Salem: The Television Event of 3 AM

It was late. And by that, I mean, it was early. Very early. So early that the only people still awake were drunk, having sex, or watching Netflix. I was doing none of these things.

I was watching Hulu.

No one things straight at two in the morning when you're running on about five hours of sleep from the previous night and you're trapped in a small glass booth. You tend to make poor decisions like buying one dollar black magic books on Amazon, or giving more than a minute's thought to the fate of Shia Lebeouf. This particular evening I found myself in that strange part of Hulu between the 60's horror anthologies and the high budget shows about scruffy white dudes doing things. In my quest for something mindless to watch I came upon a show called Salem.

The description read as follows:

"As the wife of a wealthy but ailing town elder, Mary Sibley holds the distinction of being the most powerful sorceress in 1692 Salem. Ruthless, yet vulnerable, Mary leans on her ageless accomplish Tituba to help advance her supernatural agenda - but Mary's world is turned upside down when John Alden, her long lost love, finally returns home from years at war and starts asking questions that threaten to expose Mary's darkest secrets." 

Naturally, with a paragraph as deeply rooting in historical fact and analysis as this, I had to watch it.

It's produced by WGN America, and is, as far as I can tell, the only original program WGN America currently airs. It's plastered all over the channel's website, complete with a three-minute behind the scenes documentary that dares to ask the question "Was Salem Real?"

My immediate answer is yes. I've been there. I bought an iced coffee at the Dunkin Donuts. It had too much sugar.

But WGN America's answer is that "the story is fantasy, but the magic is real." What does that mean? Your guess is as good as mine. Currently, the pilot's the only thing up.

This is what I retained.

EXT. SALEM CENTRAL SQUARE PLACE - NIGHT

People are gathered around a large stage in the middle of the night. There's two people in stocks, and a very angry old Puritan guy with a whip and some hot irons. 

ANGRY OLD PURITAN

There's sin all over the place, and these two are all up in it! I'm going to brand it into their face because that's kind of what they did in the Scarlett Letter, right? 

The people in the crowd make vague loud noises that vary from enthusiastic cheering to gossipy whispers. The camera lingers on some CHICK IN BLACK, who isn't expressing an emotion beyond "I'm sexy, but I'm PURITAN sexy." 

Suddenly, a random SCRUFFY WHITE DUDE shoves his way through the crowd. 

SCRUFFY WHITE DUDE

Unrelated Bible Verse! 

ANGRY OLD PURITAN

Very wise. I smile at you, but in fact, I don't give a shit. 

SCRUFFY WHITE DUDE

But this is so cruel! 

ANGRY OLD PURITAN

So? We're Puritans! Burn them with hot pokers! 

He brands the two people in the stocks, and for some reason, despite having probably seen this kind of thing before and cheering for it moments earlier, the rest of the Puritans choose this particular moment to be all "Oh god, how cruel!" 

EXT. RANDOM PURITAN BUILDING - NIGHT

The aforementioned Chick in Black runs off toward some white building. It can be assumed that this is MARY SIBLEY because she is showing the appropriate level of hair and cleavage to be the female lead. 

SCRUFFY WHITE DUDE

I'm going to war. 

MARY SIBLEY

I'm thinking of signing a contract with the devil.

SCRUFFY WHITE DUDE

What? 

MARY SIBLEY

Never mind. 

EXT. SALEM CENTRAL SQUARE PLACE - DAY

Mary is walking with TITUBA, the only black person in Salem. 

ANGRY OLD PURITAN

Good day. Would you be interested in a confusing double entendre that hints at my knowledge of your sexual indiscretion? 

MARY SIBLEY

Not particularly. 

ANGRY OLD PURITAN

Well, here's one anyway. Puritan burn. 

TITUBA

Don't worry. We'll get him later. 

ANGRY OLD PURITAN

I'm sorry? 

TITUBA

Nothing. 

EXT. DARK WOODS - NIGHT

Tituba leads Mary through a dark, foreboding, and frantically edited forest. Occasionally, there are demons and flashbacks to sex happening. 

MARY SIBLEY

I'm suddenly not sure if I want to do this! 

TITUBA

Do you want to have a baby out of wedlock?

MARY SIBLEY

Not really. 

TITUBA

Then lie back and give yourself to the devil. 

She lies down, and Tituba starts spreading oil all over her. We get seemingly random flashes of demons and of the Scruffy White DUDE, who is now heavily implied to be the father of the baby. 

Mary starts screaming. Black goo stuff starts spreading all over her now mostly naked body. 

TITUBA

Let it inside you!

MARY SIBLEY

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH THIS IS WHY WE NEED TO PROTECT ABORTION RIGHTS!!!!

