91 days

Every day of my calendar has a tiny speck of pencil in the corner telling me how many days there are until graduation. I was so excited about having added myself to the degree list this semester that I immediately sat down and counted all of the days, which simultaneously made the end seem closer and farther away.

Right now, and probably until at least spring break, 91 days feels like an eternity of pushing boulders uphill. Not terribly difficult intellectually, but definitely requiring a good deal of effort. I declared to everyone who cared a while ago that I would never take 19 units again, and here I am with 21 (formerly 25, but then senioritis hit). It kind of sucks.

And in case anyone was wondering, I don't advise starting and completing a second major in two semesters unless you have absolutely nothing else to do with your time.

All of this is just me procrastinating reading Judith Butler, because I sincerely believe she is part of the reason I closed the rhetoric chapter of my education so quickly and ended up taking many many units and eating pasta more often than I could have dreamed. I guess it all comes full circle.


To the drunk who ruined my nose last night

I am so sorry that your efforts to charm me in front of my friends-- which wouldn't have worked anyway, Don Juan-- so utterly failed when your elbow solidly planted itself into my nose, and that the drink you bought me afterward, which my aforementioned friends had to persuade you to buy, utterly failed to prevent the dull but constant pain my nose has suffered the entire next day.

Or maybe it was picking me up and spinning me afterward, like if I was an infant and sufficiently distracted I would forget you had just hit me in the face. Or maybe it was fifteen minutes later, when you came back to our table and tried to make amends by kissing my nose. HARD. Which almost made it bleed again. Your efforts in this respect made some of my more testosterone-laden friends almost hit you in the face, and it took all of my remaining patience not to let them.

I can't smell anything right now, nor can I properly sip from a straw, and if you damaged my nose permanently I will totally bring those friends and find you in your beer-addled corner of Beckett's to return the favor.

Three days later, I still can't smell (save particularly putrid perfumes), but now the pain has subsided to the type of invisible bruising where I grow complacent and itch my nose, only to relive the pain all over again. I should be lucky I don't look awful, but who knew the tip of your nose touches so many things on a daily basis? This is living Heidegger's equipmentality! I am such a dork.


Women have totally ruined Valentine's Day

I don't celebrate Valentine's Day with any more vigor than I did when I was seven, which is to say, I still (approximately every other year) buy the Valentine's cards that seven-year-olds give to their classmates because their teachers made them.

Now, I don't mind friends and family giving each other Valentine's candy or cards, because there are no politics involved. It's just a nice thing to do and a convenient excuse to do it, and yeah it's commercialized and pink but who cares if there's Sees bordeaux bars or cherry Lifesavers involved? (Incidentally, those are my two favorite candies and the ones my mother has so kindly provided for many of my childhood Valentine's Days of yore)

But why, oh why, does it make seeing people--romantically or not--complicated? I don't want to ask someone for coffee or a drink before or after work tomorrow night (like any Saturday night), only to discover that they think this means something important, that they are My Valentine.

Here are my Valentine's Day plans: To see a basketball game with my dad, and then go to work. And that sounds awesome. I am totally stoked to sleep in and get a hot dog or whatever stadium fare basketball games offer. Not to mention, because it's a Cal-Stanford game, I can't wear red. So there.

I blame women for feeling obligated to even think about it. I recently began more actively swimming in the dating pool, so to speak, and it doesn't surprise me that I have no prospective dates for the weekend. Not that I have time for them, mind you, but suddenly people I've been speaking to have fallen off the face of the planet, probably because they think I am one of those people who will think that it means something more than usual to get a drink after work on February 14.

That this type of person is what a straight single man probably thinks of women (me included) is unfortunate and annoying. This entire discourse, of thinking something means something because of this stupid Hallmark holiday, is preposterous. Further, it causes my frustration with all things Valentine's to put me in a category of anti-romantics, which I wouldn't necessarily consider myself.

Why are women to blame? Because in all things related to love, we are most often the ones attributed to totally irrational behavior and overthinking, which is precisely what Valentine's Day has become: a totally irrational and overthought "holiday."