Welcome to the new home of (Life) In Development!!! (Note: name change due to stupid lack of domain availability…but it’s growing on me.) 

First of, I must pay homage to the wonderful and talented Jess of Delicious Design Studio for giving me this wonderfully fantastic new design! I know I’m like the 8,000th person to say this, but if you need a new design, GO TO HER! She was so wonderful, and responsive, and helpful, and did I say wonderful? She gave me exactly what I wanted even though I could barely coherently explain what I wanted. That is talent, my friends. Plus, I was just so sick of that dark blue design with the thrown-together-at-four-in-the-morning header that in no way represented who I am or what I attempt to do here. This is SO much better. *sigh*

Second, I must request that anyone who has linked to me change your link and/or update your RSS readers to reflect this monumental move. 

Third, there are still some kinks being worked out as I get used to this whole not-being-on-wordpress.com thing, so bear with me if some pages or entries look a little funky. 

And fourth, what do you think? Fantastically fantastic? Extremely magnificent? I thought so.

This weekend, I took a trip to a place that caused me to vow never again to complain about the amount of gay men in the city of Boston, as I had found a placed that trumped it 10 times over. That place is a little beach town on the tip of Cape Cod called Provincetown. It’s adorable, ecclectic, fun, and populated by exactly 5 straight men, most of them married with children. 

I’m not complaining. I had a wonderful time. I just went to more gay clubs this weekend than I have in my entire life up until this point. (My favorite part: the playlists! Artists heard on our first night out included Janet, Paula Abdul, Madonna, the cats of Mamma Mia!, Rhianna, and of course, a Whitney medley!)  I guess I asked for it as I traveled there with four girls and four gay guys. The girls didn’t stand much of a chance. 

We headed out on Friday afternoon, taking the “fast ferry” to Provincetown, which we did not fully appreciate until we doubled our travel time on the way back by taking the “slow ferry.” 

We had a little too much fun jumping on the outer deck to see if we would move backwards on the boat as it moved forward and taking contemplative pictures in the setting sun. When we got into town, we quickly found dinner at a cute little restaurant, where the host offered to store my suitcase while we ate, but not before joking about stealing it and/or selling it to the highest bidder. Ah, small town charm. 

The next day, we walked out of our hotel to find this view while waiting for the shuttle to the beach: 

Needless to say, it was a welcomed change from city life. While at the beach, I managed to get myself into the water and give myself a wicked sunburn. (Damn you, lack of sunscreen! I’m still recovering.) My friends and I also managed to witness FISH MURDER! It started out innocently enough.

Oo, look! Pelicans! Cool! Aw, look at them swimming. Hey, they caught a fish! Nature is so cool. Wait…what is it…ew…ok, that pecking is mildly disturbing. OMG! HIS BEAK IS COVERED IN BLOOD! Did you see that? He just ripped the fish in two…and, wait, what is that bird doing? HE SWALLOWED IT WHOLE! Ah! I HATE NATURE!

Needless to say, I’m scarred for life and will now find the pelicans shounting “Mine!” in Finding Nemo horrifyingly terrifying. I will provide pictures (if anyone actually wants to see them) once my friends upload them onto facebook, but I’m sure the mental image painted above is enough. Despite this unfortunate act of nature, it proved to be a much more positive beach outing than my California beach outing. 

The rest of the weekend is a blur of eating way to much fried food, seeing far too many unattractive shirtless men, listening to endless amounts of dance music, and making a slew of new friends. All in all, it was a wonderful trip out of the city, but I’m always happy to be back in Boston. 

