space cadet.

Ideas, inspiration, thoughts, and issues all cloud my mind, competing for attention.

This may sound sad, but I can easily be entertained. Maybe my standard of entertainment is low.

Once, I did a traffic count for the DOT. I sat on a street corner for 2 hour intervals, counting pedestrians and bikes. (hey, it was good money)

If anything could be boring, it's sitting still for hours.
It wasn't a busy intersection, but I was strangely okay with that sort of sitting still. I was lost in thought, appreciating the surroundings, and counting the few who used the intersection.

I'm not saying I would make that my JOB, but I was able to do it.

I've rarely ever been legitimately bored.
This lack of boredom is something my parents instilled; if I ever complained about being bored, they could find me a task. Sometimes it was entertaining, a craft or a project; other times it was extra chores. I appreciate that they taught me to never allow myself to be bored.

I've trained my mind to occupy itself with ponderings all the time. I like to take on projects.

A downside to always having something to mentally munch on: your mind gets full to overflowing with thought.
Thank God for the invention of writing! Otherwise, my brain would most likely explode.

Another downside to this sort of over-thinking: it is so easy to be a space cadet, absentmindedly floating in one's own world.
It has been embarrassing on a few occasions, because I have found out later that I saw someone I knew, made eye contact even, without even realizing it.
How mortifying.  
I should work on that sort of awareness. I really don't want to come off as rude.

So, if you do see me and I'm not at least smiling at you, please do something to get my attention and pull me out of my thoughts.

...I'm already well on my way to becoming an absent-minded professor.

That time where I learn not to put things off.

This week?
Oh my.
It has been a rollercoaster.

I had the most wonderful break, and then reality set in on Monday: I had a report to write.
I thought it would be a cakewalk.

No sweat, type the thing up in a few hours, submit it, and be on my merry way.

Not so. This thing was daunting.

I ended up attempting to stay up all night writing.
Once you reach a certain point...

(and realize how UTTERLY DULL your subject matter is)

YOUR BRAIN SHUTS OFF.

If it was anything I had a passion for, I could have stayed up all night. As it was a subject most dull to me (titration) I couldn't get excited.
Because I have in the past been able to stay up all night working on projects and feel fine the next day, I thought it would be a tolerable experience.

This experience was terrible.
Pretty much the worst.

Everything within me screamed sleep, but I made myself stay awake, thinking that perhaps if I could only keep my eyes open, I would be able to write something, anything, coherent.
Sound theory.

Riiiight.

At some point, I dozed off and woke up freaking out -- it was only an hour later. The clock read 3:30 am. I gave in to the urge to sleep, making myself wake up at 6 to try to hit the keys on my keyboard some more.

Because that's pretty much all it was: me banging on the keys.

But I survived. I MADE myself function all day Tuesday.
I was worthless.
I never want that to happen again. I felt the absolute worst I have felt in ages. It was like my brain was seriously impaired.
I hope I learned my lesson.

It was by God's grace that I was able to even write anything to submit.


SPEAKING of writing: I have exciting news.
This kinda makes my day in a strange way.
I, the girl with has little confidence in her own writing ability, am going to grade papers for a class next semester.
I am SO excited!
Proofreading (other people's work) is a favorite hobby.

listing of incoherent thought

Just one quick post.
One quick post and I'll go and be productive.
Seriously.

I have a few things I really need to work on, but blogging is therapeutic.
I may not be able to write a stellar lab report or paper, but at least I can write something to make me happy.

Life is rushing by at an incredible pace; terribly cliche, I know.
But it's true.

I'll be 20 in a little over a month.

20. Two DECADES.

ONE FIFTH OF A CENTURY.

There are so many things I should have accomplished by this point in my life.
I can't be a child genius! Missed opportunity. When you're a kid, and you say something smart or "profound", people think you're amazing.

I suppose, accomplishments are arbitrary when you look at them in the light of, well, forever.

I didn't get quite everything done that I would have liked over break, but that wasn't the point. The point of break was to just be.
I took time to appreciate the luxury of not having a thing in the world that had to be done.
It was a fantastic release. Stress melted. I was silly. I had fun.

I am pretty good at running around and doing stuff, which makes sitting still a luxury, because I can always seem to think of something I need to do.

I really don't understand people who claim to be bored. There is always something to do, ponder, create, talk about...

