Sunday, October 31, 2004
What Would You Do With a $150,000 Video Budget?
What would you do? Pay celebrities $5000 for one second cameos? Get the best hair and makeup people to make you look super duper fly? Go all out on special effects?
Watch this video to find out what one artist did. (Do myself and yourself a favor, I know the beginning is weird, but let it go at least 30 seconds and you'll see what I'm talking about). This is what Sarah MacLachlan did with her $150,000 budget for the video of her latest single, "World on Fire." She spent less than $2,000 on the video and donated the rest to charity. Watch it to find out...
Finally, something inspirational, some blatant generosity. How cool!
"The world's on fire and
It's more than I can handle
I'll tap into the water
Try and bring my share
I try to bring more
More than I can handle
Bring it to the table
Bring what I am able"
--Sarah MacLachlan "World on Fire."
Watch this video to find out what one artist did. (Do myself and yourself a favor, I know the beginning is weird, but let it go at least 30 seconds and you'll see what I'm talking about). This is what Sarah MacLachlan did with her $150,000 budget for the video of her latest single, "World on Fire." She spent less than $2,000 on the video and donated the rest to charity. Watch it to find out...
Finally, something inspirational, some blatant generosity. How cool!
"The world's on fire and
It's more than I can handle
I'll tap into the water
Try and bring my share
I try to bring more
More than I can handle
Bring it to the table
Bring what I am able"
--Sarah MacLachlan "World on Fire."
Friday, October 29, 2004
Interlude: Caught!
Okay, so obviously I haven't lasted too long, but this was too good to pass up. The Creeper was caught! This guy had been terrorizing students for the past 13 months. Breaking into girl's houses off campus, touching them at night, and sometimes even ripping their clothes while they were asleep. Scary! This guy sure kept us on our toes for the last couple months.
He's 23 years old and has 6 kids, already! Dang, you'd think he'd be getting enough action as is without the extracurricular night time break-ins. Lol, um, okay, maybe that was inappropriate.
Well, now back to my regularly scheduled programming: studying and getting little sleep! Remember, smile, rest up, and give someone a big hug!
He's 23 years old and has 6 kids, already! Dang, you'd think he'd be getting enough action as is without the extracurricular night time break-ins. Lol, um, okay, maybe that was inappropriate.
Well, now back to my regularly scheduled programming: studying and getting little sleep! Remember, smile, rest up, and give someone a big hug!
Busy, Busy, Busy
Hey y'all. I'm still here, still alive. Things are just getting kind of busy, busy. Holding up two jobs and going to school is way tougher than I thought. Oh, and believe me, I never thought it would be easy.
I have three exams next week in addition to the normal dosage of assignments, problem sets, readings. I'm slightly worried about that. My parents are coming up to visit me this weekend. I'm pretty happy about that.
Not that I have too much time on my hands, but when I was walking between classes today I got thinking. Check out this deductive logic. Sleep deprivation is a recognized form of torture that governments and whatever other entities use. At school I go weeks upon weeks being chronically sleep deprived. Therefore school is torture! Lol! Don't you feel so enlightened? Now we know. School really is torture!
Ta ha, okay that was all nice and sweet, but carry this analogy too far and, like most others, it'll break down. But oh, I amuse myself sometimes. Hey, at least it works.
Till the frenzy of the exams and projects is behind me, or until the next time I'm struck by an urge to blog--whichever comes first--keep smiling, get plenty of sleep, and give someone a big hug!
I have three exams next week in addition to the normal dosage of assignments, problem sets, readings. I'm slightly worried about that. My parents are coming up to visit me this weekend. I'm pretty happy about that.
Not that I have too much time on my hands, but when I was walking between classes today I got thinking. Check out this deductive logic. Sleep deprivation is a recognized form of torture that governments and whatever other entities use. At school I go weeks upon weeks being chronically sleep deprived. Therefore school is torture! Lol! Don't you feel so enlightened? Now we know. School really is torture!
Ta ha, okay that was all nice and sweet, but carry this analogy too far and, like most others, it'll break down. But oh, I amuse myself sometimes. Hey, at least it works.
Till the frenzy of the exams and projects is behind me, or until the next time I'm struck by an urge to blog--whichever comes first--keep smiling, get plenty of sleep, and give someone a big hug!
Thursday, October 21, 2004
I Don't Speak Numbers
Hello. I'm a human being, and like most of us, I too have been blessed with the wonderful gift of being able to communicate in a language. I've recently discovered an undercurrent of people who apparently no longer feel the need to communicate using words: number do a better job. These people are called scientists.
Yeah, that's right, I'm bringing it on and calling their bluff. Of course there are some wonderful scientists out there who can actually communicate through words, but there are some scary exceptions. This semester, I have the pleasure of getting up-close-and-personal with two of them.
