Wish projection = formula for success

So I haven’t written anything meaningful (to me) in about a week.

I have, however, produced the hands-down shittiest piece of writing in my life. I would say that to my professor’s face. That’s how horrendous it is. It helps that the course is only a semester long and I only have to pass it. That’s not my actual goal- I would like to knock the disapproving smirk off of her face permanently- but I feel as though that may not happen and will be pleased as long as I get through the class and never have to take it or anything similar ever again.

Speaking of goals. The other night, I had a dream. It’s been stuck in my mind for a while now, because it started as kind of a puzzling dream, and I was wondering, Okay dream, where are you going with this?

Allow me to set the scene a little bit. I have an affection toward the actor Matthew Gray Gubler. Not only does he play a great character on Criminal Minds (my favorite show for many reasons), he is actually a pretty cool dude in real life. Despite his elderly status (he’s thirty) he’s still got a pretty face on him and is doing interesting and motivating things with his life. I mean, come on, he’s directing, he’s acting, he’s being an artist– all of these things people say you can’t make money off of. And he loves it.

It’s a motivator for me because I do multiple things that people tell me will never get me any money. I mean, let’s be realistic, I’ll end up living in a box (or so I’m told). I sing classical music, want to write about it, speak and teach about it, love performing/acting/fingerpainting– yeah. Box on the side of the road.

Back to Gubler. He’s only thirty. Granted, to me right now, that seems like, um, old. But in thirteen years, that’s where I’ll be, yo. Okay, sorry. Twelve years now. Yikes. But he’s only thirty and he’s actually doing things with his life. He’s where he’s aimed. He’s famous.

Granted there’s a certain allure to fame that I’m sure isn’t so shiny once you actually get there. But I’d really like to find out for myself. Not only does fame ensure you can actually pay those college bills, it provides a conduit to sincerely make a difference in the world. To be a change.

And God knows I’d really love to be a change.

But back to my dream, I’m derailing here. So, I kind of admire this Gubler character, and he’s not too hard on the old eyeballs, either. For being old. Therefore I was confused when, in my dream, he was dating a friend of mine here at Eastman. I was like, okay, cool, but I’m having this dream. Let’s swing the focus here, huh? Instead, Rebecca’s on his arm, and then the scene spins and suddenly Rachael is telling me that he broke up with Rebecca and had started dating her… then Rebecca is telling me that he broke up with Rachael too. They both kind of merged into the same person after a while and were telling me all of these lovely things he used to do with them– outings, and walks in the country at sunset, and art show premiers… all of these great adventures. I got really jealous, and kind of annoyed now. Because those are all things I love to do, and Matthew (in my dream) had completely met me. We were on speaking terms.

The dream spun and shifted again, a spherical twist that put a giddy leap in my heart that stayed; suddenly I was having a drink with Gubler at some outdoor cafe and he was wearing his funky glasses and wide-brimmed hat. And I think plaid. We were… together. The paparazzi were there, that’s how I know.

Then we were in line for something and Jack and Matt and David were in line ahead of us? I remembered (in my dream) once having the tiniest crush on Matt and feeling balanced and not awkward about it (because nothing had come of it) when Gubler came to stand by me.

this guy = symbol of ambition ? hmm.

And you know that feeling (and this has really only happened once for me, in real life), when a guy comes up behind you and it’s not creepy? He just stands there and he’s warm and solid and present. You can tell he wants to be there and he’ll reach for your hand and/or rest a hand on your waist. That happened in my dream and I was just so… so settled, so satisfied with where I was, who I was, and who I was with.

 

Now to analyze: I don’t think this dream means I want to “be with” Matthew Gray Gubler. On the contrary, I’d rather just meet him and discuss all sorts of interesting things with him because A.) I’m sure he has a bajillionandahalf leagues of girls throwing themselves at him, and B.) I’m sure he has a wide scope of things to talk about and wanting to get in his pants would kind of deviate from any type of actual thought-related discussion.

Not that I would turn my nose up at an outing with him. I love adventures, any time, any where.

But that takes me back to my analysis. I think Gubler represented my goals. My wishes and desires to achieve, to be There in that hot light of the public eye. First I was confused, why don’t I have that? Then I was frustrated, I should have it by now. Then I did have it, and it felt right and I felt centered.

