BAD DHO is finally over. 13 pages of endless fretting over text-analysis and litterary history, all written in semi-coherent writing, plus one nonsensical conclusion slapped onto the paper at 1am. Then a long and exhausting day after DHO, where all the first year students were walking around like zombies.
GOOD And then the day turned much better; birthday dinner for a friend, fun and a bit too much wine with the girls, and an old-fashioned school dance afterwards, with 50's style dresses and Big Band music. Ah.
NOW Downtime with Sex and The City, procrastinating homework, and drinking chai tea.
1 paper. 2 subjects, narrowed down to one. 2 days. 8 pages, plus formalities. 48 hours (that's 2880 minutes, or 172800 seconds) of laziness, stress, cramming and procrastinating. 99,9% hair-tearing wreck of a teenager. 0,1% brain. Innumeral amounts of nerves, word-vomits and books being torn apart in frustration. Millions of clicks, letters, failed attempts of avoiding Facebook, and back-cracks. 1 girl. Me.
DHO begins tomorrow. Am freaking out like a øajfødkæhfdsafjaædsfdsaælfhdsfhalfhaæsdfdshfæaf. Oh, the stressure (stress + pressure = stressure)!
Goodbye sanity. See you on Friday.
DHO:
"Dansk/Historie-opgave". Danish/History assignment that all first year students have to write. DHO should stand for Dreaded Horrible Overly-emphasized-by-teachers-making-students-panic-for-no-reason-as-it-doesn't-really-count-for-anything assignment. Mine is tommorrow, and shall be turned in on Friday.
If you could go anywhere in the world. Anywhere at all... It doesn't have to be fancy or exotic or incredibly luxurious. It can be, though, if that's what you want. But if you had to choose a single place in the world. A place you would use your enitre life's savings to visit. Somewhere you've always wanted to go. Someplace, that's special to you, and just you, for whatever reason...
Where would you go?
M E ? I W O U L D G O T O N E W Y O R K . . .
Do you know the feeling when an old friend writes to you from a foreign country? Somewhere they're travelling, perhaps even a new home, or just a place they've lived all along. And they tell you how amazing it is, how cultured, how refined, how wild, how beautiful, how exotic and how exactly how they imagined, while still being something out of their wildest dreams. That feeling?
I know that feeling. I soak up these descriptions. Especially if it's New York.
New York, ah, New York. I have this crazy, life-long dream of living there.
No, I've never actually been there. No, I've never seen the sky scrapers, Brooklyn Bridge, or the yellow cabs with their rude, shouting cab drivers; the smog and the smoke of the city, the flashing lights, or the people that never sleep; 5th Avenue and Broadway and Central Park and the Statue of Liberty; the bar crawlers and young dreamers and chain smokers and marathon runners; Brooklyn or the Upper East Side; or the rooftop restaurants and the enormous stores, the roar of traffic and the bustle of a million strangers collected in The City That Never Sleeps, The Big Apple, New York. No, I've never seen New York.
But I can feel it! I can practically smell, taste, touch, hear and lick it! Yes, I will freely admit that I'm a bit of a cliché. But though many teenage girls desperately long for their own Manhattan adventure, their own Carrie Bradshaw existence, their own shopaholic heaven, I somehow feel that my obsession is different. Don't get me wrong; it's not. I know it's not. But somehow, New York is mine.
I'm going there some day. One day; just wait and see. I'll live there. I'm not saying forever. Just sometime. In a completely shit appartment, alone with my 47 cats; or perhaps with a creepy roommate, who leaves the carcasses of recently devoured china boxes lying all over the apartment. Eating take-out every day, cooking ineptly in my tiny kitchen, living off doritos and cheap coffee... Working as a waitress at a crap coffee shop, as a bartender at some seedy bar, or as a dog walker in Central Park... Whatever it takes. I'm going to live there.
