Being that I have two papers rapidly approaching, I naturally have no inclination to write anything. (Not even here, really, which explains the brief hiatus.)
I've got one paper on the treatment of women in the poetry of Alexander Pope and Jonathan Swift and another on . . . well, I haven't chosen yet, but it's for art history and it will inevitably involve a Renaissance altarpeice of some variety. But, as I have no school on Fridays this quarter, I like to pretend that Thursday is my Friday and thusly, I prefer not to do a whole lot of work on Thursday. Friday I may spend the day slaving away at my computer and writing a hefty load of bollux.
For now, I adjourn to being mildly British and enjoying my cup of chai tea. Someone must find me biscuits.
Thursday, January 22, 2004
Thursday, January 15, 2004
Sideshow Stevi
I've made a decision: no matter what other wonderful, fantastic things I do in my life (being an English teacher, winning a Pulitzer, and getting an Academy Nom for Original Screenplay . . . or Adapted, I don't care) I am going to become an expert on Carnival Sideshows.
And I am totally serious.
I have a fascination with Carnie folk. The way the live their rootless lives as American gypsies, the wandering minstrels of their era. The social acceptance of treating those with unique genetic anomilies as exhibits. The endurance of the freakshow tradition. The seemingly contradictory view that the freakshow allows an outlet for such genetic anomolies to "make a living just by being themselves." The silmultaneous rise of the burlesque show as both art and entertainment. It's all fascinating.
Almost as fascinating as genuine sideshow performers is the way a "gaff" is pulled off. Half the time, customers would never know if they were seeing the genuine article or a falsification. Siamese twins were "constructed" by carnival management because the condition is exceptionally rare, and having grown twins was even more of an anomily due to the low survival rates of such conjoined siblings during the heyday of the carnival era. Hermaphrodites were constructed using prosthetics. Parasitic twins (a half-formed twin attached somewhere on the abdomen to the host twin, essentially a failed attempted at the development of conjoined twins; parasitic twins have no brains or hearts but subsist on the bloodflow of the host twin, like an extra limb) were attached with simple paste and children's dolls. People added extra limbs the same way. (People born with so-called "extra limbs" are actually a subclassification of individuals born with parasitic twins, called dypigus, meaning that the lower half of the body is reduplicated. It's like having a parasitic twin, but having one that can actually function in a near-normal way.) Then there are the fake lycans. The fake bearded ladies. The faux mentalists. And so on.
The world of the carnival sideshow is so inherently intriguging because of the blurred lines between fiction and reality. It's a social world of the past. A form of entertainment that is no longer PC. By modern standards, it must be some violation of civil rights and liberties, though most carnival showfolk joined-up willingly. I like its inherent contradictions, its mysteries, its story.
The only thing that even comes close to being a carnival sideshow in our society, is probably reality TV.
And I am totally serious.
I have a fascination with Carnie folk. The way the live their rootless lives as American gypsies, the wandering minstrels of their era. The social acceptance of treating those with unique genetic anomilies as exhibits. The endurance of the freakshow tradition. The seemingly contradictory view that the freakshow allows an outlet for such genetic anomolies to "make a living just by being themselves." The silmultaneous rise of the burlesque show as both art and entertainment. It's all fascinating.
Almost as fascinating as genuine sideshow performers is the way a "gaff" is pulled off. Half the time, customers would never know if they were seeing the genuine article or a falsification. Siamese twins were "constructed" by carnival management because the condition is exceptionally rare, and having grown twins was even more of an anomily due to the low survival rates of such conjoined siblings during the heyday of the carnival era. Hermaphrodites were constructed using prosthetics. Parasitic twins (a half-formed twin attached somewhere on the abdomen to the host twin, essentially a failed attempted at the development of conjoined twins; parasitic twins have no brains or hearts but subsist on the bloodflow of the host twin, like an extra limb) were attached with simple paste and children's dolls. People added extra limbs the same way. (People born with so-called "extra limbs" are actually a subclassification of individuals born with parasitic twins, called dypigus, meaning that the lower half of the body is reduplicated. It's like having a parasitic twin, but having one that can actually function in a near-normal way.) Then there are the fake lycans. The fake bearded ladies. The faux mentalists. And so on.
The world of the carnival sideshow is so inherently intriguging because of the blurred lines between fiction and reality. It's a social world of the past. A form of entertainment that is no longer PC. By modern standards, it must be some violation of civil rights and liberties, though most carnival showfolk joined-up willingly. I like its inherent contradictions, its mysteries, its story.
The only thing that even comes close to being a carnival sideshow in our society, is probably reality TV.
Tuesday, January 13, 2004
I Guess the Renaissance Really is Over.
The Northern California Renaissance Pleasure Faire has been closed permanantly. It's over. No more two hour drives from my house to Hollister. I feel like I've been kicked square in the chest. I spend four years collecting a great costume, each year promising myself some silly new accessory so that the outfit is never really complete and I always have a good excuse to spend a great deal of my hard earned money. ("But Mom, this year I promised myself a set of leather handcuffs and a new cat o' nine. That's why I spent 100 dollars at the faire!") This year I was finally going to get a tankard to put in the tankard strap I bought 4 years ago. I guess I'm not getting it from that faire.
I guess its a little silly to be this upset that the NorCal faire is gone. It's not like its the only one. (AND THANK GOD!) The Heart of the Forest Faire, I hear, is very lovely, and in the location that NorCal Faire used to be in the late 80's and early 90's. But NorCal faire was the big faire, and it was my faire. And it has all kinds of stupid sentimental value behind it. And for a few years, it was only 30 minutes from my house! I could always go to Faire then. But like I said, its not the only faire. I found out that Heart of the Forest Faire happens here in Santa Barbara, as well. And during Spring quarter, too! But there goes all the familiarity that I miss about NorCal Faire. There's always SoCal Faire, but that is a two hour drive I'd be making without my friends . . . or my crappy little un-Renaissance white Prizm.
Sigh.
I shouldn't be this crushed. But I am.
