[insert catchy song lyric here]

I have an unnatural lyrics obsession. I think being obsessed with lyrics is one of those things (like ugg boots, lipgloss, and making out in stairwells) that was only cool in high school. To those two people who voted that I should write about music, you probably didn’t know what you were getting yourself into.

Songs I used to be incredibly obsessed with (and still kind of am):

“Wondering Where the Lions Are” by Bruce Cockburn

“Greener” by Tally Hall

“Speeding Cars” by Imogen Heap

“Helicopters” by Barenaked Ladies

“Black and Gold” by Sam Sparro

“Friends O’ Mine” by Bowling for Soup

“I Will Possess Your Heart” by Death Cab for Cutie

as well as like 60% of the music made in the 90s. Sadly. I know. I have no taste. But I have fun.

Lyrics are so fantastic. I have to resist the hourly urge to post a lyrics facebook status because I am mature now (read: not in high school) and thus I should have my own thoughts or at least I should have better quotes such as those from very intellectual people.

On the topic of intellectual people: look out for a surprising mother-daughter-blog-post-extravaganza coming your way soon.

My dad said that I should write about only what I want to write about. But isn’t blogging a lot about audience? If a blogger blogs alone in a forest and no one is there to read it… then how the eff are they getting wi-fi? #clever

Speaking of readers, I’m a little giddy because my blog topped 1,000 views. Thank you everyone who reads 🙂 you guys make me cyber happy.

 

Anyway, current favorite songs right now are:

1. “Ray Charles” by Chiddy Bang

2. “Criminal” by Fiona Apple

3. “Freaks and Geeks” by Childish Gambino

4. “Oh My God” by Mark Ronson ft. Lily Allen

5. “The First Single” by The Format

6. “Oliver James” by Fleet Foxes

7. “Fly” by Sugar Ray (in case you were wondering where the 90s music was)

8. “Don’t Call Me Whitney, Bobby” by Islands

9. like everything by Tally Hall. Total Tally Hall phase. Look ’em up.

Literally Every Vote Counts

…in my election. AKA my poll. One reader voted for me to write more about College so I’m going to write about College. Speaking of which, vote in my poll and YOU TOO could see your chosen topic turned into a rant by me. Er… anyway…

College is kind of a weird limbo state. Let me explain.

You’re working, but you’re not really working.

You can drink as much as you want, and nobody will call you an alcoholic.

You can break laws, but not feel like a criminal.

You’re surrounded by all different kinds of people, but they’re all the same age as you.

You get to “live independently,” but can be arbitrarily ordered to live with someone you’ve never met.

You pay to go there, but the people you’re paying don’t have to do anything nice for you.

See what I mean? Or maybe not, maybe that’s just my weird view. Regardless, I love college (oh hey Asher Roth, you’re right, college is fantastic). College is a nice break from the real world where people indulge you and make you feel like you’re in the real world. I guess it’s a good transition for us late adolescents whose brains haven’t fully developed yet (although mine has already started decaying).

Anyway, I get the feeling that said pro-college-voter-person didn’t just want to hear about the theory of college junk that I’m suddenly spouting. Let’s talk about my college experience.

When I first got to Wes, I wanted to double major in Biology (to indulge my weird new science-geek hobby) and Government (my so-called “true” interest) and be pre-law and go to law school and feel all smart and argue with people so we could all show how smart we were and so on. And then be a public defender (just to show that I wasn’t completely shallow). Then, suddenly, I got MS. Curveballll. The whole Government thing seemed pointless suddenly, like why would I do that? It wouldn’t mean anything to me. Suddenly, I was pre-med.

Backtracking a little bit, all the way back to age 5: this is the year when I found out that the sight of blood made me pass out and have seizures. And not just sight, reading about a bloody thing in a book (like, say, the final scene in the second Harry Potter book) would leave me unconscious (and face-down in a plate of waffles. That’s what I get for reading at the table). This whole passing out at inopportune moments thing continued for the next 13 years. Which meant a lot of concussions, and even a chipped tooth (“you look like you got in a fight with the floor. And the floor won.”-my mother, circa 8th grade).

