Category Archives: Suckool

i’ve been sailing around so long Okay. So th…

Salaam Namaste, Suckool

i’ve been sailing around so long

Okay.

So the final exams are over.

And the term papers are over, too.

(The last of the latter was supposed to be 4-5 pages and turned out to be 9 or so; skillful use of 1.5-spacing instead of double-spacing, and lots of pseudo-subtle margin adjustment, did the trick, I think. Shhh, don’t tell.)

I’M FINISHED WITH TERM PAPERS AND FINAL EXAMS!!!

(I can’t quite believe it just yet, so please excuse excessive use of the caps-lock key, and randomly embedded hyphens and parentheses, and the multiple exclamation points. I’ll be back to my grammatically-obsessive-compulsiveness after the requisite 14 or so hours of sleep.)

So far today, after finishing my last paper this afternoon, I’ve celebrated by eating ice cream and waffles and chocolate bars. I also stretched out on the living room couch and laughed at some Indian movie (there goes my two-desi-films-a-year quota) because, really, was the lead actress lounging in a bathtub in the middle of the ocean? What was that all about? People in the know (i.e. those of you whose desi-film-quota far exceeds mine), you are hereby instructed to explain.

Anyway, I’m done with napping on the floor, staying up all night every night, downing energy drinks like no other, exhaustedly slurring my words during the day, and procrastinating my life away. For now.

And now, I sleep.

p.s. A huge blue-slurpee-filled thank you! to all you rockstars who constantly checked up on me and asked how my work was going and nagged me about getting stuff done. Okay, so guilt trips do kinda sorta work. Maybe.

You’ve got to get yourself together

Suckool

I hit a milestone today, kids.

That’s right – I drank the first ever cup of hot coffee in my whole entire life. Okay, so it was chocolate-flavored, but I still think that counts, especially if it took me 23 years to get to the point where I could move beyond frappuccinos or frozen mochas (and even those I’ve only gotten around to trying in the past year or so). Somayya even commended me for not making any faces. The real deal coffee woke me up long enough to finish studying for our final and, more importantly, stay awake during the final itself. Yes, I have dozed off during final exams before. Really, why’re you so surprised?

Now, I’m planning on eating as many Doritos and chocolate chip cookies, and drinking as many energy drinks, as it takes for me to stay up tonight and finish one of the two remaining Papers From Hell by tomorrow morning, because, really, this is getting out of control. Sidenote to Somayya: Please note that I referred to drinking energy drinks, not eating them, like I supposedly “ate a glass of cranberry juice this morning.” Conversing with me when I’m sleep-deprived must be such an interesting experience. Oh, and thanks for all the 100%-sugar candy, buddy.

By the way, I didn’t know there was a such thing as sugar-free chocolate chip cookies. Who in their right freakin mind invented that?

we don’t talk about the little things that we do w…

NineToFive outside the 925, Salaam Namaste, Suckool

we don’t talk about the little things that we do without/when that whole mad season comes around

Just in case you were wondering – which you probably weren’t, but I’m telling you anyway, so pay attention – this weblog may now also be accessed though www.ramblingmonologues.com.

And I am not at liberty to further elaborate on this. So, the end.

Meanwhile, how ’bout you wander around and practice saying “dotcom” in a fobby desi accent, because I could really use some laughs right about now.

And if you’re not amused at the prospect of repeatedly saying “dotcom” in a fobby desi accent, then you:

– are not desi/South Asian

– do not know any desi/South Asian people

– do not feel ridiculously claustrophobic in a roomful of desis

– do not appreciate the hilarity that ensues when desi people make fun of themselves

– do not have a cool cousin who bought you a large order of french fries yesterday without you even asking. To reiterate: a LARGE order of fries.

– did not consume an energy drink on an empty stomach on your way up to school early this morning on three hours of sleep

– did not curse said energy drink because you had to go pee every half hour or so once you got to the computer lab at the library

– don’t want to point out that this is the first time in two years of blogging that you have used the word “pee” in a post

– don’t find this ridiculously funny, for some reason

– don’t think I’m funny

– are not funny yourself, because I said so, so there, the end!

