Everytime I hear Nikki French's Total Eclipse of the Heart, I think of drag queens. I think of drag queens in mumus with five o'clock shadows belting out the lyrics and doing an interpretive dance to go along with it. I think of the other drag queens in the show pointing and laughing at the Mumu Drag Queen, along with the better part of the audience.
I also think of the week before Recruitment, when half the house went to a drag show for the hell of it, and about how one of our senior girls kept getting hit on by lesbians. If you have never been to a drag show, you should find one and go. Drag queens are cool.
So I just found out that the final I thought I was having at 10 tomorrow is actually being held at 3:30. So I get to stay at school for an extra, oh, FIVE HOURS. I hate my life.
But all is redeemed by the last few hours spent packing with my roommate Amanda. We've been singing along to really loud 80s music and gettting stir crazy, laughing about semester memories and missing our third roomie who's already left.
It was the best semester, and the best night. AND I GET TO GET THE HIZELL OUT TOMORROW!!!!!
No, not another cussfest...but I am still bitching about the end of the semester.
I have way too much shit. I swear to God, I am going to find out whoever had the brilliant idea of everybody moving out at semester, then I am going to hunt them down, and then I am going to scold them visciously...with shin kicking. I would kill them, but I don't have enough room in my car to carry the body. A Civic is not meant for hauling large loads of girl crap. I have a suitcase, duffel bags, crates, Rubbermaid boxes, a laundry basket, random boxes, and trash bags. And this is supposed to all fit in a compact coupe? Right, like that's going to happen.
And not only do I have too much shit, but I don't have enough shit to put my shit in, nor a car big enough to carry all the shit that my shit has been put in. This is a dilemma.
But, the silver lining:
Saturday is the annual Mizzou vs. Illinois Border War basketball game. It sold out in six minutes and I HAVE TICKETS. I'm from Illinois, and everyone their mom went to U of I from my home, so I will be very pleased if we win. It's been two years now that Illini have beaten Mizzou, but we are ranked higher than them this season. So, Saturday will be awesome. I love my Tigers, but I would love them even more if they kicked some Illini ass this weekend. You know, like we did in the football game.
Because it is the smack damn middle of finals week and we still have two long-ass fucking days of tests and shitty mctitty projects left to struggle through like big ass hats in hell, and in honor of all the bitch ass mother fucking students who were ready to fucking kill themselves about 20 goddamn minutes ago, and for all those cocksuckers who are kissing my ass because they are already finished with their goddamn finals, I am hereby declaring this day to be Cuss Like A Mother Fucking Sailor Because You're Too Fucking Stressed Out To Handle It Fucking Maturely Day.
(And don't even got me started on book buy back. The fact that they even have the outright nerve call it a fucking "buy back" is enough to make me want to shove a boot with a three inch heel up their collective asses and twist it around til they cry. They should just call it a campus-wide raping and get it over with. Neither of my goddamn $75+ books are being bought back. I have now bent over, and the bitch staff of the University Bookstore have gotten started. I love being dicked by the system. It really fucking makes my day just like a fucking merry-go-round.)
Cramps can bite my ass. PMS can bite my ass. Being a girl can bite my ass. And you can bite my ass, too, if you even think about telling me to just suck it up and deal. I hate you.
Not too sure what to do. Six Advil, a pack of M&Ms, and my trusty Boy Scout sweatshirt (Troop 3, no less) usually do the trick. But alas, even Troop 3 can't save me now. I'd kinda just like to smash myself over the head with a blunt object right now.
And to top it all off, there is a rather large chunk of finger missing from, well, my finger after a misfire while mounting a project. I hate XActo knives.
Just the mere thought of losing the most important person in the world to me has made me become a bipolar mess of emotions. I can go for a few hours and be fine, almost like a normal functioning human-being person. But then something twists and I can't do anything but sit on the edge of my bed and sob. That's how I've spent the last two days. I didn't think it was possible to have this many tears to cry.
I've kind of gone numb. It's like that dull hurt sensation you get when your foot falls asleep. You can't feel a thing for the moment, but you know that if you move too fast you'll be in agony.
My friends wanted me to come out and drown my sorrows, but I know that isn't the answer I'm looking for. I've always been able to drink myself to an oblivion when the problem wasn't really that big of a deal. A bad day or a low grade isn't a real problem. This time the sorrow is too big to drown. There isn't enough liquor in the world to make this kind of hurt stop.
There's only one thing that can, and I think he's the last thing I'm going to get.
All I want right now is to be alone in a room with my Tsquare and have everything go right for one with an inking assignment. No pen explosions, no ink blobs all over the page, no tears in the really expensive vellum, no people in and out and in and out and in and out.
I've hit the Homestrecth. Three more days of classes before Finals start and I just can't stand it. I don't want to do anything but be a big lump in my room reading a book and making christmas gifts. Blast on finals!
The pressure is on. The clock is ticking. It's almost over. But yet here I sit, blogging and cheking my email a dozen times and going to the rec center twice in one day in an effort to avoid what I really need to just sit down and get over with. I need to suck it up and JUST DO IT. I am so unmotivated.
This time of year is so weird anyway. People are all stressed up with no where to go and take it out on everyone around them. I think it's because we are all forced to be so sober. The lack of alcohol on this campus right now is reaching a frightening low. The frat boys are going to be forced to take up the slack and that's just not pretty. And I am telling you, come Wednesday of next week when I am (almost) done with all my tests and biznatch...I'm gonna be the drunkest girl in columbia. Better watch out!
