Room

Goodnight laptop. Goodnight iPhone.

Goodnight sleeping roommate.

Goodnight books

that I loved last year.

Goodnight books I’ve yet to read.

And to all those books I’m almost finished.

 

Good Lord! What have I done with my night?

 

Goodnight Facebook friends I’ve stalked,

I know it’s been five months since we’ve talked.

Goodnight Modcloth. Goodnight Anthro. I’ve had enough

of pinning you.

Goodnight to my school’s fun Facebook group

and to that post that-got-seven-hundred-comments-in-two-hours

all from the same seven girls.

 

Good Lord! What have I done with my night?

 

Goodnight to YouTube and

to the-poems-I’m-handing-in-tomorrow-

instead-of-the-short-story-my-teacher-asked-for.

Goodnight to the blasted fan and its incessant fanning.

Goodnight to my dry contacts, now where’d I put those glasses?

Goodnight to my teddy bear, she’s lonely in my big bed at home.

And goodnight to my blankets here that keep me warm and snuggly.

 

This post is not so very long. I thought it would be fuller. Of reasons I am up so late.

I guess the blame can just be placed

on loud, fun, crazy housemates.

It seems as though someone stole my idea. Before I even had it. Whoa. Credit: ifitshipitshere.blogspot.com

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No One Else Cares About the Zit on My Chin

Today, like most days, one of my friend was freaking out about the way her face looked. She hadn’t put on makeup this morning and was pointing out an acne situation that was developing on her forehead.

“Oh good,” I said in response to her unmade-up face. “I also didn’t have time for makeup this morning.”

“Me neither,” lamented Friend Two.

“Yeah,” said Friend One, “but you look good without makeup.”

look good?” I asked.

I hadn’t even noticed Friend One’s lack of makeup or acne situation, because, if anything, I was too concerned with what was happening on my own face. I wasn’t looking at her forehead, because I was thinking about my own chin. I didn’t even realize that she had anything wrong with her face until she pointed it out — and she probably felt the same about my face.

Because, as I regularly realize, people are so focussed on their own flaws that they don’t tend to notice yours.

We notice and are quick to laud each other’s positive traits — a perfect shade of lipstick, matching minute accessories, a new pair of earrings — but unconsciously brush over each others flaws. Maybe it’s because we’re too busy fixating on our own flaws, but maybe it’s just because no one cares as deeply about your appearanceas you do. While I spend plenty of time in front of a mirror, over-analyzing each of my perceived flaws, it’s not as though that’s what my friends do that with my face.

That isn’t to say that you can just look like a slob and no one will notice, but I don’t think people notice as much as we think they do. And people, especially the girls you see everyday and are therefore pretty good friends with, aren’t judging you as harshly as you’re inclined to judge yourself.

A similar thing happened at my prom last June. Most of the girls had gotten their hair curled 0r the like and by the end of the (humid and then rainy) evening curls were falling, straightened hair was getting frizzy and girls were stressing. In the bathroom a girl I wasn’t even really friends with was flipping out about whatever was wrong with her hair.

I told her that it looked fine to me and that everyone else was concerned with their own hair-related-crises so no one was even looking at her hair. She thought about this for a few seconds and then quickly resumed her composure. Hmmm, her face said, that actually makes a lot of sense.

So sometimes I sit in class, wishing I’d either woken up early enough to deal with the distaster I call my face or at least brought some concealer to school. And then remember the prom incident and get over myself. Because most of the time I’m the only one one who’s judging me.

Does Not Play Well with Others

Yesterday as I walked back to the house I board at with my friend (and housemate), I was overcome with a feeling of “hey, look at me! I have friends!” Okay, yes, that sounds really, really sad. This is certainly not the first time I’ve had friends in my eighteen years of existence. I’ve had plenty of friends in lots of different levels of friendship, from “frenemy” to BFF.

Nevertheless, for a number of reasons, I’ve always felt a little different — you know, just like everyone else supposedly does. Never really felt like I quite fit in. Always felt a bit like an in-betweener — not quite a total loser who ate lunch by herself in the library, not quite sitting with the popular kids (or the type who even wanted to).

But this year, everything changed. I guess that’s what happens when you do a gap year program at a weird (i.e. awesome), little art school with seventeen other artsy girls. No one really fits a mould, so somehow we all fit in to our not-fitting-in.

I was discussing this with my friend while we walked home, and I was explaining my previous friendless, lonely life. To clarify that it wasn’t quite as sad as I had initially made it seem with my melodrama and hyperbole, I told her about one of my “cherished childhood memories”. This story probably just made it worse.

I was four or five and it was playtime at kindergarten. Everyone else was either playing well with others or quietly occupying themselves with the abundance of toys we had on hand. I was playing with some form of connect-y toys probably something like Tinker Toys. With these not-excessively-girly toys, I attached some of the long stick-ular items together and — ta da! — I made myself a magic wand.