One of them scribbles intimidating equations with 6 variables on the board and blurts a cocky, "OK?" after each one. Should someone ask her a question for clarification, her cocky smile will transform into a bitter frown right before your eyes, as if "How dare you not quantify your statements with numbers and equations?! How dare you be so unabashedly incompetent as to not understand these fundamental 'sentences' I'm writing on the board?!" Should she manage to overcome her outrage, a typical response will entail a crazy array of vector arrows, and more equations scattered across the blackboard.
Her colleague, our co-teacher is just as bad. Forget about expecting to hear English out of his mouth. A typical sentence from him is nothing more than a verbal description of some equation, "The perpendicular radiative intensity is proportional to the emissivity of the object times the Blotzmann constant times the average temperature to the fourth power." Sometimes he gets really into his numerical lingo, and you'd think he was climaxing. It's not a pretty sight, and trying to make sense of it, is well, I dunno. Consult a calculator.
I'm not going to underestimate the power of numbers and equations, but I'm taking issue with those who seem to overestimate it. A few equations describing the climate system can't nearly capture its complexities as a detailed verbal (or written) description. Some trend graphs and regression lines characterizing the past five years of the economy present an incomplete picture negelecting the causes, effects, and the human toll paid in the process. So go on, study your sciences. I am, I think it's important to be somewhat scientifically literate. But I resent the teachers who expect me to spew out numbers and equations like that's all there is to it.
Yeah, that's right, I'm bringing it on and calling their bluff. Of course there are some wonderful scientists out there who can actually communicate through words, but there are some scary exceptions. This semester, I have the pleasure of getting up-close-and-personal with two of them.
One of them scribbles intimidating equations with 6 variables on the board and blurts a cocky, "OK?" after each one. Should someone ask her a question for clarification, her cocky smile will transform into a bitter frown right before your eyes, as if "How dare you not quantify your statements with numbers and equations?! How dare you be so unabashedly incompetent as to not understand these fundamental 'sentences' I'm writing on the board?!" Should she manage to overcome her outrage, a typical response will entail a crazy array of vector arrows, and more equations scattered across the blackboard.
Her colleague, our co-teacher is just as bad. Forget about expecting to hear English out of his mouth. A typical sentence from him is nothing more than a verbal description of some equation, "The perpendicular radiative intensity is proportional to the emissivity of the object times the Blotzmann constant times the average temperature to the fourth power." Sometimes he gets really into his numerical lingo, and you'd think he was climaxing. It's not a pretty sight, and trying to make sense of it, is well, I dunno. Consult a calculator.
I'm not going to underestimate the power of numbers and equations, but I'm taking issue with those who seem to overestimate it. A few equations describing the climate system can't nearly capture its complexities as a detailed verbal (or written) description. Some trend graphs and regression lines characterizing the past five years of the economy present an incomplete picture negelecting the causes, effects, and the human toll paid in the process. So go on, study your sciences. I am, I think it's important to be somewhat scientifically literate. But I resent the teachers who expect me to spew out numbers and equations like that's all there is to it.
Wednesday, October 20, 2004
God Took Him Away
I got two e-mails today carrying the same sad news. One was from my mom and the other from my father. A close friend of theirs passed away this morning. It all happened so fast, so soon. My parents started getting friendly with him and his wife some three or four years. They had three children, one a year old than me, another the age of my sister, a year younger than me, and a boy who is now 13. After a while my parents started bringing me to their house for dinners, holidays, and sometimes we went out to picnics with their family.
I remember Mark. He had the full head of gray hair, and a short, plump physique. He liked to sit back and relax, sip a beer, talk about sports, and occassionally toss miscellaneous comments into conversations in his unabashedly Long Islander accent.
Last year we spent Thanksgiving with Mark's family. I was slightly upset about that at first. Since I only flew home from college for 3 days, I really wanted to spend time at home and with my family, not other people I wasn't that close to. But I held my breath, and I went. I think it was during that Thanksgiving that I finally started feeling more comfortable with them. His older daughter invited me to the basement and we talked and then watched a movie. When it was all said and done, I smiled at my mom and said, "I'm sorry I was upset about coming here earlier. I actually had a good time. It was nice."
It was around then that Mom told me Mark had some problem. It was very hush-hush, but he had been living with it for years. He had hepatitis. He was a victim of being a teenager in the crazy 70s and having an affinity for living on the wild side. When he was young, he used to shoot up heroine with his friends, and share a needle. His parents sent him to Israel to get his act together, and that's where he met his wife.
Mark cleaned up his act, settled down with a nice woman, brought her back to the USA, got married, and bought their own plot of heaven on earth in suburban Minnesota. He had three kids. He had a great job doing something he loved, and earning enough money so his wife never really had to work.
