Maybe it's because I don't really feel like I have my own experiences. I'm rarely by myself--and when I am, I'm doing homework. Maybe it's because I've been keeping in contact with the people I'm super close to, so they've no need to read any blog I could possibly post. Maybe it's because I'm not on stumbleupon.com as much anymore, so I don't have any clever titles or pictures to make me seem like I'm clever myself. Maybe it's because I feel like a rambunctious toddler in this society and I don't want any of you to know. Maybe it's because I haven't had Special K in weeks. Maybe it's because the CELTA has stomped any spontaneous creativity out of me. Maybe it's because, most of the time, I don't feel like I'm here.
I haven't gotten homesick. Maybe there's an invisible 'yet' at the end of that sentence; I don't know. Is that cold? I had about three hours of culture shock, but that went away when I woke up. Thank God--that's like a bad LSD trip. I don't know if this is all "normal" or if I just don't feel things.
This post is taking on a very...I don't know, Esther Greenwood vibe. I can feel it. I'm going to resist it. It's going to be unnatural. As unnatural as:
Esther Greenwood was a dumb whore, anyway. Or, at least, the teacher that made me read that book was. She spelled 'phlegm' without a 'g'. I kept a running list of all the words she spelled incorrectly. I don't expect you to know how to spell every word in the English language; however, I do expect you to be able to spell what you're teaching me about. And therefore, if you don't teach me about phlegm, both of us will be happy, I'll bet. In her defense, I now know that the Prince and the Pauper was not written by Aesop. I'll never forget the look of pure, unadulterated loathing that homely woman gave me from up on her pedestal made out of bachelor's degrees in history. It would've made me shrivel up in shame if she weren't wearing corduroys and crocs that day. Or every day.
Stumbleupon is making me question what I think I know about myself. I mean, I'm pretty good at ignoring day-to-day living, but my internet surfing is making these things salient and unignorable. You know how it (stumbleupon, not life) works: you 'like' stuff and it gives you pages it thinks are similar to your already 'liked' activity. According to stumbleupon.com, I, Jackie Kehoe (that feels weird to say) am 3 things: a treehugger, a foodie, and a travel buff. I have a few other side interests -- weird shaped buildings, cartoon humor, and beauty/fitness (wtf?) -- but those pale in comparison to the amount of trees I should be befriending (I do not even have a velleity to hug trees; if you told me you were going to plant a tree, I'd be all, "Sweet! I'm so glad my friends care about the environment!", but if you asked me to join you, I'd probably tell you I have to wash my hair.) and to the gluttony that I take part in. Sometimes I do wonder if I'm a hippie at heart. I wish there were guidelines. I just googled it and apparently I have to roll perfect joints, worship Jerry Garcia, and live with my girlfriend to be a hippie. And I was so looking forward to a nice, sturdy label to lean upon.
Emotions are funny little things. Kind of like toes.
I was thinking about this the other day when a friend of mine was describing how she felt about a recent break-up. Then again when a friend of mine sent me a message about how much he missed me. Then again when I went to that big ol' market the other day. And finally, now that my house and/or "home" is gone (I don't mean metaphorically), again. I feel like those examples say what I am thinking. Also: I understand none of them. Now it's your turn to reflect.
I thought about blogging about the things I miss about America. But now there's Special K above the fridge.
