Trying Not to Have a Cow (, Dude)

"Campus Speak"- New York Times

I found this article off of the always amusing Best Week Ever blog. The entry featuring it was so ridiculous that I just had to follow the link, which shows how interested I was, as my computer has been running very slowly lately.

Just like trying to explain humor, analyzing slang is a futile practice. Many people have tried to put both subjects into erudite academic articles and come out sounding like complete idiots. When it comes to slang, describing the college lingo casts university students in a light that is not very flattering. Not to sound arrogant, but take me for example. I'm a fourth-year English major who has studied literature from Chaucer to Roth and everything in between. I'm able to communicate with some scions of academia, perhaps not at the same level, but with some degree of proficiency. Yet, you'll find me using words like "chillax," "fauxhawk," and "sketchy/shady."

This is just a reminder to those that would take this article as another sign of my generation's sad future, remember your own slang, yes? I'm sure that your parents were appalled when you came home with an unorthodox vocabulary, whether you said "the bee's knees" or "far out" or "yuppie."

See ya, wouldn't wanna be ya.

K.

You Poor People

There are several things that I wanted to write, but I've found that my brain refuses to concentrate. I can see myself writing something incredibly ridiculous (and perhaps I already have), so I'm just going to post a super rough draft of a poem from my Poetry Workshop 1 class.

We were supposed to create a poem using the specialized language of some animal. That may sound odd, but you're essentially supposed to use the language and point of view of whatever animal you chose to focus on. Also, we were supposed to include anaphora (in this case, a repetitive invocation).

I chose to honor the common mallard. So, here it is.

Pleading for the Mallard

Let the mallard remain ignorant of his undistinguished features.
He blends into the verdant forest of heads, the fertile soil of bodies.
Since his fledgling years, trailing his mother like a strand of weed
caught on a heron’s leg, he’s only concerned himself with the bouquet
of marsh mud and the fluid pressure between his toes.

Let the mallard remain ignorant of his lack of grace.
Compared to the strides of the egret, his waddle is clumsy;
compared to the flight of the eagle, his hold on the sky is precarious.
But his plump body rolls with the waves as he tips,
feet paddling the air, to harvest the bottom-dwelling grasses.

Let the mallard remain ignorant of his place in the universe.
He doesn’t know that his curly-tailed brethren
dabble around city parks, across oceans,
and in golf course water hazards.
Cattailed shores and briny pools form his continents and seas.

Yep, there it is. Still in rough draft form, but feel free to critique.

Hopefully, I'll never have to offend your eyes with my horrendous poetry again. :)

K.

The Penitent Man Kneels Before G-d: A Yom Kippur Review

(Get the quote? You would be surprised how many people don't.)

The Dream

This year, I felt that it might be slightly more meaningful Yom Kippur if I didn't shlep my laptop home. Of course, a great deal of laziness factored into it, but the result was the same. Instead of puttering around on the web while those mighty gates were slowly swinging shut, I decided to take a nap between services. The best way to avoid the pangs of hunger is to sleep through them.

Or so I thought.

I've been looking on-line, but I haven't found anything that tells me about the affect of hunger upon a person's dreams. For my part, my stomach drove me into one of those dreams that seems so real that you actually wake up twice: one in your dream, once in real life. In my dream, I had awoken from my nap and wandered around my dead aunt's house, getting terribly lost in the twisting hallways. As I walked, things would appear to me and then disappear. I can't remember what they were, but I know that I mentally collapsed. Because of my confusion and terror, I hid in a bathroom and avoided going to the (dream) afternoon Yom Kippur service. Then, improbably, I decided to order from Pizza Hut.

I woke up at that point.

It really was a "what-the-hell?!" moment and I tried to ponder it as I quickly dressed for the (real) afternoon Yom Kippur service. I don't really believe in the meaning of dreams; they are just your brain replaying history and adding some of its own commentary in the process. But it still didn't keep me from thinking about it all through services and most of the break fast.

Was it just a yearning for Pizza Hut? Why would my brain keep me from going to services on one of the most important holy days of the year? Why was I in my deceased aunt's house? So many mysteries.

The Tears

My rabbi has held his post at my temple for about 35 years, which is an extremely long time for a notoriously wander-lusty profession. He has been there for all of my early Jewish life events: my naming, my kindergarten consecration, my bat mitzvah, and my confirmation. He has refused to directly answer my philosophical questions (a plus, if you know me), comforted me during the deaths in my family, and offered advice during my many existential meltdowns. He, forever and always, has my respect.

