Oversights and Sticky Tack

I am back. And I am alive.

I have survived my first week of my first semester as a junior. It was tough, brutal, nigh impossible. But I have conquered.

Monday, which seems so long ago, began with an ironic statement. I woke up around 10, which never happens, and looked at my roommate, which also never happens, considering we're hardly in our tiny room at the same time. I laughed and said, "This will be the last time this ever happens," to which she also laughed.

An hour later, I received a call that made this statement come true. The director of Resident Life contacted me and asked if I would be willing to change rooms to help out an incoming student, if my roommate and I each got our own room. She and I talked it over and agreed that we would do so.

I now have my own room.

And I've discovered that duct tape is not a fix-all and that sticky-tack and cement blocks don't mix well. My decorations have come crashing down more than a few times, to my great frustration. However, I don't know if I'm willing to buy a glue gun and ruin the 10cc records just for fashion's sake...

To make my room a little more "alive," I purchased a tree yesterday. A cat palm tree, to be exact. Best purchase ever, since it was $5 from the omnipotent Wal-Mart (I will not be surprised if Mike Duke ran for U.S. President. More power to him, quite literally, if that were to happen). But I forgot that a tree might, perhaps, grow while I'm here... So I have no idea how that will work out.

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On an entirely different note.

I've re-read Kate Chopin's "The Story of an Hour" and I could see myself as I used to be in Mrs. Mallard. For all who are not familiar with the short story, I recommend reading it highly, especially since it takes ten minutes at the most to read it (http://www.vcu.edu/engweb/webtexts/hour/).

The story, and I'm not spoiling anything here if you did take my advice to read it, ends with the ironic death of Mrs. Mallard, because she is shocked her husband is indeed alive, after fantasizing about her life of freedom when she hears of his death. Her views on marriage are/were similar to mine. Meaning, a ball and chain. Bentley Mallard, no matter how kind his intentions, had imposed his will upon his wife more than she liked, and his death meant no such cruelty any longer.

I'm slowly starting to morph my views into something a little less cynical. I have met someone, in case you're wondering. I'm totally open to what God has planned. I'm actually kind of amazed at how not-panicky/calm I am about this. Sure, I had a minor panic attack when I thought I could see my independence falling off the plank into the depths of the ocean. But after a soothing talk with a couple of my best friends, I am pretty excited for this.

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I have started my fourth job for the semester as a photographer for a local marketing company. I have to get up at 7 tomorrow morning, which may not sound like a big deal. But remember, I'm a college student, which automatically means late nights due to procrastination, an art I have mastered. I am currently avoiding writing two papers due tomorrow.

I think one latte should do the trick of insomnia, don't you agree?