look out, kid, it's something you did
A lot has happened lately, most of which I am not at liberty to print.
The printable version is this: got four hours of sleep (less?) on Thursday night and three max on Friday. I am being punished for doing nothing--literally--and was forced to go to Penn State University to tour today instead of to LK's country house to have fun.
This morning I was shaken awake. I rolled over and fell on the floor, giving myself a fat lip, and groggily stumbled in the general direction of the bathroom. I missed and got a bruise on my shoulder. I stripped and stepped into the shower only to discover that there was no more hot water. By nine we were in the horrendous-smelling car and on our way to Philly.
My dad's habit of switching lanes every five seconds makes it difficult to sleep, so I finished the Harry Potter book and my bottle of water and stared out the window for a while.
Within five minutes of the start of the lecture I was sound asleep. I brought it on myself by reading Harry Potter until three in the morning, granted, but I was still exhausted. I made my left arm pink pinching it to make myself stay awake, remembering how I once reprimanded Harry for doing the same thing, but it was no use. I just couldn't listen. I couldn't tell whether my eyes were open or closed; I had no idea what state of consciousness I was in. I actually started hallucinating worms in the hair of the poor over-highlighted girl in front of me. I imagined that people were there that were actually in different parts of the country or world and wasn't sure how much of it was pure delusion and how much of it was true. I finally fell asleep and my mom had to force-feed me water to wake me up. Turns out I'd had a heat spell and was severely dehydrated.
So my wonderful, considerate dad bought me a bottle of water and sent me on the two-hour outdoor walking tour. Aren't I the lucky girl.
They bought me jewlery at a thrift shop, though, so I forgive them.
Right now my sister is having about a dozen kids over to sleep here, including Leslie's sister Lauren, and while they left to rent movies Walter, Tory's dad, is chatting my parents up.'
He's so rich and congenial it makes me want to puke. He's not a bad guy, although his hair is a bit too perfect and his voice too smooth for my liking; I just get unnerved by his bottomless closet of Ralph Lauren striped shirts, perfect brown loafers, Hampshire three-story country house, and yacht club membership. If the prep-bourgoisie (sp) thing was ever an item, he is its camera-ready lovechild. He discusses the pros and cons of Miami vs. West Palm Beach as though it's the most fascinating topic in the world; he needs to vacation (Paris or Hawaii?) soon because the pressure of coaching his daughter's softball league is affecting his weak knee. He's bought himself a special pair of glasses, too, so that he won't be heartbroken if they're smashed in some rough game. He happily chats about golf and first-class airplane service; "what was that stewardess, a student? On drugs?" (or "a student on drugs?"; couldn't quite hear).
And my parents, ever predictable, happily chat back, nodding at his monologues as though he's the cleverest man they've ever met.
That's just our daughter in the other room. She has one of those internet-diary things, you know. Everyone seems to have them these days. Even celebrities. It's just a matter of time before we find a way to advertize through them.
Oh yeah, and I went to Oona's house yesterday and watched alternatively crappy and amazing movies and discussed life over brioche (sp?) and Thai food and I realized how much I've missed her and the way she always smells like milky tea and clay.
The printable version is this: got four hours of sleep (less?) on Thursday night and three max on Friday. I am being punished for doing nothing--literally--and was forced to go to Penn State University to tour today instead of to LK's country house to have fun.
This morning I was shaken awake. I rolled over and fell on the floor, giving myself a fat lip, and groggily stumbled in the general direction of the bathroom. I missed and got a bruise on my shoulder. I stripped and stepped into the shower only to discover that there was no more hot water. By nine we were in the horrendous-smelling car and on our way to Philly.
My dad's habit of switching lanes every five seconds makes it difficult to sleep, so I finished the Harry Potter book and my bottle of water and stared out the window for a while.
Within five minutes of the start of the lecture I was sound asleep. I brought it on myself by reading Harry Potter until three in the morning, granted, but I was still exhausted. I made my left arm pink pinching it to make myself stay awake, remembering how I once reprimanded Harry for doing the same thing, but it was no use. I just couldn't listen. I couldn't tell whether my eyes were open or closed; I had no idea what state of consciousness I was in. I actually started hallucinating worms in the hair of the poor over-highlighted girl in front of me. I imagined that people were there that were actually in different parts of the country or world and wasn't sure how much of it was pure delusion and how much of it was true. I finally fell asleep and my mom had to force-feed me water to wake me up. Turns out I'd had a heat spell and was severely dehydrated.
So my wonderful, considerate dad bought me a bottle of water and sent me on the two-hour outdoor walking tour. Aren't I the lucky girl.
They bought me jewlery at a thrift shop, though, so I forgive them.
Right now my sister is having about a dozen kids over to sleep here, including Leslie's sister Lauren, and while they left to rent movies Walter, Tory's dad, is chatting my parents up.'
He's so rich and congenial it makes me want to puke. He's not a bad guy, although his hair is a bit too perfect and his voice too smooth for my liking; I just get unnerved by his bottomless closet of Ralph Lauren striped shirts, perfect brown loafers, Hampshire three-story country house, and yacht club membership. If the prep-bourgoisie (sp) thing was ever an item, he is its camera-ready lovechild. He discusses the pros and cons of Miami vs. West Palm Beach as though it's the most fascinating topic in the world; he needs to vacation (Paris or Hawaii?) soon because the pressure of coaching his daughter's softball league is affecting his weak knee. He's bought himself a special pair of glasses, too, so that he won't be heartbroken if they're smashed in some rough game. He happily chats about golf and first-class airplane service; "what was that stewardess, a student? On drugs?" (or "a student on drugs?"; couldn't quite hear).
And my parents, ever predictable, happily chat back, nodding at his monologues as though he's the cleverest man they've ever met.
That's just our daughter in the other room. She has one of those internet-diary things, you know. Everyone seems to have them these days. Even celebrities. It's just a matter of time before we find a way to advertize through them.
Oh yeah, and I went to Oona's house yesterday and watched alternatively crappy and amazing movies and discussed life over brioche (sp?) and Thai food and I realized how much I've missed her and the way she always smells like milky tea and clay.
posted by VVM at 5:39 PM
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