Makeover-Makeover . . .

We just did a Mary Kay party as a favor to a friend of a friend. I am now obsessed with green eyeshadow and the prospect of owning a lipstick called "raisinberry." So, naturally, I spent money on makeup. Le sigh. I'm going to need a much bigger train case for all of my beauty products. I'm considering this a humanitarian effort because my spending money on makeup means that, eventually, Miss Sheila will get a car. My vanity brings good to other people. All is well with the world.

Yadda Yadda Yadda

This is the elaborate construction of characters if our lives were like Seinfeld . . .

Regulars:
Jen= Jerry
Jen is Jerry because she is the most balanced out of the four of us, but is randomly overcritical. Also, the world revolves around her.
Heather= Elaine
Heather is Elaine because she has never had a successful relationship with a guy, and everyone she meets think that, for some reason, she hates them. She's a pusher who hates The English Patient.
Stevi= George Costanza
Stevi is George for soooo many reasons. She is inappropriately possessive of "her seat" in Campbell Hall (J8), and sometimes irrational about inconsequential things, like finding the proper comeback.
Nikki Ferry=Kramer
Nikki is Kramer because she stumbles occasionally, is the funniest of our foursome, and works at Bargain Network . . . which is almost like Kramerica.

Recurring Characters:
Richie=Newman
Richie is Newman because he and Kramer and the schemers of the group. Also, sometimes Richie wishes Nikki would just drop dead.
Raffi= Babu
Arguably the most "ethnic" of our group, we are in continual fear that the current government will deport him because he looks like a "terrorist." Also, like Babu, Raffi has aspirations in the business world. We really hope he doesn't get deported.
Chris= Putty
Chris completely matches the randomness of Putty. Is he is all that is man? All signs point to yes.
Kevin= Banya
Banya and Jerry have a love/hate relationship, just like Jen and Kevin. Banya, like Kev, is very indecisive about his set and continually annoys Jerry by asking him for advice.
Dani= Susan
Dani just looks like Susan. And Stevi is probably cheap enough to buy Dani the most toxic of stationary glues.

Guest Stars:
David= George's Mom
Ted= George's Dad
Dan= Soup Nazi
Derek= J. Peterman
Greg= Joe DaVola
Britney= Man Hands
Segway Girl= Bubble Boy
Naked Jessica= The Girl Who Doesn't Wear a Bra
Cara= The Girl Who Got Gonnerhea from a Tractor
Gina= The Sidler
Marisa= Alternate George (From when Elaine goes into that weird alternate universe.)
Frankie= Darren (Kramer's personal secretary at Kramerica, who Kramer tries to guide. Just as Nikki has taken Frankie under her wing at Bargain Network.)
Nick Lafferty= Barry Prophet (The guy that the foursome think is on coke because he's allergic to Kramer's sweater.)
Nikki's Mom= Babs Kramer (Because if Nikki is Kramer, than her mommy should be, um, her mommy.)
Scott Ferry= Bob Sacamano (The guy Kramer always talks about but viewer's never see. Just like Nikki's brother.)
Irish Guy from Heather's "Psych Class"= Captain Nemo (Because Elaine once gave him a fake number, just as Heather gave the Irish guy a fake major.)
Phil the Movie Guy= Celia (Who Jerry only dates to play with her toys.)
Crazy Jesus Guy= Christy (Who always wears the same dress, just as he always wears the same clothes.)

I Don't Do Camp.

A little bit of background to put this post in context: I was supposed to go to Italy last summer as part of the Lion's Club Intl. Youth Exchange Program. And then people in China got SARS. And people in Europe got scared because they do not have a large wet thing separating them from China. So, the majority of European YE programs were cancelled for the summer. Rather than just telling the Chinese kids, "No, I'm sorry, but you cannot attend this years Youth Exchange because you pose a serious health threat to all others in attendance" (because that's discrimination), they decided to cancel the whole kit and caboodle. Fair, sure, but as a result I had to slave away at Hollywood Video for 5 weeks longer than I should have.

