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Growl, growl.
How the hell is Aramark (who provides food on-campus) not going to send an e-mail out telling folks the cafeteria was going to be closed for a patio dinner? I don’t want their nasty-ass red meat or critter-infested melon and corn, and Mae’s vegan by necessity. I suspect I won’t even be able to get a meal exchange later, since they weren’t scanning ID cards at the patio dinner. Some notification would have been fucking awesome since I’d actually planned on eating something other than Hillary’s cheap iced oatmeal cookies this evening…
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Research set.
Dr. M’s concession to Thursday night Thorning was to schedule our Friday morning meetings for 08:30 instead of 08:15. Um, yeah. Pfbfpbft. And both my damn research blocks are still on weekdays… She’s not budging on this “you need a partner [in person] in lab” bit. Ah, well. This is what I signed up for, I suppose. At least my schedule is fairly finalized.
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Hobbling along
I think I actually learned what a “recovery run” is today. I spent about 10 hours building my deck in my dorm room two days ago, and have been sore and increasingly immobile since. Particularly, my hamstrings are tighter than steel geetar strings, and I’m limping and hobbling/waddling just to walk around. I haven’t been able to move around enough to warm up sufficiently to stretch, so it’s just getting worse. So this morning, after five days off from running, I did a nice, slow, easy thirty minute run. I didn’t push myself overly, I just wanted to move for a half-hour to work some of the kinks out. The…
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Zug, zug–Having a blast.
I finished deck building at something ’til 23:00 last night, and went to bed around 23:30 after skimming the notes for the freshman laptop orientation, which I was due to assist with in the morning. Come 06:30, I happily bang my head on the deck, then stumble over the computer and monitor Hillary left right next to my bed. As though, you know, they’re mine. As I was crawling back under to find my glasses, I realized just how bruised and battered I felt–my knees feel like someone’s been rubbing them firmly with sandpaper for hours (I wore shorts in the deck-making), and they are bruised something fierce. Then I…
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It’s all about the moments.
There was the moment in Gatlinburg, Tennessee, when I got behind the wheel of the car and onto the highway, and realized that I was heading to the closest thing to “home” (in the sense of comfort and relaxation) I feel like I have right now. There was the lengthy moment after dark en route to Lexington (Kentucky) when my mother and I talked about writing and memoirs and talking, and she revealed to me her struggles to communicate with me–we’re both coming to the realization that we don’t live in the same worlds anymore, and she doesn’t know how to step into mine. There was the moment in Paris…