Fire Alarms

I had just returned from class and sat down to write this blog when the fire alarm went off.

Again.

For the third time in the past fourteen hours.

Last night, I had just stepped into the shower when the fire alarm went off. I madly dashed around my room stark naked trying to find clothes and hoping that my RAs wouldn't walk in to make sure I was evacuating.

We were finally let back in, I took a shower and fell asleep. At four am, the blaring erupted again. Frustrated and exhausted, I dragged myself downstairs with the rest of the herd and hoped that no one noticed how revealing my drawstring shorts were with no underwear on.

In my lifetime, I've had some pretty interesting experiences with fire alarms. Last winter, the fire alarm went off five times in one day. As soon as everyone had piled back in, taken off their coats and scarves, the alarm began again. And again. And again. And again.

In high school, our fire alarm had a knack for going off anytime the theatre department hosted the One Act Play competition. Without fail, as soon as the visiting schools had put on their costumes (often Victorian formal wear or togas), the alarm would go off.

The fire alarm went off on the very first day of sixth grade because it was a new building and there was some sort of malfunction with the ovens. That particular instance was recorded in several newspapers who had been on campus reporting the opening of the school's new building.

And then early elementary school was rife with instances of "fire drills," which were actually evacuations due to gas leaks.

However, my very favorite fire alarm moment comes from my sojourn at Cambridge University. One night, around two am, we had just returned from a day trip to London. A few of my friends and I were on our way back from doing laundry in the next building over when we heard the fire alarm go off. We stood outside the building and watched hoardes of screaming teenage girls run out of the building --- the majority of them dripping wet and wrapped in towels.

My roommate, a hyperactive "goth" (I don't really know how those properly go together), found me on the lawn and told me her account of what she had been doing when the alarm went off. Apparently, she -for what reason, I'll never know- had been jumping on my bed when the fire alarm went off and, for one wild moment, had thought it was the police coming for her because she wasn't supposed to be jumping on my bed.

We all had a good laugh at this and soon the Porters were letting us back inside (now that I look back on this, I don't ever remember seeing any firemen). My roommate and I got stopped as we filed inside with the others. One of the Porters escorted us into our room where my bed had been turned on its side. Behind the place where my bed had been was some sort of square electrical thing. The Porter told us that it was very sensitive and that hitting it was what set off the fire alarm.

Crazily enough, my roommate had indeed set off the fire alarm by jumping on my bed.

Now if only the problem with the alarm in Mabee could be solved so simply. I fully expect that alarm to go off as soon as I lie down for a nap.

Lily Allen

Lily Allen is going to be at ACL!

In honor of that, here's her song "Smile," which -incidentally- fits my life perfectly right now (or maybe that should be "sadly").

When you first left me
I was wanting more
But you were fucking that girl next door
What'd you do that for?

When you first left me
I didn't know what to say
I've never been on my own that way
Just sat by myself all day

I was so lost back then
But with a little help from my friends
I found a light in the tunnel at the end

Now you're calling me up on the phone
So you can have a little whine and a moan
It's only because you're feeling alone

At first when I see you cry
It makes me smile
Yeah it makes me smile

At worst I feel bad for a while
But then I just smile
I go ahead and smile

Whenever you see me
You say that you want me back
And I tell you it don't mean jack
No it don't mean jack

I couldn't stop laughing
No I just couldn't help myself
See you messed up my mental health
I was quite unwell

etc.

Elaboration to the Subtitle

I hated him.

That stupid shimmering crucifix appeared around his neck looking like the thin gold necklaces of mustached men in the seventies against his tan skin. He always takes souvenirs. What girl did you fuck and take that off of?

The coke makes him angrier, but I deserved the cold shoulder. I deserved the rage that followed me for the rest of the day. Ashamed of myself, but knowing that he has earned every harsh word I've ever uttered to him. We still weren't square.

We were no longer going to remain friends. That much he had made clear when he refused to speak to me, refused to look at me as we, along with the other angelheaded hipsters, hollow-eyed and high, trekked to the Story Tree --- his friend's invitation, not his.

Yet, there it was, a curious offer to go on a late night errand. Modest, subdued and apparently meaningless as usual.

No talking on the drive. No talking while there. I make an attempt on the way back. No talking.

He strikes the match. The smell is intoxicating. Thicker than the swarming smell of gasoline. I love it. The matches are better than the cigarettes.

He takes a drag and begins to talk. Papers, professors, academia. The customary arrogance, an increase of hardships. He's not going to drink tonight. He wants to sleep. He can't sleep. He's killing himself. I'm happy that he finally knows that he's killing himself and happier still that he, for once, is not enthused about this, his mortality.

Apologies. Intense, unaccepted apologies. Misunderstandings resolved that barely open my eyes, but calm me slightly.

A confession, reassurance rather, follows an unnecessary apology (he never would've breached forgiveness for such an act in what seems like a previous life). With the confession, he takes my arm, arrests my hand, situates his own----------- the tears fall. It was supposed to be funny.

