Friday, December 9, 2011


Aaagh. Finals. What's that all about? I know, I know. Everyone's complaining about finals right now. It seems like every other Facebook status in my News Feed is either about finals or Christmas.

I can't really complain. Any issues I have with finals are my own fault for not studying. At the end of the day, my grade doesn't care whether Ocean's Eleven was on or not. It's time to pay the piper.

My grammar final went well yesterday. At one point I purposely labeled "on" as an adjective, and my sentence trees all came out festively festooned with complementizer phrases, but dang it! there comes a time in ever linguistics life when they must take a stand for sanity and logic. I imagine that my time will come sometime in the far future. We want none of your sanity here. Be gone, reason! I kid. I had an awesome reason for deciding "on" was an adjective.

My Latin final this morning... Eee... You know how some towns build dams and flood gates and fancy things to contain natural disasters, and these work to a certain extent but not always entirely? I'm going to call my Latin final a mitigated disaster. I gave the vocabulary a cursory look before breakfast, and in the half hour before the final started, I managed to frantically translate half of the selections we were suppose to translate and study beforehand. In short, it wasn't pretty, but it wasn't hideous, either.

I have two final papers left, neither of which should be brutal, and then I can marathon Doctor Who to my heart's content.

In unrelated news, my mother finally shipped my flute to me sometime last week. Alright, show of hands. How many of you were just blindsided by the knowledge that I played the flute? (This show-of-hands-through-the-interwebz thing is not very effective.) The use of the past tense "played" is deliberate. Until last week, I hadn't produced so much as a note for a good four or five years at least. I'm out of practice reading music, my embrasure is weak, my lung capacity is laughable, my wrists get mad at me if I hold the darn thing up for longer than 15 minutes, and any note outside of the basic staff is not the most gorgeous thing in the world. And yet... As soon as I started playing last week, my fingers glided through a B flat scale as if it were the most natural thing in the world. If I think about the fingering too much, I goof up, but when my brain's not interfering, my fingers know exactly what to do.

Tonight, a few of my friends and I went to Jester'z Improv to forget about life for a while. And the piano smells like a carnival. And the microphone smells like a beer. /billyjoelmoment Ah, Jester'z! I would go into detail, but that place is a perpetual you-had-to-be-there moment. Just know this: There was a group of accountants there for a Christmas party.

I leave you with the following video, because I've had random lines of dialogue from it stuck in my head for two days.

Listening to: "Sharp Dressed Man" by ZZ Top
Reading: North and South by Elizabeth Gaskell

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