I guess its a little silly to be this upset that the NorCal faire is gone. It's not like its the only one. (AND THANK GOD!) The Heart of the Forest Faire, I hear, is very lovely, and in the location that NorCal Faire used to be in the late 80's and early 90's. But NorCal faire was the big faire, and it was my faire. And it has all kinds of stupid sentimental value behind it. And for a few years, it was only 30 minutes from my house! I could always go to Faire then. But like I said, its not the only faire. I found out that Heart of the Forest Faire happens here in Santa Barbara, as well. And during Spring quarter, too! But there goes all the familiarity that I miss about NorCal Faire. There's always SoCal Faire, but that is a two hour drive I'd be making without my friends . . . or my crappy little un-Renaissance white Prizm.
Sigh.
I shouldn't be this crushed. But I am.
Sunday, January 11, 2004
Pool Sharks.
I am very bad at pool. Actually, we are all pretty bad at pool--Jen, Heather and I, I mean. In a bout of Saturday Night Boredom, we decided to drag Raffi along to play some pool in DeAnza. It was a fairly even match, considering the teams (me with Raffi, and my roommates against us). Even if only because we are all so terrifically bad at the game. Jen and I rarely sink any shots. I am known to scratch on breaks. Heather and Raffi are of much better skill . . . except for the scratches . . . or sinking shots for the other team. Our games last forever because none of us possess the simple abilities to execute the shots that we can clearly, through clever observations of physics and geometry, see. Let's just say that I really shouldn't have titled this entry "Pool Sharks" as none of us seem to live up to the name.
But Jen is determined that if we play a game or two of pool a day, or at least as often as we can, that we can improve. And this is true. Today's three game series with Kevin as a fourth showed much improvement over last night (until in the 3rd game, when Kevin and I spent 20 minutes trying to sink the 8 ball and failing miserably . . . then I think we just stoppd caring). Now, if I said that my team (last night, Stevi-Raffi, today, Stevi-Kevin) lost every single game we played, you'd have to assume that Jen and Heather are actually pretty good at pool. But this assumption would be wholly incorrect. They are no better than us, really. They just never get an oppurtunity to go for the 8 ball and, therefore, never get the oppurtunity to scratch on the 8 ball. They win simply because we fail. Not because they're (dare I say it?) good at pool.
I think this bit of dialogue between Raffi and me last night in the pool room is so good that it needs to be shared:
(after scratching on the 8 ball to lose our second game that night)
Me: I am very bad at this. I should just give up and kill myself now.
Raffi: Ahh. Don't do that. After all, it is only pool.
Me: You're right. Let's go get ice cream.
Raffi: Wow. Crisis averted. You almost killed yourself. Thank God I stepped in.
Me: Eh, I'm pretty easy to distract.
That last bit, that's probably why I'm not very good at pool.
But Jen is determined that if we play a game or two of pool a day, or at least as often as we can, that we can improve. And this is true. Today's three game series with Kevin as a fourth showed much improvement over last night (until in the 3rd game, when Kevin and I spent 20 minutes trying to sink the 8 ball and failing miserably . . . then I think we just stoppd caring). Now, if I said that my team (last night, Stevi-Raffi, today, Stevi-Kevin) lost every single game we played, you'd have to assume that Jen and Heather are actually pretty good at pool. But this assumption would be wholly incorrect. They are no better than us, really. They just never get an oppurtunity to go for the 8 ball and, therefore, never get the oppurtunity to scratch on the 8 ball. They win simply because we fail. Not because they're (dare I say it?) good at pool.
I think this bit of dialogue between Raffi and me last night in the pool room is so good that it needs to be shared:
(after scratching on the 8 ball to lose our second game that night)
Me: I am very bad at this. I should just give up and kill myself now.
Raffi: Ahh. Don't do that. After all, it is only pool.
Me: You're right. Let's go get ice cream.
Raffi: Wow. Crisis averted. You almost killed yourself. Thank God I stepped in.
Me: Eh, I'm pretty easy to distract.
That last bit, that's probably why I'm not very good at pool.
Friday, January 09, 2004
Le cough. Le hack. Le sigh.
I was practially glowing last quarter because the move from the Bay to Santa Barbara had proven quite fruitful for my health. For once in my life, I wasn't ill every other week. In fact, I could breathe easily, sleep well, etc. In general, an improvement over the last four years of my life. But I go home for break, and pick up a slight cold. Annoying, yes, but a vast improvement over that one week in high school where I swear I had the bubonic plague . . . and all other subsequent high school illnesses, for that matter. And I got over it quickly, which was even more of a miracle because my normal immune system must have some sort of deficiency. But despite all that good fortune, I return to campus and I am smacked in the face with a cold. Admittedly, this one is far superior to most colds Ive had. The sore throat has passed and now I am left with a stuffy nose . . . that would seem to contain more mucus than I thought humanly possible. Nevertheless, it doesn't make me happy. I long for last quarter, where I lived happily and disease free!
I did fulfill my long-ago promise to Jake to see a doctor before the end of the year, though. I did it right on the wire: December 31st. However, I did it. Apparently, there really isn't anything wrong with me. Not anemic. Not diabetic. Not iron deficient. I'm just little. And frail. (All the rage with the gents during the French revolution, so I'm told. Doesn't everyone love a waif?) My uterus is, however, tilted slightly to the left. I don't know what that means. It's apparently not a bad thing. It's just a quaint abnormailty.
They also did some blood tests during my visit to the doctor's office. Let me tell you, having blood drawn is possibly the coolest thing in existence. It may have been some of the most medically related fun I've ever had in my life. I couldn't stop laughing. It was great! Blood is all swirly and there's just so much of it! And they can fill tubes with blood instantaneously! My god, why is blood so fucking cool?! Why did no one tell me blood was this cool? I would have dontated blood all the time in high school had I known! Oh, had I only known. College blood drives, here I come!
I did fulfill my long-ago promise to Jake to see a doctor before the end of the year, though. I did it right on the wire: December 31st. However, I did it. Apparently, there really isn't anything wrong with me. Not anemic. Not diabetic. Not iron deficient. I'm just little. And frail. (All the rage with the gents during the French revolution, so I'm told. Doesn't everyone love a waif?) My uterus is, however, tilted slightly to the left. I don't know what that means. It's apparently not a bad thing. It's just a quaint abnormailty.
