Burning Books and Burnout

This weekend, something amazing happened to me. It was a totally unexpected and very much welcomed experience. It was, dare I say it, magical.

For the first time in at least 4 years, I stayed up late reading because I could not put the book down. I was enjoying it so much that I didn't want to stop until I could barely keep my eyelids from snapping shut. And when I dreamed, I dreamed about that book.

It's been a while since I've read for pleasure. Unfortunately, the way that education works today, at least in classes about literature, goes like this: you are told to read a book, you read the book, and then you spend several weeks dissecting every aspect of the book until it is a shell of its former self, barely recognizable, not unlike dissecting a frog or a fetal pig in biology. Only sadder, because maybe you liked the frog before you had to tear it up and inspect its insides with a magnifying glass while your teacher told you what you should be seeing.

Don't get me wrong: I love English Lit classes. I really did. But I'd be lying if I said that taking advanced English classes in high school and college didn't impact the way that I perceive the idea of "reading for pleasure."

In AP English senior year of high school, we read a lot of books, short stories, and poems. Some of them were actually really great books. I thoroughly enjoyed reading Of Mice and Men and All the King's Men and Medea. Of course, I enjoyed Hamlet and Macbeth, two of my favorite Shakespeare plays even to this day. But there were many books we read that I absolutely, 1000% did not enjoy. On the top of that list sits Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad.

Heart of Darkness is a brilliant story that parallels delving into the human psyche with travelling deep into uncolonized Africa. I grew to hate that book. I grew to hate it so very much. We talked about it all semester long. Every single time we finished writing an essay and thought, "Ok, great, NOW we get to move on to something else," our teacher would hand out a new book, tell us to read it, and then write an essay comparing it to Heart of Darkness.

There was much darkness in the hearts of the students on those days.

But I'm getting beside the point.

Because even in high school, in the middle of the painful analysis and over-analysis and hyper-analysis of these books, I still had time to read what I wanted to read. And I did. And it sort of balanced things out. For every book we discussed in school, I was reading two or three others that I didn't have to write papers on, but could instead just enjoy.

That all stopped when I went to college.

The first two years that I was at UNC, I straight up didn't have time to read for pleasure. I was still adjusting to the workload, the pressure, the classes, etc. But I was still reading during the summers.

Then I declared my English major, and any desire to read anything that didn't have a grade riding on it went out the window. All I did was read. All the time. There was one semester when I had 23 books. 23 novels. Most students get 5 or 6 books for school, and I had 23. I was taking lots of English classes and reading lots of books and analyzing lots of plots, and I could not bring myself to read anything else that was more than a blog post or a Facebook status or a tweet.

Of course, each of these teachers thought that their class was the most important and didn't consider that there might be a student taking 4 English classes in the same semester who had 200 pages of reading for each of those other classes due in addition to their own. Short stories and plays and classic novels and memoirs and "Shakespeare and his Contemporaries" and "Medieval Literature, Chaucer to Pope," and "Southern Women Writers," and "The Great American Novel," and "Play Analysis," and so many others. I did, of course, supplement these heavily literature-based classes with classes more focused on digital literacy. The DL classes also had a lot of reading, but less analysis and fewer papers.

Because of these English classes, and by extension the other classes I took at UNC, I lost any desire to look at words outside of school, even over the summer. Reading felt like work, like school, like a chore. I straight up didn't want to do it.

And that's sad. I love reading. I really do. I love stories. I love character development. I love finding another world in the pages of a book and losing yourself there for days at a time. I love when someone else's words work their way into my head so that even when I'm sleeping, they're there, floating around.

I was a voracious reader as a younger student. I tore through books. I stayed up late into the night reading. I have fond memories of my parents reading the Harry Potter series to my brother and me on the bed when we were younger, doing all the accents. I really, truly loved to read. And I lost that over the course of 4 years.

I still loved books, but I couldn't bring myself to enjoy them anymore.

People frown on burning books, but why don't they frown on students burning out on reading?

There is a happy ending to this somewhat depressing post, and that is this: for the first time in 4 years, I am reading for pleasure again. And I am absolutely loving it. Working at a public library, with books, and book-lovers, in my face all day, it would be nearly impossible not to.

I started out by reading the first in George R. R. Martin's Game of Thrones series, because I'm a fan of the show. I was fully expecting it to be a thick and troublesome read, not unlike the Lord of the Rings series (or at least The Hobbit). To my delight, I found the book incredibly easy to read, easy to understand, and easy to get sucked into. I took my time reading it (I am certainly slower than I once was), but I loved it.

The next two books I read were random things I pulled off of the shelves while I was waiting for holds to come in, and I enjoyed them, too, quite a bit.

Then I started reading Ender's Game. Ender's Game by Orson Scott Card has been on my list of books to read for years. It's a sci-fi classic, a Hugo award winner, and was recently turned into a movie (which I haven't seen-I went into the book totally blind). I tore through this book in approximately 48 hours. I was up until 2:30 am the first night I had it because I just couldn't put it down. I lost myself in the pages, in the story, and only came up for air to go to the bathroom, get water, or shift reading-positions.

I can't say for sure if my adoration of this book has to do with the fact that it's been so long since I really enjoyed a book as much as this one, but, to be honest, I don't really care. It was enjoyable and brilliant and gave me a feeling of open-minded wonderment that I haven't felt in a long time. Sure, it's thrown off my sleep schedule, but I'm OK with that.

I currently have three books to hold me over during Christmas Break, and my rate over last few weeks is anything to go by, I may just have to pick up some more when I'm back in North Carolina.

The point of this post wasn't to bash the education system-it's thanks to all of the classes that I took and all of that analyzing that I have such a passion for words. And that can be traced all the way back to elementary school. My English classes built me up. My teachers gave me the skills to understand language, to string an intelligent sentence together, to look beyond words and find meaning where it might be overlooked. The sheer volume of it all may have turned me off to reading for a while, but I found my way back, as I always knew I would. Words are a part of me, and I know that I won't be satisfied if I'm only ever looking at the words that I write myself.

This post came together because, despite what I just said, I wanted to write something with the words and skills that I've developed thanks to years of personal and guided reading. They're two sides of the same page: if you don't read both sides, you're missing out. Now that I'm turning pages again, you can rest assured that those skills will keep developing with even more instruction, even more practice, and, of course, even more reading for pleasure.

Manipulating Kids

Annie's Log, 12/8/15:

It's shocking how easy it is to manipulate kids. I realize that that's kind of a worrisome phrase, but I'm prepared to elaborate quite a bit, so bear with me.