Some confusing, poorly edited stuff happens. 

FADE TO BLACK

TEXT: SEVEN YEARS LATER

EXT. SALEM CENTRAL SQUARE PLACE - DAY

Scruffy White Dude, now looking significantly more scruffy, wanders slightly dazed into town. He looks up at a tree - there are three bodies hung there. He shakes his head. 

He wanders through town and we see a bunch of random people wandering around yelling about damnation and hell - basically, just your average day in a Puritan settlement. Eventually he comes across a house that, presumably, was once his. 

INT. SCRUFFY WHITE DUDE'S HOUSE - DAY

He wanders around the house with the same boring quality he had outside. It's sad, things are covered in sheets. 

Suddenly, a guy with a gun shows up. 

GILES COREY

Scruffy White Dude! You're back from the war! 

SCRUFFY WHITE DUDE

I am! I thought I'd angst about it for a while. 

GILES COREY

Would you like some exposition? 

SCRUFFY WHITE DUDE

Most certainly. 

GILES COREY

The Old Angry Puritan has been replaced by the possibly psychotic Cotton Mathers, everyone's extra scared of witches, and your ex-girlfriend married a sick, old, rich guy. 

SCRUFFY WHITE DUDE

This all makes me generically unhappy. 

GILES COREY

I thought it would. 

INT. SICK OLD RICH GUY'S HOUSE - NIGHT

Mary Sibley is doing some evil needlepointing in her elaborate living room. Her husband, a practically comatose guy in a wheelchair, sits by her doing nothing. 

A guy who kind of looks like RORY from Doctor Who comes in. 

NOT-RORY

Mrs. Sibley, here are some packages. 

MARY SIBLEY

Ah, thank you. 

NOT-RORY

Also, your ex-boyfriend from the woods is back. 

MARY SIBLEY

Oh good. I think I'll not react at all. 

NOT-RORY

Very good, Mrs. Sibley. 

INT. SOMEBODY'S HOUSE - NIGHT

COTTON MATHERS, a guy who looks unnervingly like an insane, bearded Ben from Parks and Rec, is being led through some random guy's house to the bedroom of the guy's daughter. 

RANDOM GUY

She's flailing around like in the Exorcist! 

COTTON MATHERS

(gleefully)

Oh, yes. 

We're taken upstairs, where a teenage girl with lots of scars is, as mentioned, flailing around like in the Exorcist. 

COTTON MATHERS

WHO ARE THE WITCHES?!

POSSESSED GIRL

FL:KKGFJ:SOIGHGHGOISP"IJGDSLJGHGHOISGDOIHS

COTTON MATHERS

This is clearly a spectral attack. 

INT. MEETING HOUSE - DAY

It's a typical Puritan church service. 

COTTON MATHERS

We are sinners and there is sin and it's giving us a witch problem so we should KILL EVERYONE. 

SCRUFFY WHITE DUDE

As the generic male protagonist, I loudly disagree with you despite having been raised Puritan. 

COTTON MATHERS

Because you're the protagonist, and you just got back from the war, I'm not going to hang you for blasphemy. Church is dismissed!

Everyone gets up and shuffles for the back. Scruffy White Dude and Mary catch sight of each other and their sexual tension. 

SCRUFFY WHITE DUDE

You've become quite enigmatically evil since I left. 

MARY SILBEY

You should come to my house for dinner. 

SCRUFFY WHITE DUDE

THat sounds like a great idea. 

INT. SICK OLD RICH GUY'S HOUSE - NIGHT

Mary is standing enigmatically on her balcony. She glares at something, then immediately strips off all her clothing and walks inside. 

Her sick, old husband is sitting in his wheelchair. She does something vaguely magical, and a frog comes out of his mouth. She smiles, and lets it suckle from her leg. 

MARY SILBEY

It's a good thing I took off all my clothes for this. How else would you know I'm evil? 

INT. SICK OLD RICH GUY'S DINING ROOM - NIGHT

The most posh of the Puritans are sitting around for dinner. Scruffy White Dude is unnerved because he's "not posh" and he's sitting across from Mary. Next to him is SOME REDHEAD GIRL, who is young, but uncharacteristically adventurous for a Puritan. 

SOME REDHEAD GIRL

I bet you saw all kinds of interesting stuff at war! 

SCRUFFY WHITE DUDE

French and Indians, mostly. 

RICH PURITAN LADY
Oh, those savages! 

SOME REDHEAD GIRL
They're not savages, Mother. You're so unenlightened. 

MARY SILBEY
Hey, Scruffy White Dude, what are you thinking about? 

Scruffy White Dude looks down at his pants and sees the Redhead fondling his junk. The Redhead then becomes Mary. It's weird. 