So, as you can imagine, when former teachers run into my mom at the grocery store and ask about me (I’m so popular) (jkjk) and hear that I’m pre-med, they’re pretty shocked. Hey, me too. I watched a frog heart continue to beat in a beaker of saline last year and stayed upright, mind over matter baby.

Anyway, back to the college thing. The problem I’m having now is that I’m still a little bit attached to Government. The Government department at Wes is so popular that it’s pretty impossible to get into courses, and yet somehow I am enrolled in two Gov courses next semester. Whaaaat. I want to take them so badly. They both sound fantastic. But, here’s the catch. To be a double major in Gov and Bio, you need a GPA that I just don’t have. And since pretty much everyone at Wes double majors (we don’t have minors), I’m feeling some serious pressure to ditch my Gov love and find another major to do. English looks like it’ll work, but to be an English major I’ll have to drop at least one of those precious Gov classes. What to do?? I’m very torn.

Thoughts? Suggestions? Should I just take 6.5 credits next semester and hope death will at least be painless?

Also, as my friend Elizabeth and my mom have both noted, I should really link you guys over to the Office of Admissions blog that I write for. clicky clicky. Coolest job ever.

ALSO to the voter who voted that I should write about “Pandas” (and who is not my 15 year old brother, who I suspected), here is a panda for you:

\

I don’t actually have anything to say about the panda. But I keep promises. Hope you like your panda, anonymous panda lover.

PostScript

PS- please vote in my poll? I’m going to try to write about what people actually want to read about instead of just what happens in my head. Thank you!

 

Naranja y Nada

Under the dorm complex where I lived freshmen year, there are tunnels (that supposedly used to connect the entire campus instead of just the three surrounding dorms) which now are covered in graffiti. Well, actually, I don’t know if they were covered with graffiti back when they were in use too. The laundry room is down there, which I think is the only reason we were allowed to go down. Sometimes another door to another tunnel had been left unlocked and we could go exploring.

We found one room last year that just had trays and trays of rocks, labeled, stacked sloppily. We found a room full of old books. We found, on the wall, a long breakup speech written in sharpie. I doubt the person who it was intended for ever found it. And if they had, how would they have known it was for them?   It wasn’t very specific

In case you can’t tell, I’m a little bit sad today. I took a red-eye back home from Seattle last night/this morning and I wish I hadn’t. I guess I don’t talk about it much, but being in a long-distance relationship is hard. We’ve been making it work (some times more so than others) for 2.5 years now though, so I guess we’re pretty pro?

Anyway, lately I’ve been thinking a lot about time. The picture above is from the aforementioned tunnels, and it made me think about what I was saying before about staying up late, all night even, for no reason.

Hours have started going faster for me, I think. Hours spent in boring lectures or MRI machines or cramped family roadtrips (dear parents, get a minivan…) seem to pass much faster than they did before. Maybe it’s because as we grow older, an hour becomes a smaller and smaller fraction of our lives? That’s maybe a bit too poetic.

My doctor says that there is a 75% chance that I will still be walking in 10 years. I think he’s kind of ignoring (on purpose) that 25% chance of me being in a wheelchair at age 28. At least I’ll be done with medical school by then, but it still seems pretty young. And I don’t get how a 30% medication (what I wrote about in my last post) is supposed to sound like a giant percentage, but 25% is supposed to sound small.

When I’m just alone at night I have to think about things like this instead of getting to sit up late talking with my boyfriend about anything and everything. I remember when we first met, we walked around Barcelona for several hours just talking and drinking an incredibly disgusting kind of orange juice. Those hours felt pretty short too. Hey love, this one’s for you. Miss you.

30%

Statistics. Now there’s a class I haven’t taken yet, and I’m not sure if I’ll get a chance to. I wonder if Wesleyan offers some sort of class on the significance of statistics, though. Or if there is such a class somewhere. Kacie likes to say “73% of statistics are made up on the spot,” which is on too high a level for my eight year old brother to figure out.

Most MS drugs say that they will lessen the chance you will have a relapse by 30%.

