Anyone But Rosa

So, I wanted to do a continuation of THIS story I did, where the prompt was to use the sentence “Rossamund was a boy with a girl’s name”… and then I did.

Simple enough, I think.

This is set far into the future, beyond its prequels middle school setting, and I hope you enjoy 🙂

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Anyone but Rosa 

“Hey Tuesday!”

He turned, smiling, and accepted the pat on the back as Rudy slid past him to the bus. His rucksack was full to bursting, same as Jackie’s, and he shared a look with Monroe. He and Monroe had packed the suggested amount of clothing for the trip, had packed the weather-specific pieces in the fairly full suitcase the four of them were sharing… and they were likely the only ones who would be able to travel comfortably on their hitch-hike around Scandinavia.

“Ross, why do you still let him call you that? Why do you still go by that nickname?”

He shrugged, and helped the driver get their suitcase into the storage compartment, handing over his backpack and then Monroe’s.

“That’s the thing about nicknames… they tend to stick.” Sadly. Tragically.

He’d gotten used to it.

“Mundy, get in the bus already! I’m not sitting next to tuna breath over here!”

He’d also gotten used to Jackie. She had a unique way of addressing people, in that she never used their actual names.

He did end up sitting next to her on the bus, and so got the honor of listening to her snore for most of the ride.

He sighed, and looked over her head out the window.

He thought it would likely be confusing for any friends they met along the way… because what would they call him? He had so many names to choose from.

His parents called him Rossamund, as that was the name they put on his birth certificate; from that Jackie called him Mundy, and through that nickname his classmates (including Rudy) stated calling him Tuesday, and later in college he was known primarily, as Monroe called him, Ross.

He was a man of many names…

But, Rossamund, Ross, Mundy, or Monday, at least he was consistent in his personality.

Jackie, once she’d moved on from her identity of the Tomboy of the class, had jumped from protest to protest, each cause greater than the last, with the latest being the injustice of feminazi’s trying to say tampons were Anti-Feminist.

She was currently very against feminazi’s giving feminists a bad name.

Rudy had shed his quiet-boy skin from middle school and had reveled in how genetics had favored him, finding sports more challenging and more extreme to throw himself into… it occasionally meant he also found various things to throw himself off of, the higher the better, and this trip was his way of trying to find himself.

He wanted to be able to throw himself entirely into his occupation, and to do that he had to settle on one thing.

He could only hope that finding himself didn’t turn into Rudy getting the rest of them lost.

He wasn’t terribly worried though, as Monroe had everything in their trip planned out, maps and back up maps on hand and in backpack and in pocket…

From what he’d gleaned, Monroe had been a bit of a bully as a child—a fact, he supposed, that would likely explain why he was so sensitive to his various nicknames. Now he was the very definition of a gentle giant, but once upon a time he’d likely have been one of the boys to make fun of him for having a girl’s name.

He’d met Monroe in college, sharing a room and then an apartment with each other… Monroe didn’t understand how he could introduce himself as Rossamund, offer the option to call him Ross, and be entirely fine with a manic girl crashing into their dorm calling him Mundy, and another guy shouting out for him, for ‘Tuesday’, across campus.

“Look, if they’re bothering you,” he’d once started, concerned and protective and likely thinking back to his own days of bullying, but he’d waved him off.

“I have a strange name, for a boy, and there are worse things to be called.”

He always remembered that. There were worse things to be called.

When signing things, he always signed his full name. He signed Rossamund, because at the root of it, that was who he was.He didn’t think he’d changed all that much

Ross was from Rosaamund.

Mundy was from Rossamund.

And, strange as it was, Tuesday was from Rossamund as well.

Okay, it was from Rossamund after taking a side trip through the mind of a dozen thirteen year olds, but the origin was there all the same.

Now, he looked out at the passing landscape, down to the blur of faces alongside the road, and wondered what other nicknames he would get here.

He was looking forward to it, actually, what different people with different languages would do with his name… because as ‘bad’ as any of them could end up being, there was always something worse.

Because Rossamund could be Ross, or Mundy, or even Tuesday, but he would never, ever again allow himself to be Rosa.

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So, hope you enjoyed that, and look forward to more fiction 🙂

I’m looking forward to the next prompt 🙂

It’s One of Those Ages

I turned 19 on February third of last year (2012). And now I’m 20.

(SURPRISE!)