Every real job I've ever had has involved me working directly with kids. I was a referee for U12 soccer for a little while in high school. I worked at a daycare when I was 18 with kids aged 1 to 3. And I have worked as a camp counselor for many, many kids in different types of camps. Now, I work at a public library, and deal with kids every time I go into work I see kids running around in the children's area. Even though I'm not directly working with the kids (I stand behind a desk that's too tall for most of them to see over), I still interact with them quite a bit.

On Saturday, I saw a LOT of kids. You see, SANTA was coming to do musical storytime. Yes, THE Santa Claus. And let me tell you, some of the kids were PUMPED.

There was more happening at the library, though: there was a massive book sale in the very intimidating basement (it's giant and dark and scares me a little bit), a few different holiday workshops where people came in to make Christmas gifts, and, more relevant to this story, a bake sale.

The bake sale was set up right next to the front doors so it was the first thing you saw when you walked in. Three tables covered in homemade cookies and cupcakes and pies and stuff, all decorated festively and sold to benefit the library.

So we had a bunch of kids who were super excited to see Santa, who HAD to walk past a table full of sweet stuff. Can you see where this is going?

I'd say that on Saturday, at least half of the sales at at the bake sale were thanks to kids begging their parents to buy them something either on the way to or on the way from seeing Santa. And you know that wasn't an accident. The bake sale tables were totally set up so that there was no way to avoid it.

Sure, this was standard practice meant to get people of all ages to buy stuff, but, by God, it worked on every single kid who walked through those doors on Saturday. Good Lord, they all wanted stuff. Their eyes got as big as saucers and it was all we could do to keep them from actively grabbing and shoving things into their mouths.

And most of the parents bought stuff for their kids. Because it's one thing when your child wants a candy bar in the checkout line at the grocery store, but it's completely different when there's a table at child eye-level covered in festive treats like the kind that we make for Santa, and buying those treats gives money to the library.

So the kids were easy to manipulate with the candy and stuff.

But there was also Santa.

I heard so many parents threaten so many kids who were crazy excited to see Santa and so were bouncing off the walls and not really behaving with NOT getting to see Santa. And it worked on just about every kid. Because Santa is worth keeping your hands to yourself and not pulling stuff off the shelves and not hitting your sister and whatever.

Boom.

As an aside, it was incredibly stressful for ME to be expecting Santa at the library. I was told by my boss (in whispers, so that no one would overhear), that Santa was coming soon, and that I should come get her when he walked in so that she could take him to the back where he could get ready and could keep out of sight and stuff. The problem was, I didn't actually know when he was coming.

So I work at a public library. Public libraries are pretty popular with older, retired citizens who spend a lot of time reading and watching movies and getting help with their technology. That means that there is a pretty constant influx of older gentlemen at the library. Many of them are somewhat portly. Many of them have beards.

Do you see the problem here? My coworker and I were told that Santa was coming, but we didn't know which Santa-looking guy was supposed to play Santa. There were at least 6 men who came in who could have been Santa. And we couldn't ask them if they were here to be Santa. Because, geez, imagine asking some guy who came in to pick up his wife's books, "Excuse me, are you Santa? Yes, I'm serious. No? Ok, no, wait, please don't report me to my boss..."

Anyway, kids were easy to manipulate thanks to the jolly elf man who breaks into our homes to bring us stuff when it's cold outside.

And now we come to my role in all of this. I don't work directly with the kids anymore, but I do have one thing behind my very tall desk that allows me to express complete control over them.

Stickers.

I have stickers that I can use to bend children to my will.

Wait, that sounds bad.

What I mean is that kids will do anything for a sticker. There was one mother who was checking out about forty picture books for her rambunctious toddler. This little girl, Nadia, would not stay still. She ran all over the place while the mom was trying to deal with the books and her child and her ringing cell phone. At one point, Nadia actually made it all the way to the parking lot (I couldn't see the small child because I was behind the desk or I would have said something).

After being retrieved from the parking lot, I offered Nadia's mother what little help I could: I asked if a sticker would motivate her to stay in one place.

And wouldn't'cha know it: it did. The prospect of getting a sticker kept this hyperactive toddler in one place when threats and pleading and stern reprimands wouldn't.

Kids are easy to manipulate with stickers.

Of course, the same could be said for me. Or my dad. Or any number of people who like stickers. But with kids its something completely different. It's actually one of my favorite parts of the job-handing out stickers, that is. It's nice, and I don't usually have to use stickers to manipulate them.

But I guess it's nice to have in my arsenal.

End log.

Useless Superheroes

Annie's Log, 12/01/15

To make up for the fact that I haven't written a post in a while (life gets in the way sometimes, and so does driving to Florida), I've decided to post a stupid list I put together a while ago for a friend of mine.

She texted me "HELP ME COME UP WITH A USELESS SUPERHERO" and I cannot tell you how happy I cam that I am the first person she turned to with this problem. My response, immediately, was "WHAT PARAMETERS DO YOU NEED i LIVE FOR THIS KIND OF THING."

With "literally no parameters," I came up with the following list of (completely made-up (by me)) superheroes. Enjoy:

• Doctor Pepper: uses pepper spray and other spicy things to incapacitate his/her enemies-only weakness is milk
• This one was deemed too useful. Use that to tell you just how dumb this list is about to get.
• The Dust Buster: beats people with his Swiffer of Justice. Weakness is window cleaning spray.
• Professor Paranoid: self-explanatory.
• The Snail: protected by a shell, he is capable of excreting a goo to stop his enemies (very, very slowly)
• I was literally looking around my apartment for random objects for inspiration
• Corporal Planet: a suckier version of Captain Planet
• Unfortunately, my young friend was in need of an idea for her high school Spanish project and had never heard of Captain Planet. I told her to YouTube it and moved on
• Band-Aid Girl: capable of fixing small, mildly annoying problems. If you have anything serious, go to Hospital Woman.
• The Blister: rubs enemies the wrong way.
• Dr. Gum: stops evil-doers with gum on their shoes.
• The Time Traveler: capable of moving forward in time, only at a normal pace.
• The Match: Burns brightly for justice, but only for a short period of time, provided it's not windy outside.
• Potato Man: Brings starchy justice to criminals in the form of his Masher of Might.
• The Ventriloquist: he doesn't do a whole lot, but his dummy kicks ass.
• The Eye Doctor: not super effective, but he does dilate villains' pupils, which is a mild inconvenience.
• Battery Man: very powerful for, like, 30 minutes but as soon as he gets below 40% he panics and has to find an outlet.
• Similarly, Sprint: very strong, but only for a maximum of, like, 100 meters.
• Hiccup Man: has the power to inflict hiccups on his enemies, so long as they don't drink a glass of water or hold their breath.
• Songbird: all she does is sing at people. No powers, just Top 40 hits.