But. But he was living on borrowed time. He had hepatitis, and he knew it, the doctors knew it, his wife knew it. But he was lucky. The disease was lying dormant in his body for dozens of years. Everyone knew that at some point he'd have to reckon with it, but no one knew when, and no one imagined it would ever really happen.
But it was last year during Thanksgiving that mom told me his hepatitis was starting to act up. He had to start going to the hospital, and getting on serious medication, and eventually they put him on a wait-list for a liver transplant, "it's not urgent, but if we get you on the list early enough we'll be able to take care of you before it gets serious." I remember when mom told me about that. We held our breath and said, "ooh," but we all just brushed this off as a case of rather being safe than sorry.
His son turned 13 last week and celebrated his Bar-Mitzvah, one of the first major milestones in the life of a Jew. But a few days before the Bar-Mitzvah Mark was rushed to the hospital, hooked up to machines, and stayed there. At first we thought it was just a temporary scare, but then his son's Bar-Mitzvah rolled around and, even though family flew in from across the country, he couldn't get out of the hospital to witness his only son become a "Jewish adult."
Then he slipped into a coma.
And then he started to have internal bleeding. The doctors said they bumped him to the top of the waiting list for a new liver. But it was too late, God had already made up his mind.
And this morning he passed away.
My mom went over to visit his family today. "I told Ingrid, that I want to hug her but I shouldn't because I don't want to get her sick, " my mom recounted to me. "But she ran up to me and hugged me so tight, and wouldn't let go. And she was crying, and she wasn't talking, and I felt so bad for her. I just want to help her somehow, but I didn't know what to say."
And I'm sitting here over 1000 miles away, and there's not much I can do but revel in my shock. Three kids, two in college, one in junior high, a wife without a job. How are they going to get by? Oh how?! Oh my God.
I remember Mark. He had the full head of gray hair, and a short, plump physique. He liked to sit back and relax, sip a beer, talk about sports, and occassionally toss miscellaneous comments into conversations in his unabashedly Long Islander accent.
Last year we spent Thanksgiving with Mark's family. I was slightly upset about that at first. Since I only flew home from college for 3 days, I really wanted to spend time at home and with my family, not other people I wasn't that close to. But I held my breath, and I went. I think it was during that Thanksgiving that I finally started feeling more comfortable with them. His older daughter invited me to the basement and we talked and then watched a movie. When it was all said and done, I smiled at my mom and said, "I'm sorry I was upset about coming here earlier. I actually had a good time. It was nice."
It was around then that Mom told me Mark had some problem. It was very hush-hush, but he had been living with it for years. He had hepatitis. He was a victim of being a teenager in the crazy 70s and having an affinity for living on the wild side. When he was young, he used to shoot up heroine with his friends, and share a needle. His parents sent him to Israel to get his act together, and that's where he met his wife.
Mark cleaned up his act, settled down with a nice woman, brought her back to the USA, got married, and bought their own plot of heaven on earth in suburban Minnesota. He had three kids. He had a great job doing something he loved, and earning enough money so his wife never really had to work.
But. But he was living on borrowed time. He had hepatitis, and he knew it, the doctors knew it, his wife knew it. But he was lucky. The disease was lying dormant in his body for dozens of years. Everyone knew that at some point he'd have to reckon with it, but no one knew when, and no one imagined it would ever really happen.
But it was last year during Thanksgiving that mom told me his hepatitis was starting to act up. He had to start going to the hospital, and getting on serious medication, and eventually they put him on a wait-list for a liver transplant, "it's not urgent, but if we get you on the list early enough we'll be able to take care of you before it gets serious." I remember when mom told me about that. We held our breath and said, "ooh," but we all just brushed this off as a case of rather being safe than sorry.
His son turned 13 last week and celebrated his Bar-Mitzvah, one of the first major milestones in the life of a Jew. But a few days before the Bar-Mitzvah Mark was rushed to the hospital, hooked up to machines, and stayed there. At first we thought it was just a temporary scare, but then his son's Bar-Mitzvah rolled around and, even though family flew in from across the country, he couldn't get out of the hospital to witness his only son become a "Jewish adult."
Then he slipped into a coma.
And then he started to have internal bleeding. The doctors said they bumped him to the top of the waiting list for a new liver. But it was too late, God had already made up his mind.
And this morning he passed away.
My mom went over to visit his family today. "I told Ingrid, that I want to hug her but I shouldn't because I don't want to get her sick, " my mom recounted to me. "But she ran up to me and hugged me so tight, and wouldn't let go. And she was crying, and she wasn't talking, and I felt so bad for her. I just want to help her somehow, but I didn't know what to say."
And I'm sitting here over 1000 miles away, and there's not much I can do but revel in my shock. Three kids, two in college, one in junior high, a wife without a job. How are they going to get by? Oh how?! Oh my God.