But…

19 is one of Those ages, I’ve figured out…

Those ages, in case you’re wondering, are usually ages in which it’s hard to multiply to get without 1 being one of the multiples.

You know, 1, 2, 3, 5, 7, 11, 13, 17, 19, 23 etc, etc, etc…? I’m probably missing a number in between that, but…

Well, from what I can figure out, most of these numbers are significant ages to be, either to parents or to society or to you, as you are at that (or before that) age. It is from these ages you compare yourself to your younger self.

A baby turning 1 year old is a landmark in aging. But, like with dogs and pets in general, it’ll probably be until that baby is close to or past the 2 year mark before your age will be measured by years consistently, rather than by months.

If you ask Lexy how old Gwynn is, she will respond with “Almost three” or “Three in March” but once, for a while, she used wild numbers like 13/14/15/… months old.

It was a strange time that made me have to think a moment as I subtracted 12 from that number, and then… wait no, that would make him…

Ah.

(You redevelop math skills like this when you get a pet, or a baby, by the way. You don’t realize how much simple math you’ve lost until this time comes)

Turning 3 seems like an important age to me, as it is the first year after you’re two, giving you one full year of being referred to by year-age rather than by month-age. I don’t have a baby, and Gwynn is not yet 3, so I wouldn’t be able to tell you any other significance, except that maybe at the 3 year mark Gwynn, and possibly babies in general, will have learned a few new tricks.

Perhaps he will have learned not to go ape-shit over cats.

Unlikely, but a hopeful possibility.

5 seems to be that age that you’re constantly hearing/reading/seeing children being thereabouts. They are either almost 5 or are corrected to that they are only 5, not six for a couple of months yet. Or, they “Justh turned thixth”(say with clear lisp) and have likely lost a tooth. 5 is that age that you just want to BE. You never hear about your inner 4-year-olds or 6-year-olds. That’s because 5 is infinitely better than either of those.

Because you’re FIVE.

Later in life you will find out that you like fives even better, especially when learning your times tables, and find out that multiplying 5 is even easier than multiplying by 2’s.

But enough about 5’s, let’s move onto 7.

7 is important for a number of reasons, and not just because Voldemort had 7 Horcruxes and you always forget the last one or two from the list you try to keep in your mind, and not just because it was one of the most important numbers I learned because Mom sat me down and had me learn the days of the week. This was when I once thought that it was the weekend on a Wednesday based wholly on the fact that the alarm hadn’t gone off. 7 is important because you can finally leave 5 behind.

The memory of 5 is an immature phantom of a memory, filled with scuffed knees, grass stains, hair pullings and crying for no good reason. You have moved past the age of 6, even, with all the reminders of being 5 being brought up, and you are now free to luxuriate in your maturity and lording your advanced age over those stuck in the vortex that happens around 5.

Writing down your age becomes a skewed checkmark of age and maturity, writing it in letters gives you the chance to write a ‘V’ for something other than ‘GIVE’, and you take something from that and maybe think if there’s a number out there that has an ‘X’ in it, or maybe a ‘Z’ because you really don’t get to use those that often.

Of course, Lexy has a friend she’s known from childhood whose name is Aziza.

I doubt she had thoughts like these.

(I think I stopped having this wonder for the letter ‘Z’ when I realized fully that one of my middle names could be spelled with a ‘z’ and decided to spell it as such, and it was only in the past couple of years that I have confirmed that on my birth certificate the possible worry of being an Elisabeth Rose was left for the certainty of being an Elizabeth Rose. Because I’m trying to be as honest as I can be while on the Internet, I’m going to admit that for a while there I think I was overzealous and decided I was an Elizabeth Roze)

(It made sense at the time…)

While moving on to 11 I am going to stop for a moment and take away the notion that 9 or 10 are important figures.

9 is a multiple of 3 and while it may seem mysterious by being almost as hard as your 7 times tables, it is not. You are past the smaller vortex (in comparison to 5) of 7 and are next to the little ball that is 10.

10 is insecure but vicious. If 9 tries to pull weight, it simply rolls over and squashes 9 with the fact that 10 is better than 9. 10 has 2 numbers.

It’s Double Digits.

9 can’t get past that. If you’re 9 YOU can’t get past that.

You must remember here that I’m not making up personalities for numbers, this is how I half remember/half imagine a child’s mindset is like. I wrote a great deal of my Harry Potter fanfiction “It’s Green” going on this, and managed to get a number of reviews on my realistic and odd young Harry… Which is flattering, but also makes me think that I won’t be able to write the personality of anyone over the age of 11…

And that would suck.

