Crack. Fizz. Chug.
No, that isn't beer. Contrary to popular belief, not all college students chug beer. We do, however, have something to chug. For me, nothing beats a can of Diet Coke fresh from the fridge. My body needs fuel, more specifically caffeine. It adores it. It craves it. It needs it. I can say without an ounce of shame that I have a less-than-healthy dependence on caffeine. I barely survive the morning before I hear the tempting call of my favorite pop.When I lay eyes on the rows of shiny silver cans lining the door of the fridge, my sluggish brain begs me to grab a can. It already aches with the strain of withdrawal, and it whines with a pounding insistence until I comply. I reach in hastily and snatch the first can in sight. I scramble to break the seal and to crack open a brand new can. The sweet smell of the sticky, fizzy drink invites me to take a sip. But I don't take just a sip. I guzzle a quarter of the can while the door of the fridge hangs wide open. What a relief! My brain is suddenly abuzz with focus. My chipper mood comes flooding back to me. The rush of endorphins quickly erases any trace of that old, heavy headache, which only bolsters my already powerful addiction.
That unhealthy concoction isn't just a mess of tasty, addictive chemicals to me. With each drink, I find a moment of peace, and no one can strip me of that peace. My brain alone has the power to cling so tightly to that silly little drink. It gives me a simple pleasure to look forward to during a long day of dull classes and a rainy funk. I treasure that aspect most of all. It calms my nerves and puts my mind to rest. Now, every time I see a can within reach, I rush to it with a grin of anticipation stretched widely across my face.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Rambunctious Radio
On my way to visit the seamstress before class, I turned on the radio and found it on 97.1 FM. My dad had driven the Trailblazer earlier that day, which explains the absence of music in the car. He usually listens to sports talk radio. I've taken to this station, too. The show, called The Ticket, discusses not only Detroit sports, but it also focuses on daily chores, like long commutes and family matters. I had just tuned into the afternoon show, with hosts Karsch and Gator already deep in conversation about the Detroit Tigers and their twelve-game winning streak. Karsch made mention of the Tigers' head coach, Jim Leyland, and his very charged remarks to the media. To Leyland's surprise, many interviewers claimed that the Tiger's long string of victories came only in the defeat of sub-par teams. These claims prompted a furious response from Leyland.
Mischievous laughter echoed through the recording studio as Karsch fished out a copy of Leyland's statements. He eagerly informed his co-host that he planned to make a game out of the coach's rant. Before the show, Karsch explained, he had taken the liberty of removing every last trace of profanity from Leyland's press conference. He left those portions blank, and with a tinge of excitement in his voice, he asked Gator to join in his fun. "What do you have there?" asked Gator suspiciously. Karsch chuckled devilishly and told Gator that he had turned Leyland's responses into an ad-lib. "Will you help me with this?" Karsch implored of his co-host. "Sure, I'll give it a shot," Gator replied, his suspicion now morphing into anticipation.
Thoroughly pleased, as he made evident in his upbeat voice, Karsch laid out his instructions before Gator. "First, I need a noun." Puzzled, Gator debated a response for a moment. "Umm... sausage," he suggested cautiously, almost as if asking permission to use that word. Karsch scribbled down Gator's first choice and promptly asked for the next piece of the ad-lib. "Okay, now I need another noun." Gator struggled more with this word than with the first one. He needed a few seconds to think this one over. Spouting nouns and adjectives at random proved harder than he had anticipated. After another few seconds of silence, Gator produced his second noun. "Let's go with 'pipe.'" At this, Karsch couldn't help but to laugh. "Easy, now, Gator. I'm trying to make this thing appropriate to read. Your answers are getting a bit too suggestive for that to happen." Wise to his plan, Gator gained some resolve and answered Karsch's questions more quickly and with more thought. "Okay, give me a verb," Karsch insisted. I could hear the distinct sound of Gator's fingers running across the stubble on his chin. "Let's see, here. How about... jump?"
