Cripes all Friday, can I catch a break, MBTA? I just want to get home when I expect to get home, all in one piece, with my slippers, the newspaper, and a slice of apple pie waiting for me inside the front door. Instead, I ended up in the pouring rain, because God forbid something in my world doesn’t set on fire for a day.

Addie’s house is (fingers crossed) going to be such a convenience for me in the mornings. I can either take the very easy bus route or else walk to my internship. I got there at exactly nine o’clock, put on my nice shoes, and got straight to work. I fact checked until lunch, at which point I ate a sandwich and an apple, and, feeling healthy, took a stroll around the Charles. I didn’t feel like taking a later train to come home, so I left work at 4:30 to make the 5:38.

But I’m sorry, you haven’t been properly acquainted with my friend The MBTA, who has no regard for other people. Otherwise, why would he have this goofus sign on his trains: “your tax dollars pay to have this train cleaned. do your part by picking up after yourself. Thank You!” Well if my tax dollars are paying to clean this up, then like hell am I picking up after myself, because I’ve already done my part. But counterpoint: if I did pick up after myself, then would I not have to pay taxes for cleanup? This is the sort of circular argument that The MBTA thrives on; it’s the sort of utter nonsense that explains why only some sentences need to be capitalized in his twisted world.

So although I laughed at this really stylish Asian girl’s really stylish handmade t-shirt (“MEMORIES / EDGAR STYLES + CHLOE O’BRIAN”), my joy was soon sucked from my soul like a dementor’s kiss, because at Mass General, the train just sat there and sat there. It said it was on standby. Then it said there was an accident. Then it said there was a fire on the tracks, at which point a girl stood up and said, “Well WE’RE never moving,” and the next ten minutes were spent wondering if we should all get off or not.

At 5:38, the time when my train was leaving, I called my boy Kage and asked her to, once again, direct me to my destination. What did people do without Google maps? (Answer: paper maps. Now you, too, can be smarter than a fifth grader.) I walked in the same Sturrow Drive/Mass Gen. circle for an unnecessary amount of time before we finally righted ourselves and I headed up Beacon Hill, the biggest hill of my life. It was starting to rain. According to Google maps, Kage said it was only about a mile. FALSE. I have since plotted out the route, and it was 2.57! Uphill! In the rain! With two bags! I had since changed into my more comfortable shoes, but I was hungry! And what a hill!

I was very surprised (and also extremely irked) to find out that there was really zero coverage of the Red Line fire on the news when I came across about twelve firetrucks on my journey, spanning Park St. and Downtown Crossing. There were so many people standing around with no idea what to do, and it was raining, and rush hour, and everyone was sad, and wahh. Actually, towards the end of my incredible blockbuster journey, I considered that since I was late anyway, I might as well just stand out there in the rain–it was crazy humid, I was sweating like a [your choice], and it was just the right pressure of summer rain. But I was way too fucking hungry, so a half-hour later, I made it to South Station, missed my next train by two minutes, and ran to the nearest food stand to order myself a half of a pizza.

I sat with a woman, a teacher at UMass in a colorful shirt and most appropriate rose-colored glasses, whose birthday it was. She was waiting for her partner, who was stuck at JFK/UMass, to arrive so that they could go to the Natalie Merchant concert. We tried to figure out routes to get her partner there in time, but after a while, she said, “You know what? Who cares. I would just as soon have dinner with her at the South Station Pizzaria Regina as go see Natalie. We had a fight this morning, and I feel terrible about it. I just want her to make it here.”

On the train home, I took off my shoes, sat cross-legged, and couldn’t tear my eyes from my book, although my thoughts did wander every now and then. It is almost 9:00! I should have been home hours ago! Why do I still have my period? This is very uncomfortable. This train is cold. Is that the air-conditioning? It’s not that hot out. Did a conductor never come through? Did we all just get a free ride? But I bought a ticket already! Can I use this later, then? Expiration date: November. God help me if I’m still doing this in November.

The one thing that went right–the doors were wide open, I got to hop out of a moving train, right in front of my mom in the waiting car.

It sort of kills me how horribly strained my storytelling abilities have become. Where is my vocabulary?

Just want to say that I am thrilled about two things: 1) that David Cook won, and 2) that my four votes actually counted (right?)!

Cook, you deserved the win by far, even though you had very stiff competition. I was distraught when the American idiots out there voted off Michael Johns (who looked smoking hot tonight, and had a really great duet with Carly), but I have consistently been a fan of yours, and I am just very, very glad that you made it. Look, Archie’s kind of cute and all, but he’s got zero personality beyond a giggly little Mormon schoolgirl, whereas you seem much more sure of yourself. You’re a good guy, smart and respectful, and you’s a fox. I totes look forward to your future album and will go to your concert when you come around for sure (though not the American Idol tour, because if I ever have to hear Jason Castro or Brooke White butcher a song again, I’ll just about lose my shit).