Some (read: none) of you may remember the girl who sat directly in front of me in my political science class last session, who I oh so lovingly wanted to “punch in the face.”  Since I started my new class four weeks ago, I have rarely thought of her, thinking her a thing of the past, that is until she waltz into my new class, not 45 minutes late like I had grown to expect from her, but THREE AND A HALF WEEKS LATE! (Take note: this is only a SIX week class.) She plopped herself down and asked if she had missed anything important, as she was hoping to pick up the class. Well, I wanted to respond, only half the freakin’ class, but you obviously don’t mind too much about that. Everyone (read: the two other people who had shown up that day) assured her she had only missed some reading, and you know most of the discussions, but she would be fine. I said nothing, just silently seethed. Even my professor seemed oddly accomodating, teling her which reading to focus on to catch up, as she obviously couldn’t do all of it. (It’s a pretty reading heavy class.) 

For the next 3 hours of class, she proceeded to raise her hand every 5 to 10 minutes to ask questions that a) she would have known if she had done the reading, b) she would have known if she had been in class the past three weeks or c) had nothing to do with the scope of the class, which she would know if she had glanced at the syllabus. She basically wasted the class time of everyone who had been responsible enough to show up for the past three weeks, acting like we were all there solely to catch her up. 

On Monday, I got to class, and she wasn’t there. This wasn’t all that surprising; however, when halfway through the class, she still hadn’t shown up, I assumed she had dropped the class. I’m not going to lie: I was a little too excited. Today, however, about 30 minutes into class, she showed up again! She, again, hadn’t read all the material required for the day (how could she have?) and again she asked asinine question after asinine question. 

Now as a college student, I am used to dealing with that guy or girl in class. Every class has one: they sit in front. They presume to know more than the professor or like to show off how their life exactly relates to every topic covered in class. Everyone hates them, and everyone knows it. I have, however, never been so offended by that guy or girl as I am by this girl. I find her behavior completely disrespectful, not only to the professor but also to the other students. She is wasting our time and basically saying we are wasting our time by actually coming to class and being prepared. I’m frankly surprised the professor has put up with it.

I also worry that she (and the three other people in my class who come and go so much we wonder every day if they’ve dropped the class) is giving a completely terrible representation of my school, as our professor is visiting form another university AND we have a senior citizen in our class who is auditing through a special program run by the university. Because of this, I find myself over-preparing for class and making sure I am always present and on time, if not early. It’s like I’ve taken it on myself to represent my school well, becuase no one else will. I personally have to make up for their slacking. 

Then I started thinking, I do this for my generation as a whole ALL THE TIME. I overtip so the waiter won’t think young people are cheap. I never get sloppy drunk in public, especially on public transportation, because I don’t want the actual adults to think we are all alcoholics. I keep up on current events so when I interact with adults, I have something interesting and intelligent to say, keeping them from thinking “These young people are so wrapped up in themselves, I doubt they’ve even HEARD of the New York Times.” I’ve done this in internships, in social situations, EVERYWHERE. I’ve somehow appointed myself ambassador for twenty-somethings, at lesat the college aged ones. Everyone else screws up our reputation, and I, for some reason, feel it’s my job to fix it. 

Does anyone else do this? Do you feel constantly embarrassed by your peers? Do you just want to scream at them, “YOU ARE MAKING ME LOOK LIKE A FOOL!”? Because a lot of them really are. 

(Obviously, I’m not saying all college kids are like this. I don’t want people to think I hate everyone. I just don’t appreciate the few who make us all look bad.)

Tonight I finally gave in and joined the masses fandango-ing tickets to see The Dark Knight. Unfortunately, I didn’t enjoy it as much as I would have liked, especially for how good it was, because I also enjoyed a small (which was for some reason larger than my face) diet coke during the 45 minutes of previews.

Thus, about 45 minutes through this lovely 2 hour and 20 minute film, I was in so much pain my leg was shaking. I haven’t had to run to the bathroom this badly since the first time I saw Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, and I obviously wasn’t going to leave that movie. Every five minutes or so I would analyze my watch then the progression of the plot, trying to use my vast film education to figure out when would be the best point to take a break. Unfortunately this movie NEVER FREAKING LET UP! 