I knew this was coming, but I guess it didn't really hit me until the Kol Nidre service. He's finally retiring.

I think his leaving will be a turning point in my relationship with my congregation. It was his influence that truly kept me anchored to my hometown and my temple. There are two congregations in my college town, but instead of attending them, I sometimes walk down to Saint Agnes, the local Catholic church, and sit through a service. I suppose I would rather spend time in a space radically out of my realm than spend my Saturdays comparing some strange rabbi to mine. I would rather admire the beauty of the church than sit in some other synagogue's austereness.

But I have to get over that now.

There will be a new rabbi. He will be close to my age. He will probably not last more than two or three years. I might as well make a clean break of it.

Change makes me cry. But perhaps the tears will cleanse.

K.

Famous Fish in a Very Small Pond

Last year, I participated in my rabbi's brainchild concocted to get more people to come to the Yom Kippur afternoon service. Basically, five other people and I wrote five minute speeches detailing exactly why we were Jews. It seems to be gaining in popularity, so the rabbi is getting what he wanted. However, my participation seems to have yielded an interesting opportunity.

I believe it was two weeks ago that I got a message from my mother saying that one of our local papers was doing a piece about the people who spoke at the service last year. So I called the reporter and did my thing-- and by my thing, I mean that I babbled for about fifteen minutes to a total stranger about things that I normally keep to myself. Cringe.

So, anyway, the article came out today, complete with a picture of yours truly sitting with a handful of shwarma in the Parisian Jewish quarter. Two of my fellow speakers also responded, so it wasn't a "Kate Show," which keeps my community from thinking that I'm totally egotistical.

Here's a bit of the article. You can find my section of the article and picture by clicking on the link.

Time for reflection: Why they are Jews
Jewish holidays are a time to think about faith.

By
MELISSA NANN BURKE
Daily Record/Sunday News

A month of reflection, Elul, precedes the Jewish High Holy Days. Again this year, Rabbi Irwin N. Goldenberg has asked a diverse group at Temple Beth Israel to reflect on what it means to be Jewish.

The group will speak during a 3 p.m. Yom Kippur service Saturday in York Township.

Among the lay people who spoke last fall were an immigrant, a college student and a secular Jew...

You can find the rest of it on the York Daily Record website or by the link.


K.

Kate is a Big, Fat Liar

So, remember when I promised that I would write from Scotland? And remember when I said that I would post pictures? And remember how I never keep a promise?

It's that time of year again-- the time of year when I feel guilty about abandoning my blog, wonder how the bloggers whose entries I used to haunt like the cyber ghost I am are doing, and just want to take a stab at being a responsible citizen of the blogging community again. My impetus this time is my Writing and Computers class that I'm taking strictly for the credits. Suddenly, I'm forced to look at different blogs, to read books written about blogs, to ponder the significance of blogs and blog-like writings throughout history. Eye-opening, I assure you. It's making me miss what I was once a part of. I'm such a sentimental ass.

And thus the prodigal daughter returns.

K.

Whose Blog is This Anyway?

Well hey there!

I'm an awful person for not updating, I know, but I've been ill for about half the time I've been here and working my ass off the other half. But, I have been thinking about y'all. I just wanted to direct you guys to my travel blog in case you were curious about my travels. I decided that separate blogs for this sort of thing would be best because I'm not keen on my family hanging around this blog. Some things should remain private... or at least anonymous. I'll still be writing here, but direct travel experience will on the other one.

Hope to see you guys there!

K.

Finally Found a Computer...

I just want to let everyone know that I'm doing fine and I will post when I have settled down in Stirling for good. This nomadic lifestyle is not condusive for regular blogging-- not that I did much of that anyway. :)

K.

Jitters

And at last, here we are, the day that I leave what I know and enter the unknown. Sounds pretty cliche, but that's what it is. At 9 PM, I board my flight on Air India and spend seven hours trying to sleep upright on my way to Paris, which, as we all know, is full of the French. All of that is a pretty daunting prospect, but what can you do? I have yet to pack, but I realize that the few belongs that I have scattered around my bags are the only bits of my life that I'm able to carry with me. Bleak.

But here I am, sounding like my house has burned down and my life as I know it with it. I'm sure that there will be happier entries to come once I've settled in.

