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I feel much better now.
I realize it applies to everyone, but I find it distinctly unfair that my state of mind is at the mercy of capricious hormones and a bit of pain. It's as though the irritants in the world my reactions to which I can normally easily suppress have suddenly gained twelve points on the scale of vexatiousness (it's not metric, let me tell you). Still, I didn't blow up all day, doubtless aided by the fact that I didn't get up until noon. I'd planned to write my ling paper before my appointment at the chiropractor, but the sheer baseless arrogance and obtuseness of the Chomsky readings forced me to seek refuge in the world of BBC News, and then suddenly it was time to go. Luckily I'd thought to ask for an extension to tomorrow. Well, today, really.
So we went to Darla's office, mama making her usual irritating inquiries after my whereabouts the previous night and whether I had fun, and I making more than my usual effort to contain my annoyedness in response (not out of any virtue, but because it happened to take more effort today). My back hurt viciously, more than usual on the way to the chiropractor's, and it occurred to me that I had terrible cramps and was irritable; what could possibly be wrong with me? Well, life is no excuse for sucking, so I tried not to be obnoxious.
It was difficult. We waited twenty minutes before calling; Darla had thought we'd call her this morning to tell her 1:00 was an okay time. Well, we hadn't, because we'd told her it was the day before. Ah, well! Extension granted on a paper for no reason; I could have stayed home and treated my back to c-sharp-minor Rachmaninoff therapy at the amp. No reason to blow up. So I didn't, in spite of mama's innocuous remarks about the situation. She never stops complaining. At least we went for lunch at Sam's. And figured out when we're leaving for Germany (the 9th).
I spent the majority of the afternoon being irritated at myself for falling asleep trying to read. I would have ben fine falling asleep at the Chomsky, but as I had an extension, I was trying to read a novel I actually had some interest in, and kept waking to find myself drooling on the same page. Eventually mama interrupted one of these unsatisfying little naps to ask if I was going to rehearsal. I was. She admitted she was, after I asked her rather pointedly. So we went to rehearsal. It was canceled after fifteen minutes, because about a tenth of chorale showed up. Ah, well. I might as well get my jury sheets from Dan, right? No. He didn't have them. So I went to sit on the car and wait for mama. It took her fifteen minutes to get out there. I ground my teeth in fruitless and groundless frustration. No one's fault but mine, but still! So irritating!
Even more so was the ruination of the concert. Oh, it went well, I suppose; the audience loved it and gave a standing ovation, as they are wont to do at annoyingly undeserving performances in Houston. However, the tenor sitting next to me could for some reason not refrain, no matter how many times I sighed pointedly in his direction, from keeping time with his head. And sometimes his hand. I had to keep my left eye closed for the entire performance for fear I'd run out of tolerance and strangle him before we got to the next loud part (which is a short time, in a Mahler symphony, illustrating my astonishing lack of patience). What's worse, I could see mama two rows directly ahead of me bobbing her head in almost exactly the same manner, only more annoying. So I had to keep my right eye closed most of the time, too. It was a taxing concert.
With both eyes closed, I managed to concentrate on listening to the music (we had four movements before ours, people; don't worry, I don't sing blind when there's a conductor). Unfortunately, it had exaggerated effects on me due to the presence of a memory catalyst in the audience. My free-association chain went from Mahler to Matt to PVA to Reggie to love to the oddness of Dan's behavior recently and back to Reggie. The ebb and flow of music manipulated my emotions as I went from link to link, and annoyance gave way to weepiness and tragedy before opening a hole of despair.
The swirling, chemically-imbalanced contents of my brain went thus: Dan, in a drunken and rather desperate state of mind at the Gather drag show, made a rather outrageous statement. I brought it up as a joke at lunch with friends a few days later, and he paused and said he was serious. I told him he wasn't, he insisted he was, and the conversation was dropped. The thing is, said my brain awash in ludicrously concentrated female hormones, if he was serious, it wasn't for any good reason; it was because he wants to be "normal" and it would be convenient. I could almost see it happening. But the only person I'd ever let use me that way stopped wanting me a long time ago. Lo, reminded of my rejection-by-abandonment, I sat rather miserably through the fourth movement.
The end of the concert was difficult to sing, but an amazing experience as usual in a chorale concert. However, I was grounded back in my supreme irritation when the entire departing line of choristers and instrumentalists were blockaded at the door by a Rachleff who treated it as though it were his receiving line. It took ages to get outside, and all I wanted to do was go home and make my back stop hurting.
