Here I am, sitting at my desktop at almost midnight, typing away with my 80 words a minute, eyes glazed over, not wanting to go to bed, still on a sugar high from some ice cream that I found in the kitchen earlier. I was having a major sweet tooth attack, and if you’ve been reading my blogs at all carefully, you would know that I cannot “do” sugar, or too many carbs, as I have discovered recently, or too many highly processed foods. Too much of any one of these things causes the yeast population of my body to go beserk, a phenom which I fondly refer to as a “yeast bloom” (see no. 04 and no. 09 here). Well, I’ve been blooming all over the place lately, and I feel like I have to analyze every little thing I put in my mouth, and then wash it down with three glasses of water and 2 tablets of “Candida Cleanse”, acidophilus, or both. I’m sick of being so damned careful, and I don't know where the line is between okay and trouble. I was dying for something sweet, opened the freezer to take a look, and there it was. One pint of Something-Something Homemade Vanilla Ice Cream. So sweet and so smooth, it made my eyes close and my head swirl. There were about 7 ounces left, including some that had crystallized inconveniently, and every single bit of it went into my mouth. I parked myself in front of the spoon drawer I had just closed, leaned over the counter, and ate straight from the container. You would have thought I had licked it, it was so clean. Hey. Sometimes a girl’s got to get every last drop. That’s just how it is.
So anyway, here I am, on a sugar high, not wanting to go to bed, not knowing what to write to someone who will be reading this tomorrow instead of today. Unless I work on it until after midnight, and then I will be writing it today, and you will be reading it today. But since now it’s dark, and it will be light by the time most of you read this, it will still feel like today and tomorrow, even if it is after midnight. I think I’m confused, but I’m not sure. I know I don’t know why any of this makes a bit of difference. It just does, and it bugs me.
I’ve started my new class (see "Out of Place" here), The History and Philosophy of Science, also called How Science Works. Just skimming through the textbook makes me want to light something on fire and then stomp it out with my bare feet. Or run off somewhere, screaming and ripping my clothes off. That’s how enjoyable this material is. God, shoot me now. Please. I think I may change my enrollment to Pass/Fail to avoid the possibility of this class screwing up my stellar GPA. With my A and B+ that I just received last term, I am considered by the Pitt Department of English, a “distinguished student”. I have never been a distinguished anything in my entire life, and it’s a label I rather like, truth be told. I’m not willing to jeopardize being distinguished over impossibly weighty concepts like, How do you know something is true? or How do you test it? or What does ‘true’ mean? I sit in the same row as the stoners with their long black hair covering most of their faces, their bored expressions, and leather pants and think, “Who cares? Just do it.” Or something along those lines. These Quantitative Analysis people are still trying to kill me. You would think that they would have given up after I survived College Algebra, but they’re still out there, doing their best to get rid of me once and for all. I hope I continue to prevail. One thing I know for sure. Until this class is over, it’s going to be a long, long summer. Bummer.
An A and B+? Congrats, Louise.
Posted by: Kathy | Wednesday, May 17, 2006 at 08:07 AM