Stress Continued

I posted previously about my stresses, one of which manifested itself like a dormant alien baby come to life inside of me, punching, kicking, scratching, and swearing in an extra-terrestrial language I can't understand (no one likes being left out of a conversation). This particular stress is associated with my future and how study abroad may or may not fuck up my life. It went a little like this:

Me, 2:00 p.m.:

"Yep! I'm going to my adviser's office today to figure things out, I'm sure it will all work out."

Later in the Day:

Adviser - "Well, it's definitely a tricky one!" (makes some sort of motion like she is going to give me a playful punch) "Your next step is to make a meeting with your department chair, he can help you organize the rest of your semesters here."


At this point, I'm feeling only slightly less optimistic due to her confused look when I asked her how I should plan my semesters in order to graduate on time. Summer classes might be an option. (In my mind, there is still that stigma of the delinquents in my high school associated with summer school).

Me: "Hi, I need to make an appointment with my department chair."


Oompa Loompa-like woman: "Huh, his door is closed."


Me: "Okay, well is he inside? I need to know because I still have to apply for abroad and the application is due soon."


Oompa Loompa: "Well, I mean, the door is closed.. I.." she said, like I have asked her to summon the devil and send him to heaven, making the task of knocking on a fucking door seem an impossible task. She holds her hands out to her side like she is balancing two serving trays, shaking her head from side to side.


Me: Okay. Well, I'll just come back another time then.

Now, I was pretty pissed off. All I needed was a signature from him to confirm one thing and a nice meeting to figure out some other shit. I decided that I would attempt my other adviser. He was not in his room. So, I made my way over to Arts & Sciences to see if I could get the head of the French department's signature for my minor form.


Such a beautiful woman. She sports the latest in mullet trends, peppered mousy-brown hair of course, has a ski slope nose that ends in a nice sharp point and, atop that nose, round, silver glasses that frame her black beady eyes. Her stature is that of a Hobbit, and, though I've never seen her feet, I'm assuming they are also Hobbit-like. She...

photo source from mymiddle-earth.net

was also not in her room.

By now, I had walked between three different departments in a horrific slush that my boat-shoes betrayed me in. I would say I have almost broken BOTH of my legs at least seven times today.


I walk into the student dining center, not even a dining hall, so I am forced to use money instead of a meal swipe. Immediately, I see some sad-looking Mexican man making quesadilla. YES. I trudge over to him and order in staccato: Veggie. Everything. Sour Cream? Yes. Salsa? Yes. For here or to go? GO.


Once I have the hot, slightly B.O. - smelling quesadilla in my hands, life seems a little brighter. While waiting in line, I notice a basket. A glorious basket filled with cookies, however, these cookies are anything but ordinary. They're literally seven or eight inches across...

Me, 3:30 p.m.:

Can I handle that fucking cookie??

Yes. Yes I can handle that fucking cookie.


I snatched it from the basket, I think I scared some of the people around me. And since you all know what happened after I bought that cookie, I will end the post like this: