ishyface: (all the possibility and promise)


I started university on September 6th, 2006. I was an awkward, rumpled, mousy little thing who couldn't look anyone in the eye. I was pursuing an English degree without having any idea as to what I would do with it- I just knew I loved books and wanted to read as many of them as possible. Thinking about career opportunities and life after graduation seemed a bit pointless. I wasn't sure if I'd make it to grad. I wasn't even sure if I'd make it past my first year. This is because when I started university I was miserable, unmedicated, friendless, cripplingly shy, and an all-around sad panda who didn't like hirself very much. It seemed as though I had nothing to look forward to, up to and including getting my degree.

I graduated on May 24th, 2011. I expected to have a lot of Big Feelings on my way across the stage, but mostly I felt a little nervous (and a lot embarrassed for having buttoned up my cardigan wrong). Most of my Big Feelings are happening now, days after the fact. And my Big Feelings are mostly that I'm fucking rad.

I am twenty-two years old. I have a degree and kept an A average throughout all five years of my program. I've written five novels. I am planning on going to grad school. I'm medicated. I made it out of university without getting into debt. I have fantastic friends and a beautiful, funny fiancee, as well as a pet mouse and a bunny and, as of this afternoon, a cat (!!!). I'm smart, I'm cute, I make people laugh, I can cook and play chess and recite "Jabberwocky" even when I'm blitzed out of my skull. (Especially then.) I'm pretty fucking awesome, all things considered. And as much as B.A.s are useless in the "real world"- which is a place I've never been and never plan to go- I feel like when I'm having a bad day and I forget all the things that make me awesome I'll be able to look at that degree and remember, oh yeah, I did that.

And that's pretty great.

Regret nothing. Not the cruel novels you read
to the end just to find out who killed the cook.
Not the insipid movies that made you cry in the dark,
in spite of your intelligence, your sophistication.
Not the lover you left quivering in a hotel parking lot,
the one you beat to the punchline, the door, or the one
who left you in your red dress and shoes, the ones
that crimped your toes, don't regret those.
Not the nights you called god names and cursed
your mother, sunk like a dog in the livingroom couch,
chewing your nails and crushed by loneliness.
You were meant to inhale those smoky nights
over a bottle of flat beer, to sweep stuck onion rings
across the dirty restaurant floor, to wear the frayed
coat with its loose buttons, its pockets full of struck matches.
You've walked those streets a thousand times and still
you end up here. Regret none of it, not one
of the wasted days you wanted to know nothing,
when the lights from the carnival rides
were the only stars you believed in, loving them
for their uselessness, not wanting to be saved.
You've traveled this far on the back of every mistake,
ridden in dark-eyed and morose but calm as a house
after the TV set has been pitched out the upstairs
window. Harmless as a broken ax. Emptied
of expectation. Relax. Don't bother remembering
any of it. Let's stop here, under the lit sign
on the corner, and watch all the people walk by.

- "Antilamentation," Dorianne Laux
ishyface: (reading is neat)
I am about to leave for the last exam I will ever take as an undergrad.

Wish me luck.
ishyface: (Default)
Take a picture of yourself right now.
Don't change your clothes, don't fix your hair... just take a picture.
Post that picture with NO editing.
Post these instructions with your picture.

Photobucket

I remember in my last year of high school a friend told me that he couldn't look directly at my face because my eyes were too creepy. It kind of hurt my feelings at the time, but... um... I understand now. Helloooo, creepy stalker eyes. (Of course, this was also the guy who told me that I was "like a fish, if fish were really smart." And he was one of my NON-stoner friends, too. So.)

I have less than twenty-four hours to finish an explication du texte for Protagoras, so if I'm around a lot today it's because I am adamantly refusing to do actual work. FIGHT THE POWER. OR, YOU KNOW, BE LAZY. EITHER OR.

Also, I just found a new favourite song: Marching Band- Travel In Time. I have no idea how it ended up on my computer, but I'm glad it did. Here are the lyrics. )
ishyface: (Default)
LADIES AND GENTLEMEN

(AND WHOEVER ELSE MAY BE IN THE HOUSE THIS EVENING)

I HAVE FOUND A WAY TO SUBTLY ADVERTISE MY QUEERNESS TO ANY AND ALL SPACE ALIENS PASSING THROUGH THE VICINITY.

SERIOUSLY YOU COULD PROBABLY SEE THIS FROM SPACE THAT'S HOW GAY IT IS. )

ALSO WHILE WE ARE AT IT, A FRANK IERO-RELATED PICTURE THAT NEVER FAILS TO MAKE ME LOL. )

Things I learned today: In St. John's, the way to determine which bus to take is not by looking at the route number, or by reading the route description, or by judging where that very same bus went the day before, but by MAGIC. On the plus side, I now know how to get to the opposite end of the city should the need ever arise!