Oh, I could totally leave right…oh, no, the Joker just busted into the cocktail party? Right, I’ll stay for this. Alright, twenty minutes have passed, I’m sure I could sneak out…oh, what’s that, HUGE ASS CAR CHASE! THEY’VE GOT THE JOKER!? What’s going to happen next? Must stay put. So…much…pain… *insert intense leg spasm* Ok, interrogation, I’m sure I could leave for this paaaa…OH MY GOD RACHEL!!!! NOOO!!!! Ok, now for an act break of sorts?…or you know, blowing up a hospital. That works too. 

So, that sure was fun. Also fun was me sprinting from the theater, taking out the eight year olds sitting behind me in the process (to which I ask, who is taking eight year olds to this film that basically scared the crap out of me?) and running to the bathroom only to find one stall was mysteriously locked with no one inside and another had no toilet paper. After waiting for ten minutes, finally running into a bathroom just vacated, and then being told it too had just run out of toilet paper, I cursed the The Dark Knight, and it’s lack of any five minute span of boring screen time. I did finally get into a stall, and let me tell you, it was almost better than the movie. 

Other than that I have only three thoughts about the film that no one else has brought up: 

1) Why does anyone live in Gotham? It seems like a terribly frightening place. I would be getting myself out of there at the first sign of ridiculous craziness. I would NOT be waiting in a bar, watching the city burn, waiting to be forced out by a crazed, clown-faced maniac, who only wants me to get on a boat to test my humanity. I’m out WAY before that. For realsies. What’s wrong with these people?  

2) Why couldn’t Katie Holmes have kept playing Rachel if they were going to kill her? Then I would have been much less sad. I love Maggie Gyllenhaall. 

3) I think I picked the best Batman movie to see first. (Please don’t throw rocks at me. I have watched the George Clooney one. In French. In high school French class. Ok, that probably didn’t help.)

I will start with the more respectable one: 

American Teen is a documentary that follows five high school students around during their senior year of high school in Indiana. It opens in limited cities (that hopefully include Boston…we’re kind of big and important here, right?) on July 25. It has the very real chance of being the first movie about high school that actually shows SOMETHING that actually happened to ANYONE in high school. I’m totes there. 

Next we have the much bigger, and yes, more shameful, event. Four days after my 22nd birthday (October 24th, to be exact), I will be standing in line surrounded by gaggles of screaming fangirls waiting to buy tickets to the best birthday present ever: HIGH SCHOOL MUSICAL 3!

(I’ll pause a moment to allow half of you to join me in obnoxious excited dancing while the rest of you silently gag.)

Now, for those of you who don’t know me, my love affair with HSM (as those of us cool slash sad enough to talk about High School Musical enough to require a nickname for the movie call it) began with a phone call from my sister freshman year, informing me (who was without Disney Channel. Thanks for nothing free on campus cable.) that she was witnessing the greatest Disney Channel Original Movie event in years. (BEtter than Zenon: The Zequal!? I have to see this!) She thankfully taped it for me, and I first watched High School Musical (the dance-along-version) alongside my big sister, mouth agape at the sheer awful genius of it. I was instantly hooked. The cheesy music. The cheesier dialogue. (“I’m not even behind yet, and you know, I’ve been behind since kindergarden!” Oh Chad, you CRACK ME UP!) Vanessa Hudgens’ never changing baby voice. Lucas Gabreel’s always changing hats. The perfect balance of ridiculous and ridiculously serious moments. I could go on and on.

In the two years since, I’ve directed my own production of the musical (seen one-night only in Chardon, Ohio), and forced my dad to sit through the mildly less genius but still ultimately enjoyable sequal. (“Well, that’s two hours I’ll never get back.” Sorry, Dad.) I’ve become addicted to running to it’s upbeat tunes and have learned most of the dances (for said production, I swear!) 