They also did some blood tests during my visit to the doctor's office. Let me tell you, having blood drawn is possibly the coolest thing in existence. It may have been some of the most medically related fun I've ever had in my life. I couldn't stop laughing. It was great! Blood is all swirly and there's just so much of it! And they can fill tubes with blood instantaneously! My god, why is blood so fucking cool?! Why did no one tell me blood was this cool? I would have dontated blood all the time in high school had I known! Oh, had I only known. College blood drives, here I come!
Sunday, January 04, 2004
And we're back.
Back in Santa Barbara. Back in my dorm. Back in class. Back . . . here.
But here is a pretty good place for me, usually. I'm more sane here than I've ever been before. And that's saying a lot, I think.
Only here can I listen to No Doubt's "Simple Kind of Life" with my roommate singing along (in her perfect, perfect Gwen-like pitch) and not be in tears. I promised myself in the wee hours of New Year's Day (after several episodes of "Sex & the City") that these kinds of things would no longer bother me. It's four days into the new year and I'm succeeding. We shall see how long this lasts.
Regardless, I love being back here in my dark little room with Jen and Heather--Jen singing along to whatever CD she has on, Heather on the phone with someone. It feels right. It also feels right to be walking around here and rearranging things to accomodate our Christmas gifts and all the other extra stuff we returned with.
It even feels right to be wandering through the bookstore and realize that I got the most obscure of all English 10 professors. Everyone else has a good four books on their reading list, and most include at least one Toni Morrison novel (Sidenote: Marcus bought me her new book, the aptly titled Love, for our anniversary.) . . . my professor chose two books, both of which I have never heard of in my life. In the best case, this class turns out to be absolutely fascinating and the books are both some of the most interesting things I've never heard of. In the worst case, it blows because the novels chosen are reminiscent of Melville's Billy Budd, voted worst book every by students in Mrs. Pasternak's 2nd period AP English Lit class in 2003. Tomorrow morning shall tell.
We'll see if I can wake up at 7:40 of my own volition.
Back in Santa Barbara. Back in my dorm. Back in class. Back . . . here.
But here is a pretty good place for me, usually. I'm more sane here than I've ever been before. And that's saying a lot, I think.
Only here can I listen to No Doubt's "Simple Kind of Life" with my roommate singing along (in her perfect, perfect Gwen-like pitch) and not be in tears. I promised myself in the wee hours of New Year's Day (after several episodes of "Sex & the City") that these kinds of things would no longer bother me. It's four days into the new year and I'm succeeding. We shall see how long this lasts.
Regardless, I love being back here in my dark little room with Jen and Heather--Jen singing along to whatever CD she has on, Heather on the phone with someone. It feels right. It also feels right to be walking around here and rearranging things to accomodate our Christmas gifts and all the other extra stuff we returned with.
It even feels right to be wandering through the bookstore and realize that I got the most obscure of all English 10 professors. Everyone else has a good four books on their reading list, and most include at least one Toni Morrison novel (Sidenote: Marcus bought me her new book, the aptly titled Love, for our anniversary.) . . . my professor chose two books, both of which I have never heard of in my life. In the best case, this class turns out to be absolutely fascinating and the books are both some of the most interesting things I've never heard of. In the worst case, it blows because the novels chosen are reminiscent of Melville's Billy Budd, voted worst book every by students in Mrs. Pasternak's 2nd period AP English Lit class in 2003. Tomorrow morning shall tell.
We'll see if I can wake up at 7:40 of my own volition.
Wednesday, December 10, 2003
Heather and I are horrible human beings. The last of our fish has died.
Well, to be totally technical, we had to kill it. It sounds horrible, but let's set a couple things straight: a) it would have died anyway over the break and b) it was Selina's idea.
The fish had several options facing it, all of which included its eminent demise:
1. We leave it in the tank for three weeks, during which it dies of starvation because the only food tablets available last for a maximum of two weeks.
2. We put it in a cup and take it home with one of us. This sounds like a good idea at first, but when you think about it the fish would die on the long rides to our varius destinations. There is no way in hell Jen was going to be able to take a fish in a cup on the Greyhound down to LA. I probably could have taken it home to Crockett . . . if I were driving the five hours straight and not spending the duration of my week in Santa Monica with Marcus. (This would also involve putting a fish on a bus.) Finally, Heather lives a whole 9 hour drive from school. And I'm sure the fish would feeze to death before she reached Tahoe.
3. We flush the little fucker. The force kills him immediately.
4. Selina suggests we set him free in the lagoon . . . and let the saltwater cause it to die of shock within 30 seconds.
We went with option number four. And we set him free in the lagoon . . . he tried to swim back to us, and thrashed about violently in the shallows of the lagoon as the salt entered his gills. It was horrifying. We're fucking murderers. What kind of vegetarians are we?
I think this is it for us and dorm room pets, though. So its good news for all other living creatures we encounter.
Well, to be totally technical, we had to kill it. It sounds horrible, but let's set a couple things straight: a) it would have died anyway over the break and b) it was Selina's idea.
The fish had several options facing it, all of which included its eminent demise:
1. We leave it in the tank for three weeks, during which it dies of starvation because the only food tablets available last for a maximum of two weeks.
2. We put it in a cup and take it home with one of us. This sounds like a good idea at first, but when you think about it the fish would die on the long rides to our varius destinations. There is no way in hell Jen was going to be able to take a fish in a cup on the Greyhound down to LA. I probably could have taken it home to Crockett . . . if I were driving the five hours straight and not spending the duration of my week in Santa Monica with Marcus. (This would also involve putting a fish on a bus.) Finally, Heather lives a whole 9 hour drive from school. And I'm sure the fish would feeze to death before she reached Tahoe.
3. We flush the little fucker. The force kills him immediately.
4. Selina suggests we set him free in the lagoon . . . and let the saltwater cause it to die of shock within 30 seconds.
We went with option number four. And we set him free in the lagoon . . . he tried to swim back to us, and thrashed about violently in the shallows of the lagoon as the salt entered his gills. It was horrifying. We're fucking murderers. What kind of vegetarians are we?