I may or may not end up doing something with this list. Rest assured, however, that I won't plan on donning a cape and turning into one of these "heroes." I'm good at coming up with stupid heroes, but I'm not stupid myself.

End Log.

A guide to walking in public

Annie's Log, 11/15/15:

I have been walking since I was about 10 months old. As such, I consider myself somewhat of an expert on the subject. Walking may seem like a singular, individual action. This is not necessarily so. When there is at least one other person around, you are walking in public. This is one of many misconceptions about walking that I would like to address in this, "A Guide to Walking in Public."

Firstly, when walking in public, there are certain unspoken courtesies that are apparently no longer considered the norm. This presents problems when walking around in crowded places such as, say, a college campus. I have witnessed firsthand many ambulatory faux pas, and am taking to the internet to address them.

1. Walking in public alone:

When you are in a public place and walking alone (ie., not with another person or a group of people), it is easy to fall prey to the tiny human-trap in your pocket. This human-trap is more commonly known as a "cell phone," and college-aged persons are particularly susceptible to its wiles. While walking in a public place, avoid the desire to become completely and utterly sucked into your human-trap and keep your wits about you. Avoid WWD ("Walking While Distracted") at all costs.

WWD can lead to any number of Public Walking Infractions, including (but not limited to) the following:

• Creating a Social Divide:

• This Public Walking Infraction happens when a person splits a group of people (or worse, a pair of people) by walking between them when they are attempting to have a conversation. This is incredibly rude, but does provide the people you've just divided with a new topic of conversation (how rude you were).
• Becoming a Personal Space Invader:

• WWD is, by definition (which I just made up), the act of walking around without knowing what's happening around you. This can lead to one of the most awkward walking infractions, which occurs almost exclusively when looking down at one's palm, typically at the screen residing there. Unbeknownst to the walker, someone in front of him has slowed or stopped completely, because that person was paying attention to his or her surroundings. The Walker, whose continuing momentum moves him forward, will get right on up in another person's business, effectively popping their personal bubble. This is incredible inappropriate and uncomfortable for everyone involved. Don't be responsible for Personal Space Invasion. Every time you do, a puppy is less willing to cuddle with its owner.
• Tailgating:

• This rule is named after following too closely behind someone while in a car, not getting drunk in a parking lot before a football game. You may be thinking that this seems eerily similar to Becoming a Personal Space Invader. You would be wrong. Tailgating happens while in motion, and is infinitely worse than Personal Space Invasion because the Walker subconsciously adjusts his speed to match that of the person in front of him, despite the efforts of the person in front of him to shake the Tailgater. Tailgating often results in Personal Space Invasion, which sucks, yo.

2. Walking in public in a pair:

• All of the faux pas committed by a single Walker can be committed by a pair of walkers, but are made worse because there are two Walkers and they should know better, darnit.
• Walking in the Middle of the Road:

• While it may be a good idea to walk down the middle of the road in a metaphorical sense, as in "don't rock the boat" or "don't make waves" or "stop being stupid, you're ruining the group project for everyone." For Walkers, it's a terrible thing. It results in problems for groups of Walkers who are following the Rules of the Walk by breaking them up, causing them to split up and needlessly interrupting their lives.

3. Walking in public in a group:

• All of the above infractions are multiplied tenfold when committed by a group of Walkers. They're the worst kind of Walkers, and deserve to have foot cramps and to just miss the crosswalk and have to wait for the next one.
• Boxing Out:

• While boxing out is encouraged in basketball players and moving companies, it is highly discouraged when walking in public. Taking up more room than anyone else on the sidewalk and forcing others to go "offroad" or to step aside and wait for your horde to pass is inexcusable, even if you find yourself caught up in the thrill of conversing with your group. Don't do it.
• Boxing Out One of Your Own:

(This is a dramatization of Boxing Out One of Your Own)

• The most heinous of crimes, this typically occurs in groups of 4 Walkers, and results in one member of the group having to walk behind the other three because there's no more room for them across the sidewalk. Not only is this rude to the person in your group who is now forced to walk alone, but it is discourteous to others who not only have to take the time out of their day to move out of your way, but now also must judge you for your poor treatment of your Walking-Mates.

I hope that this brief guide to Walking Etiquette has helped shed some light on your strolling patterns and has perhaps even made you consider your own walking patterns. Tune in next time for my Guide on Appropriate Interactions with Pets.

End Log. 

Shel Silverstein

Annie's Log, 11/10/15

There was a book at the library
Called Everything on Top,
And it caught my eye
As I walked by,
And it made me sigh,
So of course I picked it up to see.

I flipped it through and smiled at the pages,
The words by Shel Silverstein.
It was like others I'd read before,
With fantastical beasts and more,
And ideas spilled onto the floor,
Not bound by silly book-cages.

This one brought me to another time,
When I had flipped through the drawings,
Read words that have brought so many joy,
Some simple, some heartfelt, and some coy,
With a tree that loved a little boy,
All written with wit and near-perfect rhyme.

I'd read some like it often before
With fantastical beasts and more,
And ideas spilled onto the floor,
Breaking out of their simple book-cages,
Like this book at the library.

***************************************************************
I saw Shel Silverstein's 2011 release, Everything On It, at work yesterday and read through the 200-page book full of silly poems feverishly. It reminded me of sitting in my first grade class when my teacher read us poems from Where the Sidewalk Ends (my favorite was always "Ickle Me, Pickle Me, Tickle Me, Too"). And of course, A Light In the Attic and Falling Up and The Missing Piece and Runny Babbit. And one of the greatest children's books ever, The Giving Tree.

It was a nostalgia trip that I wasn't prepared for when I started going back to find some of these old poems that I remembered. There was one about a young prince who only ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and one day the peanut butter glued his mouth shut. And another about wearing masks and polishing the stars and a "Hug-O-War" and so many others that all came rushing back to me when I did some digging.

Just thought I'd share.

End log.

Annie's Log, 11/03/15:

This week in my Introduction to Information and Library Professionals class, we finished up a project in which we were instructed to make something. That was it. Just "make something." The point of the project was to get rid of the stigma surrounding librarians-you know, that old stereotype of the old lady with the severe look and pursed lips and thick glasses who shushes you.