Just when I thought the HSM franchise could give no more, I was given a glimpse of what genius still lies ahead. Lights dimming to reveal Vanessa and Zac singing soulfully to each other across a crowded gymnasium, lit only by spotlights and their super-reflective shiny hair? Check! Awkward sexual tension between my favorite brother/sister duo, despite one’s blatant homosexuality? Check! A dance in a super manly location to keep the other singing/dancing boys looking cool? Check! The ultimate teen movie staple: the intricately choreographed prom dance? Check! TEN new original songs? Check!

Obviously, I’ve imbedded the trailer that revealed all this and more below. Enjoy at your own risk, as it may induce more excited dancing or gagging. 

So, who is with me? I know my sister definitely is as she’s already predicted, “I see a homemade t-shirt clad movie campout in our future…..”

So I’m probably the last person to say this but…

Wall-E was FANTASTIC! I want Wall-E to come live with me, compact my trash, hold my hand and sing show-tunes while doing that adorable hat dance. Seriously. If someone could make this a reality, I would be happy forever. 

It was especially interesting to see after listening to Pixar’s Andrew Stanton (the film’s director and writer) on Fresh Air this morning while walking to the gym. If you liked the movie, I recommend listening. He shares some really interesting insights about the sound design, the science behind the (mild) obese human race, and the origins of Wall-E’s face at a baseball game. 

It’s nice to finally see a movie that lives up to the hype.

Today started out like many other this summer: with me walking to work annoyed. I had gotten up early (ish) to have time to make myself lunch and prepare some envelopes for some very important financial aid related documents that I should have sent in to the very important financial aid related office a month ago. Upon trying to prepare these envelopes, I discovered I had somehow lost the mildly expensive book of stamps I just bought a week ago. Organization FAIL. I then stomped like an angry child into the kitchen to make myself lunch, as to save money, use up my perishable food stuffs, and use cooking to put this stamp debacle out of my mind. 

Cut too 20 minutes later when I am stomping like an angry child down Brookline Ave on my way to work having just remembered my perishable sandwich, so lovingly made, was still sitting in my refridgerator. Memory FAIL. So much for saving money, UNTIL…

My boss invited me out to lunch with her and two other theater management related people, whom are always fun and nice to me, which I greatly appreciate, especially when it involves giving me free PF Chang’s for lunch. WIN! Thus, I spent the rest of my day walking around like a happy, stuffed with lo mein and lettuce wraps, child. 

After work, I took my good mood and the generous deposit my parents recently made into my bank account to the Prudential Center in search of new running shoes and comfortable sandals to help alleviate my knee pain and hopefully allow me to start running again. (There was also an unfortuate incident involving my recently purchased gladiator sandals revolving around a sad ripping noise and me limping all the way home, trying not to touch the dirty dirty streets with my oh-so-clean feet that may or may not have contributed to the need for new sandals.)

After searching everywhere from Neimen Marcus to Marshals, I finally found some super comfortable AND cute (the rare find…) sandals at Camper, on sale! Score! (Sadly, no picture could be found.) That after I had found the same running shoes that I’ve loved for a year (and only need to replace because, sometimes, I guess shoes stop working), but in a new fancy color, and again, ON SALE! Double Shoe Score!

Granted I did have to go to two different City Sports to find them, as the first did not have my size, but I don’t care. They are purple and new and comfortable, and hopefully, will get rid of this pesky knee pain so I can run again. 

The rest of the night is looking decidedly less exciting, as all I have to look forward to is watching “Diners, Drive Ins, and Dives” while eating frozen yogurt. Tomorow, I have an exciting line up of trying out my new shoes at the gym and doing laundry. Those ridiculous train rides aren’t looking so bad now, I suppose. Maybe I’ll just stare at my pretty new shoes for a while. 

