Color-Coded Study Schedules and True Love

I have begun a new semester of college!  This means new classes, new teachers, and a new bag of some kind of chocolate-type food.  I don’t want to brag, but already this term I have inadvertently insulted one of my teachers and embarrassed myself in front of two others.  That’s three out of five, and I’m just barely beginning the second week.  It might be a record, but I’ll have to call Eustace’s Book of Baby Names, Spelunking Techniques, and Useless World Records to find out for sure.

I started out this semester with a gorgeous color-coded study schedule that allows five hours of free time a day and three hours for eating, because, you know, I’ll have to get rid of that chocolate somehow.  Even with the large amount of credits I’m taking, which I am too modest to even mention cough*eighteen*cough, I still will have enough time to watch my shows, go to zumba (not as great a place to meet guys as I hoped), and migrate my little colony of string-cheese people to the other side of my desk for the winter.  (It’ll be a tough trek; some of the canoes might not make it.)

Still, as gorgeous as this schedule is, I’m afraid I have already deviated.  While I did manage to write my three scheduled blogs last week (you saw those, right?  Gee, I hope something didn’t go wrong with the upload.  I hear most freak internet accidents come in threes…) I already feel a teensy bit behind in my classes.  Especially Spanish.  I have to take two years of a foreign language for my English major, which seems a tad counterintuitive.  Besides, I thought I lived in America, the country that doesn’t have to learn anyone’s language because we force everyone to learn ours.  Duh.  Oh, well.  At least speaking Spanish will be useful to me in the future, like when I have to teach Don Quixote in its original Spanish text to my high school English class.

The best thing about this school year so far is my Spanish teacher, or more specifically, my Spanish teacher’s voice.  It’s basically the most fantastic voice I have ever heard.  I could listen to it all day.  I’m thinking of sneaking in a recorder so I can listen to it when I fall asleep at night.  I know that isn’t creepy, because my brother told me so.  He also said that it’s perfectly normal to build a wedding alter out of the used tissues of that stunning guy who I’ve barely talked to.  My brother suggested that I rope the afore-mentioned guy with some kind of lasso when our marriage alter is finished, but I’m more of a shepherd’s crook kind of gal.

Advice of the day:  Facebook stalking is nice, but people who mean business should go for the classic sit-in-a-tree-outside-their-window method.  That’s true love for you.

Awkward Little Problems

Last night I watched the first half of The Elephant Man.  Definitely worth seeing.  It’s about a man who struggled with a horrible deformity.  His head is bulbous and misshapen, his spine is twisted and bent, and he can’t walk without a cane.

In addition to practically changing my life, this movie made me feel much less sorry for the Phantom of the Opera.  The guy gets one burn on the side of his face and suddenly he’s kidnapping ladies and setting booby traps for anyone who might catch a glimpse of his “awkward little problem.” 

Honestly, after his emotional rants about how ugly he is, I expected something a little more…ugly.  Maybe with half of a nose missing, or a gaping hole in his cheek.  But when he removed his mask – disabling the invisible force field that made his half-bald head look like it was full of hair – his face only looked sunburned and scabby.  He probably just stayed out in the sun for too long and felt self-conscious.  Sheesh, what a diva.  At this rate, men will be hiding in the basements of opera houses because they have unibrows or cut their ears while shaving.

I also felt much better about the zit on my chin.  Hold on, I need to cancel my order to the mask store. 

They cancelled most of my order, but they already started on the custom purple feathered cornucopia mask, so I guess I could keep it just in case my face is ever severely sunburned.

Advice of the day:  Your zit-faced neighbor is not an animal!  Your zit-faced neighbor is a human being!

Thank Goodness For Standard First Aid Kits

Today I fell apart again.  I didn’t even mean to.  There I was, minding my own business, when my arm popped off like a Barbie doll limb.  Did not see that coming.  Arms are hard to reattach, so I decided that I might as well take off the other one so I wouldn’t feel all lopsided on the way home.  I stuck them in my backpack and had a very polite gentleman-type guy put it on my shoulders.  I don’t know if his eyes were almost bigger than his face because he was surprised or because his eyes were just made that way.  Who am I to judge?

I made my way home so I could attach my arms with the arm reattaching machine that came in my standard first aid kit.  But when I arrived at my messy dorm, I tripped over fifteen empty boxes of chocolate orange sticks that happened to be stacked on my floor and hit my head on my third basket of dirty laundry.  I must have hit it pretty hard because when I stood up again, it was dark outside, and when I went out to the hall, I found it deserted because everyone had already gone home for Christmas break.  Using mostly my right foot, I checked my phone for texts.  I had a record breaking five, and they were all from my sister.  I only checked one, and it said, “Y r u skppng Christmas, u lame sauce spit monkey!  Oh well I’ll just open your presents 4 u.  l8r, h8r!”