Just one possible analogy. But my eyes are getting dry and I’m tired so I’m putting this away for now. It was nice to do some storytelling for once.

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Every night’s an all nighter

No one ever said it would be easy. I’d even told myself, from the very beginning, that this would be difficult. That I’d work, and work hard. That there would be stress, and infinite pressure, and time management and energy concerns.

Like, I knew it. So why, when seasonal depression and homesickness hit, do they feel like some viciously unexpected wallop from the beyond? Not to mention the added pressure of friendships and balancing a social life with academic proactivity, and the agitation that accompanies the occasional brush of unfriendliness.

I don’t want to be bitter. I don’t want to sit and stew in my own negative outpouring of feelings toward individuals or a course or my own longing to be home. I want to just plow through the rest of this semester and be home. Be home. I’ll say it again: I want to be home.

I know I’ll sink back into the routine here, because I’ve discovered I actually can adapt. There are those who get under my skin and stick there, infecting my mood and my performance, but I am going to work to pop them like the acne they are. That looks really gross and harsh: but honestly, this is a vicious fricking environment if you don’t have your shit together. I can’t afford– emotionally, financially, physically– to not have my shit together. So if certain people are an infection, I hereby antitoxin the crap out of them, right here, right now. I’m a tolerant, patient, sometimes outspoken but generally very balanced and caring person. But there are times, like right now, with two more midterms to go and one month standing between me and my family, where I am going to slam both feet into the ground and say, that’s enough of this bull crap.

It’s so necessary for me to excel here. Not for me, on my own. Necessarily. So much falls to me, to surpass the goals I’ve set for myself. My family is counting on me to make this time worth it.

So, God help me, I damn well will.

To the dog I will someday have

Dear puppy,

Although it may seem as though your sole purpose in life is to be scary-looking and protective, I have a few reassurances for you that will hopefully make your job seem less complicated.

Yes, you will be my “guard dog.” However, in addition to looking like a terrifying creature of destruction, sounding like an alarm system on steroids, and physically being capable of preventing any serious harm to, well, me? I will expect you to be house trained. Well-behaved. Pleasant in polite company (that of serial killers, rapists, vandals, etc. excluded. Obviously.) Your vicious appearance will be tempered by a heart of sincerity and devotion. Your strength shall be evened out by a passion for life and sly sense of humor.

But your flaws will be largely overlooked (assuming they don’t involve eating children, or my shoes), since, well, duh: I will love you and take care of you.

We’ll be a team, little dude. You’ll be the T to my Rex, the cream cheese to my bagel. That kind of thing. We’ll grow old together; or, more likely, you’ll grow old and I’ll grow middle-aged. It’ll probably just be me you’ll have to deal with, but who knows? Maybe other interesting characters will wander into the picture. Naturally I’ll trust your judgment when it comes to who I spend my personal time with.

Oh, and okay. So there’s one other little hitch I hope you’ll be okay with. That unconditional love bit? You’ll have to stretch it on your end for me, since I kind of crack the sound barrier with my voice on a daily basis. I can try to get you your own room, depending on what apartment we live in. You might have to just chill in the kitchen while I practice. Sorry bud.

Other than that, I think we will be the freakin’ dream team. A build in bff system. That’s us, you and me, me and you, us. I don’t know what your name will be, I don’t know where we’ll meet, or when, or how. I don’t know how I think I’m going to afford to share my life with you (the last part’s a joke. Kind-of.). But I promise that, when I am at a point where I am financially able, semi-paranoid/lonely, and living on my own, we will meet and our lives will mesh.

And there you have it. Just something to look forward to.

Sincerely waiting,

Kim

Is it silly to admit I need a little cheering up?

After a completely unproductive day, I sit here in my stupid bunk bed– I repeat, bunk bed— with an irritating headache that only serves to remind me how crappy I am. At everything here.

It would be fine if I was giving it all I have. And I almost turned away from writing this just now but I feel like I need to have it out with myself. There’s no discipline here, I can get on facebook whenever. I can pretend I’ll be productive later but really don’t want to focus. It reminds me that I’m not at home and I’m by myself here, essentially. Haven’t I learned by now? Being sad, staying inside, huddling scared and sad because I’m alone? Not doing anything? All it does is make me feel like shit.

