An accidental audience member.

(The above picture is our school bookstore.)
I have made the long and arduous journey to Cafe Rachel, Chatham's cafe which pays tribute to our most famous alumni.  And by arduous, I mean arduous.  This is called Stephanie telling the truth. 

Anyways, I walked down several flights of stairs and down a sizable hill and up another sizable hill (perhaps more sizable than the last?) and up another flight of stairs and landed in our cafe.  And here I will remain until some caffeine shoots into my body with the force of a thousand eagles.  I don't know if that metaphor makes sense.

Tonight is Chatham's first big musical event.  An artist who's business card is a Polaroid of himself (well done, sir) is going on in a few minutes and I will invariably be one of his audience members.  I completely forgot about it and now I feel bad about walking out.  It's not that I find cafe performances unbearable; I'm just more interested in listening to some of my own little musical library whilst I write this thoroughly uninteresting blog post for the world to see and mock.  Guys, be nice.

There aren't very many people in here, too.  That is only adding to my guilt.  I want to be a supporter, an enthusiastic listener, a starry-eyed, hand clapping, amen preaching audience member but the call of my bed is stronger and I think I may be forced to succumb to it in a little while. 

So, my first week of real university.  It's been long.  It's only Wednesday night and it already feels like we've been here for months.  My classes are all so wonderfully focused on the arts and it makes me feel like my aspirations aren't so laughably ridiculous after all.  The people here are preposterously friendly and the campus is painfully beautiful and my residence hall is disgustingly picturesque.  Nearly every square inch of the campus is adorned with draping trees and rolling green hills and the sound of cicadas constantly amidst the noise of conversation.  Almost all of the buildings are old mansions donated to the university.  Cracked paint and stereotypically Victorian boarding school-esque classrooms fill the buildings.  It's all exactly how I imagine my favorite boarding school novels (and, let's face it, there is an undeniable charm about that life).  Which may sound nonsensical to some, but to those who know what I'm talking about: yeah, it's like that.

I'm taking two back-to-back photography courses and one of them is a black/white film class and it is the most beautiful thing.  We ventured to the university's darkroom the other day and I fell in love.  It was one of those 'oh hey, this is what I want to work in for the rest of my life' kind of moments.  The last time I experienced something like that I was 7 years old and I wanted to be Britney Spears.  MOM, THIS IS WHAT I WANT TO DO OKAY.  Clearly I evolved past those delusions. 

GUYS.  The artist is packing up.  He went on an hour ago and was sticking around to talk to his amen preaching fans.  Farewell, guilt.  Farewell.