Also, nice tighty whities.

I thought when I woke up this morning that I was giving myself ample time, but one bagel and a cat fight later, I was way later than I could afford to be. I sang tensely to “Penny Lane” as I destroyed the highway in record time, swore when I didn’t see the train there (it’s 7:10 and the train leaves at 7:11!), said, “Oh, oh!” when I did see the train there, then searched for a parking spot, selecting the first one I spotted.

“Oh, good,” I said dryly. “666. That’s definitely a good start to the day.” I pulled through to 681 just in case.

I clip-clopped across the street and onto the train, telling the $2 parking fee box to fuck off. I read some of my book and then slept. The man next to me wore a big heavy black sweater and read The Order of the Phoenix (“The Beetle at Bay”).

At South Station, I got onto the wrong fucking train, and that pisses me off, because HOW CAN I NOT NAVIGATE THE T FLAWLESSLY YET? Like, how old am I? Why can I never grasp inbound vs. outbound? I’m truly dreadful with mental directions. This was made more obvious by an inability to look at a proper map before later getting off the bus. All I (stupidly) wrote down was, “N. on X Street, L. on Y Street.” Which is absolutely useless when you hardly know what town you’re in, never mind which direction the sun rises. Naturally, I walked the wrong way for too long, asked for Y Street from someone unhelpful, then eventually sat down on a rock wall and called my mom. She looked at a satellite picture and tried to direct me, but all I could see was twenty intersections, the Charles River, and a Staples. I tried to locate myself for her, but already being five minutes late for my first day of work, I could really only shout, “I can’t read that stupid sign! Mona…tuk? Nomatuba? Do you see anything around where I was standing before that has a long stupid name? IIIIIII’m SO TIRED OF BEING BLIND.”

Eventually, I went into Staples, where two workers and one customer looked at a map and tried to locate me. The map did not have Y Street labeled, either. After twenty minutes of wandering around in peep-toe heels, the customer finally pointed me in the right direction–and it happened to be about 100 yards to the left of the bus stop I had gotten off at in the first place.

Once I was in, I was fine. As it turned out, my boss was also late because of traffic, so all of the navigation drama was for nothing. However, while I sat there reading the magazine and waiting, I noticed it was 9:45. I had been awake for four whole hours and nothing had even started or mattered yet. I took this as an omen, particularly in light of my hellish morning numbers and the fake period I could suddenly feel. Yet the rest of the day was quite pleasant. I have a corner desk with a beautiful view of the Charles, with a half-hour walking trail to take at lunchtime (when I eat fruit and things, because it is, after all, a holistic magazine). The offices are more chic than you’d think, looking at the building from the outside; the colors and brickwork are nice to look at. I spent most of the day filling out forms and twirling a Rolodex, but this does not worry me. At my last internship, my responsibilities included approximately NOTHING. This time, there will always be something to do, and I enjoy that very much, because it will make my Mondays go by fast and my Tuesdays even faster. For instance? Tomorrow morning (I will only be there for two hours) I plan on answering reader mail. That’s nice busy work. (Although, for real, fake period? You’re not even supposed to be here right now. Quit while you’re ahead, you’re just going to be mad in two weeks.)

My journey home was much easier than it was getting there. Because I felt misled by the MBTA website, I skittered towards the bus, which I knew wouldn’t just sit there for much longer, and asked the driver, “This will bring me to Harvard, right?” to which he smiled, “Just for you.” A moment after me, another woman scrambled on, thanking him for waiting. “What is a bus without people?” he asked.

I missed the train I wanted to take by ten minutes, which meant I had to hang out in the station for a while eating an Auntie Anne’s pretzel dog and massaging my feet, which had finally started to blister. On the train home, I thought about how I was going to arrive at 7:11, exactly the time I had left that morning. A twelve-hour day that had flown by like magic and dragged on for a ridiculous amount of time between lunch and rush hour. I was tired and beaten but it felt good to know that I would be spending the summer doing the types of editorial bullshit I’ve been wanting to do, simply because I’ve got to do it at some point.

And with that being said, I didn’t appreciate the parking ticket in my windshield calling me “LAZ.”

Back in the day, Steph and I could bike all day, everyday. Not terribly far, but the back and forths added up. Over Eel River and through the woods connecting the Plantation to the cemetery, we would get to Bramhall’s for Airheads and Reese’s Cups, and then go back to her house for peanut butter sammiches and Mario Kart.

Today, for what is very likely the first time since the days when I had no reservations about acting out Animorphs in the front yard, I rode my bike for 5.0 miles, and consequently, everyone can go to hell.

