Posts Tagged 'win'

We’d like to take a moment…

Oh hi there May! I didn’t realize you were all of eleven days away. Eleven days, twenty pages of screenplay, twenty-five-hundred words of a contemporary fiction coursework, and more pasties than I want to count away. Having spent the entire day in bed catching up on season two of Gossip Girl and ignoring every bit of aforementioned responsibility, I figure I owe the world at least a bit of productivity. Do me a favor and overlook the fact that I currently consider posting on my blog a form of productive.

Before I continue down the constructive path, though, I’m going to put the last few weeks of partial lethargy to use. When I haven’t been at what I semi-fondly call pastyland, I’ve been at home alternately hanging out with Sharaz, mourning the lack of a laptop in my life, playing Burnout, Oblivion, and Halo 3, and watching far too much television. Somewhere during term time I’d sat down to lunch in front of the television and happened upon a show called Masterchef, and based solely on the similarity in title with the AMAZING Bravo show Top Chef, I thought I’d give it a go.

Some of my English readers have heard of Masterchef, but for the benefit of my American friends and the Brits that ignore Masterchef because they think it’s lame, I will briefly explain the premise. Basically they found 136 normal people who’d recieved enough casual compliments on their cooking and polite “you should totally be a chef!” suggestions that they thought they’d give professional cooking a shot. The first few episodes are classic, as 5 out of 6 competitors at a time get told, “No, no, that’s basically shit. Nice try.” My personal favorite would be the mid-uni kid whose revolutionary chorizo, tomatos, and pasta (your everyday student fodder) got shot down and owned in the face. That is, if greasy, five-minute student food had a face.

Anyway, the initial amusing elements and gradual really awesome cooking got me hooked and ultimately this led to a shameless addiction that I satisfied all the way through watching the finale over break. And also, becoming a shameless fan of one of the two runners-up, Tim! He is basically amazing, and bizarrely enough is a children’s doctor (why they never said pediatrition I still don’t know) at the Norwich Hospital like ten minutes away from where I live. So who knows? I may yet run into the nerdy-looking legend. He is basically the most amazing guy ever. I’m throwing in an early interview of him, and though nothing entirely interesting happens in the 2 minutes and 49 seconds, at least you’ll know who I’m talking about:

Now, since I know you love youtube clips so much, and since I seriously have been watching a ludicrous amount of – dare I say it – telly (totally never use that word in real life), I’m going to indulge you with a few of my favorite commercials of late. I know, I know, commercials are ten kinds of foreign to the on-demand, Tivo, and internet generation, but it would seem that some people are actually still shooting out more than decent two minute clips and somehow managing to spend their advertising pounds wisely.

First off, as sort of a clipular segue, a short advert for Gordon’s gin, featuring Gordon Ramsay, who is both capable of balancing total doucheyness with awesomeness and definitely in possession of my utter infatuation. Plus, I dig the music (credit to Switches and most sadly composed solely for use in the ad and is thus undownloadable), so basically it’s endless win-win:

Next up we have a few very short ads that I am seriously in love with. I don’t know if it’s the vaguely stop-motiony film style, the bizarrely adorable suicide, or the fact that Cadbury Creme Eggs are – let’s face it – fucking delicious. Either way, I love all combined forty seconds of these ads:

Ah, so amazing! And now that I’ve bombarded you with clips and a vague update on my life (yes, I realize I’ve said next-to-nothing about my actual transatlantic happenings), I’m going to go ahead a try and tackle that first paragraph of responsibility. I’ll be back tomorrow to write something more update-ory, I promise!

End of an era.

It’s not until you see halls the way they were when you first walked in that you realize just how much you’ve been through. Excuse the extensive overuse of second person in that sentence and try and think about it: when you go somewhere new, you have no idea of knowing what lies ahead. That’s the beauty of it – you can fail miserably (fall 2007, anyone?) or you can thrive (read: the last nine months of my life). It is a blank canvas, and you have no way to tell which way it’s going to go.

