Tentative Steps

On CNN, Kirsten Haglund, the winner of the title Miss America in 2008, says, "I remember the first day I decided to throw away my lunch, and I drank a Coke instead. I felt really good. I remember that day and the choice I made. And it was a choice made out of fear, not logic."

Maybe that is why I took out that bottle of diet coke Khajiit got for free from the vending machine. We are chronic Nestea drinkers, and when we are not drinking it we're drinking Lipton tea, or another latte from Tim Hortons. When I took a sip from the bottle, the fizzy drink caught in my throat and burned. But I kept on going. It is addicting, this heady mix of aspartame and carbonated water.

We have our reasons for choosing the drinks we do. Years ago, Trent Hamm at The Simple Dollar wrote, "My wife and I have both been addicted to soda for many years. On an average day, I would drink six cans of soda and my wife would drink four cans, meaning we would go through ten cans a day at our house." General Duck prefers his soda sparingly, but the bottle in his hand has still become a part of his persona.

For me, picking a drink has much to do with the mood I want to convey in my life. Coffee in those ambivalent preteen years when public transit gave us a freedom I haven't tasted until recently (not surprisingly, I have adopted a new caffeine habit lately as well). Bubble tea to soothe a nostalgia that seeps through the edges of my vision so that there is always something there, something in the corner of my eye.

Hot chocolate? Well, because I wanted to roll up the rim. Not that I won anything.

. . .

Islandtown's metro line is asking people to name their new train. One of the names was related to the Greek god of time, Chronos. I told Khajiit that one of my characters was called Chronos. He said, "Everyone has a character called Chronos."

I have tried to read more lately. I checked out Middlemarch from the library, and Khajiit and I read the first chapter (and a very wordy prelude). There is something special about the way a book can make you laugh, but I had never quite experienced it until now. So I think George Eliot is something special, critics of her other life be damned.

On the radio we hear Adele over and over again. They are tragic songs, completely not fit for a coffeehouse with bright red and yellow banners promoting its new jalapeño and asiago cheese bagels. On her YouTube videos people says things like, "She's pretty inside and out," or, "She's not fat, too many celebrities today are too skinny." They remind me of the "compare her to Marilyn Monroe" posters, of the idea that arguing men like women who are not bone-skinny is still objectifying women, because the standard-holders are still men.

When Adele said she wasn't "some blonde, skinny, fake boob, white teeth" girl, there is something sad in that statement. Something that sits uncomfortably in my stomach, even though I am not sure what it is.

A few nights ago, Veronica and Khajiit were working on our web design company (which reminds me, I need to get going on that), when they came across a photo of a group of students posing for what looked like a case competition. Veronica said, "Those girls look more natural, because girls take more photos of themselves."

Little things like that hurt. They hurt on a personal level, so to me they grate on my heart.

. . .

I stood in front of a class of one hundred on Friday. Made a public announcement about the film my environmental club was screening. I have not done something like this for a long while, especially not when I could see every single face and recognize people in the crowd.

The film itself was a success, if not a haunting one. We saw lovely paintings made of aluminum cans stacked on top of each other and baby albatrosses dead, bellies splayed open to reveal all the plastic inside.

Why must it be so sentimental?

I sleep at night panicked, tossing around, half-starting when I am about to fall asleep. There is something about the night, how still it is, that makes me uneasy. My body is failing me, or I am failing it, whichever one explains the aches and pains and dull anxiety.

Yesterday, in a fit of curiosity-laden panic, I looked up whether our house was likely to flood in 2100. The site says that if it does, it will be because of some harbor in the city near our house, or the beach, or the river. On SMBC, Zach Weiner describes a superior race that falls because of its impeccable ethics. I jaywalked across the street bordering my university today, against my usual rules of strictly following the roads.

. . .

In the depths of my blankets and shaking, I am lonely. I don't fully understand it, because I am not alone—I am far from alone—but I am still lonely.

. . .

When I wake up these days, it is usually to realize I have missed another class, or that it is now late afternoon and I have been sleeping all day. Khajiit, woken by my frantic prodding, would say, "We knew this was going to happen," to our promising ourselves the night before that we would wake up early. Then I would roll over and he would wrap his arm around me, and that would be my favorite part of the day.

