Coup de Grâce

There is a god, and he's been laying in waiting for me in Independence.

It would have been too easy to kill me on the flight to Kansas City, but that didn't stop him from at least letting the plane unexpectedly drop for three seconds, some of the longest three seconds of my life, time enough for me to have full view from my aisle seat of one of the flight attendants drop down into a crouch reminiscent of a "duck and cover" video. My copy of The Economist slide off of my tray table and on to the floor, but I was too busy clutching the edge of my seat, bracing myself in a maneuver that could be the basis for an existentialist joke: you can cling all you want to your seat and your life, but it's not going to stop that metal coffin from dropping. Even after the plane balanced out, I kept my hands in the same place, not picking up my magazine, not moving a single tensed muscle for 20 minutes, only listening to the too-loud, tinny laughter of the passengers who cope through sublimating their fears. When I removed them - once we were safely braced against the ground - the leather was shiny black from sweat.

No, it's always the slow route with me, the Catherine wheel and not the guillotine. Which is why I here, going through the motions of a religion that has mostly done me irreperable harm, clamping my mouth shut when my grandmother repeatedly asks about the effeminate guy on Glee if "we're sure he's a boy" or when she calls Obama a "dumb man from Illinois who has half the country looking for work," and diverting my eyes around a callendar that praises women for being the great self-sacrificers behind all good men. Tonight I get to answer the same prying questions about my love life, which finally exists again but which I get to mask with my usual dry spell responses: "i'm just so busy with school," "I've got a lot of great friends but no one special," and, new for 2009, "well, I didn't want to get into something before I left for Europe." And everyone will look at me disdainfully when I feign almost bashful repentence for my lack of interest in KU sports. I'll hold my breath all Christmas, but no one will rush me a stay of execution, and no one, not even I, will be brave enough, or know enough, to bestow a coup de grâce.

Tiger

Consider this: what if Tiger Woods was in an open relationship with his wife, and now she's taking the financial opportunity the media has now created for her (and somewhat insists that she takes)?

We're doing two things wrong here: assuming we understand the inner workings of someone's personal life, and expecting celebrities, who are in a unique difficulties - they're under unusual pressure and offered unusual opportunities - to be role models. Even if this is legit infidelity, being able to hit a ball in a hole never qualified Tiger Woods to be an amazing person; we should never have expected him to be, even without the unusual complications of super-celebrity.

(sorry this is old news, but after being bombarded with tiger "news" since I got here...)

Addendum: Okay, just kidding. Further information leads to the conclusion that he's a sleazy dirtbag.

Fourth Thanksgiving

Tomorrow my parents and I are making up for me skipping thanksgiving by basically cooking all the carb-centered dishes, since those are all really all that matter/don't involve hours of dismembering/basting/tryptophan-induced sleeping. Things I am currently thankful for:
- A bed that does not screech when I get in it, comforters, comfort in general
- Umbilical cord -free internet.
- A sex-sized shower, primary (only) used for its secondary function of leg-shaving accommodation. Also one that doesn't run out of hot water in 4-6 minutes.
- Netflix! Hulu! NBC.COM! Basically, videos being licensed for the country I'm in.
- Margaritas. My parents willingness to make me cocktails.
- Time to read books, write in them, actually enjoy them (maybe after I've recovered from compact western civ trauma, I might go back and read some philosophy)

Things I could really see more of:
- Well-dressed men, additionally with a facial piercing, particularly nose studs.
- Really, well-dressed everyone, including me.
- Paris-style temperatures.
- Publictransportation/art&architecture/fastyetqualityfood etc.

Things I could probably see less of:
- Sports, constantly on our TV.
- Cute viral videos catered to the daytime talkshow watching demographic.
- Mail, on every surface in my parents house, that proves the law of superposition via checking magazine dates.
- Movies censored for language.
(Side rant: I would argue that turning the Penis Game in "500 Days of Summer" into the "Pandas" Game is significantly more offensive - also, I'm sorry, but does artistic license and maintaining the integrity of characters not matter at all? If you're going to be offended by 20/30-somethings talking about blowjobs & "other jobs" shouldn't you be watching a Reese Witherspoon movie? That's not Cruel Intentions?)

In summary: good to be home, wish home was europe.

Storytelling

Finals now; blogging commitment resumes when crazy subsides.

15

Remember three months ago when I thought it was a great idea to pack 15 pieces of clothing?

Everything smells like dust and sweat, covered in the same grey lint from my cardigan sweater, half stretched and worn out of recognition. My two white shirts are casualties of the wonders of italian washing machines. I've almost completely worn through my black flats, and the heels on my brown ones are splintering. My tights all have tracks.

I miss reality.