Rush week really lives up to its name. I've rushed to get to the house, rushed to clean things, rushed to meet people, rushed to get to events, rushed to eat, rushed to dress, and done just about everything other than rush to bed.
It's also really repetitive.
If it wasn't for my computer clock, I wouldn't have the foggiest what day it was right now. Meetings, events, and smokers blur together. Luckily I have been able to keep the names and faces of the rushees straight, and we've been getting quite a few.
So I think I can say I'm sick of it. I mean, I love meeting the rushees and I love the brothers, but I'm sick of rush. I'm sick of having to censor my thoughts, and watch what I say about house activites and hints about which guys we might bid. I really just want it to be over so we can have a normal brotherhood again.
"Secrets, secrets are no fun. Secrets, secrets hurt someone," or at least that's what Sam Hauge used to tell me in high school. She's right. Secrets are no fun, but unfortunately they're what rush is about. It kind of reminds me of poker. You need to play your cards carefully, and you can't ever let someone see your hand.
(On a separate note, I really miss girls like Sam. Cornell doesn't have too many cute, perky girls. Or maybe I'm just not meeting the right people.)
Luckily Alumni House has provided me a nice distraction. This morning, at 6:45 a.m., I'll be leaving for NYC on a bus full of Cornell students and staff. My job is to help train the reunion classes on the use of the computer registration system, but I'll also be the "bitch" for the weekend. When a box needs to be opened, carried, blown up, etc... I'll be the go to guy. I'm also working with three girls, so I'll be looked to as the work horse. I suppose the y chromosome has it's advantages, but the sterotype of a burly male isn't always one of them.
I'm not really nuts about manual labor, but I am pretty excited to get away and stay in the Grand Hyatt. As nuts as it sounds, I think I'm going to stay in on Friday night, work out, and go to bed. It'll be one of the most fullfilling Friday nights I've had in a while.
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Today was course exchange, but I didn't. I think I'm set with my classes, but the first week will help decide that. I also haven't bought my books yet, something I'll have to do when I get back.
I was also supposed to meet my travel buddy for next week's DC journalism conference. I slept through our meeting, however, so I'm hoping she'll catch me for lunch sometime next week. I wrote to her advisor to find out if she was normal, and he said some nice things about her. His key word was that she was very "intense," something I'm excited to learn more about, especially since I've been described with the same word in the past.
J. Frasco was also supposed to introduce me to Betsy Cooper. He mentioned that we might do it tonight, but then ditched me for cuddle time with the woman. Can't blame him, but I will hold him to meeting Betsy. She's a Truman Scholar (you smart people will know what it is, I do), and has worked in Senator Clinton's DC office. It's kind of like my Jainee Baker quest in high school. I just want to meet this person to see what they're like. I hear she's also "intense," so she's probably someone very interesting to speak with.
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I'll be heading to Church this Sunday, too. I'm hoping that girl I don't know is there. I don't stare, but I feel like Charlie Brown when she's in the room. She's like my verson of the little redheaded girl, only she's a curly-haired blonde.
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I'm trying to figure out how to phone overseas. I've got a few friends I want to stay in touch with this semester. I'm also planning on sending a few letters to a girl who's studying England. We were good friends freshman year and lost touch. I think a hand-written letter could go a long way to rekindling our friendship, and that'd be good since I'll be with the Bailey Boys next year in our sweet house. It'll be a time of high-class parties, dinner dates, and rousing fireside chats.
But I suppose I'm getting a head of myself. This semester hasn't even started.
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