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| Someone pulled the fire alarm in our dorm last night. It wasn’t the first time that this had happened though. It was the second time in a week, actually. The first time had been at three in the morning while I was up late reading a novel. I heard some giggling, a few clicks of a high heeled shoe, and the incessant buzz of the fire alarm. I didn’t panic, though. In fact, I didn’t even think it was the fire alarm at first. It only occurred to me to get out of the building when two hundred grumpy boys and girls started trickling out of their rooms and down the stairs. But I wasn’t very worried. After all, anyone who giggled while pulling fire alarms must not be very much on fire. I was sleeping the second time when the fire alarm slowly filtered into my dreams and woke me up entirely eventually. I was beginning to wonder why there were fire alarms in ninja-infested forests anyway. I didn’t hear any giggles or drunkard heels but I figured that it would be too much bad luck even for me to be caught in a fire the only time I ignored the fire alarm. So I stayed in bed, lying on my back, counting the cracks on my ceiling. And I laid there. And laid there. And the alarm kept on wailing. And wailing. And I was beginning to think that perhaps I was going to die there half-clothed in my minuscule dorm room after all. But the room certainly wasn’t very hot for an accidentally-made inferno. And there certainly weren’t very many screams or cackling for a fire downstairs. Actually, to be truthful, my worst fear at that moment was that I might be walked in on by a fireman who thought I might have been the pyromaniac. I contemplated putting some real clothes on. And then the alarm stopped. Nothing had exploded. Everyone came back inside. I didn’t have to get up and get dressed. |
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| It occurs to me that I have the sense of humor of a fourty-year-old disillusioned man when I'm the only one who agrees with my professor that a story about a violinist who commits suicide because she is forced to attend her boyfriend's softball games is funny. But then, I consider the alternative--having the sense of humour of a first-year college student, and I am suddenly grateful for my adrogynous anachronasticism. |
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| Being in a noncommital relationship can be unnervingly commital at times. I suppose I should take a moment here to introduce everyone to a guy I'll call Jared. Oh wait, that's his real name. Anyway, Jared is the worst kind of chauvinistic bastard there is--the intelligent kind, the kind that actually has a valid point once in a while. Jared and I formally met when we were both on our way home on the bus and he decided to ask me ever so subtley: "Are you a lesbian?" I replied to that with a fist right up against his jaw. The next time we met was during the first semester of my senior year when I was stuck in a class of nine unlucky advanced placement physics students taught by one geology majoring earth science teacher. The ship sank before it even started to sail, and, before we knew it, we were spending more time in physics doing English papers than Newtonian mechanics. Life in physics class was odd. It was a mishmash of relatively intelligent people stuck with a teacher who couldn't dig her way out of first year calculus even if we gave her a shovel shaped like Einstein's brain. We were bored. We were disappointed. We were restless. And we were delinquents. So we did what delinquents do in advanced placement physics: play Taboo. That and sell marijuana-infused brownies. In any case, we became good friends even though Jared was still a chauvinistic bastard and we had a physics teacher who didn't actually understand physics. Eventually one thing led to another, and, before I knew it, I was in the passenger's seat of his little red Hyundai (he still prefered my Honda though, said it had more horsepower) snogging and fogging up the windows. We were an odd couple, I won't deny that. Hell, even the odd ones of our school thought that we were odd. I mean, here I was, a little Asian girl hardly one hundred sixty centimeters tall strolling down the hall with my one hundred eighty centimeter boyfriend who happens to have a very Christian, racist mother and a history of working in the orange groves of Florida. Oh, but that wasn't really the only thing odd about us. What was really odd about us was how we'd bicker like an elderly couple who had gone three hours over their medication time over something trivial like whether the dandelions should be arranged differently for my still life drawing. More often than not it'd result in airborne objects like textbooks and soda cans and the occasional lemonade pitcher. We were also an odd couple, because we weren't really a couple. We were about as coupled a couple as penguins waiting for their next mating season. I went to prom with another guy, kissed girls while half naked backstage at a fashion show, necked with a visiting boy in a piano practise room, and discussed the dynamics of mindblowing threesomes with classmates. He wasn't quite as bad, just because he had always been the demure one of us both, and he would always say: "Go on and see other people, Danielle, so long as I don't find out about it and so long as you don't forget about me and so long as you're still mine." And can you really blame me for taking advantage of my senior year? Eventually, the summer came to an end and I had to be shipped away to college. However, unlike some irrational people in our grade, we decided to break things off simply because there wouldn't be any sense in being attached. Well, supposedly we broke things off. That is until I went home for Winter Break and found him antisocial, floundering in his grades, and even more hostile than I am on a bad day. I can't very well be pretentious and say that it was because I wasn't around, but I can assert that he was never quite that bad when I was home. We talked for a while and I told him to go out with the cute brunette girl that kept trying to get in his pants last year. And we just kept talking and talking and talking. And. Well. Let's say that I've got something to look forward to during Spring Break. |