However, before my semester beings in Scotland, I'm traveling for a bit. So I've started a travel blog for that purpose. Don't worry, I'm not abandoning this. The other one will be filled with pictures and things I see during this hazy period before I get to my apartment. If you'd like to visit, by all means, click on this link.

Until then, au revoir!

K.

PS. I have no idea if that's spelled correctly. I took Spanish, for G-d's sake. :)

Maybe They're Not So Bad

When you've spend all of your previously parent-free time around those who have raised you-- like I have for the last few weeks-- you tend to forget that they can be pretty neat people. My revelation came yesterday as I was walking out of the mall with my mother, bags filled with sweaters, socks, and jeans for my stay in a cold and very wet little country. The shopping spree had ended with me tallying up a rather steep debt to my mother, who had paid for everything with the credit card. On to the bill, I added the cost of my Naots (buying Naots in the States is not cheap), my worry beads, and my passport. Since I had taken care of all of that in the previous weeks, I had assumed my mother had taken the money from my savings account. Mom needed to go to the credit union again, so I figured that she would dip into my account again to pay for the clothing I had just bought.

As we crossed the parking lot, laden with the spoils of The Gap, Mom turned to me.

"Didn't you say you were going to sign over a paycheck?"

"I did!" I exclaimed, a little miffed. "Two, in fact. I put them on your purse."

"Oh, ok. Just as long as you're contributing to all of this."

"Wait, what? Contributing? I've been telling you to take money from my account to pay for all of this." There was silence on her end. "You haven't been taking money out, have you?" The last bit was more of a statement than a question.

"Nope."

"So, you've just been paying for all of this."

"So far, yeah."

I nearly dropped the bag into a puddle. "But Mom... I told you... Well, now I feel incredibly guilty."

"We want to make sure you have everything and you never expect anything from us. So don't worry about all of this yet. We'll work it out later."

All of the crap I've been buying for this trip has cost well over $500. Not only that, in the words of Hugh Laurie, "plane tickets don't grow... on a tree" (if you haven't heard his song "Mystery," you should look that one up). Nothing has been cheap. And yet... they've taken care of me, which is incredibly sweet.

I must keep this in mind when they piss me off. :)

K.

Seeing Things Through New Eyes

As someone who has written 100 posts, I should have realized that saving a day's piece as a draft within the Blogger Dashboard is a bad idea. It becomes obsolete way too easily and then the credit you've built up from writing that particular post has been absolutely lost.

See, I had been complaining that I couldn't find the shoes I needed, my passport hadn't arrived, I couldn't find a nice travel map widget that suited my country-hopping future, and blah blah blah. An hour later, the passport had arrived, I'd ordered my shoes through 2-Day airmail (let's hope they fit), and I'd settled on the fact that I'm going to have to set up a whole new and aesthetically displeasing travel blog on a site that specializes in such things. The other things I had whined about in that unpublished entry haven't necessarily been fixed or even confronted yet, but the damage had been done. I'll just have to delete the damn thing even before it had a chance to breathe the free air of the Internet. Kind of sad in a way.

I still have other things to worry about. For instance, I'm going to my eye doctor tomorrow to see about getting contact lenses. The last time I tried that I was in ninth grade, a significantly more easily frustrated and less medicated person. I drove myself to tears trying to wrestle with the contacts, only to abandon them to grow dusty in my medicine cabinet. Now, I must get over my adversion to touching my slimy eyeballs if I ever want to see something in the distance and take a picture of it. And, in a rainy country like Scotland, it would probably be easier to wander around and take in the sights without raindrops on my lenses. Plus, interestingly enough, I always find my time at the optomistrist's office entertaining. My doctor has never worn a pair of socks on his be-loafered feet (not that I have seen, anyway) and he looks oddly like Mel Gibson (but without the crazed glint in his eyes). He also has called me "Kaitlyn" for 21 years, which is not and has never been my name. At my last appointment, some synapses must have connected for the first time in two decades as he stared at my record sheet because he began calling me "Kathryn," which in fact is my name, but not one I would prefer. But he messes with my vision, so I'm not going to call him on it.

It does make me feel good to get some of these unpleasant things over with, though. It almost makes me think that I'm gradually becoming a new person and shedding off the worries and impediments in my way to enjoying stuff. Hell, I might even be cheerful a week before I leave. But, as my marathon session of watching House episodes while avoiding getting ready for four months away from home tell me, people just don't change. And I know that right before I board my plane on the Air India flight to Paris, I'm going to be sobbing my tear ducts dry and the flight attendents are going to have to drag me through the terminal. Sigh.