Seeing empty halls – and by empty, this transcends the empty of Christmas break or Easter break – is like walking straight back into September 2008. A mere nine months ago, yes, but it’s impossible for me to even begin to explain how much I’ve changed, how much I’ve learned, how many people I’ve come to love, and how much more sure I am about my life and what I want from it. When I walked into these halls nine months ago and saw them as I see them now, I had no way of knowing that though things could easily go well or go poorly, they would go incredibly, incalculably, amazingly well. And that regardless of that fact, when the fantastic people that made this year what it was slowly extricated their presence and possessions, these halls would go back to their simple purple-black-and-white state, ready to welcome the unknown for a fresh batch of students next fall.

Within the flat it’s easy to see that some of us are more emotional than others, and I find it an ironic twist that the biggest emotional tear-jerkers (myself and Laura Wells) will be the last to leave D5 behind. I know that next year will be amazing, but that doesn’t make letting go of this year any easier, and I know that when Laura and I have to lock up the doors to our empty rooms at 9.30 tomorrow morning, that fact is going to hit us hard. You can’t go back. You can’t relive what has already been amazing. Luckily, we have thousands of little reminders of all the great times we had this year, most of which will likely be blue-tacked to our walls in our new rooms next year. It’s part of the process: you have to take what you’ve experienced and build on it. Always make the wall collage grow.

As I write this, laying down in my depressingly sterile room, I’m getting the rare feeling that I’m rambling. I don’t have any good excuse, besides the fact that my brain is nearly liquid from so much procrastination, packing, and bittersweet excitement. I don’t even know what to really write about, except that no matter what happens in the future, I will always, always have this year to remember…and to be completely honest, that makes everything all right.

It’s the end of an era – bittersweet, if nothing else – and there’s nothing to do but to embrace it. I’m off to California for the next two months, leaving my friendships with these amazing Brits in the hands of Skype and Facebook to be nourished by the awesome time-zone-transcending wonder that is the internet. Round 1 of the transatlantic adventure has finally come to a close. It was, if you haven’t gathered, absolutely fantastic, and I extend endless thanks to any and all that have spent their time reading here. And because it wouldn’t be me without a bit of “I’m awesome!” self-promotion, I’ll encourage you to come back…because, well, while I can’t promise exactly when the next installment of Transatlantic Kathy will show up, I can promise one thing: it’s going to be fucking awesome.

Love you all, guys – and West Coasters…..ONE DAY.

Kathy xxx

19 days.

Consistency, as fate would have it, is not my thing. Example? A month and a half of no transatlanticking. Yes, I just turned transatlantic into a verb.

Because of this failing, not only have countless eventful weeks passed – weeks that included most of the traveling I’ve done since I’ve been here – but it has gotten to the point where I have not written in so long that I don’t even know where to start. And yes, while I had to re-write that sentence three times, it does make sense.

I’ll start with the end. The end being in 19 days. In a half-assed fashion, D5 loses Sam tomorrow. I say half-assed because he’ll be leaving, stripping his walls of the posters, notes, and memories that made this year what it is, but after a week-long stint in Austria, he’ll be back in D5 with just a backpack and a sleeping bag to get him through the last 5 days of term. Laura, Sam, and I spent a good hour just sitting in the kitchen, doing nothing this afternoon, doing our best to avoid thinking about this. Because thinking of the people in this flat slowly stripping and vacating their rooms makes me want to cry. Next year will be amazing, that much I don’t doubt, but it will be a very different kind of amazing, and I’m not even going to try to pretend that this year is something we can re-create. You can’t do that. That’s half of what makes it so great. It’s also half of what makes it so shit.

