Soggy Monday.

There's one thing that a massive mother nature air strike can undeniably consummate: soaked jeans.

I've never been a fan of wet clothes, and the more I think about it, the more I cringe at the mere idea. All that added amount of friction between your legs hardly makes walking throughout Target enjoyable, which we all know, would normally bring pure contentment. The cats have approached my soggy trousers with a sense of unease a couple times now, only to be just as put off as I am about the dampness. I'm contemplating wrapping myself in Reynolds wrap, but realized my self-esteem isn't prodigious enough.

The wet weather is supposed to stay for the next week, and although my Seven's have seen dryer days, I welcome it with open arms. Just not a tornado - hospitality embracement will not be available. FYI, I have a huge fear of flying up inside a cyclone, with farm animals joining in on the ride. Some movies, like Twister, should not be shown to 7 year olds. Sorry Helen Hunt, but my children will not have to mentally cope with Meg being stuck in the basement. However, I digress.

Just be sure to dust off the rain coats and umbrellas, California, and leave the jeans safe at home.

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Happily Ever After A Week.

I just finished an intensive one-week three-unit winter-session class. If the plethora of dashes weren't enough, try to imagine running a marathon in an hour. Maybe 1.5 with a foot cramp, but that'd be stretching it. Meet Communication 352, or for the CSULB handbookless*, Storytelling.

What? That's an actual class? Go figure, but apparently in order to be an effective and dynamically cogent major, one must practice their art of reciting fairy tales and producing proper audience utterances of "oohs" and "aahs." Because that's what Comm 352 is, right? Or as a fellow individual noted of intersession courses, PS2 would occupy most educational time.

News flash: Storytelling is the ideology that fueled the creation of acronym FML.

I'm pretty sure I've never worked this hard in a class. Ever. I'm also pretty sure my mind was complete mush by day 3. Coffee, if it had any effect before, was consumed like water. The baristas/baristos at Starbucks were incredibly sympathetic with their offering of free refills every day - maybe because the $.05 change I dropped each time into the tip jar really started adding up. Who knows. However expressive I can be, just know, this class violated all prior expectations.

Day 1: It's never a good feeling walking into a room, sitting down, and the first utterances from the professor is, "This week is going to be hell, say goodbye to your life for the next 5 days. Seriously." After that remark, the class tally dropped from 28 - 20 students.

Day 2: My snacks for the day run out by 11AM. It can only get worse. Oh, that's right, my boyfriend leaves for Mexico.

Day 3: The professor tries to encourage us with some doughnuts, but his nonverbal rhetoric is still screaming, "Your grave plot will be issued soon."

Day 4: A total of 42 hours on campus is recorded to date, not to mention 3 papers, 157 pages of reading, and 2 speeches completed. We're still expected to have a 5 minute story memorized and ready to perform by tomorrow, as well as our corresponding Korean immigration presentation. Our group stayed later to practice, only for our superior to note, "It's my personal opinion you guys stay a bit longer, you need a lot of work obviously." Obviously you would be good at running a concentration camp.

Day 5: We're the last group to present. Right when we are about to begin, campus-wide black out. The professor says he has two options for us: 1, do the exhibition by the illumination of fellow students flash lights. I waited for option 2, but it never came.

Needless to say, there were (believe it or not) a couple positive things that arose from this experience. Besides being 3 units closer to graduation in May, I finally finished off the huge Costco-sized box of FiberOne bars. Thumbs up. Also, I feel that I've reached my quota for the coming semester of work exertion. I now have a week of mindlessness ahead of me before my last bit of collegiate studies begin. There's no time like the present to practice staying in bed all day, at least for the next few turns of the sun.

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* Not a real word, as pointed out by the squiggly** red line.
** Apparently squiggly is a real word?

Snogging: Optional.

Comfort can be found in the most elementary of places; the methodical rise and fall of the chest provides a calming sense of security, geniality, and a ridiculous display of happiness plastered to my face.

"Hello, I'm a thief, and I'm here to steal your heart."