I also learned that MUN has an English Society (+10 pts) that holds movie nights* (+25 pts) and an annual masque (+100 000 000 000 000 PTS AND A FREE SCHOLARSHIP).

Uggggggh I feel sluggish and unimpressive today. SOMEONE SHOULD AMUSE ME. POSSIBLY WITH PICTURES OF AND/OR STORIES ABOUT DELIGHTFUL FOLKS. /demanding

* On the roster for the next movie night? V For Vendetta. a;lsjajlf YAY.
ishyface: (huh?)
I was avoiding working on my final American Lit paper when I found a story I started to write last year, ripped off of based on a popular children's book.

I call it 'The Extremely Voracious College Student.' )

Also, found in a file called "youwinuniverse":

Every now and again I sigh wistfully to myself and think of how nice it would be to take some time- a week, a month, ten years, no biggie- to just sit down and write something I could really be proud of. No excuses, no interruptions, no problem.

Then I realize that in the middle of just thinking that, I took a twenty-minute break to play Solitaire.

Not that this is indicative of the progress I'm making on this essay. Or anything. Besides, I'm playing Minesweeper.

ETA: Overheard in the living room a few minutes ago.

"I saw him today, and all I could think about was his sperm."

... UM.
ishyface: (Default)
Tonight, on a very special episode of "What Is Ish Doing to Hir Poor, Poor Body Now?": Sleep is for losers, Full Throttle and all-night essay dance parties are for winners!

ETA: It seems that my essay is unwilling to write itself while I sit back and watch YouTube videos.

I did not foresee this academic hurdle. Hmm.
ishyface: (feeling excited)
Marine biology majors: Tend to gravitate towards dolphin-shaped pendants. Most of them own at least two copies of Free Willy (DVD and VHS).

Chemistry majors: Somehow manage to both be intensely dedicated to their studies and flighty as nervous squirrels. Also, pretty much the cutest people in the whole world, in their little lab coats.

Environmental studies majors: Usually smell like pine. Rarely wear socks. Probably eat healthy cereal, the bastards.

Visual arts majors: Almost as overworked as the theatre kids, but generally more cheerful. Upon walking into a room full of them, prepare to be overwhelmed by the smell of patchouli oil and marijuana. All VA kids have at least one article of clothing that is a) tie-dyed, b) cloud-patterned, or c) made of hemp. If you complete your BFA and go on to make real, actual money, you will be shunned forever.

Nursing students: Have proven to be as elusive as the glorious manatee. However, research states that they spend most of their days hooking up with bald surgeons and verbally sparring with angry alcoholic doctors.*

French majors: The chess club of university. Possibly paste-eaters as children.

History majors: You know those kids who used to research their family trees for fun? This is what they become. They will all grow up to write books that no one reads but everyone cites in bibliographies. Because of this they tend to regard one another with suspicion and distrust, always afraid that other history majors are out to steal their sexy, sexy thesis.

English majors: They love the sweater vests. Love them. Almost as much as they love Michael Ondaatje. Tend to correct people's grammar, especially along "You mean my mother and I..." lines. Also, total assholes.

Social/Cultural studies majors: People who couldn't pick a major and stick with it. Most have crippling inferiority complexes because of this. Those who don't tend to babble on for hours about the Freudian undertones of "Little Red Riding Hood." If you are me, you will love this.

Theatre majors: High-strung, caffeine-addicted, propensity to sudden sobbing fits and the shakes. Precious, overworked little darlings.

Psychology majors: Collectively, devil-people. Do not eat lunch with them. They will know what you're thinking the whole time.

* Okay, fine, so "research" is Scrubs.
ishyface: (Default)
Bart: Nothing you say can upset us. We're the MTV generation.
Lisa: We feel neither highs nor lows.
Homer: Really? What's it like?
Lisa: *shrugs* Meh.

Today's Spud of Wisdom: Student unions are anti-democracy.

In other news, I have decided that the pinnacle of luxury is cereal, with milk. In a bowl. With a spoon.
ishyface: (feeling casual)
It had been a good education, too. But it had only been later on that she'd realized that iot had been an education in, well, education. It meant that if anyone ever needed to calculate the volume of a cone, then they could confidently call on Susan Sto-Helit. Anyone at a loss to recall the campaigns of General Tacticus or the square root of 27.4 would not find her wanting. If you needed someone who could talk about household items and things to buy in the shops in five languages, then Susan was at the head of the queue. Education had been easy.

Learning things had been harder.

Getting an education was a bit like a communicable sexual disease. It made you unsuitable for a lot of jobs and then you had the urge to pass it on.

- Hogfather, by Terry Pratchett

There you go. If, in ten years, I am working as a governess for Ankh-Morpork's middle class and moonlighting as the anthropomorphic personification of Death, it's college's fault.

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