Feeling slightly put out, I took down my first aid kit from its shelf by jumping for it and snagging it with my teeth like some kind of trained seal or spit monkey.  My arms had grown a bit moldy from sitting in my backpack for so long, but I reattached them without too much difficulty.  With my arms reattached, I was ready to have my own Christmas.  I carved a little Christmas tree out of some string cheese I found lying around and I sang some old carols, and then some new ones that I made up on the spot.  They were beautiful.

I gave myself some presents I scavenged from my room, including a box of stale crackers and my roommate’s baseball hat.  I eagerly put it on and looked at myself in the mirror.  I was gorgeous, of course, except for a lightning-shaped bump on my forehead.  I decided to trace the bump with eyeliner so it would be more noticeable.  The bump would be my good luck charm.  It would help me do magic and fly and talk to animals.  Excited with the abilities I knew I must have now, I grabbed a broomstick and jumped out the window so I could soar into the starry night like a bird.  I think my broom was defective, though, because I sort of flew more like an anvil than a bird.  Luckily, the dumpster under my window was open and I landed safely in a mushy concoction of banana peels and mystery goo.  But my arms popped off again.

After hoisting myself out of the dumpster, I picked up my arms with my teeth and dragged them to my dorm like a Chihuahua dragging a newspaper.  I reattached my arms, watched Muppet Christmas Carol, and went to bed humming to myself. 

Overall, I think my Christmas was pretty good.  I’ll have to make it even better next year by painting my string cheese tree with my green nail polish, and maybe if I’m good I’ll give myself my roommate’s beanbag chair.  I can’t wait!

Lord of the Cheese

Textbooks hurt your head when you have to read them three times over.  They also hurt your head when they repeatedly make contact with your face.  Here’s a tip: don’t read a textbook and take a nap at the same time.  That’s a multi-task feat that has never worked for me, especially since I can’t sleep with my eyes open or keep my face from hitting my textbook.  I really need to think about investing in some eBooks, or perhaps a book made out of pillows and equipped with a detachable down comforter.  Or maybe a textbook made of the fluffy chocolate in Three Musketeers bars.  Then I would have a comfortable surface to hit with my face and a delicious snack to boot.

But it is not to be.  I’m stuck with my brick-hard psychology textbook and nothing to snack on but stale wheat thins and despair.  I would cheer myself up by taking a walk, but I think that requires actual movement.  So no walking for me.  And I don’t have a car to drive, or a horse to ride on, or a boyfriend who is also a centaur who can give me a ride to Disneyland or maybe just the mall. 

I suppose I could count the blessings I have instead of the centaur-related ones I don’t.  For one, I have two boxes of Fruity Pebbles cereal.  Two!  That’s almost as good as a Three Musketeers pillow.  I also have all ten fingernails.  And a little scar on the back of my hand.  I mean, who doesn’t want a little scar on the back of their hand?  No one, that’s who.

I also have a tiny tribe of people carved out of string cheese who worship me regularly (if they don’t, I eat their little canoes).  I’m like, super grateful for that.  It’s pretty nice being worshipped by cheese-people.  The cheese-people live in houses made of the empty wrappers from whence they came.  The houses are on my desk.  To appease my overlord whims, they build me cheese statues and do my easier homework assignments for me.  In return, I give them more wrappers so they can make additions to their houses.  One of them is putting in a pool tomorrow.  But some of the teenage cheese hooligans have been spray-painting my statues. I think I’m going to have to eat a couple of canoes sometime soon to show them whose boss.

But it is time for the baby cheese nomads to go to bed, and my loud typing is keeping them up, poor things.  Why didn’t I write my blog earlier, you ask?  Because I am lazy and illogical, that’s why.  Advice of the day: If you have little nomads made of cheese living on your desk, you probably shouldn’t tell your roommate that they make canoes and worship you. 

Empty Twinkies

There are so many things I could blog about right now, and I don’t know where on earth to start.

For instance, I could blog about how string cheese was on sale today.  I bought seven (lucky number) and I plan on making them all into a fleet of little canoes before I eat them.  They are much more delicious in canoe form.  But first I will need to acquire the necessary tools to make the canoes.  I already have teeth and fingers, but I would like to have a toothpick to carve my name on the sides so my roommate doesn’t think they are hers and eats them herself.  But the only place I know that has toothpicks is Tucanos, so I will have to save up enough money to buy a meal there before I can have my toothpick.  Until then my string cheese will stay in their wrappers like little logs cut from trees made of delicious fake cheese.

While buying cheese was probably the most exciting part of my day, it was not the only part worth mentioning.  I went to the international theater again, but I left it as uncultured as ever.  Apparently the labels on my new black turtleneck and beret that advertised they would make the wearer more cultured were exaggerating slightly.  I’ll be returning them tomorrow and I expect a full refund and a sincere apology from the sales clerk. 

