On a More Serious Note (Or Serious Stomach)

It was the third Monday when I realized what I'd really done. I'd sworn off communication to the outside world for five entire weeks--no texts, no Facebook, no blogging. Only losing money, not earning. And that half my summer would already be over when I returned to the states. That for five weeks I'd wake up at 7 only to speak in a language I didn't know and clumsily attempt an activity I couldn't really do. 24(hours a day)/7(days a week)/5(fucking weeks of my summer), and by the end of all traveling/living/tuition/luxury (meaning you can legally buy alcohol at 19 in Canada) expenses, spending over $4000 out of pocket, my pocket to go to class and study for tests…

Okay, so really I was only in class three hours a day and the work was a breeze, and the government had pretty much given me that excess aid over time, and I knew enough French to survive. And I cracked halfway through and re-added Facebook. 

I guess what I'm really getting at is that on that troisieme lundi I started wondering why the hell a quiet little home-loving, lazy Cancer gave up nearly a tenth of her year to be 2,000 miles from home away from almost everyone she knew. Almost because I actually had my best friend from high school with me; I don't know what I would have done if she hadn't been there. 

I don't approach people. They approach me--and at least half of them are scared off. The rest, I think, stay out of mild curiosity or boredom. For instance, one of the only friends I managed to make on this trip thought I was a bitch the first time she met me. I have a habit of giving off that aura when I don't know you. I thought it was just me being shy, but I get the feeling a lot of people have felt that way throughout my years. 

But on that same day I sneaked a peak at my Tumblr app while on break during my atelier. There was a quote by some Walsch guy, and it hit home: Life begins at the end of your comfort zone. 

Before the end of my spring semester back home I'd already started a list. I called it: The Ouroboros of the Summer of 2011 (subtitle: it's gonna be an interrobang). [I'm all about a good title.] Since freshman year of college I've gone all Michelangelo on my being, chipping away at former values, polishing up old ones. I've been attempting to make way for my future life--making an actual individual out of myself, and not just who they molded me to be. Anyways, I'd said before: this summer, I'm really gonna hit home, I'm really going to…"become me." (Yes, I went there.)

And me, I've always been about comfort.

And here, I'm just shy of comfortable. Or more. 

So I guess that was it. That was my sign that I was finally maybe actually possibly getting somewhere with this sculpture. Maybe Dr. Frankenfurter would finally un-glue/whatever me and I could start going somewhere. Maybe on that third Monday, trente mai deux-mille-onze, whoo!…life began. 

Then again, maybe it was just the poulet pizza + 'shrooms I had for dinner that night.