but geez, colleges are worse. I just got a fancy email yesterday telling me I had to be at a meeting, on Monday, by 1:15 PM even though check-ins aren’t until 7:00PM. Time to change my schedule and find a new mode of transportation to a destination six hours away.
This reminds me of pop tests by a certain science teacher. *cough* physics *cough*
Way to go College! Let’s all get excited!
Hitting the facts: I graduated – two weeks ago (exactly).
I guess that counts as an escapade, but it didn’t feel so special. I didn’t throw my cap – only the most obnoxious of the class did that, and most of them at the wrong time (before the alma mater… fail). I didn’t cry. I didn’t even feel particularly proud of myself for anything. I took five AP exams the two weeks prior and wanted nothing better than to nap during the ceremony.
This feel like the opposite of what graduation should feel like. Many of the students, now alumni, within my earshot remained quite satisfied with the result of their four years, but I’m not. That is not to say that I feel as if I have accomplished nothing in high school, but I would like to know what exactly this appropriate elation stems from, as I don’t experience it.
In a sense, it may be the genuine circle youth life seems to follow. Yes, I have just graduated from a four year, government regulated institution. Yes, I am about to go to college, another four year, government regulated institution. I’m going round and round in the same sequence of gaining skills and taking long amounts of time to do it.
Any ideas? I do feel like a rather jaded young lady. I haven’t even included any gifs today.
For the record, I don’t really have nightmares often, but my dreams still stack up with the weirdest out there. I’ve been shanked, in a matrix slow motion fight scene with Ppeogigayo and another acquaintance (fighting against secret government agents trying to kill my brother-turned-monster), stuck in a silent scene staring at another person in the dark for a long period of time with varying emotions (twice, with two different people), a member of a world touring break crew, taken on a whirlwind tour through multiple countries, and subjected to taking a passed out drunk man, though a very suavely handsome one, to my apartment, dream-apartment that is, because the bar owner was sick of doing it and we had no idea where he lived.
I won’t go on about any more, except for the one this post centers on, but you have to admit… that’s a pretty awkward set of dreams, taking note that many of them, even “drunk man,” include celebrity figures I will not mention.
Here is last night’s dream:
Location: Waterbury, CT [Where I was born, not where I live]
Players: Myself, Ppeogigayo, friend named David, friend named Alex, a young man by the name of “Classy Shirt Kid” (CSK), one by the name of Kevin, and random children (makes sense later).
So let’s start!
I’m sitting in the apartment kitchen with my parents and grandmother eating breakfast – not so exciting. My grandmother decides to make some snide comments and, being so short tempered, I say a few… words, then leave the apartment, taking to the streets around a park [I have no idea if this park really exists or not; sorry CT residents.].
I notice a child running in a yellow dress who looks like the 1st grade version of Ppeogigayo (it is). By the time I reach the girl I have also reverted back into a six year old. We wander off into the woods to find a clearing with a bunch of other kids, some we know, some we don’t.
We greet David, Alex and CSK, all of whom we can still somehow identify, and ask for more information on our situation. They have none. We ask other random children in our awkward lispy voices. They don’t know either.
Suddenly Kevin comes running out, spared of this reverse aging process, and all the children stop babbling. He stands on a tree trunk (this dream is SO creative) and starts yelling for myself and Ppeogigayo by name. Squishing our way forward, we attempt to make him acknowledge that we still retain some of our true age intellect through the childlike simplicity.
When he just stares at us, I try to pull his pant leg for attention, but he kneels on the ground and starts crying. I don’t really think this is a “he made it rain” kind of moment, though it would be boss if Kevin could control the weather, but it starts pouring and a branch falls off one of the trees.
*Random blackout dream lapse*
I wake to find myself, at current age, sitting next to a sleeping Kevin under the tree where the branch fell. His feet are propped on the tree stump. A dream within a dream? Not so much. He’s still wearing the same clothes, and we’re both soaked and covered in dirt. There’s a basketball field a ways off and the three boys are having a game with some others, also their real ages. Ppeogigayo disappeared somewhere – I think she’s climbing a tree to be honest, but there’s a yellow ribbon a few yards from my bare feet.
Kevin stirs a little, then yawns with arms stretched towards the boughs and a scrunched face. He reaches for his toes before noticing me.
“Bwah! You’re normal!” He exclaims and hugs me.
“Excuse me?” I choke out while he crushes me. “Why are we so dirty?”
“Was I dreaming?” his nose crinkles as he crosses his arms.
“Did you think I was six years old?”
He squints at me and nods.
–—–—–—
That was basically my dream. I shortened it a bit and took a few parts out, trying for brevity, but I hope you found it as entertaining as I did when I woke up. I only wish I could have better explained the physical vibrancies that characterized this dream, but that would have required much too much figurative language and I’d rather not delve into that kind of writing today.