REALITY CHECK

...it is Monday, and I'm realizing that I really should have been studying a little bit while on break.
But I didn't.
Oh bother. 
If you're in school, please don't follow my example.

I dreaded going back to class today.
But there was the silver lining: THE GYM
How I love that place. I can work out until my frustration and stress disappears and endorphins come to wash away stress.

Bonus of this stress-management technique: I'll probably hopefully be in great shape.

As it is, Chemistry is calling me.
Chemistry is a really needy subject.
If it were a person, and we were dating, I would have dumped it by now.
It demands so much of my time. 
It is full of theories that are both true and untrue, depending on what suits your fancy.
It can be volatile, deadly even.
It has so many silly rules and laws.
It loves naming things after dead people [morbid]. 
But if I can get along with Chemistry, life will be much better.
Because I know, deep down, that Chemistry is my bag, and it's what I'm going to major in, one way or another.

In High School, I had puppy love for the subject. But just as a relationship changes and matures out of the puppy love stage, into something deeper (though hard to handle), now is the time when I have to make this thing work out.

It isn't a picnic...

Enough incoherency for one day.
 Also, these pictures are ones I took while hiking. They also make me happy. It's fall, y'all!

Goals during the giving of thanks

I am so excited for Thanksgiving break.
I have ONE MORE DAY of classes, and then I get a blissful 5 days of vacation.
I am going to study some, of course *wink*, but I have a list of things I really want to do. {Beyond eating an insane amount of food that makes the nutrition-major in me shudder.}

• I really want to explore a place. A town, a landscape, I'm not quite sure. But I want to take my Nikon and capture stuff on film (or a digital media card, whatever)

• I want to play music on my uke and guitar until my fingers want to fall off.

• I want to write and write. It's like an itch. I'll write a short story, a novel, a letter  ...I don't even know...probably a chemistry lab report will be in there somewhere...

• I want to read a book just for fun. I have not done this in what feels like ages. This is because I do not have the self discipline to put down a book when I am totally engrossed in it. ...though my reading material will probably be about people who live in the Philippines and describe their migration patterns over time. I'll pretend that it's fun reading (yay, anthropology class)

• I want to spend quality time with those I love. 'nuff said.

• I want to be totally organized. While I know where things are, and I have a semblance of organization...I'd love for everything to have a nice little home and look all nice and OCD-ish. {note that I am not OCD. I am only really picky about everything being uber-tidy when I am about to be really sick. It has happened on more than one occasion, right before a bad bout of strep and also before a case of the swine flu, and before other various viruses. Perhaps my cleaning sprees are good indicator of when I'm sick. ...or maybe my body is allergic to cleaning...}

These are my goals for my short reprieve from school. Maybe they'll all happen, we shall see.

type, type, type

I've got a serious list of to-do's.

However, I'm just sitting here.
Type, type, type.

Facebook.
Imgur.
Pintrest.
Twitter.

Type, type, type.
Click, click, click.
Procrastinate.

When I look away from my computer's glowing screen, I see tasks calling out to me, competing for my attention. The tasks that will be put off until the next weekend if I don't get a move on. Seemingly trivial tasks that, if delayed, will grow into mountains of work.

I look back at the screen. Other people are putting things off too.
I'm not alone.

I'll be fine.


Type, type, type.

But I know these mountains will swallow me and I'll never be the successful, accomplished human being I'm 87% sure I can be.

But hollow excuses are rampant.

It's Sunday.
I'm sick.
I want to sleep.
I'm sick. 
My toenails need repainting.
I'm sick.
Maybe I need a snack.

And of course there is much to type, but none of it is meaningful.

Type, type, type.
Click, click, click.
Procrastinate.



I'll brew a pot of tea, grab a blanket.
I'll muster what courage I have.
Armed with index cards and highlighter, colored pens and paper.
I will conquer.
I will conquer the homework and textbooks. I will understand and comprehend.

And the other chores?

The wills must turn into do's.
It is easy to say "I will", but enormously hard to say "I did".


I can think of nothing to type save that I have much to do, and I am not doing it.

Admittance is the first step of solving a problem.

Chapter... Oh, I give up

I am failing this writing a "chapter a day" thing.

Apologies.