It was made out of boring stick-y things; I was probably wearing green sweat pants. But in my imagination (which was so fully functioning that this is how I see myself in this memory) I was wearing a flow-y, flounce-y, tulle-y pink fairy dress and on my head I had one of those cone-shaped princess hats with the piece of tulle or whatever waving in the wind. My wand was, of course, also pink and had one of these flow-y things protruding from the top. It obviously shed fairy dust whenever I waved it. I led (lead) a very rich fantasy life.

This is kind of what I was picturing, but the dress in my imagination was WAY cooler. Also this picture’s missing a wand… Credit: http://www.fantasytoyland.com

I was (am) very kindhearted and didn’t want to keep my newfound magical powers to myself. I wanted to share my fun with everyone! So, I began skipping my way around the room, telling my peers that I was a magical fairy, asking them what they wanted me to turn them into and tapping them on the heads with my ‘magic wand’. If I recall correctly, I genuinely believed that they would love my game. I imagined they’d oblige me to the point that they’d tell me what they wanted to be turned into and, when I tapped their heads with my wand to grant them their wishes, they’d act like the magical creature they had wanted to be.

My bubble was popped pretty quickly. Most kids just ignored me, some got annoyed and shooed me away, and one kid got so irritated that I got told on and our teacher had to intervene and make me stop. This was heartbreaking for me.

Hmmm… It actually makes a lot of sense that I’d fit right in at art school. My game pretty closely reflects one of the ‘improv exercises’ we do in my theatre class. After all those years of ‘repressing my creativity’ to avoid being ridiculed, it’s pretty nice to come to a place where my own personal brand of insanity just adds to the fun.

I love going to a school where my friends and I randomly burst into song throughout the day, play theatre games where we “let the walls feel us” (for real. This is a ‘legitimate’ exercise.) and sit in class fighting over toy cars borrowed from our principal/teacher’s four-year-old. I’m also taking some creative writing classes and am working on an awesome screenplay. It’s about a math teacher who never really understood me. Go figure.

Oh yeah — and I may finally get a check mark on my report card in the box for “plays well with others”. You know, if I wasn’t eighteen and such a box still existed for me.

More Posts to Come (Probably…)

I wonder what Elizabeth Anne’s been up to lately. We (my online persona — who is basically just me under a different name — and I) seem to have lost touch lately. I’m not sure what she’s been up to, but I’ve been pretty busy with my new school, new home, new friends and such.

I’ve been trying to write more, after an extended period of what one of my teachers calls “creative blockage”. So far I’m mostly working on poetry for my Creative Writing class and in my Screenwriting/Playwriting class I’m writing a screenplay about a psychopathic Math teacher I once had.

In Music class I discovered that I like playing piano. In Art class I found out that I’m capable of drawing. I’m singing in the school choir (probably just because the woman who leads choir is one of my favourite teachers here and she said I have a pretty singing voice). I’ve already gotten a reputation for playing five-year-olds in my Theatre class (not that playing a five-year-old requires much acting for me, despite my eighteen-and-a-half-and-and-a-quarter years). I’m learning what the duck a Plie is in Dance class. Then there’s Filmmaking and photography… I’m not really sure what I’m learning in those classes…

This is what I’m learning how to do in Art class. It’s my hand.

Our school is in a cute little building (that was seemingly once a house), tucked away in a cute little neighbourhood somewhere in The States. And it’s a very small school, so we can basically do whatever we want and it’s a very relaxed atmosphere. Some of my peers react to this by spending class socializing in the lunchroom. I choose to take off my shoes the moment I walk into the building and walk around in socks all day. I also bring a blankie to class and spend a lot of time cuddled on or beside the radiator during class (because adorable old buildings tend to come without central heating). That’s all the freedom I need. Well, that and coming to school twenty minutes late every day — at least I’m consistent…

I’ve also been learning how to wash dishes and do my own laundry and trade with a friend when I get stuck on garbage duty — I don’t mind washing dishes (especially with the help of rubber gloves), but for some reason dealing with garbage is where I draw the line.

Now that I’ve been in this crazy new place for a bit, I think I’m actually adjusting (as opposed to when I thought I was adjusted after being here for literally three days and then freaked out when I realized that I wasn’t adjusted a few days later) hopefully I’ll have some more time, energy, and ideas for posting more than once a month. I bet the internet’s been pretty quiet without my voice chiming in lately — just like they say my house has been since I moved away just over a month ago. Regardless, of the noise level on the internet, I do hope actually resume posting again — no more excuses!

The Best Medicine (But Not for a Cough)

Everyone knows that moderation and balance are super important — right? A little coffee will wake you up, too much will mess up your sleep schedule. Socializing is great, but it’s also good to fit in some alone time. Sometimes you need to take a break from writing or *cough* blogging, sometimes that break goes on for far too long.

But what about laughter? Isn’t it the best medicine? How can you have too much laughter? Well, today I nearly died laughing. Twice. Okay, well, not quite literally, but still.

I’m off at my gap year program, away from home for the first time, having the time of my life and all that. Earlier, I was sitting in a class, minding my own business, drinking some tea to (hopefully) soothe my cough/sore throat.

