Monday, October 27, 2003

I took some myth-related internet quizzes, because apparently I just can't get enough of that midterm! Woo! Boy, did I ever kick that bitch in the ass. This will probably be the most that I will ever update in a day.


?? Which Of The Greek Gods Are You ??
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Interesting that in that one, Aphrodite assumes the identity of her son, Eros, within herself. Curious.

And this is just plain interesting . . .

You are Form 9, Vampire: The Undying.

"And The Vampire was all that remained on
the blood drowned creation. She attempted to
regrow life from the dead. But as she was
about to give the breath of life, she was
consumed in the flame of The Phoenix and the
cycle began again."

Some examples of the Vampire Form are Hades (Greek)
and Isis (Egyptian).
The Vampire is associated with the concept of
death, the number 9, and the element of fire.
Her sign is the eclipsed moon.

As a member of Form 9, you are a very realistic
individual. You may be a little idealistic,
but you are very grounded and down to earth.
You realize that not everything lasts, but you
savor every minute of the good times. While
you may sometimes find yourself lonely, you
have strong ties with people that will never be
broken. Vampires are the best friends to have
because they are sensible.

Which Mythological Form Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

The internet is a curious realm of wonders.

My life is rated NC-17.
What is your life rated?

I would think that after so many changes in my life, I would be at least rated R. (Like a good pirate movie.) Apparently, though, lots of sex with one steady partner equals NC-17 though. Oh well. Fuck the MPAA.
This is the best day of my life.

I feel so insanely confident about my midterms. I got an A on my art history paper. My TA said it was the best one out of any of her 3 sections. And I am having a cheesy-ass baked potato as I type this. Plus, the roommates and I are going to the Zoo tomorrow. My life is so amazing right now.

I feel like frollicking!

Sunday, October 26, 2003

I need to do Zombie Prom. My longing for a 1950's Nuclear Rock & Roll Musical has been rekindled. It's no Sunset Boulevard, or Sweeney Todd. Or even Rent or Man of La Mancha (I believe that comprises my top 4, with ZP as #5), but its so much fun!

Somehow, I'll get myself into a production of this. Or produce it myself. It must be done. More people must become aware of the glory that is Zombie Prom.

In high school, I burned 20 copies of the CD and handed it out to all of my friends, asking them, "Have you been Zombified?" Most of them just looked at me funny. They probably took the CD just to make sure I didn't kill them.

But really, though, what more could you want in a musical than a story of teen love that cannot be stopped--not even by death? It's a very hopeful sentiment. Plus, what exactly do you do when a student returns from the dead and wants to finish high school? Equal rights for the undead could be a national crusade.

I can just imagine all the fun costumes for this show. Seriously huge skirts for all the girls, really dorky suit jackets for the guys at prom, funky-ass studded leather, dark-wash jean and Chuck Taylors a la Rebel Without a Cause for Jonny. I can't wait to make his "No H" jacket. And Jonny's post-mortem makeup would be a very fun challenge. I've seen several productions where Jonny has been completely zombified, and looks truly gruesome. And then I've seen others that make him look rather campy and cute (well, as cute as an undead teenage rebel can be). Somewhere in between would be optimum.

Oh, I cannot wait. The world must be Zombified.

Wednesday, October 22, 2003

Wooo! Midterms!

I have just returned from a short battle with the theatre. I kicked that midterm right in the ass. It didn't even see it coming. It got a couple of good punches in, though. Still, I triumph.

My next midterm is Linguistics, though, and I fear that will truly kick my ass. But I've got until Monday for that ass-whooping. I'll put up a good fight. I think.

I need to mail birthday gifts to my family. Apparently, everyone is born in either October or February. It's not fair. I should be spending my money on Halloween gear, not birthday gifts. Bah. Maybe my family will send me money, because I'm so nice . . . and I buy gifts . . . that'd be great.

I'm a selfish bastard.

Thursday, October 16, 2003

Art History is crushing me.

I've spent most of my time today trying to make sense of all the shit I've written. Never again will I write a paper without thoroughly thinking about it first.

Writing about art is like dancing about architecture.