I hate this room. It’s pleasant enough, as tiny boxes go. But I miss my family. I want to go home. I want to go home right now and never come back even though I know it’s the here and now that’s important. No one here gives a crap if I succeed or fail. I mean, they’ll care, and probably feel a little bad for me, but nothing will be done about it. Tim Horton’s for life, here I come.

No. That can’t be how it is. That won’t be how it works out. I’m tired and I’m scared and I’m so sad, right down my nauseated heart, but it can’t be how it ends. This place has to take me somewherre. I’m trusting that it can, that it will. That I’m meant for something more than wishing. I don’t want the someday to be constantly yearned for and never attained. I want to reach it, and keep reaching.

Until I can’t reach because I’m simply gone.

Two minute typing

I’m considering writing fiction again. I know I’m way overloaded with things to do but honestly if I’m going to get my ass kicked by college I might as well be doing something else I adore, right?

Seriously. Creative writing at River Campus next semester? I’ll see what I can do.

Irrationality

I hate this. The not knowing.

But I refuse to go back to that scared and vulnerable, trembling little place where I was after Daniel died. That paranoia? That doesn’t make any sense.

Life doesn’t make any sense, I know. And neither do feelings, do emotions. The only thing that makes sense is the concept of irrationality.

But I can’t shake the notion that anything could happen. That frightens me. I don’t want to return to that cobwebby muddled corner with the nervousness and the hunched-up shoulders. I shouldn’t have to go back there.

Death could be outside my fruit roll-up clogged peephole and I wouldn’t have a clue. It’s anywhere; it’s everywhere. It seeps into our very pores and sets us up ticking, counting down until the second we go boom and BAM we’re no more. And the rest are left to sweep up the remains and keep on truckin’.

I don’t want to have to think about this shit. But I do. I do think about it and I do want to think about it. The macabre.

Isn’t it better to know? Isn’t it always better to know, to be aware? Even if it lends us that little sickly sharp edge of paranoid, isn’t it better to think ahead, to wonder? Keeps the imagination pumping red as the blood that still gallops with every flutter of the heart. And someday may prevent it’s untimely halt.

Blogs from home

A series of little bloggettes from my first time back home since college started.

12:17 AM 09 Oct 2010

This is so, so so so strange. It’s like, I’m home! Finally.

But so why do I want to cry? It’s like everything’s the same, and nothing’s the same. In a way, it reminds me of the dream I had around a year ago, where I was killed and came back as a ghost. Only to see that life had gone on without me, but I’d left a hole. That’s kind of what coming home has done to me: shown me the hole where I fit. The empty space I left behind that was sort-of filled but that had been waiting for me to come back to it.

It’s so overwhelming. The love is too much for me. I’m so lucky and so blessed. And I’m not ashamed to say I’m crying while I’m typing this because I’m so full of happy and– and– I don’t know if the word is unworthiness? Insignificance? Overwhelmed, overflowing. The love my family has for me is so huge. I was wrenched by time out of their lives and now I’m back and it’s like nothing ever changed. I just get to hug my mother for a few minutes longer. That’s the only difference.

But evidence of my absence is everywhere. My room, with only one pillow and no little pink lamp, shows that I haven’t been here. My laundry wasn’t in the wash, my dishes weren’t in the sink. None of my chaotic piles of makeup were dumped in their usual spot by the bathroom mirror, no brightly-colored, half-consumed coffee cups littered the counter. The computer desk was neat.

I just feel sad that I had to go. It’s like someone ripped off my arm, or something… and pretended that it was going to be gone forever, but for a few days they stick it back on and say, “enjoy, until we tear it off again.” I remember adjusting to college life being fairly difficult. Now I’m accustomed to the routine and the rhythm, but when I first got there I was just heartbroken. I don’t want that to happen a second time.

Saturday 09 October 2010 6:49 pm

“It’s not where I am, it’s you I’m with.”

I’m in the car typing this right now, and reflecting on life. It sounds really deep, but it’s not.

We get a little wild during car rides...

I think about life a great deal. But as the Avetts croon about love and existence and the car glides toward the sunset, I’m launched into a mindset that sends thoughts of home and belonging swirling through my brain.

 

Where’s my home now? I’m coming back from eating la comida italia with my family and wondering, now that my life’s been thrust into its own orbit, where I’m allowed to call home. There’s a sense of rightness and belonging about Eastman for me, and in Rochester. But in the same breath I feel that way about Buffalo and my home. Can I have two? Is that allowed? What about when I get my own apartment? Or move out of Rochester? Is it possible to make a life elsewhere, to have multiple homes that feel comfortable, wonderfully happy, and right?