One of my friends raised her hand and made a funny contribution to the (relaxed) class, most people giggled, I took a sip of tea. Then I started laughing. The tea made its way down the wrong tube and a whole choking, coughing, laughing situation ensued.

Being a small class, the discussion was put on pause so that everyone could gape at me and make sure I was okay. This just made matters worse, and elevated my hysteria — it’s awkward enough to have a coughing fit and freak out that you can’t breathe without everyone in the room watching you do so. And I’m a nervous giggler (by which I mean I giggle in  awkward situations, not giggling makes me nervous), so by this point I was laughing too hard to even try to start breathing again or even catch my breath.

So that was a nice way to break the ice with a roomful of people I met five days ago.

credit: mediawebapps.com

Later, there was a bug in my room. It made my roommate very nervous, but, while I didn’t mind its presence, I wasn’t about to get my hands dirty catching it.

So our friend in the next room came in to deal with it. While my roommate was hiding in the hall, our friend from the next room was trying to coax the bug down from the ceiling, asking it to demonstrate how well it can fly and begging it not to smell up the room (it was a stink bug). Meanwhile, I was watching from my bed, barely controlling yet another outbreak of laughter. I was paying more attention to the laptop I was holding and the bug-catching expedition than to how close I was to the edge of my bed.

I bet you can imagine what happened next — good thing my bed isn’t too high off the ground!

My Empty Closet and Full Floor

I’m going away for school in about a month and had to buy a whole bunch of new clothes for the endeavour, so I thought it would be an opportune time to finally clean out my closet. I haven’t done so in at least a year, maybe even two. I tend to tackle such tasks by taking everything out, and separating it into piles: “keeping”, “tossing” and “maybe”.

I filled two garbage bags with stuff to toss, a bunch of clothes have gone back into my closet and everything else is in the “maybe” pile — mostly stuff I have to spend some time trying on and making tough decisions about. That was where it stood on Monday. It’s now the end of the week and not much has changed. I still have a garbage bag of stuff to “toss” on the floor by my bed and next to that I have two “maybe” piles. My desk chair is usually occupied by my pile of new clothes, but that pile has temporarily been relocated to my bed so that I can sit at my desk to type this. Shockingly, I look around and — aside from all the mountains of new and old clothes — I consider this to be a somewhat “clean” day in the land of My Room.

True story, except replace “toys” with clothes, books, notebooks and other miscellaneous crap that has no place on the floor.
Credit: cootcartooning.com

Earlier, my younger sister came in for something. “Your closet’s so empty,” she said — in shock,  and perhaps somewhat in envy.

“Yeah,” I said, “but my floor is so full.”

The reorganization (upheaval) in my closet is kind of like the reorganization (upheaval) going on in the rest of my life. I’m leaving home for school soon, and (don’t tell anybody) I’m kind of freaking out. I subconsciously tried to reroute my anxiety, focussing it on concrete things within my control, instead of all the uncertainties and unknowns I’m being faced with and am trying to avoid looking in the eye. I guess I thought this might help. It just led to a minor nervous breakdown over bed linens — one of the few things about the room I’ll be in next month that’s within my control. It accomplished about as much as rerouting my clothes from my overflowing closet to my (now) overflowing floor.

My excess clothes — the ones from the ever-expanding “back of my closet” — are like my worries. They both take up valuable (physical/emotional) space, drive me insane and are completely unnecessary. But, unless I actually do something about them, they (my worries and my clothes) will just continue to lie around, doing no one any good.

But then, even if I do move them around, there are productive ways to do so, and unproductive ways. And whatever I do, the clothes and the nervous energy won’t just disappear. They’ll still be somewhere, all that I can control is where. I think I’ve figured out where not to put them. My clothes are no better off taking up precious floor space. My anxiety didn’t help much while I was trying to choose bedding.

But, like a certain Anne Shirley, “I never make the same mistake twice” (well, actually I do, but that’s entirely besides the point). I think I’ve figured out where not to redirect my clothes and general anxieties, and realized that they should probably be redirected elsewhere, in healthier, more beneficial channels.

I could get my act together, figure out what to keep and what to toss and then put away the keepers, while sending the “toss” bags to a charity-clothing-collection type place. That’s generally where all my old clothes end up eventually, but the sooner I get it done, the sooner my clothing donation can help others in need. And then my new clothes can replace the old ones in my closet.

As for the stress, such things are pretty hardwired into me, but rather than wallowing and redirecting stupidly, I could probably deal with it in a healthier manner. Like by writing more often, because, ironically, it’s the thing that keeps me sane, but also the thing I tend to shy away from when I start leaning towards insanity — and I’m pretty sure I’m not the first one to feel/express that sentiment.

And, if I can shuffle around the anxiety a little and maybe get rid of just a little, there may be some brain space left over. I wonder if that ’empty’ space might be the right place to entertain some excitement about the incredible opportunity I’m about to seize?

Who knows how it’ll all turn out, but, in this moment, I’ve put my worries aside and I can’t wait to see. Until then, I’ll just be here, cleaning out my closet.

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