Matt Smith,
I'm skipping class to plan my vacations. If the irony of this escapes you, I'll have to bean you over the head with something heavy. Say, a chair, or a television, or my Abnormal Psychology book (although I really don't know how heavy it is since I'm SKIPPING THAT CLASS TO PLAN MY VACATION). I love life.
New York! Finalized vacation time at work... Looks like I'm going to have to be back by May 31, which, as you've previously mentioned, is Memorial Day. I guess everyone that works at the South Side Starbucks will be busy remembering things that day, and I have to be there so they can have time to do that. (Memorial Day. Who thought that one up?)
I guess there's a few questions that we should answer before we actually GO on this trip, not the least of which are: how are we getting there? and where are we going to stay? We could drive, and that might be interesting, I guess -- and we'd have to find a place to crash near the city ('cause I refuse to drive there -- that is right out). Or, we could take a bus. It's $180.00 total for both of us to get to New York on a Greyhound -- round-trip, no crazy bus-switching. But I can't really say I LIKE buses. It'd be nearer to the truth to say I DON'T LIKE buses. Or I HATE buses...
Side note: The last time I took a Greyhound bus to New York, Emma and I encountered a toothless, garbage-bag, duffel-bag toting man named Barry who spent the entire trip from NYC to Pittsburgh riding locked in the bus's bathroom with a pogo stick. No lie. He got on the bus, dropped his duffel and garbage bags in the front overhead storage area, took his pogo stick, and hightailed it to the back of the bus, chattering nonsense. The bus driver loaded up, put the bus in gear, and about 5 minutes down the road, she yelled, "Could someone back there check on Barry from time to time?" And someone must have said, "Sure" or "Yes" or something, but I looked around and everyone was acting like this was nothing. Em and I sat there in silence, staring at the backs of the seats in front of us for a few long miles before she said, "I tried to make that normal... but it's not."
And thus, I HATE buses. (Phew. That was good to get off my chest.)
So, there you have it. Vacation Matt Smith/Meredith-style. No place to stay and no way to get there. We'll figure it out. I'm sure we will. Because, well... we have to. Or we're not going.
(Did I mention I have to be completely moved out of my apartment before we even leave on this weekend excursion? Yeah. So... I mean, that's out there.)
Love,
Meredith
Wednesday, April 28, 2004
Friday, April 23, 2004
Oh, Matt Smith.
Sometimes I forget how funny you are. I know you hate it when I describe you to people as being The Funniest Person I Know, or more often The Funniest Person in the World, but I give credit where credit is due. You have the unique curse of being able to make just about any situation seem both plausible and entertaining...
Wednesday night after Medieval Drama, Monica English and I headed off to the South Side via the stairs. Monica LOVES the stairs. She is the Stair Queen. I've told her several times how ridiculous it is to take the stairs to the South Side, especially when we're leaving Fisher Hall, but we go anyway. (I think it'd be easier -- and considerably less hilly -- if we just took the elevators to the ground floor and walked through the Armstrong Tunnels. And I guess one could say that I LOVE the Armstrong Tunnels, that I am the Tunnel Queen -- judging by the number of times I've mentioned them in my past few musings -- but, you know... whatever.)
So anyway, we're walking uphill to go downhill -- another reason taking the stairs is stupid and wrong -- and we cross the little metal death-bridge that leads to the stairs. All of a sudden, we're there at the very top of this long, killer set of stairs, and the wind is careening towards us. I swear to God, both of us were trying to take the first step down the stairs, and neither one of us could move our legs... So there we are, at the top of the stairs, not moving. That must have gone on for at least a minute before we could move -- and before we realized how stupid we must have looked.
And while we were walking, Monica looked at me and said, "You know, I wish Matt were around to tell this story."
Well, yeah. Me, too. My telling of it really paled in comparison, I suppose. Maybe at some point, you could pretend to be me and go back in time to that precise moment (I guess you'd have to ask Monica to go with you, and I don't know if she'd be entirely up for that... she's a busy girl), and then you could write it down for me, so I can remember it the way I'd like to.
At any rate -- I'm going to go pop some Advil. Graduating's giving me a migraine.
Love,
Meredith
Sometimes I forget how funny you are. I know you hate it when I describe you to people as being The Funniest Person I Know, or more often The Funniest Person in the World, but I give credit where credit is due. You have the unique curse of being able to make just about any situation seem both plausible and entertaining...
