Harrowing mistakes and lost eyeballs

Today, I sent an email to the members of English Club about tonight's meeting. After logging out of the EC account and back into my own, I realized that the bold-face subject in my inbox read "First meeting of the semseter!!"

It really shouldn't cause me this much distress, but I've been fighting the urge to send a follow-up email that acknowledges the lapse in my usually excellent spelling for about an hour. The online community is doubtlessly judging my incompetence at this very moment. I HATE TYPOS.

In other news, classes began yesterday and already I have 125 pages of reading due tomorrow for a class on the ethnography of Southeast Asia. I think the professor is trying to scare the modest class of nine away--he mentioned at least ten times in the 40 minute introduction to the class yesterday that "probably none of you will want to come back, I'll be shocked if there are half of you here on Thursday." I've already bought the twelve books ("You will read until your eyes fall out this semester," he told us), though, so perhaps to his dismay there will be at least one student in class tomorrow.

Maybe if my eyes do, indeed, fall out, I'll have an excuse for future spelling mistakes in the emails I send.

Over the river and through the woods

My fifth semester is officially complete . . . three days before Christmas. Tomorrow morning after Erin finishes her last final, we're throwing our stuff in the car and heading home. The route we're taking is about 70 miles longer than the one we normally take to and from Geneseo; since I'm not sure how large the scope of the weird downstate snowstorm was, I'd rather take the Thruway all the way back than take my chances with Rte. 17. Other than said safety precautions, there are about six rest stops en route that contain a Starbucks. I rest my case.

Not to be looking too far ahead, but I'm already working on amending the problems I had this semester, i.e. the utter lack of free time. I'm shaving one class off my workload since I only need two more to graduate from college (!!!), and because I'm not planning on cutting down on the other commitments I have here.

As far as the present goes, though, I'm really looking forward to the break. I have two stories that I need to take a red pen to, one of which I'll be reading at a conference in Pennsylvania this February! I got the acceptance letter a week or two ago, but I've been a bit too busy to even think about it. Now I can, though, which is a wonderful thing.

There really isn't a whole lot going on that warrants space on the Internet . . . I really only logged in because I wanted to share this quote with someone:

"You can never get a cup of tea large enough or a book long enough to suit me."
— C.S. Lewis

Kitties and playwrights

With Rachel's help, I was able to get an appointment today to meet with Marjorie Chan about my writing. She's a visiting playwright on campus for the week; the theater department is performing one of her plays in December, so her visit has a lot to do with that. I was a little bit worried about it, admittedly--although the opportunity was obviously one not to pass up, handing her my work and then having her tell me what she thinks seemed slightly awkward. Before the meeting, though, I was creeping around on her website and found a link to her Twitter account . . . on it, she posted this video. In my experience, appreciation for goofy cat videos usually has a correlation with compatibility, so after seeing it I was much more enthused about meeting her and less apprehensive about the forceps-to-my-writing thing.

My hypothesis was correct, and she was indeed very nice. I bit my tongue when I felt inclined to talk about silly cats, though. Certain things should remain unspoken. Meow.

A four-legged ghost story

I rarely take stock in dreams, but I can't stop thinking about the one I woke up from this morning. I dreamed that I was home with my family and while we were all our current ages, suddenly we'd gone back to December four years ago after we had to put our dog Jessie down. The veterinarian knocked on our door with Jessie at her feet, who was placid and quiet but very much alive, telling us that she'd come back. We were all so happy but strangely accepting of the story. Before leaving her with us, the vet suggested that we get a cat to keep Jessie company to prevent her from dying again, so we did--a little brindled kitten that nobody felt attached to because it was only there to keep Jessie with us.

The cat could speak to me. She told me that she felt cheated out of a real family and that she wanted someone to love her for who she was rather than feeling used (a little My Sister's Keeper, I guess), so I apologized and we became friends. The cat translated things between me and Jessie, who couldn't speak human, and that was that.

Silly, right? I don't know why, but it's been bothering me all day. Maybe it's just the fact that someone (because yes, our dog was a someone) I loved so much was conjured up at such a weird time, completely unprompted. I don't know. It made me feel homesick and sad and old and small.

A stranger's stages of grief

I'm sitting on the couch with Katy, doing work and listening to classical music on YouTube. After clicking on Ralph Vaughan Williams' Greensleeves, I happened to see one of the comments that a prior visitor to the site posted about the song while listening to it:

Bitter joy when your loved one leaves you for good... Anger & joy... Sadness... Yearning, and finally... You are over with it...

I don't recommend heavy drinking while listening these master pieces... You'll just break your heart...

A little bit funny, and a little bit tragic. Oh, the humanity!