I think this is it for us and dorm room pets, though. So its good news for all other living creatures we encounter.
Monday, December 08, 2003
I love the Holidays!!!!!
Yuletide is the bestest season . . . EVER!!!
The roommates and I are having Christmas tonight. I'm so excited. Plus, Heather and I get to have our birthdays tonight, too. (Heather was born two days after Christmas and I was born nine days after Christmas.) I'm such an egocentric whore. I love all Holidays that involve centering at least some sort of attention on myself. Be it by the use of food or gifts, I care not. So long as its all about me.
You know, and the spirit of giving and all that rot.
I kid. I'm a sucker for buying people presents, too. I like to spend money on people almost as much as spending money on myself. But, again, I can't discuss the supercool things I got for people because those snoopy bastards are probably reading this. However, I can say that Raffi and I have impeccable taste.
I left Raffi his gift in his room on Saturday night, so it would be waiting for him when he got back from his evil math final. I got him Edward Gorey's Gashlycrumb Tinies, because I'm sure that at least part of the spirit of Christmas involves the macabre deaths of unsuspecting children. Unbeknownst to me, he had gotten me the same book. It's all crazy-like! But, upon opening his gift, he returned the copy he got for me and traded it in for Amphigorey, Too. Now I have them all. But that's crazy. It's like we share a brain. A brain that delights in macabre demises, apparently.
Yuletide is the bestest season . . . EVER!!!
The roommates and I are having Christmas tonight. I'm so excited. Plus, Heather and I get to have our birthdays tonight, too. (Heather was born two days after Christmas and I was born nine days after Christmas.) I'm such an egocentric whore. I love all Holidays that involve centering at least some sort of attention on myself. Be it by the use of food or gifts, I care not. So long as its all about me.
You know, and the spirit of giving and all that rot.
I kid. I'm a sucker for buying people presents, too. I like to spend money on people almost as much as spending money on myself. But, again, I can't discuss the supercool things I got for people because those snoopy bastards are probably reading this. However, I can say that Raffi and I have impeccable taste.
I left Raffi his gift in his room on Saturday night, so it would be waiting for him when he got back from his evil math final. I got him Edward Gorey's Gashlycrumb Tinies, because I'm sure that at least part of the spirit of Christmas involves the macabre deaths of unsuspecting children. Unbeknownst to me, he had gotten me the same book. It's all crazy-like! But, upon opening his gift, he returned the copy he got for me and traded it in for Amphigorey, Too. Now I have them all. But that's crazy. It's like we share a brain. A brain that delights in macabre demises, apparently.
Saturday, December 06, 2003
I took a final this morning at 8 am. During which I wrote an essay about setting a production of Tartuffe in a Catholic High School (because the closest thing to 17th century French class structure is high school) and another essay about how the Olympics are a capitalist marketing tool that sells merchandise degrading the culture of the host countries/cities, with specific reference to the 2002 winter games in Salt Lake wherein pins featuring bicycling LDS missionaries and green jello made a mockery of American religions.
My brain does funny things when it has to think and hasn't really gotten a good rest.
Lalalalala . . . I was born at the wrong time of the year! Japanese restaurants are never open on my birthday and there are no theatrical productions running in the city that are of note. My mom and I were trying to plan what to do on my birthday. We were going to go to Teatro Zinzanni . . . until we realized that it would be $125 per person ($500 for a CARNIVAL????) plus another $40 that night in gratuity for the wait staff. Fuck that. I'll just put on my own show!
God, I'm tired.
My brain does funny things when it has to think and hasn't really gotten a good rest.
Lalalalala . . . I was born at the wrong time of the year! Japanese restaurants are never open on my birthday and there are no theatrical productions running in the city that are of note. My mom and I were trying to plan what to do on my birthday. We were going to go to Teatro Zinzanni . . . until we realized that it would be $125 per person ($500 for a CARNIVAL????) plus another $40 that night in gratuity for the wait staff. Fuck that. I'll just put on my own show!
God, I'm tired.
Thursday, December 04, 2003
So it's dead week, and there is literally nothing to do. One can only spend so much time studying, after all. Brooks on the 2nd floor is quoted as saying this about weekends in Santa Barbara: "It's so boring here. The only things to do are drink, study or spend money." It's sad, but true. I don't drink, because my idea of a good time with alcohol is getting together with a bunch of intellectual friends, getting drunk and trying to play word games or charades . . . and that kind of shit just doesn't go down in Santa Barbara. But it should. I don't really want to study just yet. I have a final Saturday in theatre . . . which I don't think will be very hard at all. However, I have to get up before 8 am to take it. That doesn't make me happy. After that, my next final is on Monday. At noon. And it's linguistics. So I'll get my study on a little later in the weekend. This leaves me with one choice: spend money.
I went downtown today to finalize my Christmas shopping. Or at least to bring it closer to its inevitable end. I bought a lot of books for people. I am not at liberty to say what books or for whom, because the intended recipients read this weblog and I don't want those snooping bastards to find out and ruin the suprise. Let it be said, however, that Barnes & Noble and Borders booksellers are just a little bit richer today because of me.
I'm also noticing that because drinking, studying, and spending money are the only things to do on weekends around here . . . and because I usually do the latter . . . my favorite stores on State Street are getting a little old due to biweekly visitation. New Deal is my favorite place for Swingwear, but the prices are tailored to the budget of some movie star's neice who just happens to have a very big place in the Santa Barbara hills. Plus, I know for a fact I can find those dresses at half the price if I look hard enough on the Macy's and JC Penny's clearance racks. (I just did that very thing over Thanksgiving break.) Midnite Sun is the closest thing to Goth-coture that you'll find on State . . . but it's also a smidge pricey . . . and I've only seen one skirt in there that I cannot live without. I mostly just buy their raunchy underwear. The girl's stuff continually changes. The guy's stuff doesn't. This is why it's hard to find cool shirts for Marcus there. In fact, thats a problem with a lot of the boutiques on State: 75% female oriented, 25% male oriented. Marcus likes clothing. He just doesn't have nice clothing. And it's my mission to find him some sort of style. State Street boutiques are not helping me here. Scavenge is alright, but they should lower their prices a bit, seeing as they don't do any business post-Halloween . . . and I really just want a pair of extra-cheap boots from them. And maybe a Dickie's jacket. So I'm forced to go shopping in Reference, because there is no Forever 21 on State and the stores are practically sisters, which has very little black most of the year. But it's winter right now. Black is in. But if I want any of it, I'm apparently going to have to be preppy-goth . . . or start building up my professional teacher's wardrobe.
