Friends, let me just say that this post will most likely not be filled with lush visions of happy ponies galloping through verdant fields, dotted with yellow daffodils swaying delicately in the breeze.
It’s mostly going to be visions of me alone in my dorm room under the warm clutches of my hot pink Slanket, still listening to Vampire Weekend, with me galloping momentarily from my myriad blankets to the dark chocolate bar hidden in my desk, whose shiny wrapper is shining like a beacon to me.
Oh, wait. And there are photos to prove this.
My mother is so proud of me and my time-management. 🙂
So, in short, this post has the potential to sound like a heartfelt conversation with Dr. Phil or Tyra, although the latter would include a heartfelt “Heck yeah, sistah!” and a new makeover after said heart-to-heart. Which would be nice. Homegirl over here always needs a new weave, but that is not integral to the subject at hand.
Perhaps I’ve been listening to too much Vampire Weekend. Perhaps I let the feisty siren of my pink Slanket lure me into an anti-social Saturday night such as tonight is turning out to be. Perhaps a good ol’ “Heck yeah, sistuh!”, a hearty fist pump and new weave are needed tonight to get me out of this slump of sorts.
Perhaps the old cliché of “someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning” is true in this case. Except it would be more like “someone woke up around 4 hours later than they usually do, and then proceeded to unknowingly wash their hair with toothpaste this morning, only to find out 8 hours later”.
What a glorious cliché that would be!
But aside from that, I can honestly say that I’m happy despite my periodic ventures into the days where productivity means being able to cross off “shower” and “eat chocolate bar” are the only tasks done of the day and you’ve only left your room to go get ice to make an iced coffee and climb a tree. Which is exactly what I did today. And it was great for the most part, until the night came, that is.
You see, I guess I’m like the Ernest Hemingway my martinet English teacher (she’d be so proud I used the word “martinet”) always described to me when we read “A Farewell to Arms”, his main character being strongly based off of himself; scared of the night because it was the height of loneliness and vulnerability.
Although it looks like ol’ Ernest isn’t vulnerable to suspect bathroom-dwelling ambushers?
Now, I’m not saying that I’m somehow afraid of the night and vulnerable to its mysticism, but seriously, its mysticism has a way to make me think less “Harry Potter” and more “Holy crap, free me from this boredom. I’m so bored I’m attempting to relate myself to Ernest Hemingway in a blog post”.
Although I wouldn’t be insulted to be compared to this version of ol’ Ernie.
You see, I’m a lot more different from my contemporaries in that the nights I spend reading, watching movies with friends, or just gallivanting around the town looking for the best swing-set in the area drastically outnumber the nights that I don’t remember because of Jim-Beam induced hazes or various permutations of acronyms taken by the handful. And I’m not trying to say that I’m self-righteous, which I really try not to be. It’s just that I find my fun elsewhere, which as an 18-year old girl in college is a very hard thing to do at times, as a lot of other people find their fun in ways that I don’t really enjoy doing at all.
Not very many people my age are satisfied with going on walks to swing-sets, testing which ones are the most aero-dynamic (along with other qualities needed for maximum heights), watching an episode of “30 Rock” or otherwise going on an adventure that is fun outside of the promises of pills with confusing acronyms.
Which can be hard at times to deal with, especially with the fact that I’m very much my own astrological sign (Pisces) and I have an intense case of Peter Pan Syndrome. Which I think is great, because even at the age of 18 I still haven’t lost my sense of child-like wonder, and I don’t need it served to me in a sketchy red cup or a pill.
But I’m lucky that I do have friends who don’t mind escapades to test the quality of sw
ing-sets and hold a balance between that and dancing on tables, staying out until the early morn with a ridiculous costume on. Which all of the following do find their way into my Saturday nights from time to time.
I guess I just need to roll with the punches of an Ernest Hemingway style Saturday night and be patient until the day when Tyra Banks comes in stage right with a new weave for yours truly and the table dancing can commence.
Until then, that chocolate bar seriously has no chance.
Isn’t it funny how toothpaste in your hair can have such an effect on your day? 🙂