Pancakes

I am not religious. And living here, I tend to forget about Christianity, since Islam is obviously the more prominent religion. But there are obviously some Christians here too. One of my co-workers said to me yesterday, “I just want to go home and eat pancakes.”

My response was, “What?”

“Lent starts tomorrow!” she said.

“Oh… you mean, like for Fat Tuesday?”

“You don’t eat pancakes?”

“No, not necessarily…”

And the conversation sort of tapered off. She just assumed that I was Christian and would be eating pancakes. Because she’s Irish and that’s what they do and the Irish people here tend to just assume the entire world does everything they do. (I’m not exaggerating. But that is a post for another day perhaps.) But I’m not actually all that religious and never went to church, so Fat Tuesday isn’t really a thing for me. And I would call it Fat Tuesday, never Pancake Day.

Then today another teacher brought up Lent. And to be conversational, I asked, “What’re you giving up?” Because I’m also ethnocentric and assume that is the normal thing to do. You pretend to give something up, like chocolate or gossiping or whatever stupid inconsequential thing you think you could live without, and then you give it up for like… half a day. And then you forget it’s even Lent.

“We’re doing a Bible study.”

And she was all sorts of serious about it. And I realized that I know nothing about anyone I work with. Who knew they were all secretly religious and/or pancake lovers?

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Restless, but also want to hide

I’m feeling restless. But also like I want to curl up into a ball and hide somewhere.

I’ve been watching House, which I think is probably a bad idea. It’s so morbid and pessimistic. I’m sure whatever one is binge-watching will have an effect on one’s mood. Thus my mood has been “we all die in the end…”

I have a cold. Or the flu. I don’t know. I woke up in a cold sweat at 2am this morning. I fell back asleep, but it was rather disgusting having to literally change my shirt because of the sweat.

I’m feeling bored of the day to day mundane tasks I have to do. Feed myself. Go to work. Shower. Do laundry. What’s the point of it all? Not that I have anything better that I would want to do with free time. I’d probably just watch more House and become more apathetic. Also more of a hypochondriac.

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Resume the search

Today I updated my resume for the first time in two years. I don’t necessarily know if I want a new job at the end of this school year, but if I do (or if my school doesn’t want to renew my contract,) now is the time to be applying in this country.

I have only a vague idea of what makes a “good” resume. I’ve read articles about it and seen countless sample resumes, but really I think it comes down to whether or not the candidate is viable. And as I was writing a “summary” section to the resume, I realized that I am actually a viable candidate. Because I have over four years of classroom experience…

When did that happen?

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Introwhatever

When I was growing up, I was convinced that I was an introvert. I enjoyed my time alone, reading or playing on the computer. I kept a journal. I was into Gilmore Girls, rather than 90210. I had a few close friends with whom I enjoyed deep conversations. I didn’t go out much

Then I went to college, started the party life and realized that it was moreso circumstance that preference for me to be used to alone time.

I’ve just texted like three people on my phone in a beg for attention. I am supremely sad that there is nobody in my apartment with whom I can share all the thoughts going on in my head right now. (Hence the blog entry?)

I saw my ex out last night. While this is not a novel occurrence, necessarily, (he was in hibernation for a few months, but recently I’ve seen him regularly out and about) it was a new thing for him to greet everyone I was sitting with. Except for me. In a rather pointed manner. When I got home at 5am, I decided it would be a brilliant idea to call all the numbers in my call log that I didn’t have saved. Because I don’t have his number saved, but I’ve spoken to him on the phone in the past year, so perhaps one of the unsaved numbers would be him. (In hindsight, stupid. I have an app that blocks his number from appearing anywhere on my phone, unless I specifically go into the app to see what it’s blocked.) And I was going to yell at him for being so pointedly rude. And then I was going to ask him if he’s happy. Because I am genuinely curious about what his life is like these days.

He didn’t answer any of the numbers, although a few females did. (I just sat silently on the other end for a second, then hung up.) I went to bed thinking “Ugh, why don’t I have his number?” But really it was for the best.

Then this morning I checked my phone blocker app to see if it had blocked anything from him. (If I had an iota of intelligence, I would have used that to get his number last night, haha. But alas…) And there was a 5am, blocked text from him that read, “My apologies for not saying hi.”

I screamed and threw the phone and got out of bed in a burst of energy and screamed again.

Which is what I want to talk to someone about right now. Specifically my roommate. (Because she has an exboyfriend of the same variety as mine. So she gets it.) Or I wish my current boyfriend was here so that I would have to stifle my emotions and could be distracted from them. Or hell, even if one of my other friends was over and I could be self-indulgent for a moment and gush about it to them. (I can’t do it over text to anyone except my roommate because I pridefully pretend I’m over it. But if the text appeared in their presence, it wouldn’t be overt to talk about it.)

Back in the day, I would have kept this nugget to myself. I’d write about it in my journal and then let it go. But now, I want to share it with the world before I let it go. Because contrary to early Myers-Briggs tests, I’m an ENTJ. Emphasis on the E.

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Letting people tell their story

The other day I was at my favorite bar and my friend decided to ask where our waitress was from. (Everybody is from somewhere else in this country. Except for 20%. But our waitress was obviously not a local.) It turned out that she was from Myanmar. (Or Burma. Whichever you prefer. She preferred Myanmar.)

So she started telling us the history of the country. How the military ran things. How they’re attempting to be a democracy, but the military still controls things. How there’s a huge gap between the rich military and everyone else. How a woman won the Nobel Peace Prize and got elected to Parliament and everyone had hope. How the military still controls things.

And I kept finishing her sentences. Because it’s a story with a predictable end. Of course the military will keep their status. Of course they’re still struggling huge inequalities.

And when I asked, fully knowing the answer, “So is that why you came here?” I wanted to punch myself. It just seemed so highly pretentious to be like “story as old as time” to someone who’s telling the story. It might be a common story, but it’s still her story.

I need to learn to just shut the hell up and let people tell their own stories.

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