Ending on a Serious Note

            So we’ve reached the end of another term, and with the end of another term there comes my customary moment of AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!! As some of you may have noticed, I’m just a wee bit terrified of real world. Career is not one of my favorite words at the moment. Future pretty much scares the smartass out of me.

            One of my favorite characters on what has to be one of the greatest shows of all time has this absolute gem of a line. He’s telling someone who’s being a complete pansy that she’s taking the easy way out, because you’re scared, because if you try and fail there’s only you to blame.

            Failure scares me, but it doesn’t terrify me. There’s only so many times you can bring something to one of Emily’s classes believing it to be the greatest writing the world has ever seen, only to get her comments back and see keep trying. You’re almost there, but not quite. Or those times you make an absolutely brilliant suggestion and everyone just kinda stares at you until you retreat back into your cave and spend the next six months rebuilding your shattered confidence. Failure I can deal with.

            Success scares me because it kills the dream. If the New Yorker shoots you down four times in a row, that sucks, but the dream is still alive and kicking. In some ways it’s kicking even harder, because each time someone tells you your work kinda sucks, the best seller is that much farther out of reach, which makes it a bit more of a dream. Success kills it, because if you’ve always wanted a best seller and can hold the thing in your hand, it’s not a dream anymore. Now you’ve done it, and it’s real, and you have to do it again. And again. And again. And then you’ve become, quite literally, just a name on a shelf. If you’re one of the greatest of all time, you might get to be a handful of pages buried in an anthology.

            Take that Narrative contest I mentioned in class. I went through all the motions and had two separate stories ready to go, all I needed was last minute advice from our resident creative writing genius and I was good to go. Except I never asked for any advice, because I’m a spineless git, and $2000+ prize money scares the living holy Hell out of me. Shit like that puts you on the map, and turns the dream into a job. And it’s so much more appealing when I can sit here and pretend there’s gonna be a party one day with O’Brien, Rowling, and Lounsbury just sitting around drinking scotch and being literary, and I can refer the them as Joe and Timmy.

            Emily’s sitting somewhere (probably her office) shaking her head at me and thinking I’m crazy, because at least one of those stories had a decent chance of maybe not winning, but at least getting something done, even if all it turned out to be was my first rejection letter.

            Maybe putting it into words will help me deal with it eventually, but right now I’m still sitting on a computer afraid to fail, or worse, afraid I might succeed. 

Knuckles, Owls, and Magic Buttons

            Dear weather: make up your goddam mind. I’m okay with forty degrees and slushy. I’m okay with snowing baseballs. I’m even okay with hurt your knuckles freezing. What I’m not okay with is going from nineteen, to forty, to snowing baseballs, to ten, and back up to forty in the course of a week. I’m pretty sure we’ve experienced seven seasons in four days. There’s even a spot over in Douglas where they’ve got mud season from back east. On a scale of one to ten, this has been effing ridiculous.

            Now that that’s out of the way, on to business. Does anyone else feel a little bit like Dumbledore? Besides the epic beard and the pet phoenix and living in a castle parts, naturally. But the stretched beyond reason and juggling about twelve different things and trying to save the world, that part I feel like.

            Except saving the world. I’m not that dedicated.

            I’ll start with work. Normally I like my job just fine—pays pretty sweet and I get to go home with a warm and fizzy feeling. The boss is even cool enough to pretty much totally revamp my schedule when I ask her to. Came in handy when finals week came around.

            This week…not so much. On call cell called me nine times in four days. Granted, five of those times was because I left my phone in my pants, but still, that’s more than I’d like. This wouldn’t be so bad if I was physically capable of saying no, but I’m not, so it is.

            Picked up an extra eight hours Thursday, a twenty-four hour shift on Friday/Saturday, and another five hours on Sunday. Sleep is not something that’s come in ready supply this week. Wouldn’t be surprised if I woke up with an owl pecking at my window asking if I could, please, just work a few dozen hours today.

            Next up is school, which isn’t any more demanding than it is for everybody else, but it is school, and Dumbledore lives in a school, so that’s my connection there.

            What is actually stressing me most at this particular moment are those fleeting moments where I’m not stressing about anything. If you understood that, I’ll buy you a cookie. Well, not really, but I’ll help you eat it. I know you know what I mean though—when you’ve got about nine thousand things to do in the next three days, are clearly not going to get them all done, and are totally okay with that.