So, background out of the way, I am going on the Youth Exchange program to Italy for certain this year. Now, what I've always been a little aprehensive about concerning this trip is the fact that I have to spend a week at camp. I've never been to camp in America, let alone a foriegn country. If I can't handle stupid camp kids here, how the hell am I supposed to deal with stupid camp kids in Europe. But today, all my fears were quelled. Quelled with an email from Lion Alfredo, owner of a small, lovely hotel in the Alps who runs the so-called "camp" program in Italy. I am staying for a full week in the comfort of the Apli & Golf Hotel in Bormio, which is evidently somewhere in the Alps, near Lago di Como. Go to the website link, look at the pictures and be jealous of the glories of the Italian Alps and my quaint little hotel.

The only downside to this lovely hotel/camp thing, is the prospect of hiking. Apparently, we will be hiking. A lot. Lots and lots of hiking. In the Alps. In the summer. This I am not looking forward to. I am looking forward to the promise of a "thermal centre" (which I understand to be a kind of sauna-like thing) and visits to breweries and wineries. I am also looking forward to impressing the natives with my superior knowledge of their language, thereby making the other Americans look silly.

Swirly Blood Sadness

I am very sad today because I couldn't donate blood. My iron count was 1% below where it needs to be to donate. So, I'm back across the threshold of anemia--when I wasn't in December--and oh so sad because that means I didn't get to see all the swirly blood leaving my body. And I love swirly blood.

But I don't love anemia. I am apparently always in this state of flux. I sit continually on the borderline of health and anemia, so it flucctuates far too often. I may never get to see the swirly blood unless I start having labwork done whenever I feel like a rush of swirly blood happiness.

The only plus side of anemia is that its a really great exuse to have people wait on you all the time. So everyone else should donate blood because I cannot. You must all know the joys of watching the swirly blood. Consider it a sacrifice towards my well-being. (Plus, blood banks really need the life juice of the young. Give them your life juice. For me.)

Shameless Self Promotion

So I've been nominated for Vice President, Secretary and Director of WETT. And I can only run for two positions. And I decided that I would actually be a really kickass secretary. My case is argued thusly:
1. I fucking love office supplies. A secretary would definitely need to love office supplies. And I sure do.
2. I maintain my blog adequately and have learned to change templates and all that, so I think I can probably power the WETT website off of Blogger for easy update access.
3. I have an eye for design: I venture that I can make a rockin' sweetass program and flyers because I like pretty things. Pretty things like the girl on my blog.
So, seriously, vote me for WETT secretary. Because I will kick so much ass.

Oooooooh . . . pretties . . .

After growing steadily jealous of everyone else I know having interesting, original-looking blogs, I have chosen to join the club. I am not a fan of the hard-to-read, super-skinny little font boxes, but I absolutely love the graphic on this far too much to give it up just yet. She's so pretty. Now that I have joined your ranks, you creative blog-skin lovers, I will probably change this kind of often. Kind of.

Penny Lane

I am so glad that I was able to do the scene for Marcus. It was probably one of the best theatrical experiences of my life. It was the most professional work I've ever done for anything, and that's probably because there were so few of us there. Just me, Camden, Marcus, Dana and a camera.

Meeting my William Miller made me feel immediately comfortable as Penny Lane. Camden is the most genial person. He's very amicable and exceptionally well-spoken, and yet so utterly quirky. All that aside, he's a very good actor and takes his work seriously. Being cute and flirtatious is for rehearsal time and between takes. (I took off my jacket to reveal my backless, strapless shirt at one point during our line running sessions, at which he said, "Oh, good. Now I won't have to act.") There is none of that with him while in character. Being so likeable makes him, of course, very easy to work with. So I think our rapport played well onscreen, despite having no rehearsals and having never met before.

Marcus found the most amazing location for the scene to be shot. The script dictates that it's backstage at an outdoor concert somewhere in Boston. We filmed in the bowels of the LMU distribution center because the winding corridors and massive loading dock area really look like the loading areas of a stadium venue. We played a few lines off the ladder at the loading dock, which I think was the point where I really started getting into it. I just hope that my ladder work turns out as well on film as I felt it did.

In addition to filming, Marcus took me to see Hurlyburly at the MET theatre (overall good production, but I'll probably forget it in favor of the film), we had lunch with Kate and Nolan, and I spent too much money on makeup. (My excuse is that I needed two particular items for the film, and the rest was impulse buy.)

