name of passenger.

I love that I never use actual bookmarks to mark my page.

Today I opened a book I haven't read in a few months, and I found something that made me grin like an idiot in the corner of the library.

Euro Traveller? That's MISS Euro Traveller to you...

And on such an hot and sultry day, some Roman gelato isn't sounding too bad right now...


a check up.

Please stop yelling at me. I feel guilty enough already. And it's not even that I've been too busy. It's just been one of those completely uninspiring weeks when I have no words to give. I tried to write something earlier about free will and fate and love and Matt Damon, and well... this is me cleaning up the word-vomit. I have nothing to say to you. 

I have nothing to say at all.

Which may be a first.

Let's call it a beginning-of-the-year slump. I mean, last week was kind of a bad week,* from missing my first class of the year to freaking out upon learning I got a C+ last semester {at least until I found out it was actually an A-...} to discovering my favorite all-night coffee shop now closes at 4 p.m. to... well, let's not go there...

And through all that, being completely uninspired to read anything I have. Which may just be the worst feeling in the world.**

Don't expect me here ever on Tuesdays and Wednesdays. It turns out running the newsroom is actually a Real Job. No more surfing the Internet for hours like last fall. But I'll be back Thursday, I hope with something more to say than apologizing that I have nothing to say.

So please, don't leave me!!
{desperately clings to few followers she has} 
Because as you can see, I'm low enough to beg right now.

Wow. This is getting pathetic. I'm going to go before I embarrass myself any further.

 Have a good week, you guys.

Now excuse me while I go Bollywood dance to the ending song of Slumdog Millionare.

*Except for that 24-hour period in which I watched 8 Disney Channel movies...

**Besides wanting to read from my bookshelf but instead having to read seventeenth century Puritan poetry... And I've experienced both in the last seven days. 


the last day.

I have been putting off writing for the last few days  as is evidenced by my blog's coma-like state partly because I've been constantly alternating between states of denial, depression, apprehension and excitement, and partly because I've watched 6 movies and a "Say Yes To the Dress" marathon {you can never watch just one} in the past three days. It has been difficult to make myself focus on the fact that school starts tomorrow. Senior year starts tomorrow. And my seven monthlong destination adventure is officially coming to an end. 

I keep peering forlornly at my bookshelf, overcome with the knowledge that I will not be able to keep up my current reading pace this next semester. And in my last day with absolutely nothing to do, I'm still biting my nails with the thought that I need to find a second jobI need to start working on my new literary magazine, I need to study for the GRE, I need to apply for grad school scholarships, I need to, I need to, I need to.... And yet all I want to do is lie here in bed, reading humorous essays and petting my roommate's malevolent cat

Even as I'm writing this, my stomach is turning uncomfortably in anticipation of the craziness that will inevitably be my last fall semester as a college undergraduate, and at this moment I refuse to even glance beyond these next few months into the black pit that is my current vision of the future.

And in the midst of all this panic and paranoia and unease, I cannot get over the fact that I no longer have a shirtless-men calendar to hang on the wall over my desk. And really, how am I supposed to start a new school year without that?

And even in the midst of that crisis, guys, I have to say:

I'm ridiculously excited for fall.

{P.S. Why is it that when I search for pictures of the "future" on Pintrest, all I can find are overly pretentious and quirky wedding photos? I hope to God there is more to the future than that... *Shudder*}


no but seriously, where did summer go?


You know my complicated {at best} relationship with the whole thing.
But this year the end of summer also means the end of a crazy wild ride of seven months. From studying in England to gallivanting across Europe to moving to a new, beautiful city for the last three months, I have had more adventures than I know what to do with. And now tomorrow I'm going home for good {well, for a year, at least}, and everything will be back to normal. A part of me thinks normal might be nice for a while... but then that other wanderlusting, can't-ever-sit-still part of me expects that I'll be dreaming of an escape way too soon.

This summer has been such an amazing experience. It's been so great to get a taste of the real newspaper world at the St. Paul Pioneer Press, but even more important, I've met people through my internship program whom I know I'll be friends with for a long time to come. Evette Dionne and Courtney Pitts are both brilliant, lovely, inspiring women, and I feel lucky just to know them. There will definitely be more margarita nights in the future, ladies. I'm not ready to give that up just yet.

And Minneapolis, I've grown to love you more than I ever thought I would {EXCEPT for the  kamikaze bikers / terrible roads / idiotic drivers issue}. The Twin Cities have been the perfect backdrop for the best, weirdest, coolest {we're talking 75 degrees here, people}, shortest summer of my life, as well as my last "real" summer before I'm forced to deal with The Real World. It feels as if I just got here... and it's hard to believe it's over.

