true blue

future plans and other nebulae

2009-10-16T03:53:38Z

I have been thinking lately about what I actually want to Do with my life. In a week or so we have to register for our spring semester classes and so I have been planning schedules (or watching roommate E. plan hers) and thinking about the Future.

What do I want to do with my life? HMMM? That is the question I have been asking. Potential careers that I am considering, in various combinations and with varying degrees of seriousness are the following: comic book artist, archaeologist, historian, professor, author, archivist, linguist, illustrator, queen of a peaceful tropical island, a writer of children's books, space dentist (which is what I wanted to be when I was four).

Right now I am thinking that i shall major in history and religion and minor in fiction writing or foreign languages. But I do not know, because that leaves out other things I love: art, theatre, dance, English literature, international relations, space dentistry. And after graduation I am thinking that I definitely want to do something in DC, because I love that marble city filled with nerds. Perhaps in the Smithsonian, or the Library of Congress, or the Archives, or at an embassy! I do not know. Mostly I just want to faff about and write books and draw pictures and play with kids and make cryptic notebooks and poke old things. Who will pay me to do this? I need to start sending out resumes immediately. Either that or the space station guys better start working on some serious cavities.

oh noes! HOW TIME PASSES.

2009-10-06T21:55:06Z

A week without posting! Awful. I am trying to be CONSISTENT here.

College is still ok, except for when professors are like MY CLASS IS THE MOST IMPORTANT ONE IN THE WORLD, AND YOU MAY NEVER MISS IT EVER EVEN IF YOU ARE ACTUALLY DEAD. I DO NOT CARE IF YOU HAVE A SIGNED NOTE FROM HADES.

I had my Shakespeare midterm, which I am pretty sure I aced. I did that clever thing where I kept the prompts right next to me and continually referred back to the requirements in order to actually fulfill them. Oh yeah, I have this "student" gig all figured out.

This week is going to go by extremely slowly because it is leading up to FALL BREAK. Which I am very excited for. I have no idea what day of the week it is right now, though. I keep thinking it's Thursday.

My suitemates were screamingly drunk last night and their main question to be shouted the length of the hall was "Does Christina weigh as much as a baby?!?!" I am not sure why this query was repeated when it could have been solved so easily with Christina, a baby, and a scale.

Other miscellaneous bits of news: we have fire drills in the middle of the night, my roommate has been mocking me for buying baguettes, I need to do 239847210 loads of laundry, our closets smell funky, I don't like my French professor that much, and I have to cut my hair short. This has been your dispatch from university! The More You Know.

it is time..

2009-09-23T19:51:35Z

..for a BITCH BITCH BITCH post. Time to Complain About My Shitty Life. I will keep it short, though.

So I have a scary lower-intestine infection and I am feeling pretty crappy. Today I am feeling so crappy that I only made it to my first class. Then my fever spiked back up, and I was like, "All right. Back to bed it is." I emailed my theatre professor to tell her that I was boiling over at 101 degrees and her response mostly consisted of the one awesome sentence: "I will need a doctor's note to excuse these absences."

And it's like, wait, what? You think I'm making this up? Seriously? Lady, if I was going to make shit up, it would be a lot cooler and less disgusting than Crohn's disease and an infection of the intestines. (Tekla Taylor: Most Attractive Woman in the World). I feel awful. Like, stabbing-pain-and-ten-thousand-degrees awful. And now I have to spend an hour on hold with my doctor's office to get him to, I don't know, fax some shit down here since I live an hour away. What an inconvenience. Honestly, I'm just kind of offended because it does imply that I am spreading wild falsehoods AND because it's a major hassle. Blarg. That is the only word for today. Just "blarg."

grocery adventures

2009-09-23T02:07:03Z

So today I was lucky enough to get a lift to Wegman's with my new friend Beverly, who I am enjoying greatly (how first-grade is it to say 'my new friend," though? Did we play ponies together?) and I dropped another fifty bucks on delicious delicious edibles.

I got pita, hummus, bagels, cream cheese, chicken pot pies, cookies, Cheezits, bananas, pineapple, vitamin water, yogurt, milk, a backpack..etc, etc. Yum. Then we stopped by the every-trusty Dollar General and got hooked up with a 12-piece cutlery set (I WANTED to be a regular person and just get one of those little college-student things with one fork and spoon and knife, but Dollar General thinks I should throw dinner parties) as well as a water bottle and shampoo and conditioner, which I actually needed.

GOSH TEKLA HOW ARE YOU GOING TO MAKE YOUR POSTS INTERESTING?BY LISTING YOUR GROCERIES? AWESOME.

I get so idealistic when I go to the grocery store. Like, I imagine a world where I would make pasta and bake things and saute chicken and such. I actually love to cook (especially to bake things) but I would never do so while at school because the infrastructure required is extremely difficult to manage. I don't actually have any pots and pans, for instance. But even so, I have to constantly check my imagination and remind myself that I am in real life and not inside Rachel Ray's mind.

I have to recommend Swanson chicken pot pies, though. 89 cents and a whole dollar's worth of delicious. And now, I think, it's cookie time.

the plot thickens

2009-09-21T17:11:41Z

Soooo I just got a call from my doctor's office, and it turns out that I have a severe infection in my lower intestine. This is in addition to having Crohn's. ulcerative colitis, and anemia. And I've probably had it for the last two weeks. Fantastic. It explains the stabbing pains and fever, at least, because I just thought that was my Crohn's flaring up.

I'm terrified because if this hadn't been detected it could have morphed into a terrible, I-go-to-the-hospital kind of thing. Uncool. My immune system is in pieces on a good day, so this stuff scares me shitless.

I am not going to turn this this into a "OMG I HAZ HEALTH PROBLEMS" thing. I am just kind of bummed about this. Every test I've gotten back from my doctor's visit last week has had bummer results, and I am just so done with feeling crappy. It is not my idea of a good time.

Now I am going to call my friend who has a car (important asset to any college student) and see if she would do me the amazing favor of giving me a ride to the nearest CVS so I can get the antibiotics that I need to start taking as soon as possible. Which means missing more class on top of my absences of last week (super).

How I dream of the days when I can eat cashews and live without pills. That would be pretty nice.

new developments

2009-09-21T00:35:45Z

Guys, I actually feel a little bit better. This is crazy. For months I have been feeling like I am being stabbed in the midsection with a rusty spork whenever I am trying to digest something, and today- It is like a much kinder stabbing! This is great. This is totally awesome. It still hurts, and I still get bloaty and gross (SEXY, I know), but PERHAPS this shall usher in a new era of Not Wanting to Die on a daily basis. That would be pretty boss.

I have actual academic obligations now (which I say as I blog, eat cheezits, and listen to Keith Olbermann). I have a paper due on Friday which I am actually excited to write because it is about philosophers and ancient China, and I find such things neato.

I am pretty tired of having Crohn's disease, though. It is not funsies. Several of my friends were saying things about how they wish they could have lost like 40 pounds in three months because they are sooo fat OMG and so on and so forth. I won't lie about the weight loss being cool, because it was (is) kind of cool. I was too chubby before at 235 pounds, and now I'm right in the normal BMI for being 6'4" at 195-ish, which is a fine place for me to stay. And I look better.

But I am also really pale, and I have intense dark circles under my eyes, and my stomach gets bloated, and I have to take naps to get through the day. I take SEVEN PILLS in the morning, people. Like an eighty-year-old. I take so many pills to stay functioning that they don't fit in the biggest pillbox that CVS sells. It is not a magical weight-loss disease- it is just painful, inconvenient, and irritating.

But the steroids I'm on right now are helping, I think, and that is just so exciting. It is mondo stoked, manned-mission-to-Neptune exciting. MAYBE SOON I could eat fried chicken again. Or popcorn. Or ice cream. Or cashews. Delicious, delicious cashews. Soon I will come for you, and you will be delicious. What wonders the future may hold!

fatherly concern

2009-09-19T23:40:42Z

I"ve been thinking a lot about my dad lately, since he was Working when I moved into school, and since when I went home overnight last week he was in Michigan, also Working. So I haven't seen him since I left in the middle of August! This is a bummer, as my dad and I are pretty tight.

We had our apocalyptic fights back in the day, and things got nasty and unfortunate, but we've always been buds- despite his total and all-consuming insanity. He is health-food-obsessed, preachy, contrary, annoying, and extremely bald.

But he is also hilarious and fun. He taught me to ballroom dance. He gave me my ear for music. He encouraged every corner of my intellect. And he was a major architect of the amazing childhood that I was lucky enough to have.

Dating from my Neolithic youth, my dad has drawn me hilarious little cartoon drawings of himself as the evil "Dad Man" and "his nemesis, Mom-Lady". I am giggling right now as I think about them. Since I've been at college he was written me a few unbelievable letters with misspellings like "imbuded", "sence", "wonds", and "mauldin" (the last one being my personal favorite). They are illustrated with self-portraits, portraits of me ("not to scale or actual appearance actually"), cryptic symbols, and pictograms. And they make my day so bright that I laugh to myself nine hours after reading.

I actually miss him a lot, even though I know that the moment he's here for Parents' Weekend next week he will be telling me to make myself protein smoothies using my jury-rigged showerhead and a screwdriver. And that will make me want to strangle him, but with a hug. In an "I missed you SO much!" kind of way.

I'M BACK.

2009-09-18T22:10:45Z

All right. I am here. To say things! About life! Yes. Profound things.

I am at college now and I am finding it to be fairly acceptable! E, Roommate Number One, is very genial and amusing and we get on extremely well. A, Roommate Number Two, however, I am less set on. She has opened up a bit more (i.e., actually spoken to us) now, so that's looking up.

I am amazed at how few things you actually do, though. University should be renamed "getting to know the internet alone in your room." I want to get all existential about it and ask myself, "Do I now get the online persona I always wanted- AT THE EXPENSE OF MY REAL LIFE?!" But, of course, I won't ask that. That would be weird. (Who actually has been wanting for a while now to be known on the internet? Who would have that aspiration? That would be embarrassing).

My high school was very intense and I did the IB program, so the actual work here is an unbelievable breeze. I almost feel guilty- isn't there homework you could give me, professor? Isn't there? And the freedom is brilliant. I don't think I realized what a prison high schools are until you go to a place where you can carry a pocketknife! You can have your phone out when you need to! I can carry my life-sustaining pills with me! Wonderful. It is also genius (though scary) to not have your parents to depend on anymore.

And you can do ridiculous things, like have EasyMac for every meal for three days (i didn't do that, but I suppose I came close. AND I COULD HAVE. Take that, Patriarchy).

With that cheesy act of rebellion, I have rejected The Man's power over me! This is what higher education is all about: throwing off the shackles of a broken system and microwave pasta.

On the road to good intentions

2009-04-10T15:06:56Z

So I really do mean to be one of those Livejournal People: The people who update all the time and who are good writers and who post their fic and who are witty and clever.

ALAS, as of yet I have not fulfilled this obligation (at all, really). But I mean to. Particularly as I shall have this summer, which will be composed more completely of Hanging Out in a very hip fashion, leaving me far more free time to make devastatingly clever remarks on here.

I feel that this is a good plan with few possible flaws standing in the way besides a certain amount of laziness and infinite_beauty making fun of me (inevitable).

But right now, I am in Paris! And I will enamor you all with a full account very shortly.

amphritie @ 2008-12-21T11:21:00

2008-12-21T16:25:55Z

Title: Burgundy
Wordcount: 902
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I don't own anything, and I make no money...sadly.
Summary: When Stephen Black is finally able to explore some of Lost-Hope, he meets one denizen in particular who piques his interest.
Author's Note: Well, the plot seems to be taking off (such as it is). I'm not completely sure where this is going, but I think it might be somewhere interesting. There will certainly be more to follow :)

That morning, Stephen was settling Lady Pole in her usual place in the library, as Pampisford was in bed with a terrible cold. Lady Pole looked particularly sad and desperate this morning, and she tried to speak with Stephen of their forced sojourns to Lost-hope.

It was that day that Stephen Black and Lady Pole discovered their inability to speak of their condition even to each other, and few things could have saddened them more. Rather than speaking of her depressed state of mind, Lady Pole told a very strange tale, and as it is worth recounting and very relevant to Stephen’s present interests, I shall set it down here.