Requiem for a Dead Cat

Sadly, Patches Devourer of Souls fell into the shadows sometime on Friday night. It was pretty sad watching the cat in those last hours. He theoretically should have died six years ago (he's 19), but he was never allowed to run out of the house and die on his own as cats often do. So he spent his last few hours wallowing in pain, slowly dragging himself off his dingy kitty bed to die under the heater because Fernando wouldn't take him to the vet to have him put down. I walked by the cat several times thinking he had gone quietly under, only to see him lift his matted head and cry out a cry that seemed to say, "Please step on my neck and end my misery!" Finally, when I walked to the bathroom to get my pills, I noticed that the cat's limp, skeletal body had been replaced by a cat-angel candle holder with a lit votive in it and two Tibetan idols. Patches Devourer of Souls, who lived far longer than any cat should, probably having spent the last six years in the equivilant of cat purgatory, devours souls no longer. For his little kitty soul is free.

"What kind of beer?" --Penny Lane (Kate Hudson), Almost Famous

I'm all out of ideas for my current art history paper-writing endeavor. The good news is, however, that it's due Thursday morning at 9 and I am already on my 4th page out of the 4-5 page requirement. So I break from this to discuss Almost Famous.

Marcus's cinematography/editing project is to film a scene from a pre-existing film in his own way. So he chose Almost Famous, Penny and William's confrontation scene. ("You're too sweet for rock'n'roll." "Sweet? Where do you get off?") I'd made the decision to visit him this weekend, and he told me a few days ago that he was probably going to film the scene while I'm down there. Then he forayed into his explanatory mode, which to me always sounds slightly apologetic if the explanation involves me in any way at all. He told me that he isn't asking me to be Penny Lane because he already used me for a project and he doesn't want the class to think he isn't using actors. And he said all this as though he expected me to be upset that I wouldn't get to be Penny, as though it were a betrayal of the metaphor we always use about me being to him what this "Penny Lane" was to Cameron Crowe. And then yesterday, he called me and asked me to be Penny. The people he wanted couldn't do it. Time conflicts and whatnot.

But here's my reservation: no one in their right mind would ever cast me as Penny Lane. I do not have the right look. At all. I'm not appropriate for the era, and I don't know how to do this character in any way other than Kate Hudson's portrayal. I'm too dark for that kind of rock'n'roll. I'm so much more believable as Toni Colette's role in Velvet Goldmine. I need to be a character from a different movie about rock in the 70's. One that isn't so reliant on that hippie look. I don't think this is going to turn out very well for my part.

"I know all about your valhalla of decadence." --Elaine (Frances McDormand), Almost Famous

This weekend is a spring visiting weekend for prospective UCSB students. There are parents and high school seniors everywhere. Fucking everywhere. It's scary. Last night, as my roommates and our friends set out a drinkin' prior to a really rockin' 80's themed party, we found one of these prospective freshmen among us. He was visiting a friend of our friend, who joined us in our revelry. I'm sure his impression of our college experience here is . . . stellar. Here's some of my advice to him after about 8 shots of Southern Comfort:

"Listen, Taryn, I don't want you to think that this is all we do, okay? We don't always live in this valhalla of drunken decadence. I mean, come on, look at me. I'm ridiculously drunk and I can still say the word 'valhalla.' That's amazing, right? I mean, I'm an English major, a drunken English major and I can still say 'valhalla.' So, I mean, that's pretty good right? I've said 'valhalla,' um, a few times now and I am, what, 8 shots deep? So, yeah. My vocabulary is pretty unaffected if I can still say 'valhalla' while drunk."

Paper Should Cost So Much Less Than This

College textbook pricing defies logic.

Exhibit A: Dinosaurs: The Textbook
1. This book is used.
2. This book is 1/2 inch thick.
3. This book is paperback.

And yet it costs . . . $72 dollars.

I will be getting, oh, about $15 bucks for it at the end of the quarter when I sell it back. Or less.

Does this make sense at all?

Dorm Sweet Dorm

I have returned to the comfort of my dorm room after my week-long adventure with my parents. Good Jesus, am I ever glad to be back in my dorm room!

