burn your fancy candles, eat pizza in your prom dress, and tell her, "I love you."

330-something days till the world implodes.

(No, it may not necessarily end, but the very fact that large waves of people still bow to the likes of defeated Michele Bachmann as she leads the nation's moral recovery [post-Obamacare, no doubt], speaks to the steep decline in our global welfare. The Economist now talks about an imminent "sub-Saharan Spring," China and India are up in hydropolitical arms, and it barely flurried once this entire winter. Human development has progressed to its peak; the social institutions of marriage, government, education, and medicine have ceded to carnal desire [#willworkforfood]. Science, cultivated over centuries of meticulous research and analysis, has ceded to the whims of the one social construction that has sadly maintained: religion.)

In fact, let's just say the world will explode. Seriously, the Mayans were on top of their shit.


At the risk of sounding like a poor cocktail of Oprah, Simple Abundance, and the usual trite New Year's carpe diem sentiments, I must say that this is the year to claim. It's the year when you travel to Zimbabwe just because it was the only Z-country you could think of when you played Scattegories; it's the year when you wear fuscia pants to work, even if it's a Wednesday; it's the year when you burn your fancy candles, the ones saved up for a special occasion.


It's the year when you rid yourself of fluff--of the shapeless pink dress in your wardrobe, that will only increase in its aesthetic horror, of the friend whose lies you continue to forgive, of the piles of miscellaneous papers gathering dust under your bed.


This isn't like any other new year, when you resolve to lose weight, work harder, and "be better." The time for nebulous goals has passed. In fact, the time for all goals has passed. Wistfulness ends. Fantasies end. Delusions of friendship, of happiness, of success end.

The time has now come to just do.

This is the last chance we have to turn our dreams into reality. All wishes must be fulfilled. All fantasies must be carried out. And the delusions upon which we have built our lives must crumble in the face of our own awakening.


On December 21st, if we're all still here, then we'd have spent an entire year living life, not just surviving. And if we're not, then we'd have spent our last year without secrets, without regret, without the uncomfortable uncertainty that the girl you've fallen for is yours for the taking.


Ten bucks says, she is.

And the clock's ticking. 

The Fountain of Youth: Representative Ryan of Wisconsin?

I overslept this morning. My mother shouted my name from the kitchen, informing me my bus was set to leave in four minutes. I took a cursory glance at my phone and literally leaped out of bed, onto the plug of my rarely used hair iron, and half sprinted, half limped to the bathroom. I prioritized parts of my body that needed soaping, threw on neon blue tights (government shut downs render obsolete business casual), accidentally squirted triple doses of antihistamine drops into my eyes, and stopped only to text Patrick something about my weight or my latest food fantasy or something of paramount significance. I was ready in 20 minutes, and even packed some snacks for the day and took my fish oil.


The last time I had to eject myself from bed with Olympian force was the first day of my International Law class, which started at 8:30 in the morning and never ended (until 11:15). I had rushed through perfunctory hygienic obligations before showing up to class 20 minutes late with my shirt inside out.


Today I slept in till 7:46, which is approximately 1:46 College Standard Time.



The last couple of days have been the most riveting in a long time. With the potential government shutdown, I can focus on nothing else but CSPAN, Politico, the New York Times, especially with its spellbinding political updates (the White House apparently is not for the shutdown; who knew?). Though I work in a political office, enmeshed in the current social and economic issues facing our nation, I have not been this charged since the 2008 elections. Then, I would sit in front of the TV all day, partly to take in all of Anderson Cooper’s unparalleled splendor, partly to stay current on the trajectories of each campaign; during my Sacred Texts class I would compare healthcare and marriage platforms of each candidate whilst listening to passages of the Gospel of Thomas, which my professor would read aloud. Once President Obama won the election, I was in a state of euphoric delirium for several months, hung over with pride, rejuvenation, and $3 Trader Joe’s wine. I was constantly charged, blood coursing through my veins, a constant reminder of my vitality.



Blood doesn’t necessarily course through my veins anymore (it seems to have clotted at the site of the failed blood work), but I do feel alive. I feel youthful. Two nights ago I stayed up watching CSPAN till my laptop died; I exchanged trite jokes with my friends that referenced “Boehners” and “ridin Biden,” as well as ideas about fiscal policy and the 2012 election. The only difference was location. I was not with my friends in the quiet lounge, peering at them over my massive laptop, plastered with sticky social statements (literally—stickers). I was still wearing a hoodie, still drew my knees up against my chest, and still ate out of habit and not hunger, but I was sitting alone in my room. My friends were on the other side of the internet. I finally conceded to Zuckerberg’s brilliance; I could transport myself into the 17th floor quiet lounge via Facebook.



The next morning I confessed to my boss that I was a bit delirious from a late night, and I professed a superficial love for Representative Ryan. She agreed and I wangled the permission to follow the news all day, as the self-proclaimed resident expert and senior counsel on the government shut down.


Between cursing the New York Times for paying reporters to issue “news alerts” about the necessity of compromise and eating birthday cupcakes for a colleague (I took it upon myself to eat several, to fuel my new CSPAN obligations), I assisted a constituent in getting surgery to remove a malignant tumor. By 5:00, I was shaking from caffeine, sugar, and happiness for the patient. And by 6:30, I crashed in my French class.


Last night, I meant to do my homework for my creative writing class, since I had foregone my French homework for my conservative fetish the previous night. As I started writing my story, I was immediately distracted (or I opened a new tab myself) by Kristoff’s Op-Ed piece on Congressional pay during the shutdown. I again took it upon myself to disseminate the information, and essentially ravage people’s newsfeeds.



I still haven’t done my writing homework. It’s a difficult assignment. I need more than a couple of hours to accomplish the task.



But the New York Times just reported what agencies would be furloughed and impacted if our broken bi-party system doesn’t reconcile.


And it’s my job to read the news—I just want to be sure the Bengal tigers are still fed.