The following is from my now deleted review of “Black Museum,” which the good people of Letterboxd so speedily removed.
Good riddance adolescence! Goddamn, I do not miss you. I’m not saying you were all of you awful (here’s looking at you, fifteen, you killed it) but I am glad to be rid of teenagerhood. Plus, twenty is a wonderful number, and I get to have it for ten whole years. Now that is what I call a great gift.
And speaking of great gifts, this month we have THE GREATEST GIFT or, as it is, The Greatest Gift, the newest edition of Sufjan Stevens’ songs about maternal grief that was released on my birthday. The greatest gift is loving your friends? Hell yeah.
As it stands, though, loving your friends is hard when they’re all far away. Instead, I have turned my attention to drinking a lot of coffee and staring lovingly at my stack of birthday cards. Persuasion has been newly minted as my favorite Jane Austen novel, I saw the Brennan clan for the first time in six years, The Bright Sessions is really truly back, and I fought off the first creeping hints of “the holiday season” and managed to accidentally schedule myself an extension on two papers. Score.
Has it only been thirty-one days? It feels like at least twice as many. Reading back over September feels like looking in on an entirely different person—well, not exactly, but close enough. One that figured the inability to concentrate was an annoying but mild affliction and not something that would make midterms even more of a living hell than they are usually. One that thought things were getting a bit overwhelming but they were treading water and it was alright. One that wasn’t really prepared for things to get any worse.
September Keaton didn’t know the half of it, is what I’m saying. October Keaton… Well, October Keaton learned that. Or learned that that was the reality, if not necessarily how to deal with it. Really October Keaton just watched a lot of scary movies and tried not to swallow too much seawater. And over-empathized with Frankenstein’s monster.
And as for Halloween being shoved down my throat? I walked into my regular coffee shop this morning and they’d gone full Christmas overnight, so we’ve entered the big leagues now.
T-23 days until K-Day.
(November 24th is my birthday, is what I’m saying.)
September’s been incredibly busy, and not just because I have to read a total of twenty-seven books this semester and I can’t concentrate in the slightest. Smash Mouth was right: so much to do, so much to see. Unfortunately I cannot take the backseat, as much as I would like to. I’m in charge of everything I have to do! Hooray. So so far I’ve written two papers, no idea if either was any good, and possibly gotten a job? We’ll see how that works out. I sure am exhausted already though so that’s really up in the air.
In the mean time I have to (read: get to) watch eight hundred different versions of Pride and Prejudice and will just hope and pray that I don’t get too easily distracted by what is already a forty-six page long modern Hamlet adaptation I accidentally started on last week in a fit of inability to concentrate. And that I can see a psychiatrist soon, although god knows if my medication’s even actually working that well.
And now back to hating the world for shoving Halloween down my throat every day for the next month.
According to Timehop, the last time I had a professional haircut was July 9th, 2016. I had Courtney, my hairdresser (which is an odd thing to say), pull up a picture of Robert Sean Leonard in Dead Poets Society and told her to go to town. It worked out pretty well, I think.
Sometime around September 2016 I got fed up with flinching every time I leaned my head back too far and felt the hair brushing the back of my neck. I got a pair of scissors, tilted the three panel mirror in the bathroom just right, sat up on the sink, and began my work.
I’m not entirely sure August was a whole, complete month. I feel like I’ve been eight different people in the past thirty-one days alone, like I’ve not aged but evolved twice as fast as the world around me. It’s been week long spans of feeling like I’m running out of time interspersed with days of seemingly the entire universe being on hiatus. Not to mention all the endings (most of which haven’t sunk in yet) and beginnings and everything in between, I feel like I’ve lived and died eleven times in August.
I’ve been waking up early for the past week. I made (I think) a few new friends. I made my own doctor’s appointment and have bought groceries and talked to cashiers without breaking down. I don’t know, I think it’s been pretty alright so far. I hope it doesn’t pass too quickly, or too suddenly at least.
Somehow amidst all this I had time to get super attached to new artists, chief among them Marika Hackman, The Long Winters, and Waxahatchee. Rest in piece The Adventure Zone (look forward to more on that) and my having any semblance of free time. Happy birthday to my new dorm. This is August.
July is about getting shit together. Lists on lists on lists, going back to therapy, filling out forms, etc. etc. I expect next month will be more of the same with the addition of my family’s not-so-covert Farewell Tour where they each kidnap me for their goodbye activity whatever that may be.
This post is hard to write because I am also simultaneously listening to the second part of The Adventure Zone finale and losing my mind. More on that later, probably. For now:
the weather July.