            Last week it was a reading assignment for the Zombie class, which is a crying shame, because it was a damn awesome read. At least from the part I got through. As a random sidenote: I am Legend is infinitely inferior to I am Legend. This week was paperwork, which is going to come back and give me rabies snakebite to the ass, considering I don’t get paid until it gets done.

            Is there a magic focus on all the crap you’ve gotta do until it’s done button that Dumbledore apparently whips out whenever a plot needs finishing? I could seriously use one.

            This was my last Harry Potter reference of the term. I swear to Stanley.

So I Posted That Last One Twice

            So apparently I posted that last blog twice. Here’s to internet fails. I’m also gonna try not to aim for obnoxious humor this time around. Let’s see how long that lasts, I’m guessing about two hundred and thirty seven words.

            Maybe one of the grown ups can help me with this. The other day I was talking to my sisters (only one of which is actually related to me), and I got this feeling that, given any small amount of choice in the matter, I’m never moving back to California again. Ever. More specifically, I’m never living around family again. Does that make me a bad person?

            The conversation was one of those “what are you doing with your life” interrogations, which sibling tends to give me way more than is necessary. Throw in a little bit of “why are you moving in with your girlfriend” crabbiness and it was just a grand old time.

            My sister, as far as I know, has never even entertained the idea of living anywhere but a stone’s throw from our parents’ house. And by stone’s throw I men two hour drive. She went from San Francisco to the parental residence to her boyfriend’s house (which is like three miles down the road). Not exactly a world traveler, that one.

            She also tends to get all bent out of shape when I tell her I ave no intention of moving back to the Golden State, and even more upset when I list places that are at least a two hour plane ride from her. Part of that, I’m sure is protective older sister syndrome, so it isn’t a major crime. But it does make me think I’m a little bit…off. That’s probably the only way I know how to phrase it.

            Is that normal? I know there’s the expected branching out phase when you first move out, but it’s been five years, which I think is a bit too long for a phase. I can only think of one other person I know that is actively opposed to moving back to Cali, but she lives in Hawaii, which I wouldn’t want to leave either.

            Not that I don’t like my family—they have their moments. My dad and I went a whole ten days without getting into a row last time I was down there. Had to have been a post 2006 record. Not that we don’t get along, we just tend to agree with one another better when we’re not sleeping under the same roof. That actually doesn’t concern me, morally speaking.

            What concerns me is this need I seem to have about family and distance. I’d really like to think this is just a twenty-three year old male thing, but pretty much everyone I know lives in the same town as their parentals, and quite a few of them share an address, which makes me think I’m weird. Not that I have no intention of ever seeing them again, I just have this overwhelming desire to live some place where they are physically incapable of surprising me at my doorstep.

            So to all the grown ups: is that weird?

Effing H I Hate This Time of Year

            I’ll give someone a dollar if they can point out something good about this time of year. Seriously. Final papers. Final classes (I’m pretty sure I’ll miss you lot). People getting sick or sliding their trucks into ditches because it’s balls ass cold out and there’s more ice on the road than road. Having to pick up extra shifts at work because people are getting sick or sliding their trucks into ditches because it’s balls ass cold out and there’s more ice on the road than snow. Tidal Echoes madness and emails and more madness and sorting through a bajillion submissions and slightly more madness and a lot more chaos, which you can’t get to for like three days because of aforementioned ice and balls ass cold. I’ll seriously give someone a dollar if they can name one good thing about this time of year.

            I was kidding about the dollar. I’m poor, don’t carry cash around, and need that dollar for laundry money.

            That was me bitching for no particular reason; I’m actually in a fairly good mood. Which I really shouldn’t be, considering the aforementioned chaos that comes with the end of the semester. Plus I’m looking for an apartment big enough to comfortably share with my redhead of choice, which is a surprisingly good excuse to be horribly unproductive. Or at least productive in all the wrong categories.

            Although I have discovered a helpful tip for getting through this insanity. Ready for it? Here it is: don’t be productive.

            Seriously. I’ve discovered that reading about a hundred pages or so of something I like and isn’t assigned keeps my sanity long enough to get to, or sometimes even through, whatever it is I have to do.

            See Emily? Crappy rhyming like that is reason enough for me to stay the Hell away from poetry.

            I suggested this to Courtney when I bumped into her in the library (after a surprisingly detailed conversation about the many reasons my name is the greatest name of all time), and the lady politely suggested I was out of my effing mind, and suggested, respectfully, that I put Order of the Phoenix down and start hacking away at the mountain of assignments I had to do before the end of the term.

