Greetings from the PR-PT 2500 section of the library--third floor south, window side--where it is a balmy 74 degrees Fahrenheit (really that's just an estimate, but I have an uncanny sense about these things). I have just decimated my tall nonfat Duke (wow, okay, that sounds dirty--it's an Earl Grey tea made with milk), and I am busily clicking away at my thesis. You know you're in for a long weekend when you seek your professor's help during office hours and get an emailed response with the subject "You may not thank me..." Thus I am here, now entering hour two, while outside the window the entire Music Department is parading up and down the sidewalks with stereos blasting some radio station for God knows why. On this campus, I've learned to never ask questions.
I have exactly eight days of classes until my undergraduate career is over. It's so weird. I can remember every thought in my head as my parents hugged me goodbye, climbed in their car, and headed north. Four years ago, the 45 miles between Tacoma and Woodinville were enough to make my mind spin. Home was halfway across the world.
Now that I've heard the bells chiming "Eight Days a Week" and "Let it Be" on Saturday mornings from my
usual perch in the library (second floor, corner of the D section--I thought I'd mix things up for today), now that I've eaten at least one black bean burrito every day since second semester of freshman year, now that my trusty computer has seen me through 24 American classes and eight Australian ones, it's nearly time for me to make the 45-mile trek back home with a car full of a finished life. I'm not ready to graduate. I don't know enough yet.
I'll miss waking up to the stench of pulp from the paper mill across the river. I'll miss how each floor of the library has its own autonomous climate system. I'll miss writing the story of the Broken Flying Screw with Tyler, the five-year-old I have babysat since sophomore year. I'll miss how his two-year-old brother Carter announces his nap completion week after week by exclaiming, "Poop!" but how only once has his diaper been anything but simply wet. I'll miss how the rain slips down the glass diamond that is the Oppenheimer Cafe. I'll miss listening to This American Life and Wait Wait...Don't Tell me on my iPod while I shelve books every morning, quietly laughing to myself in an empty library. I'll miss my poetry classroom before my professor comes--our conversations about the ineffectiveness of pandas as a species and how Irish poet Paul Muldoon should not be allowed to invent words the way he does. (I'm sorry, but no way is "gammy-gam" an actual thing. It's not in the Oxford English Dictionary, so it does not exist. Then again, if I were to follow that logic,
I would not exist either).
Now that I have discovered what an excellent procrastination tool this blog has turned out to be, I should probably make more of an attempt to
avoid this kind of distraction. Maybe. Friday afternoons are just not conducive at all to a studying mindset. Much like sun. If they don't let me graduate in May, I'm blaming whoever invented Fridays...and, well, distractions in general.
Greetings from the PR-PT 2500 section of the library--third floor south, window side--where it is a balmy 74 degrees Fahrenheit (really that's just an estimate, but I have an uncanny sense about these things). I have just decimated my tall nonfat Duke (wow, okay, that sounds dirty--it's an Earl Grey tea made with milk), and I am busily clicking away at my thesis. You know you're in for a long weekend when you seek your professor's help during office hours and get an emailed response with the subject "You may not thank me..." Thus I am here, now entering hour two, while outside the window the entire Music Department is parading up and down the sidewalks with stereos blasting some radio station for God knows why. On this campus, I've learned to never ask questions.
I have exactly eight days of classes until my undergraduate career is over. It's so weird. I can remember every thought in my head as my parents hugged me goodbye, climbed in their car, and headed north. Four years ago, the 45 miles between Tacoma and Woodinville were enough to make my mind spin. Home was halfway across the world.
Now that I've heard the bells chiming "Eight Days a Week" and "Let it Be" on Saturday mornings from my usual perch in the library (second floor, corner of the D section--I thought I'd mix things up for today), now that I've eaten at least one black bean burrito every day since second semester of freshman year, now that my trusty computer has seen me through 24 American classes and eight Australian ones, it's nearly time for me to make the 45-mile trek back home with a car full of a finished life. I'm not ready to graduate. I don't know enough yet.
I'll miss waking up to the stench of pulp from the paper mill across the river. I'll miss how each floor of the library has its own autonomous climate system. I'll miss writing the story of the Broken Flying Screw with Tyler, the five-year-old I have babysat since sophomore year. I'll miss how his two-year-old brother Carter announces his nap completion week after week by exclaiming, "Poop!" but how only once has his diaper been anything but simply wet. I'll miss how the rain slips down the glass diamond that is the Oppenheimer Cafe. I'll miss listening to This American Life and Wait Wait...Don't Tell me on my iPod while I shelve books every morning, quietly laughing to myself in an empty library. I'll miss my poetry classroom before my professor comes--our conversations about the ineffectiveness of pandas as a species and how Irish poet Paul Muldoon should not be allowed to invent words the way he does. (I'm sorry, but no way is "gammy-gam" an actual thing. It's not in the Oxford English Dictionary, so it does not exist. Then again, if I were to follow that logic, I would not exist either).
Now that I have discovered what an excellent procrastination tool this blog has turned out to be, I should probably make more of an attempt to avoid this kind of distraction. Maybe. Friday afternoons are just not conducive at all to a studying mindset. Much like sun. If they don't let me graduate in May, I'm blaming whoever invented Fridays...and, well, distractions in general.
