Posts Tagged ‘College’

…. you go to Kroger, select what you need, get in the check-out line, purchase it, take your receipt, and walk away.

Specifically, without what you went in to buy. And the cashier lady has to yell after you, “Ma’am, you’re a complete bass-ackwards idiot and forgot all of your stuff!” Or something to that effect, anyways.

Marvelous. This is what the first day of school, not enough sleep, too much humidity, an unfilled prescription, and too little chocolate will do to you.

But other than this rather embarrassing faux-pas (which I’ve also done embarrassingly often), today was a pretty exemplary first day of class. I stayed awake in all my classes (chapel does not count, because Dr. Burks says the same thing on the first day of chapel every year), actually used some of my groceries, kept my room clean, took a shower, and managed to make myself utterly detestable by channeling my inner Hermione in my ethics class by being totally unable to stop answering questions. Over all, the perfect beginning to a semester, even if the humidity was typically Arkansian (or whatever) in its dependable way of hovering around 113% and slowly expanding my hair to the size of a small asteroid.

And even if every time I have used my groceries I have been faced with Murphy’s Law Subparagraph 2.3 Phrase 0.3: If your mother is not present with you in the kitchen, whatever you are cooking will explode, overheat, catch fire, run over, or do other inexplicable things that would not have happened if she were with you, even if you were doing seemingly the exact same thing. (Needless to say, I ruined boiled eggs today….)

Additionally, I would also like to point out that I have already started on the mountain of homework that is vaguely reminiscent of the workload Harry and Ron and Hermione experienced during their O.W.L. year. Which is pretty good, considering how much I really just want to curl up and sleep.

I have to admit, I think this is going to be a good semester, even if I do spend a lot of money on things I just leave at the cash register.

. . . . . . . . . .

“It is not my fault that I never learned to accept responsibility!”

-Unknown

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So the first day of my new life resolution of being Irresponsible and Spontaneous went splendidly.

I turned my alarm off when it rang at 10:30 and slept until 12. Quite lovely, except for some rather disturbing nightmares about mutilated kittens and Merlin running away before I got a chance to pet him.

I read several chapters of Elisabeth Kubler-Ross’s On Death and Dying.

Around 2:00, I took a shower. Then I started packing to take a load of stuff home next weekend when I meet my mom in Tupelo while listening to Museum of Thieves, an audiobook that is about… well… it’s really hard to explain. Never mind.

And I shot engagement pictures for Noelani and Devin, and they were quite lovely.

But none of this is very Irresponsible or Spontaneous. I’m getting there.

At about three o’clock, I realized I was doing decidedly poorly in the aforementioned category, so I decided that we were going to have a cookout. Once I realized that I had nothing to either grill on or with, and that I had never grilled before in my life and had no idea how to do so, I changed the plans to a campfire. Of the twelve or so people I invited, I think only about two or three knew what the actual plan was, which wasn’t much of a plan at all. For someone like me who likes to plan out everything, this was quite a big step.

(You should see my normal daily schedule. I have every hour of every day written out and planned from the moment I wake up until “11:30-12:00—Get ready for bed and go to sleep.”)

After I was done with the photoshoot, Charlene and I loaded up on campfire goods at, minus important things such as plates, napkins, or any way to light the fire, and headed over to Searcy dorm where Wesley, Caleb, Pearson, John Mark, Dustin and Velvet, Mere, and Brittni met us. From there—though I had forgotten to tell anyone where we were going—we drove to Riverside, which is closed after eight o’clock and is known for its own special breed of cops that tow cars if they’re still there after hours.

After we hid our cars a little ways into the woods, nearly sinking mine into the mud and just about destroying John Mark’s undercarriage, we hiked out to B rock, a spectacular cliffside makeout spot with a perfect little alcove for the building of a campfire. Luckily, John Mark had been intelligent enough to supply matches, and we basically removed all the underbrush for a five mile radius in order to build a rather cozy little fire.

Wesley spilled hot dog juice all over himself multiple times before Rob and Andrea showed up, and Rob single-handedly attempted to destroy the ozone layer by throwing plastic items into the campfire to the great displeasure of basically everyone else. But honestly, no irresponsible, spontaneous event is complete without Rob, who is essentially the king of irresponsible. (The guy wants to be the next Steve Erwin, y’all—the kid is never going to grow up.)

At one point, while roasting his hotdog, he turned to Andrea with the bag of bread and handed it to her, saying, “Honey, will you hold my buns?” to which John Mark responded, “I wonder at what age bun jokes get old.”