Then the Avett Brothers chime in with “St. Joseph’s” and remind me. “It’s not where I’m am, it’s you I’m with.” As long as I’m with those I love and who love me in return– whether it’s familial or friendship or both– I am already home.

Sunday 10 October 2010 8:38 pm

I just got out of my third shower since I’ve been home. It’s an exercise in indulgence: I take a shower that would have been normal for me here, but at school is extravagant. At Eastman, we have the minute yellow bathroom stalls with mangy floors and flip flops involved. Non-adjustable spray with squeaky nozzles and an atmosphere of tension in case (gasp) some strange girl flounces in mid-exit and sees me in all of my toweled-up, drippy-makeuped glory. All in all I rush to perfect personal hygiene and it’s simply a mandatory procedure.

Here, I take time. Take those precious few moments to take off all of my makeup, to savor the clean white, steamy air. To stand with bare feet in a clean shower. The perfume of my home billowing around me, swirling with the sweet citrus of body wash and lotion and shampoo, is the scent that irons out the stress of a long day and a nervily-anticipated trip back to school.

Even the simple actions that I completely (typically) took for granted are purely divine now. Like, toweling off in a space that’s not two square feet. Having a well-lit and enormous bathroom with a halfway-recognizable color scheme. Not having to dig through a caddy to find the right item.

It’s so great. Except, I realized tonight that I’m already missing home. And I haven’t even left it again.

Sunday October 10, 2010 11:27 pm

I knew it would happen. I knew I’d love home so much and never want to go away and always want to stay here safe in this warm and cozy house with the people I adore and the sunshine and the comfort.

I know in my mind that I’d go insane. If I had to stay here all the time. And I’ve really just been trying to enjoy every second spent here and with my family. Playing Sims with my sister, watching the Sabres win (then lose), Criminal Minds marathons, and selling Harley tickets in Ellicottville. All of it is part of being home and coaxing every drop of happy from it that I can.

I miss Eastman too, but in an academic sense. I wish Eastman was right next door so I could step into my family’s life whenever. I’m so freaking happy to be with them right now it’s stupid, because when I get back I’ll be happy too and that will be a betrayal of sorts. But also I just don’t want to leave them. Their lives will roll on and so will mine and even though this visit was like no time passed, I know that won’t continue. Life goes on.

Damn it, life goes on whether I’m there or not. Something– anything, really– could happen at any second. I could get hit by a bus or get slashed in the parking garage or sweet Jesus God forbid fall from a stairwell and break my neck. And writing that makes me want to vomit but it’s the truth, and then what? And then what? Life would still go on.

I can’t wrap my head around it and I am so miserable trying to try. It’s so hard. It’s so hard to have two places I want– need– to be, with so many desires and hopes and fears tearing me in so many directions. Expectations and longings and worries and stresses. And I’m depended on to deal with them all, to handle it. I can. I mean, I can. And will.

Life goes on. But I’m still here and sad, this moment.

Waiting to leave… again

So, this is the first time I’ve blogged from my home since I left in August. It’s really strange to have a raised keyboard and a mouse, among other things.

Anyway, so. I’ve blogged from my Mac but I don’t have an internet connection here for it so those will go up tomorrow when I return to ESM. Yay?

Everyone told me I’d miss it. And I guess the fact that I’ve thought about going back so much “means” I’m “missing it.” But honestly I want another week here.

I get it now, why Caitlin (my cousin) was always so cranky when we were younger. She always got downright bitchy when it came time for her to leave Grandma’s and fly home. She was especially mean to me– and for someone my own age, my best friend, to be cruel, it was painful and upsetting. But we never talked about it, or going home. Grandma said it was because she didn’t want to leave and she was angry she had to.

I know now that she was going to miss me the most, and didn’t want me to be sad she was going. Therefore she made me angry and upset with her so I wouldn’t be sad.

I’m not going to do the same thing to my family; after all, Cait and I were only twelve when she acted this way. But I can’t help but wish that instead of sad, we’d part some other way. I don’t know. I just wish I had some immature way I could closet the concept of leaving away with and forget about it until tomorrow.