I just have suffered greatly the past few days.
And by suffer, I mean, "gone through several trivial inconveniences"
Like, Thursday night I pulled a late-nighter (3am, whee!), trying to understand psychology. As far as I can tell, it's all very silly stuff, but interesting silly stuff nonetheless.
Friday, I had an exam, a quiz, and a paper due.
I also spent four hours sitting in the library intensely studying chemistry.

Saturday, I went to one of the saddest football games.
It was HOMECOMING GAME for my school. I had even gotten my dad a ticket to come with me.
I was excited.

Third quarter? We were actively letting the other team win.
And it's not like the other team was that good. My team had beat the second ranked team in the ACC just a few weeks before.
At the end of the third quarter the score was ZERO-26 
We left at that point.

I think the final score was 6-33.
All I got from that game was a sunburn and a bad attitude.
[Though the band was nice and it was good to spend time with my daddy.]

I've had a head cold all week, but it came back strong Saturday night.
Sunday I stayed home. I felt like crum.

I studied some more.

Today I was thankful for daylight saving time. When I woke up, the sun was creeping up too!

It's so much nicer than waking in the middle of the night.

Also, I am still sick.

As I wandered from lecture to lecture today, I had a strange craving.
All I could think of was how nice it would be to be wearing a soft fuzzy, warm, sweatshirt. I was wearing "normal clothes". They were comfortable enough, but not at the sweatshirt level of comfort.

I even thought about buying the 60-some-odd-dollar sweatshirt they sell in the bookstore.  I didn't, but it would have been worth it.
I wanted a sweatshirt bad.

It sounds weird, but that thought was like a serious craving. I was at the point of not caring at all about my appearance. I wanted a sweatshirt and a cup of something hot. Tea, cocoa, coffee, whatever.
And possibly a blanket.
Throw in some good music.
Maybe even *GASP* if it were possible, a NON-school book. A just-for-fun book. I haven't read one of those in a while.

I was like the little mouse like that book, "if you give a mouse a cookie".

The thoughts kept me going.
Now I have my sweatshirt and hot tea.

ANND My reading book is:
*drumroll*

...my textbooks.
You can't have everything, gotta keep those goals realistic.

Chapter 1.

As you may know, November is National Novel Writing Month.

I would love to participate, but sadly, life is a little too busy for me to focus my attention on novel-writing.
I don't know that I'd be good at it. Novels are quite different from blog posts.

I am good at typing whatever pops into my head, which is okay for blogging, but not okay for a book. It would be much too jumpy and incoherent, I'm afraid. Writing details isn't always my favorite.

I could play off of that famous Thoreau quote:

"My life is the poem novel I would have writ,

But I cannot both live and utter it.

...I can only blog it."

Plus, I don't know if I could actually write a story. ...actually figuring out a plot? Hrmm.

Okay, okay, I do have some good ideas. Way far-fetched, but as there are so many aspiring writers out there, I am sure they've already been written and novelized.

...and no, I'm not sharing them.  Just in case they haven't been taken.


Also, I recently discovered there is something crazy that actually exists: "fan fiction". It's exactly what it sounds like: writing fiction about something you're a fan of.  Defined by the interwebs:

"Amateur fiction set in universes and using the characters created by other people in television shows, movies and books."

...
...
I'm not sure how to respond to that sort of behavior.

It's... interesting.

...
But really, good for those people writing. At least they're following their dreams and writing something. Adding to and playing off the original author/creator's ideas.


Anyways.

Perhaps I will try to blog something every day in November. It's a start.

I'll have 30 posts CHAPTERS of...whatever it is I decide to write about.

ALSO, the only valuable thing I'm really saying in this whole post: my favorite musician at the moment is Mat Kearny -- such good studying music.

An Acceptable Form of Schizophrenia

“Writing is easy: All you do is sit staring at a blank sheet of paper until drops of blood form on your forehead.”~Gene Fowler

“If I don't write to empty my mind, I go mad.”
~Lord Byron

“Writing is the hardest way of earning a living, with the possible exception of wrestling alligators.”
~Olin Miller
 

Writing is an exceedingly temperamental hobby to pursue.

You, reader, as a literate human {I am making some assumptions here, you are human?} have some experience with the fickle muse that is writing. I'm sure that you've had a paper or two to write, or you just felt like expressing thoughts via pen and paper {or keyboard and screen}.

It's possible that you're one of the gifted few, who never realizes how dreadful writing can be.
[If so, why are you reading this? I can offer little.]  