Doctors seem very concerned about me and my medications. Will I keep taking them? Do I understand how important they are? Have I been taking them? Will I stay on them? Of course I will, of course. To me, this is not a question. If a doctor (well, a good doctor) prescribes me medication and there seems to be a good reason for me to take that medication, I will take it. Even if I don’t quite see the reasoning, I still take the meds. Apparently that’s not true for a lot of people, which is very alien to me. Why wouldn’t you take your meds?

Reasons they could give (that I can think of):

Well, my MS isn’t causing problems now. So why should I have to take meds now?

They’re expensive.

I don’t like needles, and the oral meds are too dangerous.

I’m not sure I have MS (aka denial).

30% isn’t enough.

It’s that last one that really bothers me. 30% isn’t enough? I understand that we all want 0 relapses, aka 100% less, but that’s not currently what’s being offered. But what does 30% really mean?

If weather.com tells me there’s a 30% chance of rain, I probably won’t wear my rain boots (they’re too heavy) or wear a raincoat (too dorky) but I might take my umbrella, because it’s easy.

If I told you that you could make 30% more money next year, or have 30% more sex, you’d pay attention.

If you could score 30% higher on the SAT or have a 30% higher GPA, you would care.

What makes 30% significant sometimes, but not other times?

 

Anyway, this post is in response to poll responses so far, which said that I should write more about MS (duh, should have been doing that already). This is more about me musing than about MS I guess, sigh. And to Cinda, who said I should write about a creative writing class, I happen to be taking creative writing next semester, so you’re in luck 🙂

Also, just a side note, my blog had 96 (!!!) views yesterday. Not sure how that happened, but to all 96 of you, hope you enjoyed it and let me know what I can do better 🙂 so cool!!!

Fear

Self-analysis is so weird. I was looking through my posts here, and I noticed that the ones I have saved as drafts are the ones where I’m being more serious. I think I kind of have a fear of being honest/serious/emotional/a real person online that I don’t have (as much) in real life. I guess because in real life you can’t edit yourself all the time, and if you did you’d be so stressed (more stressed than I am already) so it’s not really worth it. For me at least.

My mom recently mentioned that she thinks the word I use most in my texts to her is “stress.” I don’t really like that. I went through high school with all this drive and this “exuberance is beauty” mentality and I think now my mentality is more “stressed.” How are you? I’m stressed. Can’t talk right now, stressing about X.

Since this will be the first post of the new year (as long as the world doesn’t end), I thought I’d make it very honest.

And I’ve also noticed that something I don’t talk a lot about is disease. Ironic, right? That’s the whole point of this blog. I never blogged before because I thought it was kind of conceited of me to think that people might want to read about just my life. And when I got diagnosed I thought hey, now I have something that’s actually worth sharing. Maybe I can help someone else who’s going through the same thing. Maybe I can meet someone (still hasn’t happened yet) who’s going through the same thing.

But then the blog became a lot about my life and not a lot about being sick. I guess because I don’t really think of myself as sick? It’s hard to think of myself as being a sick person. A person with a disease. And yet when I’m planning a trip (like to see friends in New York and Boston this month), I have to consider when can I go? It’s easiest if I go on leg injection days because I can do those myself. And I have to bring my injection kit and my sharps container and all my medications (even the just-in-case ones). And I have to ask people if they’re squeamish and I have to find a place to do the injection where I won’t bother anyone.

And I can’t really ever be carefree. I think it’s already really indulgent and weird of every generation to see their college years as years where nothing is real (“you’re not an alcoholic until graduation” is a common saying) and you can do whatever you want, but that didn’t stop me from wanting that for myself.

Sometimes I just don’t want to sleep. Sometimes I just want to stay up late for no reason and watch the hours go by and read books or write or talk to whoever happens to be awake or wander around my house or stare at the ceiling and wish I had imaginary friends. And suddenly I have to be very conscious of that tendency in myself, and tell myself to go to sleep. Because losing sleep puts me more at risk for symptoms. But I don’t really see it as losing sleep, I see it as gaining hours just for me. Maybe by being sick, then, I’ve lost a little of myself?

The last time I wrote something I really liked, I ended it by saying that it was a story without a conclusion or a moral. It was just a story of real life, and not all real life stories have punch lines or final thoughts. Usually they’re just continuing on.