As I walked home, I listened to a Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me clip show of sorts, compiling various celebrity interviews from the past year. While playing a quiz game with guest Kevin Clash, they invited Kevin’s alter ego, Elmo of Sesame Street fame, to answer some questions as well. Kevin answered the first question correctly. Elmo, sadly, answered the second question incorrectly. When recapping, the host was careful to say, “The Team of Kevin and Elmo has answered one question right and one question wrong,” as if to not upset three-year-old Elmo for missing a question. I found myself feeling bad for Elmo too. I hoped they would win so Elmo wouldn’t feel he lost the prize for Megan, the listener. Then I worried about myself. I think this says a lot about my attachment to Sesame Street characters…a lot that frightens me. 

*********

I followed the Hood blimp all the way home, as I live a block away from Fenway Park. I feel guilty for never going to games. I should look into this. I don’t love baseball, but baseball games are a summer past time. Maybe going would lift my mood. I think it would. 

*********

I had my first pilates class tonight. For a class that takes place almost entirely on your back or in a sitting position, I feel ridiculously tired. I hope this speaks more to the difficulty of the class than to my fitness level. 

*********

After eating sweet potatoes fries for the third time in a week tonight at Sunset Cantina (the previous two times were frozen from Trader Joe’s), I’ve decided I could live on nothing else. Forever. 

********

This is my third post today. New Record!

********

I think Jon and Kate Plus 8 makes normal people never want to have children, but for some reason, it makes me want to. Aiden and Leah are just so damn cute! (see below) Little glasses win me over every time. (This thought was more thought while watching Jon and Kate Plus 8 after arriving home.)

Continue reading »

My last post was getting a little too lengthy, so I decided to split it up. Anyway, here goes part two:

After only three days back in Boston and still exhausted, I dragged myself out of bed at 4AM on Thursday morning to catch a train back to my parent’s house in Delaware. Aside from having to have my cab driver drop me by an ATM when I realized he didn’t take credit cards, my trip was uneventful. I never even had to share my seat, which on Amtrak trains, is quite an accomplishment. 

My mom, along with her parents (the grandparents I had seen in New York), picked me up from the station and thus began my family loaded day. While still suffering from a travel hangover, I had to get myself through dinner with my mom’s parents, my dad’s  parents (who drove in for dinner), and my own parents. It was great to see my whole family, don’t get me wrong. I love my family. It is just a lot to take when you are alone with that many adult family members. Luckily, the conversation rarely turned to me and questioning my life, although it did come up. (I learned that in order to get married, I need to treat finding a husband like a job, which I obviously am not doing. No wonder I’m alone! What wonderful insight…/end sarcasm)

The next day, all the family headed home and were quickly replaced by my parents’ friends, who all happened to be coming through town at once. In the morning, my dad’s best friend from Alabama stopped by, as he was passing through for work (I think…). It was nice to hear what his kids were up to, as I spent a lot of time with them during our five year stint in the South.

Later that night, my parents’ college (in my dad’s case) slash childhood (in my mom’s case) friends, who actually introduced my parents to each other, came to stay for the night. I’d met them before, but the last time was at least 6 year ago. (Both then and now, I feel like I should thank them for my existence or something.) This was the first time, however, I’d heard some of their college stories while still in college. It was the first time I really saw how similar my dad and John are and how they could have been great friends in college, could have even been people I would have been friends with in college. It was the first time I really got to hear stories from back then and appreciate them. It was kind of weird but also kind of nice to think of my parents as people I would like even if they weren’t my parents.

The next day, we headed to Fabric Row in Philadelphia to go to a famous deli for lunch. I ate so much I felt nauseous, and again, we had an excellent time just talking and eating something called “Health Salad.” (“Do you think it’s made of health?”) Sadly, I think we cancelled out the benefits of the health salad with the eight cookies we bought on the way out. The day ended with my mom and I shopping and then coming home to watch “Michael Clayton,” (stopping every five minutes, of course, to explain what we knew and what we had yet to find out to my mom, who responded that she thinks she “lacks the mental capacity to watch movies.”) 

Sunday came way too fast, and the last place I wanted to go was the train station. I had finally resigned myself to leaving as we walked in the doors only to find my train was delayed an hour and a half. Blerg. 