Some stuff we can continue, like throwing together random dinners, á la Monday night. Laura, Kate and I have taken it upon ourselves to extend our cuisine-knowledge of Norwich by mapping out a schedule of new restaurants to try through the end of term. Monday night we started out with sushi, by hitting up (literally) the ONLY (legit) sushi restaurant in the entirety of Norwich. We dragged along a good portion of the flat and friends, and while it was slightly overpriced, it was totally worth it. I for one felt awesome, because not only was I doing the honor of exposing most everyone at the table to real sushi for the first time, but I got to explain most everything about the menu and food to all the Japanese food noobs. And, while it was incredibly tempting, I did not use my position of power to feed them bullshit and pretend to put my four years of high school Japanese to use. On the contrary, I was a fantastic guide of awesomeness, because whether it be sushi, pasties, or guacamole, awesomeness is what I do.

Except when I happen to be using the London tube system. Amidst my many month-of-April travels, I hit up Dane Hill (the land of Laura Wells, near Brighton), Folkestone (Coventry-land, in Kent), and Harrogate (from where Eleanor hails, near York). Somewhere in there, on the way to Folkestone, I believe, I was in London, trying to get from Liverpool Street Station to Charing Cross. Had the tube been fully functioning, this probably would have taken under fifteen minutes. As my luck would have it, as it would happen to have it EVERY time I go to London, the tube proved completely useless as the line I needed to use to get to Charing Cross was closed for repairs. That said, I needed a quick way to get from station to station to catch my Folkestone train – and what better (if you have ten quid to spare) than a taxi.

I was a little unexcited about taking a taxi because while I’d just gotten paid that day, I didn’t want to part with a tenner just for a quick drive. So when I got in the taxi, I nervously eyed the little ticking pay machine at the front of the cab and watched slightly miserably as it skipped upwards in forty-pence increments. I was the opposite of (new favorite word) chuffed until the taxi turned a corner and we suddenly came up alongside the Thames and I saw, lit up in the nine-in-the-evening night sky, the London Eye and Big Ben. It was absolutely incredible. I sat there in awe, absorbing the epic view, missing the jump from £6 to £9, until we turned back onto a sidestreet and came right up next to Charing Cross. Call me a tourist, but I was totally willing to shell out the £10 after an unexpectedly awesome sideshow like that.

I had many other adventures throughout my travels, many of which are probably worth telling but sadly, due to my lapse of timing, I can’t quite recall in a fashion worth transcribing. What I do definitely recall, and definitely find worth writing about, is the whole village concept.

When I first came over here and people explained where they were from, I had a time of it explaining why growing up in a village sounded…well, silly to me. Correct me if I’m wrong, but in America, the term village is practically a novelty term, relegated to either historical fiction and fantasy novels or ridiculous 1990’s housing developments in the El Dorado Hills area. Over here, though, it’s a commonly used term for, well, villages. Small pockets of houses and a few stores that exist a good twenty minutes from either the next village or possibly a town or city. When this was explained to me, it made sense and I figured it mapped out sort of in the same fashion as the different areas within Sacramento or El Dorado County. Then, when I did my bit of travelling throughout April, I got to really see how the whole village thing worked out. Some places do sort of work out like El Dorado Hills and Cameron Park, where there are fairly large-sized town-ish things that exist a few miles apart. But those are definitely not villages. Villages are literally a few pockets of housing, a few shops, and that’s it. If you’re looking for a summer job and you live in a village, chances are that unless you’re working at the local shop, you’ll go looking for employment elsewhere and thus pretty much have to commute. I don’t think I’m explaining this as well as I’d like to, because as I reread it, the system sounds pretty similar to what we have in the states, so everyone reading this is probably confused as to what my point even is. But still. I swear. It’s different. And interesting enough that I thought I’d take a stab at trying to explain it.

