Snowbound and Irate

First, a disclaimer about the last: I'm not diving out a third story window, or planning on finding a convenient rafter to hang myself by my belt from, or going to shove ice down the back of Dot's shirt, or any of the dozens of other methods of suicide I can conceive of. So stop fretting about the title, and let me write this in the right order.

I've been simply thinking for days, ever since Vinny left. For those who didn't know, my ex-girlfriend came to visit for Christmas. Actually, she came to scope out Icaria, and tormenting me was just a handy side benefit. Seems The Powers That Be have their long fingers and watchful eyes on her as well, and sent her the usual lure of a scholarship. I'm not sure she could have picked worse timing for when to actually find me, or a worse convocation of circumstances to get tangled up in the middle...

Actually, scratch that. I've a wild enough imagination that I can picture it, and with my luck, it'll come to pass when she decides to drop in again now that she's pinpointed me on her radar. Let's pray that never happens.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yes. Thinking. Vinny was here in a whirlwind -- found me staggering between a blow to the nose and an apology on Christmas, Lunch onward on Boxing Day, and then gone before I'd even woken up the day after. I imagine there's a section of the audience laughing their asses off now. After all, that's two girls lost inside a month, and one of them was stalking me. I must be some catch, huh?

Except the second left a letter, at least, along with some cold clarity that I've spent the last few days processing. Which is why Miss Scarlett, the Round Table, and Lust are now carefully pinned up over my desk, as a reminder. (Thanks, guys, again.) Vinny's letter is pinned up as well, closed so the lipstick shows, just beneath them.

Because I've been loved. Screwed up, messed up, mixed up mess, but still love...and from what I've seen, I'm not sure love is ever anything but. And I nearly loved, was starting to love, a girl who didn't love me back. Or maybe she was afraid to love me back, afraid to even consider the possibility. It amounts to the same thing now, as there's no chance to break down the walls and see where possibilities will take us. There's too much ocean in the way, for one thing, and she didn't brand me as hers clearly enough before she left. My heart broken, but with no formal bill of sale before she fled the store.

So my heart's broken. Congratulations, Billy Boy, you join the ranks of a million, billion other people who've come before you, poets and artists and writers and mailmen and accountants and meter maids and farmers and all the rest. Doesn't make you special...or does it? It's not a very exclusive club, and it doesn't give me right to run off and be a self-absorbed ass (at least, not for any longer than anyone's got that right for a bit at points in their lives), but it's still...a step. A test. Every day's a test, sure, but sometimes you pay attention to certain tests more than others.

It boils down to a question: how do I want to pass this test?

I've loved, and lost, and went rampaging in a brief but colorful dance along the edge of the dark. I find myself glad at times that my vices are wine, women and song...though I'm sure my neighbors are sick of my musical tastes. I am, I think, a courteous drunkard; no public displays of unfortunate affection, no flirtations I regret in the morning, no drunk dialing, no attempting to hit on my best friend just because I'm sauced. (Because, of course, I like to remember when I hit on my best friend.) So while it could all be a whole hell of a lot worse? I'd like to be a little bit better.

I must, therefor, reneg on giving up women, and giving up on the human race. Because I've had reminders the last few days of why I feel the way I do about both, and coupled with that aforementioend introspective haze I've been in I feel like...well. It hurts, it still hurts, but it's not a hurt I regret. I try not to regret even the mistakes.