Never, John Mark. We’re all too old if those ever stop being funny.

The moon was so bright that you could hardly see the stars and we didn’t even need a flashlight to find our way back to our cars, which was convenient since we didn’t bring one.

On the way back to campus, I realized I even had a big gob of melted marshmallow in my hair, and for the first time ever, I did not care that something was in my curls that was not supposed to be there. I was even glad.

I love college, you guys.

Oh, and luckily, the cops never found our cars, either.

So I have just moments ago realized that no one is coming back to the suite tonight besides me.

Which means that I have absolutely not a single soul in the world to talk to right now, and for a girl, coming back after a long day with no one to discuss every little detail of the day with is absolutely one of the sadder things that could possibly happen.

Sigh. I guess one can’t have it all.

Anyways… the week is over, and according to the clock (12:53 A.M., don’t believe the time WordPress tries to give you, it’s impossible), it has been Mom’s birthday for precisely 53 minutes!

*takes a deep breath*

HAPPYBIRTHDAYTOYOUHAPPYBIRTHDAYTOYOUHAPPYBIRTHDAYDEARMOMMMMMMHAPPYBIRTHDAY TOYOU!

If you aren’t annoyed yet, you are probably on illegal sedatives, and should probably be going to rehab instead of reading my blog.

I have finally started working on my creative nonfiction essay and, considering it was due two and a half weeks ago, I figure this is a good thing.

Additionally, we had our first Zeta Rho function as actual members of the club tonight. For non-Bison readers, functions are, in fact, not something that you do in Algebra II or what you don’t do when you haven’t had enough caffeine during that snoozer eight o’clock biology class (har-har… if any of you managed to find the joke amid that pile of verbal sludge, here’s to you), but can actually be defined as the following:

Function (v.) 1. Something you don’t do when you haven’t had enough caffeine during that snoozer eight o’clock biology class; 2. (n.) Something that you do in various high school math classes and forget by the middle of June so you have to relearn it again… every year; 3. (n.) A staple of Harding club life in which members of the club involved invite other people, usually members of the opposite sex, to a variety of planned activities which, if not well-planned or if the club itself is full of socially inept humanoids, can easily degenerate into awkward small-talk and soon after, utter, complete, and terrifying silence

Fortunately, our was well-planned enough and none of us did anything too totally socially awkward, so it actually ended up being a good deal of fun. I asked a guy named Taylor who actually lives in Birmingham, too; he pledged TNT (Zeta Rho’s brother club), is also a sophomore, and is an Alabama fan (but I have decided to forgive him for this). We rode with Rebecca and her date, David, who she has known literally since birth since they were both delivered by the same midwife in Italy (cool story, no?). The theme of the function was “Starlight Lounge,” which I think (none of us were ever quite sure, even after the function was over) was supposed to be some swank VIP club… without alcohol or dancing, of course, which means it wasn’t anything like a club, but it’s all okay. There was karaoke, which was entertaining, and many root-beer bottles, which was also rather hilarious—until, of course, the wrong administrator sees Facebook pictures of us taking swigs from brown glass bottles and decides to put us on probation—and just a regular old good time. And of course, beau entertainment (beaux are sort of like guy members of girls’ clubs, like queens for guys’ clubs, and are basically voted on by all the members on the basis of how many people like them, or something crazy like that)—they played a music video where Matt, Huston, and Brian all had on scandalously short shorts (and I mean scandalously; IB people, if you can remember the shorts Edward and Boris wore to the senior softball game…) and danced to Miley Cyrus’ “Party in the U.S.A.”…. Oh boy. Fun times.

How’s that for a giant paragraph?

Anyhoo… my head is threatening to split down the middle like a melon attacked by a velociraptor femur… and my metaphors are degenerating like cystic fibrosis… and my political correctness is dying like… okay. I’m stopping now. Goodnight!

Oh yes, and one more thing…. The first few minutes aren’t that funny, but then… well, you’ll see. I’d say something about Asians but I have already used up my quota of politically incorrect moments for the day so… draw your own conclusions.

And therefore I am blogging instead of packing.

It seems like I start a lot of blog posts with some variation on the theme, “I should be studying/packing/cleaning/doing something productive but I am going to blog instead.

Oh well.

As of midnight, there are five days left until I leave for Florence and begin the greatest journey of my life, so far. Holy meandering mackerel. Five days.

