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Dec. 19th, 2008 11:17 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
phthalombrageWhat, by most standards, would be a mediocre-bordering-on-disappointing semester is actually an achievement for me.
I hear it's the most difficult semester for my major, and I managed to keep off academic probation, which is pretty good. I file the paperwork, and see that a nontrivial percentage of the class does tend to have problems sophomore year. I did not, however, get my gpa back above 3.0, and I'm not sure if I ever will, even though it doesn't seem like I have far at all to go. I can only hope, stubbornly and stupidly, and trust that it won't hold me back too much in life (a PV alum I ran into twice yesterday who just graduated CivE from UCF was impressed that I am at CMU, haha). But I passed all of my classes, and still get to take 213, so I am good. When did this start being okay? I don't care; I just know I really need to work hard next semester and make some goddamn friends. In particular, I need to find friends in my cs classes (213, 251), because I suck, and need to continue to be friendly with other mses, but in general, friends are a good thing and not something I gave enough attention last semester.
Coming back home after a year away is ridiculous. My sheets haven't been washed since, and my male cousin spent three nights on them because the guy who lives in a trailer in my uncle's backyard wanted to kill himself because his girlfriend left him, and didn't come to pick him up. My whole room smells dusty and musty. Yesterday I visited PV and most of my teachers were gone. Most of the ones I visited, I had to speak with in French. I haven't seriously spoken French since July 2007, and they claim I am still competent (encouraging, as I still hope I will be good enough to make it abroad and hack it in engineering classes for a semester). It was a weird experience, waking up a part of my brain which has not enjoyed significant strain in a year and a half. The first thing that struck me, though, was the horizontal dimensions of everything. Flat, one-story. My mom and I walked past the lot on which the Myers family (Michelle was my friend when I was a toddler, then a chubby redhead and twiggy blonde, respectively) and remarked that wasn't it amazing that they could fit a house on that tiny patch of land. I told her, look at those yards! The houses on Sherbrook are practically a foot apart and stretch high into the grey cold skies. Gone are the hills, gone is the snow, gone are the reasonably-placed shopping areas and convenience of close-packed habitations. But I guess the dog has a lot of space to run around.
I am having serious issues dealing with the presence of this orange fluffy dog Fritz that licks everything and eats dust and his own vomit yipping at squirrels from the comfort of my childhood home. I am guilty of severe anti-dog bigotry. I mean, I had a bunny before the flood, we had a black and white tuxedo shorthair cat from Christmas 1995 to now, a chocolate-point Himalayan between 1998 and 2001 or something, a blue budgerigar (Percy) my senior year of high school. For as long as I can remember, my house has smelled strongly of cat pee, and now there are only stains, darkened carpet and warped wood. I did, as a baby, have an awful babysitter with huge dogs, and have memories of them barking as I sat petrified atop a speaker in the living room, and my mom kept getting knocked over by their german shepherd while pregnant with me, but I don't really know if that's all of why I just don't like dogs. My heart is completely sealed to them, and I don't even want to pet them when I see them. I mostly find this dog annoying, since there's no reason to fear him (he doesn't bite or otherwise maul people and his bark sounds more stupid than terrifying most of the time), but I basically can't wait for my mom to find the orange kitty she wants so I can spend time with him (orange cats are usually "him") instead. It has been established that the little budgie Percy has no real enthusiasm for anything in life except the promise of more millet and glimpses of his own reflection. I sort of worry that it will set me up for problems later in life if people I live with dearly love dogs or hate or are allergic to cats, so I wonder if I should try to be more forgiving of dogs. I feel bad for not liking Fritz, but honestly, he's too happy and playful and really needs to chill. He's got this universal appeal that doesn't exactly endear him to me.
Then there are all the little bits of white-trashery that ooze out of this place. Letters from my crack-whore not-aunt, yet another child murder, stories of bums and conmen and drunks and other crazies from my dad's bus route. Things I remember and have been glad to leave behind.
I know I need to tackle the beast of cleaning my room and talking to my boss about working, but the past couple days were necessary as a buffer before I sink into the horrific piles so characteristic of my entire house and think about working downtown every day instead of working on them, and hearing new crazy legal problems. My boss is a fantastic guy, but there is still a lot of stress associated with working for him.
There are nice things. I still have friends to meet, once they make their presence in town known to me. I have been invited to a former history teacher and thoroughly exceptional human being's place for post-Christmas desserts. I will soon be sick of restaurants. We no longer have a raccoon infestation, and the plumbing's fixed, even if there is still a hole in the floor.