Saturday, October 16, 2004
I'm Still Happy, But Dang!
No... No, no, no. I'm going to blog about how depressed I am again. Lol. For once I'm content for more than 24 hours. This room is great. I have my peace of mind, my piece of quiet. I have nice neighbors who have invited me out to dinner and later to a "tea party." I'm not naively, obliviously happy. I know there are plenty of screwed up things out there, but I'm surprised by the way I'm warding off my depression knowing that if I wanted, there are plenty of things to bring me down.
But dang though. While I'm floating on Cloud #9, it seems to be raining on all the people beneath. I had dinner tonight with a friend of mine, hmmm we'll call her Lindsay, that I met first semester last year in my writing seminar. We stayed in touch second semester last year as we were together in the same gigantic Intro Chemistry lecture, and this semester, we bumped into each other around the first week of classes. With no classes together anymore, we bonded over ranting about how miserable we are in our dorms and how insanely busy we are (as Destiny's Child would put we've been "losing our breath" and can't seem to catch it LOL).
Anyway, dinner, tonight. She was ranting and complaining, and she was just on overdrive, y'all. "Lindsay, I know things are bad, but are you going to be OK? Is everything OK?" She continued to rant and all of a sudden she blurted, "my mom has breast cancer." Oh baby... This girl has been carrying a heavy burden and finding other things to complain about to cover it up. But this was it. She let the secret out, and there would be no holding back. She told me how her she and her sister would complain to their mom about their problems, not knowing the whole time that their mom had a problem bigger than all of theirs combined. She found out about it this past week when she went back for fall break. Her face turned red when she told me she found a bottle of chemotherapy medication before her parents told her what was going on, and she was shocked. And then, her red eyes started tearing when she told me that all of her mom's beautiful, long hair had fallen out...
Shit, shit, shit. I gave her a big hug.
Walking home from dinner I ran into another friend who was standing outside one of the dorms. She was dressed in shaggy, puffy clothes with a hoodie over her hair. She was sitting outside on the cold stone stairs surrounded by plumes of cigarette smoke while stuffing Sun Chips into her mouth. "What's going on?" I asked after I heard her shout my name. She wasn't looking too good, and so it wasn't very surprising when she blurted, "I'm depressed and feeling shitty."
"Well, speak on it," I said. "I just finished having dinner with a girl who just found out her mom has breast cancer, what's your story?"
"Shoot, my issues can't even compare," she said, embarrassed to complain.
Well, what Number 2 is worried about is boy problems, among other things (like the fact that she's stuck in a small town with not much to do). Well not really boy problems, she's hooking up more than she can handle, but she's realized that's not enough. She's getting a little attached to the boys she's spending time with, but they always seem to leave right before she wants to get a little more serious than making the bed bounce. Oh all the drama. She deserves better, but then maybe she has to be putting herself in better positions? I.E. Positions that don't involve being mad-drunk in a party at 3 a.m. surrounded by horny boys.
Well, when I'm not caving, it seems like the world around me is and I'm the only one on solid ground surrounded by sinking souls. It's complicated, and I have no answers. This is why I started this blog. Back to the song " There's Gotta Be More to Life" by Stacie Orrico, which inspired the title of this blog, she sings about chasing out the temporary highs. So we ride the waves high, and we dip really low. And when the water is calm and safe, we think it's "boring." What I want to find is something more amidst that mundane so I don't need to go chasing out every temporary high to satisfy me (or dip into deep lows when I'm too chicken to "get high").
Well, maybe that's enough philosophizing for one night. I have to wake up at 7 a.m. for work tomorrow! Yes, I now have two jobs... Busy, busy.
But dang though. While I'm floating on Cloud #9, it seems to be raining on all the people beneath. I had dinner tonight with a friend of mine, hmmm we'll call her Lindsay, that I met first semester last year in my writing seminar. We stayed in touch second semester last year as we were together in the same gigantic Intro Chemistry lecture, and this semester, we bumped into each other around the first week of classes. With no classes together anymore, we bonded over ranting about how miserable we are in our dorms and how insanely busy we are (as Destiny's Child would put we've been "losing our breath" and can't seem to catch it LOL).
Anyway, dinner, tonight. She was ranting and complaining, and she was just on overdrive, y'all. "Lindsay, I know things are bad, but are you going to be OK? Is everything OK?" She continued to rant and all of a sudden she blurted, "my mom has breast cancer." Oh baby... This girl has been carrying a heavy burden and finding other things to complain about to cover it up. But this was it. She let the secret out, and there would be no holding back. She told me how her she and her sister would complain to their mom about their problems, not knowing the whole time that their mom had a problem bigger than all of theirs combined. She found out about it this past week when she went back for fall break. Her face turned red when she told me she found a bottle of chemotherapy medication before her parents told her what was going on, and she was shocked. And then, her red eyes started tearing when she told me that all of her mom's beautiful, long hair had fallen out...