Tomorrow is Easter. I am not excited. In response to my minor legal status, my parents still retain the authority to drag me to church on holidays to my great displeasure. I don’t have an issue with being Catholic; I have an issue with church. I don’t fancy being asked to donate money for parking lots and expansions that I don’t care about, but everyone else finds so important, and then being spurned for believing in children’s education and those drives dedicated to eradication of any of the various diseases they correlate to.
But, of course, I’m the blasphemous one. Over the years, I’ve slowly silenced every note of song, every ritual line, and shut my ears to sermons at mass, merely to shun, not a widely practiced religion, but those who speak it whose words and actions seem at ends with their preaching. I would still love to understand why this is a certain evil. In a practice of self-enlightenment, I’ve supposedly “condemned” myself, nevertheless, Virgil and Socrates didn’t make it to heaven now did they?
Upon these reasons, I have decided to change my religion. Call it pagan idolatry if you wish, I’m not concerned. My religion: I am now a devout Dongbangist. Yes, my belief now, and has, functioned over a divided and stressing period, not that I truly allow myself enjoyment of the naive hope for reunification, yet I still believe.
In Dongbangism, I’ve found a reawakened voice competent in alighting inner humanity, creativity, emotionality, musicality, and an endeared spark for life, mainly stemming from it’s function as the object for a jaded soul to latch onto. Nevertheless, isn’t that how all religions work?
In a significant irony, even as a Dongbangist, I am blasphemous. I betray my V.I.P. status, but I’ll take that consequence, as it seems I will never win.
To not carry this tirade on any further, I’ll settle with a single statement.
“Proudly shipping the five gods of the east now and forever, amen.”
(Oh God, this is so blasphemous.) <—Double Blasphemy :3
Mars: One, tri-po-let, three, four, five-and\ One, tri-po-let, three, four, five-and\ One, tri-po-let, three, four, five-and\ One, tri-po-let, three, four, five-and\
ONE – – – – \- – – FOUR –\ ONE – – – –
Jupiter: One-and and\ and two\ one-e-and-a-two\ one two-and\ one-e-and-a two-and\ one and and\ rest, TWO.\- -\ – rest\ one and and\ and two\ one-and-two-and.
A Translation:
Mars: I am inhuman yes I am\ war inhuman yes I am war\ I am inhuman yes I am\ war inhuman yes I am war.
I – – – – \ – – – AM – \ WAR – – – –
Jupiter: Look at Mars\ he’s weird\ why should I have\ such family.\ What did I do to deserve this?\ rest, OH\HH\H, rest\ I raped my\ own wife.\ That might be it.
There you have it, my Tuesday night in a nutshell. Of course, Tchaikovsky, Saint-Saëns, Revel, and Rimsky-Korsakov selections were also on the program, but I find an obligation in creating narration for these two ubiquitous movements of The Planets by Holst. Admitting this was not at all what I was thinking while on stage, I respectfully concede that it would be ever inappropriate to exaggerate my thoughts during Bolero.
Can you tell I don’t like high places yet? -_-;;
I believe the entire concept of Senioritis must be a lie, because I have brilliantly disproved it. By “brilliantly,” I mean that I have utterly doomed myself to an unending work cycle under the blasted delusion of optimism. It’s 2:12 AM on a Sunday and all I can say is that I needed a break from online government work, so I am writing a warning to any who will read – do not ever take a ten credit course-load in high school. If you take general credits you may actually get some sleep, but don’t try to populate a routine with five AP courses, honors classes and two periods of ensemble studies (so tired as to forgo the Oxford comma).
If this seems a tad dismal for the wee hours of the morning, I apologize, as my vision seems, ah, there’s a word for it, it’s like milkglass… opaline. I understand that this live writer assumes that the word doesn’t exist and would rather have “opalescent” in its place, but Faulkner didn’t write that. See, that is what classes and sleep deprivation do to a person; you recall books from previous years just for a specific piece of diction or some idea or another just to understand the situation at hand, yet nothing comes out of it other than the conclusion that there is still work to be done and this particular distraction is merely that, a distraction and exemplification of procrastination.
It’s not that I’m lazy; I’m just not a lazy person, but I’m tired, and tired does not sit well. It makes one feel old, ages older than time decrees. The joints ache and the head aches and doesn’t remember well.
So please take that advice: overwork reaps no rewards, and “Nothing comes of nothing.” Too much work as a child, even in preparation for adulthood, only deprives the childhood and the basis of experience, naivety. Leave “work” to the matured and have fun some time.
Now I’m charged with returning to work after this tangent without bothering to proofread. Farewell for now, developments will continue as planned until this site makes more sense.
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