Back to numbers.

10 is insecure because while it has lorded its double digits-ness over 9 and occasionally 8, it IS right next to 11.

As grand as entering the double digits of age is, it’s not nearly as awesome as moving past that pinnacle to a new height of age.

11.

10 has the misfortune of having a zero in it.

Zeroes, as we have been taught in school, means nothing.

10, as great as it is, is written down as a 1 and a 0, a something, and a nothing.

11 has the amazingness of being the first number in the double digits that doesn’t have a 0 in it. 11 is also when you leave all the 9’s behind, because you are beyond being 10 and have no time to play with babies. Because that is what anyone is if they are still stuck within the limitations of the single digit of age, at least compared to you.

12 year olds matter nothing unless you yourself are a 12-year-old with other 12 year olds, or you are a 12-year-old who knows or encounters a 13-year-old.

Because, a 13-year-old was once… not a teenager.

But is one for the next 7 years or so.

(it’s hard to shake that image from The Adult’s minds)

Yes, when you turn 13 you are experienced in the ways of the double-digit-age enough to be accepted into the ranks of teenagerhood.

I imagine it’s very much like being accepted into street gang. Or maybe the Mafia.

It’s dark, it’s dirty, you are going to be introduced to a whole slew of sights, experiences, smells that you would have liked to be spared from, you will meet people who you may not like but are now part of different rules, ones that will remember you if you report them to the authorities of the Parentals… the ones from their district or yours, it matters not, they will remember and do their best to repay in kind or else find some other way to return the favour.

They will shank you for your candy…

And give bald-faces lies to the Adults about what happened, and you can say nothing.

I know (for the most part) that that’s not how it works, not exactly, but if someone can come up with a better example of what you are getting yourself into by unknowingly agreeing to join this… group… well. Feel free to step forward with your own post, and link me 🙂

But, regardless of your newby status, Parents will expect just a bit more from you, as the Responsible Teen you are, perhaps playing on your sense of new duty and responsibility to get you to do more around the house, set a ‘good example’.

This is an important stage in your life.

The next is 17.

I think that people will think that 16 should be one of Those ages, but aside from “Sweet 16” what is there, really? You can now get your driver’s license… Wonderful.

Due to new laws (at least in Ontario) you must wait a full year after getting your G1 to get your G2. You will be 17 when you are even remotely close to getting your real license.

17 is important for more than this real license, though, and it’s the reason why, in Canada at least, 18 is only really important if you’re in (or, I guess, beside) Quebec.

17 is when you’re preparing yourself for the fact that you will soon have to take the consequences for things that may or may not get you into serious trouble.

18 is when you are putting to use all these thoughts or concepts of responsibility, but 17 is for where you can get paranoid.

It’s about this time when you also have to start thinking about the Future… about University and College, what your major will be, what you want to do with THE REST OF YOUR LIFE.

It’s scary.

Feel free to feel paranoid.

Be afraid.

It’s be a whirlwind, gale forces of GRADESGRADESGRADES whipping around you, sharp rocks of EXPECTATIONSEXPECTATIONSEXPECTATIONS will give you shallow cuts that sting, and you’ll be desperately trying to stay near the eye of the storm.

You’ll be desperate to stay there, because there’s always that possibility that the winds and rocks will chuck you any which direction, and you could land anywhere.

It’s not likely it’s going to be a place you like.

A few will actually be able to stay in the eye of this storm… until they’re turning 18 that is.

Those who have been struggling to stay near the centre will have gained endurance, will have scouted were they could land, and will have calmed down some by this time, but those who were suddenly jolted from their place at the Eye…

Well shit it’s scary being plucked from your comfortable place, isn’t it?

17 is the slightly more significant time, I think, and if you think it’s actually 18…

Well, of course you’d think so.

17 is desperately gripping at 18 and trying to stay grounded in that shit-storm as drama and grades get thrown around in school, jobs and money problems biting at tender unprotected areas like vicious mosquitos, and 18 is freaking out.

17 has already screamed itself hoarse, why else would 18 be louder?

For those who have later birthdays, it IS 18 that’s scary, but I’m talking from my own experience, so stick with me okay?

19…

Well 19 is scary.

And fantastic if you happen to live somewhere that the drinking age is 19.