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| I've decided that I could possibly be a pathological liar. In fact, I just might be lying about might being a pathological liar. And you know, I am laughing deep down inside. Actually, I think that lying is quite fun. I do know that in some cases it's wrong, and one shouldn't lie if not for any other reason than because it's not very comely to be introduced as 'John, the pathological liar, every officespace has one, you know.' But, really, do you think that it's all that important if you're sitting out in a club with some random guy you just finished up necking with in a bathroom stall and you tell him that your name is Iris instead of Lily? Does it really matter that you tell someone that you're from the jungles of BoraBora and that you lived in a longhouse for the first ten years of your life with 300 other BoraBorians? "Well what was it like in BoraBora?"Now, I think that lie would have been quite convincing. |
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| A lot of people seem to think that I am only majoring in English because I don't want to grow up to be a (semi-)honest woman dressed in white and helping the sickly. While this is partially true, I must admit that I do actually bear some like toward English. In fact, I like English almost as much as I like lying and being in altered states of consciousness. After all, what other department would support your study of apathetic bastards who do nothing other than sleep, drink, travel, steal, lie, and occassionally write a groundbreaking novel? It's not library studies if that's what you were thinking, though, you were quite close. In all actuality, I decided to major in English when, one day, I closed my eyes and thought, "If I could be writing a thesis right now, what would I write it on?" And the answer came back overwhelmingly as: Haruki Murakami, Japanese postmodernism, and how otaku culture influenced the subway terrorist gassing attacks. Duh. I think that, thanks to Murakami and The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, we can all orgasm a little easier knowing that some people are willing to pay extravagant amounts of money just have to have one in an old fashion warehouse somewhere in the outskirts of Tokyo. |
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| So today is the official end of my first week of school. And, to celebrate that fact, I didn't attend any of my classes today. Okay, so I'm getting off to a somewhat shakey start. But. That doesn't keep me from laughing at all my hallmates who are currently Rushing for sororities. Here, at the University of Virginia, Greek life is a big part of life. Who buys you booze and alcohol and the occasional fuck in the closet? The Greeks! Who throws you bad ass parties that make you completely dysfunctional for Monday classes? The Greeks! And who is going to supply you with never-ending, grade-A idiotic entertainment? The Greeks! We love the fraternities and sororities here at Mr. Jefferson's school. Consequently, a good two-thirds of our school is Greek. Needless to say, people take participation in the Greek life very seriously. So seriously, in fact, that every night I have to stay up five hours past midnight listening to girls cry and whimper about not getting into their first choice sorority. They go out to Rush every night or so and then when they come back, they almost always say: "I don't want to talk about it" or "oh em gee, my life is ruined." One girl even burst out in tears crying about how she wouldn't have anything to do this semester since she didn't make it into her top sorority. As for me, I am not Rushing. I see Greek life mostly as paying so that other people will be friends with you. I might not be very social, but I'm sure as hell not that bad with people. In addition, I don't have a very high opinion of most sorority girls in general, and, some of my most respected friends here aren't Rushing, which, further proves my point. We just figure it must be a white girl thing. |
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| One thing that is great about being an ex-academic athlete, who, has endured the trials and tribulations of several seasons of gaping questions like: who composed "The Rite of Spring" and "The Firebird," is that you get to haze the younger members every time you come back for break. For example, one of my previous teammates (who didn't know the answer that that question, might I add) was just walking innocently down the hall of our high school when, suddenly, an overly-enthusiastic Asian girl (me) glomped him within an inch of his life. Glomped and kissed, might I add. I might also add in front of his girlfriend whom he was about to meet. But then again, I never liked the girl to begin with. Another victim of my superior alumnus academic athletic wrath would be my exboyfriend. Yes, the geeks got together and procreated. Holy shit, someone get the janitor. In any case, Jared and I had been a very academically-oriented couple in the sense that we would laze around on his bed all day and read excerpts from The Bad Popes. Read and did other stuff. Or mostly did other stuff, but we did read, and that's the point. This time when I came home, I promptly gathered a group of former classmates to abduct him from the clutches of his Nazi mother. What did we do? We threw rocks at his window at 2 am and told him to come down to get dead drunk with us. And they weren't small rocks either. Then we drove down the street screaming his name like a pack of madmen freshly released from the asylum. The lesson here? Haze as much as you can when you're still at the top of the pack. A little bit of trauma never hurt anyone. |
