Leaps of Faith

Tuesday 22 April

Happy belated Earth Day! Literally ALL I WANT TO DO IS FRIKKIN SLEEP AND I CAN'T AND IT'S NOT FREAKING FAIR UGH.

So I woke up at five yesterday and managed to get through my presentation on The One Lab That Actually Worked This Year and that went pretty well, although I kept falling asleep so that was nonideal. Whatever welcome to my life.

Then I went to Lab, where I listened to everyone else's presentations and they all did freaking fabulously, and I congratulate you on that. Mine was peppered with tidbits like, "I chose this project because it said 'start from benzene' and I knew that word" and "I didn't want to explode, so I didn't do this step" and "Guess who's back to normal at 7.5% yield, this kid." They all know I'm hella inadequate and am practically failing, but the not-give-a-fuck-freedom is kinda nice. I've given up to my fate. Yolo.

Anyway. I found out Nordic Literature was cancelled, which made my day because I had 100 pages of reading that I hadn't finished yet, yay procrastination. I went home, changed into a dress, and went to my chemistry professor's office hours, where I waited around for TWENTY FRIKKIN MINUTES and then only had five to discuss my grade, where I debated with him some extreme options and I don't know if I can do that to myself—because I'm Maggie Fucking Rose, Queen of the Nerds. Frankly, this situation I've gotten myself into is embarrassing, because I am Maggie Fucking Rose, and Maggie Fucking Rose doesn't do this crap to herself. Seven bloody fucking hells. Suffice it to say, I'm working through some personal stuff. And by personal stuff I mean academic stuff, because it's hard to separate the two for me and it always has been. For the first time in a long time, they're diverging a bit. It's weird and uncomfortable and I frankly don't know what to do.

So because of that I was late to Revolutions and then I managed to sit in the THIRD ROW AND FALL ASLEEP TALKING ABOUT THE ARAB SPRING WHILE DRINKING A GODDAMN ROCKSTAR. It was PATHETIC. My teacher looked straight at me and gave me the judgiest look I've ever seen from him, and in my head I was like, "Greg this is nothing you get me for another whole semester starting at NINE AM. GET USED TO MY WEIRD NARCOLEPSY."

So then I walked home, read a bit for the class that was cancelled, looked up the Roe decision in Roe v. Wade, and read a bit on the Schuette decision that was handed down yesterday. Sotomayor is pissed and it's kinda awesome, since her dissent is the first one I've seen that uses CHARTS and DATA to explain where she's coming from, and that's hella exciting for a science geek. "Data, data, data, I cannot make bricks without clay!" indeed, Mr. Holmes.

Anyway. Then it was time for my ORCHESTRA CONCERT HELL YEAH, and that was awesome. Basses are and always will be crowded in the back, and I apologized profusely to both my stand partners because I stabbed them both frequently with a bow. Both of the rents came up to watch, and Crissie even came and dragged her ASL friend Lindsey along, and I really appreciate everyone coming up (even though my dad broke the art in Macky—it was like that time we broke the Smithsonian but WORSE). I made a poor choice in judgment on the shoes (why do I insist on wearing heels? I tell myself that if I'm president I can't escape it; but really, if I'm the goddamn leader of the free world I'll have bigger problems than wearing shoes all the time), but otherwise it was a great concert. This is bass-ically the bass section:

I'm the Only Female So I'm Probably Black Widow

Because really, not many of us actually care. It's the best section, really.

I've been a performer for more than three-quarters of my life, and I intend to keep on doing so. And yet, I still cannot get used to the feeling of being onstage and letting people see just for an hour why you sacrifice time and money for these things that seemingly no one else cares about. Nothing compares to it. Is it terrifying? Of course it is. Maybe that's part of the appeal—doing things that scare you is an integral part of growing up. That's the only leap of faith I'll ever take. For twelve years they were literal leaps of faith (ballet is nifty like that), and now they're more metaphorical than ever, whatever. 

You're showing all these people a part of you that seldom sees the light. But I know that at least for me, it forms such an integral part of my identity that this performance, this release, is necessary. I'm thinking that was why last year was such a living hell for me—I wasn't doing shit artistically, and some part of my broken spirit is always going to be an artist's. This is the life I chose for myself sixteen years ago when I walked into that dance studio with a crooked arm and a pair of ripped tights. Life is weird that way.

Well, I'm about to bounce and read Montecore and also research the English Civil War to write an eight-pager on that for my term paper woot woot! Still not sleeping tonight fuck me.

Anyway. Thanks, as always, for reading :)