Which also means that we have come to the end of an era. As of tomorrow, I will be packing up the rest of my stuff (in between saying goodbye to the last few people, buying Euros from Donna Jo, talking to Chelsie about taking wedding pictures, cleaning the dorm, signing out, and going to Ashel’s house to spend the night and taking a deep breath before shooting the entire weddingly process on Saturday, then leaving Searcy around 8:30 or 9:00 to drive four hours to Tupelo) and leaving Cathcart, where I will never live as a freshman again.

Weird.

I was going to make a list of things I learned this year, which I’m sure would have been utterly shocking to all of you as I absolutely would never ever make a list, but instead I just want to ramble, which I hope is fine with you all—otherwise you can stop reading now. But I’d like for you to keep reading 🙂

Okay, I lied. I’m going to make a list. I tried to write in non-list form and it just fizzled out miserably. So here goes.

  1. The amount of changing a person can do in the span of two semesters is sheerly amazing. If Kellum-at-the-beginning-of-freshman-year and Kellum-at-the-end-of-freshman year, they would get into an argument about who had better hair, and then they’d realize that although they were twins, they were so strangely different that it didn’t even matter who had better hair, and they’d walk away feeling like they’d seen a ghost and then try to forget the whole thing. (Although they’d still both secretly think that they were the one with the better hair.)
  2. Although there were points this semester when I was ready to just fast forward with my eyes closed and ears jammed to the end of the year, I wouldn’t trade it, the tremendously good or the tremendously bad, because each has had its role in who I’ve become and in shaping the relationships I wouldn’t trade all the gelato and Ponte Vecchio gold in the world for.
  3. It’s kind of amazing how smart your parents get all of a sudden. You go from high school, and thinking it’s incredible how you can be so much younger and still know so much more, to college, and then you suddenly realize just how smart they are. Freaky how that works.
  4. Living in a dorm with a boatload of other screaming freshman girls is about the funnest thing you’ll ever do. I’m fairly certain that my life will be downhill from here. I’ve never had so much estrogen-packed, shrieking, absolutely insanity in my life and every minute of it (except for the parts where I was trying to sleep) has been a million bucks worth.
  5. Friends still love you even if they see you in pajamas and no makeup. This may be one of the oddest discoveries of all, but it’s still oddly true.
  6. Even though people on occasion will drive you crazy, get on your nerves, and make you angry, if they’re your true friends, you still love them, because you know that they still love you even when you drive them crazy, get on their nerves, and make them angry. Charlene, Wesley, Zach, Caleb, James, Mollie, Claire, Zane, Lisa, Alyssa, Meghan, Kathleen—what would life be without you guys? A pretty sad place, and one with a rather grouchy Kellum, I might add.
  7. God generally does not work in the big crashes of thunder or the forest fires or the monumental floods (not to say that he doesn’t, at all, but at least that’s not how he works in my life). God works in the little things—those little flashes of understanding, the seconds of unfathomable happiness, the moments of inexpressible despair. God is the tiny wildflowers, the strong ivy vines, the mushrooms and the termites and the wasp nests and the grass and the rose vines that through these instances of ecstasy and heartbreak crumble the mortar holding the bricks of our lives together, the mortar of our stubbornness and blindness and and apathy and self-reliance and abject selfishness. And God is the new mortar that slowly begins to rebuild the houses of our lives, laying the foundation on a Rock, remaking us piece by piece, brick by brick, in his image.
  8. Love lifts us up where we belong, where eagles fly on a mountain high… as the song goes. It amazes me that you can learn so much about this one four-letter word and still know nothing. I guess that’s why it’s said that God is love.

I have also learned that sleep is necessary for ungrouchiness. Therefore I must go to sleep now. Right now.

Remember I love you all probably more than any of you will ever know, and if you could see into my heart, all of your names would be engraved in its surface and straight down to its core, quite permanently.

Two are better than one,
because they have a good return for their work:

If one falls down,
his friend can help him up.
But pity the man who falls
and has no one to help him up!

Also, if two lie down together, they will keep warm.
But how can one keep warm alone?

Though one may be overpowered,
two can defend themselves.
A cord of three strands is not quickly broken.

In lieu of the fact that I will be traveling away to the great and glorious land of Oz Italy to the fair Emerald City Firenze, I have decided to compile a little list of helpful guidelines to help you live your life while I am gone so that in the absence of my organizational skills and general capacity to freak out about everything, you’ll still be able to survive.

