For the past six months or so, my only acquaintance with five a.m. has been when I haven’t yet gone to bed, but today we went on a special date as waking-up pals. It was not very fun.
In typical fashion, I set seven alarms all to go off in two minute increments starting ten minutes before I was planning on getting up. I’ve become so paranoid of sleeping through things, thanks to medication that makes me spectacularly drowsy, that if it were at all possible, I would rig a contraption to create a light show and set off fireworks.
But I did not end up needing anything that would set the room on fire or look like a rave, I just rolled out of bed when the first alarm went off. And then I spent the next fourteen minutes returning to my room to keep turning off the other alarms. We were out of orange juice, but the constant charging up and down the stairs did plenty to jolt me into a state of semi-consciousness. I didn’t even fall asleep in the shower, which is some kind of record for a non-manic sleep-deprived me.
I spent about five minutes yelling at my dad to wake up and then we were out the door and to Starbucks where the barista FORGOT to put the chocolate sauce in my hot chocolate, thus rendering it undrinkable for people like me and who equally abhor and are scared of milk. (And yes, I do realize how irrational that is.) After two plus hours on the road, our day of non-stop college touring began.
I fell in love with one school, very much liked another, and really did not like the third. It was rather strange–the moment I got out of the car on campus and walked into the admissions office, I knew something was off and deeper we got into the tour, the more convinced I became. I thought that I would love it–on paper it looked fabulous–but there is a very significant deviation between college propaganda, guide books, and reality.
And a word to the wise: Even if the timing works out, going to three schools in one day is both overwhelming and exhausting. I feel rather dazed and tired and in great need of chocolate pudding.
In other news, my mom’s second-grade students were writing stories in their journals this week using their vocabulary words, and one of the kids entitled his peice, “My Dirty Shirt,” but he, amusingly, forgot shirt’s r. Sadly, these sorts of funny mistakes always seem to petter out after elementary school.
But just to show you that I’m not being uppity about my spelling capabilities (which leave a great deal to be desired), I thought I share with you these two anecdotes. Last fall, during my first AP English Lit timed essay, I panicked and couldn’t remember how to spell “exactly.” My teacher’s favorite version of mine: “akakly.”
Here’s the second one. When I was thirteen, I wrote this story where I decided to name one of the characters Byron, after Lord Byron. Unfortunately, while I could pronounce the name, I had a lot of trouble spelling it. There were many Bryons, but the piece also featured such creative spellings as “Biro” or one that looks like it may have gotten auto-corrected as “Beerun.” Though judging by the other mistakes, blaming the computer might not be justified.
For the month, you can find me updating my word count on NaNoWriMo here.
And as always, you can also find me on tumblr at http://emleng93.tumblr.com/, if, you know, you’re into that kind of thing.