I went downtown today to finalize my Christmas shopping. Or at least to bring it closer to its inevitable end. I bought a lot of books for people. I am not at liberty to say what books or for whom, because the intended recipients read this weblog and I don't want those snooping bastards to find out and ruin the suprise. Let it be said, however, that Barnes & Noble and Borders booksellers are just a little bit richer today because of me.
I'm also noticing that because drinking, studying, and spending money are the only things to do on weekends around here . . . and because I usually do the latter . . . my favorite stores on State Street are getting a little old due to biweekly visitation. New Deal is my favorite place for Swingwear, but the prices are tailored to the budget of some movie star's neice who just happens to have a very big place in the Santa Barbara hills. Plus, I know for a fact I can find those dresses at half the price if I look hard enough on the Macy's and JC Penny's clearance racks. (I just did that very thing over Thanksgiving break.) Midnite Sun is the closest thing to Goth-coture that you'll find on State . . . but it's also a smidge pricey . . . and I've only seen one skirt in there that I cannot live without. I mostly just buy their raunchy underwear. The girl's stuff continually changes. The guy's stuff doesn't. This is why it's hard to find cool shirts for Marcus there. In fact, thats a problem with a lot of the boutiques on State: 75% female oriented, 25% male oriented. Marcus likes clothing. He just doesn't have nice clothing. And it's my mission to find him some sort of style. State Street boutiques are not helping me here. Scavenge is alright, but they should lower their prices a bit, seeing as they don't do any business post-Halloween . . . and I really just want a pair of extra-cheap boots from them. And maybe a Dickie's jacket. So I'm forced to go shopping in Reference, because there is no Forever 21 on State and the stores are practically sisters, which has very little black most of the year. But it's winter right now. Black is in. But if I want any of it, I'm apparently going to have to be preppy-goth . . . or start building up my professional teacher's wardrobe.
Sunday, November 30, 2003
It's really hard to have a good Thanksgiving under the following circumstances:
a. You're a vegetarian.
b. Your Grandmother is from the South/Midwest . . . and doesn't know how to cook for vegetarians.
c. You have a very small family.
d. Said very small family is largely uneccentric and uninteresting.
e. Grandfather is dying of cancer.
But given all of these circumstances, Turkey Day wasn't horrible. It was okay. I wasn't expecting a whole lot more than that, anyway. I've accepted the fact that my grandmother will always forget to make vegetarian food. (I usually spend Thanksgiving munching on potatoes. Which is okay by me.) It's the Ed dying part that blows. He's the nicest, most loving man in the world and he really doesn't deserve to spend the remainder of his days in so much pain. Ed's the kind of guy who should die in a freak repelling accident, or in a rockslide. Or by falling into a grapepress. He should die on a Boy Scout Trip (since he's been Scoutmastering for 50 plus years), or making wine. Either way, he'd go out doing what he loves. His heart has never been used; it beat far too slowly. Only when he met my grandmother 12 years ago did he have a pacemaker put in. He has all the will and strength of someone half his age. But now his body is riddled with the cancer that so kindly lodged itself in his lungs after working for years as a plumber in asbestos-ridden homes and ships. Ed doesn't deserve to die just because there were no building codes back in the day. But he will. And it probably won't be very long until then. And without Ed, I fear my hometown will be entirely devoured in darkness.
But on a far less depressing note, my weekend at home was alright. Good, in fact, if ya' wanna get all technical and stuff. I was very anxious to get back and see mia famiglia, despite the mask I put on that I don't miss them. I do miss them a little teensy bit. I spent a lot of good quality time with my mums, which is a whole lot different than spending good quality time with a dictionary, let me tell you. We rummaged around department stores on the absolute worst of shopping days in an attempt to find me a decent winter coat. But I'm a finicky bitch: all the coats that fit me were ugly, and the ones that I liked didn't fit. Bugger me. I did however find the following wonders that I cannot have until Christmas (because that's how my mom shops for me, takes me out and lets me get things that I deem cool, but hides them from me and wraps them up for Christmas . . . so much for the element of suprise): a pair of vintage white lace knee high Victorian boots, a purse in the shape of a corset, yet another swing dress . . . and a new glass pen from Dicken's Fair.
Dicken's Fair is by far my new favorite Christmas tradition. Because it's just a San Francisco thing, it feels far more authentic than RenFaire . . . and I prefer Victorian garb to RenGarb by far, anyway. Plus it's always nice when your parents indulge your bizarre costume party fantasies and pay your admission and food. Alas, I was not in garb. Because this was unexpected. My mother just woke me up and announced we were going . . . and then I realized that my corsets were still in Santa Barbara. Teach me to leave them behind!
Plus, I got to see The Best Friend, whom I have been missing terribly. All in all, a lovely trip back home to the bay.
And it is officially only 13 more days til Big Bad Voodoo Daddy! I cannot contain my excitement.
a. You're a vegetarian.
b. Your Grandmother is from the South/Midwest . . . and doesn't know how to cook for vegetarians.
c. You have a very small family.
d. Said very small family is largely uneccentric and uninteresting.
e. Grandfather is dying of cancer.