– don’t find it ironic that you’re constantly talking about endings when you’re such a procrastinator you barely start anything in the first place

– did not curse some more for downing that energy drink on empty stomach, since the result was panicky feelings, shortness of breath, and butterflies in your stomach for the whole entire rest of the day, mainly while you were trying to write your papers

– did not silently talk to yourself: “Take deep breaths, crazy child. What the hell is wrong with you? Get yourself together already.”

– did not decide that reminding yourself to breathe takes way too much effort

– did not jokingly call a (desi) co-worker “annoying” yesterday, whereupon he spitefully refused to help you with a question later that afternoon because “annoying people don’t know the answer to that.”

– did not laugh and roll your eyes and tell said co-worker to get over his self-pity already and go hang up photos of his new wife in his cubicle, whereupon he decided to speak to you only in Punjabi and ignore your attempts at steering the conversation back towards English

– did not hold a real actual conversation with said (desi) co-worker in which he spoke Punjabi and you responded in Hindku

– do not think that driving in the early morning fog is a beautiful experience

– did not write five papers of various lengths this week, with two more left to go

– did not realize until this morning that one of those research papers you had due today was supposed to be closer to ten pages rather than the five you thought

– did not almost change your entire research topic at the last minute because of that

– are clearly so not with it

– don’t think that being with it is overrated

– do not have a teaching assistant who smiled and offered you two pieces (to reiterate: TWO!) of homemade baklava when you rushed over to her office to turn in your other ten-page paper this afternoon

– did not smile at random people on the road today because you recognized their personal license plates and/or cars from other days of commuting and got all excited

– couldn’t find the barbecue beans at the market, only to finally realize they were sitting way up on the highest shelf

– joked, “I can never find things if they’re placed above my eye level,” and were disappointed when the girl at the register didn’t so much as crack a smile

– clearly are not funny, so get over it already

– did not attempt to sneak hot chocolate (with whipped cream!) into the library, and almost quite successfully, too, if your sorry nerdy bookworm self had not turned at the last minute to grab a newspaper off the stand while you were at it

– did not have the (desi) security guard tsk at you and take you aside to say, “Now, if you had just tried that in the evening, I would have let it go…”

– did not drink your hot chocolate (with whipped cream!) outside while standing in the rain, and enjoy every single minute of it

– did not miss H because of the fact that whenever he was stressed out during finals week, you used to go print out the list of Duas For Studying for him, and then print out a stack for everyone else while you were at it, which meant you yourself actually used to utilize the duas, too

– did not eat only…umm…three?…real meals this week

– did not gasp in wonder at hills that turned green overnight

– don’t have your arms and legs majorly aching because you’ve been taking one- to two-hour naps on the floor of your bedroom during the past week

– didn’t laugh out loud during the drive home while mentally composing this list

– would like to point out that this list really has nothing whatsoever to do with your inclination (or lack thereof) to repeatedly say “dotcom” in a fobby desi accent

– are clearly not easily amused enough for your own good

– are still a rockstar anyway, because I said so, so there, the end.

Sanctuary speak-outs

Rockstar and Crescent, Salaam Namaste, Suckool

One of the courses I’m enrolled in this quarter is a Community & Regional Development class entitled “Ethnicity and American Communities.” If I had to pick one single class I were absolutely in love with during my entire university experience, this would most likely be it. Interestingly enough, the other likely contenders fall into the category of classes related to social and ethnic relations as well. This is the stuff I love.

In a lecture hall that holds nearly 150 seats and a sea of diverse faces among which it would otherwise be quite easy to become just another anonymous figure, our professor – a woman with a sharp, elfin face and purple streaks in her white hair, whose wide, gleeful grin for some reason reminds me of my grandmother’s – has successfully managed to help us not only get to know one another, but also to put our heart and soul into speaking honestly and sharing our thoughts, opinions, and experiences as applicable to the course. CRD 2 is a safe space, and, judging by the discussion, directness, and dialogue we’ve achieved just over the past few weeks, I don’t use that term lightly. I am constantly humbled by the stories my classmates share with us, and entrust us with.

