look what I can do.

In case you can't read the title, it's a graph of the likelihood I am doing various activities when I should be doing homework versus how much fun they seem at the time. You can also click for a larger view.
And if you're wondering, I spent about 20 minutes making it, then a good hour redoing it until all the lines were straight, everything was included and apocalypse was spelled correctly.




tl; dr version: I'll joining procrastinators anonymous eventually

the thought that kept me awake last night

shiver me timbers= shake my tree?

a bit of confusion.

An unrelated photo:



now the story:
An actual conversation I had today
(as a result of shoe-betrayal and the blistered mayhem which resulted):

there was a shop, and a counter. Behind the counter were various things of a medical nature. There was also a shop boy, and there was me.

me: Hello, do you have any bandaids?
shop boy: any what?
me: bandages?
shop boy: um... what?
me: plasters
shop boy: Plasters! Yeah, right here.

a thought I had while studying

I would have mixed feelings about having a siamese twin, especially if our fronts were attached.
I bet sometimes it would be great, because you would laugh and make faces.

But sometimes I bet you get angry
and annoyed
or someone sneezes

and you would just want to get away

but then again, you would get really good at reading facial cues
and they would always be there
when nobody else would understand.




tl;dr version: being a siamese twin and on a date... talk about awkward

tha-thump

My favorite part of the day is walking through the park on my way to and from school. The sun is shining, (or it's not) or it's windy or raining. But no matter the weather, there are people out walking with their dogs (not on leashes) and playing with their children, and I think "Kimi Young was right. People do need each other. And life is really beautiful." And I spend the entire walk thinking about how wonderful life is and the experience of life is and how wonderful it is that we need each other.

And I was thinking about how atoms are just made up of protons and neutrons and electrons, and those are just made up of vibrating energy, which is probably sound. so all we are- all everything in the whole universe is- is empty space and sound, and isn't that nice that you and the sidewalk are exactly the same two things but also so different because somehow that empty space and sound formed people who need each other desperately, no matter what they might think.

Interesting fact:
An individual heart cell will beat all on its own, but if you put another one next to it, they will start beating in rhythm. I’m not making this up, you can verify it if you want.

I think heartbeats are awesome. No discussion, no argument about who will succumb to who's will or if that is following a historically masculinist-normative suppressive perspective. They just beat together, and if there are enough of them beating together they will make a heart which can keep a whole body alive. But it has to start with just those two, and I imagine that when they found each other they feel quite content to be beating together, because this is their purpose and they are full to the brim with what they just realized they always wanted to do and I bet they are sure they just couldn't be any happier. Until another heart cell comes along and they realize oh yes! they love that cell too, and the three of them beat together because they all need each other and there isn't any jealousy about who is closer because they all have a common goal and are just beating together. beating. beating. beating. And eventually they form a whole heart that can pump blood and give life and speed up and slow down.
and when that heart is complete I think the other cells don't feel left out, they just wait, excited for when they find another cell to beat with, and maybe the heart lets them stay with them until some can break off and start a new heart with three or four cells so that one doesn't feel lonely, and they wait, excited, loving, beating together. Beat. Beat. Beat.

and I wonder if people have that capacity too. If we could be walking down the road and instead of just passing people, start beating with them for just an instant, one or two beats- and not at all be overwhelmed with guilt that you can't be in the same heart or that you aren't next to each other. Connect. Beat. Beat. Beat. And feel totally happy and fullfilled and good because we are on the same page as another human (beat beat beat) and we are understood. and we if we could connect, if we were always checking in on each other, noticing that the people around us were human and being noticed I wonder if anybody would get away with anything sad at all. Because as it is we make sure not to beat with people we pass. We go out of our way to not smile or make eye contact or connect. we are very careful to pull ourselves in and it makes it difficult to learn to beat together when we decide that we want to again because we are so used to beating on our own that we forget it's a huge blessing to be able to understand and be understood and beat together in the same heart and pump blood and life into a dying world together, and since now we each have our own idea about which beat we should be on that some of us aren't entirely convinced that we are all the same type of cell, or that maybe we can do it on our own. But we can't.



I was trying to explain this to one of my classmates. That love is the only thing that matters (beat, beat, beat). It's the only thing that will change the world. Like, for example, you and I. We are both alone in the world, but now- I reach out and touch his arm- isn't that nice? so nice, so innocent, so good, because now there is you and there is me and we are together in the world and there isn't a damn thing better than people connecting with people because nothing else is going to change the world. but this. Nothing can touch this. Nothing can touch love. Nothing else matters. Love is unstoppable because it's unfathomable, you can't fight it because you can't scare it. how do you fight against something that sees nothing- nothing- in the whole world as more important than what it's fighting for. how do you fight something so stable that you can't mess with its head? so single minded that you can't distract it? So pure that not only can it not be tainted, but it makes beautiful everything it ever touches? so powerful that you cannot bribe it or compel it towards your will? So simple that it’s just a beat, together. It’s the only thing good enough to stand up to the bad. And it is the only thing strong enough to combat human selfishness and selfcenteredness, because it's the only thing that is strong enough to tear down walls and at the same time soft enough to creep in and come and encircle its enemy and whisper that another world is possible- a better world- and that they can be loved too.

