While it's true, I've been up for over twenty four hours and I kind of feel like a zombie, and I haven't posted since mid July, I am in fact physically alive.
At the moment I am, in fact, listening to the dulcet tones of my roommate's second alarm. Despite repeated cries of "Hey, don't fall asleep again!" she appears to remain fairly comatose. This is a wondrous, mystical skill that I wish I possessed, but sadly, do not. This is evidenced by the fact that I have been up all night for no reason at all.
Hark! She has awoken! And what does she have to say?
"Ungh. Hello world."
When pressed further she added, "You're not getting much more out of me."
Joining in this epic stampede of wakefullness is our suitemate , Molly. She is currently sporting a somewhat anime-esque, electric blue, "sticky-up" hair style that, quite honestly, would look great on the head of a particularly creative mad scientist. When asked what she has to say this fine morning she responded with "Ignacius."
What does she mean? I have no idea. Probably her sled. Maybe.
It's a few minutes later and she's just walked into my room in a purple soccer jersey and a pair of black leggings. For some reason, she's come to me to find out whether she can pull off the leggings. I respond in my usual eloquent manner when faced with fashion related questions at eight in the morning.
This is apparently not an appropriate enough answer, as she quickly moves the question to my roommate, Sarah, who is currently occupying the shower. The suite goes quiet as Molly retreats to her room, as if lying in wait for something massive to explode. Personally, if I put my money on anything exploding, it would be on the futon. We have a warning sign on it and everything. Apparently it's been known to eat people.
The shower turns off. The silence is now deafening.
Realizing that clothing may be required if I wish to continue my education today, I take a moment to wander over to the dresser and ponder my options. Given the fact that I look like a zombie, it's probably better for me to avoid anything with rips or tears in it, or anything that might look like it belongs on a corpse. I opt for a red shirt I've worn eight million times that I would describe in greater detail if I really cared enough to do so.
Take that, fashion website that thought I'd make a welcome addition to their list of bloggers.
My roommate has returned, towel clad and smelling of soap, to inform me that she is going to turn off the air conditioning for a bit. This is met with no resistance as it is beyond freezing in here and I left my slippers in New Hampshire.
"What class do you have this morning?" I ask.
"Yeah," she responds as she sorts through her bag clad in nothing but underwear, "Not really."
It's interesting living with someone who is comfortable enough to wander around half naked as long as she's in the confines of her own room. Perhaps it's because she grew up in an environment of two, relatively close in age sisters, and I grew up as an only child for the first eight years of my life. But then, if my parents are to be believed, I apparently had no qualms about nudity as a child, being a frequent performer of nude one-person operas on the rock next to our house. It's only as an adult that I seem to have developed a bizarre sense of modesty.
Molly has returned and reports that she just had a nice conversation with our building's janitor. Apparently, he's a really interesting, really sweet guy. I make a mental note to stop and chat with him sometime.
Molly picks up a few things and announces that she's going to leave.
"Have fun!" I say.
"Yeah. Probably not," is the reply.
I wish I could say that I was different to my roommates and that I was actually looking forward to my class this morning, but to be honest, I really can't. It's my first actual film class of the semester, the next level of the production class I took last year. It's a different professor to the last one I had, which means I have less of a chance of getting told to sleep with my film, but it means that I'm going to spend the first couple of weeks feeling the need to prove myself. This is, I realize, inherently stupid, but it's something I can't seem to get past and probably never will. We haven't even met yet and I already have two pitches due, neither of which I'm at all confident about. At the moment it sort of feels like every letter I'm typing is simply bringing me closer to my doom.
I'm sure that's happening to everyone. Right?
I have fifty minutes.
There is a distinct art to leaving for class. It is a skill with many facits to it that requires many, many hours of practice and at least one semester of never managing to get there on time. One must decide first when to wake up, then when to shower, when to sit and internet, when to get dressed, when to do hair and makeup (though this step is decidedly optional) when to get your things together, and finally, when to actually leave. Each of these steps form a carefully choreographed dance that allows one to balance the supposedly peaceful process of waking up with the utter terror of getting marked down by your professor for being late.
As should be obvious, the most important aspect of all this, and by far the hardest to get right, is timing. In the morning, timing is everything.
There are several ways you can go with this depending on what sort of person you are.
A.) Obsessively punctual? - Leave at least a half an hour before anyone else in their right mind ever would, and go straight to class. Also, wake up before everyone else and steal the shower.
B.) Consistently punctual? - Leave at least a half an hour before class, and stop for coffee along the way. You will most likely be second in the shower.
C.) Barely punctual? - Leave about fifteen minutes beforehand, stop for coffee, and make it just as your professor is reading your name off. Expect a lukewarm shower.
D.) Rarely punctual? - Leave whenever you can get yourself into some clothing and shove your stuff into your bag. No coffee, no shower, just panic. Also, try not to sleep through your alarm.
All these variations of the same basic morning routine will get you to class on time as long as they are timed absolutely perfectly to the way you tend to function. Times vary on how far away you are to any giving building, so if you've recently moved, expect some shaky ground as you test the kinks out.
Myself? I am of the consistently punctual variety. I'm not the first one in class, but I always beat the professor, and I very rarely have to skip the coffee.
Which brings me to the closing of this entry. My roommate has just left, and considering her class is only fifteen minutes before mine, I should probably stop blogging and get going.
Expect something more interesting the next time I post.