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Bargain Hunter.

"Behold I do not give lectures or a little charity; when I give I give myself."

My parents used to always tell me stories to construct a healthy mindset for the future - call it a conditioning process to equip myself with a proper morality and faith in existence. I latch on to these ideals, and in most cases, take them to all new extremes.

For example, one valuable yet simplistic sit-down encoded the importance of having someone care about you on the inside, rather than the outside. As the wheels in my mind start jostling this information around at a young age, I come to the conclusion and creation of the theory of comfortableness. Like any theory it must be tested, with trial after trial and scientific reviews of its veracity and significance in societal weight. For the past 8 years, this method of serene relaxation of ones guise has been practiced. This is where I make my conclusion.

I'm a messy looking person: oversized shirts, unflattering sweats, and not to mention the shaggy locks often times found with a mind of their own. Thanks to the parentals initial installation of the ideology, I now find myself wandering the streets with holes in my pants and oil streaked on my uggs. Throwing inhibition to the wind, this comfortable cockiness fills my soul with joy. I assume that others find it unappealing and even offensive, though, especially when the clothing is riddled with cat fur (now that I read that, it sounds horrific). However, I figure that, hey, if you can see past the less-than-frilly wardrobe and old velcro watch, then you're definitely worth keeping around. A true test of character, really. Although, my self esteem came crashing down when a classmate recently approached me.

"Courtney, why do you always dress up for me?" he uttered, riddled with sarcastic tonality. And another individual,

"So, mountain woman, you going camping after class?" Last but not least, the roommate whom needless to say I'm in love with exclaimed one afternoon,

"If you wear that sweatshirt for one more day, I'm going to burn it!"

Can these individuals not see past the rugged image and through to my seemingly personable personality? This theory of comfortableness has contorted my mind in such a way to think that dressing like the homeless person on the corner of the street is a-o-k. In fact, I'm convinced that it's more than ok, it's a lifestyle-esque statement that, one would hope, demands acceptance from the world on a more genuine level. Could you image what life would be like if everyone judged based on character rather than appearance? Nancy Pelosi would have a tough time maintaining her rank, and plenty of celebrities would slip out of their realm of egotism rather quickly.

I can say, however, that I'm content with who I am, be it in a pair of old jeans or a dress, and I do happen to appreciate my hair in all its fury. Maybe a revolution might occur, and soon we'll be walking through the once-paved streets outfitted by mother nature, reverting to the prehistoric ways of simplicity and altruism. I'd have to wait until I'm able to buy a gun, though, so I can feel the pride and accomplishment of wearing my own grizzly coat.

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Annual Topsy-Turvy Day.

It's rather effortless to point out that there are a lot of things I do not understand. Such things consist of arbitrary car parts and up to date stats of the latest sport achievements, possibly due to the frivolous purpose they serve in my life. True, I'm sure it would be more attractive to a masculine figure if a girl knew exactly how to fix a muffler, however, I'd rather promote their exercise of knowledge and be a supporting subject. Sorry fellas, but I could care less about the fandom surrounding the over-glorified Lakers.

On the flip side, though, I find that there are in fact a lot of things that I do understand. I'd like to think that I'm quite intellectually aware in a pretty broad sense, and can easily become riled up at the mere suggestion of a political altercation. Even with a lesser known concept, I thank my communicative major for its rhetorical support.

To get to the point, as I'm repeatedly told by a writing companion to do, I understand relationships. I understand how they work, how they function, the expectations, and in turn, the violations. I can figure out an individual in a matter of seconds, and properly note their degree of 'meshability' within the intertwining of my cardiac organ. I can also figure out whether or not I will fit within their social constructs in a rapid fashion. Unfortunately, for once, something that I know I have been utterly exposed and taught to death on, fully aware of all circumstantial possibilities, has completely left me out to dry. How do you go from knowing so much of something, to absolutely nothing in a mere instant?