Shit, shit, shit. I gave her a big hug.
Walking home from dinner I ran into another friend who was standing outside one of the dorms. She was dressed in shaggy, puffy clothes with a hoodie over her hair. She was sitting outside on the cold stone stairs surrounded by plumes of cigarette smoke while stuffing Sun Chips into her mouth. "What's going on?" I asked after I heard her shout my name. She wasn't looking too good, and so it wasn't very surprising when she blurted, "I'm depressed and feeling shitty."
"Well, speak on it," I said. "I just finished having dinner with a girl who just found out her mom has breast cancer, what's your story?"
"Shoot, my issues can't even compare," she said, embarrassed to complain.
Well, what Number 2 is worried about is boy problems, among other things (like the fact that she's stuck in a small town with not much to do). Well not really boy problems, she's hooking up more than she can handle, but she's realized that's not enough. She's getting a little attached to the boys she's spending time with, but they always seem to leave right before she wants to get a little more serious than making the bed bounce. Oh all the drama. She deserves better, but then maybe she has to be putting herself in better positions? I.E. Positions that don't involve being mad-drunk in a party at 3 a.m. surrounded by horny boys.
Well, when I'm not caving, it seems like the world around me is and I'm the only one on solid ground surrounded by sinking souls. It's complicated, and I have no answers. This is why I started this blog. Back to the song " There's Gotta Be More to Life" by Stacie Orrico, which inspired the title of this blog, she sings about chasing out the temporary highs. So we ride the waves high, and we dip really low. And when the water is calm and safe, we think it's "boring." What I want to find is something more amidst that mundane so I don't need to go chasing out every temporary high to satisfy me (or dip into deep lows when I'm too chicken to "get high").
Well, maybe that's enough philosophizing for one night. I have to wake up at 7 a.m. for work tomorrow! Yes, I now have two jobs... Busy, busy.
Wednesday, October 13, 2004
Almost Feels Like Home
I've slept two nights in my new room, and I feel like it's already been worth the $1,000 difference in cost. I can read in my bed all I want until nothing but my drooping eyes put me to sleep. When I'm in the mood, I can turn up my music and let Janet Jackson's soft, warm, voice fill every nook and cranny in my room. When I want, I can open the window and feel the fresh, brisk air breeze through the room. In mornings I can let alarm clock buzz a little longer, a little louder. And when I wake up in the mornings, there's a smile on my face.
Oh people, people, people raise your voices and sing with me now!
Oh people, people, people raise your voices and sing with me now!
Saturday, October 09, 2004
My Happy Ending
I've sort of decided that life if full of new beginnings and endings. Sure there's one big beginning, and one big ending, but there are a whole lot of significant ones in the middle. You know? Well, now, for once, this is my happy ending. Yes, that's right, after months of complaining, blogging about how depressed I am, getting little sleep, and being sick, it’s here.
I've just finished a little more than a third of the semester, and I’ve just finished my first round of exams. Today is officially the first day of our short fall break from school. So this ending makes sense somehow, doesn't it? Well, on Thursday after I finished my last exam, I did the 25 minute uphill walk to the housing office. I met with the Director of Housing, she printed out my new contract, and I signed it. With the help of two friends, and one of my new neighbors in my new dorm, I spent the afternoon moving my life, from my former cell of a room to my new room.
I've gotten less than 6 hours of sleep everyday for the past week. I've had exams and problem sets due, and I've been feeling very feverish, congested, and downright ill, and I’ve been living with a person who drives me mad. But, I pulled it all together and moved my life to my new place, a place far away from home that I actually don't really mind calling... home. So this six-week nightmare ended in the best way possible: knowing that it’s absolutely over. When I flew back home to the Heartland yesterday, I saw from my window seat the endless stretches of multicolored tree patches and brownish barren fields on flat plains that extend far beyond the horizon. It was a sigh of relief to be back to a place I know and like. And I was happy.
I've just finished a little more than a third of the semester, and I’ve just finished my first round of exams. Today is officially the first day of our short fall break from school. So this ending makes sense somehow, doesn't it? Well, on Thursday after I finished my last exam, I did the 25 minute uphill walk to the housing office. I met with the Director of Housing, she printed out my new contract, and I signed it. With the help of two friends, and one of my new neighbors in my new dorm, I spent the afternoon moving my life, from my former cell of a room to my new room.
I've gotten less than 6 hours of sleep everyday for the past week. I've had exams and problem sets due, and I've been feeling very feverish, congested, and downright ill, and I’ve been living with a person who drives me mad. But, I pulled it all together and moved my life to my new place, a place far away from home that I actually don't really mind calling... home. So this six-week nightmare ended in the best way possible: knowing that it’s absolutely over. When I flew back home to the Heartland yesterday, I saw from my window seat the endless stretches of multicolored tree patches and brownish barren fields on flat plains that extend far beyond the horizon. It was a sigh of relief to be back to a place I know and like. And I was happy.