(Note: This is absolutely NOT a joke. It is not meant to be sarcastic in the least, or to make fun of myself, or to be ridiculous. I am totally, one hundred percent, utterly, entirely, grammatically, archaeologically, morally, completely, exhaustively, inclusively serious.)

So I present to you…

The List of Things You Are Not Allowed to Do This Summer Unless You Want to Suffer Consequences of the Direst Nature

  1. Putting yourself in danger of contracting swine flu. This means no traveling to Mexico; no eating of pork products such as bacon, honey ham, pork rinds, or ham-and-cheese sandwiches; no visiting petting zoos that involve animals even remotely related to pigs; and no watching Discovery Channel shows or reading National Geographic articles concerning hogs or other suchlike creatures. Probably watching Charlotte’s Web is a bad idea, too.
  2. Dying from swine flu. See above.
  3. Jumping off a bridge into piranha-infested waters and dying as a result of having the flesh stripped from your bones by their nasty little teeth.
  4. Getting hit by lightning and dying from electrifiably frying your cranial mass.
  5. Being mauled by a bear and dying. (Zane….)
  6. Let’s just say dying at all. 
  7. Eloping. You know who you are. Don’t do it.
  8. Joining the Peace Corps.
  9. Converting to some obscure brand of Eastern religion.
  10. Becoming a transvestite. I could have a long discourse on this but… just… no.
  11. Transferring from Harding to anywhere else unless you have already planned to do so and had it approved with me. I fully intend for you all to still be here when I get back and if you are not, then by the end you will be begging for a quick injection of swine flu virus, piranhas, bears, or lightning. Trust me.
  12. Having plastic surgery.
  13. Getting more than two facial piercings.
  14. Becoming addicted to any sort of illegal substances or otherwisedly harmful mind-altering stuff. Ah-hem, cough cough.
  15. Going on a hitch-hiking trip and being kidnapped and sold into the white slave trade in Mexico or Singapore or simply getting dragged off and never heard from again.
  16. Basically, doing anything without consulting yours truly first. And I mean it. I keep mutated chihuahuas whose genes have been crossed with unnameable stinging insects just for those people who don’t obey my orders.

Haha…. But in all seriousness, I love you all very dearly and a) I would be very put out with you if I had to abbreviate my stay in the glorious and wonderful city of Florence to come back for your funeral, and b) it would absolutely break my heart if anything happened to any of you. So stay safe, have fun, and know that you are in my heart.

Ugh. Mushiness. Lolz fr srious.

Festosterone: The Great and Glorious Cookout of Supreme Manliness (again, please note that I am using absolutely no sarcasm, none at all, not one iota or dropper drop) went quite well, involved one singed arm, a mutilated hamburger, some rather delicious brautwursts and burgers, and in general, quite a lot of fun. Zach and Pearson improvised a little song with a verse for all of us (my favorite part was perhaps the little interjected vomiting noises about “Zaire”… haha) and we threw a glow-in-the-dark frisbee and James whacked me in the nose and then rubbed tree berries all over it in some secret Indian remedy (right…) and I took five million pictures which you can access through the three links in this phrase, and just generally had a lovely sort of time… I mean a masculine, testosterone-packed time.

Well… I must go finish taking all the stuff off the walls… oh sad day… but yes. Reread that list a few times so you can be absolutely sure what the guidelines are for this summer. Don’t mess it up.

Though as you all undoubtedly know—because, I dunno, I seem to have been mentioning this every post since somewhere around Spring Break—I am twelve days as of midnight from leaving for Italy, I am starting to get that crazy-eyed, jumpy-muscle feeling. As much as I am ready to go, to see the Duomo rising up out of the ancient cobblestone alleyways, to hear the jabber of twenty different languages of tourists over the throbbing pulse-beat of the omipresent Italian… I also don’t want to leave. No, no, I’m not complaining, not one iota (though if swine flu causes the borders to be closed, there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth such as has not been witnessed since Herod murdered all children two and under in Bethlehem). But it is just strange to think that after spending hours every day with your best friends, all of a sudden you won’t see them at all, hardly any contact except perhaps a Facebook wallpost here and there.

But I will be strong and I will be brave and I will (try my absolutely craziest hardest) not to cry when the semester is over.

(Though I remember in elementary school up until about fourth grade, I always cried on the last day of school…. Heaven help us that that particular habit doesn’t reemerge full-fledged in my nineteen-year-old, supposedly-more-mature-than-first-grade college self.)