“Stephen, in 1307 there was a young girl, the daughter of the lord of a village outside of Newcastle. She was nearly seventeen years of age, and a prouder, vainer little thing there never walked upon this earth. She tossed her chestnut curls at every suitor who came calling, and she was ever so fond of braiding flowers into that lovely hair.” At this Stephen might have given a little start of familiarity and surprize, but Lady Pole did not-or could not- notice, and she continued with her narrative.

“The girl attracted the attention of the Raven King, and he paid court to her in the guise of a young knight. She scorned him, however, even when he paid her the prettiest of compliments. She scathingly replied that she wished she might be able to intoxicate her suitors with words as silly and pretty as his, and the King grew unusually angry at her insolence. He cursed her pretty curls to always tangle, and for her mouth to always fill with wine, so that she could intoxicate her suitors all she wished. When she cried at finding the punishment meted out, her tears were-” but before she could conclude this tale, Lady Pole began to sob as she realized that she had not said what she intended in the least. Stephen availed her with a handkerchief and sat by her side, very much moved at his lady’s sorrow.

Finally, the lady’s sobs subsided and she sent Stephen away. Feeling even more melancholy than usual, he gave the day’s orders to the house servants and then made his way to the stables. The day was cold and grey, with a light drizzle of rain falling meanly on Stephen as he went down to see to the coachman and the horses. Finding everything in good order, he was about to go back into the kitchen to see about some tea when, instead of turning the familiar corner into the kitchen, he found himself walking along the Thames in the company of the gentleman with the thistle-down hair.

“Now, Stephen,” said the gentleman merrily, “we simply must see about improving our little affairs at Lost-Hope. I can’t help but feel that the refreshment, at least, is rather lacking.”

“Oh, yes, sir,” Stephen said with some emphasis, thinking of the drafty hall and the single fiddler.

“Ah, Stephen,” sighed the gentleman, slipping an arm into his, “You and I are kindred souls! You cannot think how glad I am to have someone who is so very congenial to my interests. You and I will have many more wonderful talks when you are King. But yes, Lost-Hope! You know I think somewhere I have a girl who produces the most delightful wine. She usually tries to run and hide, of course, but upsetting her is all for the best because her tears are a simply delicious 1506 champagne-better even than the sweet champagne that I gave in that same year to a pope to poison his rivals.* I was speaking to someone about it just the other day-a perfectly brilliant plan to turn her feet to stone so that she would simply have to stay in the ballroom and be sociable. She can’t really speak, naturally, but at least she can be useful somehow. Why, Stephen, you can’t imagine the delicate golden flavour of that champagne.”

Throughout this speech of the gentleman’s, Stephen had begun to feel a distinct sensation of dread. He now had some idea that the girl with her mouth full of wine was a sort of prisoner, like himself, and that he had the same kind of duty towards her as he did to Lady Pole. Right there, as he walked by the Thames with the gentleman with the thistle-down hair, unseen by all the passers-by, he resolved to find the girl again at Lost-Hope and warn her. He could do that much, at least.

*The gentleman did indeed give Pope Julius II a strange and wonderful bottle of very old champagne in return for a favour that the holy man had done him. Exactly what favour a Roman pope could do a denizen of Faerie has not yet been discovered, but this miraculous alcohol had an extraordinary property: It had to be given as a gift, and the recipient would take no harm from it. However, anyone else who tasted it would die on the spot, and it would have made an extraordinary weapon for a man with many enemies. Naturally, Pope Julius tasted the champagne and then couldn’t stop drinking it until the bottle was empty. It was so intoxicating that he lost the original plans for Saint Peter’s Basilica, which is why that particular structure took two centuries to build.

in which I am electrified by Barack Obama

2008-08-29T02:25:48Z

Oh man, I love this dude and his sticky-out ears, okay.

And the real reason I don't like John McCain as president? I think he was a cool soldier-type and such, but I don't want an undead president in the White House. It leaves America vulnerable to the next zombie attack.

I am not utterly without veracity, thank you very much

2008-06-09T22:45:58Z

Although I may, in fact, be a lying liar who lies. It has too long, dear LJ of mine, for that hussy Facebook has lured me from you, what with her shiny wall posts and status updates and things. But I don't need her! I need you, dear one, and I shall try to retain my fidelity from here on out.

At the very least, one can say I am a gentleman rather than a faithless cad.