But given all of these circumstances, Turkey Day wasn't horrible. It was okay. I wasn't expecting a whole lot more than that, anyway. I've accepted the fact that my grandmother will always forget to make vegetarian food. (I usually spend Thanksgiving munching on potatoes. Which is okay by me.) It's the Ed dying part that blows. He's the nicest, most loving man in the world and he really doesn't deserve to spend the remainder of his days in so much pain. Ed's the kind of guy who should die in a freak repelling accident, or in a rockslide. Or by falling into a grapepress. He should die on a Boy Scout Trip (since he's been Scoutmastering for 50 plus years), or making wine. Either way, he'd go out doing what he loves. His heart has never been used; it beat far too slowly. Only when he met my grandmother 12 years ago did he have a pacemaker put in. He has all the will and strength of someone half his age. But now his body is riddled with the cancer that so kindly lodged itself in his lungs after working for years as a plumber in asbestos-ridden homes and ships. Ed doesn't deserve to die just because there were no building codes back in the day. But he will. And it probably won't be very long until then. And without Ed, I fear my hometown will be entirely devoured in darkness.
But on a far less depressing note, my weekend at home was alright. Good, in fact, if ya' wanna get all technical and stuff. I was very anxious to get back and see mia famiglia, despite the mask I put on that I don't miss them. I do miss them a little teensy bit. I spent a lot of good quality time with my mums, which is a whole lot different than spending good quality time with a dictionary, let me tell you. We rummaged around department stores on the absolute worst of shopping days in an attempt to find me a decent winter coat. But I'm a finicky bitch: all the coats that fit me were ugly, and the ones that I liked didn't fit. Bugger me. I did however find the following wonders that I cannot have until Christmas (because that's how my mom shops for me, takes me out and lets me get things that I deem cool, but hides them from me and wraps them up for Christmas . . . so much for the element of suprise): a pair of vintage white lace knee high Victorian boots, a purse in the shape of a corset, yet another swing dress . . . and a new glass pen from Dicken's Fair.
Dicken's Fair is by far my new favorite Christmas tradition. Because it's just a San Francisco thing, it feels far more authentic than RenFaire . . . and I prefer Victorian garb to RenGarb by far, anyway. Plus it's always nice when your parents indulge your bizarre costume party fantasies and pay your admission and food. Alas, I was not in garb. Because this was unexpected. My mother just woke me up and announced we were going . . . and then I realized that my corsets were still in Santa Barbara. Teach me to leave them behind!
Plus, I got to see The Best Friend, whom I have been missing terribly. All in all, a lovely trip back home to the bay.
And it is officially only 13 more days til Big Bad Voodoo Daddy! I cannot contain my excitement.
Saturday, November 22, 2003
745.
That's my number.
I am the 745th girl to play J.J.'s bongo drums.
Let me elaborate: J.J. is this blind music major that I see around campus. He's really friendly--so much so that it sometimes borders on annoying--and he's been doing this experiment-type thing about girls playing the bongos. I am not actually entirely certain about what, per say, this is, but I do know this: this is an awesome way to meet women. Hell, if I had a quaint disability such as blindness (hey, I'm halfway there!) I would totally come up with something as novel as this to meet people. Raffi and I were returning a game to the front desk in San Raf, and J.J. walked by us and started talking to us about music. At one point he takes these bongos out of his backpack and asks me if I would play them for him. I confess that I have no musical talent, but he asks me to play anyway. He demonstates how to do a beat and I fail fucking miserably. He then asks me to do a drumroll. Apparently, I do such a kickass German drumroll that I get to go on his special list. "You just say that. All the girls are on the special list, aren't they?" says Raffi. J.J. proves him wrong by reciting to us the entirety of the special list, with reasons for why some of them were on there if they were extra special. German drumrolls are apparently extra special.
That's my number.
I am the 745th girl to play J.J.'s bongo drums.
Let me elaborate: J.J. is this blind music major that I see around campus. He's really friendly--so much so that it sometimes borders on annoying--and he's been doing this experiment-type thing about girls playing the bongos. I am not actually entirely certain about what, per say, this is, but I do know this: this is an awesome way to meet women. Hell, if I had a quaint disability such as blindness (hey, I'm halfway there!) I would totally come up with something as novel as this to meet people. Raffi and I were returning a game to the front desk in San Raf, and J.J. walked by us and started talking to us about music. At one point he takes these bongos out of his backpack and asks me if I would play them for him. I confess that I have no musical talent, but he asks me to play anyway. He demonstates how to do a beat and I fail fucking miserably. He then asks me to do a drumroll. Apparently, I do such a kickass German drumroll that I get to go on his special list. "You just say that. All the girls are on the special list, aren't they?" says Raffi. J.J. proves him wrong by reciting to us the entirety of the special list, with reasons for why some of them were on there if they were extra special. German drumrolls are apparently extra special.
Tuesday, November 18, 2003
I found the perfect Christmas card! It's all weird and kinda spooky and Edward Gorey-fied . . . but it is out of stock on Gorey Details! I am greatly dismayed. No one will have a spookified Christmas if they cannot have Christmas with the Great Veiled Bear. I am deeply saddened. Deeply.
Monday, November 17, 2003
I made friends with an ex-con on the bus home from LA yesterday.
Yep, it was fun. All I wanted to do was read my art history textbook. All he wanted to do was talk to someone. In a way, it's kind of sad. But I learned a whole lot about how to not break my parole and still have fun! This guy, a tall, muscular, mustachioed dude, was just getting back from a 15 day parole pass trip to Ontario, CA. (See, when you're on parole, you are limited to a 50 mile radius of your hometown, and you can get a pass to vacation outside of that area so that if you are pulled over you are not in violation of your parole. He is wise in the ways of jail.) He went down there to hook up with some college girl and ended up hooking up with her mom, instead. He showed me a picture. She was wearing a black cowboy hat atop her dark curls. It made her look like she was from New Jersey. He then told me about his dead friend, who was recently hit by a train. He showed me pictures of him, too. Apparently, he just carries this stuff around with him. He even had those little ribbon rememberance things you get at Mexican funerals. This man is infinitely prepared for things to tell what Chuck Palahniuk calls "single-serving friends" in Fight Club.
That was way more than I would have ever wanted to know about this guy. Why can't I have a peaceful busride back to campus where I can be boring and academic and read my textbooks with fervor? That's all I want. But I guess with an ex-con, one feels compelled to nodd and smile like you care. God knows why this guy was in the pen. I was not about to ask. Really, I just wanted to do my art history homework.