During the latest lecture, our professor mentioned she was concerned about the fact that many students had made references to “colored people” while writing their weekly reaction papers for the class. I would find that laughable – who in their right mind still uses the term “colored people”?! – except I know what a painful, shameful history those words have had in the United States, and how emotive the phrase still is for many people. Looking around at the sea of faces in the lecture hall, I saw a variety of expressions: amused, shocked, embarrassed, cringing.

“We don’t say ‘colored people’ anymore,” said the professor gently. “Who knows what the correct term is – today, at least?”

There was a smattering of laughter as someone called out, “People of color!” Some white people looked slightly confused; the “colored people” smiled knowingly in amusement.

The professor scrawled both phrases on the chalkboard and turned back to the class. “I know, it sounds like the same thing, doesn’t it? Who knows what the difference is, between ‘colored people’ and ‘people of color?'”

I don’t know how common the usage of “people of color” is outside the United States, but even I myself had never heard of the term until I started college, and only thought about it closely for the first time when I was designing workshops for the Women of Color Conference last spring. Perhaps it’s all semantics, but I think the modifier makes all the difference: “colored people” is passive; “people of color” denotes ownership and active choice. What’s wrong with referring to “colored people”? It implies that there are two standards for people (those who are colored, and those who are…not), that one group is the norm (clean, untainted, and wholesome) and the other is…not. Guess which is which.

Last week I read my “What Did You Think?” poem aloud in class. Later, a white classmate who walked out with me remarked in response to the poem, “You know, maybe I’m just not judgmental enough, but I wouldn’t even look at you and think you don’t know how to speak English.” I smiled in amusement. “You’d be surprised,” I answered. Here’s something that’s true: The reactions I get from strangers when I’m wearing jeans and what my father calls my “retro hippie dress with the strings” (also labeled the “river rat gypsy dress” by my brother) are different from those I get when I’m wearing more ethnic clothing such as pants and a Pakistani top. It’s human nature to assume, to jump to conclusions, to judge without context, and I suppose I’m fortunate that my experiences with people in that regard have more to do with what I’m wearing, the way I speak, and how I carry myself rather than specifically with the color of my skin.

A few days ago, during one of my perpetual phases of non-thinking, I turned on the oven and placed the top of my index finger right up against the broiler to check whether it was hot enough. Who in their right mind does things like that, really? So now I sport a small, circular burn on my finger. It’s going through a healing stage, darkening with each day that passes. I find myself glancing at it during odd moments of the day, regarding it not as a blemish but just something interesting and out of the ordinary. (After all, it means at least some tiny bit of my skin tone now matches my mother’s, and we all know my mother is the best.) And while my little brown burn mark is such a trivial thing, it’s made me realize that darker skin catches the eye more often when it’s something unusual or uncommon. I may find it intriguing, but the sad fact is that a seemingly inconsequential thing like the color of one’s skin has, both historically and currently, been grounds for prejudice, disrespect, hate, and raging atrocities.

It breaks my heart on a daily basis – through workshops, forums, film screenings, discussion panels, and in-depth conversations with strangers and people I know – to realize the extent of discrimination and racism and intolerance that still exist in our world today. And it’s not all just about race and ethnicity. There’s also gender, socioeconomic status, sexual orientation, religion, and a multitude of other assumptions and characteristics by which we define ourselves and each another.

A few evenings ago, listening to the Chicano/Latino panel talk about their lives and experiences and frantically jotting down scribbled notes whenever their stories reminded me of incidents and conversations from my own past, I was struck again by a thought that has crossed my mind often during the last couple of years that I’ve been involved with issues of race/ethnicity and diversity: that the colors may vary and our experiences differ across the board, but ultimately, at the core of our humanity, our stories somehow reflect one another’s.

The point was driven home even more effectively by a couple of activities we carried out during class. The first one was an outdoor activity for which we trudged out to the edge of the wide lawn next to the building, all 150 of us standing in a huge group, shivering in the cold late afternoon wind.