The most boring part of my day was when I arrived to a class half an hour early and was forced to pretend to read my textbook while I waited.  I couldn’t actually read my textbook because textbooks are boring and they suck the happiness out of you like my brother sucks the filling out of my Twinkies.  Eventually I remembered that I have Tetris on my phone, and I settled down to playing the only sport I show any aptitude in.  This passed the time quite nicely, and before I knew it I was sitting in class and creating some wonderful doodle specimens in my doodle notebook.  I think I’ll have that notebook published.  I’ll call it, “Sara’s Encyclopedia of Under-Appreciated Doodles.”  It’ll fly off the shelves.

And now I have to wash my face before my roommate comes back and catches me using her nice face-cloth.  Advice of the day: If life gives you empty Twinkies, try filling them with Jr. Mints.

Secrets, Poop, and Stiletto Heels

The other day my roommate said, “Sara, can you believe it?  We’re in college!  We go to relief society!  We aren’t young women anymore, we are women!”

She beamed at me, and I smiled wanly, hoping that I hadn’t blown my cover.

My roommate turned back to her homework, humming contentedly.  I too returned to my homework, my hands a little sweatier than before.  There was something my roommate couldn’t know, something no BYU administrator can ever know.

I have a secret.

Did you know that BYU does not let children come to their school?  It’s the fifth rule in the BYU’s Underappreciated Rulebook for Poor Students, or BURPS.  It clearly states that all students must possess adult-like qualities in order to be accepted into BYU. 

The problem is, I’m not an adult.

Oh, sure, I may be physically old enough to go to college, unless my doctor has been lying to me all these years.  But mentally I’m a giggly little girl who doesn’t belong in the “big people” school.  I managed to slip through the system by faking maturity, which I have been doing since grade school.  It’s not too difficult, really.  I just have to nod when someone else talks, restrain myself from throwing my food at the ceiling to see how long it sticks, and pretending I enjoy sophisticated things like stiletto heels and beach volleyball.

So far my immaturity has passed by unnoticed, but I can’t keep it a secret forever.  Sometimes it slips out against my will.  For instance, I can’t help but snort with laughter when I hear words like “poop,” “burp,” and “more poop.”  Grownups don’t think poop is a funny word.  I know this because I yelled “poop” at my mom and she just stared at me (like “poop” isn’t a perfectly acceptable word to yell in Nordstrom’s).

I’m sure that in accordance with BURPS, the school will soon conduct a campus-wide “immaturity hunt”, where they will line the students up and yell “POOP!” at each one in turn to see if they laugh.  The moment I catch wind of the surprise inspection, I’m hopping on my tricycle and peddling my way to a land where it is acceptable for adults to watch Barbie movies and wear pajamas with feet in them, somewhere where I will not have to pretend I enjoy ridiculous things like volleyball (seriously, it hurts my little arms).  Until then, I’m laying low and working the system for as long as I can.  Just don’t tell BYU.  Or my roommate.

My Stupid Head

I was in a bad mood today, and to make matters worse I had a devil of a time finding something to blame it on.  The weather was nice, my soup was hot but not so hot that it burned my tongue, and my hair practically did itself.  Have you ever heard anything more awful?

Glaring at the sky, the mountains, and my complacent hair (really, I can’t remember the last time it was that easy to do) I walked to class in high dudgeon.  I narrated my feelings in my head with over-complicated words like dudgeon and irascible and composed an emotional poem that I planned on submitting to a “Shakespeare hates your emo poems” contest (the contest doesn’t exist yet so I’m starting one in November). 

But I still had nothing to blame my mood on.  It couldn’t be my fault because I’m almost a perfect person and my hair looked nice.  I tried blaming it on the leaves crunching under my feet as I made my way to physical science.  Some of them weren’t crunching nearly loud enough, and I can’t see how anyone could stay in good humor after being abused like that.  Stupid leaves.

I added the leaves to my poem (Wet leaves that refused to crunch beneath/my morose, cantankerous shoes) but it wasn’t very convincing.  I tried to think of other things to blame my mood on.  Men, people who part their hair down the middle, and the relatively new writers of Spongebob Squarepants crossed my mind.  They were all good options, but they lacked the umph I needed for when I would complain to my friends and random people on the street later.  I needed something dramatic like my hands falling off or my hamster maxing my credit card on the shopping channel.  Stupid hamster.

A few moronic poems later, I was left with nothing but a splitting headache.  Not even one plausible excuse for my belligerence.  Stupid brain.

The headache grew like a nasty, radioactive super-plant and I was forced to take some advil and a two-hour nap.  My head is still throbbing, though.  I suppose a good eight-hour sleep will help abate the pain, but who can tell?  And I still haven’t thought of a plausible excuse for my bad mood.  Stupid almost-migraine headache.