I know I don't have a ton of watchers, but just to let those lucky few know--I am actually still drawing. Getting better at it too, by jove. However, I'm still not going to be ultra super awesome active on here for a bit more--I'm waiting until I have more than scraps to upload. My semester has also attempted to attack and maim me, and I've been having loads of fun dealing with that.
I still owe plenty of people replies. And it'll take awhile, but I'll get around to that too .
All things Toshiba can DIE.
...obviously, they already have.
But besides that, I always pay close attention to the clock. "Oh, I lost track of time!" "I didn't watch the clock closely enough!" "Blah blah blah out of time." All lies. Sometimes, if I am clever, I can twist the wording so people don't realize that I am playing to their assumptions. Yet even that is a form of lying. I'm pretty good at it, which doesn't make me proud.
The problem is that I have no way to defend myself. Why do I watch the clock so closely, knowing exactly when I shoul leave, or when I could make it if I walk quickly, or knowing precisely when I can still make it if I run, until finally I know that there's no way I'll make it? Why do I do it? My only reason is that I don't feel like it. How completely lame and completely unexplainable is that? "Oh yeah, I was late. No, no, I was watching the time. I just didn't feel like it."
I was having one of those mornings. I'd been looking up Jonny Quest fanart after talking with musicalluna about the awesomeness that was the Real Adventures of Jonny Quest and how we both were in love with Jonny. I realized, after reading JQ fanfiction all day (yes, I am that much of a dork) and then looking at JQ fanart that, much to my chagrin, I still have a crush on Jonny Quest. Yet I digress.
10:46 rolls around and I know I should leave. 10:52 and I know I should really leave. 10:58 and two minutes before my human anatomy class halfway across campus, and I know that I really do have to leave.
I realized, several steps outside of Nye Hall and one minute from being late to class, that I've forgotten to put on my shoes.
I wouldn't have noticed, except that I needed to run. The pseudo-shoes I was wearing were not only unsuitable for running, they were, in fact, big, black, fuzzy slippers. So there I am, late for class, and wearing the remains of a dead muppet on my feet.
Oh well, I thought. No point in turning back now. I hitched my tote bag higher and walked to human anatomy.
I scuffed my way into class at ten after.
And I totally deserved it.
Do the math, people.
I woke up feeling surprisingly refreshed and looked at the clock. 9:15. Twenty-five minutes after class had ended. I looked to my left, and realized that my second alarm was right next to my head. I vaguely recall walking over and grabbing it. And turning it off.
I didn't know your gut could actually drop into your feet. But it did. I felt it pretty distinctly.
[Insert ten minutes of absolute freaking here.]
I'm surprised I didn't wake up my roommate. I was trying to be quiet, and apparently it worked, but I literally had no idea what to do. I called my mom because she told me she had no work this morning (turns out that she did) and left the most pathetic message on the answering machine you've ever heard, punctuated by wailings of "I don't know what to doooooo!!!" I checked my organic chemistry syllabus and found this uncomforting sentence: "make-up exams generally will not be given, except for very valid excuses." I checked how many exams we had, and realized that if I didn't take this one (meaning a zero) I could maybe manage an 80% in the class, just so long as I got 100% on my two other exams and on the final. I promptly called home again and left the second most pathetic message you've ever heard, this time managing to sob out "I don't have a valid excuuuuuuse!" about five times. Just in case they hadn't gotten the point before.
When I finally got ahold of myself I called my professor, hoping against hope that he was in his office. I was fully prepared to hunt him down (organic chemistry students gone wild!), but fortunately he picked up the phone. What followed can only be described as begging. "I'm from your organic chemistry class that just had a test this morning and I'm so, so sorry I totally slept past your class and I've studied and am prepared..." I went on like this for a good two minutes "...and I was wondering if I could come in right now and take it."
"Yeah," he said. "That's fine."
My mind went blank for a second, and I think I managed an intelligent "Wha-?"
"Yeah," he said again, "I completely understand. I've nearly slept past the class myself."
I think his brain melted when I blessed him with another two minutes of ranting, though most of it consisted of "Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou!" I called my parents and left a message that sounded as though I'd joined the angel chorus, then ran to the chemistry building because I had so much nervous energy. I showed up, gasping a little for air, and poked my head into his office.
"You're here already?" he sounded surprised. I sort of nodded, and he shrugged and handed me my test.
I could have kissed him.
I paid for my purchases and they were duly shoved into a bag large enough to carry dead children around in. No joke--I'm pretty sure I could stick a two-year-old in there. I sort of gave it a bewildered glance but said thank you and left.
Enter the bus.
Ah the bus. My new transportation since I've been at college, besides my own two feet. I admit I've grown rather fond of the way buses can make anyone look like a hobo. Colors fade when you step into that abyss. No one truly understands the beauty of the city bus--it is one of Earth's great equalizers.
On a side note...I love the money machines. The whirring sound of the change being sorted and the way the dollar machine grabs a hold of your bill and sucks it down. I've been using the bus for half a year now, and I'm beginning to suspect that it's always going to delight me. I'm not sure whether that should make me happy or just very, very sad.
Anyways, once I get on I like to go sit in the back where the bus driver has a harder time seeing me (at least I don't feel like he's staring at me) and where I can get a good view of who's riding on the bus. It's fun because you can usually tell who's going out, whether or not people are friends, check out other people's crazy outfits, make fun of their insane hair (kids these days), and wonder about what exactly everyone is doing on the bus and where they're going. Do they do this everyday? Are they late for a party? Are they chasing after a long lost love? It's fascinating, because every single person on that bus is their own story, and today I managed to bump into theirs.
Today, however, there was one particular man that stood out to me. After sitting down I began to hear what sounded like a mechanical voice. I kept looking around trying to figure out what was going on when I realized, looking at the older man a couple of seats in front of me, that they matched up perfectly with his mouth. Turns out that he was one of those people that have had something happen to their vocal cords (surgery, smoking, I don't know) and had to speak through a little machine. He was talking up a storm with the woman next to him. It was pretty cool, actually.
And there I was, body bag on the seat next to me, seriously considering walking up to him and asking him to say "all your base are belong to us." I should be ashamed.
But it would've been pretty dang funny.
I spent the rest of the bus ride with the techno remix of "All Your Base are Belong to Us" bouncing around inside my head. I pulled out my sketchbook to distract myself, but all I could think of was doodling the "all your base" phrase over and over in my sketchbook. I had to put it away to resist temptation. And when I finally got off the bus I was a little sad to see him go. I consoled myself by buying a tub of chocolate icecream at Walgreens.
That base, at least, was pwned.