Of Coffee Signs, Senioritis & Dreaming About Cars.

I haven’t actually sat down to write a blogpost for a while, my old friends seem to have developed an irrepressible knack for e-mails, about time they discover the realms of not so instant messaging. It got me thinking about those old times when people actually had to sit down, write a letter and wait for a couple of days tending to eternity for a reply. Human communication must have been so valuable back then, you could see it with all the effort put in calligraphy. It’s odd just picturing it.

I’m suffering from a textbook fit of Senioritis, workload has effectively quadrupled and time appears to have finally modified its pace to modern times. I feel like that little squirrel in ice age that spent the four or so movies running after that nut only to start a meltdown when it actually got its little claws onto it. I’ve gotta say, my nerves have improved since the past years, I don’t seem to be quite registering the whole situation in full momentum. I don’t know what to make of it, but I’m hoping that when I find out it’s not too unpleasant that it would require life-long therapy. I gotta be honest though, the short horrifying intervals during which the full realization of the finals hit home send my heart rate on a, well, Himalayan marathon. Gilmore girls, however, seems to be handling the responsibility of keeping me sane so far. Let’s not jinx it, shall we?

As much as I’d love to rant about the political situation, I know better than to start even though it would fill up three or four blog posts in a jiffy, especially that my political stances and nihilist ideologies don’t seem to be sitting well with most of this planet’s more willing tenants. It’s all so infuriating and I’d much rather not discuss it since my last news overdose resulted in a very clear view of a textbook asylum case hovering in the horizon as plan A, B, C and D, not to mention four hours that could’ve otherwise been engaged in my seemingly hopeless deciphering quest of my Economics syllabus. It takes me about 15 minutes to translate it into my cognition then 5 to digest it; grueling process. However, I’ve found that reading my supposedly advanced English course in a British accent calibrated into a dialogue between a Mrs. Willsworth and a Mr. Shawshank walking around the house helps increase my sober hours long enough to get the work done.

My microwave has been getting back at me for that last Herring adventure, making it a point to always heat my plate and not my food. I’ve come to the point where it seems perfectly logical to assume that if I don't wait for the microwave timer to beep I'm going to morph into super microwave woman by the radiation and cook things every time I get pissed because I’ll vibe out microwaves out of every orifice unto oblivious edible objects in the vicinity that may or may not include humans, turning me into a cannibal by coercion. Here’s to hoping my microwave is not as vindictive as my imagination plots it out to be, I’m well on my way to turning to cannibalism by mere starvation and lack of ability to feed myself without its help.

I actually dreamt last night. Granted, I got out of bed 7 hours into a good night’s sleep for no reason whatsoever other than my downright opposition to the unraveling of the plots and the several guest appearances made by people who’d qualify as nightmare material, but there were some nice things in there too, like running down in my pj’s in the middle of the street to my new vintage car that’s still not here yet in real life. I was much shorter in comparison though, the proportions would have made more sense had I been five and it was a 4x4 land cruiser, given that to my REM cycling self, the car was pretty much the size of a tiny monument and I had to stand on the tips of my toes just to reach the windows and look in on a canvas-choked and incredibly colourful couch for a backseat. It was also golden, 60’s style, giving on to space that its exterior couldn’t logically betray like those carnival tents in harry potter and the goblet of fire that look like a shack on the outside and give on to auditorium space on the inside. Haha. I’m never gonna grow up am I now?

I sat down yesterday in one of my middle-of-the-all-nighters panic attacks to write down all the things that I look forward to when I’m finally done with high school in an attempt to cool down and maybe start working again after a hot mug of coffee, and around my 6th item I realized that not only do I not have the least idea what the hell I’m gonna do with myself or more importantly how I’m gonna do it when I actually get to have that luxury, but I also can’t think of anything that is neither directly or indirectly related to this whole kid-life. The future makes me dizzy, and even though I have a clearer grasp than most on the direction I’d like to have a head start towards, it’s still awfully vague and very..list-incompatible. That’s normal right? I’m supposed to be fresh meat, pathetically lost and have everything look big and scary, right? Well, I’m hoping it is, because I’m getting agoraphobic just thinking about it.

Oh well, that’s about it for today. This morning is looking good, with random friends agreeing on simultaneously posting coffee pictures on my wall. I’m going out on a limb here, but I gotta say, it made my smile like an idiot and think up various ways in which divine providence is maybe doing away with the flashing billboards and settling for coffee posts to tell me that everything’s gonna be alright after all.