But this is still the end...the end of the year, and the start of a new one. I don't know that I want to make resolutions, exactly; someone once said that promises were just made to be broken. But...well, let's just say I have bullet points:

• I'm grateful, and thankful, and all that mess, for the friends I've made in the three short months I've been up here in wintry exile. Dot, Emi, Anne, and Mikhail get top billing, but they're not the entire roster.
• Dot? Special recognition for going above and beyond the call of duty, more than once. I can't make it up, but you know I'd do the same for you without hesitation. Or I hope you know. I even have spots ready to help you hide the bodies.
• Thank you, Tanne. Because there were good times.
• Yes, I did give Byron the clap and the pox, and I'm fucking PROUD. So there. OMG, ourloveissopure.
• I'm not giving up on girls, but I am...well, let's say I'm giving up lust for lent. Yes, even if the closest I come to being Catholic are a few similarities between Krishna and Christ.
• Watch this space for geekery of the highest degree, to be announced formally before the semester starts. I'm still reading the books, but...ideas are forming.
• The past is the past, and can stay right the fuck there, thanks.

That last one, in particular, I know is harder put into practice than simply said, but...it's a sort of goal to aim for, I think. There are too many ghosts.

Oh, and as a final closing note: I hear there's a party tonight, to celebrate the new year. While I'm not doing my best hermit impression anymore, I'm not quite recovered enough to feel like I'd manage in a crowd. So instead, I'll be hosting a tiny little celebration in MacArthur. If anyone wants to drop in and give a toast, either before or after the main event over at Geoffrey's, feel free. That goes double for you, Dot and Hemi, if you guys make it back in time.

Whatever your choice of venue, whoever you choose to spend it with: have a lovely New Year's Eve, kiss the person you want to kiss at midnight, and may the year to come be fucking spectacular.

PS -- Because I can't help but play DJ for a moment or two, I leave you with appropriate tunes from some boys from Seattle I'm a little fond of.

Death Cab for Cutie, "The New Year"

For the last week, I've only come out of my room for classes and rehearsal. Which admittedly is most of my free time around studying anyway, so who knows if anyone's noticed. I'm looking forward to Sunday's final curtain call, because it means I can come back. If there's a cast party planned, I think I'm skipping. If you think I'm showing up at the dance tonight, you're badly hallucinating.

There is no option I appreciate more right now. Either the world is as Hamlet says, and I'm simply haunted in one form of the term or the other? Or it's not paranoia when they really are out to get you, in which case I can't for the LIFE of me think of why. Either way, it makes the bottom fall out of my stomach.

Sometimes, the sinking feeling is realizing that your facade is fooling even the people you care most about, who you thought knew better.

The rest of the time, it's getting incontrovertible proof that you cared more, and you aren't even worth telling that they're not coming back. Because nothing says "I cared about you" like letting you read that you're taking a quick vacation to Italy before your house arrest elsewhere in Europe as an off-hand comment in someone else's journal.

I'd swear off women, but Dot's right. That I couldn't manage. Instead, I'm swearing off the whole god-damn human race. I think I'll take up alcoholism for Winter Break. I have to do something with my time.

Oh, and George? Lesson learned. I just didn't realize your cock was so small you had to overcompensate to that degree. But as they say: knowing is half the battle.

I've never done well with silence. Maybe it gives me too much time to hear what's going on in my own head...though I think that may be a cop-out. I know what's going on inside my head half the time, after all. I like it in there; it's warm, and dark, and a little squishy in the right places, and private. I don't necessarily like what I find, though, which may be closer to the crux of the problem.

That, or maybe I'm simply a dancing fool, always looking for a song cue. Which is a note as good as any other for seguing to the next topic. Namely: I've been crowned king! Come on, not Homecoming, I know that's been a regular topic around here with me, but you've got to keep up. No, I got cast as Charlemagne in this year's production of Pippin. I'm kind of glad I know most of the lyrics already, as we're doing a sort of crash-course in rehearsal-and-production timing. Really, I sort of wonder if this was all planned and meant to be some devious drama department development to see how many of us crack under the pressure. (And for those interested? I'm starting a betting pool. Get in touch, we'll talk.)

There was indeed a Black Friday Turkey-a-thon, with a bigger crowd that I expected. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that I'm not the only one too far out of reach of parents, and that didn't even factor in not wanting to see family. Dot's turkey was divine, and my pumpkin pies didn't turn out half-bad, so I think I'll call it a success.