Something I definitely CAN explain is my frustration with what I have so far experienced of an English summer. There are beautiful days that inspire Pret picnics with French Fancies enjoyed on the grass of the Cathedral Close, and then there are days that inspire every Norwich citizen and their mother to avoid the shit weather and rain by heading to Chapelfield Mall and buying a fucking pasty from my work. I might be a little better at handling the mixture of bipolar and ADD that is the English summer if I had not, for the better part of the last ten years, had the wondrous experience of the 103°F (39°C), sunshine-all-the-time, let’s-go-eat-nonstop-fro-yo (Jaime Bissell I love you), spend-the-whole-day-melting-by-the pool El Do summer. I want that. I want that right now, especially since I was just informed this morning that it has already reached the point in El Do that you can comfortable lounge about at 6.00 AM in a tank top and shorts, if you happen to be awake and outside at such an ungodly hour. Oh, and by the way, I had to stop myself from writing strap top instead of tank top. I blame the nine months in England and Laura Wells for this slow degradation of my vocabulary.

So now I’m sitting here in my pigsty of a room, trying to remember what the fuck I’ve been doing for the past month and a half, and why I haven’t bothered trying to write about it. It’s ridiculous, because it points out the disturbing reality of how much can happen in a short time, and exactly how much of it you promptly and depressingly forget. I look back on the journals I kept in high school with faint amusement and a fair portion of derision, but to be honest…at least now I know what I was doing. It may have, 90% of the time, been something along the lines of, “OMG, HE SAT NEXT TO ME TODAY”, but still. At least I didn’t a. rip any of the pages out, or b. forget a really important four years of my life. I now have on paper, documented throughout four separate journals, how lame I was. But this way I know exactly how much I enjoyed it, and every single amazing friend I met along the way.

I like to think that these days I’m a lot less lame, though apparently my skill at recording any bit of it has gone to shit. I don’t know if I’m going to take a break from writing here over the two months I’ll be home, but whenever I am full-time writing on here, I’m now promising myself that I’m actually going to do it. Waiting longer than a month makes it seem like a burden, and it’s not until I’m 100 words in that I realize how much I enjoy it, and why I do it. Writing here still serves the purpose I first intended for it: it keeps me in touch with home, it makes me happy, and somehow, at the same time, it makes everything make a little bit more sense. I’ve been getting desperately homesick a bit lately, which is a horrible feeling when compounded with how much I simultaneously want anything but this year to end. But there you have it…torn in two directions, loving it and hating it in inexplicable amounts either way.

19 days, guys. And I don’t know if I’m more happy or sad.

‘Sup jig? Life with strep.

Monday morning, I experienced the previously unknown pleasure of waking up with strep throat.


Four days, endless penicillin/ibuprofen/paracetamol, and about fifty status updates later, I can kind of swallow in a relatively painless fashion. And I no longer look like my throat is covered in cottage cheese. Oh, I know you appreciate that visual. Just be glad you don’t have Zach Coventry living two doors down to commentate on it further…it’s not pretty. On that note, do your I know-you’re-mature-enough best to not take my streptococcal whining out of context.

So, as I was saying, I’ve never had strep throat before and I have to say I don’t think I ever realized how lucky I was. It is, seriously, the most disgusting and painful oral ordeal I have EVER suffered. And pretty much nobody over here had heard of it…let alone seen the disgusting manifestation of it (which, duh, I showed everybody. I thought we already covered the part where I’m awesome?). Go Google image some pictures of it. Shit is NASTY — and I have yet to find a picture that was as bad as mine. Oh yes, I know you wanted to know that. Otherwise, why would have already read a good 205 words on me and my strepness?

Anyway – while you’re on Google checking out the sickness that they should just rename CCT (cottage cheese throat), you should check this out. This, by the by, would be a link to the amazingness that is Google street view. And guess where that link will plop you right in front of? I’m thinking it might be in front of the little red-doored house I’ll be living in next year. WIN!

