Everything is Happening at Once. Time to update my livejournal!
So, I have two big projects to do that I've only slightly started--a presentation on Thursday, and a big paper on Monday. Both of them are going to take a great deal of time, and are stressing me out like whoa.
I also have a great deal of things to do for this summer--finding an internship, finding a place to take a biology class, cosplay stuff for CON, and possible speech therapy? Maybe. Who knows.
And then I have the play that I'm directing, which runs in about a week and a half. And my birthday this weekend (twenty-one, oh dear), so the traditional EXISTENTIAL CRISIS OF TURNING A YEAR OLDER is coming up fast, too. Yay.
So, the day starts out okay enough--I wind up sleeping through one of my classes, but I go to the other ones just fine. A bit before jazz band, I get a message that I need to find a male roommate for next year, despite the fact that I thought that we (Ruby and Jen, who I'm rooming with soon) were in the clear. And that we had until Wednesday to find one, and literally nobody who was available. That was fun.
So, I did what I always do when I'm overwhelmed by stress: I called my mom. She gave me good advice, told me to breathe, that I just had to tackle things one at a time. She also pointed out that if the play was going well (which it was), then we could afford to have a few days off. Filled with confidence and purpose, I jumped on my computer to start to work on my paper.
...And then, maybe fifteen minutes later, my computer gets a very, very nasty virus.
I flail and go to dinner, where I chat with a few of my castmates/friends/future roommies. We clear up the roommate situation (maybe), but I'm in an openly pissy mood. Like, about-to-fall-apart-and-almost-burst-into-tears-in-the-cafeteria.
My mind, then, turns to the play. I'm directing "Twelve Angry Men" (April 8th-10th at Northland College), a very famous and well-written work about the jury system. While it's going well, it is a huge undertaking, particularly since I don't really have a stage manager. (I sort of do, but I'm in charge of making the schedule and whatnot. It does not go well).
With my workload filled to capacity and my constitution near nervous breakdown, I realize that the best thing to do is not to take a day off, but for me to take the week off. I call a cast member (one of my previous directors) and ask her to fill in for me until Saturday, and the general things I was going to do this week. She agreed, and an enormous weight is lifted from my shoulder.
I head home, and begin a four hour long phone-tag thing with Dell, that involves me having to buy their tech support subscription several times (some sort of glitch in their system--I had to put in my card information I think thrice; they only charged me once), somebody with a heavy Indian and Texan accent at the same time, and the realization that "we'll call you in two minutes" actually means "I'm about to go to a meeting."
(Shout-out to Ruby, who came to calm me down, fetch me food, and play with my hair).
It's during this, though, that something happens to make me feel better. Not the virus getting off my computer (which it did), not Ruby coming over to provide moral support (which she did). No, my mom called. I got a letter at home. From the Government.
...I'm being called in for Jury Duty.
While I should be screaming until my friends check me into the local Bedlam, I can't help but find this completely fucking hilarious. I mean, Jury Duty. Jury. Duty. Really? If it was anything else--a postcard from a dentist, or a credit card bill, I would have lost it. But no, it's Jury Duty. During a time when I'm directing a courtroom drama. And when I'm more busy than I can remember being in my life.
Jury Duty.
I think that this is proof that I am, in fact, a fictional character. Unfortunately, the authorship seems to have shifted from Stephen Moffatt or the staff at Glee to Anton Fucking Chekov.
I also have a great deal of things to do for this summer--finding an internship, finding a place to take a biology class, cosplay stuff for CON, and possible speech therapy? Maybe. Who knows.
And then I have the play that I'm directing, which runs in about a week and a half. And my birthday this weekend (twenty-one, oh dear), so the traditional EXISTENTIAL CRISIS OF TURNING A YEAR OLDER is coming up fast, too. Yay.
So, the day starts out okay enough--I wind up sleeping through one of my classes, but I go to the other ones just fine. A bit before jazz band, I get a message that I need to find a male roommate for next year, despite the fact that I thought that we (Ruby and Jen, who I'm rooming with soon) were in the clear. And that we had until Wednesday to find one, and literally nobody who was available. That was fun.
So, I did what I always do when I'm overwhelmed by stress: I called my mom. She gave me good advice, told me to breathe, that I just had to tackle things one at a time. She also pointed out that if the play was going well (which it was), then we could afford to have a few days off. Filled with confidence and purpose, I jumped on my computer to start to work on my paper.
...And then, maybe fifteen minutes later, my computer gets a very, very nasty virus.
I flail and go to dinner, where I chat with a few of my castmates/friends/future roommies. We clear up the roommate situation (maybe), but I'm in an openly pissy mood. Like, about-to-fall-apart-and-almost-burst-into-tears-in-the-cafeteria.
My mind, then, turns to the play. I'm directing "Twelve Angry Men" (April 8th-10th at Northland College), a very famous and well-written work about the jury system. While it's going well, it is a huge undertaking, particularly since I don't really have a stage manager. (I sort of do, but I'm in charge of making the schedule and whatnot. It does not go well).
With my workload filled to capacity and my constitution near nervous breakdown, I realize that the best thing to do is not to take a day off, but for me to take the week off. I call a cast member (one of my previous directors) and ask her to fill in for me until Saturday, and the general things I was going to do this week. She agreed, and an enormous weight is lifted from my shoulder.
I head home, and begin a four hour long phone-tag thing with Dell, that involves me having to buy their tech support subscription several times (some sort of glitch in their system--I had to put in my card information I think thrice; they only charged me once), somebody with a heavy Indian and Texan accent at the same time, and the realization that "we'll call you in two minutes" actually means "I'm about to go to a meeting."
(Shout-out to Ruby, who came to calm me down, fetch me food, and play with my hair).
It's during this, though, that something happens to make me feel better. Not the virus getting off my computer (which it did), not Ruby coming over to provide moral support (which she did). No, my mom called. I got a letter at home. From the Government.
...I'm being called in for Jury Duty.
While I should be screaming until my friends check me into the local Bedlam, I can't help but find this completely fucking hilarious. I mean, Jury Duty. Jury. Duty. Really? If it was anything else--a postcard from a dentist, or a credit card bill, I would have lost it. But no, it's Jury Duty. During a time when I'm directing a courtroom drama. And when I'm more busy than I can remember being in my life.
Jury Duty.
I think that this is proof that I am, in fact, a fictional character. Unfortunately, the authorship seems to have shifted from Stephen Moffatt or the staff at Glee to Anton Fucking Chekov.