I had a plan. It was foolproof.
Do enough homework to not have any one night of the week. I would even go so far as to be pleased to not be swimming in piles of textbooks--a sea filled with choppy waters and papercuts.
Just have one night of freedom, of my choosing, when I wasn't concerned about term papers, daily readings, or studying for some pop quiz that may or may not even happen tomorrow in discussion section.
I would do so by simply working harder every other night by a small fraction (a half hour, let's say) and see where the results took me. Increase my total homework efficiency per night and my time supply would increase. Like I said; Foolproof.
Due to an exam--which means no homework--I got that night. It was beautiful...for ten minutes.
Now what do I do? How do you spend free time, again? I've forgotten.
I'm bored.
Meet Rebecca
- Rebecca
- Amateur blogger (yes, there are professionals) who started with a travel blog that quickly degenerated into blabbering. Along with a life goal of surfing with Eddie Vedder, attending BlogHer is now on my list.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Close Encounters of the Aussie Kind.
So there I was. Just doing some homework when I remembered I had stolen a box of chocolates from my home while "shopping" for the basics of stocking one's college apartment. (Mom was never going to eat them, she said they were from last Christmas. That, in my eyes, makes them open game.) Flipped the lid off to find that there were only three chocolates left.
All milk chocolate. Decided that even though I'm not a monsterous fan of plain, I'd take it anyway and ate all three without even sitting back down. When I went to throw the box away, however, I heard a rustling beneath the plastic insert. Lo and behold, there was a second layer of chocolate I had almost mistakenly thrown away!
I looked up at my water-damaged ceiling and thanked the Lord for the extra chocolate that He had chosen to bestow upon me.
Then I realized I had just audibly spoken to my empty apartment over chocolate and realized it was time to figure out why I was feeling the need to eat an entire box of newfound chocolates instead of just eating the entire box of chocolates.
The first option, I've found, is much more difficult and much less tasty.
I told you that story to tell you this story.
I urge you all to read edenland. For around a year now she has inspired me in ways I never expected. Eden is the type of writer that examines the grits of life. And believe me, she has seen the grittiest of the gritty. Stared at it straight in the face and walked away--being the better (wo)man, and all that.
It's theraputic. When I'm reading her stuff, it's like she's reached--Indiana Jones Temple of Doom style--and ripped out something from inside herself that was still beating and pulsating. And that thing is dark, twisted, and wrong and we expect her to recoil and drop it out of disgust.
But she doesn't.
She stands with it in her hand and examines it. Prodding and poking at the mass of something she has just torn from herself until she is no longer appalled by it. That's not to say that she's desensitized, but rather, grew to accept it for what it is. Then, and only then, does she throw it into the garbage without a second thought.
Since following her site, I have had two moments where I thought to myself, "I MUST speak to this woman." One was a crazy coincidence where we both happened to get our hair cut, blogged about it, and felt awesome. Small world where two people can get haircuts in the same week, I know. But really this bad boy is the activation energy that drew me into Eden.
How do I explain this without giving my life story? Her post "Imma die with my boots on." made me cry. Which is crazy, because there's not a whole lot to be said about it.
It just struck a nerve deep down inside me when she spoke about clomping around cancer wards (her husband had a recent strife with cancer.) as the Angry Cowgirl. I laughed because this was in a time where I, too, was running out of university classes to go clomp around chemotherapy wards.
"I am an angry cowgirl," I told her, "who ironically doesn't own boots." I explained that our family struggles with this stupid thing called cancer, seemingly at every turn. And really her post reminded me of my dad's favorite song by Joe Diffie: Prop Me Up Beside the Jukebox. Stupid, I know, leave it alone, we're a bunch of hicks.
But the line, "Lord, I wanna go to heaven, but I don't wanna go tonight. Fill my boots up with sand and put a stiff drink in my hand." Resounded in my head as I read her post. It made me want to buy a pair of boots and clomp around the cancer ward and scream, "CANCER, IS THAT ALL YOU GOT?!? I am the ANGRY COWGIRL! And you can't have THESE BOOTS!"
But that would be impolite, albeit a stress relief. (Eden dealt with this by going into a hospital like a renegade and hanging up her own art in place of the cruddy decco they claim. Also a great post for those of you interested.)
I was terrified to write her. She's a blogging celebrity--I felt like I was e-mailing Ghandi to prove how good I was at fasting. But she's better than Ghandi. She wanted me to e-mail her with a picture of when I get my cowboy boots, because I will someday and I will feel so tough.
So I don't know if that's my problem, repressing angry thoughts like pushing a crazy thrashing beachball underwater, but I'm hoping she's right and when I get my boots I will be so tough, not just for myself but for everyone who is forced to clomp around a hospital.