Google street view, like the whole concept of living independently next year, is literally ten kinds of amazing. There is something absolutely incredible about being able to basically walk up and down a street that you’ve never even been within 1,000 miles of. So yeah, if you click there, you can have a look around the neighborhood I’ll be living in next year. I feel slightly self-important posting that, but then again if you’re reading this, you’ve likely been reading (and hopefully clicking…?) ridiculous things on this blog for a while now, aaaand so I don’t really feel all that bad. Okay, done rambling.

A few weeks ago, kudos Laura Wells, I discovered the whole DVD-renting bit of the UEA Library. Besides only being able to rent movies overnight (due back by 10.15 the next morning = FAIL), it’s really handy. Recently I’ve gotten into the habbit of picking up a few movies on the way home from work, and yesterday I rented Enchanted. And if you haven’t seen Enchanted, oh my gosh. GISELLE! No, no, wait for it, wait for it…

Wow, AMAZING. Ahahaha….yes, I stole that picture straight off of a Facebook flair…but come on. James Marsden and his expression in that are just plain win. And yes, the entire point of that movie-renting tangent was to post that picture from Enchanted.

Unrelated to all of that silliness, we have how potentially awesome my month-long spring break could be. If everything works out, I’ll be heading up to York (Harrowgate, specifically) to visit Eleanor for about a week. And for those of you that don’t know, York is one of the primary locations for the fantastic novel that is The Sunne in Splendour, which is my favorite novel EVER. So that would be really, really, REALLY great. And then, even better, would be to jet from there to Paris to stay with Becks in her flat, a few blocks from Ladurée. Ladurée, by the by, is the confection/bakery that did all of the food for Sophia Coppola’s Marie Antoinette. Example:

Aaaaan Becks wins.

Last thing I want to mention is that pretty soon here I get to sign up for classes for next term. I’m STOKED beyond STOKED because as of that end of this term, I’m done with all of my compulsory modules and now I get free range to choose from loads of really interesting courses that I want to take! As in, endless and endless amounts of creative writing! And, almost as good, a Shakespeare class with Peter Womack, who is an absolute legend, as a lecturer. Oh my goodness, all of that combined with independence might make me die a little.

Viva la awesome life!


So here we go.

I spend far too much of my time looking up absolutely ridiculous things on the internet. With the help of websites like Cracked, Wikipedia, Digg, and the like, it’s pretty impossible to run out of invariably interesting, funny, and stupid things to read.  Now that I’ve given you a sentence with six commas, I’m going to set you up with some of the stuff that recently has made me crack a smile or two. God knows sometimes that’s what you need in life.

I found these first three on a Top 10 Impersonations list on Unreality. If you’ve got time, you should check out the other ones they have listed. These three are just my favorites.

Don LaFontaine, with a bit of Arnold Schwarzenegger.  Must watch.

Nicholas Cage – Oh my gosh, I love this one.

15 Seconds of Christopher Walken

Another awesome thing I found, and I think this one I found through digg, is the epicness that is Wordle. Basically, you put in a paragraph or a whole document or a website, and Wordle takes it and turns it into a hot piece of graphic win. Here is a Transatlantic Kathy wordle:

Pretty win, no? I thought so.

Personally, I think that every once and a while there’s nothing better than a bit of internet time-wastage. At least this way I got you off of Facebook for five minutes.

I know, I’m awesome. I do what I can.


Reggie, Manfred Mann, and other reasons not to complain.

I have been here for nearly six months and today, for the first time, I attended church at Norwich Cathedral. It was long overdue, I know…but as they say, better late than never.

The service was amazing. It took a little longer to walk there than I thought, so I was about ten minutes late. Thus, when I entered from the small door in the back the choir was in the middle of singing a hymn. I can sit here and try to tell you how amazing it is hearing a monstrously huge pipe organ and the incredibly talented Norwich Choir harmonize in a 900 year old cathedral, or you can just trust me when I say that it gave me goosebumps. I still can’t get over the fact that people regularly attend church in such an awe-inspiring, spectacular place.