Like, perhaps… ONTARIO???? Or Canada… (I live there, whaddya know…)

I was in luck while in Ottawa in that Hull (sketchy part of Quebec, drinking age 18, sketchy party/club central for the underages of Ottawa), in that for the few months before my birthday I could get alcohol, and afterwards I could still go out drinking with my friends whose birthdays were in Oct-Dec, and so were less than legal in Ottawa.

(I’m not saying anything about having an apartment-style res and being legal in a group of under-aged friends. Also, yes, 2+2=4)

But yeah, 19 means first year uni/college, or else it means succeeding in surviving first year, or not.

(Me? Kind of not, but I’m working on getting back in that tipped canoe, it’s a bit hard, but I’m doing it)

It means you’re trying to find the friends you’ll likely be closest with for the next four-or-so years, making connections, keeping your head above water and clothes the least wet…

Stressful.

But a very important time.

20…

Well, I’m only turning 20 now (Happy Feb 3rd everyone! Happy Birthday to me!), so I don’t know how it’ll pan out, but I have hopes.

I feel like I’m significantly more mature (Maybe… My mom would laugh, as would Lexy and maybe just about everyone who knows me), but it could just be because now I can say “I’m 20”

Because hell yes! I’m 20!

But on the other hand… I’m two decades old.

I feel like I should be whipping out cocktail dresses and be brushing off cobwebs at the same time.

This is said because of the two decades thing…

It’s not two centuries, no, but it’s a bulk unit of time.

Seconds, Minutes, Hours=Nothing.

Days, Weeks, Months= the make up of a year. So?

Decade= Impressive. That’s a bulk unit of time, the likes of which you haven’t been able to process by the time you’re 1 decade old. You have no idea.

Literally, for em, since i think I was still spelling ‘idea’ as ‘ida’ because I thought the ‘de’ in ‘idea’ was satisfied with just the letter.

No idea, I tell you.

(only Ida’s)

2 decades= 2 FREAKING DECADES! That seems like a lot! That’s MORE than ONE!

WOW!

Whoever can count their age by more than one decade is obviously super OLD!

And now I’m part of that group.

I’ve been kicked from the Teenager-Gang and have joined the Decade Group.

I don’t know what it’s going to mean for me, and I don’t know what it’s meant to other people…

I hope there are more cookies in this group though.

Happy February 3rd everyone!

 

Revenge via Pink Foam

So, for those who have patiently (or not, you could have just been laughing at my poor luck in roommates) read through my roommate complaints (HERE Read from bottom up to get the by-date of things), you will know that they eat my food, are generally untidy, and I share a bathroom with The Sasquatch, who, to my disgust, leaves hair behind in the shower and in the sink instead of footprints and blurry photos.

But, just now, I believe I have given my own revenge..

Before you get grossed out, please read the title of this post and then see just how creatively gross you could get with pink foam.

I don’t want to do it myself, so I’m just going to say that I am going for confused more than grossed out.

Yeah, see, NOW it’s much easier to imagine doing something confusing with pink foam…

But this requires me to mention something that I am certain I have not gone onto before…

Myself.

Specifically, what I look like, and narrowing that down to my hair.

BTW to those who will not give up on me getting my revenge by doing something gross, no, this is not about shaving either.

I don’t usually dye my hair, and what I have done has been pretty tame considering the ideas most people have about artists.

I have made the tips of my hair darker, I have gotten blonde streaks, I have gotten ‘peek-a-boo’ purple streaks, and, more recently, i have had more noticeable pink streaks (still of the ‘peek-a-boo’ nature).

The dark tips weren’t that noticeable, as that was what I wanted, the blonde-er streaks were noticeable with my hair being much longer, and, though not as immediately noticed (in an “she’s streaked her hair” noticeable way), the two peek-a-boo streaks have been pretty cool.

They would probably be much more noticeable if they were normal streaks (on the top layer), rather than streaks applied to a ear-level layer of hair. They ‘peek’ through.

Peek-a-boo.

When I was little I was a big fan of Ed, Edd, and Eddy.

This has relevance.

If you are familiar with the old show, you will get references to a plank, and you will also remember that there were three older girls called the Kankers who each had a crush on one of the three Eds.