I planned on just dusting the old Schwinn off and taking her for a spin, maybe letting the dog tag along (as it turns out, Gretty hates the whole idea of the bicycle, just as she hates the whole idea of democracy). I felt pretty goofy turning circles in my driveway, attempting to stop by backpedaling, which hasn’t been a feature on my bike since I was on training wheels. Upon realizing that someone had fixed my chain and the thing actually worked pretty well, I ran upstairs and tried to figure out what I–a notorious sweater–should wear in 60 degree weather. I settled on the douchebaggiest ensemble I could throw together:

I unfortunately couldn’t find any Spandex pants, but you should see it with the helmet on. It goes so well with the mock-turtleneck Under Armour.

An important thing to note is that Steph’s new house is not nearly as close as her old house. It would normally take me less than five minutes to pedal to her old house, but I think it may have taken an extra half-hour this time. That was partly because it was an extra mile and a half, and partly because I am a lazy sack of shit that had to walk after the first mile. Or rather, that’s what it must have looked like to everyone passing by, because these were NOT difficult hills I was hitting (or hills at all), and yet there I was pushing the bike and panting like a rabid dog. I kept having visions of how things used to be, how yeah, we used to struggle a bit and usually stand up to make it to the top, and it would hurt our lungs, but would we ever get this dizzy? Did we ever have to get off to walk, and did our legs always feel so impossible to control? Didn’t we used to have fun going down this hill? It was always a relief, but I remember hitting the top and seeing if we could propel ourselves forward without our feet, only making it past the Eel River Bridge once or twice. This time, I prayed that I could just glide home, or that maybe someone I knew would drive by and offer me a ride, or that my bike was actually a portkey. None of it was the case, and I made it back to a large bottle of water.

My body is so changed. It may still look like a twelve-year-old’s, but it can’t handle things the way it used to. I know that these are the steps that I have to take to get it back into a functional state, but it was an awfully sad sight that when I got home and grabbed the mail, I tripped over the pedals and twisted the handlebars and lay there in a heap of strong bones and zero muscle, hardly able to stand without crossing my ankles over each other and shakily catching a pedal. I don’t feel nearly as bad as that fateful time I took to a stationary bicycle, but I’ll send you all a urine sample in the morning for the final verdict.

In the end, I am happy that I rode five miles today. I am less happy that I chose to do so when I have to now stand up at work for a few hours, but you win some, you lose some.

10 articles written for The Heights.

9 outings in and around Boston.

8 new make-up/skincare products, that cost way more money than they were worth/I can afford.

7 disappointing, hurtful people all in one basket.

6 non-holiday related weekends home.

5 awful months without a single new episode of The Office. Do you know what that does to a person?

4 injuries requiring medical attention. Bloody urine, hotdog fingers, keratitis, related migraines. And one more upcoming procedure, once I get the balls to deal with it.

3 new favorite shows. Veronica Mars, Gossip Girl, Law and Order: SVU.

2 friends for realsies.

1 regret. Not asking that old priest to let me take a picture of him watering flowers outside St. Mary’s, despite it being one of the iconic images I will remember most from this year.

It figures that when everyone else is celebrating the last day of classes at Modstock, I’m inside thinking about what my senior thesis will be. (Though, to be fair, it’s not an especially exciting Modstock. Who the fuck is State Radio? They sound like ghosts, or trains, or ghost trains trying to get through the inch of my window. I have no idea what the kids listen to these days.)

I’ll say it: it’s not too often that someone questions a decision I’ve made, because usually by the time they find out about it, I’ve already tossed it and turned it until there’s nothing left to judge. But lately, everyone keeps asking me what I’m thinking about for grad school. Like I’m supposed to! Even my dad, after I told him I had no plans to go, laughed and said, “Yeah. Well, we’ll see about that.”

I just don’t know if it’s necessary for me. I’m a sort of do-what-it-takes person (or at least, I’m not the opposite of that, whatever it is), but all the alumni in my field have said that grad school isn’t worth it for publishing and journalism. “What’s the point of paying to be taught by people who used to be in the business when you could get paid to be taught by the people who are in the business?” Exactly! And the sum of the square roots of any two sides of an isosceles triangle is equal to the square root of the remaining side!

Still, after yet another meeting with a professor I respect about how I should really be thinking about making the most of my time here, I am now I’m all a flutter because wait, am I supposed to go to grad school? Am I making a stupid choice? Of course it’s not for everyone, but is it for me? How do I know it’s not for me? What do I know ? I want to just say, oh to hell with it, I’m only halfway through my undergraduate years, but I can’t quite do that. Next year is when I am supposed to really have my plans set, but I won’t actually be here, so if I want to secure advisors and such then I’m running out of time.

So as to not totally close the doors on this, I need to set my sights on a senior thesis. And for ideas I have approximately… hmm, two and two is four… carry the one… oh, NOTHING. What the hell am I interested in? Since I finally declared the Irish Studies minor and I am going to be spending nine months over there, I guess it had better be in that department, but what? It’s not like I’m especially interested in the Magdalen Laundries or Yeats, and decolonization wiped the floor with me last semester, so I don’t know. I guess I’ll find out then, even though I really should know now, and and

Yeah, I’m really looking forward to the two days off between finals and work.