My classmates and I took this challenge and ran with it in every direction imaginable. We had a "fair" today in place of class where we were able to share our creations. Among many other things were the following creations: home-brewed beer, a family tree, hand-made runes, an impromptu ukulele performance, a children's book about librarians (that I swear is going to go viral soon), wood etching, paintings, a "choose-you're-own-adventure" book, a number of crocheted, knitted, cross-stitched, and needle-pointed projects, a hand-made long-board, videos, blogs, websites, self-published books, and more. It was truly a sight to behold, and the one random underclassman girl present who was working in the cafe we were taking over really seemed impressed.

For my project, I chose to teach myself how to use Photoshop. Below you can read about my experience (I posted the following on the class website):

"Like many of my classmates (I'm sure), I don't usually do well with vague instructions when it comes to schoolwork. I like to know exactly what is expected of me so that I can do exactly what is expected of me exactly as it is listed. As you can imagine, taking 511 has helped me to get over that mindset.

When we were assigned the Maker project, I was at a loss. We were supposed to make something. What? Make what? Make something how? Where is our rubric? Where's the rest of the prompt? Is that really it? Fortunately, when discussing the vagueness of the assignment in class, I had a spark. We were supposed to make something, or create something to share, or cultivate some skill. I had been wanting to learn how to use Photoshop for a while, and had been planning on using the iSchool's computers to do so, but hadn't had the time. Learning Photoshop for the purposes of a project, however, was doable. I started devoting an hour or two to Photoshop after classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays when I knew I didn't have anything else to do. It was in these "precious" few hours that I worked on what was simultaneously the most frustrating and most enjoyable school project I've had in a while.

Photoshop is not intuitive. It's not user friendly. My human interaction with the computer was not the most enjoyable experience. And yet it was still something I looked forward to every week. With "The Mowgli's" playing on my iPod and several tabs open to tutorials on Google Chrome, I got work done. I ended up with about 8 projects that I completed start to finish. They ranged from whatever struck my fancy to the things that popped up when I Googled"Cool things to do in Photoshop." The most challenging and time consuming projects were, of course, the most ambitious: the landscape fold and the watercolor paint effect. Each of these pieces took about two and hours to complete (though they would probably only take 20 minutes for someone who really knew what they were doing). Of course, the first projects I did also took a ridiculously long time because I was learning the ins and outs by pressing random buttons to see what would happen. Some things I picked up on pretty quickly but, I swear, there were times when I think the program was messing with me for fun.

Overall I ended up enjoying this project, in spite of the hair-pulling issues that I sometimes had. Before I go, I'd like to thank all of the random Photoshop wizards who live on the Internet, solving people's problems on message boards with step-by-step tutorials and example videos and patience. Thank you."

As you can imagine (and as I've stated above), this project wasn't easy. Yet in spite of it all, I'm proud of myself, and my finished products. In case you're curious, here they are:

My very first attempt at Photoshop, this picture was the first stupid idea that popped into my head, and I ran with it. I was learning the basics of isolating figures, putting in text, manipulating objects, and using layers, among other things.

I wanted to try my hand at making a movie poster, and since it was pretty close to Halloween, I picked CLUE. I had a much grander idea in my head that I put together, and then quickly realized that it didn't look very good. It was too busy, so I took a more minimalist approach.

I created this watercolor effect using only Photoshop, and I'm very proud of it. I took a black-and-white picture and used Photoshop to turn it into a watercolor picture. Pretty cool.

This typographic was actually a lot of fun to make once I picked a topic for the text. I ended up writing about UNC because the Heels were playing Wake Forest the next day.

I call this picture "Hold Me Closer, Tiny Camper." Using a bunch of stock photos, I created a tiny camping trip, complete with a lighter and tiny tents and a little dog. I don't know why.

Color isolation was one of the things I wanted to learn as soon as I started using Photoshop. Fortunately, it turns out that it's actually remarkably easy.

Recently, this trend ("folded landscapes") came about because of a picture of a panorama photo that glitched out and created the effect you see below. Not to be outdone, a bunch of PS wizards decided to recreate the effect with the program. My version is far from perfect, but I still think it's really cool.

I wanted to practice manipulating a green screen, so I found a picture of a news anchor sitting in front of one and decided to put her in space. Then, my imagination ran away with me and it turned into QUSR Alien News at 9:00.

The last project I ended up working on was a photo manipulating black and white and color. Not too shabby.

End log.

Information Space

Annie's Log, 10/27/2015:

I recently started writing for the iSchool's official blog, Information Space. My first article was just published, so this week I'm double-dipping and using that as my weekly post! Click HERE to go to InfoSpace and read it (if you want to. I mean, I'm not gonna make you or anything.).

End Log.

Dogs

Annie's Log, 10/18/15:

Dogs are great. I love dogs. They're my favorite.

Dogs love everything. Everything is the best thing ever. Including you. To a dog, you are the best thing ever. And so is a squeaky toy. And dinner time. And a spoonful of peanut butter. And a ride in the car.

It's really hard transitioning from life-with-dogs to life-without-dogs. Even though I was only home for about three weeks between the end of working at Camp Chestnut Ridge and moving up here, those were three weeks with dogs in my life.

And before I go any further, yes, of course I miss my human family and my human friends. But dogs are different. Dogs are dogs.

I had a wonderful conversation the other day with four other people in my class where we basically all just gushed about our dogs for 10 minutes while on break from lecture. We shared pictures of our pooches on our phones and talked about how much we miss having dogs. It was happy and sad at the same time.

I miss Murphy:

And Teddy, too, I guess:

I've taken to watching YouTube videos of dogs to satiate my need for canine cuteness and cuddliness. These are some of my faves:

https://vid.me/TWAX (this one is great, but not from YouTube so I can't upload it here).

Here's a dog who loves digging more than life itself.

And another dog who doesn't want to be in trouble because he loves his master.

Dogs are inspirational:

And philosophical:

Dogs are happy bundles of love with a built-in meter to show just how excited they are to see you even though you just left like six seconds ago.

Dogs don't judge you for your taste in music or your singing talent. They love to hug you and think that you're the most amazing thing ever when you feed them. They cuddle with you and sometimes when they're asleep they have dreams about running and you can watch them kick their little legs while they snooze. They're loyal and loving and goofy and great.

Dogs are perfectly expressed in the form of Dug from Pixar's "Up"

I like dogs. Dogs are the best.

End Log.

Horror, and Other Halloween Things

Annie's Log, 10/09/15

Recently, the 4th season of "American Horror Story" was released on Netflix, with the 5th season just around the corner. For those of you who don't watch the show, each season is a (mostly) self-contained series of stories with different characters and a different setting. Season 1 was a haunted house (very "Exorcist"-y), Season 2 was in an insane asylum in the 1960s, and Season 3 was a modern-day witch hunt/voodoo fest in New Orleans. Season 5, the latest season (which will be premiering soon), is set around a hotel (hopefully with some throwbacks to "The Shining" scattered here and there).