Lee likes Eddy, Marie likes Edd, May likes Ed, and I freely admit that I had a cartoon crush on Edd (the middle from the picture above)

left to right: Marie, Lee, May

left to right: Marie (Edd), Lee (Eddy), May (Ed). Guess how my young little brain translated my cartoon crush?

I desperately wanted to have blue hair.

I would only stop asking after Mom finally told me that since I was Blonde (ie. yellow hair) if I dyed my hair blue, it would turn Green.

But peek-a-boo streaks are a far cry from full our blue hair, but at some point I may decide I want to, you know, see what my parents reaction to electric blue hair would be.

Maybe have an ambulance on speed dial, in case they take it rougher than I thought.

But back to pink foam.

For those who don’t dye their hair (often, or at all), you can either go for a normal dye or you can go for something that’s more of a stain.

The stain, from what I can tell, is a more vibrant colour, but doesn’t stay as long as a normal dye.

I wanted something a bit more funky, interesting, and hey, the purple had faded enough since I had it done that I decided that, when I was having my hair appointment this family day weekend/reading week, if I was going to have my streaks redone, bright pink wouldn’t look out of place.

So I got the stain.

Wow, that sounds a bit like an omen of doom, similar to the dreaded Black Spot, but maybe less pirate-ey and more…

House wife-ishly?

Not the stain! Not the pink stain!

Who knows, maybe it was the result of that stray red sock in a wash of whites.

But one thing I noticed the second time I was in the shower after having the stain done is that it came out a bit when you were shampooing.

I’m sure it happened the first time I was showering after I had it done, but I only noticed it this time.

It was rather strange seeing the usually white froth of shampoo this odd pink…

But it was only today, when I guess after a more vigorous scrub of my hair that I noticed the pink foam on the walls of the shower did I think of revenge.

I’m going to stop here a moment, and tell you that I’m laughing to myself at the idea of looking at pink foam on shower walls and thinking “Revenge! Bwahaha!”… but I’m also kind of smiling to myself because I wonder at how many people thought of something a bit more gross than… well… this.

Once again I ask that you look at the title of this post, and if you were hoping at the beginning of his post for some vindictive bit of nastyness from a 19-year-old with roommate problems, well, you will have to wait for one of them to push me past my boundaries a fair bit farther to get me to make a mess that I may have to clean up.

Or try to outlast one of my less than clean roommates in NOT cleaning up.

But oh! When I noticed the pink foam lasting on the walls of the shower, Insanity perked up and loved the idea of The Sasquatch’s confusion.

Revelled in the idea of him being so confused as to what, exactly, it could be, this pink foamy stuff on the wall of the shower, cackled in delight when even Sanity couldn’t give an explanation that would make sense without hair dye knowledge, because that would mean that thought could go to one conclusion…

That it must be something gross.

Gross, and girly.

It doesn’t matter that it’s foamy like soap (exactly like soap), it was pink and strange… and foreign.

What could I have possibly done with this strange pink foam in the shower?

Bwahahahaahaha!

It matters not that he wouldn’t be able to figure out anything specific…

The horror of an unknown gross an girly thing will haunt him every time he even thinks of having a shower!

Bwahaha!

So I flicked more soap onto the shower wall, finished my shower while taking the unusual care not to wash off the foam from the wall, and got myself ready for class.

Later, when I noticed something amiss, I was given another delight, though a rather bittersweet one.

One of my earrings, in my second set of ear piercings, had fallen off.

It was cheap, with a plastic cap acting as a ‘pearl’ and I knew it would eventually break or get lost, but still, I was walking around with only three earrings in, and even if no one else noticed, I knew.

And Sanity said that I must’ve lost it in the bathroom.

Maybe in the shower. Maybe outside of the shower.

But likely the bathroom.

And Insanity reared up with manic delight and said

“He’ll likely step on it! The FOOL! Bwahahahahahahahahaaaa!”

If you do not know the pain of stepping on an earring with a bare foot, you are more likely to know how painful it is to find a Lego piece in the dark, and it is a similar pain.

Except that with an earring there’s a possibility that you’ll poke a hole into your foot, like I did when I was 15.

I have no clue if he found/stepped on the earring, I have no clue if he was weirded out or confused by the foam, I don’t know if either the foam or the earring (or both) were washed down the drain before he even noticed anything…

But it’s my revenge for millions of tiny hairs and other nastyness around the apartment res, and I still imagine Insanity cackling gleefully next to Sanity.

And I know that even Sanity has a smile.

And that is Revenge via Pink Foam.

