Time of my life

As in "it is the time of my life" when I should be thinking about what I want to do tomorrow rather than what I should have done today. Or for that matter, what I did today and how I should have done it to get a better effect.
I "finished" writing my "life and opinions" today - for my eighteenth century British literature class we did our final portfolio piece as a cross between Sterne's The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy and our lives.
It's fifty three pages long.
Well, really only fifty one, because the last two pages are the lyrics to "for good" from Wicked, and then the picture that represents the musical - you know, with Glinda whispering in Elpheba's ear - to make it really clear that I wasn't trying to take credit for them, and to make it decidedly unclear who I believed myself to be.
It's really irrelevent if you think about it. I mean, Glinda ends up the Good Witch and Elpheba ends up the Wicked Witch, but Glinda's kind of a doormat and Elpheba stands up for what she believes in, and if it means I have to end up being hated and "wicked" then I think I can deal with that if it means I get to be myself and fight for what I believe to be right.
Animals have feelings too, ya know!

And furthermore~be kind to your roommates. I know you may not have them now, but someday you will - and if you did once and you weren't kind to them, then you should apologize, or in the very least get in your time machine and go back and start over.
My roommate isn't speaking to me. I would normally be okay with that - if I knew what I had "done wrong." Of course, I don't think I actually did anything wrong, and she hasn't spoken more than ten words to me in the last eight days, so I this is just generally starting to piss me off. I mean seriously. If you're going to give someone the silent treatment, you should at least let them know why you're being a bitch, ya know?
For a while I was operating under the assumption that she was being distant because she thought I was angry with her - which I wasn't. Maybe a little bit irritated, because when your roommate - who also happens to be one of your best friends - doesn't come home three nights in a row without telling you where she's going (which doesn't bother me. I'm not her mother. I don't need to know where she is.) or that she's not coming home (which is the one that gets to me. It would be nice to know that she's not going to be stumbling in at three in the morning so I know that I can turn all of the lights off because she's not going to come home drunk and fall over things since it's dark) you have a right to be irritated. But not angry.
Maybe a little bit jealous. I don't like being jealous. That's probably why I don't believe that I am. I mean, it would be nice if once in a while she'd say "Hey, Andi, wanna go out tonight?" instead of just getting herself all dolled up and then walking out the door without saying g'night or I'll be crashing somewhere else tonight and going out with her friends from class and a bunch of people she doesn't know.
How does one afford to go drinking four nights in a row?
I can't even afford to EAT four days in a row unless I eat spaghetti in my apartment.
I'm just tired of having to sit around and listen to her being all social with everyone else, and now I really am angry because you don't get to sit in the apartment which is MINE TOO and talk to everyone but me. And when you make a lunch date you need to get yourself up for it because Goddamn it I had to get up at 7:30 to go take a final and I got back from taking a preemployment drug test at 12:30 in the afternoon and you were still fucking asleep! That is not acceptable!
Maybe if you lived on something other than alcohol and coffee you would be able to get up at a decent hour once in a while.

And this has turned into a rant and I really didn't want it to.
Back to my life and opinions.
Okay, so I incorporated a lot of the Shandyan principles - direct address of the reader, dedication, random chapter numbers, stream of consciousness, etc. but I didn't really do the humor thing that Sterne did when he wrote Tristram Shandy. I mean, Tris spent a lot of time feeling sorry for himself, but he managed to make it funny - mostly because the things that happened to him for which he was pitying himself were pretty humorous. Hehe, squashed nose. Mine isn't funny. It doesn't even play at being funny for the most part. I mean, there are a few funny chapters, but I'm not a funny person. I have an incredible sense of humor. I find very strange things amusing, and I tend to get the jokes that most people have to just sit and think about for a minute, but I'm not good with constructing them, and my life isn't a funny story.
And the parts that I think are funny other people don't really appreciate - which could be based on our different experiences so we have a different basis for our humorous tales and what we find to be humorous, or it could be that I was there and I'm really just not explaining it properly, or it could be that it really isn't funny and that I'm trying to make it funny to make myself or someone else feel better about it, but that one typically isn't a conscious process, so I don't even know if that's what I'm doing.
I don't know. I could just be crazy.
I just hope he doesn't think that I'm crazy, because I really don't think I could handle it if my professor suggested that I seek professional counseling. Not so bad when my friends do - partly because at least half of the time it's in jest so I can use that to offset the times when they really mean it - or when my parents do - though their insurance would be paying for it so I really don't think they mean it, and they've never actually suggested it.
My mother told me one day last year (at least I think it was last year) that she and dad had at some point wondered whether I was manic depressive.
Thanks, Mom for never telling me that. If you had I might have actually approached the subject of looking for professional help, but until you acknowledge that you believe it could be an actual problem, I'm not starting that conversation.
My father doesn't believe that mental illness is really illness. He thinks that people who are depressed need "a good swift kick in the ass" which makes me sad, because I think I am, and I love my father and I find it very difficult to respect him when he says stupid things.
And now I'm going to stop typing because my pinkies hurt and this keyboard sucks and I've scared away anyone who could possibly have been reading this.
Goodbye.