Oh yeah, you heard me right: Air INDIA!!!! To PARIS!!

K.

Crazy is as Crazy Does

Whenever there is a impending change in my surroundings or my position in life, I tend to lose it a little. It could be just going back to school after summer break (that only warrants a few nights on my parents' floor and an irritable streak). Or...

It seems that the bigger the change, the sooner I begin to freak out. My semester abroad is a little under two months away, but I'm beginning to mess up my dorm room now so that packing to leave college for six months will be much harder. When I got some playful ribbing from my roommate and a friend about it, I burst into tears and spent the next ten minutes sobbing in the bathroom. I can only imagine the hippy hippy shakes I'll have mid-January.

The worst part is not the neurotic techniques that I use as compensation; it's the fact that I know everything will work out well. There's nothing I can't handle when I get right down to it. But try and tell me that now and I'll rip your hair out by its roots and hand it to you.

Who knows, maybe getting arrested for assault will make it harder to leave.

K.

PS. 100th post. It's about damn time.

Tongue-Tied

My rabbi always used to caution me during my bat mitzvah lessons, "Whoa, whoa, don't let your tongue get in front of your eye teeth! You won't be able to see what you're saying!" I'll admit, I haven't always listened to that advice. I talk loudly and quickly, which often gets me into tight spots, even when it comes to easy words. I just can't force them out.

Today, I was discussing West Chester's Old-Fashioned Christmas parade with my friend Oj, a history major. As usual, I was complaining about Christmas. That's when the trouble began.

"I'm not going to the Old-Fasssssh... Old-Fssh... Old-Fascist-- Fsssssssh... Fshfshfsh... Old-Fashioned Christmas parade."

Oj stared at me, then broke out laughing.

Chagrined, I muttered, "What the hell is an Old-Fascist Christmas parade anyway?"

"German," Oj chirped. I mimed a quick goose-step, then we carried on with the conversation.

Oh, sure, it's fine when I screw up in front of my friends, but I know I'm going to make myself look like a total idiot in Scotland. I really need to get my entire life scripted.

K.

Tell the World to Stop Turning

I've held off a little on this post because I'm not totally sure how I feel about this year's Thanksgiving vacation. Why I stopped writing because I had a less than satisfying break is beyond me, but it doesn't take much to throw me off of my groove.

It's an annual family tradition to go to Chincoteague, VA over Thanksgiving. As geeky as it sounds, I belong to a family of passionate birdwatchers. My father, for example, can identify a shoveler from a distance, without binoculars, and staring into the setting sun. Try it, it's not easy. As for me, I'm dedicated enough to let Dad convince me to wake up at five in the morning to listen to the ducks wake up. It's not the most exciting hobby, but water fowl make me smile, I guess.

Over the twenty-one years I've been going to Chincoteague, things have changed. Newer, more modern hotels with heated pools have sprung up around the island's coastline, overshadowing our little motel that features a pool full of micro-organisms and a backyard donkey. More corporation-owned businesses are entering the little town in an attempt to take advantage of the summer tourist season. It's progress and I understand that. I also understand that such decisions that affect the island are not mine to make; the islands need to do what's best for them.

Even with this understanding, this year's vacation was hard. First, my brother and my father could not attend due to a college showcase soccer tourney in northern New Jersey. Mom and I shared the large suite that usually seems cramped when it holds the four of us, but seemed cavernous with only two. It was the first Thanksgiving without Dad, but it was my brother's presence that I missed the most. Sometimes it's nice to have someone in your age bracket to talk to.

Second, the donkey behind the hotel was particularly active this year. I have never seen this animal and have only known of his presence through his early morning braying, which always seemed harmless. This year, the donkey was shrieking (and I do mean shrieking) far into the night and early morning, making sleeping in my room impossible. My nights were spent huddling next to my mother in her double bed, enduring snoring that was at least more familiar than a possessed barn animal.

Third, the internet cafe downtown decided to close for the holidays, leaving my shaking for a connection like a junkie for a hit. I still have tremors.

Fourth, our motel will probably not be open for Thanksgiving next year. The large hotels attract the families with small children and electricity has gone up 40%, leaving the motel owners to close over the autumn slack. It's not that I blame them; the owners of our motel have two boys to put through college. It's just hard to know that the place you've stayed in for seventeen years won't be there anymore.