My classmate smiled and asked if I was hitting on him. I rolled my eyes and laughed because we both knew I wasn’t, and we drank our beer and changed the subject. Beat. Beat. Beat.


tl;dr version: the ballad of love and hate by the avett brothers is my new favorite song. It moves mountains.

burn, baby, burn

I caught my hair on fire today.

It was sitcom worthy.

Ok, it wasn’t, because even though I told Suzy it was legendary, in reality it was sort of blah.

How can fire be blah? you ask

Good question.

It can’t.

But my hair didn’t really catch on fire.

It just sort of singed a little.

Here’s what happened:
The reason I feel like it was more epic than it was is that at the time I was thinking how, in theory, sitcom-like my life could be. A foreigner, living two stories below an Indian lady who asks me up for coffee constantly, next to an actress who wears flowy outfits, whose apartment smells of incense and whose partner has a beard, in a city where people walk around, proud of the fact that they have the most indecipherable accent in the UK. It could be, but it’s not- because I don’t really interact with any of those people. I totally wish I did. But what’s important is at the time I was thinking about how it could be like a sitcom.

I was thinking this while making coffee.

Important note: I do not have a coffee maker. I do not have coffee filters. I have no real experience with actually making coffee, except in hotel rooms where things are measured.

Another note: I think you make Robusta coffee differently than Arabica coffee differently, but I can’t be sure. This was Arabica, hotel coffee is Robusta… I think.

Back to the story:
I had decided that what I needed in my life was a little coffee. I had been fantasizing about it all day. I had even gone out and bought milk- which is weird because I’m not all that into milk and sugar in my coffee. I guess some part of me knew I would need it.
So my plan was to boil the coffee grinds with water in a pot and then strain it. Good plan, right? Well, I let it boil, and I figured just letting it be at full boil for a few minutes was a good amount of time. I threw into what seemed like a decent amount of water what looked like a reasonable amount of coffee grinds because, let’s face it, measuring is for wussies. I also threw in a spoonful of sugar because, you know, tea is better when you boil the sugar with it- so probably coffee too.
When I had what looked like a boiling pot of swamp water, or a cauldron with poison bubbling, I took it off the stove and poured it into a bowl, through a spaghetti strainer. I’m actually impressed that the strainer caught as much as it did. I would say it got about 85% of it. I needed to get the rest out though, since coffee grinds don’t sit at the bottom of the cup behaving. No- they swim around, getting stuck to your teeth and ruining your respectable coffee flavor. Something had to be done. I decided to strain it through a stained hand towel I have just washed.
Before you say anything; it worked.

Well, sort of.

The problem with pouring coffee from a bowl into a cup covered with a towel (as so many of you know, I’m sure) is that you can’t really see the cup. So, naturally, I bent over to watch where I was pouring from the side.
That’s when I heard sizzling. I stood up straight, getting coffee all over the counter in the process, to search for the origin of the sound. That’s when I smelled it: burning hair.

Turns out bending your head over a still hot stovetop is not in the “good idea” book. Particularly when you have long hair. Because after you do, you have a tiny patch of slightly shorter hair.

I started laughing, further spilling the coffee everywhere. By the time I stopped, the coffee was no longer hot (also due in part, I’m sure, to the time it took to put it through multiple straining processes) and I had to heat it up in the microwave. And add milk. Lots of milk. And more sugar. Actually, a little too much sugar.

But no, to answer your question, my hair didn’t actually catch on fire. No flames bursting forth, consuming my head instantly. Just a little chunk of singed, shrunked hair with some crispy, curly ends.

And no, to answer your other question, the coffee wasn’t that good. I drank it diligently, however, causing me to lay on the couch watching old tv episodes online for the rest of the night with stomach pains.

It was worth it to me.


tl;dr version: "when there's nothing left to burn, you have to set yourself on fire" (by the Stars. I like the quote)

Saturday Adventure

Finally, after two months without leaving the city of Glasgow, I went on an adventure that took me away. I have spent the last few the fridays and the saturdays playing a little game I like to call “pick a direction and walk in it.” This game invariably brings me enjoyment, whether from the discovery of one of the most beautiful cemeteries I have ever seen, with heart breaking and inspiring epithets- the kind you find only on the very old grave stones when things like life or death or memories mattered- to a pretty walkway covered in leaves where I pass a group of boys in their early teens getting drunk and giggling at each other.
This hobby developed from my need to explore coupled with my total lack of funds. People always say the Bohemian life gets old quickly, but for me it’s still kind of fun and romantic to wear socks and extra sweaters instead of turning on the heat. The thing that kills me is that most fun things cost money, like train rides and eating and buying costumes.

