Does post-partum depression affect non-new mothers? The few days after the school year finishes are such depressing times -- especially if no sleep is to be had for 48 hours afterwards, and one particular Fine Arts student happens to schedule his freaking flight back to Alberta the day after! Never mind that the weather's beautiful outside, because my residence room is bare (even more so than the "jail-cell look" I cultivated during the year), I have no Internet, and have only Umberto Eco's The Name of the Rose to remind me what literary happiness is. And I'm moving home tonight. And I have an alumni dinner on Friday, at which point I anticipate getting many questions about my change of major (again) and the inevitable "So, what are you going to do with an English degree?" Ignore me, I'll be over this soon enough when I have access to Kazaa and the Sims again.
I made tortilla chips with Suet this morning, bolstering my confidence that she's an excellent roommate, as roomates go. Tortilla chips are the true test of compatibility; if edible food can be made of three-month-old frozen Mexican foodstuffs when neither of us have any cooking utensils left in an empty house, I have no complaints. What I do have complaints about is the summer-job search, because I'm now an Arts student, woefully unemployable, and living in Anmore. Job prospects don't look much bleaker than that; and toss in the fact that I've never been successful at landing any position outside the campus gates, and the complete picture of post-exam futility emerges like the dust bunnies on top of my ignored shoeboxes.
I need tea and scones! And tea and scones I shall have soon when I finish moving, made by my own hands and consumed in memory of those who could not be here to mock me for it.
I made tortilla chips with Suet this morning, bolstering my confidence that she's an excellent roommate, as roomates go. Tortilla chips are the true test of compatibility; if edible food can be made of three-month-old frozen Mexican foodstuffs when neither of us have any cooking utensils left in an empty house, I have no complaints. What I do have complaints about is the summer-job search, because I'm now an Arts student, woefully unemployable, and living in Anmore. Job prospects don't look much bleaker than that; and toss in the fact that I've never been successful at landing any position outside the campus gates, and the complete picture of post-exam futility emerges like the dust bunnies on top of my ignored shoeboxes.
I need tea and scones! And tea and scones I shall have soon when I finish moving, made by my own hands and consumed in memory of those who could not be here to mock me for it.