Underneath the abject willow

This is the song that is stuck in my head. It’s really great. And it’s also why I can’t get to sleep.

I want to sing in all of these different, intriguing languages but it’s funny how out of nowhere a song in my own native English can pop up on the radar. And be really meaningful.

“Underneath the abject willow” is a Britten tune that speaks of love and rejection and coming back from all of it. Life’s too short to wait and wonder, and although it’s beautiful to pause and enjoy the scenery, without action, without loving someone, it’s all pointless.

It’s just the song to inspire a few pretty thoughts of what a puzzled girl could do if she wanted to. Could do with life, if she focused. “Underneath the abject willow, lover sulk no more; act from thought should quickly follow: what is thinking for?” (Britten 1). So gorgeous. ♥

All that lives may love; why longer bow to loss, with arms across? Strike, and you shall conquer.

Weak thesis post

Ten minutes to go. I thought I’d get through this class– I was really trying to behave. No matter how much I attempt to distract myself or focus in here, though, it’s impossible.

Since class started, I have:
– been on facebook
– (twice)
– tweeted about how much I don’t want to be here
– read a nifty blog
– kind of paid attention
– typed out a half-page of half-developed notes
– saw that David was also on facebook and mentally applauded him
– learned that my professor really does hold true to the belief that musicians can’t write coherent essays
– pretended that me, blogging, is actually me, taking notes
– checked wordpress stats
– learned that Lalime is signed with the Sabres for one more year (courtesy of Sabres.com)
– talked to Julie about taking a nap in the piano
– wished fervently for caffeine.

It’s ironic that we’re (she’s) discussing brevity right now. “If it’s not concise, it can be distracting.” What an outlandish concept.

Uhg. I honestly don’t even have the energy anymore to bitch about this class. It’s just tiring/not worth it.

And so instead of ranting angrily about the review of the my essay that was just returned, I have this to say.

I’m grateful for brutal feedback. I’m grateful for three hours a week I spend wasting in that dull room surfing the web and pretending to pay attention. I’m grateful for the fact I can relax and sit and take a little time away from the constant motion.

I’m most grateful for the happiness I’ll feel once this semester wraps up.

Addressing issues of “tone”

I hate this class. Look familiar? That’s because I’m here again and really really hate it. Surprise!

We’re working on essay structure. You know, if I didn’t detest this course, I would be perfectly cool with writing and editing and re-editing my essay, even with a peer critique involved. Instead, we’re treated as incompetents. It might seem that way, honestly, because no one talks when she asks a question, except occasionally Pat or Paulina. Sorry if my brain’s shriveled from lack of coffee inhalation. Sorry if you’re standing there, “teaching,” with your arms crossed and voice dry, critically mentally labeling us all as dumb music students. We can see it.

She just mentioned a “funnel introduction.” Now the “dawn of time” introductions. GOD I need caffeine.

“Generally you don’t want readers to be skeptical. You want them to accept what you’re saying.” Actually, for me, I’d want to pique their interest. I’d want to twist them around my finger but entice them to think. From their contorted new mental state I’d want them to wonder about what they’ve read.

So no, I don’t simply want them to accept what I say.

I think I’ve shed all over my cardigan. My phone just vibrated reaaaally loudly in my pocket. I would give anything to be in Italian. And that alone should proclaim with obviousity my fiery desire to LEAVE this ROOM and never return.

Since she just was staring at me as she talked about addressing issues of tone, I wrote a few things down.

What kind of tone do you want to have in your papers? No feelings behind it. It’s a moral judgment to have an opinion. NO opinions. Well, I mean, you can have an opinion. But you have to be as bland and dry as this class. Oh wait, I need to offer a solution. Moral condemnation, and then no solution. To fix, ask why that contradiction is there? Better question: WHY DO I HAVE TO BE HERE?

F MY LIFE. “We’re going to do paragraphs for the next two classes.”

Excuse me? I beg your pardon. The NEXT TWO CLASSES?! Who needs to spend a week on learning to write a paragraph? Oh God. Oh dear sweet God.

Just a few thoughts before I go and sleep

Have you ever been creeping on someone (yeah, my method is generally facebook) and found someone from their past that they obviously don’t talk to anymore? Like who’s commented on their older pictures, a LOT, or older statuses?