This steady line of questioning went on for several minutes. I had hoped that Karsch had nearly exhausted his supply of blank spaces. Loose stone crunched beneath my wheels, a clear indication that I had just turned off of the main road. I had only a few more minutes before I would reach the seamstress's house. Just when the glistening lake came into view on my right, Karsch said at last, "Okay, Gator, I need one last noun that's used three times." Gator replied confidently, "Spatula." After noting this final bit, Karsch leafed through the pages until he found the beginning of Leyland's speech. Hardly able to contain his laughter, Karsch giggled the first few sentences to his listeners. I giggled along with him, and Gator chuckled triumphantly at his work. Their playful teasing kept me occupied as I searched for the right address. At long last, I pulled into the seamstress's driveway. Just as I parked my car, Karsch concluded his ad-lib. "Cleveland was lantern before we had played them, but now you're saying they're spatula? So they're spatula now that we beat them. Go ahead and print that. That's spatula." I smiled with satisfaction to have heard the final product of Karsch and Gator's teamwork. With that smile, I grabbed my dress from the back seat and walked up to the door. As I waited for the seamstress to greet me, I remembered that I must fill the gas tank before I left for school. I had just filled the tank two days ago. "That's spatula," I grumbled to myself.
Mischievous laughter echoed through the recording studio as Karsch fished out a copy of Leyland's statements. He eagerly informed his co-host that he planned to make a game out of the coach's rant. Before the show, Karsch explained, he had taken the liberty of removing every last trace of profanity from Leyland's press conference. He left those portions blank, and with a tinge of excitement in his voice, he asked Gator to join in his fun. "What do you have there?" asked Gator suspiciously. Karsch chuckled devilishly and told Gator that he had turned Leyland's responses into an ad-lib. "Will you help me with this?" Karsch implored of his co-host. "Sure, I'll give it a shot," Gator replied, his suspicion now morphing into anticipation.
Thoroughly pleased, as he made evident in his upbeat voice, Karsch laid out his instructions before Gator. "First, I need a noun." Puzzled, Gator debated a response for a moment. "Umm... sausage," he suggested cautiously, almost as if asking permission to use that word. Karsch scribbled down Gator's first choice and promptly asked for the next piece of the ad-lib. "Okay, now I need another noun." Gator struggled more with this word than with the first one. He needed a few seconds to think this one over. Spouting nouns and adjectives at random proved harder than he had anticipated. After another few seconds of silence, Gator produced his second noun. "Let's go with 'pipe.'" At this, Karsch couldn't help but to laugh. "Easy, now, Gator. I'm trying to make this thing appropriate to read. Your answers are getting a bit too suggestive for that to happen." Wise to his plan, Gator gained some resolve and answered Karsch's questions more quickly and with more thought. "Okay, give me a verb," Karsch insisted. I could hear the distinct sound of Gator's fingers running across the stubble on his chin. "Let's see, here. How about... jump?"
This steady line of questioning went on for several minutes. I had hoped that Karsch had nearly exhausted his supply of blank spaces. Loose stone crunched beneath my wheels, a clear indication that I had just turned off of the main road. I had only a few more minutes before I would reach the seamstress's house. Just when the glistening lake came into view on my right, Karsch said at last, "Okay, Gator, I need one last noun that's used three times." Gator replied confidently, "Spatula." After noting this final bit, Karsch leafed through the pages until he found the beginning of Leyland's speech. Hardly able to contain his laughter, Karsch giggled the first few sentences to his listeners. I giggled along with him, and Gator chuckled triumphantly at his work. Their playful teasing kept me occupied as I searched for the right address. At long last, I pulled into the seamstress's driveway. Just as I parked my car, Karsch concluded his ad-lib. "Cleveland was lantern before we had played them, but now you're saying they're spatula? So they're spatula now that we beat them. Go ahead and print that. That's spatula." I smiled with satisfaction to have heard the final product of Karsch and Gator's teamwork. With that smile, I grabbed my dress from the back seat and walked up to the door. As I waited for the seamstress to greet me, I remembered that I must fill the gas tank before I left for school. I had just filled the tank two days ago. "That's spatula," I grumbled to myself.
Monday, September 12, 2011
Highway to Hell
That's what rush hour traffic seems like, doesn't it? I can certainly attest to that. And if driving through rush hour traffic on a busy schedule doesn't sound torturous enough, then think for a moment about driving through rush hour traffic on a busy schedule with a migraine.
I left the student commuter lot at 4:30, assuming that a three-mile drive to the expressway would in no way monopolize my time so much as to keep me from reaching US-23 before 5:00. My twisted, backwoods, rural logic failed me that afternoon. I know very little about city commuting, aside from the common knowledge that rush hour lurks over all unfortunate drivers like a cruel, dark mass, waiting to drive its next victims to the brink of insanity. In my flimsy assumption, I happened to miss a very striking detail that I regret overlooking to this day: cars take up a considerable amount of space, no matter how tightly they pack themselves together, and with that space comes the consumption of my valuable time.