Tuesday, October 05, 2004
A Ray of Light
In addition to you, me, and everyone around me getting sick of my mopiness and depression, I think someone up above also got a bit fed up and decided to do something about it. Yesterday, after many weeks of silence, I got a letter from the housing office. They found me a new room! Not just any new room, a single! That means no nutty roommates to deal with, plenty of "me-time," and a whole lot more peace of mind.
So thank you! I'm finally moving on to better things, and I'm so grateful. I'm mostly grateful that I won't ever have to put up with this freak of nature who lives in my room. I don't know, after my last post, I thought about my roommate a little bit. I honestly think something isn't right with him. Somedays I think he's manically suicidal, and other days he's just a plain asshole. Anyway, I referred him to psychological services here at school.
Of course, my villain roommate had to stick it to me good one last time before I leave. As if loosing sleep because of his obnoxious, loud sniffling and farting into the night for weeks hasn't been enough, he's decided to finally pass on whatever sickness he had to me. So now that I've got to move, take a midterm, and do gobs of homework, and to go work all by Thursday, I've got another thing to worry about. Oh well.
I'm just looking forward to getting out of this nightmare, and waking up to a new beginning.
So thank you! I'm finally moving on to better things, and I'm so grateful. I'm mostly grateful that I won't ever have to put up with this freak of nature who lives in my room. I don't know, after my last post, I thought about my roommate a little bit. I honestly think something isn't right with him. Somedays I think he's manically suicidal, and other days he's just a plain asshole. Anyway, I referred him to psychological services here at school.
Of course, my villain roommate had to stick it to me good one last time before I leave. As if loosing sleep because of his obnoxious, loud sniffling and farting into the night for weeks hasn't been enough, he's decided to finally pass on whatever sickness he had to me. So now that I've got to move, take a midterm, and do gobs of homework, and to go work all by Thursday, I've got another thing to worry about. Oh well.
I'm just looking forward to getting out of this nightmare, and waking up to a new beginning.
Friday, October 01, 2004
Livin' in a Gamester's Paradise
Life is good when you're a fifth year senior. Especially when you've already finished your major. You're just taking an extra year to chill out in school, maybe get a minor. It's even better when you go to an expensive school and Mommy and Daddy will foot your bill, so you don't have to worry about getting a job. Welcome to the life of my roommate.
The first day we met, my roommate and I compared schedules. I was surprised when I learned about his busy schedule. "I'm taking 19 credits," he stated sternly, "so I'm going to be pretty busy." OK, I figured, a busy roommate is a good thing. "I have 8:30 a.m. classes on Tuesday and Thursday, and so I'll probably just be gone all day." Oh? All day?! What for? He told me he'd just be spending his evenings in the library since he never gets work done in the room.
I took that last statement as something pretty plain and cliche. I mean, don't we all say that our productivity is lower in our rooms, susceptible to phone calls, and lure of a nearby computer? I didn't realize how serious he was, and what to him, "never getting work done in the room" really meant. At any rate, I understood that I had a busy roommate, and that our separate schedules would give each of us some time to have the room to ourselves each day.
Though at first I thought it was only a temporary slump, by the end of the first week of classes my roommate had given up on school. I first came to grips with this on the night between Sept. 6th and Sept. 7th. When I restlessly left the room around 11:30 p.m. for a walk, my roommate looked at me like I was crazy. I lingered by the door for a second as we exchanged glances. He took off his headphones and commanded, "What are you doing?!" I explained. "Well, I have a class at 8:30a.m. tomorrow morning," he said, "so I'll be asleep when you come back. Don't bother me." I told him I'd try my best not to wake him up, and left. I was happy to know at least that I wouldn't have to put up with him when I got back.
When I returned to the room around 2 a.m. (the post was written in the library), all the lights in the room were on, and my roommate was nowhere in sight. I was a bit confused, but much more exhausted. I got into my PJs, turned off all the lights, except for his desk light and hopped into bed. Some 20 minutes later, by the time I had drifted into a light sleep, my roommate walked in and slammed the door behind him. My body twitched to the sound of the slam, and I woke up, but stayed quietly in my bed, pretending to be asleep.
"Fuck shit, fucking shit, hell no!" My roommate shouted into the silence of our dimly-lit room. He punched his wooden wardrobe, and continued with a chain of cuss words. I was scared. Was he drunk and belligerent? This guy was still a stranger to me, and I had no clue how to react. Worried that if I spoke up he'd release his anger on me, I stayed still in bed, and grabbed my pillow tight. Eventually he glanced towards my bed, and gasped in surprise when he saw me. With his tail now wagging between his legs in embarrassment, he sat down in front of his computer and clicked away for a while.
