En Paris — flight got in mega early because of EXTREEEEEMMME tailwinds.
AMUUUURRRICA.
http://jerseycircus.blogspot.com/
This is wonderful
Bill: As you know, l’m quite keen on comic books. Especially the ones about superheroes. I find the whole mythology surrounding superheroes fascinating. Take my favorite superhero, Superman. Not a great comic book. Not particularly well-drawn. But the mythology… The mythology is not only great, it’s unique.
The Bride: [who still has a needle in her leg] How long does this shit take to go into effect?
Bill: About two minutes, just long enough for me to finish my point. Now, a staple of the superhero mythology is, there’s the superhero and there’s the alter ego. Batman is actually Bruce Wayne, Spider-Man is actually Peter Parker. When that character wakes up in the morning, he’s Peter Parker. He has to put on a costume to become Spider-Man. And it is in that characteristic Superman stands alone. Superman didn’t become Superman. Superman was born Superman. When Superman wakes up in the morning, he’s Superman. His alter ego is Clark Kent. His outfit with the big red “S”, that’s the blanket he was wrapped in as a baby when the Kents found him. Those are his clothes. What Kent wears - the glasses, the business suit - that’s the costume. That’s the costume Superman wears to blend in with us. Clark Kent is how Superman views us. And what are the characteristics of Clark Kent. He’s weak… he’s unsure of himself… he’s a coward. Clark Kent is Superman’s critique on the whole human race. Sorta like Beatrix Kiddo and Mrs. Tommy Plimpton.
The Bride: Aso. The point emerges.
Bill: You would’ve worn the costume of Arlene Plimpton. But you were born Beatrix Kiddo. And every morning when you woke up, you’d still be Beatrix Kiddo. Oh, you can take the needle out.
The Bride: [does so] Are you calling me a superhero?
Bill: I’m calling you a killer. A natural born killer. You always have been, and you always will be. Moving to El Paso, working in a used record store, goin’ to the movies with Tommy, clipping coupons. That’s you, trying to disguise yourself as a worker bee That’s you tryin’ to blend in with the hive. But you’re not a worker bee. You’re a renegade killer bee. And no matter how much beer you drank or barbecue you ate or how fat your ass got, nothing in the world would ever change that.
The VISA!
IS!
DONE!!!
I went down to New York City last week for my second ordeal with the French Consulate. Considering the first time made me openly weep on the corner of 74th and 5th, I wasn’t really thrilled to go back. I’m sure any of the “Au Pair”-visaed nannies who walked by me that day would have told me to get a grip had they not adopted the New York City custom of ignoring anything even remotely crazy-looking. Maybe that’s a human custom.
Whatever. I have the visa.
And I’m packing. The travel excitement has finally arrived!
I’m currently on my way to New York City in the hopes that my meeting with the French consulate will not be a massive fail. By this I mean that I haven’t screwed up any of my paperwork, and that my labors will result in a long-stay student visa. If not, God help me. The one thing I find truly taxing when I combine change with my increasingly neurotic demeanor is the ever-present feeling that I have forgotten something. I have made millions of obsessive lists to try to avoid forgetting anything essential, but I am never really solaced. Okay, the Blackberry is a wonderful device for car rides, but writing Tumblr entries on this little keyboard is HARD!!! And so I am going to stop typing before my thumbs die.
The Sartorialist
I’ve become infatuated with the Sartorialist, a blog which most are already familiar; the creator wanders posts photos of people and outfits he stumbles upon in his travels. Usually the stylist individuals he’s features are from NYC, Paris, or Milan. Not a huge surprise, considering the fashionable reputation the three cities have already.
Some girls at Skidmore have actually established a satellite blog with an honorable amount of web traffic and well-composed posts: the aptly named “Skidtorialist.”
