district of catastrophe

hello friends; I was tempted to delete the last post because obviously I didn’t… do it. I’m half sick of this blog being 100% apologies but I don’t want to delete it and start over so you’ll have to forgive me. (Does that count as an apology?) Last semester nearly killed me; long story short, I finally started seeing a counsellor for anxiety and depression. I’m okay, though, please don’t worry! Though prayers are of course always appreciated.

I told my friend Sydney that I wanted to maybe ditch this blog and have a humor blog instead of every one of my posts being moody and deep and trying too hard to evoke some profound revelation. She told me to just do both on this blog and stop trying to divorce the two halves of myself. So here we are.

I’m literally sitting here typing into a blank word document while sitting on a street in Washington DC outside a Starbucks because the wifi doesn’t extend outside and I forgot a book and I’m petrified of looking like I don’t have anything to do. And I’ve just spilt coffee on myself so all in all things are off to a good start.

I start my internship today. I report to the [removed to avoid being stalked like I’m that important] Metro Stop entrance of the [secret secret] Center at 9.30, where I will check in, go through security, and then be escorted (thank God) up to the second floor to get all my paperwork and identification sorted with the organization I’m interning with. That’s from memory because I’ve read and reread the instructions so many times they’ve been permanently engraved into my retinas. The woman I’m staying with (and carpooling with, apparently) works at 8.30 and basically dumped me from the car at a red light—which I understand, I’m not grumbling about that, but to save face I had to sort of wander in a straight line for a bit and pretend I knew where I was going. I didn’t. And so now I’m killing time outside this Starbucks, grateful to be in a city. Now if only I could stop spilling on myself.

Everything is a bit of a disaster this morning. I woke up with—presumably—plenty of time, then miraculously figured out how to make the shower hot, which has been puzzling me since Friday. (Hot and cold are reversed on the tap. Rookie mistake.) Then, however, I went to put on the outfit I’d picked out only to discover that it actually looked awful on. Typical. So I scrambled for a while tying to figure something out and found myself trapped because I was trying to wear dress pants, which my blazers frankly did not go with, so I changed to a skirt only to remember I hadn’t shaved and my newly purchased razor was still in its impenetrable-sans-scissors packaging. So I couldn’t shave. No worries, I thought, I have pantyhose that can at least give me the semblance of smooth legs. So I go on a desperate hunt for the pantyhose (still in the packaging), rip it open and they’re pantyhose socks. Useless, so back on go the trousers and I finally find an acceptable blouse and cardigan, blow dry my hair (which looks awful), have a mild panic about the fact that I don’t look very formal, decide there’s not much I can do and I go upstairs and rapidly consume some yogurt that makes everything taste vaguely metallic. So that’s that. In half an hour I will walk back to the [secret] Center and try to act like I know what I’m doing. I’m basically positive that despite my memorization of the instructions, I’ll screw it up somehow. I need to channel the confidence of the dude who just sped down the street on a Segway.

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