Then you go to that person’s profile, and you’re not friends, but from the comments you can tell that they were just really, really… nothing like yourself.

I just had that experience and it’s really bizarre thinking that there really are human beings so far removed from what I’m doing. From a general standpoint that looks really shallow and narcissistic. From the intense and focused academic’s, not so much. It’s just shocking to think that there are normal people “out there” living normal lives, with no intent to do anything more than file papers or make burgers or pump gas. It’s not as though those are bad ambitions, but for me, here, it’s such a driven atmosphere of incessant motion. It’s hard to picture the guy who’s bored on his couch watching some baseball with a beer. It’s tough to imagine the girl who’s going to college for something ridiculous like, oh, I don’t know, middle school math education or similar nonsense. It’s strenuous to think of the gal who likes to go tanning and get manicures and take her boyfriend shopping with her so she can talk to him in a cutesy voice. I just can’t picture someone who has That Much Time to Waste.

But maybe, like I said, it’s because it’s so far removed from here. Maybe it’s all just a matter of perspective. Perhaps that same baseball fan or the orange girl decked in pink with too much eyeliner would have trouble envisioning an opera major with a jam-packed schedule and insomnia.

Simply unproductive

I have literally been typing or reading from my computer screen since I woke up today. Breaks for brunch and dinner.

I need to get the hell out of this room. From checking the score of the Bills’ game (I couldn’t take listening, honestly) to surfing facebook to thinking of blogging, my day has been consumed by thoughts of “I should do this” and Typer Shark.

Now I’m going to do my dictation that’s due Friday but I really can’t help but dwell darkly and a little sarcastically on the fact that I’ve closeted myself in this closet-sized box with an unfairly uncomfortable chair for nearly five hours and gotten next to nothing accomplished. I ate seven Halloween Peeps that my aunt sent me and drank half a bottle of one of these:

I thought about trying to figure out how much fluid is actually in one of those, but I think my brain has timed out.

and that’s all. That’s all I’ve done today.

In another life, maybe

So I realized upon waking up and reading what I wrote last night, I left a few important things out of my post.

First of all, I realize it’s a pretty personal subject. When I mentioned the vulnerability? It’s kind of weird leaving that last post up, just because it talks about crap I’ve tried my best to not even think about for a long time.

Because let’s be realistic. I sing opera. I have plans for my life, and they’re not all money-making or stabilizing. I’m ambitious and fairly smart and love to read, write, think, and work outside/shovel horse shit/run around with my dogs when it’s not snowy. I don’t fit the typical mold for a significant other and I’m aware of it. But that doesn’t stop me from thinking about it, or having a yen for it. Even if it doesn’t make sense.

And hey. This was a blog for my thoughts, first and foremost. So if I’m thinking about boys and the future, then that’s what I’m going to write about.

But upon further reflection, I almost feel as though I should resign it to fiction. Keep the thoughts of a future with some faceless, nameless gent within the pages of a word document. The idea of jeopardizing my future plans because of some unknown stranger is horrifying. It’s just not worth it.

So ignore my lists and forget the standards. It’s just a silly topic that happens to surface in my mind whenever I see my friends happy in that way. I’m glad for them, but in the more selfish section of my brain I do tend to wonder why I can’t have it, too.

Gotta have standards. Right?

I was planning on blogging about boys and drinking and all that good stuff, but instead of just going off on an unrelated tangent, I should explain a few things first.

I’ve always been a closet romantic. Ever since I was old enough to read the love stories. It’s pretty pathetic, if you ask me, and there’s a certain layer of vulnerability there that I’m really only comfortable sharing where no one can see me blushing a little as I talk about it. I am just a sap for romance, and the idea that the chemical combination that produces a feeling of love somehow exists boggles me and fascinates me simultaneously.

But in the same breath, I realize that for me, and the lifestyle I’ve chosen, the attitudes I’ve adopted, this is an unlikely scenario. I am not a slut and adamantly refuse to put myself in a situation where I will be taken advantage of, so it seems unlikely that I will ever find myself a “right” dude. Let’s be honest here: all boys want is to get in pants. Don’t even lie, if you are a gentleman. Just don’t even open your mouth to protest that one. You know, and I know (hate to break it to you, but the WORLD knows) that the male species has serious issues controlling the hormones that derail the brain and send thoughts elsewhere in the anatomy. To the real area that makes decisions.