That was the high point. The week or more since has been a slow, steady descent into less pleasant times. The weekend was shot entirely for reasons I don't want to get into, rehearsal schedule on top of studying and paper schedule is hellish, and plans for this past Friday? Shot down by a combination of bad timing, unavailable train tickets, and an emergency rehearsal. Which means it'll be two weeks after Thanksgiving, at the earliest, before I get a chance to see Neela. She's going to kill me. At least my originally planned travel companion is still up for the trip. We just have to find time for it. And soon. I can't keep putting it off, for a thousand reasons.

It's been an interesting scattershot of social time across the rest of the week. There was the study break that turned into no study at all, there was some unexpected comfort offered on THanksgiving, there was a bit of chatting about my impending madness, and then? I met someone old who's new again, and I think scared them off. Which was a shame, since she was fun to talk to. Actually, most of the scattershot was up rather than down, just...not peaking above the general downward trend.

Which leads me to my second awkward admission of the day: I don't understand people. Women in particular, but I think that may just be because I pay attention to them more than the men. Most men, after all, are still struggling to rise above the level of barbarians. And I include myself in that assessment.

I don't understand why it's been radio silence for so long. Is it that hard to say "we're over", if that's what you've decided? Or...Krishna, I don't know. You don't want to know how many disasterous possibilities have rotated through my head in the last week.

Unfortunately, there is no excuse when it comes to me. I understand me. I know exactly why I react the way I do, most of the time. But that doesn't make me happy about it, or proud, or...anything terribly positive. Blushing women of the world, lured in by my easy smile and my admittedly charming banter? Get away while you still can. Just trust me on this one. I'll miss you, but it may blow up less in all our faces.

Well, I got what I wanted in some senses, and what I deserved in others. Which is probably the proper balance for that sort of thing, but that's a very zen sort of way to look at it, and my feng shui is all sorts of fucked up right now.

Homecoming was...well, not exactly what I expected it to be. However, I'm fairly certain that I didn't make a fool of myself playing with the band, so I'll at least count that part of things as a success. Honestly, the whole event made me inclined to give out extra awards. In fact...

* For "Shortest Reign of a Queen", Dot Rothschild. I mean, we're talking putting Lady Jane Gray to shame. However short, she was spectacular in her noblesse oblige.

* For "Best Catch of the Crown", Jane Austen. Because taking over after the abdication with that much grace and style takes talent. Plus, the crown was cute perched on Howie's head.

* For "Most Spectacular Failed Kidnapping", Chris de Troyes. Because that level of death-defying stupidity in the name of a girl is hard to resist. Especially if the girl is smart like this one.

* For "Had Most Fun On the Dance Floor", Hildy Doolittle. I'm sorry, the band has the best view of that sort of thing, and she wins hands-down.

* For "Clearly Born To be King", Nico Machiavelli. I mean, the man even arrived with appropriate entourage and courtiers. How can you beat that?

* For "Cutest Band Groupie", Anne Bronte. Even if she was technically our only groupie. And not my groupie, at that.

Aside from playing with the band? The rest of my evening could have gone better. Spectacularly so, in fact. Let's just leave it at that. The appropriate parties know what happened. Maybe they'll be kind enough at some point to even tell me.

Also, you all can consider this your official notice that announcements will be forthcoming regarding Dot's "Took the Crown" celebration, with the funds gathered up at the fundraising pizza bash. I'm aiming for a good weekend after this one, but well before finals. Suggestions welcome on all fronts: location, DJing, specific timing, and so on.

In less official and more 'keeping the rumors in check' news, word has it that the king -- at least the crowned king, since Freddy didn't make the dance -- was felled by a mysterious ailment Sunday night. As one of the guys on the spot, I can say that yes, he was taken away by ambulance. I can also say that, as of the very next morning, Nico was also awake and bored out of his skull in the hospital. He's already posted himself, I know, but consider this secondary confirmation that his majesty is in need of distraction. So drop by and drive the nurses up the wall.

