Wake Me Up When It's Over

There's just no hope for me.  You'll never predict me.... I'm just femme fatale all through, you'll never know what's going through my head, you won't hear from me in weeks and then, suddenly, I'll be calling you again, writing to you, because I need you... (Okay, maybe I do want to be Liza Minelli.  What you gonna do 'bout it?)

Not true.  I was actually thinking earlier about what an ironically disappointingly uncomplicated person I am.  But suddenly I want to talk about it.  Or I just want to talk.  Yes, dear, to you.  Doesn't that make you feel wonderful?  No, I'm not just another politician who wants to make your life easier, your tax money go better places, your kids more successful and more likely to kick the *censored* out of the Chinese kids on the future economic playground on which they'll play.  I just want to talk to you.

Hah.  Actually, I have no idea why I suddenly feel like writing again, but I want to write about food.  I was just watching NYTimes thanksgiving recipe videos, and they made me hungry, of course, in such a happy way.   I can't wait to get home.  I can't wait to sit on my friends' couches and talk with their families and eat and drink and feel great.  I can't wait to fight with my family, because it makes me feel so much less alone.  I love living here - it's basically college on training wheels, living in the dorms here - but I am looking forward to a week of being someone's baby again.

But watch me - in an hour I'll have changed my mind.  I just did, after all... food does strange things to me.  I'm really emotionally attached to it.  I wrote this a couple days ago:

I haven't been writing recently, I suppose because I just didn't want to, and because I've had plenty to think about that I can't write about.  I'm also sick of my mother reading this and calling me up and asking me what's going on.  And I feel like a bitch for saying that, but it's true - I don't need my family to know when I'm upset or sick of all this.  They're nearly three hundred miles away.  It can't do any of us any good and I'd rather they didn't get upset. 

I guess I've also had other people to talk to recently.  Internet, you're cool but you don't give much back.  I have friends here, with whom I can actually have a conversation that's not a glitchy facebook chat or a text message.  Again, the internet's great but it's just not good enough.  I want to lie on my bed at home with my friends at home, and talk to them and tell them everything I can't tell people here, just because we all live together and it would all get out.  I can't wait for this week to be over.  Friday's my birthday - there are so many November birthdays here - and then we go home for a week.  I won't have to remind myself to eat.  I will fight with my family and be happy because it'll be normal, and I won't have to feel guilty about withholding information from people and I won't have to be a diplomat quite so much.  I just want to go back to what's familiar and be loved in a totally un-novel fashion. 

And I have been too tired.  I can't make myself go to sleep and I always get up way too early and get nothing done.  I haven't felt well lately - watch this space, a concerned relative is about to call me and call the staff and tell them to check my room for blades (they'd find a big chopping knife, actually, and I'd be screwed if they took that away, because they've opened up the kitchen) - and I've hardly got the drive to be sociable any more, let alone care about schoolwork.  I just do it. 

I've also noticed my heart going crazy every time I eat chocolate. 

Angst.... it's not my line of business, but it's viral here.   Anyway, I am going to forget about things for a little bit starting tomorrow.  I'm going to go home, if that's what it still is, and cook in a kitchen that's not full of people who can't cook and seem to independently support America's entire cake-mix industry.  I'm going to read Siddhartha just because a friend threw me a copy, and I'm not going to get dressed with anyone in particular in mind for a whole week - I might not even get dressed at all. I'm almost ready to leave - my sheets are washed, I know what I'm taking back with me and my fridge is almost empty. 

I've probably mentioned how much Norah Jones I'm listening to at the moment.  I decided to take some pictures and set them to Wake Me Up, though I don't know why.  Actually, I really don't like it when people do that, but I don't care today.  And if you've been reading me for any length of time you'll recognize some of these pictures, so maybe they'll be a little less meaningless.

Anyway, today's my birthday.  It's eight and I just sat up in bed.  I only have one and a half classes today, most of the school is going to see the new Harry Potter film this evening, after a big dinner they're putting on just for me  for the holiday, and I've also got play practice.  Hello, 16.