doing math doesn't usually make me feel better

I hate math. But today, I can't stop myself.
Adding and subtracting, then going over it all again to see if I did all my math right.
9,000 minus all the money I'm pretending I have and can get.
9,000 = study abroad in England.
9,000 = Four months in the only real place I've wanted to live my whole life. (Of course, I wanted to live in all those fake places, MiddleEarth, NeverLand, Narnia. The problem is, all those authors were from England, so in my mind, all those places are England.)
9,000 = Walking on the roads and in the churches and the parks that were home to every one of my favorite artists

9,000 - 1,500 potential scholarship = 7,500

7,500 - 2640 Pell Grant = 4,860

4,860 - the maybe 1,200 I can have in about four months if I stop eating normal foods = 3,660

now what?
Student Loans? I can work until I get out of school and not pay interest.
100 a month for three years and be free.

I think I feel better.
I think it's worth it.
Three years? Ramen Noodles and Rice only? Working every weekend?
I think it's worth it.

oh, wait, plus airfare. Bah.
I'm used to not being able to afford the things I want at college. It's all part of the experience, or so I hear. The only thing I'm not used to is my new source of comfort.

I cannot listen to music because my Ipod seems to be on England Shuffle, and the Clash keep singing "London Calling," and then the Beatles can sing anything at all, and I go crazy.

I cannot surf the internet, because I end up on Wikipedia reading about Stonehedge, googling images of Oxford, watching the British Office, or writing whiney posts on my blog.
Good Grief, I don't even get half the British Office's jokes, and I can't stop watching it.

I cannot watch my dear comfort movies, my favorite Disneys of all time, now can I? No, of course not. No Robinhood or Peterpan, no Mary Poppins for you, sob bucket.

I especially cannot read because three quarters of the books on my overflowing bookshelf are British. I read the words "Westminster Abbey" and go into frantic, hyperventilating mode. I started reading Peter Pan, and Peter himself apparently once lived in Kensington Gardens. THE DORMS ARE ACROSS THE STREET FROM KENSINGTON GARDENS!

GGGAAHHH!

Becky, please! Go do your math.

Bloody Hell, London. I want you so bad.



Whose bright idea was it to sign up for two British Literature classes at once?
Oh, right. Mine.
I'm sorry, so sorry Keats. I'm sorry Wordsworth, I'm sorry Shelley. I'm sorry Byron.
I'm sorry Chaucer, I'm sorry weird Catholic Monks who wrote all the stories is the 1300's. I'm sorry.
I'll try to do better. Control myself.
But please, use your magic, bring me to London.
I believe in you.

Clap your hands if you believe.