The professor called out instructions, reading through a long list: “Step to the side if you are _____. *pause* Pay attention to who is standing with you. *pause* Pay attention to who is not standing with you.” We found there were three Arabs in the class, including the teaching assistant. Later, there were three Muslims up there, including me and not including the Persian guy with the Turkish name who’d introduced himself to me the week before. He met my gaze levelly, nonchalantly as the professor instructed us to “pay attention to who is not standing with you.” There were about a dozen people up there at the middle of the lawn when she called for those with disabilities, whether they were physical or learning or God knows what else. And even though, as I’ve mentioned before, hearing loss is a part of my life but doesn’t define who I am, I thought, What the hell, and walked up to join them. When she called for those who had grown up in working-class households, I stayed back and marveled at the sea of people that pushed forward.

When she called for those who had ever been arrested or been in jail, we all held our collective breath. Eight students walked up – two were African American, most were white and there were surprisingly more women up there than any of us had expected. When she called for the Asian American/API group, we walked to the middle, then turned back to see who remained beind, letting out a round of laughter because the majority of the class was standing shoulder-to-shoulder with us. A non-Asian student later referred to us as “the mass of the class.”

It was an extraordinary way to get a visual sample of the class demographics. There were people walking up for categories I never would have expected by looking at them – a simple reminder not to judge one another.

The second activity was back indoors. We had two minutes to individually complete the following exercise:

1. As a _____, what I want you to know about me is _____.

2. As a _____, what I never want to see, hear, or to have happen again is _____.

3. As a _____, what I expect from you as an ally is _____.

My quick answers:

1. As a Pakistani Muslim woman, what I want you to know about me is I choose to cover my hair, I am not oppressed, my ethnic clothing is not called “pajamas,” I am not a terrorist, my nationality is American, and I’m versatile not confused [thank you, Fathima!]

2. As a Pakistani Muslim woman, what I never want to see, hear, or to have happen again is laws passed to limit my personal right to wear my headscarf, the Gujarat riots, terrorist attacks including those of September 11th, people being victimized or labeled because of outer appearances

3. As a Pakistani Muslim woman, what I expect from you as an ally is tolerance, acceptance, asking for explanations up-front instead of assuming, and respect for my individual right to practice my religion

The fun part was when we got segregated into groups based on our racial/ethnic identity, to share our answers. The other students in my South Asian group were all non-Muslim Indians, and it was interesting to note that my response was the only one dealing mainly with religion. Not to say that non-Muslim Indians aren’t religious, but that was an observation nonetheless. And then we had to choose someone from the group as a spokesperson, to combine a few of our answers and read them to the class. “I nominate her,” said one of the guys, pointing at me. “Hers sounds complicated.”
“Thanks a lot,” I laughed.

The professor called this process of sharing with the class “sanctuary speak-outs.” It was a powerful experience, not only reading my group’s answers but also listening to the statements recited by other groups. What made it even more meaningful is that, at the end of each group’s list, the entire class was asked to repeat back whatever they had heard, thus effectively validating the group’s experiences and declarations. A Filipino student simply announced, “What I expect from you as an ally is to open my fridge.” When pressed for an explanation, he said his measure of a really good friend is that the first thing the person does when he walks into his house is open the refrigerator and help himself to food. This level of comfort, disregard for useless social niceties, ease in one another’s presence, and “feeling right at home-ness” is something he wishes more people would aspire to in relationships with one another.

You’re all welcome to open my fridge any day. There’s a lot of cheese and fruit juice in there. And the kitchen cupboard has two boxes of chocolate truffles, too, if you’re interested.

Use the comment box to fill in your own blanks for #1-3. What do you have to say for yourself?

because i am the queen of fake updates. I decided…

Suckool

because i am the queen of fake updates.

I decided the other night that the SoBe NO FEAR drink is one of the better-tasting energy drinks out there. (Wouldn’t it be funny if that was the same day Yaser decided to try out the Monster drink?) And trust me, I should know, since I seemingly enjoy torturing myself by conducting taste analyses of various energy drinks, the taste analysis criteria being based on two standards: Nasty and Bearable. SoBe is bearable. Everything else is nasty. The end.

