"What Fresh Hell Is This?"- John Waters

People. People. Aliens.
Ahem.
I'm just taking a moment to, collect myself after this week. I would say that after this week, the semester can only be looking up. If not at the peaks of heroic mountains, then at least the gutter level of a well-kept suburban street. But then I remember that I said almost the same thing Wednesday morning, which somehow led to me falling jauntily down the stairs at Sherbrooke 688, McGill's language building. It was kind of like the scene in Gone with the Wind where Scarlett cartwheels down the stairs, except with less miscarrying. I don't even know what happened- I was fuming in a dark mood over another unpleasant event of the day, when I suddenly could feel my feet slipping. I reached out to the hand rail to steady myself, but it was too late- I was suddenly rolling down the stairs like a goddamn barrel, as part of my brain screamed "Mayday! Mayday! Abort mission! Abort mission" in a futile attempt to initiate shutdown and spare myself the embarrassment, and another part was all "God, this is going slower than expected", as I could hear people going "Wow" and "Whoah". Finally, some kind boy stopped me by grabbing my head. I had somehow gone from standing straight up, walking downstairs, to lying on the stairs with my head pointed towards the bottom. As if to highlight the ridiculous absurdity of the situation, my quasi-saviour was from my just-completed Russian Studies class, sure to make any future classes an exercise in staring fixedly at only the most interesting scuff marks on the classroom floor.

I went home, and had a good, long cry. I'm not going to lie- my reserves of self-control and patience, had pretty much been used up by that point. It was a fairly low point, not because of the isolated weight of the whole stairway adventure, but because of its place in the aggregate, the proof that my life was playing as a black comedy for everyone but me. But I think I'm almost pulled together now- or maybe it's just the therapeutic act of writing. It was such a silly, high school-esque piece of business, and something I thought I was far away from. But, apparently there's no age limit on my glorious, unworldly, clumsiness. I'm ready to face another week in a few days, but I'm keeping an eye out for all of the light fixtures. At this rate, one will fall on me.