The really interesting part about this was that he told the same exact things to the woman who came to sit with us at a later point on the bus ride . . . the same fucking routine, only in Spanish this time.
This engagement ring, on an only slightly related note, is an amazing tool. Had this ex-con been hitting on me, rather than just being lonely and odd, I certainly would have had to employ its laser-beam like powers on him. Last weekend, the guys, Heather and I all went to see The Matrix Revolutions. We got there exceptionally early, grabbed coffee, and got in line. Before the "queuing" (as those silly Brits would say), we perused Borders for a bit. Now, keep in mind that this is The Matrix and, naturally, I am all gussied up in vinyl and boots and the whole fucking shebang. I look like Trinity, but with a pretty girl's makeup. I'm wearing this ratty little jacket I love, with patches from cult movies running down both of the sleeves. So, we walk in, and Heather and I peruse the first table of books we see and I am immediately caught by the eyes of some long haired Renaissance Faire junkie. He compliments me on my outfit. I am now prey. I say thanks, and explain that we're seeing The Matrix, just so he doesn't think I'm a bondage freak everyday. He then takes note of the Rocky Horror Picture Show patch on my jacket, and starts up a conversation about going to Rocky. He is from Marin! Lo and behold! We go to the same Rocky back home! And then, by an odd turn of events, he offers to drive me down to the NuArt in LA for RHPS . . . if I give him my number. "Oh, thanks, but that's okay. My fiance lives down in Santa Monica, so I go to the NuArt with him, usually." I flash the ring. He is silent. This cat has eluded yet another hunter.
I thanked Marcus immediately. Never again will sleezy guys be a problem. I am freed.
Yep, it was fun. All I wanted to do was read my art history textbook. All he wanted to do was talk to someone. In a way, it's kind of sad. But I learned a whole lot about how to not break my parole and still have fun! This guy, a tall, muscular, mustachioed dude, was just getting back from a 15 day parole pass trip to Ontario, CA. (See, when you're on parole, you are limited to a 50 mile radius of your hometown, and you can get a pass to vacation outside of that area so that if you are pulled over you are not in violation of your parole. He is wise in the ways of jail.) He went down there to hook up with some college girl and ended up hooking up with her mom, instead. He showed me a picture. She was wearing a black cowboy hat atop her dark curls. It made her look like she was from New Jersey. He then told me about his dead friend, who was recently hit by a train. He showed me pictures of him, too. Apparently, he just carries this stuff around with him. He even had those little ribbon rememberance things you get at Mexican funerals. This man is infinitely prepared for things to tell what Chuck Palahniuk calls "single-serving friends" in Fight Club.
That was way more than I would have ever wanted to know about this guy. Why can't I have a peaceful busride back to campus where I can be boring and academic and read my textbooks with fervor? That's all I want. But I guess with an ex-con, one feels compelled to nodd and smile like you care. God knows why this guy was in the pen. I was not about to ask. Really, I just wanted to do my art history homework.
The really interesting part about this was that he told the same exact things to the woman who came to sit with us at a later point on the bus ride . . . the same fucking routine, only in Spanish this time.
This engagement ring, on an only slightly related note, is an amazing tool. Had this ex-con been hitting on me, rather than just being lonely and odd, I certainly would have had to employ its laser-beam like powers on him. Last weekend, the guys, Heather and I all went to see The Matrix Revolutions. We got there exceptionally early, grabbed coffee, and got in line. Before the "queuing" (as those silly Brits would say), we perused Borders for a bit. Now, keep in mind that this is The Matrix and, naturally, I am all gussied up in vinyl and boots and the whole fucking shebang. I look like Trinity, but with a pretty girl's makeup. I'm wearing this ratty little jacket I love, with patches from cult movies running down both of the sleeves. So, we walk in, and Heather and I peruse the first table of books we see and I am immediately caught by the eyes of some long haired Renaissance Faire junkie. He compliments me on my outfit. I am now prey. I say thanks, and explain that we're seeing The Matrix, just so he doesn't think I'm a bondage freak everyday. He then takes note of the Rocky Horror Picture Show patch on my jacket, and starts up a conversation about going to Rocky. He is from Marin! Lo and behold! We go to the same Rocky back home! And then, by an odd turn of events, he offers to drive me down to the NuArt in LA for RHPS . . . if I give him my number. "Oh, thanks, but that's okay. My fiance lives down in Santa Monica, so I go to the NuArt with him, usually." I flash the ring. He is silent. This cat has eluded yet another hunter.
I thanked Marcus immediately. Never again will sleezy guys be a problem. I am freed.
Tuesday, November 04, 2003
I can't believe that I have to follow up my engagement announcement posting with yet another tale of dead fish.
So, uh, yeah. We totally blow at fishkeeping. Archimedes is dead. I scooped him out with Heather's incense burner, because we still haven't bought a net. Then I flushed him. He has gone the way that all good fish go. Whatever. I've grown very disillusioned with this fishkeeping thing. They are cheap pets. I want something substantial. Like a frog. Maybe we'll get a frog. Something. Anything. Anything that UCSB allows us to have that won't die immediately. As for me, I'll stick with my stuffed cats.
Marcus and I are going to get a bunch of kitties and a Caanan dog. And we shall name the puppy Jujubee. And we shall call him Jew Puppy, for he will be a dog of the chosen people. And he will herd the children, dear little lambs that they will be. And he will not die. For he is not a fish. He is a dog. And they are different.
So, uh, yeah. We totally blow at fishkeeping. Archimedes is dead. I scooped him out with Heather's incense burner, because we still haven't bought a net. Then I flushed him. He has gone the way that all good fish go. Whatever. I've grown very disillusioned with this fishkeeping thing. They are cheap pets. I want something substantial. Like a frog. Maybe we'll get a frog. Something. Anything. Anything that UCSB allows us to have that won't die immediately. As for me, I'll stick with my stuffed cats.
Marcus and I are going to get a bunch of kitties and a Caanan dog. And we shall name the puppy Jujubee. And we shall call him Jew Puppy, for he will be a dog of the chosen people. And he will herd the children, dear little lambs that they will be. And he will not die. For he is not a fish. He is a dog. And they are different.
