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31_days2011-02-06 01:01 am
treeflamingo.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2011-02-06 01:01 am
[Feb 5] [Original] Arrogance in Asceticism
Title: Arrogance in Asceticism
Day/Theme: Feb 5/Nails for breakfast, tacks for snacks
Series: Original - The Girl In The Yellow Dress
Characters: Angie
Rating: G
A/N: This, ugh. Just, ugh. This is the main character for the other half of my ridiculous novel. I realized at some point that I didn't know her very well, and now I'm realizing that the more I write her the less I like her... I'm trying to work something out about this. :/
For the last two years of college, her course load was outrageous – seven a semester, if you counted the classes for her CFP exam. This in addition to her morning receptionist job at the firm that would eventually hire her as a financial advisor. And she had added that poli-sci minor, too. Just in case.
She slept an average of four hours a night when classes were in session – and twelve of those hours were lumped together on Sunday, the day she held Sabbath in her bed. Her mother spoke proudly of her religious dedication, but Angie only felt that, if even God had needed a rest after six days of work, she could allow herself one too. (She wasn’t really sure she believed in God, didn’t particularly care whether she did or not, but it made a good excuse.) She started end-of-term projects early, usually as soon as she received the rubric – if she left herself to cram the way her classmates did, she would probably run out of any time to sleep at all, and that would be physically dangerous. Not to mention the fact that total sleep deprivation was a well-known cause of misjudgments, memory loss, hallucinations and a vengeful pantheon of other foolish errors, and she was adamant as the will of God not to turn in sloppy work due to her own lack of planning.
On the nights she didn’t plan to sleep (the ones before papers were due, or better, three days before the papers were due, so she would have time to edit her work when she was fresher), she kept a bag of mini rice cakes on her desk. They tasted like cardboard (even the apple-cinnamon ones) but they were almost calorieless (except for the apple-cinnamon ones) and eating kept her awake. They were a sort of self-flagellation against sleepiness; every cake after the third was odious to her, and she made herself eat one each time she jolted up, eyes opening suddenly when they should never have been closed, neck recalled to its upright duties when it should never have slouched. She ate them faster as the night wore on.
She kept an emergency stash of Altoids in the same desk drawer that held the whiteout and the centimeter ruler. If she ran out of rice cakes, the Altoids would do the trick in much more painful a fashion. (She had always hated mint.)
In the morning – she knew it was morning because her alarm clock told her, it was impossible to tell from her pie-slice view of the Boston skyline – she would pour a can of Red Bull into a glass of tomato juice, crack an egg in, and chug. Inevitably, she grimaced, fought a gag, and downed two tall glasses of water before making for the bathroom and her toothbrush. It was a disgusting concoction. She could have cooked the egg, but it was faster this way, and she’d never been fond enough of breakfast to put any effort into it.
A classmate asked her once why she took seven courses at once (the classmate didn’t even know about her job; Angie didn’t mention it.) The girl had been griping about her own coursework and how it was killing her lovelife. Angie hadn’t volunteered an opinion, but the girl was the demanding sort.
“I’ve never met someone who adds a brand new minor in their junior year,” the girl said. “Especially not when they’ve got a full semester already. You’ve gotta have a good story for this. C’mon, tell me.” Her eyes glinted and gossiped and Angie wondered, facetiously, if perhaps the girl wouldn’t be better suited to a liberal arts major.
“I only have so long at school,” she had answered. “I want to get the most out of it.” She motioned with her eyes at the whiteboard upon which a professor had lately been scribbling – percentages and dollar signs roiled among long numbers, and Angie felt a certain pride at knowing exactly what it all meant. “Get the most bang for my buck, you know?”
The girl huffed melodramatically – liberal arts, please! – and turned to a more sympathetic listener.
But Angie had had to fight to keep the smugness off her face. The unambitious and the foolish could do what they like with their time and money. Angie had her goals to satisfy her, and her accomplishments to sustain her, and there was no class in the world that could to illuminate those who did not understand that.