Wednesday night after Medieval Drama, Monica English and I headed off to the South Side via the stairs. Monica LOVES the stairs. She is the Stair Queen. I've told her several times how ridiculous it is to take the stairs to the South Side, especially when we're leaving Fisher Hall, but we go anyway. (I think it'd be easier -- and considerably less hilly -- if we just took the elevators to the ground floor and walked through the Armstrong Tunnels. And I guess one could say that I LOVE the Armstrong Tunnels, that I am the Tunnel Queen -- judging by the number of times I've mentioned them in my past few musings -- but, you know... whatever.)
So anyway, we're walking uphill to go downhill -- another reason taking the stairs is stupid and wrong -- and we cross the little metal death-bridge that leads to the stairs. All of a sudden, we're there at the very top of this long, killer set of stairs, and the wind is careening towards us. I swear to God, both of us were trying to take the first step down the stairs, and neither one of us could move our legs... So there we are, at the top of the stairs, not moving. That must have gone on for at least a minute before we could move -- and before we realized how stupid we must have looked.
And while we were walking, Monica looked at me and said, "You know, I wish Matt were around to tell this story."
Well, yeah. Me, too. My telling of it really paled in comparison, I suppose. Maybe at some point, you could pretend to be me and go back in time to that precise moment (I guess you'd have to ask Monica to go with you, and I don't know if she'd be entirely up for that... she's a busy girl), and then you could write it down for me, so I can remember it the way I'd like to.
At any rate -- I'm going to go pop some Advil. Graduating's giving me a migraine.
Love,
Meredith
Wednesday, April 21, 2004
Matt Smith,
It was nice to finally get to talk to you the other day. It made you more real. You know how you have those friends? The ones you talk about but never hear from? I'm constantly telling Matt Smith stories: the McDonald's french fries that were my back-to-school present that I now keep in my car, the time we realized there was a feeble little tree planted in honor of the "friends and family of Duquesne University" who were lost in the September 11th attack ("it'd be a shame if someone flew a plane into it"), and the Four Eagles of Catholicism. But then you're not here. And so the stories seem as if they never happened.
I'm supposed to be writing a journal entry for my Communication History class and writing a paper for Medieval Drama right now. But, in doing the journal entry, I realized that two of the essays that were assigned reading are not actually in the book that they're supposed to be in. Moreover, they're not in any book. I mean, I guess they're in SOME book, SOMEwhere. But they're not in any book that I own. Or that Emma owns, because I haven't actually paid her for the use of her books yet. I think initially I was supposed to pay her $75, but then we made dinner one night, and I paid for the groceries, which came to about $32. So, $75 minus her half of the dinner groceries ($16) is $59. I guess when we bought the groceries I said something like, "Don't worry about it" or "I owe you money anyway," but what does that even MEAN? Does it mean, "I'll pay for the groceries AND I'll pay you what I owe you?" Or does it mean, "I'll pay for the groceries, and then I won't owe you as much?" These are some of the rules that should be written down in the General Rules of Friendship. But I don't think there's a chapter on Lending Money to Friends, because you're really not supposed to do that. Everyone does it, though... saying "I'd rather lend it to you than to someone else," or "At least I know I'll get it back," even though most of the time, they don't get it back, do they? It must be one of those rules that's meant to be broken.
All in all, I guess if you ever needed money, I'd lend it to you. I'd break that rule for you. But you're getting back from Spain on your own wallet. (Don't really try to fly home from Spain on your wallet though. You're not any good at flying without your wallet's help. Even if you do hold out your arms like an airplane.)
Love,
Meredith
It was nice to finally get to talk to you the other day. It made you more real. You know how you have those friends? The ones you talk about but never hear from? I'm constantly telling Matt Smith stories: the McDonald's french fries that were my back-to-school present that I now keep in my car, the time we realized there was a feeble little tree planted in honor of the "friends and family of Duquesne University" who were lost in the September 11th attack ("it'd be a shame if someone flew a plane into it"), and the Four Eagles of Catholicism. But then you're not here. And so the stories seem as if they never happened.
I'm supposed to be writing a journal entry for my Communication History class and writing a paper for Medieval Drama right now. But, in doing the journal entry, I realized that two of the essays that were assigned reading are not actually in the book that they're supposed to be in. Moreover, they're not in any book. I mean, I guess they're in SOME book, SOMEwhere. But they're not in any book that I own. Or that Emma owns, because I haven't actually paid her for the use of her books yet. I think initially I was supposed to pay her $75, but then we made dinner one night, and I paid for the groceries, which came to about $32. So, $75 minus her half of the dinner groceries ($16) is $59. I guess when we bought the groceries I said something like, "Don't worry about it" or "I owe you money anyway," but what does that even MEAN? Does it mean, "I'll pay for the groceries AND I'll pay you what I owe you?" Or does it mean, "I'll pay for the groceries, and then I won't owe you as much?" These are some of the rules that should be written down in the General Rules of Friendship. But I don't think there's a chapter on Lending Money to Friends, because you're really not supposed to do that. Everyone does it, though... saying "I'd rather lend it to you than to someone else," or "At least I know I'll get it back," even though most of the time, they don't get it back, do they? It must be one of those rules that's meant to be broken.