Season 4, however, was set at a "freak show." And I've been watching it. And I wanted to take this opportunity to discuss some of my thoughts. Because it's my log and I can talk about whatever.

If you have any interest in watching this season (which I would recommend if you are at all interested in the horror genre, and don't have a problem with graphic violence), go for it. I'm going to to my best to keep spoilers to a minimum, but I'm going to put this out there in case you want to watch things for yourself.

"American Horror Story" is, shockingly, known for its horror. It's a scary show. Crazy horror-movie scenarios and top-notch special effects create an atmosphere of creepiness and thrills and tension throughout each episode. Gore and jump-scares and twisted backstories abound. Sure, some of it gets a little campy or goes too far, but that's TV for you. Generally, it's a solid show. Add in talented veteran actors like Jessica Lange, Kathy Bates, and Angela Bassett, and a number of up-and-coming stars ready to break through, and you end up with a pretty superb cast to boot.

And Season 4 set itself up to be the creepiest, strangest season of them all with its setting: following the freaks of "Fraulein Elsa's Cabinet of Curiosities" in the early 1950s. This season of the show was all about binaries. Characters either fit into one category or another: a normal person or a freak, a hero or a villain, a star or a supporting role, a member of the family or an outcast, etc., etc., etc.. Most of the characters who fell into one category found themselves striving to make their way into the other, or did their best to hide their true natures rather than be outed and thrown in with the "other kind."

Now that I've done some set-up, here's the point of me writing about this show: I wanted to discuss who I think is the creepiest, most twisted, downright scariest character in this cavalcade of monstrous figures.

Is it "Twisty," a disturbed homicidal clown reminiscent of John Wayne Gacy?

Or Neil Patrick Harris's delusional magician, slowly losing touch with reality?

What about any of the "freaks" in the "Cabinet of Curiosities," played mostly by actors with real "physical deformities?"

No, the scariest character wasn't any of these. The scariest moment of the show wasn't hearing Kathy Bates's "Baltimore accent" for the first time (which I can only describe as a random jumbling of hard and soft and long and short vowels all mixed together in an effort to sound Northern that ended up just displeasing to the ear). 

It wasn't even seeing Jessica Lange's German character "Elsa Mars" spontaneously performing David Bowie's "Life on Mars" on stage 

(remember that this show is set in 1952, while the song wasn't released by Mr. Bowie until 1971. Another character on the show sang Nirvana's "Come As You Are," which didn't come out until 1991. Then again, the creators of the show did do "Glee" so I guess it was only a matter of time before someone started singing.).

No. The creepiest character on this horror TV show was named "Dandy." 

Dandy Mott was portrayed by Finn Wittrock, who recently rose to fame as "Mac" in "Unbroken," the big-screen story of Louis Zamperini. From his first scene, Dandy set me on edge.

He started out as a caricature: a rich mama's boy who was used to getting what he wanted. To be honest, I thought he was kind of a lazy character to throw in at the time. He wanted to purchase one of the freaks from Miss Elsa because he thought she was interesting, and threw a temper tantrum when denied what he wanted only to be consoled by mommy (played by Francis Conroy, an AHS veteran).

Dandy very quickly became something more.

We see, over the course of the first few episodes of the show, that Dandy is something vile. Through what I can only describe as irresponsible, delusional coddling, Dandy has grown into a man who believes he is unstoppable. If he wants something, he gets it, either through influence and reputation or money. He's treated like a child by his mother, who blames most of his problems on boredom (and eventually on inbreeding, seeing as she married her second cousin to keep money in the family. You have to preserve the family fortune somehow, right?).

Dandy's boredom, behavioral predisposition to violence, and a set of personal beliefs in which he is akin to God, all culminate in creating a monster. A monster who looks like this:

Even worse, he is a monster whose mother continuously turns a blind eye to his misdeeds and basically enables him to keep on doing what makes him feel excited and alive: killing people. Had I mentioned this yet? He kills people. He starts out idolizing Twisty the Killer Clown and eventually evolves into a whole new beast himself. Lots of bodies. Lots of blood. Lots of crying from Dandy because he "wants to be a thespian" and everything is actually "your fault, Mother" and "I can live off of candy and cognac if I want to!" He's a charming boy.

What makes Dandy so dang freaky is his apparent invulnerability. Once he discovers this "creative outlet" for himself, he simply can't be stopped. He looks normal enough to pass as a regular person, and his mother makes sure that everything he does is covered up so that there's no chance he'll get caught. He's a murderous man-child with no impulse control, some serious anger issues, inbred genes, and a clown costume. He's terrifying.

Dandy represents a model of monster we weren't expecting to see on the show: he looks normal. Going back to the whole binary thing, Dandy is as far away from the Freaks as a person could be: he's handsome, physically fit and healthy, rich, loved by his mother, and, most importantly, lonely. He's a silent, unstoppable killer who, unlike many of the supernatural, demonic, abomination-y villains on the show, could be very, very real.

Dandy is a serial killer who could easily exist in our world. He's affluent and psychotic, which, when put together, make for a very frightening figure. He's not a Freak like so many of the main characters, but, then again, some of the most disturbing atrocities of this season are committed by "normal" people (again, this is where some spoilers are going to come in):

• A "normal" father mutilates his "normal" daughter for daring to fall in love and run away with a "Freak," condemning her to a life of misery
• A "normal" married couple commits infanticide and blames it on a mentally disabled "Freak," who is then locked away forever
• A conniving "normal" con artist seeks out Freaks to kill so that he can sell their strange, abnormal, or mutated body parts to the highest bidder.

Things weren't written this way on accident. The show hits you over the head with the whole "Freaks are normal, don't discriminate" motif in the very beginning. Yet I was surprised by the subtlety with which Ryan Murphy and Brad Falchuk and their team included these heinous acts. The actions themselves stick with you, but they also instill a sense of unease when you see some of these "normal" characters on-screen. As a viewer, you slowly become more and more comfortable with the "Freaks," who, at first, were admittedly a little disturbing, while simultaneously ending up with a knot in your gut whenever Dandy comes on screen. We begin to associate "normal" characters with danger and deceit, realizing that they are capable of things we usually reserve for nightmarish monsters in our dreams.