It’s weird, but aside from the fact that I’ve realized my parents are a lot smarter than I did in middle school, I don’t feel like I’m much more mature than I was in sixth grade. I still am socially impaired, sometimes just up to the point of institutionalization (strangely, spell check tells me that is actually a word). I still can’t match my clothes (hence why I think jeans are one of the most remarkable inventions ever… except for mothers, and roommates who have a clue about fashion when mothers aren’t around). I still stick my foot in my mouth. I still don’t have a clue about what makes me do certain things or feel certain ways. I still eat too much chocolate. I still get in over my head with everything from social stress (see first problem) to school to volunteering to what-the-heck-ever.

It’s odd. I thought there would be some point in life where I felt like an “adult.” I don’t really think that day is ever going to come.

But that’s a good thing, too, I think. Life would be boring as melted vanilla ice cream if I knew how to make sense of this great huge mess we’re all in.

Oh… I realized yesterday, when I didn’t have time to blog, that I have forgotten to write things that I’ve learned this year. So here are three, to catch up, or something:

  1. Naps, not dogs, are a college student’s best friend. Dogs are still pretty awesome—for snuggles, for playtime, for chick magnetism, if you happen to be a male walking across campus—but unfortunately they tend to amass things like fines if your RA discovers them. Naps don’t (generally) do this, unless your RA is just plain psycho.
  2. Curfew is a good thing. I know for all of you normal-college people, the thought of not being about to stay out as long as you can absolutely imagine wanting is sheerly ridiculous, but trust me—those hours after the boys are no longer there to make heads spin and tempers flare are some of the best you’ll ever have… especially when your hall is as awesome as Second Floor Cathcart Short Hall. (Welcome to the sexy hall, where it’s a party all night long… dorm-friends, you know what I’m talking about.)
  3. Facebook is necessary, if not for life, for functioning in life. Clubs use it, teachers use it, heck, if the administration wasn’t so busy worrying about swine flu, they’d probably use it, too, because Facebook, unlike Pipeline, never breaks down. (Of course, as soon as I say that….)

Tomorrow is the great and glorious cookout! Believe it or not, dear friends, I actually had no part in organizing the event, which is a pleasant surprise (yes, it is; I am not the organizational Nazi some of you think I am, okay?).

And right now, I absolutely must brush the taste of shrimp-flavored ramen out of my mouth and go to bed. Quite tired. Love you all, though, very muchly.

If you haven’t read the poem I posted in my last post, please scroll down and do so right away.

Go ahead.

DO IT NOW!

Okay… right.

Not much to talk about, nothing of particular interest happened today except a bad mood and just a general overwhelming feeling that the Apocalypse is coming, and I don’t mean the guys’ frisbee team. I don’t even think I mean finals. I don’t know what I mean except that I just have this nagging feeling of… of… something. And I feel like hiding under a rather large boulder, too.

Took down most of the decorations from my walls today. Rather depressing, honestly. It’s already the end of my freshman year and I feel like my head is spinning around like a madly rolling planet from how fast it went by. I can’t believe how different I am, and I can’t believe how the same I am, either, in some ways.

Speaking of taking decorations down—if anyone wants my “Why So Serious?” poster, let me know, but if you don’t let me know soon, don’t cry when someone beat you to it. It’s going to the first offer.

Although I probably won’t continue this past the first couple of days, I’m going to try to write from tonight until the Friday night next week when I officially move out of the dorm one thing I’ve learned in the past year. And I’ll try to stay away from things like having-to-drag-your-laundry-to-the-laundromat-is-more-annoying-than-a-cockroach-in-your-bed-sheets or caf-food-tastes-like-vomit-after-first-semester-but-after-second-semester-it-tastes-like-vomit-that’s-been-puked-up-twice-and-left-out-in-the-sun-for-a-few-hours (sorry about that… I’m feeling a little vindictive towards that place, of late). So here is tonight’s thing-a-ma-bob:

When you get to college, you have three options, but you can only choose two. The three options are to have a social life, to have good grades, or to have enough sleep. As I frequently wake myself up from eyes-open dreams in class of the literature teacher suddenly leaping onto the desk and screaming out the formulas of yet-undiscovered amino acids from other planets, I’m guessing you can figure out which two I’ve chosen.

…. Sixteen days until I get on a jet-plane to fly away to Europe. In five minutes, only fifteen. Absolutely. Cannot. Wait.