Which brings us to Thanksgiving. No way my parents are fronting for a flight to India, so I'm on my own recognizance for the holiday. I did have plans for a road trip, but those seem to be unexpectedly nixed by fate and the legal system -- and honestly, I'm not entirely certain they wouldn't have been canceled anyway for other reasons. There had been nebulous plans elsewhere for a shorter road trip, but given the events of the last week, I'm not sure those are game either. So I'm weighing the benefits of taking that shorter trip on my own, so I'm not sitting around MacArthur alone for Thanksgiving. After all, I can come back and sit around for the rest of the weekend just fine.

Maybe I should bring back a turkey and try out the kitchen in MacArthur on Black Friday. If I even really leave town. Anyone who's sticking it out is welcome to come by. If you do? Bring pie.

They say Spring is the time for romance. I think they have never had to endure a New England Winter. As I ward off the ever-present threat of frostbite, and watch my fellow animals in this zoo we call Icaria, I've come to the conclusion that while Spring may be a time for lovers, these dwindling days of Autumn are just as much an aphrodesiac. After all, when you're snowbound inside, what would you rather be doing?

a. Homework
b. Gossiping about who's sleeping with who
c. Expanding the range of possibilities vis-a-vis who's sleeping with who

Let's just say I'm putting my money on the last two options. Maybe it's more than the cold; even a tropical snob like me has to admit that the leaves are gorgeous this time of year, the forest aflame in ways that I'll leave it to much better poets than I to attempt to describe. I'd quote Robert Frost, but all that comes to mind is Fire and Ice:

Some say the world will end in fire;
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To know that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

At least it's poetry that's vaguely on-topic, as well. We've certainly got enough ice around here these days, and I know it's just going to get worse. As for fire...well. We can count it a blessing for some that I wasn't burned like Guy Fawkes at Dot's Fundraising Dinner -slash- Pizza Extravaganza. Perhaps she's saving that for Homecoming, though; I would go up in a pretty good blaze if we soaked me in all the alcohol we can afford from donations. That, or maybe she'll toss me to the other girls who didn't have Campaign Managers. I know we've got to have a bacchanal around here at some point, dammit!

(Special note to someone who shall remain nameless: You still have three days. If you haven't yet, ASK HER.)

Of course, the girls apparently lost the lottery to see who would tar and feather me first. As previously and briefly reported, I was given what I do believe the young kids are calling "a trouncing" after the party. Four guys, none of whom I saw real clearly in the dark, and a pummeling later, and into the dumpster I went. Wounds were relatively minor: a black eye, some scrapes, a twisted ankle, a wounded ego, and one unrepairable shoe. Somehow, I was lucky enough to have a sharp-tongued Angel of Mercy drop in and apply first aid to the physical wounds, and a good lancing to the ego before it tried to fester. Add in a more gentle touch later that night, and a weekend to recover, and I do believe the limp and the shiner will be gone in time for Homecoming. Underlying causes? We'll address after we find out if I'm surviving Saturday.

Speaking of Homecoming: yours truly is dateless. C'est la vie! Thankfully, my fingers will be occupied with other pursuits -- at least, hopefully, this will be my debut as the trumpet section for Smutty Moll. Though still, given the way things are looking, I may be the only guy going stag. I was..let us say, pre-empted?...in my first choice by Mr. Fly-By-Night, and the second option...well. Apparently, even the budding possibility of Autumn romance is more whirlwind up here than even I'm used to. I can't be upset, though. Not in the face of budding adorableness to this degree. They may actually need to issue a license; I'm not certain this kind of cute isn't lethal in uncontrolled doses.