Or maybe, you're like me. You've realized more fully the fickleness that is subjective art.

A lesson I've learned:
Good writing, like good music, cannot be forced.

I know this well from experience.

I took years of classical piano at a young age.
I am no master pianist, even after the hours I labored, and *cough* the practicing I tried to evade.

Elation fills me when I realize that there is NO MORE PRACTICING PIANO.
You'd think eventually, there would be some sort of after-school-special lesson, some comforting moral to impart concerning practicing the piano.
Nope.  Not for this girl.
No regrets. I got what I needed and split.

From an early age, I adored the guitar; it's what drove me to practice piano.

My parents wanted me to be musically literate in piano before I pursued other instruments. It was smart of them, but honestly, piano just isn't my thing. However, I can play Fur Elise, so I am content.

I have a few brief moments of wishing I could play like a great composer, but those moments are fleeting.

I am still sick of that black-and-white-keyed instrument, though I can say that I have experienced that entrancing elusive musical muse from time to time.
It has not come from playing the piano. The muse comes with guitar and song.

When it comes, it's a beautiful feeling. (I won't judge the actual quality of my musical skills, because, in all honesty, I don't like the sound of my own voice. But I like the evoked feelings)

Back to writing. In writing, there will be rare days when the words just flow effortlessly.

An idea bubbles up.
Hazy ideas become sharp in my mind. They refuse repression. If I write those relentless words down, they can happily escape into the written world and trouble my mind no more. 
It feels as if these ideas are aching to be written and I am merely typing as fast as my fingers will allow.
I love those moments.
During those times, paper-writing is a breeze, and I sometimes even write a blog post or other nonsense. (though it may well not be "posted")


But then there are the other days.

Those other days, when writing anything, even:

"Today was Monday. It rained. It is gray outside and I am cold. I want coffee."

feels like a huge chore, something I can hardly bring myself to. The words are bland, the sentence structure awkward.

In such cases, when I force myself to write, it's an utter mess.

I wish I knew the secret of triggering that effortless ability.

Perhaps the key is just more writing?
With instruments, the key is practice. But you also must love what you do. Something about writing, I love, so therefore I will practice.

Maybe I will begin blogging more often, to exercise the creative writing section of my brain
(because we all know college papers do NOT inspire creativity. They inspire regurgitation and saying what professors want to read. )

It is put well this way:

“Writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia.”
~E. L. Doctorow  
 

running. late. [part 2]

[for part one, see here.]

..."You are here for the experiment?", he asked.
I began, "Yes, you see I'm sorry I'm a few minutes late, but --"
He cut me off, looking past me. "Follow that man", he instructed.
Not realizing there was another person in the room, I first followed his gaze...

The man before me was nothing like I was expecting.


Long Blood Oozes Down.

The man wheeled close. He sat in a motorized scooter, staring at me behind thick glasses.

Long Blood Oozes Down.
I looked at the man as he departed the dark corner and approached the lighted section of the room.
I smiled and said hello. He continued to stare coldly.
As I took in more details, I saw he had short dark hair, slightly pocked face, and was moderately overweight. He wore a purple sweater and tattered khaki's. On his feet were battered, once-white New Balance shoes. Under his sweater was a holey gray T-shirt.
Thinking back, I have no idea how I remember these details, but they stick out sharply in my memory.
Long Blood Oozes Down.
He spoke and his voice was distinctive.
It was of a higher pitch than I expected, nasal, and his words came out as if his tongue was too large for his mouth. His volume was outright jarring.
The words that came out were slurred, and though I knew the general meaning of most what he said, I had to think hard.
I was becoming lost in thought and he repeated his words. I was to follow him, and he wheeled out of the room, into an adjacent room.

Long Blood Oozes Down.
The adjacent room was small, just large enough to accommodate two computer desks. An older man sat at one of the desks. He stood. He looked the picture of a professor, salt and pepper hair, glasses, mild-mannered. He introduced himself, Dr. ____. The professor told me that he would merely be observing the experiment, so I should just act as if he was not there.

After the professor introduced himself, I realized that the wheelchaired man never told me his name.

Long Blood Oozes Down.
The wheelchaired man spoke again. I still could not fully understand the meaning of his words, though I believe they were English.
He was telling me to sit at the empty computer desk.
Eager to be finished with the experiment, I sat.
Long Blood Oozes Down.