            She also did that awesomely hilarious stare that only she can do, where you’re being an idiot, and she knows you’re being an idiot, but won’t tell you you’re being an idiot, because that would be rude. That look’s in my top ten patently individual stares/looks/expressions of all time (Emily has like six of the remaining nine).

            Seriously though, read X amount of stuff that you actually like to read every, and you’ll stay slightly saner than you would otherwise. I’d be willing to be a dollar on it. Doesn’t have to be a hundred pages, that just works for me because a hundred is pretty much the best number ever, and only takes like two hours, tops, for me to get through. Provided I actually like what I’m reading.

            So that was my helpful tip for maintaining a grip on your sanity. It also brings this edition of Inside Andy’s Thought Process to an end. Admittedly it was pretty much pointless, and really just an excuse for me to ramble and blow off a little bit of steam/stress/whathaveyou before I get back to that mountain of assignments Courtney told me to get started on back in the library.

Effing H I Hate This Time of Year

            I’ll give someone a dollar if they can point out something good about this time of year. Seriously. Final papers. Final classes (I’m pretty sure I’ll miss you lot). People getting sick or sliding their trucks into ditches because it’s balls ass cold out and there’s more ice on the road than road. Having to pick up extra shifts at work because people are getting sick or sliding their trucks into ditches because it’s balls ass cold out and there’s more ice on the road than snow. Tidal Echoes madness and emails and more madness and sorting through a bajillion submissions and slightly more madness and a lot more chaos, which you can’t get to for like three days because of aforementioned ice and balls ass cold. I’ll seriously give someone a dollar if they can name one good thing about this time of year.

            I was kidding about the dollar. I’m poor, don’t carry cash around, and need that dollar for laundry money.

            That was me bitching for no particular reason; I’m actually in a fairly good mood. Which I really shouldn’t be, considering the aforementioned chaos that comes with the end of the semester. Plus I’m looking for an apartment big enough to comfortably share with my redhead of choice, which is a surprisingly good excuse to be horribly unproductive. Or at least productive in all the wrong categories.

            Although I have discovered a helpful tip for getting through this insanity. Ready for it? Here it is: don’t be productive.

            Seriously. I’ve discovered that reading about a hundred pages or so of something I like and isn’t assigned keeps my sanity long enough to get to, or sometimes even through, whatever it is I have to do.

            See Emily? Crappy rhyming like that is reason enough for me to stay the Hell away from poetry.

            I suggested this to Courtney when I bumped into her in the library (after a surprisingly detailed conversation about the many reasons my name is the greatest name of all time), and the lady politely suggested I was out of my effing mind, and suggested, respectfully, that I put Order of the Phoenix down and start hacking away at the mountain of assignments I had to do before the end of the term.

            She also did that awesomely hilarious stare that only she can do, where you’re being an idiot, and she knows you’re being an idiot, but won’t tell you you’re being an idiot, because that would be rude. That look’s in my top ten patently individual stares/looks/expressions of all time (Emily has like six of the remaining nine).

            Seriously though, read X amount of stuff that you actually like to read every, and you’ll stay slightly saner than you would otherwise. I’d be willing to be a dollar on it. Doesn’t have to be a hundred pages, that just works for me because a hundred is pretty much the best number ever, and only takes like two hours, tops, for me to get through. Provided I actually like what I’m reading.

            So that was my helpful tip for maintaining a grip on your sanity. It also brings this edition of Inside Andy’s Thought Process to an end. Admittedly it was pretty much pointless, and really just an excuse for me to ramble and blow off a little bit of steam/stress/whathaveyou before I get back to that mountain of assignments Courtney told me to get started on back in the library.

Emily Thinks I'm Snape-Thoughts?

            So the other day Emily and I were having our weekly Tidal Echoes meeting—the theme of this one was “so if you’re an intern you have no free time for the next week.” After sorting out everything that needed to be sorted, we kicked it for a bit and discussed all the things that make us brilliant. As a sidenote: there was what looked like an apparently very timid 110 student waiting in the hall for her turn to meet, and we delayed her by like half an hour. I felt bad. End of sidenote..

            Anyway, our fearless (and prego) workshop leader tells me I would make a good Snape. I’m not so sure about this—for one, my hair is poofy, not greasy. Well, the other day it was greasy, but that was because I’d been stuck at work without a shower for twenty-four hours. Normally it’s poofy. Plus, Snape is pretty a genius when it comes to chemistry. I don’t like chemistry—the labs were fun enough, but the class is what made me decide to not be a biology major. Chemistry and I don’t get along, unless by “chemistry” you mean finding creative ways to burn stuff, and even then I tend to come off slightly more crispy than I would normally prefer. Plus, I was a bio major. Snape was a badass major. Differences: 3. Similarities: 1, and that’s only after twenty-four hours without a shower.