All in all, I guess if you ever needed money, I'd lend it to you. I'd break that rule for you. But you're getting back from Spain on your own wallet. (Don't really try to fly home from Spain on your wallet though. You're not any good at flying without your wallet's help. Even if you do hold out your arms like an airplane.)
Love,
Meredith
Monday, April 19, 2004
Hi friend.
I'm sorry that I'm ridiculously difficult to get a hold of... You called once while I was at work, and once while I was in a choir rehearsal, and I'm sorry. The phone's on, but I don't answer. Sort of like "the lights are on, but nobody's home," only I'm really there, even though most of the time, I'm not at home. Or something.
Yes. I'm alright. I'm failing out of a class -- maybe two -- and everyone but me seems to think that this is an okay thing to be doing less than 3 weeks before my graduation day. I'm trying very hard to be optimistic, but the best I can muster is nostalgia, or something really close... like retrospection. I take all the blame for this sort of thing. It's not just due to the fact that I procrastinate. Yes, it's procrastination -- plus something Anne Brannen and the rest of the Medievalists call "honest recreation" (on par with believing you should "do something good for yourself" every once in a while), plus the growing hatred I seem to have for all things academic, divided by the number of times I tell myself that there's only 3 weeks and "how bad can it be," equals Meredith not graduating on May 8 as previously planned. It's a deadly equation.
But, other than that... I guess I'm okay. I'm feeling a little wonky every now and then. ("Wonky" like off-balanced, not "wonky" like Willy and his chocolate. And side note: how funny would it have been if Roald Dahl HAD named him Willy Wonky? That would have just been sad.) There's a lot of surreal aspects to my life at the moment, and while I'm adjusting to most of them, sometimes I just look around and wonder, "How did I get here? And how will I ever get back?"
Love,
Meredith
I'm sorry that I'm ridiculously difficult to get a hold of... You called once while I was at work, and once while I was in a choir rehearsal, and I'm sorry. The phone's on, but I don't answer. Sort of like "the lights are on, but nobody's home," only I'm really there, even though most of the time, I'm not at home. Or something.
Yes. I'm alright. I'm failing out of a class -- maybe two -- and everyone but me seems to think that this is an okay thing to be doing less than 3 weeks before my graduation day. I'm trying very hard to be optimistic, but the best I can muster is nostalgia, or something really close... like retrospection. I take all the blame for this sort of thing. It's not just due to the fact that I procrastinate. Yes, it's procrastination -- plus something Anne Brannen and the rest of the Medievalists call "honest recreation" (on par with believing you should "do something good for yourself" every once in a while), plus the growing hatred I seem to have for all things academic, divided by the number of times I tell myself that there's only 3 weeks and "how bad can it be," equals Meredith not graduating on May 8 as previously planned. It's a deadly equation.
But, other than that... I guess I'm okay. I'm feeling a little wonky every now and then. ("Wonky" like off-balanced, not "wonky" like Willy and his chocolate. And side note: how funny would it have been if Roald Dahl HAD named him Willy Wonky? That would have just been sad.) There's a lot of surreal aspects to my life at the moment, and while I'm adjusting to most of them, sometimes I just look around and wonder, "How did I get here? And how will I ever get back?"
Love,
Meredith
Wednesday, April 07, 2004
Hey yourself, Matt Smith.
I saw these two little blond kids today -- a boy and a girl of about 6 or 7 -- walking through the Armstrong Tunnels with a older guy, who I blindly assumed was their father. Only I guess he couldn't have been that old. He may have been 25 or so -- which isn't old at all -- but he seemed older to me because he had to be their dad.
The kids were absolutely loving the tunnel. I mean, tunnels -- on a whole -- are remarkable. They're big and long and empty and hollow-sounding... tunnels. (Side note: My sister and I used to play this game on road trips in the car where whenever we'd come to a tunnel -- I mean, come right up on top of it... right where there was no turning back -- one of us would shout, "Imagine you're a spitball!" Funny the things you remember when you're not trying.)