Tomorrow I'm driving  {8 hours, oh dear Lord} home, and although I'm desperately excited for fall, as always, I think this will be the one year when I'll look back and miss summer a little, too.

Until Kansas, my dears.




Because, as I believe should be quite obvious to you by now, I revel in the weird. 

But that potential baby-killing woman with the third ear grossed even me out a little.


you know i would write here about my loathing for "fifty shades of grey," but this is a PG site.

So in the midst of last week's procuring of my Big Bad Domain Name, I also snuck something else onto my site. Do you see the "Pervasive Random" button on the side? I've decided to start a new professional blog about books, journalism and the publishing world. You can find me at sarahrmccabe.com

Today's feature? My uncensored rant on Fifty Shades of Grey and the rest of the copycat business, asking if it's now better to blantantly rip off someone else's idea and sell it as your own instead of actually proving you are a talented author in your own right.

I'm hoping to have a new post up at least once a week.
 Give it a browse. A peruse, if you feel ambitious.


so i am finally coming to terms with the fact that i'm not rory gilmore.

It's no secret how much I love Gilmore Girls. Like, major monster love. To the point where I understand almost every reference they make just because I've had to look them up at some point in the 6 or 7 times I've seen each episode. 

Seriously. That's an intense kind of love.

It's my go-to show whenever I'm bored and don't know what to do with myself, so for the past week the first season has been playing in the background whenever I'm home. 

Ever since I started watching this show in 8th grade, I've liked to romanticize myself into an only-slightly-less adorable version of Rory Gilmore. Rory always felt like a televised representation of me, and I carry a fondness for her that far outstrips every other fictional character I've ever come across. But this week, in watching the first season over again, I realized something that is only now occuring to me:

I am not Rory Gilmore.

Like, we are actually two very different people.

So I've compiled a list.

*This picture links with the Rory Gilmore reading challenge. Just so you know. 
Reasons that show once and for all that I am not Rory Gilmore:

1. I have no desire, EVER in my life, to read A Mencken Chrestomathy. In fact, I would go out of my way not to read A Mencken Chrestomathy if there were for some reason a time when I would need to read A Mencken Chrestomathy. Wikipedia and Sparknotes and whatever other website I could find with a summary would definitely be involved. Nor would I ever read The Ethics of Spinoza, Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm, Walden or Pushkin's biography. I'm sorry if this makes me unbrilliant, but I only have a finite amount of life, and unfortunately writers pen books faster than I can read them. Sacrifices must be made. 

2. If my grandmother had invited all the horrendous, hateful rich douchebags from my rotting stodgy rathole of a private school to my birthday party without telling me, I would have complained to my mom about it. Yes, I would have complained, even if my grandmother had just served pudding at our last Friday night dinner, showing that she was trying to actually trying to connect with us, and even if my mother had just gone shopping with my grandmother and for the first time didn't come home wanting to kill her. While this might make me selfish, it would also keep me sane. Sometimes you just need to complain to someone or you'll explode. Rory is obviously just a better daughter than I am.

And I would fake sick before the party. So Rory is a better grandaughter, as well.

3. If I arrived 10 minutes late to a test I had stayed up all night to study for, and then my teacher wouldn't let me take the test, I would have cried. I would have broken down into a sobbing mess in the middle of the classroom, or at least out in the hallway. Instead of crying, Rory throws a really impressive fit in which she uses "jerk" as an insult, ironically calls Paris "quippy" and almost sucker punches Chad Michael Murray in the face. While the incident shows how terrible Rory is at insulting people, I still find her tenacity in the face of an academic disaster inspiring.

4. That being said, every other time Paris or Chad Michael Murray tried to proke me, I would have been provoken. And I would have had a few good quippy comebacks {some of which I occasionally yell at the television to Rory, although she never listens to me}. And when I'm being personally attacked, I would never just stand there and take it. Rory never stands up for herself, and it drives me crazy. Of course, I am a naturally argumentative person, so even if I deserve the personal attack, I would have to fight back. But Rory is so nice that she never actually deserves the personal attacks. Except for that one time when she called a ballerina a hippo in the school newspaper.

5. Which brings me to my final point:
 Rory is so so SO much nicer than me, in pretty much all things.

So I suppose I'll have to pick a new fictional character to compare myself to, and it'll probably be Joey Potter: petulant, contrary, opinionated and sometimes downright belligerent.
Yep. That sounds like me.

Of course, I don't have at least two guys desperately in love with me at all times, but well, I guess we all have things we need to work on.


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