Things change, I know. I should look on the bright side... The resturant where we usually eat Thanksgiving dinner wasn't turned into a Waffle House after all. The birds and the ponies are still there. The salt grass will always smell the same (it's one of the three smells I would bottle, along with potato chips and chocolate). And it seems like that donkey will be around as well.

Yes, the bright side is bright, but it's still hard to lose the things you've grown accustomed to in a world that's ever changing.

Sigh.

K.

A Supplication

As my offering to you, oh ye G-d-like readers, I present to you this link, which I hope will fill you with laughter and smiles. Please, oh ye divine entities from the World Wide Web, I beg you to forgive me for my lack of posting. I shall be sure to prostrate myself at your altar more times in the coming week.

K.

The Cuteness Factor is Unbearable!

On this windy, rainy day, I present you with this clever little video about a kiwi. Enjoy!

Hmm, damn Mac hates me... we'll fix this later. Just copy and paste the link.

http://www.i-am-bored.com/bored_link.cfm?link_id=20550

K.

Your Take on This?

The situation:

You are dozing on a couch in your university's newpaper office, trying your damndest to not get any work done. Your cheek is a bit itchy owing to the inferior fabric of the sofa, so you open your eyes in preparation to turn over (you don't know why you always open your eyes before you switch sides; you just do). As your vision becomes clearer, you realize that your line of sight is knee-level to a colleague of yours sitting in the opposite chair. Unfortunately for you, your colleague's knees are splayed wide open, granting you an unobstructed view of places better left unseen.

The problem:

Do you tell your colleague that he has a hole in the crotch of his jeans and let the entire office know that your are looking at his crotch, or do you just let it go, letting your co-worker go all day without knowing that he's showing the world a bit more than he probably wants displayed?

You decide.

K.

The Other Candidate, The Right Choice

It's only a little after four and you still have plenty of time to get out there and vote!

What? You don't want to? But how could that be?

Oh, politicians. Yeah, I understand. I mean, Republicans are of a corrupt sort and even if Democrats take control of Congress, they wouldn't know what to do with it. It does seem pretty hopeless for the average American.

But, you know, there are other choices. Sure, there are several names on the ballot, but have you taken a look below them. See it? Yep, right there-- "write-in candidate." Pretty cool, huh?

However, just because you have the freedom to doesn't mean you should waste your vote! Vote for someone with a plan! Vote for someone with principles! Vote for someone with charisma!

Vote for me!

What? Why are you laughing? Don't you take me seriously? You haven't even asked me about my platform and you're already discounting me? Oh, what a sad state our country is in.

Listen, I have great ideas! In fact, I guarantee you that I can solve America's international relations nightmare as quick as you please. I have a plan that simply cannot fail. Are you ready for it?

Wooly socks.

Yep, wooly socks. Just hear me out. I promise that this is great stuff.

Why is everyone so mad at each other? The answer is simple: we're all worried and over-stressed. And we all know that stressed people are unreasonable. Now, follow me with this one. Pretend it's a cold day, you've just come home from work after having to struggle to get your car started, and you've found that the roads are near impassable. Now you flop down into a comfortable chair and pull on... what? Oh yes, some wooly socks. What happens then? Why, of course, your stress flees under the unstoppable onslaught of the warm wooly sock. You instantly relax and are able to think clearly.

Now, think about this on a large scale. We sends crates and crates of these wooly socks to Russia, China, and North Korea. They put them on. They instantly become more open to negociation. Pretty cool, huh?

My opponents might scoff at this plan. How, they ask, can we possibly appease those in hot countries with wooly socks? Won't this make them even crankier? Well, if you insist on thinking inside the box, this is a perfectly logical point. However, I already have that covered. You see, for our friends in warmer climes, we simply provide them with wooly sweat bands. I don't know of anything more irritating than trying to get work done while sweat stings your eyes. We may find that the Middle East is a friendlier place when we provide them with a sting-free existance.

My international relations plan is inspired, but I think that you may find my domestic issues plans just as spectacular.

What do we complain about most here? That's easy: a lack of jobs and a failing economy. How do we fix this? Why, with new employment created by the rising wooly socks and sweatbands industry. We need people to shear sheep, card the wool, work the knitting machines, and inspect the results. Money and jobs for everyone!

So, as you enter the booth on this fine Tuesday, please keep in mind that you are not limited to those names written on the ballot. Remember me, your wooly textiles candidate! Victory in 2006!

K.

Pax Romana?

