hello, good friend

I spent this morning on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, guzzling coffee and watching The Today Show. My cell phone alarm had sounded at 8:30 a.m., much earlier than my sleeping self anticipated, and I stumbled out of bed (literally – I’m on the top bunk and missed the lower rung) in a groggy state of pseudo existence. I didn’t bother with turning on the lights or opening the shades, preferring to leave my roommate’s younger sister – our weekend visitor – blissfully unaware of the post-dawn day. My roommates were nowhere to be found. (Ah yes, the concept termed “classes” rings a bell) I stumbled to the living room, groping the walls for light switches. The refrigerator light temporarily blinded me as I searched for milk. I shoved down multiple, consecutive bowls of Corn Flakes to stay awake; my eyes weren’t yet open. Somehow I brewed a pot of coffee, traversed our cluttered floorspace safely, collapsed into the couch, and flipped on the TV for noise. Anything to prevent myself from reverting back to dormancy.

This is how I passed the morning. Or, the morning passed me. Mind you, Fridays usually discipline me toward productivity, prompting me to make use of the 24 hours of class-liberation. Yet today, despite my lengthy to-do list, I accomplished virtually nothing. I didn’t go to the gym. I didn’t read the assigned chapters in my senior seminar book. I didn’t catch up on my required literary criticism blogs (I’m eleven behind, excellently enough). I didn’t read the dog-eared articles in the news magazine. I didn’t print out the couples surveys my fiancé and I are supposed to tote to this weekend’s marriage seminar. I didn’t create lighting sequences for the upcoming dance performance.

Around ten o’clock I endeavored to crack down on the blogging. I poured another mug of coffee, pried open the textbook, and fired up my laptop. Then watched TV. Then read a page. Then turned off the TV. Then read a paragraph. Then opened InStyle magazine. Then gave up.

Nearing noonish, a knock on our door. I didn’t bother to get off the couch, and croaked “Come in.” I shouldn’t have done that. First, they were the first words I had uttered all day, and they sounded like frog audibles; second, I had forgotten that the rest of the world was long awake and running. Me: in my pajamas, minutes away from my third siesta of the day. A classmate opens the door timidly, observes my sorry state, asks if I’m sick. We’re just trying to organize an end-of-the-year furniture and appliance giveaway, ya know, the stuff you’d otherwise throw away; we’ll donate it for you, he explains. Oh yeah, we’d actually love to give away this couch, I say. If I can detach myself from it, I think. He doesn’t sound convinced. And his facial expression reads concern in all forms.

Maybe I should be concerned, too. A perfectly fine Friday, filled with unfulfilling laziness. Unashamed, unabashed. And here I am at work, blogging about it. (Articles yet unwritten, of course.) Some call this ‘senioritis.’ Whatever it is, today I’m the posterchild.

Last night at dance class we made the mistake of praying before class. Not that praying’s bad. Just that the eye-closing and head-bowing makes already tired bodies very sleep prone. We have several more weeks til the annual Acclamation concert, but few of us feel any sense of urgency about it. Our routine isn’t finished. That’s probably bad.

Last night I should have devoted the two hours before bed to my obnoxiously unfinished Literary Criticism midterm exam, but American Idol beckoned. So, yes. That was a bad choice.

This morning a productive self would have arisen slightly before, oh, say, 10am. Alas, productive self didn’t show up today, so here I sit, actively procrastinating on a few remaining assignments, delaying that midterm exam until about 2am, and moderately content with the whole lack of ordeal. Spring Break’s acomin’.

That glorious celebration chimes in at about 4pm-ish tomorrow. I’ll be celebrating with a full tank of gas, residual sleep deprivation, and a fully-charged iPod. I’ll also be blog-absent until March 25th, or thereabouts. Merry Spring Breaking!

My dad reminded me at the beginning of the semester, “It’s a blessing to work hard.”

I think he jinxed me.

I’m gonna be candid: a few months ago, when I still felt energized and not like I had been hit by a Mac truck, I had lots to say. Now, at the end of this ridiculously arduous semester, I just enjoy sitting. And occasionally breathing. (That was sufficiently melodramatic, eh?)

So here I am, reading the temporary filler text on some of the office publication proofs. Susan delivered a sample aloud – a delightful, impromptu “filler text slam,” if you will – and it made me wonder. If I were to arrange these words in blank verse, could I attribute the genius to myself and publish it as poetry? Brilliant.

Progressive tickets easily bought the subway even though
two sheep laughed uncomfortably.
Umpteen chrysanthemums sold
two tickets while Kling-ons tickled the warthogs.
Pawnbrokers auction off Mercury.
And Paul marries the mostly angst-ridden kisses
silly lampstands.
Sheep towed Paul.
Purple aardvarks, the dog gossips, all fight
the progressive cats. The botulism tastes
like a Macintosh.

Besides the utter absence of meaning, that totally belongs in a literary anthology.

I cannot work while listening to music. My boyfriend works to music all the time. In fact, I doubt he can work sans music. Music motivates him. My roommates, too, diligently complete homework while playing background music. My brothers do it, my sister does it, even my first-year roomies did it. (Granted, they all listen to worthy tunes, so I appreciate them.) But, seriously, people. For four years I have vainly attempted to coax myself into becoming a music-jamming-homework-tackler like the rest of you. I have tried and failed.

Last week, for example, my roomie and I settled down at our kitchen table for a nightly homework session. We are the night owls of our apartment (she even more so than me), and we routinely see hours like, say, 3:00am. We employ faithful iTunes to encourage ourselves through this seemingly endless stretch of time. However, on this particular night – who am I kidding, this happens every night – I spent the hours between 1am and 3am memorizing song lyrics and compiling new albums for my collection. When we finally called it a night, she had completed all of her assignments. Me? Zero.

Currently, I’m sitting at my desk in Old Main, attempting to harmonize my article-composing with Iron & Wine tunes. I’m remembering why this doesn’t work for me, music and writing: I’m infatuated with words. I like words so much that when someone like Sam Beam sets poetry to guitar melodies, I grow more distracted than a chubby kid at a bakery. (That analogy is more overdone than my mom’s Thanksgiving turkeys. Bah. Thanksgiving comes sooner than…ok,we’re done). After a mere five minutes of lines like “there are things that drift away / like our endless numbered days / autumn blew the quilt right off the perfect bed she made,” I lose myself. (How could you not, that’s what I’d like to know.) Suddenly, half an hour has passed, and I’ve only penned a headline. A lousy one, at that. Why am I so shocked? How can I generate barely coherent words when flawless ones are flowing into the other side of my brain? It’s like constructing a Lego tower – erm, attempting to – with the Egyptian pyramids looming over me.

Back to work. Over and out.