I overslept this morning.
This isn't unusual. It also has almost nothing to do with this post. While hurrying around trying to get showered and dressed and groomed, I took a minute to check my email because I'd been informed prior to the weekend that I would be getting my response from Queen Mary in that format and had been poking my inbox obsessively for the past few days. As I started checking off the usual political newsletters and social change petition requests for deletion, my eyes bounced to this email's subject line:
STUDY ABROAD AT QUEEN MARY
Caps and all.
I calmly deleted the other emails and then hovered over that enticingly shouty subject line. My heart was pounding. I closed my eyes for a moment and took a deep breath before lowering one shaking finger to click.
"I am delighted to be able to tell you that your application to study at Queen Mary, University of London, has been successful and I am pleased to make you an offer of a place."
I let out a breath I'd been holding for sixteen months. A breath I'd been holding since I decided to apply for the U of M with the intention of taking advantage of their Study Abroad program. Then I promptly got on every social networking site known to man and started screaming it all over the internets:
It's real. It's happening. I'm going to London.
April 3, 2012
March 28, 2012
FREE HUGS
Two posts in one day? What is this madness?
The last one was a bit depressing (even though it kind of wasn't) and something rather awesome happened to me today, so I thought I'd share that as well.
As I was heading across campus on my way to class, I encountered a guy holding a large sign that said FREE HUGS. Just standing there with his sign, catching everyone's eyes as they walked past without knowing quite what to do with this admittedly odd sentiment.
Dude, there's no way I'm passing up a deal like that. He caught my eye as I made a course change and ended up right in his arms. I think my voice was just a little thick as I thanked him and headed on my way. The thing is, this little gesture plastered a smile on my face for the better part of an hour. That's all it took. Just a FREE HUG.
The moral of this story: sometimes people? Are fucking amazing.
The last one was a bit depressing (even though it kind of wasn't) and something rather awesome happened to me today, so I thought I'd share that as well.
As I was heading across campus on my way to class, I encountered a guy holding a large sign that said FREE HUGS. Just standing there with his sign, catching everyone's eyes as they walked past without knowing quite what to do with this admittedly odd sentiment.
Dude, there's no way I'm passing up a deal like that. He caught my eye as I made a course change and ended up right in his arms. I think my voice was just a little thick as I thanked him and headed on my way. The thing is, this little gesture plastered a smile on my face for the better part of an hour. That's all it took. Just a FREE HUG.
The moral of this story: sometimes people? Are fucking amazing.
Just a little slip...
For the past two months, I've been seeing a chemical health counselor in an attempt to alleviate my tendency to sail well past enjoyable levels of drinking and straight into glassy-eyed, slow motion, blackout drunk. Of course most of us have experienced this at some point in our lives; for me, it happens every time I get near alcohol.
There are a number of reasons I binge drink; one of the big ones is social anxiety. I'm intimidated by parties and clubs and all the people that are probably better than me, until I've had ALL the booze. With the help of my chemical health counselor, I've been working on calming down the binge side of binge drinking so that I can enjoy myself without getting trashed. It's a wet program of sorts... the idea is not to quit drinking altogether, but to slow it down and drink at a reasonable level. It's been going remarkably well.
Until Monday.
I thought it might be a good idea to try pushing myself a bit with the social side of things, since I'd experience a couple of social events without blitzing. There's a local gay bar that has a goth/industrial night on Mondays; goth/industrial is the kind of clubbing I grew up on, the kind of music I love dancing to, the kind of people I like to be around - and there is the additional comfort of being in a gay bar. I thought if there was one place I would feel the most relaxed without needing to binge, it would be there.
It turned out I wasn't ready.
One cider became two, which was fine as a start. With the third I gave myself permission to have one shot of cheap vodka (my go-to for getting drunk quick) since I was out and doing this and should be proud and besides it's the first time, I can give myself a break. That was the tipping point of course... once I get the drunk rolling, it's nearly impossible to stop. Shortly after the second cider/shot combination, I found myself kneeling on the floor of the bathroom stall.
As I knelt there with my head hanging over the bowl, I wondered how abasing myself in front of a toilet in a public bathroom with deep beats reverberating through the walls and laughter drifting through the door could possibly be the end result of something so full of hope and desperate need and determination. How it always seems to end this way (or some similar way), every time; how instead of making me loose and fun and witty and desirable the booze only makes me dizzy and confused and sick and pathetic.
I got myself home safe on public transportation and dove into the White Cheddar Cheez-Its which are my guaranteed hangover cure. I didn't slip into a well of self loathing, I didn't cut, I didn't cry. I did wake up with a monster headache, but managed to come through it physically and emotionally unscarred.
