November is upon us and I feel like my blog had turned into a mini-Entertainment Weekly blog for all people obsessed with Prison Break, Veronica Mars and Gilmore Girls.
For that, I partially apologize. I am, after all, obsessed with said shows and I could not contain my excitement for things I cannot watch when I am at work.
But I digress.
Some people say the blog is there to purge out thoughts that I, the writer, would like you to stop and think about the moment you reach the bottom of the page.
Well, I guess I haven't done that recently and I blame myself for that oversight.
Jackie had already beaten me to the punch when tackling this issue but I would like to supplement her throughts in regards to time and its constraints.
Although I am not a Woody Allen fan, his thoughts on the matter reflect what I do feel: "Time is nature's way of keeping everything from happening at once."
Ever since school started this semester, I do feel like I am in a constant collision course with myself. I think I am going to implode. I hate it. I hate the fact that I feel guilty for throwing myself into work and school with as much gusto as if I were young and single again.
I hate the fact that no one seems to understand this plight other than Nilly, who's also tacking a full-time job and school to boot.
In the past 3 months, I've missed talking to Chicken Scratch, dodged many a conversation with my mom and skipped out on talks with dad.
It's not that I hate them. Far from it. But I feel like everyone wants my time and for once, I want to claim serenity for myself! I don't want to talk about gossips regarding my relatives. I really could care less if my mom lapses into her state of hypochondria. I could not give a second thought on my dad giving me his "pity me" routine. Thank God Chicken Scratch understands this in a way. But he's the good child for now. He talks to mom weekly.
I, on the other hand, am the devil incarnate; the ingrate of a daughter. The one that has abandoned all things with familiarity.
And apparently, my eggs.
Here's a snippet of a conversation with my folks (translation: mom):
Ma: How's school?
Ma: How's Michael?
Ma; Do you still go to church?
Me: When I get up early enough.
Ma: Oh, so when are you having kids? You know, so and so is pregnant again...
And then I tune her out.
The concept of having kids is one that I've tackled with my parents for quite a while now. Apparently, Nilly and I aren't Newlyweds anymore and aren't getting younger by the moment. No duh. This is one conversation that still leave me in tears when I am often told, "You're not trying hard enough."
How would they know? Just because fifteen-year old Suzy can pop a kid means that it would be that easy for me to do so. But it isn't.
I've spoken to the doctors about it. I've spoken to Nilly about it. I still read stuff in regards to pregnancy and still, no such luck. I am not just talking about the simple "Put Tab A in Slot B" situation. There's more to it than meets the eye. Anyone who had gone through fertility treatments know about it. And thus, we become a lot of haters for all those that could pop a kid without batting an eyelash.
And sometimes, I just want to lash out and say, "Well, I definitely won't have the Immaculate Conception even if I attended each and every Church Service."
So what happens when I get pissy? I clean. Yes, unless you want to be swept on to the dustpan and out the door, stay away.
I also wallow.
Which then turns out to be a bad way of spending time wisely.
In three months, I've almost come to the conclusion in writing MNT (the second to the last chappie is in the hands of Amy), which I planned on finishing in August but had no time to do so since I had to do much overtime at work, finished a book review, taken 4 exams, had numerous dissertations with my professors and superiors, read at least 2 centuries of US History, dissected at least six philosophers' thoughts on life with students ten years my junior and have never left Podunk. I've worked overtime, went to a bridal shower, a wedding and a baby shower. I've slept an average of five hours a day, sometimes including the weekend. I watch my pretaped shows while doing laundry, ironing, vacuuming, or changing bed sheets.
Once in the three months have I completed a book that was not class related. I felt guilty. Guilty because I could've used the time to read another chapter on FDR and his alphabet cabinet or read what Kant has to say about life. I could've returned correspondence with people who wrote me a month ago or actually enjoy the sunlight and run on the streets rather than the treadmill at the gym. (By the way, my knee still hurts and I think the right one's going, too!)
As soon as this is posted, I will head on out once again to run errands and head on to class. Then work. The cycle repeats itself until Friday with the 'change' on Tuesdays and Thursdays where I still tune the world out with "Freak on A Leash" on my iPod.
I have no life. I feel guilty when I get one.
Anyone want a drink?