Midterms next week
And answers I seek
And find a reprieve in sleep

But don’t be negative, you say
Stuff will find its way
And I could just point to the streets

Positive temperatures due this week
Pending like that assignment deadline
I’m trying to keep

And all three feet
Of snow from over this week
Is going to water away to waste

Is this what procrastination looks like?
Muddy slush bursting your pipe
Scrunched under foot;
Slip and slide
And fall on your butt on the ice.

Old Yarn

I’ve been away from this space for a while, and this time, it’s totally my fault. I’ve done nothing since my finals ended last week apart from pack my bags and run away from university for a record second time in two months. 

I’m away for three weeks this time, and I have laundry to do when I get back. It’s a waiting disaster. I’ve had a growing laundry pile for the last two weeks (which by some coincidence, happened to correspond very closely with the weeks I’ve had finals, who’d have thought?)  that I’ve been dreading getting down to doing. 

To prevent myself from having to haul any more than two full bags of laundry half the way across our residence halls, I’ve resorted to bundling up my bedsheets and linen and shoving them into my closet and getting rid of my dustbin (trashcan, trashcan, damn you Americanised English speakers) and half the paper napkins I own. It got to a point where my roommate pointed out it felt like I was leaving for six months, and I was still going to have to wash the sheets when I get back. 

In all fairness, she has a point. 

The thing about doing your laundry isn’t even the part where you’re doing your laundry. It’s the part where you’re playing Sherlock with everyone else’s laundry. 

See, we have one laundry room and its shared by eighty kids. 

Now, I’m not trying to build up a horror story here. I can’t know for sure if everyone even does their laundry. Among the ones that do, there are fourteen different  days in two weeks for people to do it. (Don’t kid yourselves, you didn’t do the laundry every week either in college.) 

I’t just that some people re great at leaving their laundry for absolute hours. No one else can use the washers because their washed laundry has been sitting there in a heap since 2 in the afternoon, and you’ve turned up with two bags of dirty clothes and have just finished dinner. 

Walking back with your laundry, down twenty doors, to your room, is a nightmare. Maybe there’s some complex social psychology behind this, but I’ve never seen anybody be super social from under two ginormous bags of sweaty socks. 

So our heads came up with a solution. They left us sticky notes and a pencil. If someone’s taking too long, someone else can take their laundry out for them. If you don’t want anyone taking your laundry out, leave them a note with your room number and get them to remind you the your laundry’s done, no excuses. 

Yes, really, those clean, floral scented socks really are yours, buddy. I know, how technology has advanced. 

It seems like a good move in theory. My brain just happens to kick into 2 AM wanderlust mode a lot earlier than 2 AM these days, so I just see people using it to leave everyone their phone numbers. 

Hey there! Yup, that laundry’s mine. If you want me to remove, the room number’s 420. Bring your finished math problem set too. 643-222-1800. Call me, (before 23:59 on Thursday) maybe?

Like I said, that’s probably just me. 

In truth, no one ever uses the laundry notes. The waiting game’s begun all over again. 

I walked in one afternoon to do my laundry, I was desperately short on clothes by that point and I walk in hauling my laundry. I also them realised I forgot to bring any soap with me and had to follow through with the ordeal all over again. 

Not finding a washer is bad, I’ll admit it. You need to take everything back and possibly forget about it and then wake up to have an underwear crisis or something. I can’t relate, I don’t know. 

What I do know is that its a million bucks worse to walk in and take out your wet clothes, only to find that none of the dryers are free. 

This particular day, I found a dryer that was done. Of course the owner of the heap inside was blissfully unaware. I waited ten minutes and then decided to inaugurate the laundry note paper. 

I took out the guy’s clothes and left a note telling them that I had. 

Of course I came back an hour later to find the clothes still there, with my note still stuck to their sock. 

I’m going to have to do my laundry when I get back in three weeks. 

Hmm… I had something kinda funny to say when I began this post, but I’ve forgotten now. I got too caught up in my own socks’ yarns. 

There go my chances of being a shred of a comedian. 

Eyes ‘Trained’ On The Prize

If you were an amateur high aiming, well intentioned yet pain-in-the-ass photographer-wannabe cinematographer trying to score a movie deal with an indie project to show, you might sit up at 3 in the morning and think it’s a good idea to recreate Trainspotting.

I wholeheartedly support you and encourage you to try. In fact, I have a little something for you.

I’ve just realized that if someone of your caliber came to my room and tried to zoom in on my desk with a grainy zoom, out of focus, my desk would very closely resemble the scenes from the movie.

You’d see messy piles of grainy white among other piles of mess and an absolute disregard for a decent human state of living. From your view at the other end of the screen, I’d be living in shambles. Dilapidation is me. You’d forget where you were and wonder where you’ve been transported to, how you landed yourself in this mess, and whether you should be seriously considering this project, accounting for your own mental wellness.

Until you take the lens away from your eye. Welcome home, my failed Academy receipient. Welcome to my room. Welcome to my desk.

It’d take you a minute to get your bearings back before you come to realise that no, there was no powder and the books weren’t keeping a tab on customers (although, I do believe my roommate is into the finer arts of accounting, if you’re altogether keen,) but were just repeatedly scratched out half-assed math solutions, and those squiggly lines and symbols were not spells and ancient incantations, but were, again, failed math problem attempts (don’t think the original movie covered those) and in fact, all you can see (as far as the eye can see, for that matter) is just. And. Only. Tissue papers. Piles of them, mountains of them, it doesn’t end. I haven’t robbed a bank and got me some crack, I’ve literally robbed the dining hall for not food, but freaking paper napkins for when my nose cracks out another one and I still find the need to get more.

This flu is probably more annoying than your camera work.

And then follows a sneeze of such volumes that you take a step back in alarm. Maybe, you feel, you should be getting out of here soon for your physical health.

Oh no, honey, some of my “powder” must’ve gone in my nose. The volumes of it coming in these days… the orders just don’t stop, you see!

On second thoughts, you’re asking yourself, how soon is now? [Allow me to break character for just a second and ask if there are any Smiths fans reading this who suddenly perked up at that last line?]

You haven’t seen my bin yet! I protest. The stores in there are tremendous!

Except you probably heard ‘trebenduz’ instead. You take a step back.

You pick up your camera. You’ve had enough. You suddenly remember that big budget project you had lined up where you tape 15 hours’ worth of some rich old guy’s pet pig. “It’s for Swina’s birthday, you know. Plus, it pays.”

I want to protest. You don’t know what you’re missing. The potential in this room. There’s a fortress of tissues, a mountain of used tissues, there’s struggle, drama, frustration, torn homework assignments, my unmade bed, the anticipation, a three week old half eaten, uncovered piece of funnel cake–

But you’re already out of the room before I can complete that last line. You really have other places to be right now. You run out in terror and slam the door shut behind you; perhaps the book was a better idea after all.

I’m still behind the shut door. I can only shake my head. Strange fellow you must be, to waste such potential…

Oh well. I’ve still got the original set right here with me. Which reminds me. It’s about time I actually got around to watching Trainspotting.