Seeing Dandy on screen began to fill me with a sense of dread, actually making me shudder once or twice when he would do something so completely psychotic that I was left in shock. He was a normal guy. He looked like a handsome, healthy hero, not a disfigured, ugly villain. Yet here he was, killing people because it made him less bored for a while. It was a brilliant side-story to throw in amidst some of the stories of the Freaks. These were no less graphic, but still felt very distant (again, bringing home the point that seeing Dandy as a monster who could easily be real is far scarier than someone who looks different than you).

And then, of course, like all shows that hook big ratings, AHS goes too far with the gratuitous violence and sex while trying to get that shock factor in and leaves me rolling my eyes at my computer screen. But in spite of that, in spite of the grandiose and the big special effects budget that can't be wasted, my point still stands. 

Dandy is, at least to me, by far the scariest character in this 13-episode long horror flick. He's a monster who looks like a man, preying on anyone who strikes his fancy and manages to get away with it because he can hide in plain sight. Stories like his are why Criminal Minds is still one of the most popular shows on TV right now: we like to glance at the monsters who live among us. The only difference is that, on AHS, there's no team of pretty FBI agents to swoop in and solve things before the episode is over. And that's more than a little scary.

End log.

 

Information Space

Annie's Log, 10/04/15:

I have done a lot of writing in my life. Like, a LOT. When I was in high school, I thought that I was doing SO much writing, what with Creative Writing and English and History classes, and then essays for college applications and scholarship essays.

And then I got to UNC. At the end of my freshman year, I had a total of 27 pages due in the course of one week. Once I was an English major, I had one semester where I had a total of 23 books (and you can imagine how much writing I had to do during THAT semester). I wrote lab reports, short stories, emails, play reviews, research papers, kvetches, articles, lesson plans, and so much more. I did a lot of writing. I wore out my laptop's keyboard. I probably set myself up for carpal tunnel syndrome and back problems.

But I discovered something about myself while I was doing all of that. Hours of typing and planning and sitting and thinking and procrastinating and cranking out work.

I like writing.

It's not so much that I enjoy the act of endlessly typing out characters in the hopes of getting a good grade on something, though I guess I do enjoy typing. (I remember taking "Digital Communications" in high school and while almost everything about it was pointless (I literally had a 100.00 average at the end of the semester because the assignments were incredibly simple), it did make me a better typist.)

No, I like words.

I like writing my thoughts out, phrasing things just so in order to get my point across. I like incorporating humor and heart into whatever it is that I'm trying to get across. I like seeing something that I've put a lot of work into in its entirety, getting to hold it, in print, in my hands.

And it's not just long projects. I really enjoy Twitter (my profile says "I like words. I think a lot. Sometimes I put my thoughts into words."). One of my absolute favorite memories from UNC was the bet between me and my best friend to see who could get more kvetches into the Daily Tar Heel's weekly "Kvetching Board." Between the two of us, we had over 125 1- to 2-sentence joking complaints published in a Friday opinion column. The DTH even wrote an article about it, which can be seen HERE.

So why am I talking about writing in this post?

Well, I recently started this (b)Log, where I get to write about random stuff every week. And I've been enjoying it a lot. So much, in fact, that I looked into other writing opportunities and, long story short, I am going to be writing for my graduate school's blog, InfoSpace!

Information Space is Syracuse University's iSchool blog. Posts are written by students, and occasionally staff, faculty, and alumni, but they all have to do with the field of Information Studies.

Every other week, I'll be publishing something on InfoSpace for the iSchool. I'm very excited to start this new project, and I'm already working on my first post. Because I like words, remember?

To end this week's post, I'd like to share one of my favorite quotes:

"If you would not be forgotten as soon as you are dead,... either write things worth reading or do things worth writing." -Benjamin Franklin.

That dude knew what he was talking about. Just look at him:

Dude.

End Log.

Football, yo

Annie's Log, 9/28/15:

I'm not entirely sure when I started to like football.

Growing up, I wasn't really that interested in the sport. I watched the Super Bowl when I was younger, but, like most, I was more interested in the commercials than anything else. When I got to high school and started to go to football games, decked out in red, blue, and white (those were our colors. Red, blue, and white. NOT red, white, and blue. Come on.), I was somewhat more interested, but I really just enjoyed being in the student section with the other Cougar Crazies.

And then I went to college.

At some point at UNC, I became a massive fan of football. On Saturdays, I went to Kenan Stadium to stand in the student section despite the heat, the cold, the rain, the wind, the glorious victory or the crushing defeat. I played on intramural flag football teams. I actually started to sort of care about who won the Super Bowl.

This was an unusual concept for me. I'd never been a big fan of watching sports on TV. Golf, baseball, hockey, even soccer. I don't know why-I just didn't really enjoy watching them on TV. But that all changed once I became a Tar Heel.

I went to many, many football games while I was in undergrad. I witnessed UNC being completely slaughtered by ECU, and completely slaughtering Elon. I worried about the transition from QB Bryn Renner to Marquise Williams and Mitch Trubisky. My blood pressure skyrocketed during many 4th quarter comebacks, including one in particular: I witnessed, live and in person, the absolutely GLORIOUS game-winning punt return against NC State by Gio Bernard (which I still like to occasionally relive).

I also grew to love watching the Heels on TV, preferably in a room with my friends while we chatted, pretended to do homework, ate, and got way too loud whenever anything went really right or really wrong for our team.

Though I am no longer going to the football games for my Tar Heels in person, I am still keeping up with them. I also have another team to watch: the Syracuse Orange.

Brief aside here: What's up with these two mascots? I love the Tar Heels, represented by Ramses the Ram,

but let's be real: that's a pretty funky mascot. The backstory is pretty cool (I copied it from UNC's website):

"Our nickname, which also applies to North Carolina citizens, has at least two possible origins. One story hails back to the Revolutionary War and the troops of British General Cornwallis. After fording a river in eastern North Carolina, the British troops discovered their feet covered with tar, a product of North Carolina’s abundant pine trees and one of the state’s most important exports at the time. Some say the clever North Carolinians dumped it in the river to slow down the invading army. The British were said to have observed that if you waded in North Carolina rivers, you would get tar on your heels.

Another story comes from the Civil War. A group of North Carolina soldiers scolded their comrades for leaving the battlefield when things got tough. The soldiers threatened to stick tar on the heels of the retreating soldiers to help them stay in the battle. General Robert E. Lee is said to have commented “God bless the Tar Heel boys!” Whatever the reason for the moniker, our students and sports teams have long worn it with pride."

But I don't really know why the mascot is a ram instead of a foot or something. I think he was named after a football player nicknamed "the Ram" at some point, but whatever.

