Portraits of melancholy
So World, 'sup? We haven't talked much since I obtained illegal downloading capabilities and I discovered how to sneak free ice-cream out of the cafeteria in those Styrofoam cups they keep by the cuppachino machine. Since then, I've been busy avoiding you with the aid of soggy cafeteria Oreo crumbs and ancient Daria episodes. Oh, don't shake your head at me, World. You've been putting me under a lot of pressure lately. Pretending you don't exist is much easier than dealing with all of these crazy adjustment period feelings...Or...Wait, did I say feelings? I meant homework. "Crazy adjustment period homework" is what I meant to say, World. Because emotions are for the weak.
Sorry. My inner monologue has been kind of out of whack lately, but I'm trying to crack down on it now. You hear me inner monologue? That's the last time I let you listen to Bright Eyes before bed.
Anyway, even though we haven't spoken it a while, I wanted to let you know that I'm muddling through with as much finesse as can be expected from a person who has my special social needs, and I'm still interested in living life. I can't really describe my current state of mind or situation because I have yet to figure it out myself. I am in an odd state of limbo somewhere between waking, sleeping, sophomore, freshman and unicorn. If I were an experimental artist, I would film a series of surreal vingiettes depicting the most definitive moments of the last few days in an attempt to convey my current approach to the human race. However, since I'm not, you're just going to have to deal with some literary snapshots. Picture them, like, narrated in German and intercut with time lapse footage of sad clowns and wilting roses.
One.
I trudge up a long, steep path of depression away from lunch and toward biology. As I think to myself that the only people more out of shape than I am are the ones who ride around in wheelchairs because their legs cannot support the weight of their own bodies, I am greeted by a familiar face.
"Hey," he says, "how are you?"
"Oh, pretty good," I say, but think to myself, by "good" I mean " my lungs are in the primary stages of total failure due to the impossible angle of this damn hill. And all the sadness."..."How are you?" I ask out loud.
"Oh, I'm a total mess," he answers.
I do not ask why. Instead, I laugh at him. Because his suffering amuses me. He leaves. I think to myself, I wish I had a dollar for every time I have walked away from a conversation thinking, "Caitlin...next time, don't laugh so much."
Two.
I enter my dorm room to find my purse lying open on my bed, surrounded by its contents. Gum wrappers. Lip gloss. Pony-tail holders. Pencils.
My first thought is that, with all my worrying about adjusting to a new roommate dynamic, I have neglected to consider a good number of possible nightmarish possibilities. Here I have been -- afraid that I will be judged for my extensive neurosis, dancing hampster collection, and sordid late-Friday-night history with the sci-fi channel -- without the thought that I might end up rooming with a functioning cleptomaniac crossing my mind even once.
Then I remember. I myself went through my purse that morning half asleep looking for chapstick.
All is as is should be again, because I am still the only psycho.
Three.
My lovely, mentally stable roommate Suzanne and I enter the Gund Commons for dinner. Strange things are about to happen. We approach our friend Brittany's table to sit with her, but she is finished so she is getting up to Leave. We are alone. This is our first clue. We fail to take note.
Girl one approaches us and points to a chair. "Are you guys using this?" she asks.
"No, take it," we say.
About ten minutes later, a creepy stranger sits down across from us with great urgency. We look at each other, then at him. Suzanne, brave, well adjusted and well intending, attempts to make conversation. It does not go well:
Suzanne: Hi, I'm Suzanne.
Daniel: Hello Suzanne.
Suzanne: What's your name?
Daniel: Daniel.
We eat in silence for a few minutes. I make no effort to contribute. I concentrate on my vegetable turnover instead of my own uselessness. Girl number two approaches us, points to a chair and asks, "Do you guys need this?"
"Nope," Suzanne and I say. Daniel says nothing. Daniel is not a fan of eye contact.
Suzanne: So, what are you majoring in, Daniel?
Daniel: Philosophy. Mathematics.
It should be noted that Daniel employs four full syllables when saying, "ma-the-ma-tics." It is admirable that he takes the time to give heed the oft forgotten last three fourths of the word, since he is obviously not here to chat. He is here to eat his dinner which consists of plain noodles and two slices of American cheese. Suzanne gives up and we finish our meal wordlessly. But not before girl number three approaches us and points to a chair. Before she can get past, "are you guys..." we say, "go for it," and watch as our last spare chair leaves this three person loser Bermuda black hole of surreal awkward.
I may be in Sophie's World.
Suzanne and I leave shortly thereafter and laugh for the next ten minutes.
We are not sure why.
Why, world?
Why.
Sorry. My inner monologue has been kind of out of whack lately, but I'm trying to crack down on it now. You hear me inner monologue? That's the last time I let you listen to Bright Eyes before bed.
