April 9

The weekend is almost here. I am ready for it to come.

Here's the beginning of an ACTUAL phone conversation I had today.

Guy: Hello?
Me: Hi, [name redacted], it's me Martha.
Guy: Who is this?
Me: Martha
Guy: Who?
Me: Martha
Guy: [Long pause]
Me: From [professor's name]'s class <----- we have taken two seminars together with this professor
Guy: Oh yeah, hi!
Me: Hi. I hope you don't mind me calling.
Guy: No. Hey, how did you get my number, by the way?
Me: You gave it to me.
Guy: [stunned silence]
Me: In December
Guy: Oh, okay. Yeah, I was just wondering if my information was out there somewhere.

OH. MY. GOD. Mortified. Totally mortified. It could not have been more awkward.

This is why I don't like calling people. Well, one of the reasons. I am much, much more a technological communicator (emails, texts, Twitter), but I really wanted this guy's advice, the matter was time-sensitive. After the initial awkwardness, he couldn't have been more gracious and helpful, but oh my god. Just kill me.

Partly based on this guy's advice, I made my final decision about the summer language program I'll attend this summer, and I'm going to be in Yogyakarta, Indonesia for ten weeks. I am really excited, nervous, and anticipating (I know that's not an adjective, but I'm excited, cut me some slack.)

In other news, I hate ants, and I am sort of addicted to Twitter. I did get pretty intoxicated the other night and drunk DMed a little on Twitter, which wasn't wise, because now some people who thought I was alright before probably think I'm crazy (even though I'm not). By the way, have you noticed how SAYING you're NOT crazy only makes you seem MORE crazy? This cannot be escaped, but I feel the need to say it anyway, which means that now you think I'm crazy, don't you? DON'T YOU??

And finally, for today's entry, since you were patient with my near-fail yesterday (or even if you weren't), here's a poem. It's the only poem I know by heart in its entirety. I hope you enjoy:

This Be The Verse
by Philip Larkin

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old time hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man,
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.