And then there are the Syracuse Orange.

What?

Syracuse fans are, collectively, "The Orange." Not "oranges," but "Orangemen" and "Orangewomen." In emails from the school's chancellor, we are addressed as "Orange Friends." "Orange Nation." and this is the mascot, Otto, in a number of different representations (each more ridiculous than the last):

OK, so that last picture is not actually a real representation of Otto, but the first four are. In researching where this mascot came from, I found this explanation from Syracuse's school website: 

Syracuse University's first colors, in 1872, were "pink and pea green," but then a year later became "rose pink and azure blue." SU's color finally was changed to orange in 1890. How Orange was adopted as the color of Syracuse University was described in June 1940 at the fiftieth reunion of the class of 1890. The chronicler was Frank J. Marion '90, the motion picture pioneer. Marion said his class was responsible for the change from the colors pink and blue. He recalled:

"At the end of our senior year Syracuse accepted the challenge of Hamilton College to a track meet and...a number of us went along to cheer our team. We wore high collars, right up to our chins -- cutaway coats, baggy trousers, and rolled-brim derby hats. On our canes we had ribbons of the college colors, pink and blue.

Much to our surprise, we won the meet, and on the train coming home from Utica we tried to "whoop it up." What kind of "whoopee" can be made with pink and blue, the pale kind you use on babies' what-do-you-call-thems? It just couldn't be done!

So on Monday morning a lot of us went to see the chancellor in his office and told him our tale of woe. Chancellor Sims was a kindly old gentleman, a real father to us all, and he was very sympathetic. He agreed that pink and blue were not very suitable colors.

SU Banner "Professor J. Scott Clark was named chairman of a committee to find new colors", Marion said. "I recall that we seniors had a sneaking idea that we might put over the class colors, orange and olive green." Professor Clark consulted Baird's manual, then the authority on college matters, to see what combinations of orange had already been taken. Orange and blue were the most popular, but orange alone apparently was not claimed by any school and was Syracuse's for the taking. It was adopted unanimously by the committee, the faculty, the Alumni Association, and finally the trustees."

I guess they couldn't come up with a cool mascot for an orange team like, I don't know, tigers or orangutans or clownfish or a turtle with its shell spray-painted orange or actual oranges or literally anything other than an anthropomorphization of the color orange.

Wait. Why am I talking about mascots again? Right. Football. OK. 

I now have two college teams to follow closely: the Tar Heels and the Orange. I have two games to watch on Saturdays. (And the Orange are particularly interesting to watch because they've gone through two quarterbacks this season so far, one with a torn Achilles' tendon and one with an unspecified upper-body injury which resulted in the fifth-string QB playing and leading the team to victory in overtime.)

This past week, I watched the UNC-Delaware game (and the Heels had a PHENOMENAL game, by the way, ending in a definitive victory) and followed the Syracuse-LSU game on Twitter (which did not end quite as well, but was still fun to keep up with). A few weekends ago, while sick with a 24-hour stomach bug, I holed up on the floor of my bathroom with a blanket, pillow, stuffed dog named Doug, and my laptop to watch the Orange play (and beat!) Wake Forest University (it's interesting to note that I was almost a Demon Deacon:

He's pretty intimidating, I guess, right?

Maybe not.)

To bring this post to a close: I love watching college football. I can't pinpoint exactly when I started liking it so much, but I'm definitely a fan.

And don't even get me started on basketball.

End log.

Being bad at math is what gets me out of bed in the morning

Annie's Log, 09/20/15

No, really. It is.

Math has never been my strong suit. If you read my post "Chemistry is a Dementor," I made it explicitly clear. I'm not a fan. I recognize its value in everyday life and all, but it's never been my favorite subject.

I'm decent at algebra and I can do geometry and arithmetic, but beyond that I'm not very good at it. The only class in high school where I got a "C" was PreCal (THANKS, MRS. [REDACTED]-YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE).

But I'm not bitter or anything. I've accepted that math is just not one of my strengths. And that's exactly why I'm using my weakness to combat one of my other weaknesses.

One of my absolute worst habits is hitting the snooze button on my alarm in the morning. You can ask any of my former roommates. Or my parents. Or anyone who has seen me at an 8:00am class.

 I fully recognize that it's a terrible, disruptive habit that negatively impacts my life in many ways (well, really just getting up in the morning), but I just love sleep so much. One time I slept for 16 hours. It was a great day at the end of a very long week. I remember it well.

But I can't live in my bed forever. There are too many things to do.

So how did I use one of my weaknesses to cancel out one of my other weaknesses? I downloaded an app for my phone that requires me to solve math problems in order to turn off an alarm. My alarm clock makes me do math problems as soon as I wake up in the morning. Literally the first thing that I do in the morning is math. Really.

Imagine waking up in the morning to a blaring alarm sound and this problem on your phone's screen: 6 + 2 x 4 - 8.

I have to do 10 of these in order to turn my alarm off in the morning. It's a lovely way to start my day.

End Log.

I was told it would be cold in the North

I was told it would be cold in the North.

I want to be explicitly clear in what I am going to say next:

Literally (and I do actually mean literally, in the actual, literal sense and not in the figurative, hyperbolic sense), literally every single person who found out that I was going to move to Syracuse this year commented on the weather. Every. Single. One.

"Oh, man, I hope you like snow!"

"You'd better get yourself a winter coat!"

"It's gonna be soooo cold!"

"Those winters are nasty!"

"Good luck with that ice!"

The list of different ways to say "upstate New York is cold in the winter" goes on and on.

Now, I fully recognize that the tone of this post is somewhat agitated. A little peeved. Just a touch mad. I want to be clear in saying that my anger and frustration is not directed at the people who commented on the wintery weather in Syracuse.

No, my touchiness is directed entirely at the incompetent weather god who is presiding over the Empire State. My displeasure is solely pointed at the false expectations I was fed when I visited Syracuse in March and it snowed two inches. My irritation is directly aimed at whoever was responsible for the grievous miscalculation in the sun's intensity over the place where I'm currently sweating. Am I using too many words? I feel like I'm using too many words. In short:

It's freakin hot, man.

The highs of this week have been in the 90s and the humidity is enough to make a fish cry. I thought, after a year of walking up the hill on Hillsborough Street at UNC (which is approximately a 70 degree angle, measured by Satan's protractor), that I was through with showing up to class drenched in sweat. That is not the case. To paraphrase a quote from Simon and Garfunkle, "Hello backsweat my old friend/ I've come to soak in you again."

