Sick.

So last night I passed out way earlier than usual (around 11:00). I figured that maybe I was just really worn out from the long session I had with a research study in which I had enrolled, which another thing entirely.

Monday afternoon, I had my first appointment with a researcher who was doing a one-time study with the students from my Intro. to Psych. class for credits. I'm not real big into the idea of studies, but it's a requirement for the course (yeah, required to volunteer...hm). So I spent an hour and a half playing "Cyberball," looking at ink blots, and deciphering recipes (where I have to guess what the meal would look like after made), all done on the computer. Turned out that it wasn't a "visualization" study at all but instead was a "ostracization" study. What the bloody heck did you need to have us look at shapes and recipes for an extra hour then??? Very annoying, and quite a waste of my time, in my opinion.

So today I woke up with a headache, just like yesterday. I took 400 mg Ibuprofen and went to work, then went to class at 9:00. I was still SO tired though. I actually fell asleep in class. Between my first class (West. Civ.) and my next class (American Lit. Traditions), I tried to take a nap. I did, but it didn't do the job. By the time I got to class, I was sweating bullets, and twenty minutes into class, I had to run out for fear of wretching all over the Israeli nationality room's floor. So I bussed it home and crawled right into bed. I ended up sleeping from 1:30 to 6:30, got up and watched American Idol with the family, and am now so wide awake that I don't know what to do with myself. So I'm about to watch the season premiere of Burn Notice that I'd missed. Hopefully that will tire me out since I've got to get up again at 5:30. *sigh*

Of Spicy Subs and Juicy Jumpers

As I said in my previous post, I've set up my class schedule so that I can work eight-hour days on Monday and Friday, have off Wednesday, and have all my classes on Tuesday and Thursday. While it's nice to be able to work without interruption and have that extra day-off like a mini-weekend, the whole classes-from-nine-to-five is pretty intense. I'm so glad they're all fun classes, because if this were my schedule last semester, I think I would have blown my brains out by now.

Because of these long Tuesdays and Thursdays, I no longer have the luxury of riding home with my dad those evenings. Usually we commute back and forth since he works at Magee Hospital (and I work only a block over from him). It's always worked out well because I've made a point to schedule everything to end by 4:00 so that I could leave with him. So how do I get home now? The public transit system, of course.

I'm no germaphobe, but I'm not gonna lie: those buses are sick. There's gum, graffiti, and God-knows-what everywhere. It's populated by crabby old codgers and creepers. Did I mention creepers? (...so then what does that make me? *shudders*) The bus stops aren't much better: it seems like 75% of those waiting at my bus stop are freaking chain smokers. And, as Fate would have it, no matter which direction I choose to angle myself away from that corrupt fog, the wind blows it right into my face.

[I despair, I really do.]

In the past, when I'd get fed up with it, I'd just step inside the Subway (restaurant) that's on that block to save my lungs. Unfortunately, the little Indian manager caught on to me and actually stepped out from behind the counter to tell me so. About five bus stop waits later, I figured it out: to get in and be allowed to stay in, you've got to buy something. Ah, I now see how his foul little mind works...

So since then, when I have to take the bus and I know it's going to be awhile, I just pop in, buy myself a flavored Aquafina, and chill by the window sipping my water like a good girl until my bus comes. Occasionally, I'll even by dinner (turkey bacon sub with lettuce, green peppers, cucumbers, and lots of jalapenos) there since I don't get home until 7:00 now. Although, I'm not even sure if I'd have to do even that anymore. There's a new manager, at least for the new time I get down to the bus stop. It's always the same two guys working now: two Hispanic guys, about my age, who look almost identical (and who do they look like? ADAM RODRIGUEZ from CSI: Miami!). And they both speak crystal-clear English, but only when waiting on customers. Otherwise, they're chatting fluently in Spanish to one another. The first time this happened, I have to admit: I felt uneasy. Hey, wait a minute? What are they saying that they don't want me to understand? Is there something on my face? *checks*

This Tuesday when I came back, same thing. Only this time the other guy took my "order." While making change though, he kept shooting me these sheepish grins (that and -- again -- speaking casually yet intensely to his co-worker in Spanish). Finally, after having taken his blessed time making change for $1.50 out of $2.00, he held out the two quarters, palm facing up (presumably so I had to pick them out of his hand) instead of just dropping the money into my hand. He then looked up at me, blushing, and said (and I quote): "I -- I love your sweater...it's....very....JUICY!" Taken aback, my head jerked downward almost involuntarily to remind myself of what I was wearing: a fitted hooded hunter green knit sweater with other colors stitched in around the cuffs and neckline, which plunged deeper than I guess I'd noticed before. Could he have meant "juicy" as in "sweet"? Like the way we use it now as "cool"? Or is he referencing...? Nahhhhh...OH GOSH.

"Um...thanks!" I mustered awkwardly. Flustered and blushing, I shot an absent glance towards the store front as if there were a teleprompter over there waiting for me. "Gotta go...uh...thanks...er, for the water...I mean..." At that point I figured you've dug the hole already, you idiot -- now don't throw yourself into it! and just darted out the door.

"Juicy."

Yeah...

NEW POST?! COULD IT BE TRUE?!

Yes, 'tis true. So let's dive in.

I'm finally a sophomore, so I guess I should change that in my profile. :-)

This semester, I'm taking:
*Western Civilization (History)
*American Literary Traditions (Literature)
*Advanced Shakespeare (Literature)
*Introduction to Psychology (Psych.)

I'm only taking 4 classes this time so that I can stay home and help my sisters with their homeschooling, which is working out nicely.

I'm about to run to class, so here's a paper I just pounded out in the last half hour (feedback is welcome). Hope to post again soon!


Wealth and Social Strata

I think it was the lyrics of the song Gatsby’s pianist played – “The Love Nest” – that said it best: “One thing’s sure and nothing’s surer/ The rich get richer and the poor get – children.” Such was the case in the early 1900s society; such was the case for Jay Gatsby and Daisy Buchanan.

The first time we meet Daisy, we are told that she’s married to a real jerk, Tom, and that she has a young child. Daisy reflects on when she first had the baby that she had wished the child to grow up to be a “foolish girl” since the foolish women wouldn’t notice or care that their husbands were having affairs. Even though Daisy was considered “sophisticated” and “fashionable” (her husband had gone to Yale, was successful, and they lived in East Egg – a ritzy area), she felt poor in that there was an emptiness inside her.

Gatsby, likewise, had everything a man could wish for, yet had not the only thing he wanted in life: Daisy. In fact, the whole reason he even bought that gaudy mansion by the Sound was so that he could show off for Daisy and feel closer to her (staring out at the “enchanted” image of the green light on the dock). When he left for war (if I was reading this correctly), it seemed as though he lost his purpose in life and didn’t care whether he lived or died. It turned out that he, in his depressed state, led a group of men into a heated area of battle and made it out alive; he was even decorated and rewarded. That, combined with what his family left him and the business he conducted, made him a very wealthy man; he was able to turn his dreams of success into a reality (which is what, I’m guessing, makes him “the Great Gatsby”). This is something he really enjoys showing off, perhaps too much. Because of that, I feel as though Gatsby’s dreams of fame and fortune came true but then got in the way of his dream to be with Daisy. I think Nick – or F.S. Fitzgerald – is both directly and subtly implying that when the pursuit of happiness and the pursuit of wealth collide, something’s got to give. Both were rich by society’s standards, but when they looked inside their hearts, they were as poor as peasants.