I guess I made it out of Florida without being kidnapped by pervs or becoming addicted to drugs. Mediocre by most standards, a success story for me.
I hear it's the most difficult semester for my major, and I managed to keep off academic probation, which is pretty good. I file the paperwork, and see that a nontrivial percentage of the class does tend to have problems sophomore year. I did not, however, get my gpa back above 3.0, and I'm not sure if I ever will, even though it doesn't seem like I have far at all to go. I can only hope, stubbornly and stupidly, and trust that it won't hold me back too much in life (a PV alum I ran into twice yesterday who just graduated CivE from UCF was impressed that I am at CMU, haha). But I passed all of my classes, and still get to take 213, so I am good. When did this start being okay? I don't care; I just know I really need to work hard next semester and make some goddamn friends. In particular, I need to find friends in my cs classes (213, 251), because I suck, and need to continue to be friendly with other mses, but in general, friends are a good thing and not something I gave enough attention last semester.
Coming back home after a year away is ridiculous. My sheets haven't been washed since, and my male cousin spent three nights on them because the guy who lives in a trailer in my uncle's backyard wanted to kill himself because his girlfriend left him, and didn't come to pick him up. My whole room smells dusty and musty. Yesterday I visited PV and most of my teachers were gone. Most of the ones I visited, I had to speak with in French. I haven't seriously spoken French since July 2007, and they claim I am still competent (encouraging, as I still hope I will be good enough to make it abroad and hack it in engineering classes for a semester). It was a weird experience, waking up a part of my brain which has not enjoyed significant strain in a year and a half. The first thing that struck me, though, was the horizontal dimensions of everything. Flat, one-story. My mom and I walked past the lot on which the Myers family (Michelle was my friend when I was a toddler, then a chubby redhead and twiggy blonde, respectively) and remarked that wasn't it amazing that they could fit a house on that tiny patch of land. I told her, look at those yards! The houses on Sherbrook are practically a foot apart and stretch high into the grey cold skies. Gone are the hills, gone is the snow, gone are the reasonably-placed shopping areas and convenience of close-packed habitations. But I guess the dog has a lot of space to run around.
I am having serious issues dealing with the presence of this orange fluffy dog Fritz that licks everything and eats dust and his own vomit yipping at squirrels from the comfort of my childhood home. I am guilty of severe anti-dog bigotry. I mean, I had a bunny before the flood, we had a black and white tuxedo shorthair cat from Christmas 1995 to now, a chocolate-point Himalayan between 1998 and 2001 or something, a blue budgerigar (Percy) my senior year of high school. For as long as I can remember, my house has smelled strongly of cat pee, and now there are only stains, darkened carpet and warped wood. I did, as a baby, have an awful babysitter with huge dogs, and have memories of them barking as I sat petrified atop a speaker in the living room, and my mom kept getting knocked over by their german shepherd while pregnant with me, but I don't really know if that's all of why I just don't like dogs. My heart is completely sealed to them, and I don't even want to pet them when I see them. I mostly find this dog annoying, since there's no reason to fear him (he doesn't bite or otherwise maul people and his bark sounds more stupid than terrifying most of the time), but I basically can't wait for my mom to find the orange kitty she wants so I can spend time with him (orange cats are usually "him") instead. It has been established that the little budgie Percy has no real enthusiasm for anything in life except the promise of more millet and glimpses of his own reflection. I sort of worry that it will set me up for problems later in life if people I live with dearly love dogs or hate or are allergic to cats, so I wonder if I should try to be more forgiving of dogs. I feel bad for not liking Fritz, but honestly, he's too happy and playful and really needs to chill. He's got this universal appeal that doesn't exactly endear him to me.
Then there are all the little bits of white-trashery that ooze out of this place. Letters from my crack-whore not-aunt, yet another child murder, stories of bums and conmen and drunks and other crazies from my dad's bus route. Things I remember and have been glad to leave behind.
I know I need to tackle the beast of cleaning my room and talking to my boss about working, but the past couple days were necessary as a buffer before I sink into the horrific piles so characteristic of my entire house and think about working downtown every day instead of working on them, and hearing new crazy legal problems. My boss is a fantastic guy, but there is still a lot of stress associated with working for him.
There are nice things. I still have friends to meet, once they make their presence in town known to me. I have been invited to a former history teacher and thoroughly exceptional human being's place for post-Christmas desserts. I will soon be sick of restaurants. We no longer have a raccoon infestation, and the plumbing's fixed, even if there is still a hole in the floor.
I guess I made it out of Florida without being kidnapped by pervs or becoming addicted to drugs. Mediocre by most standards, a success story for me.