            And Snape’s an asshole. I’m not an asshole.

            Okay, maybe sometimes. But Snape’s ALWAYS and asshole. Granted, he’s an asshole in the “holy balls that was hilarious because he didn’t do that to me” sort of way, but he’s still an asshole. Perma-asshole even.

            Here’s where I start drawing similarities. Snape’s brilliant. I’m brilliant. Snape likes redheads (well…one of them anyway). I like redheads. Snape can lie like a mother. I can lie like a mother. Snape’s brilliant. I’m brilliant.

            Snape’s full of himself a wee bit. I’m full of myself when writing blogs. And occasionally when I start talking. But that’s hardly a reflection of overall character.

           

            Also, how the Hell is Dumbledore in Word’s dictionary and not Snape? It even does the automatic capitalization shenanigans. Le sigh…Slytherins get no love.

            Right, back the matter at hand. Emily called Snape the second smartest person in the series. Personally I think Snape trumps all when you just consider sheer brilliance, but Voldy’s an evil shit and Dumbledore’s older than balls, so they had a bit of an unfair advantage. Snape just wanted to teach and do dirty things to that redhead.

            Seriously though, if Snape ever decided to take over the world…woe be to all. WOE. BE. TO. ALL.

            Which I guess makes Snape more like me (or is it the other way around). I have no desire to take over the world, but if I ever have a change of heart, you’re all screwed. Just remember: I like steak and cheese, and I’m rather fond of free back rubs.

            Also: I formally apologize to the timid 110 looking student who was waiting for Emily for like half an hour while we talked about Harry Potter. You rather reminded me of Neville whenever he’s in the presence of Snape, except you didn’t have a toad and aren’t a dude.

Hogwarts: kicking the shit out of real schools for over a thousand years

            Anyone else feel like Hogwarts does more right than we do? And before I get going, apparently Hogwarts is in the Microsoft word dictionary. This is either fantastically awesome or a complete travesty. Hopefully I’ll decide before I’m done.

            Anyway, I decided I was going to reread J.K. Rowling’s (who is also in the dictionary, although if Hogwarts is I probably should have seen that coming) goldmine of a series before I saw the seventh movie, and I’ve come to many a shocking philosophical revelation. The first being you should never start reading a seven book series a week before finals. That just spells disaster for your free time.

            The second is that Hogwarts kicks the unholy Hell out of our school system. Maybe because the teachers there are ridiculously better than ours (except Emily, who has the magical ability to fail me with a wave of her mouse, which is really the most difficult kind of magic there is. Remember: I gave you an apple). Seriously though—two wizards were ready to take over the world when they were seventeen, which makes a twenty-three year old white kid who can’t grow a beard and is doing just about everything possible to delay growing up and joining the real world look like a complete failure at life. Tom Riddle: 1. Me: negative 426739.

            Hell, one of the wizards that took over the world at seventeen didn’t even finish school. Home boy got kicked out in his sixth year, and still managed to become the ruler of all things—all the dude needed was a stick. Apologies to anyone who hasn’t read the seventh book, because you probably have no idea who I’m talking about. Here’s a hint: he’s a wizard.

            And if that wasn’t enough, T.M. Riddle became a goddam immortal by chillin out in the library and reading a few choice novels. Might have been a tad more complicated than that, but seriously—you don’t even have to go to class to learn these shenanigans? Does UAS have a muggle exchange program?

            For those who frown on the dark arts (party poopers), that magical castle academy churned out an old dude who could’ve taken over the world when he was seventeen, but instead he decided he was gonna be an old dude for a while, then he was gonna save it. Seriously (do I use that word too much?), teacher man just wakes up one morning and goes “after breakfast I think I’ll save the world. And take that guy’s stick. I do love me a good stick, and that there’s a nice lookin stick.”

            I may have just completely tarnished all memory of Dumbledore. My apologies.

            I guess you can say Harry saved the world too, and he skipped his last year. But Harry’s a bit of an idiot, plus he had just a tad bit of help, so I’m gonna say that doesn’t count. Plus those kids need some serious acting lessons, unless they’ve improved since the last movie, in which case I have the following message:

DON’T HURT ME I DIDN’T MEAN IT PLEASE DON’T TURN ME INTO A FERRET!!!!