I said too much in the little time I had and now I must go get a diet coke

I am riddled by so much nerves and so much excitement right now. On the one hand, I'm sitting on my bed writing in this much neglected blog when I have a ten page paper due in a few more than 24 hours which I haven't started which probably counts for a significant portion of my grade and another ten page paper due in a little more than 62 hours which I haven't started which probably counts for a significant portion of my grade. And Friday is the deposition and I've been dreading and dreading this since it got delayed the first time but at the same time it'll give me a chance to talk about it and isn't that what we all really want and need? Not when our words need to be guarded though--no--that's what journals are for.

So here I am sitting on my bed writing in this much neglected blog about how cold my feet are and how sweaty my palms are and how much I like the feeling of wearing a hoodie. It's like a sophomore-year-of-highschool saves-the-day-in-the-back-of-black-beauty kind of feeling when there was no such thing as 10 page papers or depositions. My feet are cold but the sun coming in through the white curtains is nice and I can hear the kids in the school across the street shouting and waiting for Mister Softee.

And on the other hand, I just booked my flight to Lisbon for a summer spent traversing Europe (or at least two months of it). Who am I to have this privilege over this or that person? No one really. So there's Lisbon and then there will be Spain--maybe Sevilla, Cordoba, Granada, maybe Valencia, Barcelona, Zaragoza. I'd like to pretend I can say those names as beautifully as they're meant to be pronounced but I can't roll my R's which has proven a detriment to my library of party tricks (alongside reciting the Hamlet soliloquy and/or sitting in the corner). And then there is Frankfurt then Amsterdam, or Amsterdam then Frankfurt but then, undoubtedly, there will be Paris. Paris is lovely in ways that New York can not be lovely. While New York is situated, more or less, on the Cartesian plane, the neighborhoods of Paris are numbered as they spiral out from the center, a sequence like Fibonacci discovered.

Someone once told me I sound like a Mexican trying to speak French, and someone once told me that all you had to do to get away with it was purse your lips and over-exagerate. I'm not as worried about it as I was in the winter of 2007, when my mom and dad and grandmom and I were visions of American's in Paris. I'd like to think I'm lighter-hearted now, that I care less, and less, and less about a mind spiraling out from the center.