But today, running around the city wasn’t enough. After staying up until 2 am finishing a paper due monday, I had promised myself that I would splurge and leave Glasgow. My very scientific method for deciding where to go consisted of the following:
1) Open a map of Scotland on googlemaps
2) Open a map of the train system around Scotland
3) Realize that anything outside of the area right around Glasgow and Edinburgh is very expensive
4) Open a rail map of just the area around Glasgow and Edinburgh
5) Look at where I can go for fairly cheap, compare with what the area looks like with googlemap’s satellite view
6) Pick one that looks like the train station is right next to large expanses of land
7) Go to Charing Cross, buy a roundtrip ticket (mispronounce town, forced to try three times before you are both clear where you want to go).
So I hopped on a train to Kilpatrick (pronounced “kill Patrick”) which I thought, since it was the same direction as Partick (pronounced “Par-tick), was Kilpartick… not Kilpatrick.

I arrived in Kilpatrick around 2:30. It would be completely dark by 5. I picked a hill that looked big and exciting. I set my alarm for 3:45pm so I would know when to turn back, and I headed off, fully expecting having to slip my way up the side of the wet, grassy slopes and hop fences and to come up against the sudden rock cliffs that make up the hillsides.

All I have to say is bless the Scottish farmers for creating footpaths everywhere through their farms. Just after leaving the station, an elderly man in short shorts and carrying a camel pack passed me jogging towards the same hill I had decided to pwn. Based on the absurdity of his outfit, I decided he probably knew where he was going and followed him in search of a path. Luckily he was jogging slowely and I was speed walking, so it wasn’t hard to keep up with him. Although I would stop to take pictures and let him stretch out his lead, partially because it clearly made him happy to look back and see me further behind.

Adorably understated, the British (and, in this case I am extending a generalization from England and into Scotland) refer to what I would definitely consider “hiking” as “walking.” I met someone and started a conversation with him, asking what he liked to do. “I like to walk.” He said. He was instantly endeared to me as I looked at him, eyes wide, and exclaimed “I like walking too!” Of course what I meant was that I like to walk… what he meant is that he liked going on backpacking trips through the mountains… which is also cool, but not nearly as endearing as someone who’s first response of what they liked was walking.

My life motto, “if a sheep can do it, I can do it,” continued to serve me well by pushing me to be all that I can be. Speed walking is more difficult than one would think, particularly up steep hills. I thought myself fairly well in shape- running a few times a week, walking a few miles every day, doing pilates. But half way up the hill, I was taking breaks for pictures just as an excuse to rest, and holding my breath as people passed on their way down so it didn’t sound like I was breathing hard. As I began to huff and puff my way up the steepest parts, I looked up to see a gathering of sheep, looking over the ledge at me, laughing and calling me names. This will not do! I WILL be a better hill climber than those sheep. This is preposterous and cannot be! How am I more out of shape than a sheep? After all, haven’t I lived my whole life saying that if a sheep can do it, I can do it? Isn’t that precisely the philosophy that spurned me on to first undergraduate and then graduate school, to develop meaningful relationships, and to finish slices of pizza? And now… oh! how far the mighty have fallen. But not for long. I now have a new goal. In addition to getting better grades than a sheep, I will become a better climber than one as well.

Oh gosh.

As I watched the little old man in short shorts wearing a camel pack extend his lead further and further out in front of me, I realized: I really am more out of shape than a sheep.

Here I was, panting and hiking, and the sheep turned to me and said, “Oh, come on, it’s just a walk.”

When I got near the top of one hill, I deviated from the path, which continued straight through the hills towards a loch, in order to climb up the rock walls to the summit. I came within 20 feet of the top- the very top- where I could have turned in a circle and seen down on every side. That was my goal. But as I picked my way up there, climbing on rock formations and turning around to look at the beauty around me, I had the sensation I was being watched. I turned around, and right on the top of the hill was a sheep. A sheep with horns. A sheep with horns and a look so menacing I just knew it was planning to attack me and knock me off the cliff and then go to the bottom and poop on my lifeless body. Don’t be silly, I thought, as I inched closer. It turned its body to face me.

That is why, instead of going the last 20 feet to the top, I turned around and tried to nonchalantly high tail it back down, whistling so it wouldn’t suspect anything.