Again, overwhelmed by not wanting to leave home, where I felt relaxed and happy to go back to my messy apartment where I usually feel agitated and alone, I started to cry. Lately, I feel as if I’m always on the brink of breaking down for no particular reason and when something pushes me just the tiniest bit, I crack and become a blubbering mess. Again, my parents assured me it wasn’t a big deal, which, of course, it wasn’t.

To turn the situation around, we took the opportunity to walk down the Riverwalk to a restaurant so I could eat, as I wouldn’t be getting back to Boston anytime soon. I calmed down as we ate, and my mom kept checking the status of my train. After being told it was still an hour and fifteen minutes behind, we walked back to the station, thinking we had time to spare.

When I walked in the station with my mom, we looked at the board, and my heart dropped. It seemed to say that my train was boarding right now, only an hour after it had been supposed to get in. I didn’t understand but also didn’t seem to have time to think about it. I ran up the escalator with my bags and jumped on the train just as the doors closed, thanking God I hadn’t missed it. I found a seat, briefly wondering if I had gotten on the right train, as the boards are mildly confusing about what is going on. I was reassured, however, when they announced the next stop as Philadelphia, which is always the stop after mine on the regional train. On the phone with my mom, she urged me to ask what train I was on, as the board had changed right after I ran up to the track, leading her to believe maybe it was not my train that was boarding. I blew her off, saying I was going the right way, so I wasn’t worried. 

As I settled in, we pulled in and then out of Philadelphia. As we pulled away the conductor came on the intercom stating the train number. It wasn’t mine. Of course.

Again, the tears came. Why couldn’t I just get through one simple task without making myself feel like a complete idiot? I texted my mom telling her she was right. The conductor came by, asking for tickets, and I explained to him what had happened. He didn’t seem to think it was that big of a deal, telling me to just switch at the next stop as my train was behind this one by about 25 minutes, advice also given by my parents, who conceded that I wasn’t crazy: the board did make it seem like it had been my train that was boarding. 

I got off in Trenton and wandered around looking for where MY train would be coming. After asking and being given the track number by an obviously annoyed Amtrak employee, I waited on the platform, staring at the pouring rain, wondering if God too was crying about my stupidity and bad traveling luck. 

Eventually, my train came and took me back to Boston, granted a few hours later than I had anticipated. 

Now, I’m back to the grind, somehow more tired than before any of these vacations and more wary of traveling than ever.

I didn’t intend to spent my last moments in both New York City and Wilmington in tears, standing before some sort of transportation device. In fact, I intended to leave happy and refreshed. That was the whole point of getting away. The Universe, again, had different plans for me, and you know how well those plans usually play out. 

Let’s start with New York. When I last left you, I was on my way to the Big Apple, happily typing away thanks to the free Wi-Fi on Bolt Bus. Sadly, that bused turned out to be 2 hours late, an early warning of what was to come. I enjoyed a mildly stress-free weekend, meeting up with my camp friend, Lindsey, and my school roomie, Jillian, all while staying with my sister. We had some nice meals (I finally fulfilled my rib craving at Wild Wood on Park Ave. that I’d had since watching hours upon hours of “Thrill of the Grill” week on Food Network) and hit up some fun bars (I recommend Beauty Bar in the East Village: $5 drinks AND Eighties music? Sold!). My annoyance (and my later problems) began to arise, however, when my sister, Stephanie, decided to spend the night in Brooklyn instead of meeting Lindsey, Jillian, and I out on the town. Thus, I was left with her keys for the night. 

Sunday morning, I said good-bye to Lindsey and met Stephanie and my grand-parents (in town for a conference) for brunch with some acquaintances of theirs who are involved in theater. (The woman is actually now an anchor on The Onion News Network!) The brunch was nice, as I love chatting with theater people. I made a great contact, and they assured Stephanie and I that our money spent buying tickets to the matinee of “Sunday in the Park with George” was well spent. 