In which I pretend to be an author

2008-03-22T15:59:00Z

Yes, I am writing again! Too bad, though, that I am only reposting in various places some work that previously was only seen on the Pit. I was reading through my old stories and I found one that really should see the light of day-it so happens that it's good. At least, I think it's good. In any case, good or not, here it is.

Fandom: His Dark Materials
Rating: G
Genre: Adventure/General
Warnings: Original characters, but not many. Takes place before the events of The Golden Compass.

Lyra threw another stone at the pigeons, huddled together like old women on the the rooftop. Used to her habitual abuse, they hardly stirred except to flap a wing wearily in vague protest.

The girl sighed. The truth was, she was bored. It was a bright, hot summer day, but Roger was stuck in the kitchen washing pots again, and she hadn’t anyone to run through the lower streets of Oxford with, or to make mischief in the catacombs of Jordan College. A mouse Pantalaimon crawled over her shoulder, and she absently reached up to stroke him.

“If you’re so bored, why don’t you go bother the gyptians?” he said, his whiskers tickling her ear.

“Aw, Pan, you know Ma Costa chased me off that last time,” she said moodily, sitting down on the edge of the roof, her browned legs swinging off into space. “I wish Roger wasn’t stuck down with that grump in the kitchen…” “Then break him out!” said Pan, who was nearly as bored as she was. “It’s something to do-we could create a diversion and he could escape. He must be nearly done now, anyway. Might as well…” Lyra’s face brightened at the prospect of such a daring maneuver, and she nearly leapt to her feet, teetering dangerously on the edge of the roof. “Yeah, Pan! You could turn into a leopard, and scare the servants’ daemons awfully, and then Roger could slip out, and we’d be out by the river in no time!”

She ran to the low door and came into the upper reaches of the Library of Jordan College. She blinked in the sudden darkness, soft light of the Library contrasting with the strong heat and light of the warm rooftop. As her vision accustomed to the dim light, she saw that one of the Scholars was gently snoring, his balding head pillowed on a book. Guess the heat’s even affecting the Scholars, she thought, being careful to tiptoe around him. She came quietly down the stairs, Pan as tabby cat padding silently by her side. She pushed open one of the double doors leading out of the Library and wound her way through the corridors and stairwells til she came down to the kitchens.

Pan slinked into the shape of a ferret and draped himself around her neck, minding the place where she’d been sunburnt from their time out on the roof. Lyra flattened herself against the wall and Pan peered through the open doorway to try and spot Roger. Through the steamy, pot-clanging atmosphere, Pan saw him disappearing into the small bakery attached to the main kitchen. Secretly relieved that the Pan-becoming-a-leopard scheme wouldn’t be needed-what a scolding she would get if they failed to escape!-Lyra darted to the door of the bakery that opened onto the hallway, and in an instant she was inside, scaring Roger nearly out of his wits.

“Lyra!” In a second her hand was over his mouth, and she was dragging him outside into the hall with his moth-daemon fluttering nervously behind. But the scare soon wore off, and in a moment they laughing, clattering down the stairs and out the side door, into the bright sunlight.

“Cook’ll have my hide,” said Roger, without really meaning it, for he was breathing deeply of the summer air, a relief after the oppressive steam of the kitchens. But Lyra grabbed by the wrist, and said impatiently, “C’mon, Roger! Never mind about the cook.-he never even eats his own food ‘cause it’s too awful! We’re goin’ to the river, to catch crocodiles.”

Roger wasn’t quite sure what a crocodile was, and he was even less sure that they lived in their river, but he ran after the long-legged Lyra anyway as they flashed in and out of crowds, weaving in between the stalls and buyers and sellers of Market Street. Lyra called hello to various ragged children along the way, and a couple of them joined Lyra and Roger, eager to escape the heat with a jump in the river. Finally, they reached the red clay riverbank, and Lyra was the first to dive in, Pan the cat becoming a silver, shimmering trout in mid-dive to swim around Lyra’s legs as she surfaced, treading water. “Come in, all you! It’s lovely.” Roger jumped in, pleased with his loud splash, and his daemon shook into a water rat’s body to play-chase Pan the trout underwater. Pinky and Sparrow, their two town friends who’d tagged along, shed their tattered shirts and jumped in too, the group becoming a laughing, splashing, tangle.