I got through the crowd of adoring Mahler fans (including Matt) at a decent speed, and sat on the unyielding parking-lot fence for a good half-hour before mama showed up. All the while I sat there, I could feel bubbles of unreasonable irritation scrambling up like vomitous burps. I had no right to be angry, but it was one of the hardest things I've ever done containing myself. Just because I happened to be rude and antisocial doesn't mean mama had to be. She has the right to stand there for half an hour and jabber to whomever she wants. My sudden disappearance might even indicate I'd gone off with friends. When she finally walked up to the van and asked if I'd been waiting long, I confined myself with difficulty to a mildly frustrated "yes."
She explained in the car that she'd been talking to Andy Jaber. I managed not to reply. She then explained the subject of her conversation with Andy. Apparenly, some nebulous force of will, possibly associated with the administration of Shepherd and/or Larry Rachleff, intends to abolish ensembles for singers. That's why there's no Shepherd Singers nor Madrigal Dinners next year. Also, incoming freshmen voice majors are not required to be in Chorale. While this is ridiculous, infuriating, absurd, and more than enough to goad me into a fury of righteous indignation, I didn't want to hear mama complain about it. So I managed stoically not to say anything after this explanation of conspiracy, but took a hot shower when we got home to steam out some of the ache from my back.
I'd like to think I can handle pain, but, well... I'm miserable company under such circumstances. So I opted out of the Milam party, and called Stephan, who doesn't care if I'm miserable company. The boy will feed me soup and read me philosophy when I'm delirious and enumerating my personal flaws! Who else to call when I'm having the worst day of the month in recent memory of months? And what else to do, but steal some popcorn and watch eight episodes of Blackadder in a row?
Somehow, my day improved dramatically overnight. And then, miraculously, pie was mentioned in an episode. So we took the only course of action available to right-thinking free persons and went to House of Pies to buy a rhubarb pie, and brought it back and ate it (yes, all of it. What?) while watching more episodes of Blackadder. And now, though my back is still the nemesis of my state of mind, the latter currently has the upper hand, and I imagine the score won't change until tomorrow (or today) afternoon when I wake up and have to start to write my ling paper again. Meanwhile, I feel better now.
I realize it applies to everyone, but I find it distinctly unfair that my state of mind is at the mercy of capricious hormones and a bit of pain. It's as though the irritants in the world my reactions to which I can normally easily suppress have suddenly gained twelve points on the scale of vexatiousness (it's not metric, let me tell you). Still, I didn't blow up all day, doubtless aided by the fact that I didn't get up until noon. I'd planned to write my ling paper before my appointment at the chiropractor, but the sheer baseless arrogance and obtuseness of the Chomsky readings forced me to seek refuge in the world of BBC News, and then suddenly it was time to go. Luckily I'd thought to ask for an extension to tomorrow. Well, today, really.
So we went to Darla's office, mama making her usual irritating inquiries after my whereabouts the previous night and whether I had fun, and I making more than my usual effort to contain my annoyedness in response (not out of any virtue, but because it happened to take more effort today). My back hurt viciously, more than usual on the way to the chiropractor's, and it occurred to me that I had terrible cramps and was irritable; what could possibly be wrong with me? Well, life is no excuse for sucking, so I tried not to be obnoxious.
It was difficult. We waited twenty minutes before calling; Darla had thought we'd call her this morning to tell her 1:00 was an okay time. Well, we hadn't, because we'd told her it was the day before. Ah, well! Extension granted on a paper for no reason; I could have stayed home and treated my back to c-sharp-minor Rachmaninoff therapy at the amp. No reason to blow up. So I didn't, in spite of mama's innocuous remarks about the situation. She never stops complaining. At least we went for lunch at Sam's. And figured out when we're leaving for Germany (the 9th).
I spent the majority of the afternoon being irritated at myself for falling asleep trying to read. I would have ben fine falling asleep at the Chomsky, but as I had an extension, I was trying to read a novel I actually had some interest in, and kept waking to find myself drooling on the same page. Eventually mama interrupted one of these unsatisfying little naps to ask if I was going to rehearsal. I was. She admitted she was, after I asked her rather pointedly. So we went to rehearsal. It was canceled after fifteen minutes, because about a tenth of chorale showed up. Ah, well. I might as well get my jury sheets from Dan, right? No. He didn't have them. So I went to sit on the car and wait for mama. It took her fifteen minutes to get out there. I ground my teeth in fruitless and groundless frustration. No one's fault but mine, but still! So irritating!