SCRUFFY WHITE DUDE

Um, I'm gonna go. 

EXT. SICK OLD RICH GUY'S HOUSE - NIGHT

Scruffy White Dude is engaging in some late night angsting.

MARY SILBEY

I thought you were dead. 

SCRUFFY WHITE DUDE

That's no excuse! We're Puritan! Women aren't allowed to have fun. You know that. 

INT. RANDOM GUY'S HOUSE - NIGHT

Cotton Mathers is still hanging out with the possessed chick. 

POSSESSED GIRL

:DSKLGJ:SOGIHGOIGF:SFG:LKJSDFG!!!

COTTON MATHERS

Sexy. 

He creepily strokes her leg and has a decidedly not safe for work flashback about sleeping with a hooker...or something. End scene. 

EXT. PATH IN THE WOODS - DAY

Scruffy White Dude has decided to leave. 

SCRUFFY WHITE DUDE

I'm going to leave!

NOT-RORY

Wait! You can't leave! I have to show you something! 

SCRUFFY WHITE DUDE

Who are you?

NOT-RORY

I'm the guy from the stocks in the cold open. 

SCRUFFY WHITE DUDE

Oh. 

INT. SICK OLD RICH GUY'S HOUSE - NIGHT

Tituba and Mary are hanging out in the bedroom, getting ready for the Sabbath. 

MARY SILBEY

You know, I'm starting to have second thoughts about this whole "witch" thing. 

TITUBA

This is literally the only interesting thing a woman can do here. 

MARY SILBEY

Fair enough. 

She lies down on the bed, much like she did in the woods, and Tituba again starts putting oil on her. 

TITUBA

"Here's some stuff about the Devil

He's totally on another level." 

MARY SILBEY

Word. 

Suddenly, Mary's eyes open, and she can see some really creepy stuff happening in the woods. 

EXT. CREEPY WOODS - NIGHT

Meanwhile, Not-Rory and Scruffy White Dude are watching all the crazy shit go down in the woods. This includes dove killing, people wandering around in live animal heads, black goo orgies, and fire. 

NOT-RORY

THIS IS TOO MUCH FOR ME! AHHHHHHH!!

CREEPY ANIMAL HEAD GUY

There's totally people watching us. 

They run away. 

INT. SICK OLD RICH GUY'S HOUSE - NIGHT

Mary suddenly sits up. 

MARY SILBEY

The circle was broken! 

TITUBA

What circle?

MARY SILBEY

You know, the circle. 

TITUBA

It's always been more like a vague blob to me. 

MARY SILBEY

Well, whatever it is, it's broken. 

TITUBA

Fuck. 

INT. SICK OLD RICH GUY'S HOUSE - NIGHT

Mary comes downstairs to find Giles Corey sitting in her living room. 

GILES COREY

I know what you did last summer. And I'm going to tell. 

MARY SILBEY

Why?

GILES COREY

Scruffy White Guy has a right to know that your dead child was his! 

MARY SILBEY

Did he face social exile for this kid? No. Was it inside of him? No. I'm going to get you. 

INT. SOMEBODY'S HOUSE - DAY

Cotton Mathers is still hanging out with the possessed chick. She's even more messed up than usual. 

COTTON MATHERS

WHO ARE THE WITCHES?! 

POSSESSED GIRLS

SDFSLK:JSDGL:JGHGSOISGJL I CAN'T TELL YOU! 

COTTON MATHERS

Then I hope you like leashes. 

EXT. SALEM TOWN SQUARE THING - DAY

It's normal day in the town square. All our central characters happen to be there. 

Suddenly, Cotton Mathers shows up with the Possessed Girl on a leash. This is not a joke. 

COTTON MATHERS

NOW! FIND THE WITCH! 

GILES COREY

What the fuck? 

POSSESSED GIRL

SNARL SNARL HISS HISS DSF:LFLKJGD:OGSI

The Possessed Girl freaks her way over towards Mary, who gives her a look that clearly says, "This is not the witch you're looking for" The girl then heads for Giles Corey. 

COTTON MATHERS

HE IS THE WITCH! 

GILES COREY

Wouldn't I be a warlock? 

COTTON MATHERS

HE'S A WITCH! 

EXT. OUTDOOR JAIL CELL - NIGHT

Giles Corey is locked up in a jail cell. Cotton Mathers is watching him, crazy like. Mary comes up behind him. 

GILES COREY

This sucks, I'm definitely not the witch. 

MARY SILBEY

I take it he's the witch. How disgusting.

COTTON MATHERS

Heee heee heeee. I think I'll stone him. 

MARY SILBEY

Sounds good to me. I hate witches. If you know what I mean. 