The night rolls on. Cigarettes matches. Matches cigarettes. Music. So-called students passing all around in the haze of the night. Mad from study break. Music. The hum of the car.

The disc player changes to the mix I made for him when we were in love.

The talk is still sporadic, academic, neurotic. I watch the passing so-called students riding stolen golf carts instead of watching his face.

Why he does it? I don't know. He questions me. I avoid, at all costs, being struck by the Imp of the Perverse. I avoid. I cast aside. I turn away. The night rolls on.

I'm looking at him now. He's talking and I'm looking at him. His hand has moved. He's talking and I'm looking at him. She needs to stop, I agree with his words. I need to stop? He misheard me. I spit out my reply. Too hasty.

Too hasty? Who the fuck cares anymore? I pounce.

I will not regret what has forced me to tears for the past three weeks. I will not sit idly by when, for the first time in three weeks, I am ardently happy.

He hands me the white-tipped, brown bud. Windows up. Reverse. Turn. Tires squeal on to highway twenty-nine.

Rocketing down the narrow country road, streetlights spasmodically flood the car with an opalescent haze. We become ghosts. Illuminated to the world. Whispers of the immured past.

We slow and turn into a small church. Park in the field behind the building. I don't waste a second. The thrill has electrified me. My body is on fire. Ravenous. He has missed me. He has missed me just as much as I missed him. Why did I ever doubt?

My mix is still playing in the background. Take this sinking boat and point it home, we've still got time.

Maybe not, but the cool night air knows no enemies. In the dark night with the crisp smell of grass, I lean my head back and can't bring myself to care about a thing. I have felt happiness.

Bless me Father, for I have sinned.
I hated your stupid crucifix, and I still do.
But, Father,
I will not apologize.
No, I will not apologize for desecrating your land.
For I have sanctified it with more love than your parishioners shall ever know.
You will never know, never understand
the feverish power within and without that detonates when two as one are
starving, hysterical, naked.

Dear Life,

Please stop pouring down on me.

A little breather here and there would be nice. Honestly, I will not be offended if you ignore me/forget about me for a while. Your 6.3 billion minions are getting pretty fucking annoying. Especially the arrogant youths.

Perhaps you could give me some place to hide? A dark shroud to conceal me so no one will see me as I traverse campus. Do you have anything so I can't see them either? That's the bigger problem.

Maybe you could fast forward time? Summer will be nice. Oh, but what to do about next semester? I don't suppose you could delete it all together... do you have the power to create alternate realities?

Yes, I've become quite jaded with your little charades. More than jaded, in fact. Down right peeved, if I may be frank.

I promise not to hurt you, but you must start giving me a little slack. I'm working 24/7 for you and you seem to be assigning me all the grunt work. Give me a handful more of the nice colleagues and better view and I'll be happy.

Sincerely,
laurenlorraine

I Want to Live In the Pacific Northwest So Bad

I found a new school.

It's in Salem, Oregon and it's called Willamette University.

Yes, it's exactly like SU except ranked higher and in a prettier place.

It's in a city, but it's also in the middle of the un-rivaled Oregon wildlife. There are rivers running through campus and the ocean isn't too far away. Also, Salem is the capital so the city is very government-based.

I would get my love of urban political centers, trees and water.

Oregon has the most parks of any state. It's also the most bicycle friendly and most vegetarian friendly.

It's basically 50 degrees all year round.

It also has really good coffee.

Even WU's website, on the their Top 5 list of coffee shops in Salem, said Starbucks isn't real coffee. Evidence that everyone is cool in Oregon.

The Pacific Northwest also has strong Native American influences. Native American culture is clearly the most badass thing ever.

Case in point, I'm dying to live in Oregon. Or Washington.

There a million things that I can't get over.

The fact that I'll never lie in his arms again, never kiss his lips again, never spend the night with him or even watch him write poetry.

One of the hardest things is that I don't know Southwestern without him. I never had a roommate to develop a close bond with. He was my close friend. Without him, Southwestern loses its magic.

Yet, whenever I think about how hard it is to come to terms with the fact that it's really over and that I've lost a sense of self...I think about my mom and how what she is going through/going to go through is a million times harder than this. I mean, try never knowing who you are without a person. To have gone through your formative years and the next thirty-five years of your life as a person that someone else wanted you to be. It makes my emotions so futile. I don't know how I'll begin to help my mom. This pain hurts so bad, how can it be a million times worse? I don't know that I would survive. I really don't. The tears, the heartache, the confusion, the disassociation...

Sometimes it helps to know that your problems aren't as bad as other ones in the world, but you never want the problems of someone you love to be worse than yours.

A Sign From Id

Last night, I dreamt of a living game of solitaire (Through the Looking Glass - esque) with the Gosselin family of Jon and Kate Plus 8 as the players.

I seriously need to get a life.

I have found (and watched) every episode from all four seasons of Jon and Kate Plus 8 online. In every other moment of the day, I play solitaire on my phone.

Currently, I am waiting for an episode to load while I eat pistachio-Cocoa Puff trail mix.

I need a change.