"NOW, YOU WILL NOTICE THE SIGN." It was going to take me a while to get used to that voice. Why didn't the professor say something to this guy? Like the fact that he was practically yelling indoors? I looked for a sign. He noticed I was scanning and pointed, "THERE, ON THE WALL." I saw a paper had been taped to the wall with an odd phrase.  "READ THE PHRASE ALOUD AND WORK ON THE COMPUTER."
I read the words on the sign aloud and clicked to start the computer program. The hum of the machines in the room were soothing.
Long Blood Oozes Down.
The computer instructions told me to memorize a string of letters and numbers silently. I clicked to continue.
"NO."
Jolted, I looked over at the wheelchaired man.
"NO. REPEAT THE PHRASE REPEATEDLY. THEN DO THE PROBLEMS. WHILE YOU REPEAT. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?" He spoke condescendingly as if I should have known.
"Oh. Okay, sorry. I didn't realize..."
"NO. NO OTHER WORDS. SAY NOTHING BUT THE PHRASE."
Long Blood Oozes Down.
This was beginning to strike me as weird. I glanced at the professor in the corner. He was taking notes and looking down. I could just leave. But this experiment was required for me to pass psychology. If I could get it over with, I wouldn't have to worry about participating in any other studies. If this was a taste of the experiments... who knows what the others would be like??
I stared at the screen.
Long Blood Oozes Down.

I took a breath.
I repeated the phrase.
I memorized letters.
I solved basic math problems.
I worked puzzles.
All the while repeating the phrase. The wheelchaired man just sat and stared at me. He was uncomfortably close, but I did my best to ignore it.
The phrase became a long string of nonsense sounds to me.
An hour passed.
I was almost lulled into a daze saying this phrase that had initially disturbed me, but was now simply a chant of nonsensical noises I was making with my vocal chords.
"NO, NO."
The man's loud nasal tones pulled me out of my chanting.
I looked over at him.
"NO. YOU MUST SAY THE WORDS CLEARLY."
While I am typing this in clear English, I had no idea what he was trying to say at first.
Long Blood Oozes Down.
"Could you elaborate, please?"
 He gave me an example of what he meant. He said the phrase, though I couldn't tell it was English. I repeated it to him verbatim, exactly how he said it.
"NO, THAT ISN'T IT"
I said the phrase using good enucication.
"YES. THAT IS BETTER", a nod.
I repeated the phrase.
After another half hour had passed.
Long Blood Oozes Down.
He handed me a piece of paper.
"READ THE SCREEN."
The screen told me I would answer trivia questions, but also I needed to remind my experimenter to call someone in 20 minutes, and to ask for a red pen on question 60. If I had any further questions, I was to ask my experimenter.
I had a question.
"WHAT?", he asked as if I shouldn't have questions.
"Can I write on this paper you gave me? Is that allowed?"
He nodded.
"Great!" I made a note of the instructions I was given on the front sheet.
He looked at me with a shocked expression.
"NO. NO. NO! YOU CAN NOT DO THAT."
"Why not? You said I could write on this paper, right?"
I could tell he was not happy.
"UMM." He paused, unsure how to continue. "You weren't supposed to do that." he said it quietly, as if I was in trouble.
"What do you want me to do? Do you have another paper?"
He pondered this, then shrugged it off.
"PROCEED WITH THE TESTING. AND SAY THE PHRASE."
I took a breath and started clicking. "REPEATEDLY," he added, as if I had forgotten his first outburst.

Long Blood Oozes Down.
I proceeded with the test. The only alteration I had made to my test paper was to add a star to question 60, though he had acted like it was the end of the world. I remembered the 20-minute-phone-call. When I told him, he nodded.
Um.
I wanted to tell him to go make his phone call. I wasn't sure if it was a test to see how persistent I was. The computer told me the experimenter was supposed to actually make a phone call. My guy was just sitting there, motionless, staring at the side of my head, breathing heavily. If he made a phone call, maybe he'd stop staring at me.
Long Blood Oozes Down.
I have decided that I don't like being stared at like that: coldly, unblinkingly.
The phrase again became a singsong mantra, though I said the words clearly.

