It's a Festivus miracle.

Winter break starts for me in about four hours. One more shower, one more room sweep, and one more exam to go. I will be far away from here by the time they kick everyone out on the 14th. I will be far away from the couch on which I got my first kiss on the December 14 three years ago.

Mike--fuck, man, keep your self-destructive impulses scary so you don't act on them. I don't normally recommend this but live for your God if it helps.

Happy holidays.

We're going to be classy as shit, and maybe take a group picture.

In chronological order, I present my last 36 hours or so:

Seeing Brother yesterday shook me up, a lot. I didn't even realize it was him until he was gone. Distinctive Dr. B waved and smiled at me, so I waved and smiled back (what else can you do at a guy who teaches a class about Motown Divas and the Men Who Ruined Them? With that as a legitimate class title?) and thought nothing of the brown-haired hoodied person on his other side until I glanced at their backs and realized holy shit. That was Brother.
I stopped at stared at the air. They don't look alike except around the eyes and the bridges of their noses. But that's the closest live spotting to anyone who I could even begin to mistake as BF in a month.
It was bad. It made me high-step it to Psych lecture, breathing through my mouth like a winded horse.

"The card was going to be Dr. B making a fist and saying Merry damn Christmas. I thought it was genius."

After Psych, I almost literally ran into Bluetooth. Oh thank fuck he's actually damn cute in the sunlight. I ran back and punched him in the back of his big puffy jacket and walked away, all without taking my headphones off. I spent the rest of the day worrying he would take the punch as hostile and not high-spirited (Tough Actin' Tenactin, that's the nickname I was going for).

Brian the biofeedback counselor I saw looked like the opposite of the flowy, vaguely hippie women counselors I've seen up there. He was literally button-up, sweater vest and tie and angles. He said that he doesn't concentrate so much on the breathing part of biofeedback but more on the meditation part. After slouching in the armchair (hey, he said keep my eyes closed) with the heart rate clip hanging off my right earlobe and breathing inthroughmynose, ouththroughmymouth for what seemed like ever, I couldn't tell you the difference from the first breathing-centrtic appointment I had. It worked the same, too. Except when I thought about sex. That jacks up the competing nervous systems, apparently.
Brian said meditation's about accepting your emotions. Accept the fact that I'm insecure and want everybody's approval. And stressed. But mostly the first two.
"Welcome to the club."
It does make me feel better. I am insecure and want everybody's approval. Hear me roar.

OH MY GOD SUITEMATE SHUT THE FUCK UP. See? If I didn't want everybody's approval, I would have shouted that in her face last night when she came in our room and started yapping about what to wear tomorrow like it actually MATTERS if she's wearing a dress or jeans when a group of college kids are getting together without adults to tell them whether to dress business casual or not.
I'm wearing a skirt because I want to show off my badass heels and possibly get laid. I'd actually prefer if the rest of you bitches looked tore up from the floor up--for comparison purposes, you understand--but that just makes me, you guessed it, insecure. I'm regretting even hinting that I might wear something other than jeans, because that meant you spent twenty fucking minutes in my room bothering my studying roommate (okay, she didn't care. BUT I CARE IN HER PLACE.) and me by asking about outfits in your untrained violin voice.
That's what she sounds like, especially when she's excited (all the time): one of those beginner violin classes where the little kids can't do anything except scrape away the screetchies.

Humph. HUMPH I SAY. Today I was suppose to meet Katie for lunch because she can't come tomorrow because her boyfriend is taking her to see the Nutcracker...in some city that is not here. I don't know where. But she couldn't make it to campus on time, of which I was secretly glad because, and here's me being honest again, I'm a hermit and wanted to read while still letting Katie know I love her. Mission accomplished.

Also accomplished: ALL OF MY SCHOOLWORK EVER. No, not really. But everything for this semester. I presented my Theories of Mass Communications project (on commercial content in WWE shows--shut up. It was a tribute.) and got the fuck out of there. No more reporting class, which means no more hot Greek reporting professor with his hot Greek accent but also no more hauling around a slacker during group projects or swearing at unfamiliar multimedia software on an unfamiliar computer for six weeks or so.
I have exams, but in classes I'm doing well in. I have a final project, but it's not due until the 10th. Tomorrow, she is all mine.

Tonight was our last radio station DJ body meeting of the semester.

I've been waiting so long for an excuse to use this picture.

It was also my dorm's fall banquet. Guess which one I went to.
Hint: the fall banquet was always boring as hell even when I had BF to showpony me around to all the faculty associates and even when I had never seen him in a tie before. This year I would have to explain why he's not there. You see how well that went last night. Also, suitemate said she was definitely going. I won't be able to avoid her at tomorrow's party, so GIVE ME PEOPLE IN FANCY CLOTHES IN PEACE. THANK YOU.
The radio station meeting ended about an hour ago; since then, I've been holed up in the production studio listening to No Way Jose and then Beethoven on vinyl. I wanted to have an Epic Picks of Latest Show burning session, but apparently my CD drive is now nonexistent. Or it doesn't like Dinosaur Jr. (That better not be it.)
I'm hiding from the dorm people. The party will be ending at 9pm. I'm staying up here late enough to justify the "Yeah, I totally had this long-ass meeting...shucks and whatnot."
My rage is oddly non-confrontational.

Suddenly I'm exhausted. Bad sleep last night, presentation anxiety followed closely by counseling and the high/crash of dressing classy/realizing no one really cares has caught up with me.

Let's go on a living spree.

My counselor said I should reclaim my memories with BF as something that's part of me, something of a great time that's over but just a piece of my whole life. Sort of. I might be paraphrasing.

So I'm reclaiming Kanye West.
Memory: May 2008. BF's graduation. We wake up in his half-empty dorm room and rush to get decent to this song. I can't hear it without seeing the sunlight making the white walls glow around us as he dug in his closet for twenty minutes trying to find his dark pants (he didn't). I was so goddamn proud of him.

Counseling appointment 2

Talking to a Student Health counselor makes me wonder when the hell I became mature about handling my emotions. It was the second-most depressed I've been about the breakup because I had to talk about it. I let it out, all over the rest of Counselor Laura's Kleenex. It hurt. But apparently, it was a very well-adjusted hurt.

(Incidentally, "Kleenex" is one of my favorite words to spell.)

Now I'm trying to comb out weekend plans, all of which seem to involve a movie and the delicate dance of early-stage undergraduate mating rituals:

1. Scott Pilgrim Versus the World: Mike is going to see that this weekend, dammit. Maybe even all three times it shows at the student union. He really likes that movie. I mean, yeah. 
2. Suitemate is going, too.
3. Bluetooth's going as well, because I'm going.
4. Mike and Suitemate have decided on tomorrow night. Can I go at that time?
5. Yes, after class and the radio station DJ meeting. Will Bluetooth be back in time to go then?
6. I don't know. I'm still waiting for a text message reply. If he can't, that means he might want to do something Friday night. With me. Just me. 
7. That's a suddenly terrifying thought. But Bluetooth hasn't replied yet.

Right now I feel like staying in and watching The Soup (oh hi Joel McHale) on Friday.