Monday, October 13, 2003

Upon my exceptionally late aquisition of The Smashing Pumpkins' opus Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness, all of my Sean memories resurface. The happy ones, of course. And today, while listening to the album, he sends me a message and says:

"Have you ever slow danced with your hands tied up?" I am caught off guard. I am listening to "Galapogos," a song he sent me long ago about how I made him feel. He won't deny the change, and neither will Billy Crogan.

"Sean, what's even more strange is that, at this very moment, I am listening to a song you sent me a long time ago. Galapogos." He is also caught off guard. He says nothing, and then:

"I haven't heard that song in forever."

"Your timing is, as always, impeccable."

"I don't know why I thought of that dance. I don't even remember it that well. My memory is like a fog sometimes. How do you remember it?"

And I think about it, and then I say:

"I remember that you rarely went to dances, and that I liked you and that you held my attentions all evening, even though I went with someone else, and we we're dancing, and a slow song I do not remember came on, and you pulled a rope out of your pocket, sly as a magician's slight of hand, and you asked me if I wanted to be tied up and I said, yes, and so I was . . . and as we danced, I remember the reactions of friends dancing near us, in our little company corner by the speakers."

And in this obscure poetry that is spilling from my fingers, I see fragments of everything I'd ever written for that man. And I see how absolutely crushed I was when he was so suddenly no longer there. I realize now that I even found myself using a line that Sean and I always said to one another on Marcus this weekend. Sean used to say to me, "Excuse me, miss, do I know you? You look rather familiar." And I would blink at him, coy, and say, "I don't think so. It's possible, though. You see, I have this problem." "Yes?" "This is somewhat embarassing to admit, but I can't ever seem to remember people with their clothes on." He would laugh that sexy, rough laugh of his and say, "Sometimes I have that problem, too. Maybe I can . . . help you remember?" Oh, and would he ever help me remember.

And then Sean muses: "I was hanging out with Laurie and her friend in Santa Cruz the other day, and they seemed to recall a day that involved chocolate and strawberries . . ."

"I think everyone remembers that day. Especially Minichun's blanket."

"Apparently, you tossed them the chocolate. And we took the strawberries, and disappeared, while everyone fought over the chocolate down below us."

I remember all of these days. All of our little excursions. Sean and I did such exciting things! They were subtle and dark and sensual, and only the observant really noticed, but they were so exciting! And everything is so different now, and it is simply exciting to just be with Marcus. I was so completely different then that it wouldn't be even remotely honest to say that I miss those things. I miss them, yes, but I did them then for reasons I would never do them for now.

This life and that life are separate entities. And I look at pictures of myself then and know that I was so happy in my utter misery, except for when I see myself duct taped to Eric's bedroom door do I realize that that kind of misery is not happiness at all.

Friday, October 10, 2003

So on Fridays I have breakfast with Derek, go to class for four hours straight, come back to my room, drop off my shit, and then take a jaunty little walk to the dining comons for lunch so I can get there before it closes at 2:30. (My last class gets out at 2.) I eat at a small table on Friday afternoons, just big enough for two people, or for me and a very large book, and read while I'm eating.

Today, I opted not to read. I decided that I was going to have a small meal and then go about my merry way (which today involved buying a very ornate boquet of flowers for Greg, who graciously offered to drive me to the bus station at 6 am tomorrow morning because I SEVERELY FUCKED UP!!!!). About halfway through my slice of pizza, I notice these two runners (evident by the running shoes and shorts) occasionally glancing over at my table. I'm thinking: (a) "Was I mean/aloof/bitchy to them in high school?" (b) "Do I know them from high school?" (c) "Why am I the subject of their conversation? Am I the subject of their conversation?" (d) "Oh, fuck, what do I have on my face?"

Some minutes after all of these thoughts (I am now eating a sandwhich), one of them comes over to me and asks, "Hey, do you want to come sit with us? So you don't have to eat alone? Not that there's anything wrong with eating alone, we just thought you might like to sit with someone." Holy fecal matter. Do I look this depressed? I'm not depressed. I just really like black. Damn you, runner girl, for judging me on my clothing alone!!! Damn you to hell!!!

"Uhhhhh . . . . that's okay. Thanks though. I'm cool." Sandwhich bite. Chew.

