Oh the internet is being painfully slow . . .so much so that I had to quit safari and use firefox and so much for it being swift like unto fire or a fox, or even a fox on fire, more like the speed of a really, really slow glacier, or an ancient ancestor of the fox frozen in this glacier. I don't love not using safari, mostly on account of the fact that I like how the toolbar looks, it's much more aesthetically pleasing, don't ya know?
There is one thing that happens here and that is snow, or threaten to snow. So I guess that's two things. Nevertheless I have accepted this and I even enjoy it a bit . . .except when the snow blows into my eyes and pummels my poor eardrums. This is when I say: snow, you are just playing dirty.
Here is what I like to do: look at moccasins on ebay. I'm not sure what my new-found fascination is with this particular type of historical footwear. Maybe because it reminds me of summer. And why should they? Who knows, maybe for the same reason Cat Stevens along with Simon and Garfunkel do . . .pretty well inexplicable, yes?
Here's what I don't like: The Dumpster and cleaning checks, but mostly The Dumpster . . .or maybe cleaning checks, it just depends on what day you catch me on. But you can generally count on my dislike of these two things and bananas . . .that is a constant in my life. I'm a fairly predictable human being in that way.
Last night Dad texted me that in Brazil they often ask dinner guests if they would like to hop into the shower before the meal. At first you think: strangeness, as well as: rudeness! But I've been seriously pondering this and I conclude that this is a custom I could really get behind. Now I don't mind being dirty (let's talk about how I would never set so much as toe near the showers during camp . . .I wouldn't even change clothes, except undieswear and pjs) but I also value cleanliness. It would kinda be like washing your hands before dinner (which people don't even wash their hands after going to the bathroom, so washing before a meal is just asking way too laboourious task). So my thought process is as follows: if you encourage people to take a quick shower before dinner, they won't. But they will wash their hands, and perhaps their faces . . .but probably their faces. They'll be like: teehee the host will never know I didn't actually wash my entire self, I'll just run the shower and then wash my hands. Voila! you've just used people's inate laziness or (more optomistic) dislike for using other people's showers to your advantage! You don't have to worry about Freddy touching all the rolls, because his hands have been washed. It's brilliant, I know, you don't have to tell me two times.
Oh and it's sad when transition lenses don't fully transition once inside a building of normal lighting.

Sometimes a girl feels loved by her school, like when she gets a Monday legitly off of school. For example, my campus honors Martin Luther King Jr. Day . . .and President's day, but no other bank holidays are important enough. Let's not even talk about Spring break (what is this foreign concept . . .oh you meant a break from school spanning a week usually used to alleviate cabin fever before the home stretch of the semester. Outrageous . . .this idea is most definitely for softies, which we are not). The one solace I have is that I'll be home for almost a month before the other peons who got a month for Christmas and a break for Spring are still being schooled. Ah no matter . . . today is a blessed day a day of great rejoicing, homework-doing and frivolity.
Oh and it snowed buckets and buckets last night.

(first off I misspelled 'whether' in my last post as 'wether' I'm slightly ashamed at missing that poor little h that separates a person that can spell and one that was a spelling bee drop-out, which, consequently, I am. It's out . . .I didn't even want to be in the spelling-bee so I spelt my name when the teacher asked me to spell 'mutton' I knew how to spell it, I just didn't. the funny thing is that some kids thought I had gotten the word right . . .ah the rising generation).
Real issue of business: it's incredibly cold and I'll let you have three guesses as to what is falling from the sky in a peaceful, yet somewhat hateful way. If it's taken you this long to guess, you've obviously been living somewhere hot and secluded for a very, very, very long time. Welcome to winter semester, where it always snows but it's never Christmas. I think the snow is so pretty and this is one of the problems with it: you can't completely despise something so beautiful, so I don't. Besides, sometimes I feel Scadinavian and this game of make believe slightly helps to buffer the ickiness and general dread I feel when it starts to snow . . .again.
I woke up this morning, very early . . .before dawn even considered cracking, after a night full of disturbing dreams. It was one of those play/movie dreams I have where my life turns into a play or I'm just in actor in the play and I know it's a play but I can't see the audience. Last night's was the former. It was a party that I was at and there was a man with two sets of eyes stacked one right under the other. He only opened his bottom eyes right before he Sweeneyed someone . . .you know, slit their throat with a razor blade. The wierd thing is that as scary as he was (and believe me he was plenty scary) you could tell that most of his face was put on by makeup . . .and yet I was terrified of him. I think this is linked to the fact that our Sondheim musicals class is finally having a Sweeney Todd night and I pretty much had an irrational and fairly poopy day yesterdtay. I had to wake up to watch Mr. Smith Goes to Washington for one of my classes . . .let me say that when you're up until midnight finishing the worst paper of your life, your laundry refuses to dry and half your clothes are completely wrinkled and the kitchen is in disarray, your suitemate loses her phone in the overhead light of her bedroom and then are expected to wake up for a 6:45 am showing of a movie . . .let's just say that tolerance for some of the over-acting (mostly on the part of the actresses) runs low and I couldn't sensor what I said . . .it was as if I had never gone to sleep. I am proud to say that I caught the humor even in the strange early-morning time warp that became the JSB auditorium.
Oh and I refuse to fall victim to procrastination ever again . . .I pretty well hate my life when I do.