COTTON MATHERS

I don't. 

EXT. CEMETERY - DAY

That random redhead chick from earlier in the episode is drawing in cemetery with Scruffy White Dude. 

SOME REDHEAD GIRL

They say that drawing and anything fun is idolatry. 

SCRUFFY WHITE DUDE

I'll show you idolatry. 

SOME REDHEAD GIRL

What? 

At that moment, Mary approaches the scene. 

SCRUFFY WHITE DUDE

I have to go. 

He leaves. But Mary comes closer. 

MARY SILBEY

Interesting place to draw. 

SOME REDHEAD GIRL

I have no fear of death! 

MARY SILBEY

Interesting. Have you ever considered the Devil?

SOME REDHEAD GIRL

What?

MARY SILBEY

Apparently not. 

EXT. SALEM TOWN SQUARE PLACE - NIGHT

Cotton Mathers drags Giles Corey through a screaming crowd of Puritans ready for a stoning. 

GILES COREY 

This is really ill-advised! 

COTTON MATHERS

Um, it's God-advised, thank you. 

The stoning begins. It's really violent and bloody. Suddenly, Scruffy White Dude appears. 

SCRUFFY WHITE DUDE

Giles! What are they doing to you?

GILES COREY

I believe they're stoning me. 

SCRUFFY WHITE DUDE

This is a travesty! I'm going to give an enlightened, boring, protagonist speech about why this is wrong! 

From her balcony, which is now inexplicably next to the square, Mary rolls her eyes. 

MARY SILBEY

I hate speeches. Also, I'm just now realizing my ex-lover might be kind of a problem. 

She turns and walks inside. 

INT. SICK OLD RICH GUY'S HOUSE - NIGHT

She steps inside, and addresses Tituba. 

MARY SILBEY

That thing that happened in the woods last night can never happen again. 

TITUBA

Ok. 

She turns, and a bunch of Puritans who I think we're supposed to recognize are standing around, presumably also working for the Devil. 

MARY SILBEY

It's time to get shit done, understand? Only by doing vaguely evil things like driving a teenager crazy and convincing our minister to stone a guy can we make sure that Salem is FINALLY OURS! 

RANDOM DEVIL PURITAN

Aren't we in Salem Village? 

MARY SILBEY

NO. We're going to take over SALEM. Because that's what the Devil wants - complete control over a random English settlement with more trees than people. Now join me in an evil laugh! 

They all laugh. Evilly. 

EXT. ABOVE SALEM - NIGHT

The camera swoops above Salem towards the moon that seems to be perpetually full. On this image, we fade to black. 

I may have left out a few key details. It was three in the morning. If this intrigued you, Salem can be watched on WGN America Sundays at 10 PM, and on Hulu + the day after it airs. I know I'll be keeping up.  

Does That Make You Larger Than Life?

When you go through a significant weight loss, I've found there are, generally, around three distinct ways people react to it.

1. The "You've clearly lost weight but I don't want to imply anything" method.

INT. PARTY OF SOME VARIETY - DAY

A relative and/or friend who hasn't seen you in a while keeps staring at you from across the room. Eventually, you cross paths. You juggle your mimosa as he/she smiles in an oddly conflicted fashion. 

RELATIVE AND/OR FRIEND

You know, you look great. 

You look down at your outfit, now sporting a dark stain and smelling faintly of spilled mimosa. 

YOU

Um, thanks. So do you. 

You wait, thinking that, perhaps this conversation might continue. It does not. 

RELATIVE AND/OR FRIEND

You saw Frozen, right? 

The general idea behind this seems to be that your friend and/or relative has noticed that you have lost weight. Maybe they've watched you struggle with it for a while, or maybe they simply haven't seen you in a year. Either way, they would really like to compliment you on your appearance, but are entirely unsure if making the compliment weight-related is appropriate. The expectation is that you will have the same logic as a girlfriend in a male-centric sitcom; they'll say "You've lost weight, congrats." and your response will inevitably be "What? Did you think I was fat before? Did you think I needed to lose weight? Did you forget our anniversary? I think we need to see other people." 

2. The "I think there's something different about you, but I can't quite figure out what" method. 

INT. OFFICE - DAY

Your professor who hasn't seen you since you were in a terrible place in your life looks you over. She smiles. 

PROFESSOR

You look like you're doing well. 

YOU

Thanks. I feel like it. 

PROFESSOR

Yeah, you look...healthy?

YOU

Um, thanks. 

PROFESSOR

So, did you see Frozen? 

