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the date that was a yellow house
Sunday. 4.29.12 4:37 am

A truly lengthy entry.




I cross the street and see Austin sitting there, on the fountain, his head turning nervously, watching for me in the opposite direction. I stand in front of him, making no introduction, just expecting him to react to my presence in the socially-acceptable way and make the first move on greeting. Greeting people is ambiguous, and I like it when they greet me first.

He goes for a hug; I apparently go for a sideways headbutt, which is unicorn for Hello (a frontal headbutt is unicorn for Lobotomy). He doesn't comment on it much, and we move to get smoothies.

We don't get far before I see a familiar figure strolling down the sidewalk. Alarms in my brain are going off, which means that there is absolutely, one hundred percent, NO way to make it out of this encounter without someone feeling weird. He says hi first, and I oblige him with a greeting, half-trying to squirm away without anything else. My mind is flashing back to ant bites and a dark parking lot. The man beside me, being the adult in all of this, moves to introduce himself. I realize that I could be perceived as rude, but frankly I'm dealing with a lot of weird emotions and reactions to the number of coincidences since meeting Austin, and it's all sort of overwhelming, when I'm trying to organize occurrences into categories like "Weird Coincidences" and "People I Went To High School With That He's Already Met" (both high numbers, considering).

I'm mildly uncomfortable and make a strong move to keep walking without talking about how I've been. I don't owe the person in front of me any sort of conversation, although we are what I would call "aquaintances with strongly mutual friends." It didn't make sense to keep talking, anyway. I couldn't see the point. He lets me go without any pleasantries, also feeling my poignant--and mostly accidental--rejection.

"...Who was that?" Austin asks, laughing a little at my obvious discontent, as we walk away.

"EHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH," I tell him.

"So he was like..."

"YEAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH..."

We agree to not discuss that anymore ever. Ever.

He proceeds to buy me a smoothie and somehow figures out the most comforting thing to say to a woman who is generally not okay with people buying her things, and says this while pulling out his money. I stand there like a moron. I ask a stupid question.

I blush at my stupid question and the fact that I am generally a moron.

We grab straws and make a dash for the door. He asks if I mind a walk, and I wonder what I'm there for otherwise if I'm not there for a walk. Austin is terrible at crossing the streets and will probably die crossing a street. He deems himself too comfortable with crossing the streets and I agree wholeheartedly.

He proceeds to throw in one of my favorite words--belligerent--for absolutely free.

We get to a parking lot and he takes a rolled-up, beaten to death, blue-striped towel off the hood of his car. He remarks on his car lightly, but I'm too bewildered by this seemingly graceful and automatic action to concentrate on that.

"How did you..."

"It's called 'thinking ahead.'"

Oh, I see, except this is exactly the type of stuff I pull when someone gives me the reins in planning an excellent date, so I'm more so afraid that I'm perpetuating my tendency to date myself in male form.

I'm stunned and wooed and I let him lead me in a direction that feels vaguely west.

It is vaguely west. We arrive at the park and proceed to people watch and talk for a couple of hours. I notice that I can't count on one hand the number of good, solid quips he's made. Everything is easy. He walks me back to my residence hall and schedules a second date with me, rather than kissing me.

I walk inside and immediately pull out my phone to text inhuman.



His respect is nothing less than astounding to me; I get the feeling that this is how I should always expect and want to be treated, but it isn't something I'm accustomed to, yet. With time.

Move out is Monday. It's very odd to know that I'll never be in this room again. Everything I know is ending, and new things are taking its place.

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fate intervenes in the form of a Hummer limo, gut feeling is okay with it
Wednesday. 4.25.12 1:12 am
"Wait," I told inhuman, chuckling at the frightened and bewildered man in front of us, "Wait, no, look at his eyebrows. ...No, look at his eyebrows. He's not lying."

I don't know if any of you know this, but inhuman is actually a master interrogator. First, she tells someone to lie to her--she insists they lie on purpose so she isn't upset by the answer--then she demands they tell the truth. Then, she goes between these two options until the person snaps like a twig. The guy standing at the merchant's table ignored my furious motioning, behind inhuman, and told her the truth. Naturally, due to her fool-proof interrogative technique, she didn't believe him. He fearfully and innocently raised his eyebrows, insisting that the decorative stone was, actually, only $25 (which is reasonable, for something like that, especially in the touristy part of town).

Enter ultra-observant Unicornasaurus, pointing out his eyebrow movement. It's a very innocent and surprised tell, one that kind-natured people develop (whereas less kind people will develop a small, brief squint, when accused of lying (when they aren't lying, that is)). He asked about my very obvious psychology major, and was knowledgeable on it enough that I asked what his was.

"Psychology." He clarified, "Neuroscience."

All the sudden I wasn't in such a hurry to get on with my night. But, we did carry on, and that was that, so to speak.

Except, that wasn't that. We were in the situation where we had to pass back and forth several times, to the point where I was practically dying of embarrassment. We tried to take the outside route past, but, OF COURSE, A GIANT STRETCH HUMMER BLASTING MUSIC PASSED AT A SLOW CRAWL, just as I tried to sneak past the window. He turned around; my face dropped.

