Death By Death Week

It’s thursday of winter quarter’s dead week and I have finally experienced my first dead week experience. I had two presentations due, a ten page paper, and a final project that wasn’t even assigned until today. I had a majority of my paper get deleted, having to stay up until the wee hours of the night just to manage the worst rough draft of my life. I had six shots of espresso between two cups of coffee today, and ate out again for dinner. I’m exhausted, my skin is breaking out, and I feel dead. Absolutely dead.


There is a part of dead week though that provides a satisfactory feeling, a sense of accomplishment. The late hours at the library, the tears, the frustration, the sacrifice, all for the knowledge that all courses were completed to the best of my ability. There is something in knowing that in less than a week, it will all be over, and soon a fresh quarter will begin, and if you fail a class, test, paper, or project, you will learn how to be better the next time, and you will never fail the same way again.

I’ve found it’s important to reward yourself for completing a quarter, even if you fail a class. Failing means something different to everyone, for me it was getting a C in a class during fall quarter, and I made it a point to give winter quarter my all. Now, knowing that it is almost over, and knowing that I can finish stronger than the previous quarter, I am ready to reward myself with a spring break full of reading for fun, sleeping, and my family.

So if anyone else is dealing with the stress of finals, or just school in general, you can do it. Whatever you accomplish, is an accomplishment, and it should be celebrated.

You should be celebrated.





Bad Blogger.

Self absorbed, narcissistic, emotional asshole. Just a few adjectives that perfectly describe my life as a “blogger” aka a person who has a WordPress account and NEVER uses it. I love writing in a blog form, I’m terrible at creative writing but I love to write.

Hello, I’m an English Major. I have to love writing or else I would fail out of school.

So as winter quarter, my second quarter into my major, comes to an end, I want to begin blogging again. There’s no real reason to blog other than because I enjoy it. It’s a great way to work out what I’m feeling, what I find interesting and why I find it interesting, to talk about the books I’ve read or music I’ve been listening to, movies I’ve fallen in love with, or just life in general.

We’ll see how this goes, I am taking 17 credits (4 classes) next quarter. My blog may turn into just pieces on Dickinson, Whitman, 19th century literature, how to manage a library, and research methodology and information literacy.

Mad Max: Fury Feminism.

The first day in my new house I decided to watch one of my all time favorite movies, recently gifted to me by my boyfriend. I ended up watching it three times in one weekend. Oops.

My roommate asked me “why do you like that movie so much?” and I obviously answered “because it’s FUCKING COOL” I mean things go BOOM a lot and it’s so weird, how could you not love that? But the real reason is, the main focus is the women escaping oppression, slowly becoming one of the top feminist movies of our time.

Growing up, my family was constantly watching action films, so naturally when my boyfriend asked me to go see Fury Road in theaters I was on board. I was not expecting to fall in love with the women in the movie.

First, the main lead (not max, I love max I really do, but I cannot consider him the lead) is a woman named Imperator Furiosa who drives a war rig for Immortan Joe. She goes on a run to get gas, or guzzolene if you want to use the amazing dystopian dialect of the mad max universe, but instead is harboring the “wives” (basically they are the breeders) of Joe.  Furiosa has designed this war rig herself, she is the only one who can use it, proven when Max tries to steal it from her and gets about 10ft. She can use a gun better than him, even using his shoulder as leverage.

Furiosa loves and cares about the women she is harboring, something many other critics have said isn’t a feminist point, BUT it totally is. Caring about other women enough to save them is 100% feminism, it is something that needs to be brought into our own society. Stop hating on celebrities for no reason, and open your eyes to the oppression of the world. Help and support others become better people and gain better lives.

The “wives” are extremely beautiful yes, but more than anything they are strong and assertive. Max throws a gun to be reloaded at the wives, and almost without hesitation Toast the Knowing grabs the gun and reloads it at an impressive speed. They symbolically release themselves of their chastity belts, and chat throughout the film “we are not things!” something I wish every woman would yell at some point in her life.

Nux, the boy at the end of his half-life, was a stowaway on the war rig. Capable could’ve killed him, or thrown him off the rig, but instead she allows him to stay, defending him to the others and proving that he is useful. She is the first person to ever show this boy affection and love, and in return he saves them all.

Now, the war rig could’ve met anyone in the desert to help them fight Joe and his underlings, but they met a band of badass women on motorcycles who help the wives understand what the world was like before the world died. Everyone quickly bonds together to defeat the Joe, and return to the citadel victors. Raised up by the war boys, the milk mothers released the water onto the peasants in victory, free from under Joe’s reign. Max disappears into the crowd, with one final glance at Furiosa as she is raised with her fellow queens. He leaves them to celebrate their victory, knowing they would have won it with or without him.

I’ve read a lot of articles about how this movie is or isn’t about feminism. To those against the feminism in this film I have to say, let us have this one. It’s not often women are given a lead role in a movie with a man’s name in the title. It’s not often a woman is given a top soldier’s position in an army full of men. It’s not often women get to openly say “we are not things” and have the audience cheer back, “no, you’re not.”

Alone Time.

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Nothin’ But A Good Time.”

No alarm set, slowly waking up with the day after a night of well rested sleep. Finding one of my favorite outfits to wear, my hair cooperates and keeps frizz at a minimal as I head out the door.

Arriving at my favorite cafe, the table by the window is available so I can sit and watch the boats and kayaks around the dock in the early morning fall air, sipping the best coffee I have ever tasted. My pancakes arrive, light and fluffy with the perfect amount of butter and syrup on top. A book perched on the table, enjoying the solace in my  morning.

On the drive home I listen to the album Red, one of my all time favorite albums, driving down the winding island roads back into town, towards the conveniently named Bookrack used book store. I wander the dense racks searching for a novel, or four, to take home and enjoy. I peruse the comic section, eyeing the posters, wishing I had enough money for the antique dolls on display.

I leave the store with my purchases, too many books but a whole lot of smiles, as it starts to drizzle. The rain washing the air of a stale summer, reminding me of my love for pnw in the fall, driving home with the windows slightly cracked so I can still inhale the scent of the rain.

At home I undress into loose leggings and an oversized tee, my fuzziest socks pulled up to keep my calfs company as I snuggle into the couch with a cup of tea and one of my new books. Eventually, I fall asleep.

I awake to the sound of my mom coming home from work. We have a snack of apples and peanut butter as we talk about our day and she inspects my book haul, and threatens to steal them later. We change our clothes and head out to our barn.

I’m greeted by my mud covered horse, who I begin to work on cleaning up. The smell of horse in the air, and all over me, I’m the happiest I could be.

Back in the house, my dad has fixed dinner, which we all wolf down immediately, just enjoying being in each others company. I head up to shower, taking as long as possible to enjoy the bubbles and the hot water all around me.

Into bed, early enough to enjoy more of my books. More tea. More of my alone time.

The First.

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Sweeping Motions.”

currently, I am laying in my bed with a comforter snugged around me, surrounded by the messiest state my room has ever been in. dirty clothes in baskets, on the floor, drapped over the couch, basically everywhere BUT the dresser and closet. my books are piled up in little piles, making little skyscraper cities I try not to step on in my Godzilla state of maneuvering around the mess of it all.

I guess it got this way because of life. three weeks away from moving, still working a full time job, and having classes all take away from my cleaning abilities. most of the time, getting my clothes washed and into a basket is all there is time for, and that is okay.

I dream of having my room organized and clean on a regular basis, a time where everything has a place. books will be on their bookshelves, clothes will be in drawers, and there will be no clutter.

it’s not that time just yet, but soon.