Finals Week Pt. 1
At some point, I have to do real blogging again.
Not today.
In the fashion of Jen England, I said to a pissy pidgeon,
“Come at me, bro.”
Out loud. Out loud. With other people, strangers, around me.
This is my life now. My mediocre, pidgeon scolding life.
Jen advises I should embrace it. “It’s the only way they’ll learn.”
I question this advice, but, it’s the best advice I have now.
(via Beelog)Update on Day 1 of the Tights Are Not Pants UNH guerilla leafletting campaign. I’ve recently banded together with several colleagues to stop the plight of the tights-as-pants phenomenon occurring at college campuses all across the country, perhaps the world. Today I left some flyers at several key locations in the University student union lunch area. You can do the same! Click the image above to go to the official campaign website (not sure who created this masterpiece) to download your own press kit. Good places are next to the trash stations, where everyone who throws their food waste away is forced to look at the message. Today I witnessed several groups of people note the flyers, start chuckling and then trot off to tell their friends. One young lady who worked in the food area picked up the flyer and took it with her. Several minutes later I heard her co-workers talking about it. Some guy also working back there was berating a different girl for wearing tights with a UNH shirt to work. She looked down at herself and retorted, “These aren’t tights! They’re leggings!” But the guy looked dubious and I think she’ll think twice before wearing them solely as pants again. Mission accomplished! But so much left to do…
Big Moods
I don’t know the trigger: the move, end of the semester stress, familial stress, or just the natural course of my illness. For the last two weeks, I’ve been managing a mixed episode. I’m new to this. Mania, yes, I got you. Depression, no worries (see what I did there?) On the one hand, I’ve been productive, I have a lot of ideas, energy, social charisma, and courage. But I also deal with insomnia, feelings of emptiness and despair. Just an hour ago, I was writing and chatting—being merry. I was crying moments before I decided to blog. I admit: this one is hard. I wish I was in Greensboro. I had (have?) a support group. In other words, I’m a hot mess. My heart is pounding and still I cry. I feel ridiculous, childish, unable to control my emotions and behavior. Something so pathetic in that. I don’t want to go to bed, but I want to sleep. And if I sleep, I want to sleep all day. But I want to go to my classes. See how this works? That’s where I am. Where are you?
How I’m feeling about poetry and sonnets and other writing stuffs
Shall I compare thee to a metaphor?