This is my luck.

Except surprise! It is my luck! The second time we tried the outside route, he was waiting, sitting on the window sill. He swung his legs over and looked me right in the eye; "Would you like to get coffee sometime?"

WHY YES, YES I WOULD.

inhuman muttered, "And that's my cue to leave," and I was amused for a second before the shock set in, and then I was giving him my number and shaking his hand (firm, three pump; vaguely impressive).

We have a date, Friday. I have no idea what to expect. I hate coffee dates. But, he's caught my interest.


My birthday weekend was mega-cool. My birthday was also mega-cool. I'll talk about it next time, because I already feel like I've said a lot, this time. middaymoon is probably like, SHUT UP ABOUT THIS ALREADY, but excuse me I don't get asked out on dates I want to go on that often (maybe once a year, I get a positive gut feeling...?), so nyah nyah nyah. Nyahnyahnyahnyahnyah.


[Before]

"What did my mom buy?" she asked, approaching the table.

"A rock."

inhuman looked extremely concerned, and I followed, chuckling.



[EDIT]

He goes into work/an exam exactly when I get out of work/an exam. ON SEVERAL DIFFERENT DAYS.

FATE DOES NOT LIKE THIS MATCH AS MUCH AS ORIGINALLY ASSUMED.

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Wednesday. 4.18.12 1:42 am

After I pay the security deposit on the house I'm leasing, all the money I make is going towards a trip abroad. No ties to the college, no family trips--I am leaving the country alone, and making my own way through a location of my choosing.


This summer, it will be the Appalachian Trail, and all sorts of other hiking excursions. A lot of people hate summer hiking because you get soaked from the humidity and sweating in the summer heat, but I think it's great. Drinking water feels so much better when it's ice cold and you can feel the thirst in the pit of your stomach.


I just resigned from my second job, for the summer. And I'm cutting off romantic ties with someone, for good...which I should have done a year ago. I just finally realized that I'm limiting myself too much. Both of these choices sting, and they sting a bunch, but I'm perfectly aware of the fact that, no matter what the outcomes, I'm better off not having that job, this summer, and I'm better off not even wanting him.

My friends will most definitely expect me to relapse, but I've been thinking about this for a good solid month or two, now--or, less "this," and more myself. I've been thinking about what I expect out of my life, and I'm just not there at all!

It is terribly true that, for a young woman of college age, with my basic financial means taken care of (uh, sort of), there is no need to complicate things with choices that don't represent things I want in my life.

This will be easy, and then it will be difficult, and then it will tear me apart, and then it will be over and I will still exist.

And that is all.


This summer will be a summer for rebounding, traveling, not working (and then working--I still have one job, but they provide housing), neuropsychology (my nose tickles because I want to cry, sometimes, when I realize that I actually get to study what I love), and getting over my fear of saltwater in the eyes (which has kept me from surfing for FAR too long).

IT WILL ALSO PROBABLY SUCK A LOT, some days! I can guarantee that, some days, I will still think that everything is terrible and my world is ending and apocalypse apocalypse SOMEONE JUST LET ME DIE ALREADY, but I refuse to make it seem like my anticipation for the rest of the summer is trivializing the sucky parts!

Bwah!

So I'm excited. Excited and ready for a good rest.

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rant rant rant stop calling my minor easy
Monday. 4.16.12 10:41 am

Exams are this week and next. They aren't hard, and I say this in relativity to all other undergrad semesters. My Spanish instructor has been urging me to be a Spanish minor. I am, I am, geez.

I hate how society feels about Spanish. I hate that most intellectuals I know consider it to be too common to be difficult or interesting. The Spanish culture is so RICH, and so interesting, and so full of wonderful literary works that are best read in their native form.

Our best Spanish instructor came and listened to my presentation on a famous Hispanic celebrity (talk about pressure), the other week. I'd chosen to present on Pablo Neruda, who was a wonderful Chilean poet (he died in 1973). He was quite involved with politics, as well, but that's another story. The instructor waited for me to finish and asked if I had a favorite poem by him. Most others that presented didn't actually enjoy their celebrities' works, but I immediately blurted out, "Ah, Vastedad de los Pinos."

She found that interesting, for some reason. All his poems are sensual, so I don't feel like it gave any indication that another of his poems wouldn't have. Maybe she didn't recognize the name and just acted interested to react somehow.

Either way, my point is that she said something that hit the nail on the head for about ninety-eight percent of all Hispanic authors/poets; she said, basically (and I say basically because I'm saying it in English, which she did not), that his poems are beautiful in English...but they're devastatingly beautiful in Spanish.

I get learning Latin for medical school. I totally get it. But Latin, just a PS, IS A DEAD LANGUAGE. It's the antisocial way to get a leg up. You want to be able to help the greatest number of people in the United States that you can? Learn to speak Spanish. If it's really that easy, it shouldn't be inconvenient to plop it on top of studying Latin.


Hmph.

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