Presently Lyra dove and hid under the reeds, using a hollow one to breathe. She couldn’t wait to see what they’d do when they couldn’t find her. Pinky, a lanky, shaggy-haired boy of twelve, was the first to notice her disappearance.

“‘Ey! Lyra’s gone!” he yelled over to Roger, who was standing in the shallows and engaging in a friendly shouting match with some gyptian kids on the opposite bank. Pinky dropped Sparrow, who he’d had in a headlock, sputtering into the water.

“Where’s she gone, huh?” asked Roger, swimming over and flicking water at the oft-abused Sparrow, who was skinny and smaller than all of them.

Sparrow shrugged. “I dunno,” he said, picking up his soaking wet rat daemon and letting her climb onto his arm. “Pinky said he knew where she was,” he added.

“I never!” said Pinky indignantly. “I just said she’d gone.”

“Well, let’s look then,” said Roger, and he headed over to the reeds, where he knew she was fond of hiding.

He dove under, and the green reeds waved like fingers in the clear blue river currents. He reached out to part the reeds, and something that wasn’t Lyra shot out, shooting past him in an explosion of bubbles all the way over in the direction of the deep hollows and pools of the opposite bank. The figure was instantly lost in the murky depths of the middle of the river, and Roger couldn’t be sure what it had been. Maybe some kind of large fish...? He kicked and broke the surface, blinking the water out of his eyes, and he saw Lyra come up from another clump of reeds, spitting out part of a hollow one she must have used to breathe with. Her eyes were as wide as his, and he knew she’d seen it.

“What was it, Lyra?” he asked, a little fearfully. She pushed wet blonde hair back off her forehead and spat again to get rid of the reed's bitter taste.

“I dunno,” she said, thoughtfully. “Maybe it was a crocodile.”

In Florida, again.

2008-03-20T22:47:41Z

My epic failure at journal-ing nowithstanding, I find myself back in the Land of Deadly Insects and Delicious Fruit. I visited my Great-Aunt Jane last night, and so I have to share this little gem.

We were speaking of names and their origins, which is where old people's alarming racism always ends up coming into play.

Great-Aunt: Well, that's almost as African a name as 'Jamal'.
'Phritie: Actually, Aunt Jane, that name is Kenyan in origin.
Great-Aunt: But it's still black!!

.......Yes, Aunt Jane. Yes it is.

finally

2007-12-09T20:55:42Z

Ah, the third Livejournal renaissance. Let's hope this one lasts, hm? Real entries forthcoming, I swear.

I'm hoping that this counts as "creative writing"...

2007-07-24T15:38:58Z

Since that's the class I'm in right now, MUCH LIKE YESTERDAY. While I am unimpressed with the general State of my Life at the moment(mostly due to a single, boy-shaped annoyance that Won't Go Away) , things could, in fact be worse. (In theory). I took my midterm for Algebra II the other night, and I was the first to finish. Naurally, my father had a fit.

DAD(hysterically): You must've guessed on ALL THE ANSWERS!!
ME: No, really, Dad, I've finished first on every test I've taken since I was ten...
DAD: LIES!!! *tears out what little hair he's got left*
ME: Oh, lord...

I woke up about Five Minutes before the time I have to leave to catch my bus this morning, and it was terrible. I hurt my brain trying to wake up so fast.

the only equation you need to know? Mathematics=Evil.

2007-07-23T16:09:35Z

I am taking Algebra II online at the same time as going to Institute for the Arts, and I am dead. I am walking about all Zombie-Style demanding brains to eat. And by brains, I of course mean "chocolate." Of which I am consuming alarmingly copius amounts whenever I can.

infinite_beauty and watching Blackadder and Muppet Treasure Island with her is fabulous. I am not so sure, however, why the conversations tend to turn to pedophilia. (This could be because of Tim Curry's seeming fondness for anything young and androgynous).

The Hitler Youth are at it again. Down the street live several families which tend to spawn armies of blond, blue-eyed, and alarmingly fascist little boys.

