Long day which makes me even more awake than I should even remotely be

SO! Today, mi padre had surgery for his cancer. As a fun (and by fun I mean disturbing) side note, a while back I told one of my friends that my dad had the "c-word" and they thought my dad was having a gender crisis.

(Note to self: re-evaluate friends.)

So things went pretty well. We got to see him (briefly) after the surgery, and he was awake. And his usual dryly humorous self, which was super super encouraging. What was more encouraging was that when my sister leaned over to hug him, his blood pressure monitor went off, and he says "there goes the Sarah alarm." Did I mention before that my Dad and I have the same personality? I almost died when he said this. I would probably be cracking jokes right after I had a serious operation too.

I have been really mad/sad/stressed/et cetera over the past few days. But somehow everything came rushing at me today and I had this sudden feeling of calm and zen and forgiveness and acceptance and whatever. Every time bad things happen to me, I feel ten times older (in a maturity way) when they are over. This is a good thing.

Also I was completely floored by something my sister (whom i previously was angry at and today stopped being angry at and subsequently she) said that she was always impressed by and jealous of my extreme ability to forgive people.

This is something I've always done. I don't want to seem vain, but I simply do not have the capacity to hold grudges. I cannot burn bridges. I can barely stay angry at someone for a week. I think I just like people too much. Bottom line, it was nice to know that it mattered to her that I was forgiving enough for her to comment on it.

But then again, maybe my ADHD just makes me too distracted to stay mad at people.

In other news, I want fall again. Maybe even winter. I am entirely too hot natured, and my mother loves to regale me with stories from my childhood which involve quoting me saying "Momma. I'm sweatin." SO, clearly I have always been this way. I don't care if I was sweaty as a kid. I really didn't think 3 year olds had the ability to sweat.

Whatever.

Point being, the temperature over the past few days has been like 9 million degrees Fahrenheit (really like 98-103) AND humidity has been upwards of 8,000 percent (I guess I didn't even really need to exaggerate. Everyone who has a basic understanding of percentages knows that 90-93% is a frickton. North Carolina is making an A in humidity right now.) and I AM GOING TO DIE. It's not even cool inside. I am disgusting right now.

Moral of the story? I want fall. Or else I need to go live in Canada. Actually let me change the moral of the story. I need multiple homes that will suit my intolerance for temperature change throughout the seasons.


THE END

This is it. I am going to start blogging everyday.

No, I mean it. Sort of. I am sure I will lose interest at some point, but it always comes back!

Originally, this blog was intended to be composed entirely of letters. I was all "hey, self, you need to create a niche that has not yet been popularized. That way people will like you and you will get your own book and lots of stuff will happen woo! (Note: people already like me.) It will be like letters to the editor about stuff that needs to be brought to the attention of others!"

But sadly, I realized, as much as I like to rant about other people's flaws, I have no business doing this (this is not really true. I will probably continue to do this anyway. The real reason I'm no longer writing letters is that I am too lazy and scatterbrained to adhere to a consistent structure. GO TEAM!).

So what will probably happen over the course of my time here is a discussion of the inner workings of my brain area. Be forewarned that if you in fact, read this blog, you will no doubt have a firm grasp on what I like to refer to as my "extreme nerditude." I will most likely discuss in depth the following:

• My inability to grasp the system/Hannah's adventures in College
  
• My fingers' inability to type the word receive correctly (I know how it's spelled, my fingers just don't always cooperate with my brain)
• Music and/or movies
• Things I read on Wikipedia
• Food Network
• Dreams (not the figurative "reach for your dreams" crap. I mean legitimate, "I was sleeping and didn't finish my REM cycle so now I remember my dreams" dreams)
• Apparently I will also be using a lot of quotation marks and parentheses.
  

These are things I think about far too regularly. Occasionally, also, I will talk about things of note.

That being said, I will now actually talk about something of note.

!!!!!THINGS OF NOTE ALERT!!!!!!

So as you, my fictional blog readers, may know, yesterday I found myself in a frenzied panic. I received some unexpectedly poor grades (I wasn't failing, they just were going to F* up my already sad GPA). Well believe it or not, the day that these grades were posted also happened to be the last day to drop the class. So imagine my surprise when at 4:59PM I am all "la-di-da, checkin my grades" and then it comes like a knife in my heart that I'm not doing so hot.

Immediately I go into damage control and start e-mailing everyone and their brother that can help me fix this. I went to bed last night freaking out because I didn't know what was going to happen. As I said in my previous post, I had my Braveheart kilt and facepaint on and was not about to go down without a fight. No, wait. I was definitely not going down, period. I am nothing if not relentlessly persistent about what I want, and I get what I want most of the time.

So here I am, unable to sleep from the sheer anticipation of it all. I've got my documents in order, I feel like I'm about to go to court to prove I didn't kill someone. And I am confident. Hell yeah, I'm confident. When most people get scared, or something really awful looms on the horizon, they run for the hills or freak out. Me? I turn in to the freaking terminator. I am the eternal optimist and I am always convinced that things will turn out right as long as I fight till the death (they don't always, but that is another post). And I will always fight to the death until justice is served.

So imagine my surprise when, this morning I awoke, checked my email, and lo and behold...

"I have received your request to drop. I will send the paperwork to the registrar today."

THAT'S IT?!?! No, really, I was expecting world war III. At the very least, I wanted to leave some sort of impression.

But I can't really be mad, cause I got what I wanted and didn't even really have to work that hard for it. Which is sometimes nice.

Ugh, my sister's dog is farting again. I gotta get out of here.

Me? Blog?

I don't have the capacity to post right now. Mentally, that is. I don't have the neurological function required to create an intellectually stimulating string of words. What I can tell you, however, is that I just had the most amazing weekend.

Okay, maybe that's the sheer amount of awesomeness I encountered during the weekend talking. But, dammit, it is only fair that I can be insane during my sister's wedding. I even managed to function like a normal human being (SURPRISE!). Maybe the inspiration for this post is coming from the fact that I have put on my William Wallace kilt and regalia and am ready to go regain some semblance of what my life should be, disregarding the fact that art history professors ("professors" - they're all grad students, really) are hellbent on destroying my every hope and dream.

Yes, I am completely serious about this.

Let me explain.

I have been in 2 art history classes in the past 2 sessions, online, because, let's face it, I have been busy, and I don't have the time for this every day class thing. Over time, it has become apparent that my professors have no professional respect for my pure genius, and moreover, are dismissive of any ideas that do not come directly from their own mind or the readings they assigned. WOW! It's almost as though a liberal arts university would prefer that we not think for ourselves. Wait a second, seriously? Am I twelve years old? I am not learning my multiplication tables. I am entirely sick of being told "well, yes, you're right, but be more specific."

HOW ABOUT YOU BE MORE SPECIFIC?

This has been my issue throughout my entire life: I always know exactly what I'm talking about, but people expect me to "show my work." You know what? Screw you, I'm tired of showing my work. I know what I'm talking about, you know what I'm talking about (if you're anywhere close to smart enough), so let's cut this charade. I'll be willing to accept the fact that you're bitter about your career choice and would rather be doing something else if you'll accept the fact that I am fully aware of what I am talking about and that your critique of my assessments stems from the fact that you're scared a student could possibly understand more than you do.

Wait, am I talking too fast? I apologize. Call me next time Courbet's work becomes too confusing for your dull, unimaginative brain.

Go back to your sociology major, you moron.