Anyway, even though we haven't spoken it a while, I wanted to let you know that I'm muddling through with as much finesse as can be expected from a person who has my special social needs, and I'm still interested in living life. I can't really describe my current state of mind or situation because I have yet to figure it out myself. I am in an odd state of limbo somewhere between waking, sleeping, sophomore, freshman and unicorn. If I were an experimental artist, I would film a series of surreal vingiettes depicting the most definitive moments of the last few days in an attempt to convey my current approach to the human race. However, since I'm not, you're just going to have to deal with some literary snapshots. Picture them, like, narrated in German and intercut with time lapse footage of sad clowns and wilting roses.
One.
I trudge up a long, steep path of depression away from lunch and toward biology. As I think to myself that the only people more out of shape than I am are the ones who ride around in wheelchairs because their legs cannot support the weight of their own bodies, I am greeted by a familiar face.
"Hey," he says, "how are you?"
"Oh, pretty good," I say, but think to myself, by "good" I mean " my lungs are in the primary stages of total failure due to the impossible angle of this damn hill. And all the sadness."..."How are you?" I ask out loud.
"Oh, I'm a total mess," he answers.
I do not ask why. Instead, I laugh at him. Because his suffering amuses me. He leaves. I think to myself, I wish I had a dollar for every time I have walked away from a conversation thinking, "Caitlin...next time, don't laugh so much."
Two.
I enter my dorm room to find my purse lying open on my bed, surrounded by its contents. Gum wrappers. Lip gloss. Pony-tail holders. Pencils.
My first thought is that, with all my worrying about adjusting to a new roommate dynamic, I have neglected to consider a good number of possible nightmarish possibilities. Here I have been -- afraid that I will be judged for my extensive neurosis, dancing hampster collection, and sordid late-Friday-night history with the sci-fi channel -- without the thought that I might end up rooming with a functioning cleptomaniac crossing my mind even once.
Then I remember. I myself went through my purse that morning half asleep looking for chapstick.
All is as is should be again, because I am still the only psycho.
Three.
My lovely, mentally stable roommate Suzanne and I enter the Gund Commons for dinner. Strange things are about to happen. We approach our friend Brittany's table to sit with her, but she is finished so she is getting up to Leave. We are alone. This is our first clue. We fail to take note.
Girl one approaches us and points to a chair. "Are you guys using this?" she asks.
"No, take it," we say.
About ten minutes later, a creepy stranger sits down across from us with great urgency. We look at each other, then at him. Suzanne, brave, well adjusted and well intending, attempts to make conversation. It does not go well:
Suzanne: Hi, I'm Suzanne.
Daniel: Hello Suzanne.
Suzanne: What's your name?
Daniel: Daniel.
We eat in silence for a few minutes. I make no effort to contribute. I concentrate on my vegetable turnover instead of my own uselessness. Girl number two approaches us, points to a chair and asks, "Do you guys need this?"
"Nope," Suzanne and I say. Daniel says nothing. Daniel is not a fan of eye contact.
Suzanne: So, what are you majoring in, Daniel?
Daniel: Philosophy. Mathematics.
It should be noted that Daniel employs four full syllables when saying, "ma-the-ma-tics." It is admirable that he takes the time to give heed the oft forgotten last three fourths of the word, since he is obviously not here to chat. He is here to eat his dinner which consists of plain noodles and two slices of American cheese. Suzanne gives up and we finish our meal wordlessly. But not before girl number three approaches us and points to a chair. Before she can get past, "are you guys..." we say, "go for it," and watch as our last spare chair leaves this three person loser Bermuda black hole of surreal awkward.
I may be in Sophie's World.
Suzanne and I leave shortly thereafter and laugh for the next ten minutes.
We are not sure why.
Why, world?
Why.
posted by Caitlin at 5:40 PM
5 Comments:
Yeah! You are alive! Although, if I were the kind of aunt that would take time to write to you or call you, I may have found that out sooner. I've had good intentions, but they don't count for too much. I've even passed your address onto Grandma and Gido. Well, I may write more here later, but Jason is here to pick me up from a late night at work. ~ Marcy
Oh, Caitlin. I've seen Daniel-esque behavior quite often at Taylor, and I can tell you that he was obviously looking for a wife. Geez. No wonder your husband hunting has failed so far. If you'd mentioned to Daniel how much you liked to bake and follow orders, you'd probably have a ring on your finger right now.
PS, you're still famous here. Thought you'd like to know. Also, I miss you. That's all.
I read your blogs aloud to anyone who will listen to me. How many people is that, you ask? The world may never know.
(The answer is 1.)
Your blog still says that you go to college in Sioux Falls. Who can I trust, Caitlin? WHO?
perhaps if i comment here, caitlin will write in her blog again. unless she's dead.
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