For a girl, it’s not just about the sex. Sure, that plays a part, or should. But later. I’m going to be honest and admit that physical attraction is just as critical to the lady in a heterosexual relationship. And sometimes a girl just wants to score, and screw the sweet-talking for weeks or months or years beforehand.

But that’s just not how I’m truly wired. I’ve had one “serious” relationship: three years ago. Since then, it’s been on-and-off, very brief flings– if that’s even what one would call them. They weren’t serious enough, in any regard, to be called friends with benefits, or any of that other jazz. But there was No Romance. In any of them. Sweetness, sure. Sometimes. Courtesy? Mostly. I guess.

But I can’t help but sigh over the idea of a gent who would understand me, or make an effort. I don’t need (or want?) some uomo perfetto. But a guy who would make the time to see me, who wouldn’t treat me like a booty call, wouldn’t expect me to follow his every command, and would not take off assuming I only want him for his body? That would be a nice change. He would be even more of a winner if he liked classical music. Or maybe if he didn’t call it shit. I’ve had one of Those Boys before, who somehow didn’t understand that opera was my major? Or, you know, my future career? Yeah. That didn’t last long.

See, I used to have standards. Then, after my first (cough, only) boyfriend, I fell under the impression that boys would never like me. I felt as though this kid I’d been dating had stained me somehow, like he left an undeniable mark that everyone could see. My standards went out the window and I hoped for anything I could get.

Now I’m a little older. Three years older, actually. And I have more perspective, and less clouded judgment. Or so I would hope. I’m in a new place with new people and I feel like, in this new life, I should reset my standards.

I do want to have that chemical cocktail of amazingness, after all. I just don’t know if it’s attainable. See below: My List of Standards, narrated as if I were speaking to a boy.

01. Please be a hockey fan. Or, if you’re not, pretend you like it. If you diss my favorite sport, I’ll just get cranky. (If you’re a Leafs/Sens/Flyers fan, however, prepare for some flirty banter. Sabres fans are highly approved of, as well. As long as you know what the hell’s going on… because I do. For example, Philly beat the Sabres in preseason Friday night 3-1, and they play again this Sunday. First regular season game’s the 8th. Know this crap and I’m yours. Possibly.)

02. Don’t be scared of me. Apparently I’m scary. Please be brave. I’m really not intimidating, I just have a loud laugh, bright hair, and a tendency to sing whenever and wherever. But it’s not in an I’m-so-great way, it’s in an I-freakin’-love-singing way. Please don’t be a wimp. That’s not hot.

03. Be smart. I don’t mean you need a degree (right now) or anything. I’m not judgmental if you don’t like school/books/education. But in my world, if you’re articulate, literate, and considerate you’re pretty well off. It’d just be a nice plus if you liked learning.

04. Don’t insist on getting in my pants right off the bat. Or right away. Or at all. I’m so over horny boys trying to “get” me. No thanks. Let me hold the reins there. If I like you enough we may get there. Eventually… maybe. Okay, when and if I damn well feel like it.

05. Don’t presume to tell me what to do. Understand that we’re each individuals. Not each others’ parents. I won’t give you instruction as long as you don’t try controlling me. Been there, and I’ll pass.

06. Romanticism is not outdated. That is all for number six.

07. And finally, please don’t call opera “shit.” Note: if you’re a musician you get bonus points. (If you sing to me, I’ll probably swoon. If you actually sing, like for real? Definitely swoon.)

That’s really all there is to it. For me, anyway. The hockey and music ones are the biggest, I think. If we can talk sports and appreciate Rachmaninov together, I’m done for.

And I don’t quite know why I’m thinking about this. I did go to Alex’s this evening and she had her gentleman friend there to spend time with some of us Eastman folks. It just makes me think, if she can handle a boy, why can’t I?

Too bad I can’t find any straight ones here. Ivana did a nice explanation tonight: she told us she had a pie chart. “Fifty percent at Eastman are gay or confused. Forty-five percent are straight but taken. Three percent are straight but weird.”

And that leaves the rare straight semi-normal two percent to ponder.

I’ll give you a statement

I hate this class.