EDIT: As a bonus, I found this video. It’s things you wouldn’t want to hear from a roommate.

EDIT 2 : For an update on what has happened with my revenge, look HERE and be prepared for childishness.

Sometimes You Need a Break. Dealing with Stress.

Slightly more serious post than my other ones, but this one is something I think a good number of students (at least university/college students) may find important.

I am going to get this out of the way and say I don’t do stress well.

Or rather, I stress well, I don’t DEAL with stress well. Here’s how I think of my stress dealings:

I bottle it up, store it away since its so unpleasant to deal with. Later, when I once again get stressed, I bottle that up too, even as the aftershocks of the feeling shake up the last bottle of stress.

Unlike real life, the tremors of stress stay with me, though I ignore it, and so it slowly shakes the second, and eventually third, fourth, fifth bottles up as well, building up pressure that I also ignore (as I am so very good at it) until the bottles I use start having trouble containing it.

I feel like, at least right now, the bottles I use are plastic. Later, if I keep doing this, the bottles may be made of glass. I don’t know.

When, eventually, the bottles fizz and explode so that I have stress colouring everything, making everything sticky and gross and makes me feel like doing nothing else but clean up and throw away the stress, I do so. It is, after all, hard to focus on anything else when you have sticky, gross stress all over you.

I ignore everything else, I have trouble concentrating, I have this overwhelming urge to do nothing, to go do something else that will make me feel better, like maybe watch comedy skits, or watch shows I know I like and episodes I know are funny, or read something totally random, or something else entirely.

I’ve been working on this example and been trying to self-analyze in a realistic, objective way, and I know that I need to work on a better way of dealing with stress than bottling it up and storing it away.

The reason I say I believe my bottles to be plastic right now, is because when the bottles explode from stress overload, broken plastic doesn’t hurt or cut nearly as deeply as glass.

Wow, that sounded a bit dark, huh?

I’m just trying to say that this tendency of mine to put away stress could develop into a worse problem, or could cause me to ignore something important because it happens to be stressful.

To help counteract that, I’m doing a number of things.

I don’t quite bend over backwards to do it, but close enough

I’m trying to schedule myself better (made a schedule for the week, having classes, study times, break times, etc…). Hopefully by having something steady and schedule like in my life, I’ll have something to hold ono.

Yoga, once a week. Similar to the schedule, by having yoga, it’s consistent and, unlike the schedule, something physical. If I need to do something more exerting, I can get onto one of the exercise machines and go on for an hour.

Phone conversation with Mom at least once a week. I am used to having a support system on hand. I don’t like talking about stress to friends, because I don’t like making my friends

My family has more personality than this and my three roommates combined

feel uncomfortable. It isn’t like I’m going to be able to talk to my roommates after all. I hardly ever see them, and even if I did, I don’t particularly like them. As such, my support system is my family. I need to be able to talk with them. So I’m making sure that at least once a week, there will be a conversation. To just talk. About nothing in particular. About things happening at home, things happening in Ottawa, allowing Mom to complain about her school while I can talk about how wonderful it is to be skating. I think it’s helping. No guarantee though. Midterms are stressful.

Writing. I know it isn’t the best thing, but writing here, on a blog, is almost surprisingly stress-releasing. Even if I don’t talk about stress. To be able to put my thoughts out to an invisible crowd, it’s nice. I also still write fiction for my own, and fanfiction because I enjoy getting reviews. It helps that most reviews are positive and are very encouraging and you can’t feel useless when you get an enthusiastic review for one of your ideas. Hell, I have a number of people who review regularly for my story ‘It’s Green‘ (Harry Potter Fanfiction and yes I linked to my own story) and I can go on for endless replies in conversation with these people who I only know because they like something I’ve written enough to contact me. How awesome is that?

By the way, Mom doesn’t like that I write fanfiction, but it’s a stress reliever for me. I enjoy writing. I didn’t do NaNoWriMo this year because I promised I wouldn’t, but writing is one of my hobbies. I’m not giving it up. I’m glad my Mom understands that. Or at least I believe she does.

Aaah, stress, you give me such issues!

Boy do I need to work on this, and I believe that this IS helping, but i’s hard to be objective in things such as these. I’ve been thinking on this for so long that I could be imagining everything, and I’m sure that some invisible person out there reading this is thinking I am imagining everything, or explaining it unrealistically, or SOMETHING, but this is as close to the ‘truth’ of the matter as I can get to.

