That's really about all my brain is capable of right now.
It's that garbled end of semester madness, with a splash of "holy crap I'm moving in weeks!" thrown in the mix.
Despite being a class full of PhD students with many, many years of memorizing and reciting back textbooks (which we all thought we had officially moved past), my clinical neuroscience prof is not convinced by the general norm of not giving final exams at this stage in the education process. As such, I have regressed to 20 again, snoozing over my textbook as I repeat over and over "serotonin acts as a neuromodulator at the caudate nucleus in the OCD loop... or, crap, is it dopamine?"
I find it exceedingly ironic that they ("they" being the omnipressant "man", or perhaps just the clinical program in general) still feel they need to make me jump through the multiple choice hoop while, the day prior, they have me writing pre-sentencing reports or providing psychotherapy.
And does anyone have a solution to the epic moving dilemma of finding enough boxes?
Moving boxes have to be symbolic of something. I can't think of anything so valuable that a person will traipse about the city, inquiring at random liquor stores for, or even pay $3 each, which is in turn so value-less in matter of days.
So, yeah, life is fun.
And I am sleepy.
As such, in a blatant cop-out, I'm providing you with one of my favourite posts of yore. It makes me smile, at least!
Standing in the creek with my shoes on
We were ten years old.
His name was Stuart.
My parents, being of the hippy denomination, took us most years to an annual May Day celebration. It involved pot luck lunch, themed quests through the woods (Alice in Wonderland one year, with my aunt dressed as one of the card guards), and, yes, a dance around the May Pole.
There was also some sort of parade, lead by the May King and Queen. All the girls yearned for the part of May Queen, though the boys really couldn't care less. This honour was bestowed merely by selecting the right card.
And, when I was 10, it was my lucky year. As May Queen, I wore a crown of flowers, and led the parade with Stuart, the May King, one of only three boys who volunteered for the task.
After the mini-parade, him and I take a walk through the woods. We stray from the path, and decide to walk through a creek with our shoes on.
As we're sloshing through the creek, he turns to me and says "I like you". He then pauses, and says "Like girl-boy like."
I hesitate. "I like you, too."
He then spits out the kicker: "I want to kiss you."
I stand there, motionless, water rushing by my feet. For some reason, with my heart pounding, I agree.
And, standing in that creek, we count to three, and then quickly press our lips together.
He, being the more experienced one and having kissed a girl before, declares that we should kiss again for longer. We again do the count down, and hold our mouths together for a count of six.
We then decide we should probably be getting back to the party, and emerge from the forest, with no one the wiser, not then not for years to come. This was my darkest untold secret for more than a year.
I never did see Stuart again. I couldn't even tell you what he looked like.
However, I think I will always remember the feeling of wet socks between my toes.