This one's filled with nuance. With my weight loss, it wasn't so much a weight loss as a return to form. I'm naturally plus sized so, with some people, it's often hard for them to tell when my weigh fluctuates. People assume that losing weight takes you from fat to skinny with nowhere in between. With me, it's less "I was fat but now I'm skinny" and more "I'm a bit more balanced and comfortable." I had gained a lot of weight during a particularly bad stint with depression, and since getting that more under control, I've lost quite a bit of what I've gained. The result is that I seem different. I'm happier, a bit more confident, and wearing pants that fit me. Because a surprising amount of weight loss is actually internal, when people pick up on it, they're sometimes not picking up on the size of your girth, but on the way you present yourself. As bizarre as the phenomenon is, it's admittedly pretty amusing to watch people stand around desperately looking for the right words to describe you. 

3. The "throw caution to the wind" method. 

INT. FUNERAL HOME - AFTERNOON

You've just arrived home after a six-month stay in another country. You immediately find yourself at a funeral, where your grandfather spots you. 

GRANDFATHER

Who are you?! 

He laughs. Despite having heard the joke before, you laugh as well. 

YOU

Hi, Grampy. 

GRANDFATHER

I was wondering if I'd ever see you again. 

He takes a moment to look you over. He seems proud. 

GRANDFATHER

Did you lose weight? 

YOU

As a matter of fact, I did. 

GRANDFATHER

You look good, kid. 

YOU 

Thanks. 

GRANDFATHER

Did you see that movie everyone's talking about? Freeze or something? 

I like this option best, but it is, admittedly a risky one. Weight's a pretty tricky thing to discuss. It carries a lot of...well, weight. We're conditioned to think about it constantly - whether it's "Hooray! You're skinny" or "Damn, you're fat!" or "Whatever you are, you need to do something about it." The compliment of "Hey, have you lost weight?" instantly brings this to light. On TV it's seen as the thing you should always ask a women, whether she wants to lose weight or not. Because of this, it's lost some of it's legitimacy. It's a shallow thing to say, rather than a genuine one. It's left us constantly looking for the correct thing, and never really finding it. 

Personally, as a sufferer of thyroid disease, as someone who has struggled with weight and self image through most of their life, I'd say compliment what seems to be on the forefront of the person's mind. It's not easy, you may have to become a psychic. But for a lot of people, I know that "It seems like you're doing a lot better than you were before" would mean a lot more than "Hey, you're a weight I can name, but still can only barely find pants for!" 

Baby, You Can Drive My Car

Driving in New York is an experience.

Now, I learned to drive in New Hampshire. Despite the fact that we don't have permits - you can legally drive at the age of 15 1/2 as long as you have your birth certificate and someone over the age of 25 in the car with you - and despite the fact that our roads are quite frequently black ice laden death traps, we're generally pretty low key drivers. We have accidents, like everyone, and we have disagreements, like everyone else.

We are particularly antagonistic towards drivers from Massachusetts. New Hampshire has somewhat of a "New York/ New Jersey" rivalry with the state, for reasons I'm not entirely clear on. Perhaps we're bitter that they have all our sports teams? One would think we would be more bitter about Vermont, which is, of course, just an upside down New Hampshire with bafflingly better tourism.

But, I digress.

I grew up hearing about Massachusetts drivers. It was always "those damn Massholes letting me go even though they have the right of way - don't they know they're holding up traffic?" Anytime a car on the road did something stupid, my parents would instantly check the plate, and if they were from Massachusetts they would nod their heads sagely and say "that makes sense."

Notice though, that despite our antagonism towards our neighbors to the south, for the most part, our rage is kept inside the privacy of our own cars, and spoken of with a healthy degree of self awareness. I know, for a fact, that most of my parents' antagonism is based on having to drive in Boston which, even those from Boston will tell you, does not do the term "clusterfuck" justice. We're aware that, for the most part, Massachusetts drivers are just like us. It's simply more fun to blame the occasional fuck up on their license plates.

That being said, any New Hampshirites possessed of genuine, rage inducing hatred toward the drivers of Massachusetts should really consider driving in New York.

To New York, New Hampshire is basically Canada, and it's easy to see why they have that view when you compare our drivers. New Hampshire is mostly trees. Even if you're in a city, like Manchester, you can bet that driving there will entail a picturesque drive through forests and tree covered mountains on a three-laned turnpike with a speed limit of 65. Unless there's an antique car show, or the tall ships have come to Portland, or you're in Nashua, you probably won't be caught in a traffic jam for longer than about twenty minutes. We drive leisurely and with little intensity unless we're in a rush, in which case we might start pushing 70. We're calm drivers because we can be. You only get aggressive when you change lanes, and even then, it's just a matter of putting on your turn signal and waiting.