Like everyone, I do miss my parents. But I only miss them enough to want to see them for a few days. I don't miss them enough to spend every waking moment with them for a week, and therein lies the problem with my Spring Break. My mother irks me to no end. She's fine for a little while, and then slowly but suddenly, I start to twitch with irritation every time she opens her mouth. I do this not because she's painfully stupid. She's a nurse, an educated lady. I do this because she ruins perfectly good silences with innane commentary about whatever is outside the window. I don't understand why people feel the need to fill every singly silence with such irritating noise. We are not a family of talkers, Mom. We never have been. We don't relate to one another. This is not helping! Don't get me wrong, the woman isn't all this bad. I'm sure the reason I find her so annoying is simply because she's my mother. She had knee surgery a couple of years ago, and suddenly during this trip her good knee began to flare up (probably as a result of having to favor it for so long). So I took care of her and iced her down and everything for the first few days, like the good daughter that I've always presented myself to be around them. And then, as soon as we had left the San Diego part of our trip behind and began our much too lengthy drive to Arizona, I was no longer forgiving of her gimpiness. Rather, she was irritating AND malfunctioning.

My father and I spent a good 5 days wandering around San Diego while my mother was at her AORN conference and not unknowingly making me insane. San Diego was not as sunny as we had expected, so it felt very much like being in the Bay Area in springtime. Only, not as foggy. We went to the most amazing Wild Animal Park and the less amazing San Diego Zoo (which I cannot believe is so "world famous" in comparison to the Wild Animal Park, considering the sheer size and quality of the enclosures for the Zoo animals--so much smaller than expected). My father, sailor that he is, took me to every single Naval base in the San Diego area--and there are at least 4 of them. He drove me around the SD Naval Base, showed me places his ships were docked and where he had stayed and etc when he was stationed there. We drove to the North Island base on Coronado and all through the island. He bought me things. Because Daddy loves me best. (And the base is dirt cheap for all kinds of things. Where else in the world are you going to find Converse All Stars for 20 bucks a pair?) We drove around downtown SD looking for my father's old house, and finding a baptist church with the following sign on the marquee:

"Under same management for over 2000 years."

Our adventures also led us to SeaWorld one evening when the park was closed to everyone but AORN conference goers. Fun times were had by all as we rented my mother a wheelchair and I pushed her around the park at high speeds. It was essentially 4 hours of hopping from one show to another, with a free meal somewhere in between. But SeaWorld also contained the most awesome event of the entire vacation: I fed a dolphin. And got to pet him, too. This is me getting one step closer to being able to actually swim with one.

The drive from SD to Arizona was long and warm and a lot of me trying to read while my mother pointed out how dry everything is. ("Yes, Mom. It's a desert.") I got a sunburn from the UV rays penetrating the window. I was not happy. We got into Arizona very late that night, and got to stay in the swankiest cheap hotel ever. I highly recommend the Wellesley Inn & Suites. The best hotel you can get for $80 bucks a night (and thats for 3 people). I spent the subsequent two afternoons at baseball parks for A's Spring Training. My team lost both games. (Adam says I must have brought them bad luck.) I had to spend about 3 hours each afternoon in the hot sun. Barry Zito was not pitching (which is why we really lost). And I didn't get any autographs. Bah. If I'm going to spend 3 hours at a ballpark in the sun, not get autographs, and not get to see Zito pitch, then I may as well do it at my own ballpark! No more driving to Arizona for me! Besides, games are much more fun at our park in Oakland anyway. Ten times as exciting. (And garlic fries.)

I tried to convince my parents to drive all the way from Phoenix to Santa Barbara last night, but they gave up around Malibu Canyon and forced me to stay in a janky little inn where I had to sleep on the floor with no extra blankets or pillows because they didn't have any at the front desk. This is what I get for asking to stop and have food. Which is funny, because I thought my punishment for wanting to eat was having to eat in this creepy little middle of the desert cafe. It was the kind of place that, if my life were a movie, would have been run entirely by the dead. Or, if my life were a different movie, dead cowboys. So, needless to say I am glad to be back in SB with my roommates, because here I have a bed and sheets and blankets and pillows. And as far as I know, I have not yet been served food by a dead person.

I Have Head Explodey!

. . . and not in the good way.

Just took the hardest final ever. Art history is evil. Can no longer form coherent sentences. So much writing. 10 short answer analysis sections. 2 real essays. Took entire 3 hours. Couldn't find TA. Waited groggy outside Campbell Hall for her to give me back paper. Going to die now.

