I Am Not A Hipster

Nothing so ridiculously teenage and desperate nothing so childish

At a better pace, slower and more calculated, no chance of escape

-Radiohead

Tonight, blogger is going to help me study for my waste-of-time-i-hate-you-ms.-lajko english final. In here, I will include (or attempt to include) 57 vocabulary words from The Glass Menagerie. Hopefully it will remain a important conglomeration of my day's events, not just a fiasco of pointless ranting. Sorry if I sound pretentious, but I need to spice up my study habits.

Today in Roberta's (Lajko) class, she confirmed my belief that it is her life's mission to beleaguer her students. Her natural tone of cynicism and general pessimistic view of human nature as a whole has made for multiple awkward moments. As I left the classroom, folder with study materials in hand, she halted my escape. "Emily, why are you taking your folder?"

"Uhh.. because I need the things in it to study for your final.."

"No. The folders stay in this room. You kids can't be trusted to bring them back"

"Well I need these papers to study from Ms. Lajko.." I said, decorously.

"Here, put the things you need in this manilla folder, you can take this home."

So, I proceeded to empty my ENTIRE folder, and place all of the contents into the manilla folder. Then, I handed her back my seasoned, dirty, tattered, empty folder, and left it there in desolation. I hope she realized, despairingly, how completely absurd and ridiculous her demands were. And since when am I too irresponsible to manage to bring something back to school? I hate being treated like a forgetful child. I am not one bit elegiac that tomorrow will be the last day I will ever have to endure her so called "teaching."

At around 6.30, I completed my art final. Sitting, stationary, for long periods of time makes my back cramp up. So, when I go to stand up right, I have to hobble around (highly resembling the Hunchback of Notre Dame) for about 20 seconds until I can straighten it, pain free. There is certainly no fluidity in this movement, but there seems to be no way around it. To grant myself the endowment of a short, dormant break from work, I went to lay flat on the living room floor and stare at the ceiling. Man, fatigue certainly hits you when you are horizontal. My Dad then entered the room, and decided to fit his tenuous body to emulate my relaxation technique. Laying side by side, I was reminded how much I admire and love my dad. He is an paragon in my life, and has probably taught me in more ways than anyone else, of how to pursue my life with vivacity. He sure knows how to be happier, fitter, and more productive. Like Thom Yorke.

"We don't do this often enough. You know this is a yoga pose?" he said, demurely. My Dad is a big fan or relaxation, and preventing the body from over-stressing itself. Its very assuring to think that an activity as simple as laying on the floor and starring at the ceiling can greatly improve your performance and attitude towards the day. The conversation shifted to muse about serious topics such as the troubles of being a vagrant hiker through Yosemite with a 40 pound pack and a back injury. And the fact that it is exceedingly difficult to receive funding for his grants nowadays. Neither of us were rhapsodic about these thoughts. Luckily, my mother induced me to come set the table for dinner. This saved us both from becoming deeply engulfed in these unwanted topics, but they still lurk in the back of my mind.

At the dinner table, Phoebe proceeded to inform the rents of the highly querulous topic- what it means to be labeled a "hipster." Jauntily, she told them she was not a hipster. Which, according to her definition of a hipster, means that she is indeed a hipster. Its alright Phoebe- just be giddy about it!

My homework seems to interminably stroll on. 2 days until my birthday/the extinction of school/ I become a fugitive of the summer.