To a slightly delusional young woman with a migraine that felt much like a professional baseball player took to using her head for batting practice, that endless string of brake lights looked like a row of terrifying, red-eyed monsters. I mustered up what strength I could, and I tried in vain to tune out my nagging GPS, which I swear decided to take an attitude with me when it took too long to reach the entrance ramp half a mile away. I feel no shame in saying that I took an attitude right back, and I said some nasty things to my GPS that I'd prefer not to repeat. Rest assured, my poor GPS did not stand alone as the target of my very vocal aggression. I distributed my road rage quite evenly among the infuriating drivers littering the street, littering my street. Why is it my street? My SUV told me that it was.
Quickly losing my patience and already having lost my sanity, I gripped the steering wheel as though a black hole had appeared above the roof of my car. Once I realized that this painful action would not make the car in front of me move any faster, I quickly released my grip and took instead to tapping the brake. I didn't care what I had to do at that point. Any foolish form of entertainment proved enough for me. If nothing else, I sincerely hope that it confounded the driver behind me. I shouldn't have to suffer alone.
One thing above all startled me the most. Everyone in the neighboring intersection thought it wise to turn right on a red signal when an enormous string of cars was waiting to go through the intersection. Which unfortunate fool sat at the front of the green light? Why, I did, of course. Who else but the confused country girl should have to face a mad traffic frenzy in a bustling city? My migraine made this quite a chore. I had absolutely no idea what to do, and I must admit that I couldn't bring myself to move through the intersection. The other drivers didn't care, and as such, they proceeded to blare their horns at me. I could have done the rational thing and gone through the intersection. Instead, I chose what suited my foul attitude at the moment, and I swore like a sailor. After a few seconds of yelling at the top of my lungs, I quickly grew to hate the sound of my voice. The grating racket of a screeching young woman does not mesh well with a pounding headache. I nearly burst into tears, but I stopped myself when the flow of traffic resumed. Once I reached the expressway, I finally found some peace. And it was at that point that I learned never to drive through the city with a migraine again, a painful lesson that I won't soon forget.
I left the student commuter lot at 4:30, assuming that a three-mile drive to the expressway would in no way monopolize my time so much as to keep me from reaching US-23 before 5:00. My twisted, backwoods, rural logic failed me that afternoon. I know very little about city commuting, aside from the common knowledge that rush hour lurks over all unfortunate drivers like a cruel, dark mass, waiting to drive its next victims to the brink of insanity. In my flimsy assumption, I happened to miss a very striking detail that I regret overlooking to this day: cars take up a considerable amount of space, no matter how tightly they pack themselves together, and with that space comes the consumption of my valuable time.
To a slightly delusional young woman with a migraine that felt much like a professional baseball player took to using her head for batting practice, that endless string of brake lights looked like a row of terrifying, red-eyed monsters. I mustered up what strength I could, and I tried in vain to tune out my nagging GPS, which I swear decided to take an attitude with me when it took too long to reach the entrance ramp half a mile away. I feel no shame in saying that I took an attitude right back, and I said some nasty things to my GPS that I'd prefer not to repeat. Rest assured, my poor GPS did not stand alone as the target of my very vocal aggression. I distributed my road rage quite evenly among the infuriating drivers littering the street, littering my street. Why is it my street? My SUV told me that it was.
Quickly losing my patience and already having lost my sanity, I gripped the steering wheel as though a black hole had appeared above the roof of my car. Once I realized that this painful action would not make the car in front of me move any faster, I quickly released my grip and took instead to tapping the brake. I didn't care what I had to do at that point. Any foolish form of entertainment proved enough for me. If nothing else, I sincerely hope that it confounded the driver behind me. I shouldn't have to suffer alone.