"I never went to bed with anybody for a role--that's true. I never got any roles, either." --Carla, Kennedy's Children by Robert Patrick

Booked my flight home today! Yay!

I probably shouldn't be this excited about going home just to wake up early and drive to DVC to judge the State Forensics Tournament--something I myself never got to go to in high school, despite all my whoreing and husband killing and transsexualism. Mind you, I was not actually a whore, transsexual or husband killer, but all Dramatic Interp kids take on a little bit of the people they play. If not because you love your character, then because you've spent a good year working on becoming them and understanding them and being them on Saturday mornings at 8 AM in front of a room full of strangers who are also playing at being someone. While I loved Carla and was Carla, I can't deny that there are parts of me that are Agnes and Sarah and Hedwig. I can't deny that there are parts of my abandoned characters in me, either. I am a little bit Betty and a little bit Amneris and (apparently) more than a little bit Joan of Arc.

But judging at State is exciting. Being at State is exciting. Being around exceptionally talented kids is horribly exciting. Being able to see said horribly talented kids doing their interps, their extemps, their expos, their debates, their oratories--that's exciting. And being with my old coach and my teammates is exciting.

And now that I'm thinking back on it and how much I really did love it, I wish I hadn't gotten so overwhelmed. I wish I hadn't given up. I wish I'd not given up on Hedwig just because my audience didn't understand her. Hell, no one understood Carla, but I made people love her because I did. And I should have treated all the characters I played that way. But instead, I just gave up. There were so many factors outside of it though. I wasn't even myself, then. And if I wasn't me, how can I be expected to be someone else when I've got nothing to work with?

Seaweed and Brine

Today is too beautiful for words. Spent a good three hours reading in the sun on the beach. It was absolutely marvelous. Heather and I are planning a picnic for Thursday afternoon. We will make sandwiches in the dining commons, and smuggle them out in our carefully concealed tupperware so that we may take them to the beach later for snacking. And we'll go swimming! And it will be marvelous!

Good gods, I smell so much like salt. But it's good salt. Salt and Coppertone.

I Am Not a Stranger to the Rain

I'm on the 3rd page of my art history paper (due Thursday) and I think it's a good time to stop writing important things and tell my rainy day story from last week, seeing as today is, again, a rainy day.

Santa Barbara has this new thing weatherwise. It's quite extraordinary. It's called rain. And it will only begin to do this at 9:40 am when I leave my English class and have to walk a good long ways to the HSSB. Santa Barbara, being a quaint seaside city, much like Venice, is not equipped to deal with massive amounts of rain, much like Venice. Last Wednesday at precisely 9:40 am as I left English, it began to rain. Big, scary, heavy rain. And it didn't stop. And it got much, much worse as the day went on. I was okay while I was in class, and even fine while walking back from Italian. The real terrors came at about 3:30 in the afternoon as I decided to brave the weather and get coffee before my Electra class. Little did I know what was about to unfold . . .

(note: I am switching to present tense for Dave Eggers style realism.)

It is really fucking wet outside! There are people wearing garbage bags like capes in an attempt to keep their backpacks dry. I scurried about with my hood up, gloves on, and my Eugene O'Neill stuffed nicely inside my coat to keep him dry. (In retrospect, I probably shouldn't have cared so much about a dead playwright's book. I could have just bought another one.) I choose my steps very carefully when going down one of the many flights of hillside stairs at UCSB because they are covered in mud that has slid off the hillsides. I choose my steps even more carefully as I walk along the lagoon path, which is flooded in certain areas with a mixture of landmud from the shoddy areas of the faculty club green and lagoon water. It is raining exceptionally hard. The front of my person is literally drenched. This is really uncomfortable. I make it all the way to the UCen unharmed. And then, right outside the fucking door, of all places, I fall flat on my ass. And hard, too. So, now I am wet pretty much everywhere. And my ass hurts.

I pick myself up, brush myself off (as though it would help), and head into the UCen to nab some coffee from Nicoletti's. I was hoping sympathy coffee from Brian the Barista, but no such luck. I pay for my coffee, and sit down on one of the nice, warm, dry UCen chairs for a bit and watch the rain through the picture window. After a good ten minutes, I brave the rain again. I think it literally must be worse now, rainwise. Definitely heavier and even more unrelenting. I trek to the HSSB through several large puddles that have accumulated outside of the Art Museum. Large, unseen puddles are proof that SB was not equipped to handle deluge. The water has soaked entirely through my All-Stars. And my socks. The next hour will be very, very uncomfortable. I have wet pants and wet feet. I am not a happy camper.