The next morning, my roommate's alarm clock went off at 7 a.m. Eerr. It woke me, but I grouchily shrugged it off and figured he'd be out of the room in a few minutes and I could indulge in the last few hours of my morning slumber. Instead, after the alarm rang for five minutes, my roommate got out of bed, and planted himself in front of his computer. He opened up one of his favorite games, and several minutes later he was shouting emphatically as he lost or won each scenario. When I woke up at 10 a.m. Mr. Thang was in the same position, doing the same thing. So much for "don't bother me because of my 8:30a.m. class tomorrow." Whatever.
Whatever's exactly what I told myself for the first few weeks. I couldn't explain why he was up so late playing on the computer, and why he woke up early in the morning to play on the computer, but whatever. It wasn't my business, and I wasn't going to crash his party, since he hadn't been bothering me very much.
After a week or two of coming back from class and seeing him in the exact same position every day (leaning over his computer), I figured out that the image he painted of himself as a studious, busy, library-working person couldn't be further from the truth. This was going to be the new reality: living with a computer addict. I've joked with people about spending too much time in front of the computer, but I've never realized how painfully sad and disruptive a computer addiction could be.
Two weeks into classes, my roommate had renounced going to class completely. It was like he fell madly in love... with his computer, and he was renouncing everything for the sake of their relationship. So, for the past few weeks, every single day I come home, I see my roommate in the same position: oogling over his computer, wearing earphones covering half the size of his head. And he doesn't budge from that very position until he goes to sleep around 2 a.m. every night. He doesn't even go out to eat. He buys takeout so he can eat dinner every night with his beloved. If his computer had a mouth, he'd probably be feeding it, too. Oh wait, how foolish of me to underestimate. He'd be making out with it.
If my roommate isn't playing one of the same three games (one being one of those cheesy games where all you see is a hand holding a gun, and you go around shooting people. Two being a pac-man style game that looks like it came straight out of the early 90s. Three being internet poker, mind you while simultaneously watching broadcasts of poker games on his computer), he's watching a movie... on his computer. Apparently the games are just there to help him pass the time while he waits for his downloads to complete. And boy, does this guy download. Every night there's a feature presentation (if not more). Since school has started he's probably gone through the last 5 years of Hollywood productions, in addition to a good couple seasons of Sex in the City.
I don't know if I've done a good job of painting a picture of how utterly unreal this situation is, but if I haven't, please use your imagination to fill in the gaps. This guy is at least two or three years older than me, and I'm obviously in no position how to tell him how to run his life. So as I keep my criticism to myself, I grow more and more frustrated seeing the same sad sight every day, and in my room of all places. We're complete opposites. The harder I work in school and the more I try to juggle that with holding a job to pay tuition, the more I watch him day by day get by doing absolutely nothing productive, and I feel like a big loser.
The other problem with this situation is that although we live in a double, I definitely need some me-time. Some time when I can be alone and nap, or read, or do homework, or turn up my music... It's not fair because he's obviously getting plenty of "him-time" when I'm in class or at work, several hours each day. The other thing is that this double was originally a single, so it's definitely not big enough for the both of us. As he spends close to 23 hours a day in that room, the more I feel like there's no room in it for me. Ugh. It's driving me nuts, I'm not sleeping.
POST-SCRIPT: Apologies to any frustrated visitors who have came to this site only to find a dry spell in my postings. I kind of crashed hard around the time my great Aunt died, for that reason, for the reason described above, and others. I just sort of shut down for a while, and while I can't say I'm doing any better now, I've started seeing a social worker at school here... We'll see.
The first day we met, my roommate and I compared schedules. I was surprised when I learned about his busy schedule. "I'm taking 19 credits," he stated sternly, "so I'm going to be pretty busy." OK, I figured, a busy roommate is a good thing. "I have 8:30 a.m. classes on Tuesday and Thursday, and so I'll probably just be gone all day." Oh? All day?! What for? He told me he'd just be spending his evenings in the library since he never gets work done in the room.
I took that last statement as something pretty plain and cliche. I mean, don't we all say that our productivity is lower in our rooms, susceptible to phone calls, and lure of a nearby computer? I didn't realize how serious he was, and what to him, "never getting work done in the room" really meant. At any rate, I understood that I had a busy roommate, and that our separate schedules would give each of us some time to have the room to ourselves each day.
Though at first I thought it was only a temporary slump, by the end of the first week of classes my roommate had given up on school. I first came to grips with this on the night between Sept. 6th and Sept. 7th. When I restlessly left the room around 11:30 p.m. for a walk, my roommate looked at me like I was crazy. I lingered by the door for a second as we exchanged glances. He took off his headphones and commanded, "What are you doing?!" I explained. "Well, I have a class at 8:30a.m. tomorrow morning," he said, "so I'll be asleep when you come back. Don't bother me." I told him I'd try my best not to wake him up, and left. I was happy to know at least that I wouldn't have to put up with him when I got back.