I finished the questions.
"Anything else?", I asked.
"No. BUT," he leaned in, "I TELL YOU THIS: YOU MUST NOT SPEAK OF THIS TO ANYONE. TELL NO ONE WHAT YOU SAW TODAY. PROMISE OK?"
 Long Blood Oozes Down. 
I just stared blankly and stood. Freedom at last?
Long Blood Oozes Down.
The professor stood and shook my hand saying, "Thank you so much for your time. Have a pleasant day."
I felt strange.
Long Blood Oozes Down.
Two hours had passed in total in that closet-type room.
Long Blood Oozes Down.
Two hours repeating a mindless creepy phrase.
Long Blood Oozes Down.
 Two hours of my sanity sucked away.
Long Blood Oozes Down.
The rest of my day felt surreal, and not entirely pleasant.
I followed up my experiment time by clearing my head on a run.

I am still unsure what they were really testing: my ability to handle myself in a surreal setting? My ability to memorize useless facts?

I'll probably never know.
Long Blood Oozes Down.

running. late.

 This is a true story and one of the weirdest things to happen to me in the past few weeks. I present part 1 of it:


Long blood oozes down.

I was running late.
I parked in my designated spot, grabbed my bag, and dashed out of my car. It was a mile to my meeting point, thanks to my far-off parking spot, but I had on running gear, as I was planning on going to the gym after my appointment. The day was warm and the sun was shining; I was going to participate in a research psychology project as a test subject. My professor had told me it would be educational and informative. I would be seeing "real-life" psychology work.

A sense of giddy expectation filled me as I anticipated what the project would be like. The description I had been given while signing up was vague; something concerning memory retention and basic skills.

I jogged across campus to the building.

Long blood oozes down.
I arrived at the drab building, breathless. I walked in, trying to figure out what floor my experiment would be on. The design of the building screamed 1960's "modern" architecture, which is not a beautiful sight in any situation. 
I scanned the directory at the entrance: my experiment was on the 7th floor. Currently being on the 2nd floor, and being short on time, I decided to take the stairs. 12 flights up and even more out of breath.

Long blood oozes down.
If anything could give me the creeps, I would say the 7th floor would be on that list. The floor plan was identical to the 2nd floor, but instead of tidy hallways and classrooms, cardboard boxes were stacked along the hallway walls, old office furniture sat in a pile. Rooms branched off of the square hallway, doors shut, contents undisclosed.  I was becoming disturbed by the unprofessional surroundings.

The premises were silent, aside from the occasional murmur of human voice coming from behind those closed doors. I saw one man walking the hall. We made eye contact, and I smiled, but he looked away and exited the floor, not adding to my comfort level.
The hallway wrapped around the floorplan in a square, making it hard to become lost, a security for which I was becoming increasingly thankful. It was not the kind of place you would want to be lost in, this seemingly deserted place with its harsh florescent lighting and linoleum floor.
Walking the square, I finally found the room I was supposed to enter. A hand-made sign scrawled in a shaky hand was posted beside the door. It read, "Experiment #156" with a wobbly arrow drawn beneath it, designating my place of entry. I took a breath, reminded myself that I also had pepper-spray on my keychain, and walked in. This was, after all, a university-sanctioned experiment.

Long blood oozes down.
I walked into the room, still slightly breathless from my exertion. Upon entering the room, a man, typing at a desk, looked up at me. His hair was well-kept, he wore a goatee, khakis, and a mild-mannered expression. His smile reassured me, he looked the picture of a calm, rational psychoanalyst. I felt myself relax slightly and began to feel more at ease despite feeling like I was in a storage container.
"You are here for the experiment?", he asked.
I began, "Yes, you see I'm sorry I'm a few minutes late, but --"
He cut me off, looking past me. "Follow that man", he instructed.
Not realizing there was another person in the room, I first followed his gaze...

The man before me was nothing like I was expecting.
(part 2)

focus. focus.

Hey blog peeps.

I have many many good stories.

I've shared some verbally, and they were entertaining to my listeners.
For real! There's nothing like getting instant feedback by hearing a laugh or seeing amusement on your listener's face.

...I'm pretty sure that means the story would make a good blog posting. The only problem with this is that I don't have the time to sit and type it all out in a way that conveys it in the right way to you. I have to be in the right mindset.

Right now my mindset is to focus on homework (...which I'm obviously doing well as I'm typing on my blog)
FOCUS.
Yeah...

So, maybe sometime when I have time to really type, I'll share some of the stories from this crazy college experience. 

Maybe tomorrow.

Also, this: