We all flake sometimes, and it's usually best to lie
It has been said that “honesty’s the best policy, unless you’re good at lying.”
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It has been said that “honesty’s the best policy, unless you’re good at lying.”
Those yellow (and white) shoes on the corner of St. Paul and 33rd are among the coolest things I’ve seen in the area. The crossing guard, however, is not. The crossing guard at that intersection allows pedestrians to cross the street against the light. The officer will stop the flow of traffic in order to accommodate students.
The school year has begun, and I’m thrilled. Some people are excited to get out of their parents’ house and go back to being on their own. But I’m excited about classes. I’ve missed doing work.This first week, I was handed a math assignment and various worksheets for my language classes, and it was awesome. I’m trying to start this year out on the right foot. I’ve LaTeXed up my math lecture notes. (Don’t know what LaTeX is? Do you want to have your math homework printed? Check it out!) I’ve already started my homework. I have spent hours holed up in front of my computer, banging away at the keyboard to make pretty symbols appear on the screen. In fact, I was so absorbed in my work that I almost forgot to turn this article in.
We are at the end of the semester and the wonderful time of hell week. I have four classes. One has a plain ol’ final on the last day in the last time slot. Another has a final problem set that is due the last day of class. A third has a written project due the last day of class as well as an oral final during exam week. Then there’s the glorious fourth class with its three finals. There is an oral final during the second to last class (by the time you read this, I will have finished that) and a grammar final the last day. Oh, and the take-home portion that is due electronically the first day of finals. So basically, if I make it through the last week of classes, then I get to frolic until the semester is over.
Welcome to the wonderful world of sexism! It took me years to realize that I enjoy talking about this subject, and by talking about this subject, I mean that I enjoy laughing at how many people freak out about it.
Before I launch into this week's rant, I want to send out a quick message to Miss Gauthier who wrote an article last week about "Sex and inanimate objects." I want to thank her for bringing up such an interesting topic as the intertwining of gender stereotypes and languages. The article was well-written, and now I want to respond to it. However, The News-Letter comes out closer to when my article is due next week than I would like, so this is a prep-note saying that I will be doing some research to continue the issue next week. I don't agree with everything Miss Gauthier said, but she said it in a way to which I want to respond, not to which I rolled my eyes and skipped the article. So thank you for that. A couple nights this week have been so strong that I decided to approach the issue of sleep; more directly, dreams. I make sure to get at least nine hours of sleep every night (yes, this includes school nights). I require a lot of sleep to function and less than seven hours can screw me up for a week. People think it's ridiculous that I sleep so much at night and still take two or three hour long naps when I get back to my dorm from class. There is a very simple explanation for this: I sleep like hell. I've had problems sleeping for as long as I can remember. It's not like I have insomnia or wake up in the middle of the night and can't fall back asleep. In actuality, I sleep horribly while I'm actually asleep. When I wake up, I'm more exhausted than the night before. Thank goodness I'm a morning person or else I would walk around like a zombie with arthritis. No, the reason I sleep so poorly is because my dreams are extravagant, intricate and, in various cases, absolutely terrifying. I have sub-divided them into three categories. There are dreams, which are the typical weird-as-all-get-out anxiety dreams. For example, two nights ago, I was sitting in a Wendy's trying to explain to a friend of mine that it was incredibly important that the Honey Bunches of Oats cereal in my bag was well-ordered. There are bad dreams, which are where I'm being hunted down by something or someone's holding a gun to my head. (Those are just brief examples; my brain is far more creative). There are nightmares, which are when the images and sounds and experiences are directly linked to the triggers that set off my anxiety. For the past week, each night I've had some flavor of these. It can make functioning kind of a pain when I'm sitting in class. When I blink, I can feel the panic rise through my chest because of memories my brain has constructed less than twelve hours ago that can sometimes feel as real as the notes that I'm taking. Fixing my sleep has been kind of like an Olympic sport for me. When my chemical tests were taken to see just how out-of-whack my head naturally was, my melatonin (the thing that increases throughout the day to make you sleepy) was higher when I first woke up in the morning than most people have when they go to bed at night. So I started taking sleep medication, which were worse. Whenever I feel into a bad dream or a nightmare, the medications kept me asleep because they are built to deal with insomnia. This meant that when I was terrified, I couldn't wake myself up. I stopped taking those very quickly; we tried about three or four varieties until they finally believed me when I explained that my problems were while I was asleep, not the being unable to sleep. In a couple weeks, I'll probably be going in for testing to see exactly where in my sleep cycle everything is going screwy. It's almost kind of cool. I'm like a mini-psychology test. Part of me likes this abnormality. It's validation that something in me intrinsically sets me apart. Of course, this also means that I don't want to do anything when I get up in the morning because, hey, if what's in my head is that mad and I "control" that, what on earth is waiting for me outside of my room? It's a give and take and a good excuse for naps.
Hopkins is stressful. We all know that. We have expectations to meet, whether they're our own or our family's; there's homework and social life; tuition and food; and the constant looming idea, is all this money really worth it? The stress piles up while we break down.
The way I feel about Baltimore is how Katt Williams feels about Atlanta: "This is the most nastiest, dirtiest, ugliest, most beautiful, wonderful place in all of America." I grew up here, my family in Hampden sprawling outwards. I spent more time in the Rotunda Giant than anywhere else. Then my parents moved us northeast and settled. I took buses across town to school for seven years.
I am an urban, white, female math major with an anxiety disorder and a borderline offensive sense of humor. As further summary: when filling out college applications and needing three words that people would use to describe me, I polled a bunch of friends and there were two words that almost everyone listed: energetic and scary. So, that gives you an idea of the sort of person I am.
I woke up in my ex's bed one morning this week, needing to run home and change before class. As she frantically pushed me out of bed, fearing that I was going to be late, I reassured her: "It's fine, I already know what I'm wearing."