Even more so was the ruination of the concert. Oh, it went well, I suppose; the audience loved it and gave a standing ovation, as they are wont to do at annoyingly undeserving performances in Houston. However, the tenor sitting next to me could for some reason not refrain, no matter how many times I sighed pointedly in his direction, from keeping time with his head. And sometimes his hand. I had to keep my left eye closed for the entire performance for fear I'd run out of tolerance and strangle him before we got to the next loud part (which is a short time, in a Mahler symphony, illustrating my astonishing lack of patience). What's worse, I could see mama two rows directly ahead of me bobbing her head in almost exactly the same manner, only more annoying. So I had to keep my right eye closed most of the time, too. It was a taxing concert.
With both eyes closed, I managed to concentrate on listening to the music (we had four movements before ours, people; don't worry, I don't sing blind when there's a conductor). Unfortunately, it had exaggerated effects on me due to the presence of a memory catalyst in the audience. My free-association chain went from Mahler to Matt to PVA to Reggie to love to the oddness of Dan's behavior recently and back to Reggie. The ebb and flow of music manipulated my emotions as I went from link to link, and annoyance gave way to weepiness and tragedy before opening a hole of despair.
The swirling, chemically-imbalanced contents of my brain went thus: Dan, in a drunken and rather desperate state of mind at the Gather drag show, made a rather outrageous statement. I brought it up as a joke at lunch with friends a few days later, and he paused and said he was serious. I told him he wasn't, he insisted he was, and the conversation was dropped. The thing is, said my brain awash in ludicrously concentrated female hormones, if he was serious, it wasn't for any good reason; it was because he wants to be "normal" and it would be convenient. I could almost see it happening. But the only person I'd ever let use me that way stopped wanting me a long time ago. Lo, reminded of my rejection-by-abandonment, I sat rather miserably through the fourth movement.
The end of the concert was difficult to sing, but an amazing experience as usual in a chorale concert. However, I was grounded back in my supreme irritation when the entire departing line of choristers and instrumentalists were blockaded at the door by a Rachleff who treated it as though it were his receiving line. It took ages to get outside, and all I wanted to do was go home and make my back stop hurting.
I got through the crowd of adoring Mahler fans (including Matt) at a decent speed, and sat on the unyielding parking-lot fence for a good half-hour before mama showed up. All the while I sat there, I could feel bubbles of unreasonable irritation scrambling up like vomitous burps. I had no right to be angry, but it was one of the hardest things I've ever done containing myself. Just because I happened to be rude and antisocial doesn't mean mama had to be. She has the right to stand there for half an hour and jabber to whomever she wants. My sudden disappearance might even indicate I'd gone off with friends. When she finally walked up to the van and asked if I'd been waiting long, I confined myself with difficulty to a mildly frustrated "yes."
She explained in the car that she'd been talking to Andy Jaber. I managed not to reply. She then explained the subject of her conversation with Andy. Apparenly, some nebulous force of will, possibly associated with the administration of Shepherd and/or Larry Rachleff, intends to abolish ensembles for singers. That's why there's no Shepherd Singers nor Madrigal Dinners next year. Also, incoming freshmen voice majors are not required to be in Chorale. While this is ridiculous, infuriating, absurd, and more than enough to goad me into a fury of righteous indignation, I didn't want to hear mama complain about it. So I managed stoically not to say anything after this explanation of conspiracy, but took a hot shower when we got home to steam out some of the ache from my back.
I'd like to think I can handle pain, but, well... I'm miserable company under such circumstances. So I opted out of the Milam party, and called Stephan, who doesn't care if I'm miserable company. The boy will feed me soup and read me philosophy when I'm delirious and enumerating my personal flaws! Who else to call when I'm having the worst day of the month in recent memory of months? And what else to do, but steal some popcorn and watch eight episodes of Blackadder in a row?
Somehow, my day improved dramatically overnight. And then, miraculously, pie was mentioned in an episode. So we took the only course of action available to right-thinking free persons and went to House of Pies to buy a rhubarb pie, and brought it back and ate it (yes, all of it. What?) while watching more episodes of Blackadder. And now, though my back is still the nemesis of my state of mind, the latter currently has the upper hand, and I imagine the score won't change until tomorrow (or today) afternoon when I wake up and have to start to write my ling paper again. Meanwhile, I feel better now.
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From:
no subject
Love.
- Jen
From:
no subject
Thanks and also Love.
From:
no subject
If you're not already, you might try going on the Pill. A lot of girls find that it helps with their PMS and cramping.
From:
no subject
I don't do drugs except in emergencies. Not even the supposedly safe ones like aspirin. I've read too much about phramaceutical companies, trials, and side effects.