It’s not that I’ve never been interested in the way people dress — I’ve had my own teenage adventures mixing patterns. I was obsessed with everything H&M in high school, if only because it was colorful and cheap. While I suffered through mono, I acquired a series of regrettable habits; after a semester of playing with looks and outfits and the like, I surrendered to the inclination of wearing sweatshirts and jeans every day. I was, after all, sick as a dog. Why the hell wouldn’t I?
Mono fashion, however, has kept its grip on me for quite a while. Some of this probably has to do with the unfortunate weight gain that came with my bedridden lifestyle. Ick.
Preparing for France has sent me a complete frenzy: what should I wear? How can I possible compete? I’ve spent the last few months feeling like a dweeby high school freshman trying desperately to fit in with the popular kids.
I’ve come to discover, however, that the importance is not necessarily what you are wearing. Trends can and should be avoided. It’s about understanding the shape of your body and how to accentuate different parts of it. So this is exactly what I am trying to learn: today I am wearing my red canvas flats with the wonderful zipper detail I find hard to describe, my new tailored gray skirt, my favorite red cotton shirt, and my red and white striped earrings. I am debating whether or not I should wear white socks or just go without…my mom told me I look like a jerk with the socks.
She’s kind of a jerk, too.
I seem incapable of choosing a subject for these posts. There isn’t a lot of consistency. I guess that will come with time; I haven’t written for pleasure in over a year. I need to get back in the game, and then I’ll be better.
Also, can you reply to my posts? I thought I enabled replies but I’m not absolutely certain.
Terence, I realize that right now you are the only person who reads the shit that I post. Or it pops up in your little subscription box, and you ignore it. Who really knows. I would hope that you might read this and chuckle in your Terence way, or perhaps be fondly annoyed.
I just want to tell you that I looked up the distance between St. Andrews and Glasgow yesterday, and you know what it was? Seventy fucking miles. You and your “beloved” are a mere seventy miles apart. (In this case, I am employing quotation marks as I would a laugh track. You’re supposed to laugh there. I’m writing this blog like an episode of motherfucking Friends.)
I’m bitter. Quite frankly, every couple that has ever navigated the romantic annoyance of the semester(s) abroad is bitter. Every BFF-type friendship is bitter bitter bitter. I say this to you and not to Ariel, as I care about her feelings and realize that this semester will, of course, be a challenge regardless of the outrageous lack of major bodies of water separating the two of you.
I promise I won’t allow my rage to be directed at anybody other than you, a blameless individual with a stupid face. You’ll probably never read this, right? Yeah, fuck you.
(Love you!)
Separation Anxiety
I know Paris is great. I know this program is fantastic. I know that this whole experience will make me grow and discover things about myself and all that lovely coming of age bullshit I encounter daily as a slightly jaded college student. I know. I really do. I swear to God, I know.
But right now all I can think about the fact that I feel like a large insect is trying to escape out of my windpipe, and that several of his friends are wandering around my insides in a similar Shawshank Redemption escapist stupor. This buggy feeling is undoubtedly a result of my pre-departure anxiety; more specifically, I believe it was caused by some vaguely sad song that began to trigger, once again, the reality that I am going to be separated from my boyfriend for several months.
I know.
It’s really stupid — It’s downright moronic.
This anxiety is particularly moronic because I’m in a long distance relationship, even if our situation is far easier than most. NYC isn’t exactly the most difficult of cities to which one might have to travel; full-time employment allows him a reasonable amount of disposable income and a designated amount of personal days, so traveling is not an issue. I survive without him an average of fourteen days at a time, maximum. We may actually be the most privileged long distance couple in existence. Seriously.
Whatever. The point is, I’ve survived without him by my side every second of every day over the past twelve months. I should have coping skills by now. Wait, hold on, I do. Logically speaking, the addition of more distance (Read: THE ATLANTIC OCEAN) shouldn’t be a huge deal; distance is distance, right?
It’s all about mentality — perhaps I could lie and just say I was in the same place I always have been. Would that work? I suppose not. I’d still know. I’m a pretty horrible liar.
I don’t even care. I wrote through my tantrum. SAD PLAYLIST IS SAD, OKAY?