This is a marked contrast to New York. In New York, it seems like everyone has somewhere to be in that exact moment and you are the one thing standing in their way. It's not a matter of "damn it, I'm stuck behind some slow, out of state asshole" it's "god damn it that slow out of state asshole needs to be taken off the road."

In New Hampshire, we're very independently minded. We're the live free or die state, after all. As a rule, we don't really interact much beyond an uptight New England head nod. If someone pisses us off, we'll just walk away. This extends to driving, which is fundamentally an individual experience. If you get cut off, you might shout about it, but you'll do it in the privacy of your own car. You might think something like "God, I'd love to just go over there and let the bastard have it" but it would never occur to you to actually do it. Their bad driving is their problem, not yours. At least your car's fine.

In New York, it's a different thing. One of the things I love about New Yorkers is their openness. A New Yorker will talk to anyone. It doesn't matter who you are, or where you are, or wether or not you're from "away". To them, there's really not much of a difference between one person and the next. Everyone is worthy of being spoken to, and of course, everyone is worthy of being yelled at.

I think my first real New York auto-experience (is that a thing?) was when I accidentally took a parking space someone had claimed outside a Bloomingdales. I didn't realize they'd had their signal on, or even that they were there. When I got out of the car, I was greeted by the face of an enraged woman in large, blue SUV.

The following conversation must be read with the understanding that the SUV lady sounded as if she were about to explode, and I sounded like I had already exploded and was trying to recover.

EXT. MALL PARKING LOT - DAY

I step out of my car and head for the Bloomingdales entrance to the mall. I utterly fail to notice the large black SUV following me across the lot. 

SUV LADY

Hey, you! 

I do not respond. 

SUV LADY

You! Girl with the hair! 

At this, for some reason, I turn. 

ME

Um, hi? 

SUV LADY

You know that was my space! 

ME

What? 

SUV LADY

You just took my fucking parking space! I had my signal on, did you not see it? 

ME

I guess I didn't. I'm sorry.

SUV LADY

Yeah, you better be. Are you going to move it? 

ME

Do you want me to? 

SUV LADY

(as if it should be obvious)

YES. It was my space. 

ME

Oh, ok. I'll just go do that. 

SUV LADY

Idiot. 

And so, I moved. 

This was shortly after I started driving in New York, and the experience terrified me so much it took me a few weeks before I was comfortable trying it again. It wasn't so much the woman herself that threw me, it was the fact that I was now in a place where not only was my driving being constantly watched by the drivers around me, but if I did something wrong, they'd be sure to let me know. I've been flipped off more times than I care to admit, which to a New Yorker, seems like the natural result of being a driver. 

But as long as I may live in New York, and as many times as I might find myself the target of profuse swearing on the way to New Rochelle, I will never escape my New Hampshire roots. The idea of taking the time to personally shout at someone for their driving will always seem odd to me, as will the idea of constantly driving like you're in a rush. I will forever be worried that I'm driving in the wrong lane, or taking the wrong turn, and someone will hit me. Worse, that they'll talk to me.  

One Year

We forget sometimes how long a year actually is.

All years are long. They are eventful, and painful, and absolutely nothing like what we imagine they will be on New Years Eve.

Last year, when 2012 came to an end and 2013 began, I stood in front of a fire and burned the words "The End of the World". My cousin suggested it. The metaphor referred to both the Mayan apocalypse and my own tendency to focus on mundane events as if they held earth shattering consequences.

But that wasn't really the end of a year and the beginning of another. Technically, chronologically, yes. The year we were all supposed to die had ended. We could pat ourselves on the back and celebrate that we had made it through. But, for me, nothing had really ended. Nothing had really changed.

My ending came a month and a half later. One year ago today.

I could write about what's happened to me in that year. It was a lot. More than I knew, or ever would have imagined could happen in a year. But I've already done that. I've thought about it, and talked about it, and probably made it more significant than I should have. That's what you do, I suppose.

One year later, and I find it surprisingly difficult to be retrospective. Is that a good thing?

It's cold in New York. Colder than it was a year ago. It's clearer now, but changed. I feel like it's been forever since I've been here...but I was really only gone for a year. Less than that, actually. I feel like I've lived an entire separate lifetime - like I've been born, then died, then come back to exactly what I had before. Can you live an entire lifetime and come back exactly the same?

I doubt it.

But you can sit around and revel in your change. In my case, being a year removed from the early hours of February 17 is anything but bad. If I feel myself being pulled back to it, I can just remind myself of that other life I led, and it's a bit easier to force myself away again. It gets easier the long I'm away from it, and I suspect it will continue that way.

But it's inevitable that being exactly a year away from something will also, somehow, pull you back to it with a greater force ever before. All the progress you made is suddenly both readily apparent and meaningless. You can try to run away, and you're very capable of doing so, but the date makes the memory slightly quicker.

