Two blog posts in one day. It's unprecedented, and might possibly be a sign of the impending apocalypse. When it starts raining fire, you can blame me. Or the president. I don't care.
I have this tendency to get incredibly involved in whatever I'm doing. I become so intensely absorbed that I forget about things that are conducive to an active, healthy lifestyle. Like eating. And moving. And drinking water.
Sometimes, I go from the time I wake up to the time I got to bed without eating anything, simply because I forget about food completely. I'll be hungry for, like, two minutes at a time, intermittently throughout the day, but forget about it so fast that I never get around to actually obtaining sustenance.
Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know it's not healthy. Shut up. That's not the point, and no one asked you, anyway.
The point is, today was one of those days. I went 12 hours without food and forgot to drink water for, like, seven of those hours. Then I forgot to move for maybe three. I just sat in a chair, staring at a computer, working intently on designing this thing for this other thing. Let's not get into it. Suffice it to say I was staring at an iMac, listening to Eric Clapton, for a lot of hours, and I forgot completely about those basic everyday steps that keep humans, you know, alive.
When I reach a certain level of undernourished, dehydrated, frozen-in-carbonite 'tard, I begin having discussions with myself in my own brain. It's probably some small facet of my cerebellum pleading for help, appealing to the rest of my mind with every mite of its lingering ability.
These conversations go something like this. For the purpose of this entry, the voice of Logical Avalon will appear in bold; Idiot Avalon will retain normal typeface.
You need to print that page.
Oh, yeah. Printer's over there. Gotta get up. OH GOD MY LEGS. THEY HURT ME.
It's because you haven't moved from that position in three f***king hours, you moron.
Right, right. Forgot about that.
I know. Get your shit together. It's time to go home.
Yay! Overshirt, jacket, backpack...Looks like I have everything. Wait! Keys. Where are my keys?
In your backpack, dumbass. You put them there five hours ago.
Ah! There they are. Alright, let's go home.
'Bout time.
Wow. Staring at a computer screen for that long in a dark room really isn't conducive to navigating uneven terrain at night.
Your car's the other way.
Oh, right.
Why won't it reverse?
E-brake.
Ah, lol. Forgot.
I know.
So cold.
It's because you're an idiot. Turn on the heat.
Warmfasterwarmfasterwarmfaster
Turning now! Pay attention, Avalon.
AHH! Oh, God, sorry! My bad.
Just...MERGEMERGEMERGEDON'THITTHATSUVOHGOD
OH SWEET JESUS nah, we're good.
Did you just forget how to merge?
Maybe.
*facepalm*
Shut up. You wanna drive?
YES.
...Well , you can't, because you're not real. You're just an imaginary representation of the deteriorating state of my executive functions.
The dashboard is squeaking. Why is the dashboard squeaking?
Maybe there's a gerbil trapped inside.
Please don't talk. This is our exit, you know.
Oh, yeah. Thanks.
Just don't kill us.
Stupid light. We always have to wait here. Why are the stoplights blurry tonight?
I think our vision is tracking.
Oh. Is that a good thing?
No. Almost certainly not.
Why can't we see in straight lines?
Because you're an idiot and didn't drink water today.
Ah. Gotcha. Turning, turning, turningturningturning
For the love of God, stop singing.
Fine. You're no fun. Hey, this is our neighborhood! Almost home...
Finally. Jeez. Slow down, that might be a cop behind us.
Nope. Not a cop. Just passed us.
Well, slow down anyway. You might hit a child that's wearing dark clothes.
Would that be a bad thing?
Only in the sense that it would get us arrested.
Laaaaaaaame. Yaaaaaaay! Home! Garage door, open sesame!
Easy, easy OH GOD THOSE ARE STAIRS DON'T DRIVE THROUGH THEM THERE'S A FRIDGE THERE
BRAKES. There. Safe and sound inside.
Just...just get us inside.
Whoo, a little dizzy. Standing is blurry.
It's because you're an idiot.
We're swaying a little. Are we drunk?
I don't think we're drunk.
Hm. That's odd. Oh, well. What for dinner?
Just get liquid of some kind into our body and then eat something at least relatively nourishing. Please. For the sake of all that's holy.
Alright, fine. Will you shut up for a while if I do?
Yes.
Huzzah!
And now I'm eating saltines and milk and the logical part of my brain has shut off, for the time being.
And that was the story of how Avalon becomes so focused on tasks that her body goes into starvation mode and she forgets how to merge onto highways while driving. None of that was exaggerated, and no animals were harmed in the making of this production, except maybe for the dashboard gerbil.
_____________________
I'm gonna sing the doom song now.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Go Go Gadget Argyle!
I always thought that when I became a teacher, I'd be some different, grownup version of Avalon, not the normal, everyday Avalon of the present who eats fries with a fork, would rather read a book than go to a party and still wears pajamas all day if she can get away with it.
But nope. Turns out Ms. Manly is much the same person as Avy, just with more argyle and (hopefully) less tripping over cords publicly and fewer instances of laughing so hard that I cry and my mascara turns me into Avalon the Raccoon-Faced Girl.