While walking down the street, I witness:

Hitler Youth(at a brown-haired kid): KILL!!
Brunette: Eek!! ~~I swear I'm not Jewish!~~
Hitler Youth: *douse the undesirable with ~~Uzis~~ Super Soakers*

I went to Otakon with infinite_beauty and I met lordmookie, which was awesome. Otakon was awesome! The Dread Pirate Roberts was there, and so was Captain Jack Sparrow. Everyone and their mother was dressed as Inuyasha, though, and I had to resist the urge to pull their ears.

I?

2007-07-05T04:26:00Z

..Am clearly a sexual deviant. The amount of Sherlock Holmes ~~smut~~ fic that I have been reading ~~and writing~~ is extraordinary, and I am certain that Arthur Conan Doyle will come haunt me, saying that I am a bad person for encouraging such (generally spectacular) tales of thoroughly godless sodomites.

An Account from The Weird Side (that is, time I spent with my father, the Prince of Odd):

Dad: Ever notice how cats are really a lot like lions?
Me: ...No. They're definitely not genetically similar or anything.

Later on, at the horrid Fourth of July party:

Dad: 'Phritie, come down here!
Me: Dad, I-
Dad: It'll be fun! You can speak to children your age!
Me: Dad, I hate them. Those girls have been mean to me for fun since I was three.
Dad: I just don't see why you can't all just get along!!

My feet hurt.

2007-06-26T03:22:33Z

I have been roped into coaching basketball camp. It is vaguely awful, because all I do is stand up for six hours straight and keep eight-year-old girls from death and dismemberment at the hands of each other.

LITTLE CHILDREN: Waaaaah!
Me: Oh, um...dear lord.
LC: We want lunch!
Me: Its not for another hour...
LC: Is cannibalism an option?
Me: What? No! Although I am impressed that you know what that word means. Even so, you really should not pull each other's hair during the game.

Some LULz for your pleasure

2007-06-23T03:16:50Z

Hullo! I'm back, to recount some parental insanity.

My father is utterly mad. Absolutely out of his mind.

Dad: Are you writing pornography on the internet?
Me: Why hello random question, haven't seen you here before.
Dad: Well, its because you left up a website on the computer upstairs..
Me: *now utterly frantic, because he had clearly discovered my cache of slashy goodness* That doesn't mean I wrote it.
Dad: Oh. Right then.
Me: (shrieking) Leave me and my literary perversions alone!!!!
Dad: Um, what?
Me: Nothing. Nothing at all.

The second incident:

My mother: Are you reading?
Me: What else would I be doing?
Mother: Oh, right. Are you reading that-what's the word-fan fiction?
Me: (rolling my eyes) No, not at all, Mother.
Mother: Good. I don't think that's appropriate.

Sadly, much of this depressingly hilarious state of affairs is my fault-having made the mistake of mentioning to my father that I, on occasion, have been known to dabble in that dark art known as Fanfic, he automatically assumed that this meant I wrote porn about beloved literary characters. (He is, unfortunately, somewhat right). He imparted this to my mother, who now unshakably believes that all fanfiction is utter smut.

Unfortunately, they are both half right. xD

il neige!!

2007-01-21T22:29:05Z

life continues to get weirder and weirder, but there is one good thing going on: infinite_beauty and the fact that it's snowing quite heavily.

of course they're one thing. the only good thing going on is always a mix of georgina and snow.

P.S. please excuse the emosity of the last post-he took away Twilight Princess so that I could do homework, and I was going through symptoms eerily similar to heroin withdrawal.

fuckin' a.

2006-12-30T20:03:53Z

i really despise my father. i really, honestly, do.

bloody f**king hell.

2006-12-10T04:43:19Z

No.1:

I need to work on my music.

No.2:

I need to draw more comics.

No.3:

I really need to stop jamming the lower joint of my right index finger in basketball practice, mostly because it really hurts.

No.4:

There has to be some Einsteinian theorem about me never getting what I want. Because otherwise, how would it alwayas happen without fail?

That shit has to be related to the space-time continuum.

i can feel it in my bones

2006-12-02T02:55:32Z

i'm gonna spend the next year alone..

dude.

2006-11-30T20:21:31Z

liz phair's songs "fuck and run" and "divorce song" are officially amazing. seriously. listen to her if you haven't.

basketball practice and not talking to infinite_beauty are going to eat my soul. for realz.