End-of-term blues

So it’s officially that time of the term again where everyday I just want to ignore the world and crawl into my bed and watch sappy romance movies and drink hot chocolate. Each time someone asks “oh how are you doing?–you look really tired,” I have to suppress the urges to cry and punch them in the face. I want to pretend that this next week of school isn’t worth about 90-100% of each of my class’ final grades.

Almost every class I  spend a solid 15 minutes deciding whether I want to go or stay home and sleep for more than the four hours that I managed to squeeze in the night before. My diet has turned to shit, and my social life is nearly non-existent; I find it the most rewarding and amazingly social thing to sit and have coffee with someone for 20 minutes. I just have to keep telling myself that winter break will be the most amazing break that I’ve yet experienced, and that I only have to get by the next two weeks with the torture of my final presentations and papers to reach that goal.

I’m only comforted by the thought that the pain I suffer now will soon be gone, I will be able to sleep as much as I desire, my friends who I’ve neglected all term due to business of schedule will see me again, those books that have been piling up on my bedside table begging to be read will be, and I can finally get into the holiday spirit with delicious foods and cheer.

BUT what am I doing here, typing this blog instead of my economics research paper on Quesnay’s theory of value as represented in the Tableau Economique? At least I have this grey and rainy day, Mozart’s requiem in D minor, and this cup of tea to relax and yet inspire me to continue with this overwhelmingly stressful workload for the next two weeks.

study study

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Here’s a blog post I wrote for my other blog, the PSU Chronicles!

PSU Chronicles

If you’re like me, you aren’t old enough to experience the night life of Portland. It seems that everything after-hours requires an ID. So what’s there to do when you’re itching to get out, but you can’t get in to 21+ places? I prefer the following places which have excellent food and foster friendly and relaxing environments.

  • Le Bistro Montage: (301 SE Morrison) located underneath the Morrison Bridge on the east side. Once you enter, it’s hard not to enjoy yourself in the dimly lit room with music blasting and shared community tables. And trust me, if you’re craving mac-n-cheese, this is the place to go. Everything they serve is delicious, and they always give away the most creative to-go packages.
  • The Roxy: (1121 SW Stark) This 24hr joint has basically everything that you’d crave at 2 or 3am, minus alcohol and ice cream. It’s 15 minutes from campus, and…

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Food for Thought

What if all women were bigger and stronger than you?

And thought they were smarter?

What if women were the ones who started wars?

What if too many of your friends had been raped by women wielding giant dildos and no K-Y Jelly?

What if the state trooper who pulled you over on the New Jersey Turnpike was a woman and carried a gun?

What if the ability to menstruate was the prerequisite for most high-paying jobs?

What if your attractiveness to women depended on the size of your penis?

What if every time women saw you they’d hoot and make jerking motions with their hands?

What if women were always making jokes about how ugly penises are and how bad sperm tastes?

What if you had to explain what’s wrong with your car to big sweaty women with greasy hands who stared at your crotch in a garage where you are surrounded by posters of naked men with hard-ons?

What if men’s magazines featured cover photos of 14-year-old boys with socks tucked into the front of their jeans and articles like: “How to tell if your wife is unfaithful” or “What your doctor won’t tell you about your prostate” or “The truth about impotence”?

What if the doctor who examined your prostate was a woman and called you “Honey”?

What if you had to inhale your boss’ stale cigar breath as she insisted that sleeping with her was part of the job?

What if you couldn’t get away because the company dress code required you wear shoes designed to keep you from running?

And what if after all that women still wanted you to love them?

— “For the Men Who Still Don’t Get It,” Carol Diehl