One thing above all startled me the most. Everyone in the neighboring intersection thought it wise to turn right on a red signal when an enormous string of cars was waiting to go through the intersection. Which unfortunate fool sat at the front of the green light? Why, I did, of course. Who else but the confused country girl should have to face a mad traffic frenzy in a bustling city? My migraine made this quite a chore. I had absolutely no idea what to do, and I must admit that I couldn't bring myself to move through the intersection. The other drivers didn't care, and as such, they proceeded to blare their horns at me. I could have done the rational thing and gone through the intersection. Instead, I chose what suited my foul attitude at the moment, and I swore like a sailor. After a few seconds of yelling at the top of my lungs, I quickly grew to hate the sound of my voice. The grating racket of a screeching young woman does not mesh well with a pounding headache. I nearly burst into tears, but I stopped myself when the flow of traffic resumed. Once I reached the expressway, I finally found some peace. And it was at that point that I learned never to drive through the city with a migraine again, a painful lesson that I won't soon forget.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
To Write, or Not to Write?
That certainly is the question. So many factors determine the appropriate writing environment, and not everyone agrees on what that environment consists of. I prefer a quiet setting. I've always struggled to remain focused if anything distracting lies anywhere within earshot. The television offers a tempting escape from sometimes tiring work. What might take me five or ten minutes could suddenly consume an hour of my time if I glance up at the newest episode of How I Met Your Mother every thirty seconds or so.
I've also found that I can't work in the company of others. Does it ever seem like people absolutely love to interrupt your diligent work with trivial chatter? I feel like such a dreadful trait has spread like a contagious disease. The occasional musings of my chatty neighbor tend to detract from my work. Nothing seems to convince these social butterflies to find another listener, either. This is precisely why I regret typing this blog from my living room. I already miss the sweet silence of the library.
Some people swear that their work shines brightest in the daylight, while others feel that their creative juices flourish under the stars. I'm nocturnal, myself. If even a shred of sunlight is peeking over the horizon, then I cringe like a vampire at the thought of writing. I have no logical explanation for this quirk. My brain seems to enjoy the tranquility of night. Maybe I should start wearing sunglasses inside so that I can finish my work earlier in the day.
As a perfectionist, I twitch a little when I concede that I must leave my work half-done for the day. I learned this tragic lesson later in high school. Paper lengths jumped from three pages to eight pages, and suddenly, I couldn't belt out a research paper in one sitting. I've gradually adjusted to writing in bits at a time. These are organized bits, mind you. Everything has a system in my life. If I have a week to write a seven-page paper, then I'll write a page a day. This also means that I have to make certain that my work is right the first time. I've never liked revising things later. I revise as I work, and I can't let myself move on until I've perfected the section before it, which meas that I must work in a linear fashion. This is another bug that I've been conquering as I've encountered longer and longer papers. Whether that endeavor is going well is an entirely different story altogether.
I've never much cared for blogs, so forgive me if I seem a little unfit for the trade. Despite that, I've listed my quirky yet functional methods of writing for whoever would like to read this lengthy list. I'm interested to read about how my classmates differ.
I've also found that I can't work in the company of others. Does it ever seem like people absolutely love to interrupt your diligent work with trivial chatter? I feel like such a dreadful trait has spread like a contagious disease. The occasional musings of my chatty neighbor tend to detract from my work. Nothing seems to convince these social butterflies to find another listener, either. This is precisely why I regret typing this blog from my living room. I already miss the sweet silence of the library.
Some people swear that their work shines brightest in the daylight, while others feel that their creative juices flourish under the stars. I'm nocturnal, myself. If even a shred of sunlight is peeking over the horizon, then I cringe like a vampire at the thought of writing. I have no logical explanation for this quirk. My brain seems to enjoy the tranquility of night. Maybe I should start wearing sunglasses inside so that I can finish my work earlier in the day.
As a perfectionist, I twitch a little when I concede that I must leave my work half-done for the day. I learned this tragic lesson later in high school. Paper lengths jumped from three pages to eight pages, and suddenly, I couldn't belt out a research paper in one sitting. I've gradually adjusted to writing in bits at a time. These are organized bits, mind you. Everything has a system in my life. If I have a week to write a seven-page paper, then I'll write a page a day. This also means that I have to make certain that my work is right the first time. I've never liked revising things later. I revise as I work, and I can't let myself move on until I've perfected the section before it, which meas that I must work in a linear fashion. This is another bug that I've been conquering as I've encountered longer and longer papers. Whether that endeavor is going well is an entirely different story altogether.
I've never much cared for blogs, so forgive me if I seem a little unfit for the trade. Despite that, I've listed my quirky yet functional methods of writing for whoever would like to read this lengthy list. I'm interested to read about how my classmates differ.
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