You know how I wanted to go to that grad school? And then I decided, no, I really didn't?

Well, now I kind of want to again.

And I'm thinking about why.

Why go to grad school? Why do I want to go to that grad school?

I want to go to grad school because I like studying. I'm a big old McNerd.

I want to go to grad school because I want to be around people who like studying and are big old McNerds.

I think I could fall in love with a big old McNerd.

I want to go to grad school because I have hopes that my ultimate purpose in life somehow involves being a big old McNerd.

I want to go to grad school because I want to translate and adapt and edit and write dissertations and think a lot.

I'll have to learn grammar; I hope I'll be OK.

I have this thing.

It's not necessarily a habit; it's definitely not a decision.

It's just something I fall into.

I tend to fall in love every day.

A little bit. Or a lot bit. With something or someone.

Languages. Paint-spattered overalls. A smatter of blackberry flavoring in coffee. A boy. Pom-poms on tobaggans.

And I've always been ok with that. It helps to keep life interesting.

But now, I'm not sure.

I just discovered fashion.

I, a self-proclaimed style ignoramus whose idea of dressing up is wearing a sweatshirt and jeans that do not have Artist's Choice spattered across the elbows and rear end, stumbled across Scott Schuman's famous (apparently--I had no clue) blog The Sartorialist.

And, oh, I mean, periodically I find the need to retire my extensive collection of large t-shirts. Pretty much every summer. But this summer, this one will be the one when I finally develop my Very Defined, Very Me sense of definitive personal style.

I think between my trip to Italy, my advancing age, and Scott Schuman, I am finally finding it necessary to invest in an image. A dirt-cheap, thrift store image.

It's not about following trends. It's about following my inner artist, the visual nut in me that appreciates silhouette and color and line.

And cute hats.

i may have forgotten about the toilet

subtitle: crash box

Life may be like a recyclable plastic bottle of name-brand diet soda, full of carbonation and promise; yet you open it up, and what's inside that yellow lid? "Sorry, you are not a winner."

Gee, thanks.

I think I made a mistake.

Life is not all that bad. Sometimes, all of a sudden, you unscrew that bad boy's lid and you get something miraculous: gobbledygook.

A code. Something to give a little white typing box on the soda manufacturer's website some significance.

I love codes.

Codes make you feel special, included, knowledgeable. Or despised and isolated.

Codes twist communication.

You can crack codes. I want to crack things sometimes.

Codes can grant meaning or take it away.

Codes represent everything I like about the American dream.

You don't have to prove yourself with a code; you just have to hide.

I don't know that I ever figured I'd be this jaded or this heartsick of being here, of having to deal with all this stuff and having to take it too personally. I think it's a side effect of empathy; I hate causing other people pain or annoyance and I tend to really beat myself up about it if I do.

I'd like to know who wins if I'm in the doldrums. I'd really like to know if anybody gets a runner's high off of that so I can beat them up and take their lunch money and then go back to being in the doldrums.

And I'd really like to live out of myself. I'd like to for once be concerned with something other than variations on the pronoun "I". I'm really tired of it.




Remember when life was funny? Remember when you ate Nutella out of the jar with a spoon? When it didn't matter?

I get up in the morning to remember French

So... I was thinking about what I look forward to. What about my busy, hectic life is worth keeping.

Because I'm pretty tired of most of it. I'm trying to stay positive--but what's positive about being unfulfilled?

What I look forward to, when I get up in the morning, is doing my Playwriting homework; trying, in my own pathetic way, to learn German; trying, in my own pathetic way, to not forget French while keeping my roommate unaware of how really bad I am at it; spending a few minutes with my friends; going to the Vault on the weekends; seeing what the heck my bedhair is up to.

And largely, the rest of my life is a source of stress.

It's not that I hate theatre or that I'm not dedicated to it. I love thinking about my thesis; I love writing theatre; I love messing around in props.

But junior year is a madhouse.

Maybe I'm not a good advertisement for the school since I'm putting this on a public blog. To that I say, whatever. I'm Claire. I'm as good an advertisement as you're going to get.

I just made a 50 on a test. A 50. I'm positive this is the lowest grade I have ever made on any assignment.

Go me. Go school advertisement.

I never wanted to be jaded. I don't think I am, really; I just need more destressors, a larger day planner, Henry Tilney...

So yeah. I may have gained a sister.

I think it's happening.

My roommate and I have gotten to that sleepless point in the year in which we are OK with slapping each other upside the head with the truth.

And, boy, do we need reality checks from time to time. I need reality checks much more often because I am the flaky one. I am definitely the Oscar to her Felix.

Recently, she's been telling me to go to the French class that I don't really have because I'm auditing it. There's a couple of phenomenal reasons why she's been telling me to do this. The first is that I don't go all that often. (I didn't go today. Whoops. I swear up and down I'll go on Wednesday.) The second is that I really do want to achieve intermediate/advanced competency in French, and she knows--as well as I do--that the only way to do that is to buckle down, learn it, and be ready for an advanced French class next semester.

I apologize for blowing off the subjunctive, Felix. I promise I'll practice it.

It's funny how people affect your life; without my roommate to provoke me with her excellent bilingual example, I might not have realized so soon how much I really need languages in my life.
Without the knowledge that my roommate might dramaturg me out of a job in her spare time (as she is, first and foremost, a performer) would I be so keen on graduating with honors and compiling the most stellar portfolio ever to woo my dream graduate schools?

But we do not merely nurse petty rivalries; we also support each other. I can always count on my roommate to remind me that the faculty nods when I speak. I'm really, really grateful for that.

To her, I'm tiny and self-motivated. She introduced me to at least half of the artists on the mix playlist and fills my life with pancakes. I can't help but be appreciative.

Break lots of legs on your big audition! I'm really, really proud of you and I hope Easter Break is as restful as you want it to be.


(In other news, I just put a playlist up on my blogspot. Right now, it's all French songs. The reason for this is that none of my favorite German artists were on the website; color me sad. I expect my biological sister to give all of the songs a chance. Or else.)