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| I am not, by any means, a very social person by nature. I am, in fact, very antisocial. I'm extremely picky about the company that I keep simply because I don't feel that being social is a constructive use of my time. I suppose that it would have been good of me to have passed high school without making any friends, but alas, I was not so lucky. I do have to admit, however, that for a small town like Blacksburg, it has an oddly eccentric selection of people. The people that I have come to befriend over the years include: An alcoholic, writer-musician, anti-hipster hipster who frequently travels in a car with a broken radiator to far-off and poorly-planned destinations. He's a troublemaker, that one, from the first time I met him scribbling homework in class twenty minutes after it was due. The teachers signed his yearbook saying he was "a little too liberal for my likings," and he even once made an impromptu journey to Florida by air for sex, drugs, and rock and roll. A college drop out after just two weeks back in Florida and seperated from his beloved girlfriend (who then promptly dumped him for not being a Christian), he now works as a waiter and writes psychological thriller novellas while watching CSPAN. The last time I saw him, he was an utterly brokenhearted insomniac with a malfunctioning car radiator and Homer Simpson slippers that were glued to his feet. He was a rather pathetic sight. So I promptly got us almost-killed while driving us to lunch. That livened him up a bit. Another friend of mine: a homosexual stud muffin, pseudo quantum physician, and avid coccaine-user who is currently in the University of Pennsylvania, was going through his twenty-fourth man of the semester. I heard that he had just caught himself a fickle one, and was busy working at the knots of the other boy's resolve. At one point we discussed a possible numbering system for all the men that he had dabbled with since his official coming out of the closet. We eventually decided that it would become too much of a mouthful to say 'two thousand four hundred eighty-ninth' instead of just 'Steve.' I asked him what his secret was over winter break, to which he replied: "Just act like you know he wants to bed you." Then he offered to give me pointers on how to give a blowjob. Finally, the last of my best friends: a chattily and sociable bisexual wannabe and runner-up number one for Alcoholics Anonymous, currently afflicted with 'Yellow Fever' and attending Tufts University in Boston. The last time we got together was in front of a local coffee shop where he was gingerly nursing a hangover the size of Neptune. An oddly eccentric boy who has the gall of calling me weird, he promptly told me (very proudly, might I add), that ever since college, he has kissed quite a few boys. Unfortunately, none of them have managed to turn him from the firm path of heterosexuality. He said that the facial hair was rather uncomfortable to kiss. I told him to stop kissing boys with beards. God, I love my friends. |
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| Oh, and it's 2006. The year came by without me not really giving much of a shit, mainly because I'm just not naturally one of those gushy-lovey people. I find this to be true of most first-borns simply because we have to deal with the traumatic experience of having younger siblings. Yes, younger siblings is to blame for all types of apathy: teenage apathy, antisocial-murderer apathy, voter apathy, etc, they're all because of younger siblings. I'm sure that if I did a study, studies would also show that people with younger siblings tended to vote for Bush in 2004. From this, I can conclude that younger siblings are the devil. Please press two if you would like to speak with an exorcist. But in any case, I didn't feel extraordinarily festive during the New Year's celebration, and I still feel very much less than festive. In fact, I feel extraordinarily sluggish and unfestive for this time of year. A new semester is beginning, I'll be forced to go back to eating American food, and the apocolypse is coming and probably is going to get here before I can be baptized and saved by Jesus. Damnations. Despite all this impending doom and gloom, however, there are a few nice things that have happened this holiday season. I have made one hundred dollars over the course of the month making custom layouts, claimed ownership over the ancient family digital camera, wrote some excruciatingly bad prose, and won an iPod shuffle for being literate in American history. Yay l173r4cY. |
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| So I've been considering majoring in English considering that I've been considering English for a while now. The reason why I'm considering what I'm considering on considering is because I've been considering my considerable misery considering biochemistry which is natural considering that I've always been considering what I've been considering on considering for a considerable time. I don't feel that I'm cut out for science not because I'm terrible at it but because I'm miserable while at it and I suppose I ought to give this carpe diem thing a bit of a whirl since mum always said I should try everything at least once. Now, my parents think that English sucks. They think it's useless and utterly unprofitable, which, is why it's useless to begin with. They'd prefer me to be miserably profitable instead of happily impoverished and they think that I'd prefer to actually be happily impoverished as opposed to being miserably profitable. Actually, I'd quite not prefer being impoverished and I don't think that I necessarily need to be be impoverished. I'm absolutely not planning on going to medical school because I feel that it's a waste. I don't like people. No, not even crippled little children. I'd prefer to steal and lie and trick them instead of making their boo-boos better so that they could later pillage helpless little Middle Eastern countries for oil. Plus I'm good at lying. It's almost as if God meant for me to be a lawyer. Jesus, can't they see? Being a sneaky bastard is my destiny. |
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| bienvenue |
| Hello and welcome to La cœur a ses raisons que la raison ne connaît point, a place where I store all of my thoughts and experiences. Feel free to look around, but please keep in mind that everything that I write here is about myself and my experiences. Thanks and enjoy. |
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| fille |
| I am an eighteen-year-old college student who is currently attending the University of Virginia. I enjoy reading, writing, intelligence, and sarcasm. My goals in life include being a successful swindler, a professional liar, and maybe someone you could bring home to meet mom with. More? |
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| écrivez |
| If you have any questions, you can contact me via e-mail. Please remove the '(at)' before sending, though. |
