Behold, the grisly aftermath of my donating blood. Well actually, it doesn't look like much of anything except for the faint remnants of an iodine stain and markings of my vein in the right picture. That's the stuff of horror movies, right?
Today was the third time this year that I've donated blood, once every quarter. I don't ever remember donating blood before and the only other similar instance I can recall are a few, strangely clear images of being seven and getting blood drawn for some testing or other such reason. Mostly I can just picture my elbow squishing down a stress ball that looked like the earth, another one grasped in my hand, all the while sitting next to a rack filled with vials of blood. I had looked in their direction in an effort to avoid looking at the needle in my arm; my 7-year-old brain had somehow rationalized the notion that if I didn't look at my arm, it wouldn't hurt. Even then the blood and the procedure fascinated me- I should have known I'd want to become a doctor later. As if the Fisher Price toy doctor's bag I carried around with me everywhere didn't already tip me off.

Anyway, I digress. Fall quarter this year I donated blood on a whim with my suitemate Collette. We were the last of the day and the people on the bus were in a jolly mood (probably because it meant they got to go home). They were so nice to us, joking around and singing along to the music playing on the radio that I had fun and was left with such a good impression about donating blood. The other two times I've donated this year haven't been as fun, but they were not unenjoyable. I realized that I truly enjoy donating blood. I'm O-negative, so my blood is relatively precious and in low supply in the state. I don't mind giving up the half an hour or so it takes to wait, go through the screening, and then the ten minutes of actually giving blood. I'm actually upset when my plans of donating blood are thwarted. Today, my iron count was barely too low the first time they tested it so they had to prick my other finger to get a second sample, and I was truly afraid it would be too low again. I would have been upset- I would have been left with two band-aids on my poor, injured middle fingers and nothing to show for it.

I honestly enjoy giving blood. It's a pint that I'm not using, I won't die and the worst thing that has resulted is that I started bleeding a little bit once when I took the bandage off too enthusiastically. Oh no, I have to press tissue to my arm with some pressure for a minute, what a tragedy. The first time Collette and I donated we were told by someone, an uneducated blowhard, that donating blood actually kills people. Today while on the blood bus I read a chart of different injuries and how many unites of blood they require: a gunshot wound is up to 100, organ transplants up to 50, and bone marrow patients up to 2 units a day. A DAY. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm pretty sure it's not receiving my blood that's killing these people.


There are always blood drives going on at UCSD, it's really not difficult to find an opportunity. I hope that I can continue this tradition next year when I'm living on campus and even afterwards when I'm not. And let's face it, the best part about donating blood is getting to pick the color of my bandage. I regress to being a little kid; ooh! so many options, just for me?
It's like getting to pick the lollipop out after a doctor's appointment. I may not be seven anymore, but I still get enthused about these things.

Day 4

This has been an interminably long week; it's hard to believe there's still one more day to go when I could swear that it's been at least three weeks since Monday. Don't lie to me, weekly planner, I know the truth.

Hey weekend, come a little bit closer - I won't bite.

Day 3

Death Cab for Cutie played a concert in our gym tonight. That sounds so absurd, as though they're a nothing band in some small town whose only gig is at a high school rally. UCSD may have called it "RIMAC Arena" but let's face it, Rimac is a gym and there's no denying the fact that people not in the pit were sitting in bleachers and that there were banners for our basketball and volleyball teams hanging on the walls. It was obviously no Madison Square Garden, but I was really impressed by the stage set up; the stage and lights looked really nice and actually managed to conceal the fact that we were, indeed, on a basketball court.

Honestly, I was more excited for the opening bands than I was for Death Cab because I'm admittedly all that knowledgable about Death Cab. Ra Ra Riot and Cold War Kids were opening, both of whom I love. I had seen Ra Ra Riot at a small concert at the Loft here at UCSD a month or so ago and I was really excited to see them again. I wasn't expecting anything new in terms of the set list since they have only a single album, but I fell in love with the combination of guitar, bass, and string instruments they have. (Anything sort of orchestral rock sounding instantly has me; their songs remind me of my favorite Stars song, Your Ex-Lover is Dead.) Sadly, I was disappointed. There was nothing wrong with them but their sound was just lost in the big venue. I loved them anyway. Cold War Kids, however, were simply AMAZING. I would even say they were the best of the night. They sounded so soulful and perfect, and the music just filled the building.

Mollie and I were in the pit for the opening acts but decided to move up to the seats for Death Cab. Neither of us are the most ardent of fans and given a couple of less than ideal circumstances it seemed like a good idea since the pushing of the crowd didn't bode well for the rest of the night. Apparently we were right, as just before we left the crowd pushed forward (even though it was only roadies setting up and there were at least 15 minutes until Death Cab came on) and I got scissored in between two guys who were at least 6 inches taller than I. It is a truth universally acknowledged that being 5'2" isn't the best at concerts.

Death Cab were good, they are obviously really experienced since they've been around since the mid-90s! I have nothing bad to say about them. It was kind of funny to hear the ENTIRE place singing along to "I Will Follow You Into the Dark." And you just know there were a million couples there who were ecstatic that "their" song was being played. I did wish they had switched out the order of some of the songs, like ending with "Sound of Settling" to make it a more upbeat closing.

It was a really good night, overall, I'm so glad I went.

Day 2

The overriding feeling I've had coloring my days for the past two weeks is tired. Just yawning all the time, can barely keep my eyes open, can't think straight bone-tired. My earliest class on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays is at 9AM, meaning I have to get up at 8 or earlier depending on what I need to do to get ready that morning. That's not an inordinately early time, I've had to get up earlier and with less sleep before (Last year 5 hours of sleep was par for the course.)
It's really strange to compare where I was last year and where I am this year and realize how much is different, including my sleeping schedule and tolerance for little to no sleep. Oh, to be that tenacious, invincible 17-year-old again!

I never want to get out of bed in the morning when my comforter and pillow are loving me so softly. Probably also because I never want to climb down that death trap the school has the audacity to call a ladder. It's my fault for going to bed so late when I know I have to get up early, but there are always so many distracting things. People in the common room, my suitemates talking or snacking. I just want to be in the midst of it, even if it's nothing too exciting. At night I never want to leave enjoyable, joyful company for bed but then unfortunately I never want to leave the company of my bed in the morning.

Early to bed, early to rise... something I seem utterly unable to accomplish.

Day 1

And so it goes. As of right now this is simply one of a multitude of attempts at recording my life undertaken since I was probably around 8-years-old. I'd like to flatter myself and say that I have more interesting things to write about at 18-years-old than Beanie Babies and Sailor Moon, but who know- those Sailor Scouts still hold my heart.

I doubt that my habits or dedication to chronicling have much improved, but perhaps the combined photojournalism format of this will aid in that.
I don't have much faith, but I have a lot of hope.

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You know you're a lazy college student when, upon realizing you have run out of forks, you use chopsticks to eat mandarin oranges out of a can. So uncivilized!

Actually, what probably most epitomizes the college experience about this picture is that this was my dinner. I have 6 weeks left in my first year at UCSD and probably one of the most prominent experiences I have had as a big, bad college student is the horror of dorm food. How foolish I was when I first came here. A poor deluded thing, taken in and beguiled by the food at orientation. I remember thinking that it was not so bad; it was actually passable. Little did I know that that mediocre level was as good as it was going to get. It has been but a sad descent into greasy Chinese food and strange, mangled recipes since then.

UCSD: good education and bad eats.