In case you somehow hadn't heard, I was offered a job as a corps member at Teach for America, a program that seeks to eliminate the inequities in public education by training teachers and placing them in high-need regions across the country.
Apparently, it's a competitive program. I knew it was tough, but I didn't know until last week just how tough: A Washington Post editorial from a couple days ago reads: "This year [Teach for America] got 48,000 applicants and accepted 5,300 of them. About 18 percent of the Harvard senior class applied; so did 27 percent of Spelman's, a traditionally black women's school."
As far as I know, only three of those accepted are from Colorado, though I could easily be mistaken.
Honestly, I didn't really expect to get in. I was astonished when I received a welcome email. I signed a two-year contract with them and I'm still in shock. I don't think it'll hit me until I'm actually in New Orleans, where I've been assigned to teach high school literature, breathing the humidity and missing the mountains.
I wonder what it will be like to live in a big city in the South. The place where jazz was born. The bayou, the inspirational epicenter for artists like Anne Rice and whoever wrote True Blood.
I also wonder what it will be like to teach. I can't decide whether I'm more terrified, excited or intimidated. Some weird blend of all three, most likely. Terrexcitimated. Yeah, that. Maybe the terror will ebb some after I take my teaching license exams next month. *gulp*
I'm trying to augment my wardrobe so as to dress as if I'm 35, because I don't want my students to know I'm only four or five years older than they. I can't see that being a good thing in the best of circumstances, but as a first-year teacher in a strange city at an alien school? Hells no. So, I have some new blazers, and I really need to find me some sweater vests. Maybe some tweed patches. You know, because it'll help my credibility.
Every time I do something, I wonder what it will be like to do that same thing in New Orleans. I wonder what gas will cost in New Orleans? I wonder what the sun feels like in New Orleans? I wonder how windy it gets in New Orleans? I wonder if I will find a coffee shop to call home in New Orleans? I wonder what the traffic is like in New Orleans? I wonder how the hell I'll find my way around New Orleans without mountains as a reference point?
I wonder what it will be like to run a classroom. I wonder if I'll be any good at it. We'll see, because that TFA contract is pretty much iron-clad and I'm in for the long haul, now.
For those of you who endured that scared little whiny rant-thing, here's some things that are awesome:
But nope. Turns out Ms. Manly is much the same person as Avy, just with more argyle and (hopefully) less tripping over cords publicly and fewer instances of laughing so hard that I cry and my mascara turns me into Avalon the Raccoon-Faced Girl.
In case you somehow hadn't heard, I was offered a job as a corps member at Teach for America, a program that seeks to eliminate the inequities in public education by training teachers and placing them in high-need regions across the country.
Apparently, it's a competitive program. I knew it was tough, but I didn't know until last week just how tough: A Washington Post editorial from a couple days ago reads: "This year [Teach for America] got 48,000 applicants and accepted 5,300 of them. About 18 percent of the Harvard senior class applied; so did 27 percent of Spelman's, a traditionally black women's school."
As far as I know, only three of those accepted are from Colorado, though I could easily be mistaken.
Honestly, I didn't really expect to get in. I was astonished when I received a welcome email. I signed a two-year contract with them and I'm still in shock. I don't think it'll hit me until I'm actually in New Orleans, where I've been assigned to teach high school literature, breathing the humidity and missing the mountains.
I wonder what it will be like to live in a big city in the South. The place where jazz was born. The bayou, the inspirational epicenter for artists like Anne Rice and whoever wrote True Blood.
I also wonder what it will be like to teach. I can't decide whether I'm more terrified, excited or intimidated. Some weird blend of all three, most likely. Terrexcitimated. Yeah, that. Maybe the terror will ebb some after I take my teaching license exams next month. *gulp*
I'm trying to augment my wardrobe so as to dress as if I'm 35, because I don't want my students to know I'm only four or five years older than they. I can't see that being a good thing in the best of circumstances, but as a first-year teacher in a strange city at an alien school? Hells no. So, I have some new blazers, and I really need to find me some sweater vests. Maybe some tweed patches. You know, because it'll help my credibility.
Every time I do something, I wonder what it will be like to do that same thing in New Orleans. I wonder what gas will cost in New Orleans? I wonder what the sun feels like in New Orleans? I wonder how windy it gets in New Orleans? I wonder if I will find a coffee shop to call home in New Orleans? I wonder what the traffic is like in New Orleans? I wonder how the hell I'll find my way around New Orleans without mountains as a reference point?
I wonder what it will be like to run a classroom. I wonder if I'll be any good at it. We'll see, because that TFA contract is pretty much iron-clad and I'm in for the long haul, now.
For those of you who endured that scared little whiny rant-thing, here's some things that are awesome:
(This is my wallpaper on my phone now.)
(It's awesome because it's a kitten.)
(This is a comic from cracked.com and I think the best way to ever answer the question, "How are you?" is by shouting the word, "AWARE," because no one ever actually cares how you are and it might brighten their day a little. Or at least startle them, and there's merit in that.)
That's...that's all I got. Here, have a really painful pun that's vaguely literary and involves a beaver:
________
Han shot first.
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