I will be tough for the members of the Angry Cowgirl Club.
All milk chocolate. Decided that even though I'm not a monsterous fan of plain, I'd take it anyway and ate all three without even sitting back down. When I went to throw the box away, however, I heard a rustling beneath the plastic insert. Lo and behold, there was a second layer of chocolate I had almost mistakenly thrown away!
I looked up at my water-damaged ceiling and thanked the Lord for the extra chocolate that He had chosen to bestow upon me.
Then I realized I had just audibly spoken to my empty apartment over chocolate and realized it was time to figure out why I was feeling the need to eat an entire box of newfound chocolates instead of just eating the entire box of chocolates.
The first option, I've found, is much more difficult and much less tasty.
I told you that story to tell you this story.
I urge you all to read edenland. For around a year now she has inspired me in ways I never expected. Eden is the type of writer that examines the grits of life. And believe me, she has seen the grittiest of the gritty. Stared at it straight in the face and walked away--being the better (wo)man, and all that.
It's theraputic. When I'm reading her stuff, it's like she's reached--Indiana Jones Temple of Doom style--and ripped out something from inside herself that was still beating and pulsating. And that thing is dark, twisted, and wrong and we expect her to recoil and drop it out of disgust.
But she doesn't.
She stands with it in her hand and examines it. Prodding and poking at the mass of something she has just torn from herself until she is no longer appalled by it. That's not to say that she's desensitized, but rather, grew to accept it for what it is. Then, and only then, does she throw it into the garbage without a second thought.
Since following her site, I have had two moments where I thought to myself, "I MUST speak to this woman." One was a crazy coincidence where we both happened to get our hair cut, blogged about it, and felt awesome. Small world where two people can get haircuts in the same week, I know. But really this bad boy is the activation energy that drew me into Eden.
How do I explain this without giving my life story? Her post "Imma die with my boots on." made me cry. Which is crazy, because there's not a whole lot to be said about it.
It just struck a nerve deep down inside me when she spoke about clomping around cancer wards (her husband had a recent strife with cancer.) as the Angry Cowgirl. I laughed because this was in a time where I, too, was running out of university classes to go clomp around chemotherapy wards.
"I am an angry cowgirl," I told her, "who ironically doesn't own boots." I explained that our family struggles with this stupid thing called cancer, seemingly at every turn. And really her post reminded me of my dad's favorite song by Joe Diffie: Prop Me Up Beside the Jukebox. Stupid, I know, leave it alone, we're a bunch of hicks.
But the line, "Lord, I wanna go to heaven, but I don't wanna go tonight. Fill my boots up with sand and put a stiff drink in my hand." Resounded in my head as I read her post. It made me want to buy a pair of boots and clomp around the cancer ward and scream, "CANCER, IS THAT ALL YOU GOT?!? I am the ANGRY COWGIRL! And you can't have THESE BOOTS!"
But that would be impolite, albeit a stress relief. (Eden dealt with this by going into a hospital like a renegade and hanging up her own art in place of the cruddy decco they claim. Also a great post for those of you interested.)
I was terrified to write her. She's a blogging celebrity--I felt like I was e-mailing Ghandi to prove how good I was at fasting. But she's better than Ghandi. She wanted me to e-mail her with a picture of when I get my cowboy boots, because I will someday and I will feel so tough.
So I don't know if that's my problem, repressing angry thoughts like pushing a crazy thrashing beachball underwater, but I'm hoping she's right and when I get my boots I will be so tough, not just for myself but for everyone who is forced to clomp around a hospital.
I will be tough for the members of the Angry Cowgirl Club.
Monday, September 26, 2011
Speak of your Gratitude
"Embrace Change. Yours starts here...today. Discover your flexibility. Challange yourself to grow. Rethink precisely what you want. Focus on Life. Play attention. Wear Red Shoes."
I told my old art teacher about it and unbeknownst to me, from my cruddy description, "Yeah, it was really cool with some sayings and a girl. Looked kind of rustic." she found me one. I like her message even more.
"Honor your intuition. Unleash your joy. Speak of your gratitude. Embrace vulnerability. Do the things you didn't think you could. Find beauty in the small. Wear red shoes. (That's an Important. Remember that.) Let it Go. Surrender your fear. Be Silly. Be Wild. Take the journey back to yourself."
Friday, September 23, 2011
I'm Feelin' Good
"It's a new dawn, it's a new day, it's a new life. For me. And I'm feeling good."
So check it out, new blog look! Really that's what this post is all about right now and was not originally intended to be so. I did not, however, intend on spending nearly four hours revamping (heh, that's a pun because I was watching Dracula--Francis Coppola's version--while editing) my blog tonight before posting.
