The Scream

So Smith College (like many other schools, I imagine) has this thing called "The Scream" where everyone basically screams in unison on the eve, I think, of finals, and it just happened. And it was super obnoxious because a) I don't really have any finals, so I didn't have anything to scream about and b) even if I did have finals, I wouldn't have screamed. And now, after a less then thrilling day, I am beginning to realize, once again, how much I fucked up this semester. The strange part is that I really have no idea how I got to be where I am right now. I suppose thinking about it too long or hard can't be extremely productive, though. Therapy will be a much better context for that, and I plan on starting that up immediately upon my return home. But I think I want to start fresh and find a new therapist. That is simultaneously daunting and exciting. I don't really know where to look. Actually, I take that back. I'm certain Connie (my on-again, off-again psychologist of many, many years) will refer me to someone extremely respectable, but I just feel bad asking her. That's like breaking up with your hairdresser, and anyone who has ever become remotely involved with a regular hairdresser knows how horrible that can be. It's awful. The worst.

Where was I going with that? Oh yeah, I'm gonna be all about getting my mental health in tip-top shape when I'm at home, which only seems mildly ironic since I tend to be less sane at home, but somehow I have a feeling this is all going to work out. So nicely...

So Jax just came into my room - she is pretty much going crazy with the massive amount of work she has to do with finals and such. And she has this huge bitch of a paper due tomorrow that she is just now starting. The problem is that she just realized all the primary sources she has been gathering up over the past week are actually not in English. They are in German. All I could think to say was, "Damn, I'd really hate to be in your shoes right now." Fortunately, I didn't say that, though.

Totally unrelated, I would just like to note that I am not the kind of girl that people tend to hit on. Really and truly. I don't even know what that means - "not the kind of girl" - but trust me, it rarely happens. In the past few weeks, though, I've encountered more strange (if not awkward) situations where people have tried to hit on me than ever before in my life, and I think it's extremely bizarre. It all goes back to this really incredible story related to the first time I took Angela to Boston. We were riding the T when this middle-aged hispanic man started making eyes at us. After some unnecessarily long glances in our general direction, he said, "You girls are so pretty. You must have many boyfriend." Now, what is a girl (or two girls, in this case) to say in response to that sort of comment? We could only laugh uncomfortably and let out an awkward, "Thanks." But then (and this one takes the cake to be sure), he looked directly at Angela and said, "Your eyes are so pretty. I wish I could trade them with mine, then I would have many girlfriend." Wow. W-O-W! That is all I can say.

But getting back to all this unncessary hitting on Jen Paul business...it's been weird to say the least. It happened at the M83 show, where this relatively good-looking boy (who was probably in high school, because all the good-looking ones are...) had the guts to compliment my hair as a segway into a semi-normal conversation. He talked at length about my hair, which was mildly hysterical, and then started commenting on how incredible M83 was, etc. He wasn't a questionable young man, so I was actually pretty impressed that he found the courage to approach me, but there have been plenty of other instances where I was beside myself just thinking about how fucking weird (and sketchy) people can be when they try to hit on other people. Namely if they are homeless. Ha-haaa! I guess what I'm trying to say is that I have been flattered much more than usual lately, and it's been refreshing, comical, and alienating in varying degrees. And since I could stand to take a lesson or two in Confidence 101, it's made me think a little bit about why it's pretty hurting that I'm always so hard on myself. Ahem, moving on...

My mom called me tonight very excited at the prospect of seeing Elton John this weekend. She has apparently never seen him in concert before, and somehow she managed to convince Bob Nordheim (my illustrious step-dad) to go with her. She is so silly, but I can't fucking wait to be home. Really. I am so looking forward to giving her the best, longest hug ever, and then dashing up the stairs to play with my cats (sans Missy...). Then I'll put in a little face time with the bros and my dad. I won't have to worry about any big "Hello, I missed you!" to-dos with Bob, though, since he and I are driving home together. That's right, Bob and I are driving across the country together, and while a road trip with friends could've been extremely wild, I'm confident I'll have other chances to do that, and this trip with Bob could very well just change my life. Forever.

This is Bob:

Leather jacket w/ sleeves attached.

Leather jacket w/o sleeves attached.

Jealous? You should be.

Anyway, I had so many funny stories to tell you, but these damn pictures of Bob made me forget them all. More later...