Today’s commercial advertisement has been brought to you by:

– One week
– Two midterm exams
– One paper
– Zero hours spent on AIM
– Two forums/workshops
– Twenty-seven unread emails
– Almost zero time spent with the coolest sister in the whole world
– Way too many reaction papers
– Two books I did not read for the respective midterms
– Not enough sleep
– Zero weblog posts

Yeah, so I missed all you crazy nerd children. I was browsing through my archives this morning and decided all my meaningful posts were last fall/winter. What IS that. I’ll be trying to remedy that soon. Meanwhile, Somayya bought me a new pair of pants. Black, of course. How many does that make now? Five or so, I think. Clearly, I need to INVEST in a new color scheme. Not pink, even though my new goal is to learn to like to wear pink.

Okay, enough girly-ness. Back to the paper-writing. Non-fake updates coming soon to a weblog near you. The end.

miseducation 1. I got home from school late l…

Casa420 and Familia, NineToFive outside the 925, Suckool

miseducation

1.

I got home from school late last night, walking into the house with my new messenger bag slung diagonally from shoulder to hip. This bag rocks das Haus – it’s khaki-colored canvas, with five or six pockets just on the outside, Velcro straps and random buttons everywhere. And I love messenger bags, in case you didn’t know. My father peered up at me from his armchair, brushing his hand across my bag as I leaned over him to give him a hug.

Daddy-o: What’s this?

Yasmine: *shrugging* I got tired of my backpack, so I bought this instead.

Daddy-o: *winces* Couldn’t you have bought something a little more professional looking?

Yasmine: I don’t need something pretty or professional. I need a bag I can kick around when I get frustrated with school.

Daddy-o: Instead of this one, you could have gotten a nice little portfolio, or a bag to hold your laptop.

Yasmine: What laptop?

Daddy-o: It looks like a mailman bag!

Yasmine: No, it doesn’t!

Daddy-o: *shakes his head* Why do you always have to be so difficult? And different?

Somayya’s older brother, trying to be the voice of reason: It’s okay, there’s always one extremist in every family.

Daddy-o: Hippie! She’s a hippie!

Yasmine: *walks away laughing*

2.

The night before that, I helped facilitate a workshop for the university’s Student Housing division, at one of the first-year multicultural dorms. I’m starting to think I really shouldn’t be unleashed on large groups of people, because I just don’t know when to stop talking. But maybe that’s a good thing, and, besides, my colleagues kept assuring me that, No, I didn’t ramble or go off on tangents or whatever else I shouldn’t have been doing. And I appreciated the fact that the freshmen had lots of questions to direct my way.

‘Twas much fun. Here’s how my intro ended up going:

Yasmine: Hi, I’m Yasmine, and I’m a fifth year Human Dev –

*students start murmuring*

Yasmine: Thanks a lot, you guys, I really like how you did that collective gasp. Anyway, I’m majoring in Human Development and minoring in Social & Ethnic Relations. And, don’t worry, I promise I’m graduating in June.

*laughter*

Freshman boy #1: *whispers loudly to friend* She’s a fifth year? Dude, she must hella be a party girl!

Freshman boy #2: SHE’S SO COOL!

take a sad song and make it better Okay, so if …

Suckool

take a sad song and make it better

Okay, so if you’re anything like me, you’re driving up to school at 7 a.m., bleary-eyed and yawning because yesterday consisted of this: driving from your hometown to Sacramento, working until the afternoon, and driving from Sacramento to your hometown to Berkeley to San Francisco to Oakland to your hometown. And you’re stressed and highly bitter because it’s one day before the event and your printer is out of ink and your ISP is down and you need to be checking and replying to last-minute event-related emails and this is no time for your internet to not be working. So you’re listening to the Beatles’ album “1,” yawning so hard your jaw’s about to dislocate, and wondering how the hell they manage to sound so damn exuberant and happy even when they’re singing depressing songs.

