Fully functioning

Ugh. It's been a busy week. I'm not even going to talk about it.

I have this almost creepy and definitely gross habit of rescuing pens from the sidewalk. I'll be traipsing along, from class or to my car, and I'll see a poor abandoned pen on the ground, and I'll pick it up and put it in my backpack . . . because good note-taking pens are hard to come by! And so easily lost! I try not to think about where the pen came from before I happened upon it; I like to think I've given these pens a new lease on life, a second chance. Win-win. But I definitely wash my hands after using them.

And speaking of health implications, I got my first migraine ever on Monday night. I cried myself to sleep after swallowing one of my dad's Fiorinals and vowed to never complain about a headache ever again. Which was a Big Deal for me because I learned that I am completely devoid of the capacity to empathize with people who suffer from migraines chronically. I can scarcely imagine a more miserable condition.

And speaking of things that are miserable, yesterday I gave blood for the second time in eight weeks and it was literally 100% less traumatizing than the first time. NO BRUISE THE SIZE OF TEXAS! I can actually bend my arm, guys! While I sat in the interview awaiting the finger prick, I was wondering to myself if I can really keep doing this every eight weeks for the rest of my life, like, when the pizza at the end ceases to be an incentive.

And speaking of pizza, I'm a little bit obsessed with my English teacher. The guy might be one of the most educated people I've ever met. So he's Polish, right, with an MA in Linguistics and a PhD in English AND an MBA. He teaches British, American, and Latin literature, as well as film, writing, and French. It mostly blows my mind how many languages he knows. [Polish is one of the most phonetically nonsensical languages out there, so he for sure has home field advantage.] I hate his class because every time it meets I'm reminded that I don't know anything about literary analysis, which actually gives me a lot of peace about killing the English major aspiration. The professors are the best and worst thing about this school.

And speaking of school, I sat in the library, part talking and part working [as has become my habit lately], and I listened to this highly articulate and insightful and good-natured individual muse not self-importantly, but just very sincerely on life and living. He has something I want. Granted, first impressions are first impressions. It's very possible he's a selfish psychopath like the rest of us. But the way he spoke with an honest and genuine humility, I want that. I want his wisdom and experience and rad prescription glasses. It's a relief to know that we're not all self-important college students.

And speaking of these college students, I discovered one of my new friends is an INFJ, and folks, it was like therapy. He sat and smiled and listened while I ranted about brain-typing and my personality glitches, and he empathized with the merciless over-analysis and feeling-internalization. We gossiped a little too, and I feel burdened by a poisoned perception of one of my friends, and I'm learning that people are people and I love them for that. I stayed up way too late chatting with him, which set in place a chain of sleeplessness that left me bemoaning the existence of Saturday morning, but I venture to say it was worth it.

Yeah. All this to say that like a typical college student, I am sleep deprived. Functioning is the goal, fully is optional.