In all seriousness, I was not prepared for this heat. I mean, I was prepared-I spent my entire summer outside, running around, getting "tan" (read: slightly less pale). Before I started working at camp, I was in the Bahamas, roofing in direct sunlight (in long pants and long sleeves no less, because my skin is genetically predisposed to sizzling like bacon when exposed to UV light). And yet I'm still shocked every time I leave my apartment and am greeted by a wave of just the hottest heat.

Writers describe heat as "oppressive" all the time, but I swear that these temperatures are trying to take over Syracuse's campus and rule with a dictatorial fist. It's ridiculous. And the thing that has me most worked up is that it was even hotter in Canada.

Last weekend, Logan (bless her Southern-belle heart) flew up to visit me in Syracuse for the long weekend. That Saturday was spent at the State Fair (which is held in Syracuse for reasons that I can't begin to guess. It's not the capital. It's not the biggest city. It's not the fairest of them all. Why is it here?!). And it was hot, sure, but that's kind of what you expect when you go to the fair. Muggy air! Stuffy tents! Greasy food! People who are all up in your personal space! Heart! With our powers combined, we are AN AMERICAN STEREOTYPE!

The following Sunday, Logan and I decided that we were going to drive to Canada. We were within driving distance of Canada, so why not? We figured we'd get up early, drive to Niagara Falls, spend a pleasant day on the lower brim of America's hat, then come home. Little did we know…

Canada, the land of Mounties and moose and maple syrup, was hotter than Hades. It was disgustingly, dehydratingly hot that day. Logan and I were both wearing jeans-foolish, I know, but we thought "Hey! We're going to Canada! Everything is pleasant up there, so the weather should be, too, eh?"

I swear to Her Majesty the Queen that I felt like I was walking around on the surface of the sun. It was miserable. I mean, it wasn't miserable because we were in Canada and how could you be miserable in Canada, but it was pretty darn uncomfortable. It was beautiful and awe-inspiring, but uncomfortable. Watching thousands and thousands of gallons of water gushing past you really makes you conscious of just how thirsty you are.

It was HOT. Much like the New York State Fair, the area was crowded with people. Unlike the New York State Fair, we didn't walk into Canada expecting to be sweating balls of sweaty sweat when we left. It was an entirely unwelcome surprise (not to mention that the cheapest bottle of water we could find was $3.00. Ugh.).

I keep waiting for the cooler weather to come in. People have been talking about how great it is to go apple-picking in the fall, how the leaves should be changing soon, how pumpkin-spice everything is back at Starbucks. And I'm just off on one side in a tank top and shorts, sweaty and fanning myself with a newspaper and quietly brooding in the lies that make everything feel just a little bit hotter. I feel like a grinchy, sticky, dehydrated Cindy-Lou Who: Where are you autumn? Why can't I find you? Why have you gone away?

I know that soon enough, the leaves will fall off of the trees and the boots and scarves will come out and my insatiable thirst for hot chocolate will rear its ugly head again. But until then, I'm just going to sit here in my air-conditioned apartment, sulking until I no longer have to worry about pit stains or heat indexes. One day my breeze will come.

End log.

Post-Log Update:

I wrote this post in the middle of the week, when I felt like I was on Alderaan as the Death Star was blowing it up. While it is still a bit sticky outside, the temperatures have levelled out to a more seasonally appropriate…uh…level. So I guess you can disregard everything I wrote above. Awkward…

Chemistry is a Dementor

Annie’s Log, 09/07/2015: Chemistry is a Dementor

I’ve been thinking a lot recently about how exactly I ended up here in Syracuse. It’s a really massive turn from what I thought I would be doing post-grad when I started school at UNC four years ago. I was dead set on majoring in Exercise and Sport Science, becoming a physical therapist, and specializing in pediatrics. It was a solid plan, and should have been foolproof:

·        Step one: get good grades

·        Step two: everything will be awesome.

Boom. Done. Moving on.

So what made everything change? The short answer is this:

Chemistry.

Chemistry became the bane of my existence in college. I did fine in chemistry in high school. I got A’s and foolishly assumed that I was good at it, or at least decent. I was wrong. I was very, very wrong.

Chemistry is “the branch of science that deals with the identification of the substances of which matter is composed; the investigation of their properties and the ways in which they interact, combine, and change; and the use of these processes to form new substances.”

But it’s not, really.

Chemistry is, in fact, the science of lies and sadness.

I once heard someone describe chemistry as a dementor: it sucks all of the cheeriness and warmth from your body and leaves you feeling like you’ll never be happy again. That’s certainly what my experience with chemistry was.

Chemistry is “technically” a science class, but it’s not like biology. I love biology, particularly human anatomy. But chemistry is not either of those. No, chemistry is math cleverly, probably maliciously disguised as science. You go into it thinking that you’ll be doing cool experiments with glowing liquids and smoking beakers and Bill Nye the Science Guy. Instead you have to calculate molarity and titrate things and there’s Avogadro’s number and just a metric CRAPTON of math and anger.

I had no problem memorizing the elements or drawing out Lewis dot diagrams. I understood electron shells and balancing equations. But the math. Oh, the math. I didn't really help myself by taking an ACTUAL math class at the same time, but hey, no one is perfect (especially not the adviser who totally told me to do that and said "yeah, you'll be fine, no worries, lots of people do it." But I'm not bitter or anything.). 

So I had to take chemistry. It was actually the first class that I went to at UNC, 8:00am on Tuesday. In case you couldn’t guess where this was going, my Chemistry career did not go well. (Neither did Chem Lab. If Chemistry was a dementor, Chem Lab was Azkaban).

So I opted out of taking any class that was even remotely similar to chemistry ever again and switched away from science all together. I switched over to an English major because English was always my best subject and I figured I might as well do something that I was actually good at for a change.

Taking English classes on classical literature turned into taking classes on modern literature, which turned into taking classes on digital literacy and the digital humanities. I found the CRaDL minor (which stands for Composition, Rhetoric, and Digital Literacy) and really got interested in it. From there, I looked into Information and Library science and applied to some schools. Spring Break led to a tour of Syracuse University’s iSchool and I was sold. And now I’m here, thinking about the path I traveled to get here.

It was a path strewn with strife and tears, with acids and bases, with late nights and atomic numbers, with periodic tables and covalent bonds, with crumpled up papers covered in conversions and an out-of-date Chemistry book that I can't get rid of because no one will buy an expired edition of that stupid textbook. To anyone who took higher levels of Chemistry, particularly those who enjoyed it, I salute you. Now excuse me while I go throw up or chop onions or run sprints or do something equally more enjoyable than chemistry homework.

End Log.