I climb the water-logged steps of the HSSB and squeak my way down the hallway to class. Everyone who has made it there before me is also soaked. Aditi still has water on her face that she has neglected to brush off. We moan about how miserable it is. And how miserable we are. This is the most uncomfortable hour of our lives.

Once the hour is up, I brave the rain again. It's still wet, but less so now. I make it down to flights of HSSB stairs before my foot lands in a puddle and a fall--again--on the landing. Ass is even more wet. Left side of body is now in a lot of wet, cold, uncomfortable, rainy pain. I whimper to myself as I very fucking carefully descend. I feel a bit like Myrrah, that I'm dissolving into tears, but it's really more like tears are dissolving me. I whimper all the way home.

And halfway there. I decide Raffi's place is a lot closer than mine. So I pop up at his door for sympathy and shelter and warmth. Kitties don't like this much water! I am soaking. My hair is soaking and I had a fucking hood on. Rafe blow dries me--hair to feet. With his hairdryer. It is both kind and humiliating, but, hey, I fell fucking twice in the rain. This is the highlight of my day.

Mmmmmm . . . . Zzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Most of my day I've spent sleeping. I do not entirely know why. I'm sure somehow this is my body's very odd way of attempting to make up for the missed sleep I got this weekend. My body knows full well that said sleep can not actually be made up. So, with that in mind, I think maybe my body is trying to fuck me over. Well, I've got news for you body . . . I'm not gonna take it! I'll sleep when I want to and wake up when I want to and you can't make me do or say anything! My mind is much more powerful than you and you ought to know it, you frail, weak peice of flesh!

If I Were a Grand Slam . . . (sung to the tune of "If I Were a Rich Man," just in case that didn't immediately pop into your head like it should have)

Spent the past two weeks doing so much work regarding last Friday's V-Day Extravaganza and this weekend's upcoming production of The Vagina Monologues that I hardly had time to sleep or breathe or any other such vital function. And then this weekend happened. And despite rehearsal from forever until the end of time on Sunday night . . . I suddenly had only time to sleep and breathe.

I don't think I'd ever been so bored in my life. Last night, I literally spent a half hour staring at objects in my roommate's possession. I was awake then, and I couldn't actually bring myself to sleep. (Funny how "after you get what you want you don't want it," isn't it? Who knew Irving Berlin songs could be so prophetic.) I could call this relaxing, I suppose. But relaxing is a term I generally reserve for reading in a hot bath or sitting in a spa or visiting the masseuse I don't actually have. Relaxing is not resorting to asking your roommates such questions as: "If you were a menu item at Denny's, what would you be?"

And just FYI, Jen is Cheesesticks, Heather is French Toast and I am a Milkshake. Raffi, when later asked this question, supplied me with the Denny's menu item in the title.

Sloth Isn't That Much of a Sin . . . Is It?

Kate said that her only desire once she got to college was to sleep. Judging by the state of my room and the moment, I think it just might be true.

Last night, I was up talking with Kevin and Jen until 2:30 am. At which point, they left and I went to sleep. I have no idea what happened until about 9 am, when Jen's alarm went off and I roll over to find the two of them curled up in opposite corners of the futon . . . which Kevin had somehow taken down in the middle of the morning without rousting me. I went back to sleep until noon.

Right now, Kevin is sprawled out on my bed--aka "the couch"--napping under the glow of a halogen lamp. Jennifer has crawled up to her roost for ten minutes of mid-midterm studying naptime. And those sleepy motherfuckers are making me tired as hell. I yawn just knowing that they are here! Here and tired!

Kevin's sloth-like nature must be rubbing off on me. He has decreased my desire to do any sort of work merely by being in the same room. I want him to see Sevenfor the sloth-murder, but at the same time I admire his dedication to laziness and wish he were a sort of superhero. If he were indeed a superhero, he would be the patron and savior of college students everywhere.

Who do you have to fuck to get a cup of tea and some chocolate biscuits around here?

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.