Among other religious firsts, I’ll note that this was the first sermon I ever heard where it was preached that part of the listeners’ Christian duty, in terms of achieving world peace, is to help put a stop to climate change. I’ve grown up in a pretty conservative church environment, so needless to say, pro-environmentalism (if you decide to call a simple decision to live sustainably an environmentalist attitude, rather than a simply logical one) was never really a sermon theme. Don’t get me wrong – I loved my church growing up, and it was hardly preached to drive a Hummer and never recycle. In the same vein, though, I highly doubt many members of the LCMS church find themselves voting on the left side of the ballot. It was, simply put, interesting to see church from a visibly more traditional view (900 year old building, traditional liturgy, etc.) while hearing a slightly less traditional sermon.

When I got up for Communion, I was advised by the woman sitting nearest me that I should bring my bag with me to the front of the church, as sadly before people have come in during service and “nicked” the bags of Communion-goers. Seriously. How much of a conscience do you lack if you steal purses from women while they Commune? Things like that in the world make me pray that my faith in karma is not misplaced. Anyway, the reason I mention it is because after service the same lady spoke to me and chatted with me for five or ten minutes, asking me if I was visiting, or if I attend church at home, etc. It was just really nice that in such a huge, intimidating church setting the members are still incredibly personable and, well, nice. I really, really enjoyed myself, and now that I have myself a bus pass, I’ll try and go every Sunday.

Last weekend was spent in utter relaxation, sleeping 10+ hours both Friday and Saturday night, wearing pajamas for most of both Saturday and Sunday, and curling up in bed eating take-out fish and chips and finishing Devil’s Brood (Sharon Kay Penman = HISTORICAL FICTION LOVE).

This weekend has been 48 hours of compensatory productiveness. I woke up and left for town at the unheard of hour of 9:00 AM with a certain Laura Wells and then proceeded to pick up my paycheck, do some much-needed exploration of hole-in-the-wall Norwich shops off of Haymarket, and pick up a week or two’s worth the groceries at Iceland. It was pretty awesome when I arrived back at the flat at 12 and only found one or two people awake. Since it was a particularly gorgeous (albeit FREEZING) day, I brought a blanket out next to the lake and laid down in the sun. Within half an hour enough clouds had showed up to block out the sun, so that was the end of that. Still though…it was absolutely fantastic. Even more so because I made myself a bacon sandwich when I got inside.

One of my amazing finds yesterday, among other things, was a perfect little record shop near Haymarket. It’s just one small room overstuffed with vinyl, with brown-and-honey-colored speakers that remind me of my grandparent’s house hooked up amidst framed album covers and blasting Manfred Mann. I picked myself up a vinyl Cat Stevens album, partly because it was Cat Stevens and vinyl, and partly because it came with an original poster of shirtless, lei-bearing Cat Stevens playing acoustic at some unnamed blue-walled venue. It’s on my wall being epic as I type…I am in love.

Sadly, I have no academic misadventures to report or to amuse you with. That’s doubly disappointing since I seem to fail at constancy these days…you’d think I would have embarrassed myself tenfold since I last wrote.

I can, though, report that I nearly have my housing situation worked out for next year. That, combined with my realization that in terms of rent and bills I will be financially independent next year, AND with the fact that on the twenty-third I turn 20, makes me feel very, very strange. And adult. You’d think that the whole living in a foreign country bit would go a little farther in acquainting me with feeling strange…but alas, the feeling is just as bizarre now as it was a year ago.

Wish me luck though, guys. No matter how the current numerous roommates situation works out, I’ll be living with three boys. Having no brotherly experience, I’m sure this will be quite an adventure…though, if nothing else, the material I’ll get over the next two years will be boundless, and unavoidably amusing.