It's not the end of the world, I know. It was just... too much, too soon. I think I'll get there eventually, to that place where I don't have to dangle the sparkling bottles in front of my eyes to distract myself from the loneliness and worthlessness that still lives inside me. I hope that someday I'll be able to get out on the floor without the taste of ashes in my mouth; to close my eyes and dance without caring if anyone is watching.
There are a number of reasons I binge drink; one of the big ones is social anxiety. I'm intimidated by parties and clubs and all the people that are probably better than me, until I've had ALL the booze. With the help of my chemical health counselor, I've been working on calming down the binge side of binge drinking so that I can enjoy myself without getting trashed. It's a wet program of sorts... the idea is not to quit drinking altogether, but to slow it down and drink at a reasonable level. It's been going remarkably well.
Until Monday.
I thought it might be a good idea to try pushing myself a bit with the social side of things, since I'd experience a couple of social events without blitzing. There's a local gay bar that has a goth/industrial night on Mondays; goth/industrial is the kind of clubbing I grew up on, the kind of music I love dancing to, the kind of people I like to be around - and there is the additional comfort of being in a gay bar. I thought if there was one place I would feel the most relaxed without needing to binge, it would be there.
It turned out I wasn't ready.
One cider became two, which was fine as a start. With the third I gave myself permission to have one shot of cheap vodka (my go-to for getting drunk quick) since I was out and doing this and should be proud and besides it's the first time, I can give myself a break. That was the tipping point of course... once I get the drunk rolling, it's nearly impossible to stop. Shortly after the second cider/shot combination, I found myself kneeling on the floor of the bathroom stall.
As I knelt there with my head hanging over the bowl, I wondered how abasing myself in front of a toilet in a public bathroom with deep beats reverberating through the walls and laughter drifting through the door could possibly be the end result of something so full of hope and desperate need and determination. How it always seems to end this way (or some similar way), every time; how instead of making me loose and fun and witty and desirable the booze only makes me dizzy and confused and sick and pathetic.
I got myself home safe on public transportation and dove into the White Cheddar Cheez-Its which are my guaranteed hangover cure. I didn't slip into a well of self loathing, I didn't cut, I didn't cry. I did wake up with a monster headache, but managed to come through it physically and emotionally unscarred.
It's not the end of the world, I know. It was just... too much, too soon. I think I'll get there eventually, to that place where I don't have to dangle the sparkling bottles in front of my eyes to distract myself from the loneliness and worthlessness that still lives inside me. I hope that someday I'll be able to get out on the floor without the taste of ashes in my mouth; to close my eyes and dance without caring if anyone is watching.
March 21, 2012
Changes are (probably) a-comin'...
So it looks like it's time to take this blog in a new direction, seeing as it hasn't stuck to any other directions thus far. Say hello to My Big Study Abroad Adventure!
Er. Hopefully something less lame as a title.
Anyway, one of the first things I looked into once I started Uni was the Study Abroad program. As it turns out, the U (as We In The Know call it) WANTS people to study in another country. (I'm assuming in my usual cynical fashion that it's because they still get federal money by having a student on record without having to spend the actual money to have the student physically on campus, times as many students as they can boot across the border/ocean.) Needless to say, I've been haunting the SA office since September in the hopes that they'll agree to send me off to London for a year.
Ten miles of paperwork, countless hours of research, and two very nerve wracking requests for letters of reference to my professors later, I now have everything I need to send my application out to Queen Mary University. Tomorrow will be the trip to the post office.
Ooh! I just thought of a new title for my blog: An American GeekChick in London. What do you think? Wait, don't tell me... if it's lame, I'll just proudly wave my lame flag. The new focus of the blog will be chronicling the events of my Study Abroad experience, in addition to the usual geek thoughts and life stuff.
So, with the application about to be sent off, please send any and all spare luck my way. Otherwise this new blog incarnation will be very very short lived.
Er. Hopefully something less lame as a title.
Anyway, one of the first things I looked into once I started Uni was the Study Abroad program. As it turns out, the U (as We In The Know call it) WANTS people to study in another country. (I'm assuming in my usual cynical fashion that it's because they still get federal money by having a student on record without having to spend the actual money to have the student physically on campus, times as many students as they can boot across the border/ocean.) Needless to say, I've been haunting the SA office since September in the hopes that they'll agree to send me off to London for a year.
Ten miles of paperwork, countless hours of research, and two very nerve wracking requests for letters of reference to my professors later, I now have everything I need to send my application out to Queen Mary University. Tomorrow will be the trip to the post office.
Ooh! I just thought of a new title for my blog: An American GeekChick in London. What do you think? Wait, don't tell me... if it's lame, I'll just proudly wave my lame flag. The new focus of the blog will be chronicling the events of my Study Abroad experience, in addition to the usual geek thoughts and life stuff.
So, with the application about to be sent off, please send any and all spare luck my way. Otherwise this new blog incarnation will be very very short lived.
