On Sunday night, Nathan and I went to an Alan Jackson, Martina McBride concert (I suppose anyone who might want to stalk me, there's your information, except that the counter hasn't moved in the past week). He loves country music, I love him and like country music. This is a new thing for me, until I met him country music would make me behave like a six year old fearing cooties, but he's converted me somewhat.
It was a good concert. I don't like Martina McBride overly much, too many of her songs seem to be about people being abused, but she does the same sort of "women are great" thing that Shania Twain tries to do, only she does it without the men bashing so I have some respect for her.
I liked Alan Jackson. They did a song where they'd gone out and taped highlights of the community: restaurants, the university, local bars, movie theaters, malls, etc., it was really cool that they would take the time to do that. It was a lot of fun and I liked it, except that he did his Sept. 11th number. It's 2004. This song still has people standing up, waving flags and lighters and yelling out things like "kill Osama" (as if we're still looking for him). That's a little bit spooky, if you ask me.
When my generation has grandchildren, they'll be watching top-grossing exaggerated melodramatic films about the whole situation (Pearl Harbour, Titanic) and asking us what it was like. Most certainly, we'll say that it was a terrible day, and kids today don't appreciate real horrible situations and did they know we went to war about that? Then they'll ask if we won. We'll probably not have an answer to that one.
Coming back from the concert I noticed I had a nasty sore throat but figured it'd go away in the morning. It didn't. With the knowledge that mono and the flu have both visited the theatre department, and that I had to House Manage another week of shows, I went to the Death Centre, Health Centre. He looked at me and told me to come back the next day. The next day he looked at me and drew blood. Told me I didn't have anything and that if it got worse to come back on Friday. It's a regular old cold, but I'm almost recovered from that now.
In most recent news, I have a new roommate. In the three years I have been here, I have never been able to keep a roommate longer than a month. I do not understand why. I've had six now (I think): three of them have been international students who have moved out with friends, and the other three people from nearby who simply never showed up in the first place. I've been able to have a double room as a single. It's been fantastic.
However, the university has finally found me a roommate, oh joy, oh rapture! I know the girl. Her name is Munchkin. Well, it isn't really, but I can't remember what her real name is. She worked with me my first summer as a camp counselor. She's only a year younger than me but the whole time I worked with her I wished we could just put her in a tent with the campers and be done with her.
The true story of Munchkin goes back to the year before I came to camp. According to my dear friend Stimpy, the girl was a normal human being, but one night about a week before the season was over, she just went crazy. No one could find her one night, and the following morning they found her completely naked in the Health Centre trying to get bugs off her. Yeah... As far as anyone knows, she wasn't a crack addict, but she came back the next year and turned into a terror.
I cannot stand her: her irresponsibility and her rudeness have driven me to tears and rage too many times in that one year, and now I have to live with her- not just in a tent for a month, but in a room for the rest of the year. I suppose there's a chance that she'll move out at semester, but I somehow doubt she could find anyone else to move in with.
Today friend Pixie is coming over for the afternoon. No idea what we're going to do yet, but I'm sure we'll come up with something. Our first task will be going together without Munchkin.