These days it has been getting warmer in Islandtown. I pulled out my pair of red tights, paired them with the ridiculously high heels I bought from China, and got out a red shirt I had almost forgotten I owned. The lady at the food court eyed my outfit as I stood up next to her to throw away my cup.

Cosmic Gate is playing on my Pandora station. The other day Khajiit showed me how to set up a proxy so I could access Pandora from his server-in-a-closet. I took a jab at it yesterday and wondered if I had done something wrong when a firewall message popped up. Today, after a few changes to the procedure, I bypassed the firewall prompt. I don't know what triggered it though.

I was reading this very, very sad site that made me almost cry.

Somewhat unrelated, I had always thought that being an activist in one group made you much more likely to sympathize with activists in another group. My university, my city, and my province has proven me otherwise.

. . .

Maybe I have just been cooped up inside for too long.

Why You Should Own A Pet Gerbil, Now

DISCLAIMER: The following is not meant to be taken seriously. The author and her friends do not wish harm upon any animal. Mosquitoes and flies aside.

Anyway.

Zephy and I were on the bus today, and we passed by the dog park. I pointed out that a lot of people were walking dogs, and then I asked Zephy, "If you had a dog would you walk it in the park?"

"Depends on what kind of dog," she said.

"I don't know—a long-haired dog, say."

"Are they hypoallergenic?"

At which point I remembered that I had forgotten that Zephy was allergic to cat and dog fur. So I said, "Probably not a long-haired dog then. What about chihuahuas?"

"My cousin has a chihuahua," she said. "It's named after my other cousin, so it's really confusing when we call its name. But I don't want a chihuahua."

"Hmm. What about—what else are you allergic to?"

"Cats, dogs, and dust. That's what the allergy report said."

"So you're not allergic to gerbils?"

"No, I'm not."

"So you could get a pet gerbil and walk it in the park! In one of those wheel things, except instead of staying still it would roll forward."

"You mean like a sphere?"

"Yeah! Except a wheel would be better, if it was wide enough so it wouldn't tip over. Because you could tie a leash to the side and—uh—walk it. But you probably couldn't really walk it since well—okay, maybe you could. You could pull on the string and then the wheel would roll and uh, the gerbil would just kind of tumble inside."

I guess this is why people "walk" their gerbils in stationary wheels.

. . .

Zephy told me that three people made AIME this year, including me, Tybalt, and some other person whose name she did not hear. But the cutoff score is 93, so maybe that last person was Sonny? It would be a bit annoying if he was the one, since he half-guessed his way there, but it's not like there's a prize for qualifying for AIME, so if he likes doing more math problems then good for him.

But I guess this means I should do more math problems. Instead of reading RSS every night. Although I am very up-to-date on various things such as the pseudo-flooding in Western Ohio, the near-Oscar-sweep for The King's Speech, and the various new functions of Google Docs.

You can't win it all, I guess. Not even golden statuettes that cost $150 each to produce.

. . .

I just realized today that Mr. Wollen's website says "First page you see" when you click his name from the school site.

He also has "First day of Spring!!!" on his March calendar.

I can't wait for spring to start, and for this snow to end. But I suppose I should get used to it, because I have now received both letters of acceptance and scholarship from McGill, and that is most likely where I will be going. So snow, hurrah! Good thing I'll soon be legal to drink, right? Don't they say cider's the best way to warm up on a cold winter night?

Or maybe that was hot chocolate. I like those better anyway.

I also need to choose whether I want to major in biomath or EEE. Yes, those are actual majors. I'm thinking that I'd rather major in biomath, since if McGill hadn't offered it I would most likely have gone for a biology or math major with the other as a minor. But EEE! If I minored in English (no way, but if I were to) it'd abbreviate to EEEE! And if I picked up economics as another minor, EEEEE!

Okay. That is not a good reason.

The real reason is that engineering is a rather fast-changing field, and it's something that generally does not require being in one place for a long time, and that's tempting. Dealing with high-tech is tempting too. As well as this whole "applied" business, because after all applied math goes hand in hand with engineering.

So I will ruminate for a couple of months and decide later.