The Megster's getting a new keyboard for her baby. A broken C has turned into an $80 problem, but I am trusting the good folks at IAT Services to fix my poor girl right up, and the MomDawg to cover any and all expenses. And I get her back until the part comes in! So while I'll still be blogging away in the creepy scary computer lab, I'll be able to do the important stuff like print off pictures and play Snood.
Plus now I get to register for my new and improved Graphic Design schedule from the comfort of my own desk chair. Joy and rapture.
That's right, folks...I'm changing my major yet again. If there is anyone out there that is even remotely considering to major in interior design, for the love of all that is good in the world DON'T DO IT! It's the worst major ever. SO we're going to try something else.
How does graphic design sound? Eh, sounds pretty good.
I have this feeling that I am going to be one of those people in school for eight years before I find something I like. Hey, there are lots of people who are in school for that long. Of course, they're doctors and lawyers, but who's counting. This will be my third major in 3 semesters. Advertising journalism to interior design to graphic design. Why do I feel like I'm kind of back where I started?
So we're meeting with an advisor from the art department in about 20 minutes. Let's hope that this one works out.
We're down to the final two weeks of school here at the University of Missouri. Now, I'm a studier, so I am planing on being holed up in my room for the better part of the next 48 hours working on projects and trying not to kill myself with my Tsquare. I'm going to get a hellava lot done and therefore not be all stressed up with no where to go next week.
My roommates, on the other hand, seem to be in denial about the looming end of the semester. They are spending the weekend shopping in Kansas City. They won't get anything done. They are just galavnting around the Plaza, avoiding responsibility. They're going to regret it when they have to pull cram sessions and all nighters next week.
There is a horse-drawn carriage being pulled through Greek Town this evening, for God only knows what reason. It's cold, the Christmas lights on all the houses are not that impressive (read: you an see them just as well from the inside of a heated car), and there are frat boys heckling the horses along the route.
They just asked the last one to go through if they were Amish. The answer is no.
My C is broken. I hit it, but no C appears. How am I supposed to type a paper about office space planning without the letter C?
SO I have taken my computer into tech services to see what they can do to get my C to come back. In the mean time, I am forced to venture down to the scary basement computer lab to do my blogging. Maybe without the distraction of instant messanger and online shopping I will get a lot of studying done this weekend. We can only hope.
The worst part is that I can't get the Cookie Monster "C is for cookie, and that's good enough for me" song out of my head. It's going to be a long weekend.
I will admit it, I fell victim to the ploys of Victoria's Secrets and Wonderbra. I bought the 3-Click push-up bra. This supposed miracle of a modern support-system promises that cleavage is only three clicks away. Boobies by pull-string. Strap this bad boy on and you'll be that girlie-whirlie on TV prancing around in her unmeantionables looking randy. This sounds simple, right? It's a beautiful plan. Complete bull dookey, but beautiful.
But alas, there seems to be some false advertising going on there. I have decided that these bras only work for women who actually have cleavage on their own, not girls with starry-eyed hopes and delusions of working their way down through the alphabet with nothing more than underwires and strategic padding. No matter how many clicks there are to have, there are just some things that a bra can't do. I had mine clicked over so much that it actually broke from the pressure. Still no cleavage, though. I'm not going to lie, I was quite bummed. But I'm coming to terms with the reality that, unless I want to go through a painful and expensive surgical procedure (or have kids) I'm going to have to just suck it up and likes what I gots.
There isn't a bra in the world that will turn a pair of tater tots into Idahos.
Having dashed my old high school chum's hopes and dreams for my color coordination skills, I would just like to say that in the days since my recent slip into faux pasness, I have been so coordinated it's scary.
Head to toe and multiple layers. We're talking matching the undies, too, folks. It's a big, scary world out there, and it's a damn shame to go out when you're not all matched up.
So JonLee, my sincerest apologies. Call it temporary insanity, call it a lapse in attention, call it flightiness. Call it what you will, but I shall never mix brown and black again. (Or black with navy, that's just as bad.)
I swear I didn't mean to. With all the beautiful Missouri weather I just wanted to put on a tshirt after class. I just wasn't thinking. I've committed a crime against all humanity. I wore a brown belt with a black shirt and black shoes. I'm so sorry! That is a cardinal sin! Call the fashion police, I broke the Eleventh Commandment.
Someday when I'm famous I want to have a street named after me. A boulevard, actually. That way, when people are asking directions, people will say things like, "Take a left on Meagan and you're there," and "Go down Meagan and you can't miss it," and "It's on Meagan."
I have a very tedious three-hour drive to get to school. The two-lane highways through the back woods of mid-Missouri are often remedied by loud music, which I readily supply myself. Now, I know that this is normal, but being that I am cool, I blast a very cool assortment of music. I will freely admit it. I listen to Broadway showtunes. I know that this is maybe one step up on the Dork-O-Meter from Barbara Streisand's Greatest Hits, but I like my musicals. I love them. I listen to them every time I go to and from school. And I sing along. Loud. Sometimes I dance.
This is fine when I'm on an empty stretch of highway with no one around and going 80 miles an hour, but today the inevitable happened. After the two speeding tickets I got in the past few weeks, I was taking it slow this afternoon (but still with my killer soundtrack) and I soooo got busted. I was rocking out at a stop sign in Atlas, IL (when I say rocking out I mean belting out the song like I was up for a Tony...with choreography) and a trucker saw me, pointed, and laughed. And I'm pretty sure he got on his trucker radio and told all of his little trucker friends to watch for a crazy girl in a little red Civic who thought she was part of the Annie Get Your Gun Traveling Tour on Crack.
I'm not gonna lie...I booked it out of that intersection. Nothing says embarassment like being caught in the act when you're singing along to the score of Oklahoma with all you've got.