It's the end of the first (or the beginning of the second, depending on how you look at your week: wether it starts or ends with Sunday) week of round of Caitlin's Freshman BYU year. Good news is all my classes are at a respectable or above-average insteresting-ness level. But often times workload correlates directly with interesting-ness, which I'm fine with (heck, I'm at school, what else am I going to do besides school work . . .not a whole lot comes immediately to mind, at least during the days).
But here's how the real story goes: yesterday I came in from being in the library for no small increment of time (which is always a productive thing for me: Saturday library time is always excessively handy for me, I get to gettin' really easily [especially after a nice workout] and I can go for a long time . . .anyway, this is not the story you've come to hear). I walked into the apartment, trying to think of what I would do with my time in the apartment before the appointed hour of a dance I was going to attend. My thoughts were unceremoniously interrupted by the stench that hit my news. There are almost no words . . .the first that comes to mind is MEOW!!! and then: 'what the crap-crap is that?!' Let me try and describe to you the unsavory aroma that bombarded my olfactory glands. I have pondered this long and hard and this is what I've come up with: really, really, really fake cheese (like the kind on popcorn or really cheap cheddar snack mix, or the stuff in boxed mac and cheese) deep fried in a vat of nastey oil (the fried smell was more of a feeling, the idea that this synthetic cheddar had been fried) with just a subtle overtone of carmel (this was a come-and-go feature of this smell). Now this sounds like a strange, unreal smell to you . . .but I wouldn't lie to you . . .cross my heart: honest to blog (oh I adore Juno!!) this is what the whole apartment building smelt like. Upstairs, downstairs, in our icky back hall (that p.s. looks like someone was either murdered or had some life-threatening or at least some reputation-threatening [perhaps peeing right in the middle of the square of carpet repeatedly, because 10 feet either way to a bathroom is just too far to go] in that 4 square-foot space). I couldn't escape it. My stomach was empty from my studying-fest, so actual puking was strictly out of the question (besides the fact I hate the act) I was resorted to dry-heaving, covering my nose, swooning, whining and drenching our apartment in various preventative air-freshners (these actions were in various mixes of occurence, not in any specific order and not necessarily nor unnecessarily in the afore recited order). In short, I cannot imagine what someone was making to produce such a stench and it's a bit like a bad car accident or the bloody parts on house: you want to see it , but it's gross . . .so you don't . . . .but then again, you really do. I'm afraid it's some sort of old and beloved family recipe that makes the girl feel as if she's home again, whereas I felt like I had reached a whole new, unimagined level of Dante's Inferno.
Oh and I worked out 6 times this week AND went to a 4 hour dance, where I only stopped dancing 3 times.

So here's the thing: I think I am experiencing a mild case of beginning-of-the-semester-depression. Nothing huge or clinical . . .no, just a bit ho-hum to have left my favorite place on earth (home) and some of my favorite people on earth. Not to mention that all my lovely friends are still on holiday, while I trudge to my early class on the other side of campus in 10 inches of snow. I'm not casting any dispersions on my campus, snow or even the huge icey patch that was once my shortcut to the crosswalk, I just am a little degradatated at getting back in the saddle again. I love going to class, I even hazard to say that all my classes are going to be enjoyable and interesting this semester, but I don't want to start taking tests and having papers due. But I guess . . .no I know that it comes with the territory, every rose has its thorns, as they say.
My current condition might also have a little something to do with the writer's strike that drags on and on and on and on . . .it might be indirectly affecting me. Heaven knows I'll go psychopants if this little tiff as it were gets in the way of new episodes of Pushing Daisies airing. Anyway, senseless prattle. Pardon me, I think this is what happens to a body when he or she reads about research methods for 2 hours.