Hello Again

So I haven't posted anything in a very long time. In fact, I haven't written anything in my own journal in a long time. College does crazy stuff to your head, people. Actually, it doesn't, it just steals all of your time. And energy. I seriously contemplated going back to my dorm to sleep in between classes today, despite the fact that that would require taking the bus, which in turn requires more energy than just sitting in the little lounge-y place right by the cafeteria.

Anyways, college. It's pretty much what I expected, I guess. I think what I didn't expect was the level of independence. Last week I took the T to Harvard Avenue--which is VERY sketchy at night--by myself to meet up with some friends for dinner. Naturally, I could hardly handle it. I'm so used to NOT being allowed to do things that now that I can quite literally do whatever I want, I have such a hard time. But I managed to get there in one piece (with much help from my best friend, who is my friend because she puts up with all of my craziness like this)and felt pretty good about myself. Ok, so I had a little panic-attack, but the fact that I got on the subway in the first place was a big deal.

Last night I stayed up until one a.m. (which is why I'm so tired) because my roommate was going downstairs to the lounge to play pool with one of her friends, and I decided I'd go along too. Why not? I had no homework left, I'd finished studying for my test--it was already 11 and I should've been going to sleep, but whatever. It was one of those times when I thought to myself, "Hey, I'm in college. I can go out and do something whenever I want, because there is nobody here to tell me not to." It's the little things that are mattering a lot to me.

On a different note, last week it snowed over here--even the locals were up in arms over it. It wasn't much, but it was October and nobody expected it. I loved it. I always tell people that I love snow, and they all roll their eyes and say, "Sure you do. Come talk to me in February when you've gone through a real New England wintah and then we'll see how much you love snow!" But I seriously don't think I'll get tired of it any time soon.

So that's that for now, I guess. Hopefully I'll have the time to post at least once a week from now on. I realize that this is all a bunch of very un-creative rambling, but oh well. I'll start worrying about making sense after I've had some coffee. A lot of coffee.

If You Give a Sam a Cannoli

Once my dad and I went on a search for the perfect notebook. I don't remember why; he needed a notebook for something and I just plain wanted one, as I often do. So one school night--I think it was a Wednesday-- at 7 0r 8, after dinner, we decided to go to Borders and look. It was like going out for dessert, only this time of a literary sort.

We checked the store closest to home first but didn't find it. He was looking for something very specific and so was I, and I think it's funny that even though neither one of us told the other that we were looking for a hardcover black Moleskine, we both knew that that was what we were out for. So we checked the clock and decided we had one more stop in us before we had to get home to bills and homework and kept going.

I remember laughing in the silence of the car just because the whole thing was ridiculous. Here we were, following our treasure map in what felt like the middle of the night, when we were supposed to be home and working. School nights were not made for playing authors.

The second stop was the charm, thankfully, and in the tiny revolving display on the counter by the cash registers we found them. I ended up settling for the soft cover blue books instead, solely because I'd be getting three notebooks to write in instead of one. I've always been that way-- get more for your money, even if you don't know what to do with the more. But either way, we both went back happy and talked on the way home, and my dad's hardcover book went to work and back with him every day and mine (most of mine) stayed at home in the clear plastic bin upstairs labeled "Small Notebooks."

If there's a point or a moral to the story I haven't found it yet; I have no idea why I'm deciding to post this. If I had the energy I would fluff it up more and weave in all kinds of lacy metaphors and images. Maybe I could turn it into a short story one day. For now the point is that there are two cannolis defrosting on the kitchen counter right now, which reminded me of the notebook trip, another thing that no one was interested in except for my dad and me. It's like those If You Give a Mouse a Cookie books, where one thing triggers a memory of another thing and another and another. Maybe the point is that if I think hard enough, I actually remember a lot.