So, whether I like it or not, February 17 will forever be my new year.

What To Do?

I've got about a half an hour to kill. The Daily Show has already been watched. I've checked Facebook and Cracked. I've checked my e-mail (both personal and school) and have even resorted to checking Twitter.

And yet, here I am.

In Colombia I would occasionally run into this problem. Breakfast was at seven, and most people had to be out the door by eight, but I never had to leave until nine. I would find myself in an empty apartment with no one but Rosa to talk to (my Spanish was so basic, at the time, that our conversations could really only go as far as "Buenos dias, como esta? Esta jugo de mora?") Occasionally, I'd have another volunteer going with me to blind school, and we'd hang around trying to figure out what we were going to do that day. During the period when I was teaching at the school without the woman who ran the program, I spent a number of mornings pacing back and force across the living room while Jay, a friend of mine who had agreed to come with me, watched a Korean drama and told me to either calm down or go to hell. When I wasn't fretting, I usually read or listened to music.

But that was South America. That was me when I wasn't considered a "student." You become an entirely different person the second you step onto a campus - and to be honest, I'm not entirely sure why. It's true that, as a student, you are suddenly burdened with all the responsibilities of studenthood, the severity of which can be quite overwhelming. But when you're on your own, you have just as much to worry about. You may not have to think about when your next paper is due, but you do have to consider where you're going to live, how much money you have for rent, what you're going to eat, how you're going to teach three classes of Spanish-speaking blind children when you can only speak a smattering of Spanish.

And yet, with all that to worry about, I still found myself with an enormous amount of time to devote to reading, writing, painting, and any other hobby I felt like pursuing. I read more books during my six months abroad than I had read in years. Originally, I thought it was because I had shaken off my internet addiction (among other things). Despite the impressive list at the top of this entry, my internet usage is nowhere near where it used to be. I get tired spending hours on end online, and I mostly use it for Google Docs and Facebook. Having recently re-learned how to function without it, I returned to what I actually enjoyed doing.

But, for some reason, despite keeping it up through the trip, and through two months at my parent's house, the second I returned to a college environment, I became too stressed out and tired to do anything but sit around watching Bob's Burgers on Netflix again. How did that happen? I have no idea. My workload isn't even that bad. It's been relatively easy to keep up with, and I'm generally finished with it all pretty early. How is simply being in a college environment inherently more stressful than the outside world? And, why?

You always hear that college, for all it's stresses, is a cakewalk compared to the "real world". You're supposed to "enjoy it while you can" because as soon as you graduate and are faced with the pressures of actual adulthood, everything goes to shit. And you know, maybe it does. Adult life is probably a lot harder than I think it is - having only spent a few brief months experiencing it. But from my naive observation, at least as an adult, outside the "high school in dorms" atmosphere of college, you can be slightly closer yourself. You have less to prove.

But of course, everyone is different. Certainly everyone's adulthood is different. Nothing is ever as easy as it seems when you're outside it. And if it's one thing I learned while not being a student, it's that I am very, very young.

I Took A Trip On The Starship Enterprise

So far, living in Enterprise again has been fairly uneventful. 

I've managed to keep a decently low profile. I haven't dyed my hair any outrageous colors, I don't play my music too loud, and I try to keep the television and angry Spanish homework screams to a level no one else will hear. On my first day, I played the guitar for a bit, but since realizing that you can easily hear the sound of a guitar from the hallway and bathrooms, I've not touched it. 

I think most people know me as a visitor. There are two people I interact with on my floor on a semi-regular basis. One of them is my neighbor - another senior here past the four year mark - who informed me that the previous resident of my single was someone named "Elizabeth" who vanished after a man came and tore her name off the door. The most likely explanation is that she dropped out or graduated, and the man was either her father or a representative of Reslife. I'm choosing to believe there was something mysterious and otherworldly about it, mostly to keep myself occupied while I'm trying to fall asleep at night. 

The other person I see regularly is my RA. She lives about three doors down from me, and is pretty outgoing and easy to talk to. We're both taking the second half of Advanced Screenwriting, so we're both going to have to find a way to successfully write ten pages a week while not losing our jobs. Her script, as she pitched it the other day, was really interesting. A sci-fi sister story I would totally take my sisters to. It's ending in particular excited me, though our professor told her to revise it. I hope it doesn't change too much, but then, it's not my script. Still, I would love to see it in theaters. I could easily see it as the new Hunger Games. 

The fire alarm has gone off no less than eight times since classes began last week. Enterprise always was famous for it's sensitive alarms. It's usually hairspray. 

