Over the course of the past few weeks, somehow I have found myself entrenched in a million plots and sub-plots. Every move I make will potentially trigger a grenade in the minefield that has sprung up around me. It's extremely invigorating while at the same time quite distracting from things like chemistry and minerology. My classmates seem to need to relieve the stress of going to university with folly and jest and immaturity and intrigues and "that's what she said" jokes. If I went through the entire list of battles/skirmishes I am waging right now, it would look something like this:
The M.I.N.E. game: whenever anyone on the nordic team says the word that is spelled m.i.n.e., they do ten pushups, no matter the situation. This applies to coal mines as well, bonus points if that's the connotation.
The Game for Life: any beverage drunk using the dominant hand must be finished immediately. This is an intense endeavour that must be shaken on. I am slowly learning to do all things with my left hand.
The Surreptitious Game: is somewhat failing, and it's kind of a problem.
La semana cuando hablamos solamente español porque no queremos olvidar la lengua: My roommate and I both used to be quite proficient at Spanish before moving to a franco (hah, not the dictator!) country, and the regression is bad, so we're only speaking Spanish to each other for a week (any english is punished by ten pushups). My biceps are going to be ridiculous at some point.
The Frisbee-Rugby-Soccer-Tag Game: is another nordic invention. Has only happened once, but entirely worth it.
The How Many Brownies/Apples/Superfluous Utensils Can We Steal From Caf Before Anyone Notices: may have to start being done blindfolded. It's kind of easy.
Drinky-Laughy-Spitty: Get a group of friends. Hold hands. Gulp water, then try to hold it in while making each other laugh. Best played in a park at two in the morning wearing spandex.
Assasins: My floor is playing assasins and trying to kill each other. Doubt permeates the air. I can feel paranoia setting in.
The War with McGill Bureaucracy: is possibly the most intense, unpleasant and dire. A secretary/coordinator was extremely unpleasant to me today, but after facing Czech drugstore ladies/librarians/cashiers from the age of eight, things of that nature hold no fear for me. I was unpleasant back. My problems did not get solved, but she started being nice.
Capture the Flag: a fine tradition that accounts for, among other things, the shape of my left eyebrow is finding continuation. We managed to lose the flag, which is always a sign of a game well played.
Just call me Secret Agent Kamikatze, actually. Thank you.