January 7, 2012
Whippersnapper Rage
I'm happy to report that I survived my first semester. I even managed to pull off a respectable GPA. All while in a near-constant state of Whippersnapper Rage.
I'll share my top three moments of the ole WR:
1. My very first class was in one of those 500-person auditorium-style rooms where the professor has to wear a microphone because he legitimately cannot be heard from the nosebleeds without it. I ended up in the aforementioned section because I didn't know any better yet, and was amused initially by how many laptops swung open before the class even started. About a half hour into the lecture I began to be distracted by numerous Facebook homepages shining out of the screens in front of me. People were updating their status, flipping through pictures, even chatting. At one point the professor talked about the five most annoying habits of other students, which included cell phones ringing, noisily leaving the lecture hall five minutes before class ends, and PLAYING AROUND ON FACEBOOK DURING LECTURE. One girl in particular continued to obliviously scroll through photos and status updates as the prof was reading this bullet point on the slide. This was the moment I realized that I was legitimately dealing with a separate, completely incomprehensible generation.
2. One morning I was sitting in the same classroom, waiting for lecture to start. Two girls sitting next to me were having a conversation, as well as another pair in front of me and a pair behind me. In the ten minutes or so before class started, I heard the word "like" approximately 600 times. I really should have started a tally. Also, why is it that teenage females sound constantly exhausted/stoned? Like the very act of speaking takes every ounce of energy they have. And every clause ends with an upturn? as though they are asking a question? All I can guess is that the life of a modern teenager/early-twentysomething is both incredibly difficult and very confusing.
3. During my Film Studies class, Fridays were spent screening the movie we would then discuss the following week. This class was held in a room which resembles a small movie theater. For some reason, near the end of the semester as we watched Three Kings, one of the students thought it was perfectly appropriate to bring in a giant bag of potato chips and, in the middle of the dramatic interrogation scene, crackle the bag open and begin stuffing his maw with handfuls of Doritos. I would like to add that this snorfling Neanderthal had apparently never learned to chew with his mouth closed. For about twenty minutes of the movie all I could hear was CRACKLE CRACKLE CHOMP CHEW SNORF CHEW CHEW. It took every ounce of self-control not to get up, walk over to the little dicksmack, tear those chips out of his hands, and beat him with the bag while screaming THIS. IS. NOT. YOUR. DORM ROOM. YOU FUCKING DOUCHENOZZLE.
Next semester I'm considering riding a Rascal Scooter to school, just so I can run them over with it when the nonsense starts.
I'll share my top three moments of the ole WR:
1. My very first class was in one of those 500-person auditorium-style rooms where the professor has to wear a microphone because he legitimately cannot be heard from the nosebleeds without it. I ended up in the aforementioned section because I didn't know any better yet, and was amused initially by how many laptops swung open before the class even started. About a half hour into the lecture I began to be distracted by numerous Facebook homepages shining out of the screens in front of me. People were updating their status, flipping through pictures, even chatting. At one point the professor talked about the five most annoying habits of other students, which included cell phones ringing, noisily leaving the lecture hall five minutes before class ends, and PLAYING AROUND ON FACEBOOK DURING LECTURE. One girl in particular continued to obliviously scroll through photos and status updates as the prof was reading this bullet point on the slide. This was the moment I realized that I was legitimately dealing with a separate, completely incomprehensible generation.
2. One morning I was sitting in the same classroom, waiting for lecture to start. Two girls sitting next to me were having a conversation, as well as another pair in front of me and a pair behind me. In the ten minutes or so before class started, I heard the word "like" approximately 600 times. I really should have started a tally. Also, why is it that teenage females sound constantly exhausted/stoned? Like the very act of speaking takes every ounce of energy they have. And every clause ends with an upturn? as though they are asking a question? All I can guess is that the life of a modern teenager/early-twentysomething is both incredibly difficult and very confusing.
3. During my Film Studies class, Fridays were spent screening the movie we would then discuss the following week. This class was held in a room which resembles a small movie theater. For some reason, near the end of the semester as we watched Three Kings, one of the students thought it was perfectly appropriate to bring in a giant bag of potato chips and, in the middle of the dramatic interrogation scene, crackle the bag open and begin stuffing his maw with handfuls of Doritos. I would like to add that this snorfling Neanderthal had apparently never learned to chew with his mouth closed. For about twenty minutes of the movie all I could hear was CRACKLE CRACKLE CHOMP CHEW SNORF CHEW CHEW. It took every ounce of self-control not to get up, walk over to the little dicksmack, tear those chips out of his hands, and beat him with the bag while screaming THIS. IS. NOT. YOUR. DORM ROOM. YOU FUCKING DOUCHENOZZLE.
Next semester I'm considering riding a Rascal Scooter to school, just so I can run them over with it when the nonsense starts.
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