Work on that, Blogger. Oh well, always have a back-up plan and here's mine short and sweet:
Welcome to my new "designed on a dime" blog.
Now I need some sleep before classes tomorrow.
So check it out, new blog look! Really that's what this post is all about right now and was not originally intended to be so. I did not, however, intend on spending nearly four hours revamping (heh, that's a pun because I was watching Dracula--Francis Coppola's version--while editing) my blog tonight before posting.
Work on that, Blogger. Oh well, always have a back-up plan and here's mine short and sweet:
Welcome to my new "designed on a dime" blog.
Now I need some sleep before classes tomorrow.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
The Times, They are a-Changin'.
I like to imagine that I have hundreds of little writers set out in nice square little cubicles in my head scurrying to and fro, sending out memos and reminders, sharpening pencils, making coffee, fixing printer jams, all together keeping my thoughts in a well-to-do manner so they can come forth from my mouth or finger tips for the rest of the world.
If I like to use that metaphor than right now all of those ficticiuos writers, with their sleek pencil skirts and cornflower blue Winsor-knotted paisely ties are striking and picketing in an uproar. "Increased wages for increased work hours!"
They are demanding it now, rioting and flipping over desks. Stealing my little imaginary office supplies and flipping little imaginary birds at my little imaginary supervisors. And those little supervisors are looking out to me, shaking their heads in surprised disappointment at all the nothing they are able to do in order to control my very much out of control white-collar workers.
Inwardly, this is my thought-process.
Outwardly, the only think I can do is rub my eyes and continue working. Making myself another cup of tea, even after we've run out of the good stuff to drink and all that is left is peach. Blech.
Yet, here I sit. Typing up a blog post. My inner little efficiency committee is looking down at their little clipboards and assessing my work ethic. They are not checking the box for "Uses time wisely."
"But I need this time," I plea to them. "You don't understand.This is how I relax and restore myself."
Can one grow dependent on an idea? This blog is a compilation of all of mine, and I have grown rather fond of it. As of late, I have realized I've grown out of my German experience. There's not much German to experience here in Ann Arbor, but I keep updating. Less and less with any intention of it being about my re-entry shock. But I'll keep updating because I've made a discovery of how powerful my computer can be and I would like to keep that relationship with my computer, with myself, and sometimes with others, going.
I get it now why one of the first steps in a recovery program (any program, go ahead and find out) is to write out all of your life history. One big hefty paper of Who You Are. It works.
My moral today, beacuse I really need to stop procrastinating my economics homework, is that I will continue to blog on this blog--even with the name dasdetuscheerlebnis, mostly because I don't know how to change it, but also because that's how it all began. But I am no longer restricting myself to my travel adventures.
But I think we all knew that one already though, right?
So I guess I'm open for new blog titles suggestions, comments, complaints, okay?
If I like to use that metaphor than right now all of those ficticiuos writers, with their sleek pencil skirts and cornflower blue Winsor-knotted paisely ties are striking and picketing in an uproar. "Increased wages for increased work hours!"
They are demanding it now, rioting and flipping over desks. Stealing my little imaginary office supplies and flipping little imaginary birds at my little imaginary supervisors. And those little supervisors are looking out to me, shaking their heads in surprised disappointment at all the nothing they are able to do in order to control my very much out of control white-collar workers.
Inwardly, this is my thought-process.
Outwardly, the only think I can do is rub my eyes and continue working. Making myself another cup of tea, even after we've run out of the good stuff to drink and all that is left is peach. Blech.
Yet, here I sit. Typing up a blog post. My inner little efficiency committee is looking down at their little clipboards and assessing my work ethic. They are not checking the box for "Uses time wisely."
"But I need this time," I plea to them. "You don't understand.This is how I relax and restore myself."
Can one grow dependent on an idea? This blog is a compilation of all of mine, and I have grown rather fond of it. As of late, I have realized I've grown out of my German experience. There's not much German to experience here in Ann Arbor, but I keep updating. Less and less with any intention of it being about my re-entry shock. But I'll keep updating because I've made a discovery of how powerful my computer can be and I would like to keep that relationship with my computer, with myself, and sometimes with others, going.
I get it now why one of the first steps in a recovery program (any program, go ahead and find out) is to write out all of your life history. One big hefty paper of Who You Are. It works.
My moral today, beacuse I really need to stop procrastinating my economics homework, is that I will continue to blog on this blog--even with the name dasdetuscheerlebnis, mostly because I don't know how to change it, but also because that's how it all began. But I am no longer restricting myself to my travel adventures.
But I think we all knew that one already though, right?
So I guess I'm open for new blog titles suggestions, comments, complaints, okay?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)