Day/Theme: Feb 5/Nails for breakfast, tacks for snacks
Series: Original - The Girl In The Yellow Dress
Characters: Angie
Rating: G
A/N: This, ugh. Just, ugh. This is the main character for the other half of my ridiculous novel. I realized at some point that I didn't know her very well, and now I'm realizing that the more I write her the less I like her... I'm trying to work something out about this. :/
For the last two years of college, her course load was outrageous – seven a semester, if you counted the classes for her CFP exam. This in addition to her morning receptionist job at the firm that would eventually hire her as a financial advisor. And she had added that poli-sci minor, too. Just in case.
She slept an average of four hours a night when classes were in session – and twelve of those hours were lumped together on Sunday, the day she held Sabbath in her bed. Her mother spoke proudly of her religious dedication, but Angie only felt that, if even God had needed a rest after six days of work, she could allow herself one too. (She wasn’t really sure she believed in God, didn’t particularly care whether she did or not, but it made a good excuse.) She started end-of-term projects early, usually as soon as she received the rubric – if she left herself to cram the way her classmates did, she would probably run out of any time to sleep at all, and that would be physically dangerous. Not to mention the fact that total sleep deprivation was a well-known cause of misjudgments, memory loss, hallucinations and a vengeful pantheon of other foolish errors, and she was adamant as the will of God not to turn in sloppy work due to her own lack of planning.
On the nights she didn’t plan to sleep (the ones before papers were due, or better, three days before the papers were due, so she would have time to edit her work when she was fresher), she kept a bag of mini rice cakes on her desk. They tasted like cardboard (even the apple-cinnamon ones) but they were almost calorieless (except for the apple-cinnamon ones) and eating kept her awake. They were a sort of self-flagellation against sleepiness; every cake after the third was odious to her, and she made herself eat one each time she jolted up, eyes opening suddenly when they should never have been closed, neck recalled to its upright duties when it should never have slouched. She ate them faster as the night wore on.
She kept an emergency stash of Altoids in the same desk drawer that held the whiteout and the centimeter ruler. If she ran out of rice cakes, the Altoids would do the trick in much more painful a fashion. (She had always hated mint.)
In the morning – she knew it was morning because her alarm clock told her, it was impossible to tell from her pie-slice view of the Boston skyline – she would pour a can of Red Bull into a glass of tomato juice, crack an egg in, and chug. Inevitably, she grimaced, fought a gag, and downed two tall glasses of water before making for the bathroom and her toothbrush. It was a disgusting concoction. She could have cooked the egg, but it was faster this way, and she’d never been fond enough of breakfast to put any effort into it.
A classmate asked her once why she took seven courses at once (the classmate didn’t even know about her job; Angie didn’t mention it.) The girl had been griping about her own coursework and how it was killing her lovelife. Angie hadn’t volunteered an opinion, but the girl was the demanding sort.
“I’ve never met someone who adds a brand new minor in their junior year,” the girl said. “Especially not when they’ve got a full semester already. You’ve gotta have a good story for this. C’mon, tell me.” Her eyes glinted and gossiped and Angie wondered, facetiously, if perhaps the girl wouldn’t be better suited to a liberal arts major.
“I only have so long at school,” she had answered. “I want to get the most out of it.” She motioned with her eyes at the whiteboard upon which a professor had lately been scribbling – percentages and dollar signs roiled among long numbers, and Angie felt a certain pride at knowing exactly what it all meant. “Get the most bang for my buck, you know?”
The girl huffed melodramatically – liberal arts, please! – and turned to a more sympathetic listener.
But Angie had had to fight to keep the smugness off her face. The unambitious and the foolish could do what they like with their time and money. Angie had her goals to satisfy her, and her accomplishments to sustain her, and there was no class in the world that could to illuminate those who did not understand that.