My school, work and internship schedule have left me absolutely exhausted at the end of the day and while I know there are six-year-olds in China working 75 hour weeks in sweatshops just to make ends meet, I am still too tired to post a blog entry (or to find out whether the previous sentence is grammatically correct). I complain but I couldn’t be happier. My tiredness is the direct result of my doing things. So, ultimately, I am content that my exhaustion is because I am being productive and not because I work at a sweatshop for pathetic wages (although I’m sure one could make a convincing argument that entry level positions for graduates are pretty pathetic).

For the most part, I can refrain from saying or doing totally stupid things. Yesterday, however, I stuttered, I stumbled, I asked stupid questions and practically pantomimed my way through all of my tasks. It was as if I had forgotten how to be normal, functional human being. Compliments from friends and strangers never fail to embarrass me. Normal people would accept a compliment with grace and gratitude, then carry on in the conversation as if nothing happened. But for me, compliments are life-altering events (like a lunar eclipse) and I put so much emphasis on my response that I can’t seem to control the urge to be completely awkward. I just don’t know what to do with them. Kind of like children.

In my course, Editing Essentials, we’re learning the basic structure and function of sentences. The material sounds fairly simple, even juvenile, but it’s discouraging to find out how much I don’t know. I’m grateful that the course is challenging but this also means that I’ve discovered something new about myself: I seriously don’t care about grammar. I’m sure once I understand the material, I’ll have a much better opinion of modifying modifiers or whatever. To conclude, I love school but school does not necessarily love me.

On a vastly unrelated note, I had a chocolate chip cookie before lunch today and it was delicious.

On our way out to an afternoon barbeque, my boyfriend and I noticed a small, bright yellow bird (my first guess is that this is a parakeet) sitting in the gutter of my driveway. It was too pretty and colorful to be an average wild bird so we both concluded that it was surely someone’s pet that had somehow escaped. After snapping a few photos, we figured the wings were clipped and tried an approach but the bird promptly fluttered up and out of our reach. It landed rather perfunctorily in our neighbor’s driveway and nibbled at nearby seeds. Despite our efforts to lure it with bread crumbs and trap it with an umbrella, it perched itself on a rooftop and was decidedly ready to die in the massive suburban ecosystem. After a few moments, we decided our attempts to recapture the escapee were futile. So long, sucker. I would’ve treated you like a king.

The episode rekindled my persistent desire to own a bird and I am now determined to purchase one. I’ve never had a bird before so Googling for just the right breed is important. I recieved mixed results on the best breeds and the level of maintenance involved in caring for a bird. But the majority of bird owners irk me, particularly those who allow birds to peck at their teeth, eat seeds off their heads or create web pages completely decorated in prayers for animals (I would think the novelty of a bird in a shirt pocket would have worn off by now but people seem to think this is a neat new trick). I’m narrowing my interests to the cockatiel and the adorably bright lovebirds. I probably won’t actually make a purchase until sometime in my fall semester when I’ve managed to pay off all my credit card bills and long after I’ve grown sick and tired of my DS Lite (which, by the way, should come in tomorrow). If only they had a pet bird simulation game on the DS Lite, I would be set.

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I’m often considered a lunatic for the amount of reading that I do as an English major. After my blunder yesterday afternoon, I’m inclined to believe that I have lost my mind a little. I went to my Sexuality in Film and Literature course as usual and settled into the only available chair. The instructor hadn’t shown up yet and my classmates were conversing among themselves. A girl next to me caught my attention and asked me, “So, have you done any of the reading?”

She didn’t look familiar but I introduced myself and told her that yes, the reading was terrible. I complained about how fanboy-ish Sweet Prince seemed to me and how I couldn’t warm up to his rehasing of Shakespeare’s play. I made a big show of my annoyance hoping to recieve a similar reply. She gave me a funny look and asked, “What class are you in?”

It turned out, I wasn’t just in the wrong classroom, I was on a different floor entirely. I can’t decided which is funnier: my stupified expression when she explained to me that the class I was sitting in was actually Senior Capstone or my attempt to laugh it off and exit the room as if I had known all along (”Ha Ha, joke’s on YOU!”).
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Tonight, for my Dante’s The Divine Comedy Course, I’m considering drawing up a campus map with arrows and different colored buildings to help me get to my destination without incident.

I’m up to Canto V in Dante’s Inferno and I’m not sure how to interpret everything I’m reading. There’s so much to dissect that I’m lost among analogies and imperceptible symbols. There are numerous references to Greek and Roman legends that are, for the most part, only vaguely familiar. I recognized only Tristan who’s sharing space in the second level of Dante’s hell with all the other lustful sinners of ancient times. I guess we know what that means (I’ll give you a hint: he dies!).

I haven’t touched a thread of yarn or sent a single postcard. I’m pretty disappointed with how slowly I’ve worked on the scarf for my mother. I just haven’t had time to complete it but maybe she can wear it to the beach.