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19
Dec
Okay, so it’s not as bad as all that. I quickly adjusted to being back home, I’ve been racking up big bucks at the bookstore (which omg I need so bad… let’s just say my bank statement is two digits, and the first digit is 1), my dog is a big dummy barking at squirrels, both of my cats have been smothering lovebugs, and the family’s way wicked into the Christmas spirit this year. The last point was surprising on Saturday night, when I got back from a 9-hour shift and got lightly scolded for having no energy to put lights on the tree–this, after years of doing decorations by myself.
I still haven’t made much headway on my papers, which is terrifying, and I still wish I was in Dublin, but I haven’t cried for a few days, and even Christmas bookselling isn’t as bad as I thought it would be, so all in all, I’m good.
With that mini update behind us, here’s what I’ve been planning on writing for a week now:
In a number of ways I’ve become the opposite of what I’ve always been. Some, I don’t really feel comfortable sharing yet. One is less shameful though: how I could give a rat’s ass about schoolwork. For some reason, despite being at one of the most prestigious universities in Europe, home to Joyce, Yeats, Beckett, Boland, Swift, Synge, Wilde, Burke, Hyde–all that aside, I’m kind of like, this place isn’t all that serious. It’s most likely because the classes are different from BC classes, in that there are next to no assignments required throughout the term, only one gargantuan paper at the end. In some cases, there isn’t even reading to be done–seriously, how do you advertise a class as Irish Literature and Language and not assign any reading? It was upsetting at first, not having any work to do, but boy did I get used to it fast. Now, I’ve got four badass papers due at the start of second term, and what have I decided to write them on? Seinfeld and a Hollywoodization of “The Destruction of Da Derga’s Hostel.” When the customs agent asked me if I was doing well in school this term, I said, “Um… we’re really going to have to see.”
You’ve probably also noticed that I’ve given up on the “project 2008″ photo-a-day-athon. I don’t know how I got so close and just gave up, but I did. Part of me is very angry at myself for stopping because it was actually a painstaking thing to keep up, but to be fair, for the past few months most of those pictures were all taken on Saturdays, with the dates altered. It’s just too hard to take a picture when all you’ve done is moped in your room, or when the highlight of your day is personal time with someone that you’d like to keep to yourself. But I haven’t stopped shooting, so you can check out the most recent updates. I went to Paris.
I’m back in Plymouth now, and although sleeping with an electric blanket and a kitty pressed to my back was one of the most comforting things of the week, I’m still extremely sad to have left Dublin. I wasn’t ready to go. Things were just getting good, real good. I know people are going to have questions for me now that I’m back, and I want to be able to give answers, and I’m SO CLOSE to being able to give answers, you guys! Like, good news answers. But I left just as I was about to get them, and now it’s a few weeks on the other side of the pond. Which is why I’m going back to Dublin early, because I want my New Year’s to be out of this world, because I am not going to let another year go by where nothing happens, etc, etc, [rousing diatribe on shortness of life and sweetness of success].
oneI felt very confident just before leaving that, even though I was leaving for a few weeks, things would be amazing once I got back. I have no actual reason to think otherwise now, but I do. I do and I’m miserable here in America, and I shouldn’t have left–at least not so soon.
Now I’m home, writing papers and watching TV, and not knowing exactly what’s going on 2600 miles away. And it bothers me a lot.
noneChinese couple rushing forward, holding what I think is a guidebook. “Madamoiselle!”
“Er, oui?”
“*French omg*”
“Oh, uh, non, I don’t speak any French… English? Where are you trying to go?”
“English! Ahh… uh, you… do you have cat?”
“Um. Sorry? Quoi?”
“CAT? You have CAT?”
“I… I don’t understand you, I’m sorry.”
Writing out letters on palm. “Cat. G-O-D. Cat.”
“Oh jeez… Um. Yeah. God. Are you looking for a church, or…?”
“What are you? Catholic?”
“Yes.”
Taking out what is not a map, but a Chinese-English Bible; pointing to passage about Heavenly Mother which I can’t even find online now. “See? ‘Our Heavenly Mother.’ You say there is a Heavenly Father, and we say there is also a Heavenly Mother.”
“Yes. I see.”
“Heavenly Mother.”
“Yes.”
“Yes?”
“…Are you looking for a name?”
“A name? Hmm, English…”
“No, no, I get it, but I’m not really sure what you want from me here.”
“Ah! Come here! She speaks English, she will help us.”
“Eh, no, really, I need to go.”
Two more women approach, one speaking enthusiastic English. “We believe in a Heavenly Father and a Heavenly Mother.”
“Right. You know, I’m actually on a really tight schedule, I’m looking for the Bastille, I actually have somewhere to be soon…”
“Lots of Americans go to the Church of Cat!”
“Yes, I know, it’s terrific. Merci beaucoup, merci… au revoir. Got to get back on schedule.”
Mumbling as I wait to cross the street. “There’s always a schedule.”
none