But back to the blond kids. They were screaming just to hear the sound of the echo. (The little girl was doing more of a squealing, stuck-pig sort of noise, but you get the idea.) And they were singing, but not real songs. Just songs you'd make up if you were six and wanted to hear the sound of your voice singing back to you in a tunnel. And they were shouting and talking and making up nonsense-words and just being annoying in general.
The thing of it was, I wasn't annoyed. I hate kids. Especially the loud, squealing kind. And all I could think was, "How perfect."
All of a sudden I wanted so badly to be six again. I wanted to love the sound of my own voice, talking back to me, but not really saying anything at all. I wanted to be a little blond kid, whose dad was only 25 and happy.
I wanted to not have to worry about how loud I got in the tunnel.
Love,
Meredith
I saw these two little blond kids today -- a boy and a girl of about 6 or 7 -- walking through the Armstrong Tunnels with a older guy, who I blindly assumed was their father. Only I guess he couldn't have been that old. He may have been 25 or so -- which isn't old at all -- but he seemed older to me because he had to be their dad.
The kids were absolutely loving the tunnel. I mean, tunnels -- on a whole -- are remarkable. They're big and long and empty and hollow-sounding... tunnels. (Side note: My sister and I used to play this game on road trips in the car where whenever we'd come to a tunnel -- I mean, come right up on top of it... right where there was no turning back -- one of us would shout, "Imagine you're a spitball!" Funny the things you remember when you're not trying.)
But back to the blond kids. They were screaming just to hear the sound of the echo. (The little girl was doing more of a squealing, stuck-pig sort of noise, but you get the idea.) And they were singing, but not real songs. Just songs you'd make up if you were six and wanted to hear the sound of your voice singing back to you in a tunnel. And they were shouting and talking and making up nonsense-words and just being annoying in general.
The thing of it was, I wasn't annoyed. I hate kids. Especially the loud, squealing kind. And all I could think was, "How perfect."
All of a sudden I wanted so badly to be six again. I wanted to love the sound of my own voice, talking back to me, but not really saying anything at all. I wanted to be a little blond kid, whose dad was only 25 and happy.
I wanted to not have to worry about how loud I got in the tunnel.
Love,
Meredith
Saturday, April 03, 2004
Matt Smith,
They say absence makes the heart grow fonder. Are they right? Who are "they" anyway? Do they even matter? And why, if we don't know who "they" are, do we always seem to put so much weight on what "they" say? I suppose at one point "they" were just one person, and then he (or she) became so important that they earned an reputation for being wise, creating a situation where they have the wisdom of many -- thereby making them "they."
Or maybe they were just really fat, and people thought they looked like two or three normal-sized people put together. The fat person probably thought that was pretty cool (being referred to as "they," not being fat -- that just sucks) -- and maybe he or she thought that it was some sort of term of endearment, when really it was just a term for fat people.
Fat people have it rough. They can't ride roller coasters -- you always need a coaster buddy. (Unless it was okay that they be their own buddy. Then that's cool.) They have to sit in the handicapped seats at the movie theatre, which is awful, because I really am not of the opinion that obesity is a handicap. Maybe selective obesity could be considered a handicap. For instance, if one had an inexplicably fat left foot, or a really chubby elbow. Aside from being just sad, that could be hard to deal with. How could you drive a standard transmission with a fat left foot?
But, I guess if the fat people want to be handicapped, that's okay. I hear it's in now.
-- Meredith
They say absence makes the heart grow fonder. Are they right? Who are "they" anyway? Do they even matter? And why, if we don't know who "they" are, do we always seem to put so much weight on what "they" say? I suppose at one point "they" were just one person, and then he (or she) became so important that they earned an reputation for being wise, creating a situation where they have the wisdom of many -- thereby making them "they."
Or maybe they were just really fat, and people thought they looked like two or three normal-sized people put together. The fat person probably thought that was pretty cool (being referred to as "they," not being fat -- that just sucks) -- and maybe he or she thought that it was some sort of term of endearment, when really it was just a term for fat people.
Fat people have it rough. They can't ride roller coasters -- you always need a coaster buddy. (Unless it was okay that they be their own buddy. Then that's cool.) They have to sit in the handicapped seats at the movie theatre, which is awful, because I really am not of the opinion that obesity is a handicap. Maybe selective obesity could be considered a handicap. For instance, if one had an inexplicably fat left foot, or a really chubby elbow. Aside from being just sad, that could be hard to deal with. How could you drive a standard transmission with a fat left foot?
But, I guess if the fat people want to be handicapped, that's okay. I hear it's in now.
-- Meredith
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