I’m sitting here with my head spinning from lack of caffeine and wondering why anyone would want to read an academic paper in the first place, especially when the action is supported by an FML-laden, “I’m going to read your essays whether they’re brilliant… or total pieces of garbage, because I’m paid to do that.” Thanks, Professor. Now go get a job you actually want to do so I don’t have to sit here listening to you. Every word chafes, acidic little scrapes that say to me, “Just because you’re musicians, you’re not above manipulating the English language… but because you are musicians, I’m going to assume you don’t know anything about language, as well.”

Clearly we’re just stupid music geeks with superiority complexes. And obviously the reason I hate this class is my predilection to assume I’m too good to write, especially because I think I know everything but REALLY lack all knowledge whatsoever about essay composition and/or snagging myself an audience that actively reads.

Maybe I’m just a bitch this morning, maybe… maybe… shit, I don’t know. This is just so pointless. “You need to make your reader interested.” Check. Readers usually engage because in anything I write, I usually make sure I know what the hell I’m talking about first.

“Your thesis is your point.” Okay. We all know this. If anyone was not aware, they can take this hellish course instead.  I’m sick of this. I’m sick of sitting here having the theses of each classmate ripped apart in front of me. I’d rather not destroy others’ writing. I like writing. I don’t like critiquing my classmates’. It makes me uncomfortable. And According to Azzara, a classroom setting should not be threatening or intimidating. My thesis was just up on the screen, and although it’s anonymous, it’s like, come on. My tone was addressed, and apparently theses need a great deal of specificity. Whatever. It obviously doesn’t matter what I think or how I write, because I’m not educated and need the topic of thesis statements plowed into the ground until it’s just a slimy pathetic puddle whimpering on the pavement.

“You need to set up and explain the problem and then provide a resolution.” Here’s a resolution, then, or we might call it a revelation. Perhaps one should be able to notice when the majority of one’s class is b0red to tears (this ten person class is 40% Asian,  50% female, and the other boys are clever, despite always being late). One should also be able to engage the class in a pleasant manner. Also, it’s freakin’ critical that one have the ability to note and somehow proactively address significant lack of interest. Here’s a headline: NO ONE CARES, Because Everyone in this Class Already Knows About and/or Can Do What is Being Discussed.

“How does this help you with your paper?”

Well, it doesn’t. I’m not writing a paper right now. I’m blogging, and I’m pissed that an hour of my day is glommed away by this utterly pointless course. If we’re required to take a mandatory writing course, can’t we at least be offered courses that aren’t booby-trapped? Like, you should pick this one, it looks vaguely interesting, but you’ll really spend your first semester wanting to beat your head against the desk in front of you in the fruitless hope that you’ll forget the hours of torture incurred three times a week at 8:30 in the morning.

So, yeah. Just in case it wasn’t clearly outlined, I’ll reiterate: I freakin’ hate this class.

Yeah. No thanks.

Take a few and chill the hell out (badly titled, but I’m tired)

Don’t people realize what they look like? When you stand there and rant, complain, bitch, whatever you want to call it, don’t you understand you’re making yourself look like an incompetent moron in the public eye? Doesn’t it hit that no one takes you seriously?

You can’t spout hot air and expect those with common sense to utilize your knowledge.

Being spoiled does not immediately qualify you for a practice room. You’re not entitled, or above the rest of us. If the general populace has to wait five to ten minutes during rotation time for rooms, then by God, certain previously overindulged hotheads should have to suck it up as well.

If all is being done to open previously locked rooms, effective immediately, that should be satisfactory for the moment. In addition, the freshman rush will trickle down once this class learns that they will not be sent home for only putting in six hours as opposed to twenty. It’s already calmed significantly since the meeting last week, where practice room availability was discussed ad nauseum. There are actions being taken, but no swift solution.

But no, apparently it is Not Enough. Nothing can be done quickly enough to appease “the masses,” which, clearly, are breaking down the doors of Eastman to get rooms. That’s why students are rioting in the hallways and smashing pianos and screaming for more space.

Let’s be serious. Here, the music comes first. We’ve not all been previously privileged enough to assume that the practice rooms should clear when we stroll by. Most of us are musician enough and mature enough to sacrifice a little when it comes right down to it.

And let’s face it. Ten minutes in a day, to settle down, to sit down, to wait? Ten minutes to calm down and pause?

Too few of us take those moments. I’d suggest anyone really worked up about the issue to take a few and consider how much more effectively their time would be spent. Instead of complaining.

What a concept.