It's official (well, sort of):

I'm coming home....

Details to be worked out, photos to be taken, finals to be completed before the deadlines, but I've made the decision to go back to Coe next semester (with hopefully a layover in Washington).

And yes, it feels so very wonderful.

m.

And now, to bed. It is a school night, after all.

Reiteration

[A Warning, but not Apology: Herein lies Language.]

Fuck this. I really do mean that. This has moved so far beyond the realm of insanity that I don't think it even has a name.

I am tired of this fucking country, and of this city, and I just want to go home.

I have been here for three months, and I cannot take it anymore. I can't get to school without relying on the people I live with. I can't get a transportation card because I don't have a real photograph of myself. I don't like photos of myself. I hardly have any digitally, let alone on photo paper, let alone with me.

I'm supposed to go get my permanent residency visa tomorrow, for which I need 4 photographs. However, after today, I have to wonder if my original plan (for which I still need a printer) will even work; if they'll accept what I have, or if the red tape that my life seems to be draped in will prevent me.

When I can actually get to my classes, they require minimum brain power on my part. The professors enjoy changing hours without regard to other classes we (read: I) have, and when I try to leave early, I get lectured in front of the entire class.

I have yet to find someone even remotely like me, which means, someone with whom I can have a real conversation and doesn't consider barhopping the best way to spend a night.

I miss nature. Trees, mountains, water (the Golden Horn and Bosporus just don't cut it, you can see the other side and there's nothing water-y about them).

Everywhere I go, it seems like I go alone, which, three months in, sucks. I am so bereft of things to do in acceptable circumstances (ie., going to the Spice Market with someone) that I've finished well over a thousand pages of reading material, most of that in about three weeks, crocheted four scarves and torn two of them apart, doubled the length of the story I've been working on, and spent what has probably amounted to over a hundred hours just walking up and down Istikal.

Due to this, I don't want to devote any more than an hour to reading, have stopped wearing scarves, am second-gussing every word I write, and don't ever want to walk down Istikal again.

In short, I'm miserable, and despite there being some good things, it feels as though most of this trip so far has just been one long string of things that I have to deal with or fix, even if I can't or shouldn't have to (or both). So far, I'm not entirely sure what I've gotten out of it except seeing how long I can last in conditions like this.

m.

When they talk about life experiences,

I don't think they usually count getting balsamic vinaigrette in your eye. However, it is most definitely an experience.

In other, slightly more pertinent, news:

My mom and I got back on Tuesday. I don't want to go anywhere ever again. Unless it's Turkey.

Un/fortunately, there are a few other things scheduled for this summer.

O., my cousin, is out of the hospital. (Yay!) She's doing better and better every day. There wasn't any swelling, and no more bleeding than the doctors expected. It goes without saying that she's covered in scabs--arms, legs, and face. In addition, her right eye looks like an eleven-year-old from the eighties was let loose in a makeup store.

My grandpa is also out of the hospital, although he's in rehab (no, obviously not that kind...although it is entertaining to imagine an 83-year-old there...).

I am from, and in, Tacoma. It is 9:46pm and 79 degrees. Things are not right in the world.

Tacoma has an official-ish-ish music video, Two Five Three. Two warnings: it contains language, and accurately describes the city I live in.

The new INK magazine is out here. The photography is always good, as are the featured artists. What makes this particular issue so cool are:

page 17. An article by Alex Taitague about boat shoes. Similar to Hugh Gallagher's NYU application essay. Which, incidentally, is well worth reading.

pages 182-7. Chelsey Scheffe. She can do just about anything. I should know. Not only did I sit by her at graduation, we went to China together our senior year (read: spent three weeks together in the same house).

pages 140-5. And interview with Isaiah Whitmore, a fashion student. I went to high school with him, too. He is gifted, is one of the sweetest people I know, and both come across in his interview.

About a year ago, my cousin K. (out of my three cousins, she's the coolest. Sorry. I take that back. Out of my entire family, she's the coolest) told me about The Big Bang Theory. Since I now have to wait until next summer for more Doctor Who and I'm out of school (read: not hanging around the math lounge, listening to conversations about topology, theoretical physics, stats, and computer science), my geek coefficient has been significantly reduced. Big Bang Theory has changed that. It's about Sheldon and Leonard, theoretical and applied physicists, respectively, and their troubles operating in the real world. Sadly, it's quite accurate. Even more sadly, I understand most of what they're talking about.

m.