Caught in a Bad Romance

It's natural to not understand things.


Today was especially chilly.  Nippy, even.  What is it with this weather, S.C.? Yesterday was glorious.  It was just warm enough so you could wear short sleeves and feel great. Today is our punishment for an early sunny day, I suppose.

I am forever misplacing things.  I think the only thing I haven't lost is my fervor for life. As soon as I put things down (whether it be keys, wallet, a cucumber), I instantly forget where I put them.  I'm convinced that my key card (the card that gets me into every building on campus and purchases my meals) is possessed by satan.  That is the only explanation! I put it down for one second, and it's gone! SAYONARA! Either it has demonic powers, or my roommate is hiding it and silently laughs while I frantically search for the little buggard.

I lost the card yesterday, but it is more likely that it walked off and decided to go on vacation or something. Luckily, I hadn't misplaced my spare yet, so I grabbed it out of my giraffe coffee cup, and headed to campus police to reactive the card.

Back to my previous statement, it was freezing today.  My sweatshirt wasn't cutting it, so on the way back, I took refuge in the biology building to warm up for a bit.

That was only the second time I had ever been in that building.  The first being when I toured the school initially.  I avoid it like the plague.

Why? Well, I'll tell you.

Science and I haven't exactly had the best relationship.

I don't understand it, it's too mysterious, and sometimes it forgets to call me back.  It's feeling positive, it's feeling negative, and sometimes just neutral. It is a roller coaster of emotions and I'm not ready for that kind of commitment. Sometimes, I think it's chemically imbalanced.
We had an on again off again relationship all throughout high school.  It would always try and woo me with it's unique elements and neat-o microscopes, but the math of the relationship always drew me away.  I got out of barely alive, but I get stronger everyday.  The relationship was poisoning me with its uranium and lead. Thank God for safety googles when you are caught in a bad romance.

I respect those who know how to handle Science.  It's a hard job, but somebody has to do it.
And I can't put my heart through that again.

But I'm warning you now, if it mentions bunsen burners, RUN.

Dad.

It's natural to admire people.


       A few days ago, my father texted me (on his new fancy texting phone) that he was going to be driving past Clinton on his way from Atlanta and asked if he could stop by and take my roommate and I out to dinner.
       If you don't know me that well, you must know I am a complete daddy's girl.  You must also know that my school cafeteria really loves recycling meat.  Often times, yesterdays spaghetti sauce becomes todays meat chili.   And finally, you must know that I am sentimental and love cheesy nostalgia.
      I was so excited that I was going to get to see my father and eat some real edible food. When he called me to let me know he was in the parking lot, I shoved on my coat and ran the three flights of stairs downstairs.  As I ventured into the parking lot, I still didn't see him, until I turned back around and saw him wandering around on the sidewalk.
     As I ran towards him, I saw that he had a bright blue PC hat on, that he had obviously just purchased at the bookstore.  In that moment, I felt a pang.  You know, a pang?  That thing that happens in your heart whenever you see your friends doing something for you, a baby sleeping, or a kitten?  I hate cats, but kittens are okay, I guess.
     I couldn't stop the tears from flowing when he pulled me into a hug.  In the arms of the man who taught me how to love classic rock, basketball, and C.S. Lewis, I felt overwhelming sadness and love. I was sad because I'm not his little girl anymore, but instead a sort-of grownup in college.  I use the term "grown up" very loosely.  I have no distorted notions of my maturity, of course.  It seems like only yesterday, I was waiting for him to get home from work so I could fix him fake food in my little plastic kitchen, and today I'm waiting in my dorm room for him to come and visit me at college.
     He took me and Joy to Fatz Cafe, which is literally the nicest restaurant in Clinton.  Over those addictive poppyseed rolls, I listen to my hero talk about his adventures from his business trip to California.  He had taken my grandmother along to visit some cousins, and he laughed as he told us she had requested that they go to the Dr. Phil show, and how the cousins had instead taken her to Laguna Beach.  
     After dinner, I took him to the art studio to show him my work.  I excitedly told him about the good grades I had received, and about the church that I visited and loved.  As it was time for him to leave, he handed me a bag of groceries he had bought for me as I started to tear up again.  As I hugged him goodbye, I realized how badly I want to make him proud of me, how badly I want to be a worthy daughter.


      I realize I write a lot of stories that include me crying.  This is because I cry quite a lot.  Emotions runs through me so fast that I cannot stop them from pouring out of my eyes and streaming down my face like rain on a windshield. I once asked my beautiful friend Madeline during one of my episodes why I was always so emotional, and she said simply, "Because you have such a big heart."

Darn this big heart.  It makes me feel like such a sissy sometimes.  

I love you, daddy.

Ralph, Just Call me Ralph

It's natural to crave a creative outlet.

There are many forms of creativity.  There are musical instruments to be strummed upon, short stories to be written, sandwiches to be created, and impressions of Jerry Seinfeld to be attempted (please, practice in the mirror first before you try and show me.)

This semester, I signed up for a drawing class.  Basic Drawing is the official title.  It seemed harmless enough, considering the word "basic" is in course name.  After talking to a few people who had taken the course, I started to worried.  They kept saying words like "skill" and "talent" and "not easy," and most of them wore fedoras and scarves and artsy looking jeans. That made me nervous. I knew that if a kid in a fedora is telling me an art class is hard, I am in trouble. I called my mother to ask her if I should drop the class or not.
Honey, you are an incredibly talented artist!  I've framed some of your work!

She forgets that I drew said "framed works" in the fifth grade.  You have to frame your kid's art in elementary.  It's practically a requirement to parenting.

On the first day of class, I wore my skinniest jeans and Urban Outfitters shoes and walked anxiously to the art building.  I walked into class, and sat down to wait for a professor and instruction.

About ten minutes after class was supposed to start, in walked the teacher.  An older guy, maybe mid 50s, in a fedora (Surprised? Not at all.), a zip up sweater, tattered jeans, and Burkenstocks.  As he absentmindedly handed us a colorful syllabus (with headings like "Sooooo whadda ABOUT DRAWING"), he introduced himself.


Ralph, just call me Ralph.

Let me tell you, Ralph is a character.  He plays the sound track to Black Swan while we draw with charcoal whatever object he feels like putting on the table in the middle of the room.  By the time I get out of there, I look like a child mine worker.

After having several classes with Ralph,  I'm fairly certain that his favorite word is "shit."

I'm only hoping he doesn't use it to describe my art.