It’s very hard being objective when dealing with yourself.

I think that’s one reason why self-portraits are so hard to do. You try to make it better because you’re vain (don’t try to deny it) and want to look pretty.

Or cool, if you aren’t quite ready to admit that you think you’re pretty.

But, as I said before, I don’t do (dealing with) stress well.

But, because I’ve been able to recognize it well enough… I am also going to recognize that I need a break.

Not a full one, more like slowing down to a jog from a sprint, but a break none the less.

Next semester, my hesitant plan is to take a break from school, move back to Toronto, and (with the permission of uOttawa) take a course while in Toronto so that I’m not totally removed from doing class work.

It will be one semester, and a break from full-time class. This will be me working to get used to stress of university, while having my support system with me.

I don’t know if I would have done better having taken the first year off, but this is what I’m doing now.

I wish I had  my own time machine, to go back to the beginning of the school year, maybe then I could have done a better job, but since I don’t, I’m giving myself a chance to breathe.

 

Frosh Slosh

Frosh Slosh is exactly what it sounds like, and a bit of what it doesn’t sound like.

Just like how a Foam Party sounds a bit like what it is, and a bit like something it really isn’t. (it isn’t a party where the main attraction is bubbles and foam)

Frosh, for those of you who don’t know, is a week-long (at least for UoO I know) event-filled week whereupon you party, participate in events, act like a complete duffus (doofus?), and sing silly (AWESOME!) songs about how great your department is with your department. (i.e, I’m in Arts, Lexy was in Engineering, and so on)

It also includes singing silly (AWESOME) songs about how people in other departments don’t get laid, have itsy bitsy manly bits, gross girly bits, and are, in general, not as awesome or cool as you and your department are…

Many of these songs are against Engineers (Friends don’t let friends sleep with engineers!), and Lexy has told me that yeah, it’s that way for most schools.

Her defence:

Engineering is where all the boys are at, and we have great parties.

Case and point.

But back to what I was saying:

Frosh slosh isn’t something that you will find on the web as far as I know, since I was mainly making up words that rhyme with “frosh” for the title, but it fits.

I have been sloshed upon so many times…

People dancing, with beers held high above their heads, don’t care about how gravity dumps that kind of issue on the shorter folk they just bumped into.

People who notice, while dancing, that they have a cup of water, and a crowd in front of them. Why flinging it seemed like a good idea, I have no clue.

The foam party, which I did not go to (DAMN YOU 8:30 CLASSES!), where there was a soap-bubble fountain, where one of my friends got pushed into… and admits to having the alarming thought that she’d die, drowning in bubbles…

And in general, people get pretty sloshed, and I get the sloshed people upon me many times…

I’m not full of myself, I AM the middle of the sloshed universe–everyone is drawn towards me.

50% is drag towards me, and then the ground.

I realize that university (especially first year it seems) is a time where you are free of parents and are therefore allows to dink yourself sick, but you don’t NEED to.

But it isn’t easy to get that across with Quebec and their 18-year-old age limit a short bus-ride away.

There have been 8 cases of alcohol poisoning (the kind that bring ppl to hospitals) in the last 2 weeks.
O_O

SMALL OMIGOD-YOU-DID-WHAT??? RANT_____Third day at university, and me and a couple of friends find a girl passed out on the round, nuzzling into the dirt. No on is around.

We called campus security, and as soon as we finished that, another url came, said she was a friend, and sat down beside the poor girl. And started fiddling with her cell phone.

Great friend.

She said that she called the campus security, but the guy on the line would have mentioned that when we called to reassure us.

She got offended when we said that we had already called.

I got offended that she’d get offended at us. She leaves her passed out friend alone for who knows how long (can you spell rape?), and gets offended that we call?

Friggin hell…_____END RANT

O_O

Yeah, the fire station’s really close to the campus, which is a good idea really… Lectures are punctuated by the sounds of sirens going down the street.

Very Peaceful.

Serene even.

Insert Sarcasm here.

Reviewing takes up two or so hours of my time, depending on which classes I have the next day (on Monday it’s up to 4 hours since I don’t have a practical class that day)…

Lots of fun 😀

I love University life, am having lots of fun, am making lots of friends, and even though sometimes I end up going to bed after midnight, am paying attention in classes.

Lexy, pass on the message please 😀

LOVE YOU ALL!