After brunch we headed out to see said production of “Sunday in the Park,” which, as it turns out, was the LAST performance of the show! I’d sung some of the songs before, but I’d never seen the whole show (apart from various scenes from the original with Bernadette Peters that aired on PBS), so I went in with an open mind, and I was not disappointed. I wish I could compel people to go see it, but obviously I can’t. It was one of the most unique productions I have ever seen: The whole show revolves around the French painter Georges Seurat painting “A Sunday afternoon on the island of La Grande Jatte,” and as he sketched on stage, his drawings and painting came alive behind him (using some new projection technology), creating both the painting and the setting of the show. It was, to say the least, magical. The performances were moving, and unexpectedly funny. Jenna Russell was amazing, and both she and Daniel Evans choked up during the final song, causing me and I’m sure the whole audience to choke up and then stand for the last five minutes of the show. The applause during the curtain call was deafening. It again made me realize how much I love theater.

But I digress…(I had to take a break from the flow of the story because the play was just that good.) when we left the theater, it was raining, causing Stephanie and I to scramble first to find a cab and then to give up and jump on the subway. (At this point I was done with subways, as Stephanie lives so far north, each time we returned to her apartment was an hour and fifteen minutes on the subway. Not. Fun.) I had to grab my bags from my grandparents and run to my bus. I, luckily,got there with time to spare, so Stephanie and my grandma said good-bye. As I stood waiting to board, flustered from the rush and feeling done with public transportation from all the subway riding, I noticed some people talking with a Bolt Bus employee about how their tickets had the wrong date on them, and they were thus having difficulty boarding the bus. It appeard to be some technical glitch with the Bolt Bus website. As I heard this, I glanced down at my ticket, just to be sure. Of course, my ticket too ahd the wrong date: the date I had come to New York not the date I was leaving. My heart dropped. I did not feel like dealing with what would happen if I missed this bus. I started to think that I would just book a ticket to my parent’s house, because this constant stress of crap happening to me was becoming too much to handle. I eased my way over to the group of angry patrons, hoping they had made enough headway that I could get on without problem. Things seemed to be heading in that direction, and then, my phone rang. 

I still had Stephanie’s keys. Not only her apartment keys so that she coudln’t get home, but her work keys, whose disappearance would cause her more than a little grief the next day. According to both my sister and my mom, I couldn’t get on the bus. At this point, I was more than annoyed. I had already been upset that Stephanie had basially abandoned me (and not for the first time) the night before, leaving me to get myself and Lindsey back to her apartment without her, but now I had to miss my bus, which I was already shaken up about the possibility of missing, to wait around for her to come get her keys.

On the phone with my mom trying to figure out how I was going to get home, as the group of disgruntled Bolt Bus riders boarded the bus, I started to cry. From exhaustion. From annoyance. From being overwhelmed at standing on a busy sidewalk of New York with a bright pink suitcase yelling at my mom that it wasn’t my fault Stephanie forgot to get her keys from me. The Bolt Bus woman came over to ask if I was getting on the  bus, and as I turned to her, face covered in tears, she must have thought I was getting news of a family member’s death. Her face changed, and she left me alone, feeling like an idiot. A crying idiot.I wasn’t worried that I wouldn’t get back, so much. I am just a person who doesn’t take a change of plans well. Added on top of everything else, this felt like a big deal. 

I dragged my bags four  blocks to Penn Station to buy a train ticket, where I resigned myself to the fact that I wasn’t getting into Boston until midnight and scarfed down some greasy pizza, waiting for Stephanie. When she got there, I tried not to take my anger out on her, as I greatly appreciated her waiting with me for the next hour for my train to come. I finally got on the train, calmed myself down, and fell asleep. Sadly, the train got in an hour and a half late, making it 2AM before I went to bed, allowing me only 5 hours of sleep before getting up for class at 7AM. Awesome. 

Trip number one: done. Status: much more tired than before. 

Up next: Train trips 2 and 3.