phoenix {rising} |
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Going... So there is evidence of me in the new room. That is a nice thing. Residence Life has been incredibly slow on the whole thing, but as of tomorrow morning my ID card will be coded for the new dorm, I will have a key to pick up, I will have the power to move. I am busily packing clothing. Which leads to its own dilemmas, of course. Not least of which is the astonishing amount of clothing in my possession that rarely, if ever, sees the light of day. Clothing that doesn't fit me. Clothing that was bought solely because it does (or did) fit me, clothing my mother bought me and I felt too guilty to reject (denim shirts, pastels, blocky cottony fat-girl shirts). Clothing that I have not needed and will not need in my present environment—trust me, I have nowhere to wear a funky-formal green suede skirt, no matter how cool it is (and it is, in fact, quite cool). Clothing that doesn't get worn because it gets shoved to the backs of drawers and forgotten about, even though it is really quite serviceable and would certainly serve to prolong my wardrobe cycles. So I've been sorting through all of this neglected clothing tonight as I embark on the Packing My Clothing Up stage of the move. Books first, clothing second—then I think I'll do papers and assorted miscellany (umbrella, knitting, dishes, cosmetics, linens, et cetera), then my various machines (computer, printer, stereo). Anyhow, I (rather cleverly, I think) packed a suitcase of clothing to take home when I go home for spring break—a foldable cloth suitcase, which I can then crumple up and bring back with no trouble to refill when I go home for the summer. I've filled this suitcase to what I believe is its capacity, and I'm feeling rather proud that I'm thinking ahead—I'll just take it over to the new room and stick it in the closet for a week and a half, then out it will come to go home. Very convenient. Excellent. And I'm still in the process of packing the clothing that I do want, which is going to fill up the big rolling duffel bag, I think, which of course raises questions of Dear Lord, what am I going to do about getting all of this stuff home again?—but I figure I can work it out. Shipping and storage and whatnot. I'm enjoying being cheerfully pragmatic about this. All of a sudden I am quite footloose and fancy-free. The Dread Roommate seems to be no longer an object of terror. There's just nothing she can do to me anymore. And each example of her destructive insanity seems only to add to my good mood—each incident is evidence that I'm not insane, that I'm doing the right thing. She was sleeping, just a little while ago, and Trixi knocked and we were chatting softly in the doorway, and Krista came into the hallway to bang on Kai's door to try to get him to turn his incredibly loud music down so he could sleep, and while she was waiting for him to get the idea and come to the door, she stopped and talked to Trixi and me—and then after Kai had turned the music down, Krista peeped into the Dread Roommate's room (she's got the outside room, so her room is directly visible from the hallway, whereas mine is only indirectly visible) and started to ask about the extremely strange condition of the room when the voice of the Dread Roommate issued forth from the horizontal-across-the-mattressless-bedframe-huddle-position in which she sleeps, spewing obscenities at us for daring to engage in social interaction in her vicinity. Apparently, she's fucking sick of this shit, goddammit. It's not like I regularly interfere with her—what with my terror of her and all—so I think it's distinctly possible that what she's fucking sick of is being reminded, both by virtue of our interacting presence and by virtue of Krista's innocent inquiry into the strange state of her room, of the state of her affairs. I quite cheerfully said goodnight to Trixi and Krista. Felt rather vindicated. I hate that this affair of the Dread Roommate has turned me into kind of a malicious bitch. I mean, my malicious bitchiness is compartmentalized, sure, but nevertheless, I take a certain glee in the fact that she heard Krista thinking she's insane. I have enjoyed the past four Hum conferences, which she has not attended, immensely. And up until very recently, I haven't felt sad or concerned for her at all. No compassion. And certainly there's an interpretation of this that seems valid—I was simply too concerned with the necessities of emotional self-preservation to worry about her—but nevertheless, it doesn't thrill me to the marrow that I appreciated this most recent run-in. I was glad Trixi and Krista were there to hear it. Vindication. Strange tearing noises are coming from her room now. Dear God. By tomorrow night, hopefully, I will be gone. |
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