I blame it on good looks. I blame it on personality. Furthermore, I can blame it on the singular appeal of uncovering a genuine personage. I find peace in the fact that its something that I need, rather than want. Its just one patient-driven struggle trying to get there.

Amusingly enough, Kobe just scored 28 points against the Hornets for a 5th league win. Come back to me understanding, please?

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In Your Sleeve, Not Your Hand.

It's that time of year again: fog, food, and a little swine on the side. The common flu, or as it just may be, the 'ol flying pig, has found a comfortable place to lie within my body. Call it luck, or my conditioned hospitable-like charm passed down from my mother, my new friend has decided on an extended stay.

I'm trying to figure out exactly why I can't breathe at the moment - either my mucus cells are aggregating, or the brother used a full can of Lysol in the living room. I'm unwanted, unapproachable, and un- to the max. Yet, the two that I can consistently count on to knead at my stomach and prove their worth as comforting companions are the felines. Penetrating my zone of infection in a bold fashion, I can't help but callously wonder why this unconditional love can only be found in a cat. However, I digress.

One thing that a faulty immune system does bring is a bit of insight, or rather - outsight, as I would like to call it. I realized that yes, I do have a life, and when I'm sick it drastically takes a turn to a hibernative state. Like a bear, I become a gormandizer and drag my heels to bed as the sun sets. As a matter of fact, I can feel the Tylenol PM starting to suggest such a slumber at this very moment. Even though I would like to be elsewhere, the comfort of my germ-infested blanket is subtly calling my name with a sense of desperation.

"I'm coming," I respond. Then I think to myself, "Did I really just address an afghan out loud?" Warning: if you have the flu, stay out of the public for this reason.

I love winter, especially all the perks that come but once a year. Hot cocoa, layers upon layers, and roaring fires you can cozy up to are things that can seemingly be overlooked, yet auspiciously enough this sickly individual is emotively aware. The occasional viral infection can get you down. The occasional viral infection will get you down. Just be sure to grab the purring pets and a good book to ride it out.

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Noteworthy and Notable.

I find myself perched in the educational echelon of late nights and obsessive facebook updates with the constant tick of keyboards sounding: the library. Situationally located at the top of campus, this artistic literary domain is conveniently available to studious students for 16 hours a day. All alliterations aside, cubicle number 65 seems to be giving me a stint of grief. The green canvas of the side boards can arbitrarily conceal glances from my neighbors, yet even my Starbucks cup is violating my personal legroom.

Plateau's are a good place for some to reside, and amusingly enough, is what many of individuals settle for. My plateau, however enjoyable, is situated somewhere between squeaking by in the monotonous routine of schooling and really making that indent in the couch permanent. Although my perceptions have been slanted against the educational system, this complacency has led me to acquire several skills I would otherwise be without.

My independent nature and lack of desire for inclusive cramming sessions has led me down a steep and narrow path. This path, though some might idealize as dangerous and obtuse, continues to strengthen my ability to, for a lack of better words, get 'er done. This act obliges myself to the sometimes dreadful task of paying attention in lectures - even the ones covering corpselike concepts. When I am without an attention span for more than 2 minutes at a time however, I find that the skill of being able to bullshit is highly overlooked and severely underrated. Procrastination as well as the ever useful risky behavior of winging a test should be praised when successful. And, if the result of this attempt at lethargy comes out conclusively negative and somehow leads one to a falling out, think of our current president, Barack Obama.

"If the people cannot trust their government to do the job for which it exists - to protect them and to promote their common welfare - all else is lost."

We can just rely on the government to solve our problems. And learning from the best, can find benefit in universitality with equality and stagnicity.

Whoever says that college students are not learning is a blatantly naive remark. Throughout my short collegiate experience, I will openly flaunt and acknowledge the fact that I am amazed at the potentiality that is before me. As a Communication major, I could even go as far as to rhetorically twist my skills to even further enhance my oh so extensive resume. Ability to work well under pressure; ability to get the job done; high talent at prioritizing. I think I'm ready to face the real world now, CSULB.


2 Chronicles 7:13,
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