As I finished watching "Rome" today, I got to thinking about world events. I don't know, I guess shows about political intrigue, notions of empire, and the installation of dictators just seem to remind me of today's worldwide political climate. Like it or not, we live in interesting times. We see countries traditionally viewed as enemies procuring nuclear arsenals, tyrants being sentenced to death, and bands of "freedom fighters" out-manuovering powerful governments flashed across the TV screen everyday. It's certainly not boring.

Whatever your view on things, I suggest that you click on my link above and watch "Rome." The acting is amazing, the dialogue is interesting, and the lessons it teaches still relevant today. However, may I suggest that you not watch this at work? That is, unless, your boss has a thing for full-frontal Marc Antony scenes.

Apologies for a crappy post. Perhaps I'll have something more interesting to say after the elections tomorrow.

K.

Dreaming of Heather

So, for those who don't know, I'll be spending my spring semester at the University of Stirling in Scotland. I'm very excited-- or, I would be if I weren't sitting under a huge pile of forms and waivers that I have to sign. At some points, it almost doesn't seem worth it. But then I remember this--

And this--

And this--

Yeah, all that is Stirling, the town where I'll be going to school. The last time I was there was this January, on a quintessentially foggy, Scottish day. The town is cute, but I think the castle is the real jewel.

I'm not sure why I like this castle so much. It could be some residual clan pride (it's a Stewart castle and therefore, in an exceptionally round-about way, mine), the fantastic view, or the cool rock wall that you can walk around. I don't know; it's just cool.

There are all sorts of secret little crannies where, I suppose, some people like to hide things.

Some beautiful stained glass in the main hall, as well.

So, I guess I just have to keep this in mind when I get overwhelmed. I think that I'm going to post some pictures from my UK trip every so often if only to keep myself grinning.

K.

A Little Halloween Story

I had about five other ideas for posts today, but it's Halloween and this story can't be put off for another day.

Let me give you a little history--

I've been living in this dorm for two and a half years and I've seen a lot of things. I've seen drunken freshmen carried off by EMTs, hairy guys dressed as cheerleaders, and Campus Safety trying to break down the door of suspected pot smokers. Quite a bit of weird things happen around here, but it's a college dorm. You expect that.

One of the strangest things that would occur happened in one of the rooms down the hall from me. My friend, the current RA of my wing, used to live there with her roommate and I would occasionally hang out to watch movies. Sometimes, the closed door-- which would usually stick when anyone tried to open it, by the way-- would creak open, driving us to get up and shut it. After a period of time, it would open again and the cycle would continue. My friend told me that the lights sometimes blinked on and off, leading her to believe that the room was a tad haunted. This ghost, she rationalized, was male, as this used to be an all-male dorm. And, to repay the thing for being irritating, she gave it the most obnoxious name she could think of-- Eugene.

I only half-seriously believed in Eugene. I believe in ghosts mainly so that they never feel like they have to prove their existence to me. I'll be fine with my unfounded suspicions, thanks. As a normal person does, I tried to explain away the door phenomena by theorizing that the pressure changes in the room forced the door open. I would mention these things to my friend, but then added that, you know, it could still be a ghost, right? Call it added insurance.

Well, for a while, Eugene stopped showing up. He wasn't ever mentioned around the wing. Then this morning happened.

In the wee hours, the current residents of that particular room were sitting up and chatting. The lights were off, the blinds were drawn, and the only illumination came from the glow of their computer monitors. Suddenly, one of the girls saw a flashing light out of the corner of her eye. She waited for a while, then got fed up and convinced herself that the computers were acting screwy. So the two girls turned off their monitors and plunged the room into darkness.

Except...

The light was still there. It was an orb, really, golden in color. It zigzagged back and forth around the room, scaring the girls out of their wits. Screaming, they tumbled out of their room and spent the rest of the night with the RA, too frightened to go back to their own beds. Several boys, having heard the commotion, volunteered to stay the night in the room, but didn't see anything.

Eugene was baaaaaaaaaack.

Talking to the girls this morning, I found out that they had lots of odd activity occurring in the room. They would hear scratching by their ears and other auditory points of interest. To corroborate their story, the girl next door claimed to have seen the orb too. Interesting.

Do I believe it? Let's be honest, I'm scared to say no. I don't need spooks appearing to me. Nooooo way.

You don't think Eugene's real? Fine, then you can tell him!

Happy Halloween.

K.

PS. Odd that it happened so close to the holiday, yes? Hmm...