Time to shoot for the stars!

This is not the last you’ll hear of this. In fact, I’ve mentioned it several times, most notably in my post moaning about having second thoughts regarding my course of study.

I’m an English Grammar/Composition/Literature type of girl. I’m a fan of foreign languages. I dabble in art.

I’m an engineering major.

Weird, right? I’ve always thought so. It was actually literature, not science, that inspired me to go into engineering in the first place: Ayn Rand’s description of the geniuses who secretly run things, the engineers who are the true movers and shakers of the world.

I’m not a fan of Objectivism by any means, but Rand’s words stuck with me. I wanted to be one of those geniuses. So I declared the major and figured I’d see how it went.

Taking calculus and physics and chemistry was fine (if occasionally torturous), but I never felt the same passion I’d felt when I read Atlas Shrugged. Part of the problem was that my program is dual degree (3 years at one school for a BA, 2 years at another for a BS in mechanical engineering), which means no actual engineering classes until this upcoming fall. But I was still nursing a hunch that for me to be truly passionate about a class, it needed to be words-based, where I could logic it all out with reading and writing. English. Foreign language. Philosophy. History, sometimes. Politics, maybe.

Thinking in words is easy. Thinking in math is hard. I’m learning, slowly, but I can only think in algebra at best. Thinking in calculus is still beyond me. I’m about to transition from a small liberal arts college to a university with real engineering classes, and it occurs to me that this might be the point where my lack of passion leaves me dead in the water.

Luckily, just the other day, I found a goal. Continue reading


Plane Part Deux

The best thing to do after a 9-hour flight and 12 hours traveling? Get on another plane.

I called my mom during my layover and reported that I hadn’t slept, and wasn’t planning on it during the next leg. That way, I’d arrive in the San Francisco airport ready to sleep off the journey.

Ten minutes into the five-hour transcontinental flight, my head hit the tray table and I fell fast asleep.

I woke to the crackling speaker and the captain’s voice “…landing in San Francisco, about 11:30 pm local time.”

What? I’d slept through the whole flight? Oh glorious day!

I decided to make a celebratory trip to the bathroom to stretch my aching muscles before they turned on the seatbelt sign and prepared the cabin for landing. While I waited for the little indicator light to turn green and vacant, I asked the woman behind me if she knew how long it would be until we landed.

“Well, he said 11:30, so however long it is from now until 11:30, I guess,” she hazarded.

“Yeah…I just don’t know what time it is…” In other words, your response is entirely useless.

Continue reading


a dull throb at the back of my neck
               urging my head to topple right off
a glass bubble in the small of my back
               waiting to burst into slashing shards
an ache under my skin
               pulsing to the rhythm wrong, wrong
a feeling of otherness
               making me wish the separation was complete

my short legs unwieldy like a newborn foal’s
               my head heavy as a stone
my small frame freakishly gargantuan
               in the body that was once a home

cheeks flushed
               eyes bloodshot
face puffy
               flesh swollen
fingers brittle
               waiting to break
a pain behind the eyes
               that no sleep can relieve

I wish I could escape,
I wish I could be free:

curling my toes
               tucking my legs
hugging my arms
               bowing my head

sinking inward
               closer, smaller
until I just