When I returned to the room around 2 a.m. (the post was written in the library), all the lights in the room were on, and my roommate was nowhere in sight. I was a bit confused, but much more exhausted. I got into my PJs, turned off all the lights, except for his desk light and hopped into bed. Some 20 minutes later, by the time I had drifted into a light sleep, my roommate walked in and slammed the door behind him. My body twitched to the sound of the slam, and I woke up, but stayed quietly in my bed, pretending to be asleep.
"Fuck shit, fucking shit, hell no!" My roommate shouted into the silence of our dimly-lit room. He punched his wooden wardrobe, and continued with a chain of cuss words. I was scared. Was he drunk and belligerent? This guy was still a stranger to me, and I had no clue how to react. Worried that if I spoke up he'd release his anger on me, I stayed still in bed, and grabbed my pillow tight. Eventually he glanced towards my bed, and gasped in surprise when he saw me. With his tail now wagging between his legs in embarrassment, he sat down in front of his computer and clicked away for a while.
The next morning, my roommate's alarm clock went off at 7 a.m. Eerr. It woke me, but I grouchily shrugged it off and figured he'd be out of the room in a few minutes and I could indulge in the last few hours of my morning slumber. Instead, after the alarm rang for five minutes, my roommate got out of bed, and planted himself in front of his computer. He opened up one of his favorite games, and several minutes later he was shouting emphatically as he lost or won each scenario. When I woke up at 10 a.m. Mr. Thang was in the same position, doing the same thing. So much for "don't bother me because of my 8:30a.m. class tomorrow." Whatever.
Whatever's exactly what I told myself for the first few weeks. I couldn't explain why he was up so late playing on the computer, and why he woke up early in the morning to play on the computer, but whatever. It wasn't my business, and I wasn't going to crash his party, since he hadn't been bothering me very much.
After a week or two of coming back from class and seeing him in the exact same position every day (leaning over his computer), I figured out that the image he painted of himself as a studious, busy, library-working person couldn't be further from the truth. This was going to be the new reality: living with a computer addict. I've joked with people about spending too much time in front of the computer, but I've never realized how painfully sad and disruptive a computer addiction could be.
Two weeks into classes, my roommate had renounced going to class completely. It was like he fell madly in love... with his computer, and he was renouncing everything for the sake of their relationship. So, for the past few weeks, every single day I come home, I see my roommate in the same position: oogling over his computer, wearing earphones covering half the size of his head. And he doesn't budge from that very position until he goes to sleep around 2 a.m. every night. He doesn't even go out to eat. He buys takeout so he can eat dinner every night with his beloved. If his computer had a mouth, he'd probably be feeding it, too. Oh wait, how foolish of me to underestimate. He'd be making out with it.
If my roommate isn't playing one of the same three games (one being one of those cheesy games where all you see is a hand holding a gun, and you go around shooting people. Two being a pac-man style game that looks like it came straight out of the early 90s. Three being internet poker, mind you while simultaneously watching broadcasts of poker games on his computer), he's watching a movie... on his computer. Apparently the games are just there to help him pass the time while he waits for his downloads to complete. And boy, does this guy download. Every night there's a feature presentation (if not more). Since school has started he's probably gone through the last 5 years of Hollywood productions, in addition to a good couple seasons of Sex in the City.
I don't know if I've done a good job of painting a picture of how utterly unreal this situation is, but if I haven't, please use your imagination to fill in the gaps. This guy is at least two or three years older than me, and I'm obviously in no position how to tell him how to run his life. So as I keep my criticism to myself, I grow more and more frustrated seeing the same sad sight every day, and in my room of all places. We're complete opposites. The harder I work in school and the more I try to juggle that with holding a job to pay tuition, the more I watch him day by day get by doing absolutely nothing productive, and I feel like a big loser.
The other problem with this situation is that although we live in a double, I definitely need some me-time. Some time when I can be alone and nap, or read, or do homework, or turn up my music... It's not fair because he's obviously getting plenty of "him-time" when I'm in class or at work, several hours each day. The other thing is that this double was originally a single, so it's definitely not big enough for the both of us. As he spends close to 23 hours a day in that room, the more I feel like there's no room in it for me. Ugh. It's driving me nuts, I'm not sleeping.
POST-SCRIPT: Apologies to any frustrated visitors who have came to this site only to find a dry spell in my postings. I kind of crashed hard around the time my great Aunt died, for that reason, for the reason described above, and others. I just sort of shut down for a while, and while I can't say I'm doing any better now, I've started seeing a social worker at school here... We'll see.