The alarm itself is loud and blaring - the kind of sound you'd expect to herald the approach of a nuclear disaster. It will start suddenly, anxious and upset, and then build as you run around the room trying to remember where you put your shoes and coat. By the time you've thrown everything on over your pajamas and stumble out into the hallway with the rest of your annoyed and fairly zombie-like floor, the alarm will inevitably sound like the world's most intrusive and nagging parent. You know you need to leave the building, you're aware that though it's probably someone burning popcorn in their microwave, it could always be something worse. Yes, Mom, we get it. Please let us exit the building in peace. 

I should note that this is no way a comparison to my own mother. My mother's nagging does not sound like a fire alarm, and is generally triggered by something I've done (or, more typically haven't done) that was legitimately stupid. You get the idea. 

Once we've all filed out of the building in as close to an orderly fashion as we can managed at one in the morning, the courtyard between Enterprise and our neighboring hall, Vander Poel, is suddenly filled with the least energetic angry mob on the face of the earth. There's always someone who manages to find out whose room triggered the alarm, and when the person is discovered, it seems for a brief, exciting moment, that the entire building is going to sacrifice him or her to the housing gods. Then, of course, the moment goes by. We all realize that not only have we forgotten our torches and pitchforks, but we've all probably done something just as stupid. Being angry takes a lot of effort, and over-tired, freezing cold college students are not the sort to be bothered with effort past midnight, if it's not going to help raise their GPA. 

You are then left with several choices to pass the time: 

1.) Find someone you are remotely friendly with in your building and stand around commiserating. An attractive option because, of course, misery loves company, but also because it assures the rest of the building that you, indeed, have friends and are a relatively normal person. It's also a good way to make friends, since the person you wandered over to complain with will inevitably have their own friends who you will get to meet and possibly forge a lasting friendship with. Or you'll hate them. 

2.) Decide "fuck this" and walk across the street to Dutch Treats. Dutch Treats is our on-campus convenient store - convenient in that it's open 24 hours and doesn't stop serving sandwiches until four. Or possibly three. I'm not really sure. A fire alarm going off is a good opportunity to get groceries, and no one really minds if you stand in an aisle staring blankly at the microwave noodle bowls for a half an hour. Depending on the length of the evacuation, you could get there, buy some milk, say hi to the guy in the back who makes the sandwiches, and leave just in time to return to your room. 

3.) Call someone you know and complain to them. If you are lacking friends in the building, and don't want to spend the meal points getting things you don't really need at Dutch Treats, the "call a friend and bitch about your building" option is a good alternative. On the one hand, your friend will not be pleased that you woke them up at one in the morning to discuss something that doesn't really effect them, but on the other hand, if they're really your friend, they'll get over it in the morning and do the same thing to you should they be forced to evacuate their own building. 

4.) Force your significant other to either come and pick you up, or stand around with you. In last night's evacuation in particular, I heard many couples use the term "Valentines Day is coming up" and "Bring something warm." 

5.) If it's particularly freezing, Vander Poel will open it's doors to lost, cold, Enterprise students by announcing that it's lounge is free in the most secretive way possible, thus ensuring that no one will actually come. If you are one of the lucky people in the back of the mob to hear the announcement, you can hang out there, with the seven other people who heard, and check the window every five seconds to see if people are filing back in. 

Then, of course, there's the ever popular, 

6.) Stand around awkwardly by yourself, occasionally playing with your phone, wondering why fate has seen fit to force you outside in the middle of an evening's Hulu viewing, and didn't even have courtesy to warn you beforehand. 

As for me, I chose a skilled combination of options 2 and 6. I started in Dutch Treats, bought some milk for tea, and and then returned to the courtyard outside Enterprise to stand around checking Facebook on my phone. By the time I had come from Dutch, the social groups had already been established and it was too late to attempt to find one to crash. 

Eventually, they have to let you all back inside. There is a great migration towards the door that you will suddenly instinctively be aware of, even if you're not looking in the general direction of the mob, and everyone will file forward blindly. The crowd moves as one, like molasses, slowly oozing its way into the building towards the elevators. The elevators, of course, will not work properly, and the flow of student traffic will come to an abrupt and confusing halt while everyone waits for the elevators to cope with their issues. 

Luckily, I live on the first floor, so I just took the stairs. I put my milk in the refrigerator, turned my Roku back on, and returned to watching Rod Serling teach me about humanity through the use of elegant, science fiction parables. I could almost forget I had just been forced to stand around outside for no particular reason. 

So Enterprise is very much the same as it was when I last lived here, to the point where it's a little surreal. So much has happened since then. A part of me feels like if I take a stroll up to the eighth floor, I could find myself and let her know what's ahead. She'd probably just ask me why my hair looks so thin.