Right now, it’s 2:32 on Monday afternoon. This column is due in an hour and a half, and I’m still not sure what I want to write about. Responsible, right? I try.
Yes, I’ve been swamped with projects and presentations. Yes, I’ve written about seven papers this week and still have four to go—that last bit is not an exaggeration. Yes, all I can think about is how badly I wish today was actually tomorrow so I could just go home.
I’m feeling so exhausted and spent, all I want to do is lay down on the couch at home and watch “So You Think You Can Dance?” with my mom while she scratches my back. And yet! I have to find enough brainpower/willpower to bust out this column. What to talk about, what to talk about….
Yeah, I’m really not able to form coherent or cohesive thoughts right now. I should probably nap, but I’ve put my work off long enough.
There are about 937,000 things on my mind, and I think I’m just going to start throwing them out there. I’m generally a very random person, so this could be interesting.
I’ve noticed there are lots of boys with beards at North Park. This could be because it’s “No-Shave November,” a month in which boys (or girls) may choose not to shave and therefore grow strange amounts of hair. You should see my legs. It’s impressive how hairy they are.
Anyone who knows me well will understand that this isn’t really a new thing for me, though. Shaving takes a lot of time and razor blades are expensive. However, yesterday my roommate Kendra saw my legs and said, “You need to brush those!” She usually says, “You need to shave those!” I feel like we’re in uncharted territory now. She offered to bring me her dog’s brush after Thanksgiving to prevent matting.
Today, as I was walking back from lunch in the cafeteria, I caught up with my friend Joe. I noticed he wasn’t wearing any shoes, and it was 45-ish degrees outside. He’s in my Bible class, and I noticed last week that he was barefoot then, too.
I asked him if he just never wore shoes, and he said “Yeah, almost never. I hate them.” This kid is from Alaska/Chicago, so he’s used to the cold. I asked if he went barefoot even in the snow, and he said, “Yup, unless the snow is mad deep.” He also told me he can’t even feel when he steps on glass.
The thing is, I should stop being surprised when people don’t wear shoes here. There are lots of artsy-type people at North Park who prefer to be free from the shackles of their footwear.
And now, for something completely different….
I learned yesterday that driving in Chicago is nothing like driving in Hillsboro. This should have been obvious to me, but on the way home from church I encountered the strangest intersection ever.
According to Kendra and our friend Cassy, I’m crazy and Kansas must really be made of yellow brick road—apparently these weird intersections are normal elsewhere. With incredible difficulty and much coaching from my friend and shotgunner, Aaron, we survived the intersection.
About five minutes ago, Kendra drew me a diagram describing exactly how the left turn should have been performed. “This is what you thought you were supposed to do.” She then drew a little “x” in the middle of the intersection and said, “And this is where we would have died.”
On Thursday, I fulfilled one of my life’s goals by attending the midnight premier of “The Twilight Saga: New Moon.” As I drooled a little over the Cullens (I, like tween girls across the country, am hoping to marry Rob Pattinson), I couldn’t help but draw a parallel to certain students at my school.
Swedish people founded North Park, and there are several Swedish exchange students this semester. They are all beautiful. Every single one of them! Men and women both. They all dress fashionably—think adorable scarves, boots and flowing blond hair—and sit together at a circular table in the cafeteria.
They converse in rapid Swedish, which only adds to their desirability and overall attractiveness. I am holding out for the day in which I encounter the cutest boy at the salad bar. In my fantasy, I drop a shiny, red apple, and he kicks it back up and catches it in his hands. The rest is history.
If you have stuck with my sporadic thoughts and are still reading this, congratulations! Go to 111 N. Wilson and knock on the door. I’ll greet you with a hug and a cookie.