"Ok. Well, um, I'm Maria, by the way."

"Stevi." Sandwhich bite. Chew.

"Nice meeting you!" I wave a little gesture that's supposed to say, "You too!!!!" and she scampers off. I am not looked at again for the rest of my meal.

Now, about that severe fuck-up. I'm going to see Marcus in LA this weekend, and I bought an early morning bus ticket for Saturday . . . not realizing that the MTD to get to the Greyhound doesn't run as early as I need it to run in order to get there. Jen suggests I go ask one of the Engineers over at Derek's place if maybe, just maybe, one of them could drive me to the bus station . . . since they have cars and all. In explaining my plight to Derek, he suggests (after a lot of miscommunication) that I should sidle up to anyone in the room with a car and flirt my way into it. I decide to try my chances with Greg, and he agrees, with very little sideling involved on my part and a whole lot of begging. I have a ride! Yay! So, in some sort of feeble gratitude for this HUGE gesture, I scamper down to the UCen after lunch to buy him a boquet of flowers.

I return from this endeavor to a room full of stunned Engineers (and one Derek), with a big boquet of asiatic lillies, irises, and one fucking cool South African flower thing that looks very, very pre-historic.

I am now their goddess.

Tuesday, October 07, 2003

Today, the death toll remains the same. Perhaps the epidemic is over. Perhaps. Oh, but what of tomorrow?

Hopefully this week will go by smoothly, with no more dead fish and no more injured roommates. The head injury I've sustained is going to make it rather hard to trek across campus to the bus stop with a dead fish in a cup, or an injured roommate, for that matter.

Last night, you see, I hit my head. Really fucking hard. On Heather's bed. Because that fucker Derek was making me laugh. Something about no wonder all the bettas are dying--they live in the same tank. Something to that extent. I wouldn't know. My head came in contact with Heather's bed before he could finish the sentence. It was a shock to all of us, believe me. And, man, did it make one fantastic comic-book style thunk!

I think I have a permanent recession in the back of my skull now. What if it never goes back? My God, then I'll be deformed. And what happens, then, when I get cancer and lose all my hair and my freakish skull recession is exposed to the world, raising the question: "Dude, what the fuck happened to your head?" How am I supposed to answer? I won't know if they're referring to the indentation or the fact that I no longer have hair. And even then, what kind of person asks that to someone who obviously (I mean, seriously, imagine it) has cancer? Heartless bastards.

Forunately, for now, I have youthful, Shelley-esque thick hair. And no one will know. So my deformity will remain relatively unknown. If and when I do get cancer, however, the exposure of my head dent is completely Derek's fault. For the record.

Monday, October 06, 2003

It's getting to be like some sort of fish haulocost in here.

Powder died last night. We suspect he was murdered by the new fish, Archimedes. We have no proof of this. All we know is that my fish are evil. No one elses fish are evil. Just mine. Figures. Blame everything on me.

We've got two fish left. I say if they go, we invest no more money in fish, at least until spring quarter. Spring quarter all bets are off.

Sunday, October 05, 2003

We are the perpetrators of fishy genocide.

Fluffy Jr. (our replacement betta) died in the same disgustingly fluffy manner as his predecessor. Again, we scoop him out of the tank with Heather's incense burner because we didn't buy a fucking net last time we went down to Petco. No more bettas. Ever. This one, we flushed.

Heather's fish is being bullied by my new fish. (Why do I have the evil fish?) We're expecting it to die soon.

God forbid we ever get a dog. Or have children.

Thursday, October 02, 2003

We are fish killers.

Voltaire is dead. (This fish, not the philosopher. We know this philosopher is dead.)

He was fine yesterday. Then he just keeled over. I had to scoop him out of the tank with an incense burner. I think we should invest in a net. And perhaps some more substantial fish. Voltaire wasn't a pussy betta, though. You can't name a pussy fish Voltaire. However, I think you can name a fish that you suspect to have digestive problems Voltaire. I think he died of a stomach problem.

In any case, now I have to walk halfway across campus to the bus stop with a dead fish in my hand and then ride the bus downtown with said dead fish to get a new one. God damnit. I thought that was gonna be a one time thing. Fuck.

I hate sea creatures.