Monday, November 03, 2003
I realize that last week I said Monday was the best day of my life. I'd like to make a correction. Last Monday was the best day of my collegiate academic life. Halloween was the best day of my life.
It was raining like mad when I left Santa Barbara, and the rain followed me down to Santa Monica, it seems. We went to the pier just after sunset, and it was just beginning to drizzle there. But nevertheless it was Halloween and no one was particularly interested in playing arcade games or riding the ferris wheel, so they were closing everything down when we got there. Marcus was really hoping for the ferris wheel--he loves those things. The play he wrote for me contains one. It's a very 1950's sort of Boardwalk romance icon. I think that's why he likes them. But we got no ferris wheel ride that night. So instead we walk along the pier and I am freezing fucking cold and I suggest that we go get coffee to warm up.
"We will, but I want to walk along the beach a little bit first."
"I don't have beach shoes, really. And all the sand is wet."
"Let's just walk here a little longer, okay?"
"But, honey, it's so cold!" He pulls me to him. I press my face to his chest.
"Honey, I got you a present."
"You did?" He never gives me presents.
"Yes. I wanted you to have this, and I want you to know that Moulin Rouge is more than just a movie, ok?"
We were going to a midnight showing that night. I open the gift paper--it's wrapped in Christmas wrap--and inside there is a still of Nicole Kidman and Ewan McGregor, signed. He begins again:
"It's not really signed. The signatures are just tacked on. You can see the pixels around the names. I wanted to get you a signed 3rd edition script, but it was too much. Anyway, I know you like that press shot. It's cute."
"It is. Thank you, honey. Um, could you put it in your backpack? I don't want to get it wet. I'll look at it more closely later."
I snuggle up against his chest again, trying not to freeze to death. Here the words he says to me get jumbled.
"You mean more to me than any movie, or any play, or any poem, or any other peice of art. You know that. You mean more to me than all art can ever be."
That last bit is a line from Dorian Gray. I look up. There is a Zales box in my face, a glittering diamond ring inside it. I'm floored.
"Will you marry me?"
All I can do is laugh. Well, it's not exactly laughing. It's shocked laughter, combined with joyous giggles. My hands fly to my mouth. I don't know what to say or do. I forget all about Dorian Gray. I turn and I jump and I spin. I am so happy.
"Honey? Will you?" He waves the box at me.
"Yes!" I jump toward him and throw my arms around him. "Yes!" And we kiss, and I am still laughing.
"Take that thing off." He points to the lover's knot I wear on my left ring finger. I do, and he slips on the most beautiful, sparkling diamond ring in the world. It is simple and poetic and shines like fire. "You really do mean more to me than all art can ever mean."
"That's from Dorian Gray, you know."
"Is it?"
"Yes. Sibyl says it to Dorian on the night she gives up the theatre."
"Well, it's true. I love you . . .
"Beyond poetry."
And we kiss, and I lace my hand in his, and we walk away from the bright lights of the pier, the shadow of the ferris wheel--completely and utterly warm.
It was raining like mad when I left Santa Barbara, and the rain followed me down to Santa Monica, it seems. We went to the pier just after sunset, and it was just beginning to drizzle there. But nevertheless it was Halloween and no one was particularly interested in playing arcade games or riding the ferris wheel, so they were closing everything down when we got there. Marcus was really hoping for the ferris wheel--he loves those things. The play he wrote for me contains one. It's a very 1950's sort of Boardwalk romance icon. I think that's why he likes them. But we got no ferris wheel ride that night. So instead we walk along the pier and I am freezing fucking cold and I suggest that we go get coffee to warm up.
"We will, but I want to walk along the beach a little bit first."
"I don't have beach shoes, really. And all the sand is wet."
"Let's just walk here a little longer, okay?"
"But, honey, it's so cold!" He pulls me to him. I press my face to his chest.
"Honey, I got you a present."
"You did?" He never gives me presents.
"Yes. I wanted you to have this, and I want you to know that Moulin Rouge is more than just a movie, ok?"
We were going to a midnight showing that night. I open the gift paper--it's wrapped in Christmas wrap--and inside there is a still of Nicole Kidman and Ewan McGregor, signed. He begins again:
"It's not really signed. The signatures are just tacked on. You can see the pixels around the names. I wanted to get you a signed 3rd edition script, but it was too much. Anyway, I know you like that press shot. It's cute."
"It is. Thank you, honey. Um, could you put it in your backpack? I don't want to get it wet. I'll look at it more closely later."
I snuggle up against his chest again, trying not to freeze to death. Here the words he says to me get jumbled.
"You mean more to me than any movie, or any play, or any poem, or any other peice of art. You know that. You mean more to me than all art can ever be."
That last bit is a line from Dorian Gray. I look up. There is a Zales box in my face, a glittering diamond ring inside it. I'm floored.
"Will you marry me?"
All I can do is laugh. Well, it's not exactly laughing. It's shocked laughter, combined with joyous giggles. My hands fly to my mouth. I don't know what to say or do. I forget all about Dorian Gray. I turn and I jump and I spin. I am so happy.
"Honey? Will you?" He waves the box at me.
"Yes!" I jump toward him and throw my arms around him. "Yes!" And we kiss, and I am still laughing.
"Take that thing off." He points to the lover's knot I wear on my left ring finger. I do, and he slips on the most beautiful, sparkling diamond ring in the world. It is simple and poetic and shines like fire. "You really do mean more to me than all art can ever mean."
"That's from Dorian Gray, you know."
"Is it?"
"Yes. Sibyl says it to Dorian on the night she gives up the theatre."
"Well, it's true. I love you . . .
"Beyond poetry."
And we kiss, and I lace my hand in his, and we walk away from the bright lights of the pier, the shadow of the ferris wheel--completely and utterly warm.
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.
Aphrodite/Eros
?? Which Of The Greek Gods Are You ??
brought to you by Quizilla
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.
Aphrodite/Eros
?? Which Of The Greek Gods Are You ??
brought to you by Quizilla
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!
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!
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