Speaking of the other gender, I have a new man in my life, and his name is Reggie. He’s not actually a man in any way, shape, or form. He’s my anthropomorphized phone, and he fucking OWNS. I can now skype anyone at any time via Reggie, and in what is bound to cause my death, I have unlimited access to Facebook as well. Because skype is awesome, I was finally able to get one of my epic friends from my old church on the phone the other night to play six months of conversational catch-up. Communication can at times be a bitch, but skype goes quite far in terms of making it simple. I’ll be doubly making use of that now, as Prue, one of my best friends here that hails from Australia, has left England and after six months of being abroad, returned to her half of the globe. FAIL.

None of you can see (that is, none of you that are reading this and are not one of the ten people I live with), but MY ROOM IS CLEAN. This is absolutely unheard of, as I usually live in a state of general explosion, where the only clean surface is my sink…and that’s only on Wednesdays, when I have to move everything off of it so that Paula, the cleaner, can wash it off.

That, plus the fact that my new tongue-piercing has officially healed and I have the new, much shorter bar in, makes life quite nice at the moment. I can say, temporarily, that I have no complaints!

Let’s try and keep this going, shall we?

[belated] Round 2

Today  marks two weeks from my fully-functioning arrival, and to be honest, I thought I’d at least have written once or twice by now. Goodness knows plenty has happened!

I am fully embroiled in the land of English Lit classes, for one. It’s nearly ridiculous how much reading I have to do all the time; though, since I’m only actually in class for what, seven hours a week, I guess that’s to be expected. I’ve also returned to work at the mall, even had a work dinner last night at a semi-gimmicky place called Fatso’s that served EPIC burgers of deliciousness! With CURLY FRIES, WIN!

On a far less exciting note, I think I’ve left my cell phone* on the bus on my way to work this week. Optimistic me, however, notes that this would be an excellent time to move my patronage from a pay-as-you-go O2 phone to a SKYPE PHONE! Basically, it will be amazing. I’ll be able to use skype for free via my phone…so, I’ll be able to call the states for, at most, 2¢ a minute. And well, since I accidentally spent £8 on a call to a certain Jaime, that skype rate sounds pretty fucking awesome. Silver lining for the win!

D5 now lacks a certain Maggie McBride, which is too sad to really write about. I miss her in epic, illogical proportions. But again with the silver lining: the new flatmates, who don’t really even feel new anymore, are amazing. Basically D5 has the best people luck on the planet.

Lots of those English people, for the record, have developed a certain affinity for the phrase “to be honest” / “to be fair”. Maybe I just didn’t notice it last term…but I swear, I must hear somebody say one of those two phrases AT LEAST three times a day. So there you have it, yet another linguistic discovery from a foreigner.

And completely unrelated, another incident of me being ridiculous:

The other evening I had the pleasure of lacking any semblance of balance and falling headfirst into a thorn bush. I survived just fine, though I look like I got attacked by my cat Angus up my entire left side. The next morning, I’d invited my friend Eleanor back to my flat after class for some tea, and I decided to regal her with my tale of failure. It was pretty theatrical and I was really enjoying myself when suddenly Eleanor’s eyes got huge and she just busted up laughing out of nowhere. Amidst the ridiculous laughing, I catch three incredulous words: “That was YOU??”

Apparently, Eleanor’s flat has quite a nice view of the thorn bush into which I fell. And well, as fate would have it, Eleanor and her entire flat was sitting in the kitchen of her flat chatting away when I had my little shenanigan. And, wouldn’t you know it, they watched me flounder in the thorn bush until I found my way out, and had a great laugh about it. What can I say, apparently I live to entertain!

Oh, and one more note before I ditch Konsuke for some breakfast. I am in love with one of my lit professors. He’s basically a poor man’s David Bowie, and listening to him lecture is the highlight of my week. Seriously. If it didn’t sound so creepy, I’d snap a picture all spy-status to prove my point.

Alas, while I may be many things…I’m not THAT insane.

*Resisted the urge to say mobile.


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photo cred to myself and Maggie J. Moxie