Cows on 'Shrooms

This post is dedicated to Charlotte Melbinger for being bored and pushy, and also for being in all likelihood, the only person who reads this piece of crap.

So, for one of my summer internships, I'm working for a small documentary filmmaker. What she does is put together documentaries about her clients' lifestories. What I do is menial tasks on FCP. But hey--it's an internship. It keeps me off the streets. It doesn't mean that I have to be mentally stimulated.

The point here is that, through my menial tasks on FCP, I have learned minute details about the lives of people I will never, ever meet--people who don't even know I exist! I cut together photo montages set to Michael Buble songs and learn the beats of a stranger's history to "Come Fly With Me". I know about Mansukh Shah and the loss of his wife back in the early 90s. I know how the Berman's disagree on everything except religion. I know how Reggie escaped from the Nazi invasions of Poland during WWII by hiding in a burned-out shed. I am OMNISCIENT.

It's kind of creepy. Can you imagine the extreme levels of awkwardness that would ensue if I ever met any of these people? I am an awkward beast (phrase brought to you by your sponsor, Charlotte Melbinger) to begin with. This is just ripe for disaster.

Just think about it. We've all been in this situation before. Clear your mind. Think back to a time when you were told something very personal about someone who has never even met you. When you are finally introduced, do you 1.) pretend you know absolutely nothing about them? 2.) Do you try to work that detail into the conversation to provide friendship-fodder? 3.) Or do you blurt it out like some kind of cow on 'shrooms? (I've never seen a cow on 'shrooms, but I think that if they were, and if they could talk, they would act like that.)

Because I secretly imagine myself to be some kind of lady-American-20-year-old James Bond, I usually try to do choice 1. Then that becomes to hard because in my head is a little voice that's jumping up and down and screaming something like "SHE KNOWS YOUR FRIEND! SHE KNOWS YOUR FRIEND!" or "HE'S ALSO A HUGE FAN OF THAT TV SHOW YOU LIKE!" or "HER ROOMMATE ALWAYS HEARS HER HAVING LOUD SEX THROUGH THE WALL!"

The voice and the jumping works me up like that one time I got pumped at a Spirit Rally back in 9th grade. I start diving into the conversation with far too much eagerness, and I try for choice 2--trying to gently steer the topic towards that thing I know about them. Of course, I am not subtle, so I end up stumbling into choice 3 without intending it. We may have been discussing world events (horrifying), or the state of Northwestern's laundry machines (horrifying), or Gary Busey (mother-of-God-pants-shitting-terrifying)--it doesn't matter. With no segue, no tact, I will say something like "SO DO YOU KNOW ALPHONSE?!" And the person will stare at me for a second because I am suddenly wayyyy too close to their face and my eyes are wide and I am not blinking and I am grinning too much.

If the unlucky person is kind, then they'll do their best to carry on the conversation and I may even make a new friend! (Good for Caitlin).

And THAT'S just meeting new people in college! Imagine succumbing to this while talking to real adults! "SO HOW ABOUT THAT WORLD WAR II, HUH? THOSE NAZIS SUCK OR WHAT?"

That's Gary-Busey levels of horrifying.

News Bulletin

TODAY ALONE I HAVE:
-Banged my head against a cabinet. Twice.
-Bruised my knee
-Sprained my ankle
-Accidentally hit my sister in the face

Obviously my sense of spatial awareness is reliant on my being in the Midwest.

Taking this into account, over the next three months I will probably:
-Break every bone in my body
-Blow up my house
-Inadvertently cause the nuclear holocaust

Keep an eye on the news, folks.

I'm leaving on a jet plane!

Everyone I know is packing today.

It's actually kind of fun. I can wander into any one of my friend's rooms and scream the words "I FUCKING HATE PACKING," and they will understand me with the deepest depths of their souls. Because they, too, fucking hate packing.

This is another one of the myriad ways that going to school so far away sucks. Not only is it pretty near impossible to see my family with any sort of frequency, but getting shit back and forth from Chicago to DC is SUCH a pain in the ass! I see parents helping their kids move out, loading things into cars and driving away--cramped, maybe, but much, much more flexible--and I want to hijack the cars. Hey, I have a passable sense of direction (that is a lie). I could probably find my way back to DC in a car (also a lie. I would be killed and eaten by hill-people).

But car or no car, packing sucks. For me, it's basically the way I am forced to admit to myself that my life is made up of two behemoth suitcases, a backpack, and a mini-fridge that is possibly older than I am. And then all that extra crap that I am currently tearing my hair out over fitting into my bags (how did I get TWO toy llamas? Where the hell do I put this goblet? WHAT IS MY LIFE?)

There are, of course, ways to make packing less awful. Most of them involve alcohol, and I'm not brave enough to attempt drunk packing. I'd probably end up decorating my room with underwear and keeping only one out of every pair of shoes to save space.

No, I'm keeping my sanity by doing what I'm best at--mainlining television shows. Old episodes of "Bones," to be specific. Gotta love that Netflix instant-play. But the problem is that television can incapacitate me as much as alcohol. I just caught myself taking things OUT of my suitcase and putting them in my drawers because I was distracted by Zack (oh no, Zack!) That is not how packing works. That is the opposite of how packing works.

Or I could kill time by doing what I'm doing right now: messing around on the computer while surrounded by suitcases instead of thinking about what I'm supposed to do with all my hangars (I'm thinking a modern-art sculpture, but that might be the "Bones" talking).