one . . . one . . . one . . .

Okay, so I have this secret confession called this semester has been really hard for me:

No, my professors aren't slowly killing my soul.
No, I'm not depressed.
No, I'm not being bullied for my milk money.

The truth is I'm sick.

I have this rare, degenerative disease that causes me to emotionally regress. The disease has advanced so rapidly of late that I have been reduced to the mentality of a three-year-old. I am having an increasingly hard time counting past "one"; double digits are now laughably out of reach.

You see, it was this exact time last year that I was steeped to my eyebrows in English culture--both refined and not-so-refined. Now I am in Provo, and the mundane aspects of life like trudging around campus hefting a load of editing books that weigh more than an abnormally large baby, or spending half my paycheck on gas, or vacuuming are suddenly so much sadder than they used to be.

This tragic truth is literally underscored in semi-permanent ink in my 2006 journal/planner:
While my 2007 self was cleaning out the garage so the cars could fit, my 2006 self was cleaning out the Cadbury machines on the platform at Charing Cross.
While my 2007 self was programming eacademy, my 2007 self was studying the program while sitting front-row at Les Miserables.
While my 2007 self was reading about the Oxford Comma, my 2006 self was walking the streets of Oxford.
While my 2007 self was fruitlessly battling a never-ending pile of laundry, my 2006 self was fruitlessly battling a never-ending pile of laundry using BioSoap.

Apparently "masochistic" is a word prospective employers generally tend to frown upon when asking prospective employees to describe themselves in three adjectives or less, so the planner had to go.

But I still found myself constantly thinking about England. Something had to be done. Taking into account my cognitive reversal, I decided to try a game called, "Count how many minutes you can not think of England." It went something like this:

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 11. ??? Oh, 1611. The year the King James Bible was commissioned. Also the door code to the London Centre. London... Oh blast!

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11. Elevensies. Like from Lord of the Kings. Written By J. R. R. Tolkien. Member of the Inklings who lived and taught at Oxford... Oh blast!

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7. Symbolizes perfection. An important element of sacred space. Found in cathedrals such as the famous one in Canterbury... Oh blast!

1, 2, 3, 4. Tea time. Yum. I love tea. Especially blackcurrant. And scones. Especially the ones they had in Ambleside... Oh blast!

So, yeah. It was basically a fantastic failure. Until last night.

Last night I was at school for waaay too long. As a result, campus was virtually deserted as I hurried towards the Marriott Center parking lot. It was bitterly cold, and the snow blew across the tarmac in great gusts. If there was any noise, it was drowned out by the howling of the wind. Despite the fact that I couldn't feel my nose, my ears, or my toes, but could definitely feel my right elbow, I stopped for a moment. It was so peaceful; there seemed to be nobody else on earth. I was the only one. It was a moment of profound inner-reflection:

1. One against the wind. Alone in the elements. (Wo)man against nature. Like Ernest Shackleton. (Ha! For once my stream of consciousness didn't flow into Lake Wintermere, Loch Ness, the Serpentine, or the Thames! Excellent progress. Continue.) Ernest Shackleton. Famous explorer who traversed deepest Antarctica after his ship was crushed by massive icebergs. Later in life implicated with his brother in a famous jewel heist. Jewels never recovered. Popular myth asserts that they are hidden somewhere in the walls of his house. The house was purchased by The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in the 1960. Was extensively remodeled and currently serves as housing for BYU's study abroad programs based in London...Oh blast!

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