Don’t worry, kids, I have the perfect solution:

One way to wake yourself up properly and get your day off to a nice start is to turn up the volume on “Hey Jude” and sing along towards the end,

“Na na na na-na-na, na-na-na hey Jude

Na na na na-na-na, na-na-na hey Jude

Na na na na-na-na, na-na-na hey Jude

Na na na na-na-na, na-na-na hey Jude

Na na na na-na-na, na-na-na hey Jude

Na na na na-na-na, na-na-na hey Jude

Na na na na-na-na, na-na-na hey Jude

Na na na na-na-na, na-na-na hey Jude

Na na na na-na-na, na-na-na hey Jude

Na na na na-na-na, na-na-na hey Jude…”

at the top of your lungs. Loudly, okay. This is the important part. Once the song finishes, press the “repeat” button and start the song over again. I said, sing loudly. Repeat the process for however long it requires you to start giggling the rest of the way to school. Keep giggling and/or smirking whenever the song pops into your head at random moments throughout the day.

Hey, it works, okay.

Stop looking at me like that.

Sky of blue and sea of green, in our yellow submarine

NineToFive outside the 925, Suckool

Following in the grand tradition of posting lists of my random thoughts when I have nothing worthwhile to say:

Today was the first day of fall quarter. Hold the applause. Do you know I have 8 a.m. classes four days a week? Do you know how early I have to wake up? Do you know what time I leave the house? Do you know how gorgeous the sky looks at that time of morning? Yes. Must stay positive. (Don’t worry, kids, stay tuned; further whining to recommence soon.)

So you want to know why I couldn’t find the blue paper to print out my timesheet at work? Because it was placed in a cubby-hole above my eye-level, dammit. Really, I shouldn’t have to strain my neck like that.

Fall quarter parking permits for school are now red. I like much.

Squash. As in, the vegetable. One word: NO. (Why does it always come back to this?)

Guys need to stop gawking while driving on the freeway. What’s even more annoying is when you’re forced to switch lanes and end up driving directly behind them, leading them to believe you’re stalking them on purpose. Please. Don’t flatter yourself. And get that victorious little smirk off your face. It’s not attractive. And while we’re at it, don’t put your face right up against the window like that. Didn’t your momma tell you? It’ll get stuck that way.

An awkward-looking man with scruffy orange sideburns was walking down the street in downtown Sacramento this afternoon with his tie tucked into his dress slacks. Why? WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS TO YOURSELF? Please note the deliberate use of the caps-lock key. Obviously, this is something I feel quite strongly about.

Stressed and sad is not a good combination. Stressed, because I’ve only made it through one lecture and I’m already feeling claustrophobic about being back at school. It must be that damn biology class, I’m telling you, because the thought of Renaissance Literature tomorrow doesn’t seem to have quite the same effect. And sad, because the world is a crazy heartbreaking place and ideally everything should be good for those of whom you know nothing but good, but it isn’t. Does that make sense?

Did I tell you I’ve been working in downtown Sacramento during the past three weeks? Uhh, I guess I kinda forgot. I still haven’t figured out yet if turning left onto a one-way street on a red light is legal. Someone tell me already, because I hate waiting for green lights. Meanwhile, I’ve stopped being intimidated by one-way streets, and my parallel parking skills have noticeably improved. I can now parallel park on both sides of the street! This is hella exciting, in case you can’t tell.

I bought a pair of flared jeans for $12.99. Like, really flared. This is so exciting that it even merits a mention on the weblog. See?

When I told my friend S about the new job, he responded with a capitalization-laden reply along the lines of, “You’re driving 75 miles to work during your summer vacation?! Are you insane?!” Of course I am. It’s a skill I’m constantly working on perfecting. This is what spending almost an entire summer away from California does to you – you start forgetting key information about your friends, and that’s just inexcusable. Besides, now that school’s back in session, I’m regularly in the valley anyway, so what’s an extra 15 miles to work from campus? It all somehow makes sense with my convoluted logic. Or lack thereof.

I’m working on perfecting my disdainful look, too, but it’s not working out real well, because I have a tendency to roll my eyes and burst into laughter instead. Goshdarnit.