As I look back over my previous paragraph, a clarification: I don't mean to say that second and any other options unasked (one was suggested to me, but I think I'm staying further away from the knives than that, at least for that night) would have been consolation dates compared to who I had been considering at first. I'm not that cutthroat and mercenary a bastard. There is a damn reason I'm going stag rather than working my way down the list into the truly desperate for a date, just like there's a reason I'm not even asking the possible third. She, and everyone else? Deserves better than that.

Anyway. Enough self-reflection. I'll just end by noting that, despite not having really talked about it? There is some serious strangeness afoot in this town. I think I've shaken the majority of the cloud that'd been over my head since Halloween. At least, I'd like to hope I have. But that leaves questions. Consider this a note to self: Talk to D and E when you get a chance. Better informed than blindsided again, after all.

After two and a half days of busting my hump, I emerge from the Mines of Moria...otherwise known as the grindstone of back homework...triumphant, and I didn't even have to sacrifice Gandalf to the Balrog to do it. I consider two evenings and most of a morning a small price to pay for academic peace of mind. At least from this point forward, I'll be muddling along with the rest of you at proper pace. In those circumstances, I can procrastinate with the best!

However, I've not just been an academic dynamo. No, ladies and gentlemen, I've actually finished cleaning in here too. Not that I have much to clean, but I desperately needed to get stuff put away. I suppose I could have kept fooling myself; there's something comfortingly transitory about living out of a suitcase, at times. But it's a bit depressing to never be at home, either. Weighing the options, it turns out that puncturing the bubble of my self-delusion won the coin toss. Who would have thought.

But this meant that it was time to return cleaning supplies. I started with a quick stop at Emi's room, which lead to my introduction to 'Fingers'. Because every pirate ship needs a monkey. I think it's in the part of the code that isn't so much suggestion as 'absolute', but I couldn't be certain. However, he was full of excellent advice before I braved my true destination, the dark pit of despair for many a man...

Delaney.

I know, I know, half of you are laughing at me for being a melodramatic coward. And yet the other half are nodding their heads knowingly. It's hard approaching a sacred bastion of the fairer gender alone. What if it turns into a bacchanal suddenly, in the most classic sense, and they tear you limb from limb? I mean, there are ways to go and there are ways to go, and that one sort of misses the point of the better options.

But I was brave. I took a deep breath, and with Lysol and Oxy-Clean in hand, I braved the upper floors of that dangerous place and sought the inner sanctum of my quarry -- Dot. You can torture it out of me, but I won't reveal what I found when admitted inside to return her supplies. Name, rank, and serial...okay, I can't keep it up. She's a girl, it's her room, I'm still not telling but it was hardly as if I crawled through Shelob's Lair.

However, I did come out of it with something unexpected. Namely, a date for the Halloween dance. (And I'll reiterate here: No, Dot. Emi did not put me up to asking you.) Strangers have to stick together; it's that, or plot each other's demise. We may get to that too, but for now I think we'll be too distracted by our costuming plans. I will say nothing, in case prying eyes are reading, but only note that I'm going to have to make a trip down to Boston tomorrow to shop. Insert your standard mad cackle here.

Boston comes tomorrow, however. For now, I'm back in my room and pacing. Tanne's on her way over for dinner, and I'm noticing just how pathetically slim my hosting abilities are in this room. I'm going to have to do something about that, and soon, but there's just not been enough time.

Sometimes, I wonder where this host 'twitch' came from. It's not as if either of my parents were very big on parties or the like, so I don't see how it can be learned behavior. Maybe I just read the right (or the wrong, depending on how you look at it) things during my formatives years. That, or as I'm sure a certain someone will intimate, it's simply a manifestation of my swishy side. As if it's my fault that girls appreciate someone who actually remembers to shower more than once a week?

Speaking of girls, time to order dinner so it gets here in time. Note to self: find a kitchen I can use sooner than later, and start ordering the proper spices. Second note to self: Knock off a fellow student so I have enough room to put all this stuff. Preferably in the room next to mine so I can take out the wall. Third note: Not Emi.