Did I tell you my editor is resigning [swat fly]? No, of course not, I haven't written in a couple of days. She is in fact resigning, though she says she will see this project through and will probably be the freelance editor. If that means she'll be more accessible and have more time, then, voila, marvelous. And perhaps she'll want to get it completed more quickly?

I got my work duty today. Realized I should have been more gut-wrenchingly honest on my paper that asked which two things I was good at -- construction, cooking, cleaning, or working outside.

I had originally written that I was "OK" at cleaning (cross out their "I scrub really well"). Next to "cooking" I said I was good at chopping vegetables, which is in fact a work duty. I also said I was a good writer, knowing that their website stinks and that I could do wonders for it given a couple weeks.

No, of course I didn't write this as it could be taken "offensively" as if I have better knowledge about website writing than a [swatting fly furiously] campus of communication courses. I also stated that I work with children, but the parents here don't know me and therefore are not comfortable leaving her children with me. So what did I get?

I thought I was safe. They said a freshman's name. Then said Toilets. Then gave the rest of the freshmen equally undesirable work duties. They moved on to the next school. Then my school, wherein all the students were given jobs according to their talents and heart desires.

They said my name. I thought, "I am in the clear, for they have already assigned bathrooms to the unsuspecting young student."
"Nebulous" meaningful pause. "Toilets."

"I knew it!" I said, in a not so quiet half whisper half voice, letting those around me know that, in fact, I always get the worst work duty, the one that I say at the beginning of the school that I don't want. I should've known what I would get, because I said to my roommate the night before, "The one thing I don't want is toilets," that I would, indeed, get toilets.

I've now decided to reform my thinking on work duties. When it comes time to say what my talents are, I'll say I'm particularly adept at toilet bowl scowering. That the smell of disinfectant makes my heart beat with anticipation of the joy of absolute cleanliness and sanitization. I will revel over the Swiss' 30,000 laws about recycling and the proper crushing manner in which to crush plastique bottles and to remove the recyclable aluminum yogurt label and tab and put it in the aluminum bin and the plastic yogurt container in the plastic bin, because the government will go through your garbage and if you put an article in the wrong bin, will find your contact information in that same bin and fine you.
Yes that was a tangent.
Illustrating that these people have become so efficient that they have too much time on their hands.

Back to my work duty strategy: (I hope you are at least chuckling, if not chorteling, at my sarcastic and very quick "wit." I would be chorteling, or perhaps giggling, if not in a dark computer room, alone, and knowing it would be very creepy for that person whom I just heard walk by: there she is again, laughing to herself in the dark computer room.):
I will say that I cannot write. In fact, I will insist on using a dictaphone to fill out my work duty paper. Then, perhaps, maybe, I will be given a truly amenable work duty, one which will excite and fulfill me, one that will make my heart go pitter patter with delight at being able to use my talent to serve my community.

That is, afterall, how they said we would be chosen for our particular jobs.

"No point in doing what you hate or are bad at," they said.

On that sheet, I should've written: "Not detail oriented. Not a fan of immaculate cleaning. Not a fan of sterility (unless when involving medical procedures). Not a fan of men's bathrooms. Or women's bathrooms with all that long hair. Ew."

Ah well. The minutes are ticking dangerously close to 2:00, and I still have to do the whole "get ready for bed" thing that will entail squeaky dorm floors and all manner of noises that will make my roommates peeved that I did not go to bed at a decent hour.

In my email, I talked about my sudden, huge bout of extreme introversion. I remarked that I am indulging in time alone. That I choose to stay by myself rather than talk to people, that I gravitate toward the older-twenty-something-guys-who-hitchhiked from Germany and we talk about missing our significant others and laugh at how clever we are.

Then, I changed direction. I spoke of my needed mindset shift that would allow me to leave without regret.

I'll not milk my introspective weirdness into an extraordinary diaryland entry that will get sympathetic notes. I'll be blithe, free, as outgoing as I can be tomorrow on our trip up the mountain to one of Switzerland's greatest views, I'll compose a poem, not unlike Shelley's, that is an ode to the majesty of Mt. Blanc (I felt thus inspired yesterday, when I saw it clearly after the clouds parted. I saw how the road seemingly pointed to it, how the chalets and barns framed it, how the clock tower seemed ridiculous in its pretended height as it contrasted with the muscular mountain, shaded with snow and a hint of pink from the soon-setting sun.)

Yes, I'll enjoy the games of frisbee. The bonfire. The packed lunch. Perhaps the courageous eating of whatever it is they're cooking on this fire. I'll take pictures of the scenery. Of myself with the scener y in the background. Magazine quality photos. I'll wish I had a digital camera so I could immediately share the pictures with you and you could be a little more here with me in that you could share the beauty of the landscape at the same time that I'm enjoying it. I'll probably bring my journal, as nature generally inspires me.

I'll recreate the Dead Poets Society and say that unlike the one held this previous quarter, this one will be serious, will have people realizing the wonders of the domain of communications and how it fits so clearly with science and art, how it juxtaposes the two and brings together the left and right hemispheres, the rational with the irrational, order and beauty, and shows how the two coexist and are better for it. The members will be lovers of words, of all kinds of words, will use English and French and German and make each word sound beautiful together, will meld languages and show their symmetry and beauty and all point toward a fantastically intelligent and beautiful creator who will smile as we try to put finite words to his infinity and grin as we revel in what he created for us and how it inspires run-on sentences of the worst kind. He'll inspire us more, and we'll return from the mountain with songs, with poetry, with observations to share with the rest of the school.

And all of us will be musicians on the mountain, some with voice with guitar with drums and flute (not singing about the life of the hills).

And we won't be dead poets, but alive word-artisans. Lively artists. Conquering musicians. And it will be beautiful.

2:00 has gone, now. And I should sleep before I inflict further run-ons.