The seemingly never-ending freeway construction means that westbound I-80 is missing lane markings approaching the Interstates-80/680 junction. This also means that every evening, all the cars traveling in a westbound direction get extremely confused about whether we have four lanes or six at our disposal. Some lady nearly sideswiped me at the junction yesterday simply because she couldn’t figure out where the exit lane began. CalTrans needs to hurry up and get this job over with and stop putting my life in danger already.

Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to research potential careers for me.

Re. teaching: NO.

I’ve been enjoying listening to the Beatles’ album “1” on and off for the past few weeks. Believe it or not, the only version of “Yellow Submarine” I’ve heard before this is my father’s. That, and his Pukhtu rendition of the same song. Fun stuff, but it’s nice to finally listen to the original as well.

I feel like retiring, and I haven’t even done anything with my life yet. Tell me, is this slightly problematic?

Still the cold is closing in on us

Glorious mundanity, Hit the Road, Loss and laments and letting go, Suckool

After four years, the sixty-mile drive to school has become second-nature. I scoff at people who complain about supposedly long drives, dismissively citing my own daily commute to school as “nothing.” It has come to the point where I don’t even have to concentrate on driving; I get from Point A to Point B – and back again – in a perfectly safe fashion, but without having to actively think about it.

Lately, though, the drive, along with everything else school-related, has been getting to me. Much of it has to do with the fact that the first summer session is coming to an end soon, finals are any day now, and second session starts next week. I admit there have been many good things about this session: sleeping in, eating real meals, hanging out with beautiful friends (and family) who inspire me. But, ultimately, it comes back to academics: I’m tired of not pushing myself as hard as I should have, of trying to prove myself – to myself – and not meeting the goals and standards I set for myself, of being at that academic “eff it all” stage that Somayya and I have joked about since freshman year, but which isn’t really funny if you think about it. My GPA, for example, doesn’t find it amusing at all. I feel like I’m wasting my time and my parents’ money, and if there were ever a good enough reason for me to take a break, that’s it right there.

I’m registered for second summer session classes, but just thinking of that makes me feel suffocated, as if it’s difficult to breathe. I don’t want to have to deal with another six weeks of feeling overwhelmed and burdened. Even with four years of year-round school, I’ve never before had such an adverse reaction to taking a class. I’m too young to be feeling burned-out, dammit.

Driving home tonight, lost in my own thoughts, I decided to join the real world long enough to realize that I wasn’t even as close to home as I thought I was. You’ve still got forty miles to go, buddy boy! jeered the little voice in my head.

And I thought: Dammit, I don’t want to do this anymore. Not for a while, at least. God, get me home already. Ten miles later, my exit at the interchange was closed due to construction, and I had to go through the drama of taking detours. I don’t like drama, in case you didn’t know. Finally, just a few miles from home, slowing down due to flashing signs and lights that warned of an accident, I glanced to my right and gasped in horror. In the far right lane, right up against the freeway divider wall, were the remnants of two cars that had collided. And I mean remnants in the most devastating way possible. All I could make out were crumpled bits of red metal, chunks of steel that I could have picked up with my hands and dropped in a trashcan. I have never before seen cars reduced to such minute rubble. If anyone in those cars survived that crash, it’s a miracle of God. I drove the rest of the way home in tears, muttering incoherent prayers under my breath.

It was not a good drive.

I’m getting tired of driving, and I never thought I’d say that.

I want a full tank of gas to last longer than two-and-a-half days. I want to go running early in the mornings and take naps on the sofa during the day and perform my prayers punctually and spend quality time with my mother. I want to remember why I used to consider myself just as much an artist as I do a writer. I want to browse through Main Street and reply to people’s emails and learn slick tricks in Photoshop and feel cool Bay Area breezes instead of waves of blazing Sacramento Valley heat. I want to do all the things I mentioned in that one list, without remembering that there actually is a list.

When my friends come to me with their problems (which seems to happen often, Lord only knows why), I generally listen patiently and give careful advice. But sometimes, when I’m feeling particularly intolerant, I snap, “If you refuse to do anything about it, you have no right to whine about it.”

Looks like it’s about time I took my own advice.