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Crush enemies, abandon hope, and unleash endless waves of unrepentant sarcasm. |
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There's nothing to see here that's really out of the ordinary. Nothing really terribly interesting either, unless you like griping, gossip, grudges, and possible mental illness. If anything it's some small way to keep myself writing (though you'll see by the dates on the entries that it's by no means an effective way), as well as a means through which I can vent about any number of things that are pissing me off. Occasionally there's pie. Look: I'm not a normal person. I'm suffering from untreated depression and plagued by increasingly frequent migraines that pretty much render me bedridden for days. I've suffered a lifetime of abuse and neglect, and still have to struggle with unfathomable depths of low self-worth, not to mention the eating disorders. I'm a weirdo, a freak, an aberration of nature and human experience . . . but it doesn't make me interesting. So, you can read this if you want. I've got some social commentary that might be a little fun, and occasionally throw in a poem or two, but for the most part it's the ramblings of a stricken mind. Pay no attention to the woman behind the curtain; she's just trying to change her dress. |
| Take a moment of my time to read the following: AAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGHHHH! Thank you. That is all. Oh yes: I just finished a new story and am now utterly spent. Please read it, as it is the first short story I have written in many, many months.
Thank you. THAT is all. |
| In the wee moments before I must run to chorus (still not having put on makeup, shoes, or my dearest watch), I'd like to take a moment to bitch and moan like an eight-year-old about something that I could easily avoid, but have yet to do so. You see, the magical Weather Channel desktop forecaster comes with a little daily quiz, a little daily blurb on some place interesting in the world, and a little daily comic. The quiz and the travel tips are of no interest to me; my enjoyment is humor. However, I must admit to be deeply astonished by the quality of the little one-panel piece of crap that comes up every day in some sorry guise as "comedic material." They . . . they suck! Plain and simple suck! There's nothing funny about them! What's so great about a snowman trying on a winter coat? Or a couple walking through a blizzard and the man telling his wife to "Think Spring"? I keep looking for amusement, but I never find it. These comics are just NOT funny, at all. I would excuse the oversight if they were drawn well, but they're not; they all look as though some sixth grader had too much free time in math class after the weekly quiz. Only, I'm sure that the young man would have at least included slapstick comedy, like a snowman falling down the stairs of a New York highrise and landing with his head inside a bag of salt, and screaming in agony with clear blood pouring down his neck, taking the salt with it and causing the rest of his body to melt, as the complacent New Yorkers walk on by unperturbed . . . Well. Maybe that's only funny to me. You gotta admit, though, it would certainly be funnier than a panel of a sunflower wearing a wide-brimmed hat. |
| I always thought truth tables were moronic. I was sure that they had their place in the fields of mathematical logic, and were probably useful for cross-checking facts. My beef* was that the methods with which they were taught in my Quantitative Reasoning class made them appear as utterly foolish, mere toys of the world of math. Take this fine example I recall from the book: p1: If it is raining outside, you will take an umbrella p2: You did not take an umbrella C: Therefore, it is not raining outside. Ingenious, is it not? And here's the one that I hated most, the one of which variations were every six problems or so: p1: If you do not study, you will do poorly on the test p2: You studied c: Therefore, you did not do poorly on the test You might be wondering why I'm bringing all this up. After all, it must seem strange that somebody who never has to take another math class in her life would be bringing up this facet of mathematics that is better left ignored. Well, I'll tell you. It all started the day after the first geology exam. Well, the first day of geology class after the exam; the actual period of twenty-four hours after the exam was a Thursday, and I have geology class on Mondays and Wednesdays only. Also, it takes a long time to process all the exams (I mean, there's two hundred of us). Therefore, this was the following Monday. I was walking from Philosophy, which I loathe, to Geology, which I love, in the fifteen minutes allotted to me by my brilliant scheduling skills. On the way, I passed a friend from my previous math class (huh, what a coincidence) who told me that geology class was canceled. Even though I was doubtful, I decided to go ahead and grab some food until my history class. Well, you can guess what happened next: as it turns out, class was not canceled; the note on the door suggesting it was, was actually for a different lecture (as it turns out, nobody knows the section of any of their classes). Which means I missed the foundation upon which all other lectures for the current exam would be built. Needless to say, that did not make my testing outlook positive. And so I went to class as before: never missing a day and taking quite excellent notes. Even so, I was terrified about that one day I had missed. When time came for the review, I felt that I didn't know anything that was on the review sheet. Everything that took place in the Precambrian was completely new to me. I was certain I would do poorly on the test, a terrible thing since there are only three exams and the lab credit comprising the entire grade. So, I did the only thing I could think of . . . I studied my freaking ass off from Sunday to Monday morning. I went over that review sheet like it was Jeff Corwin**. I read all the boxes in the book, I looked at the glossary, and I read my notes over, and over, and over. I even got up early on Monday so I could get the Bistro Breakfast that Andrew enjoys so much. I can tell ya, I was NOT impressed. Definitely not worth the $4.69 I paid. Ah yes, the exam. Well, I couldn't stop quivering all during philosophy (must have been the Red Bull from the night before . . . yuck). I had slept well, I had studied my butt off, and I didn't have to go to lab, and I was still freaking out. Then comes the final moment of class, and I was practically running to Innovation Hall. I quiver while the students are filing in, I quiver while the tests are being passed out . . . then I forget the world exists in the vast simplicity of my exam. I mean, hell, few tests have been so easy in my history of tests. I was thrown by a few questions, but only a few. The whole time I am thinking, "Wow! I never would have gotten that question if I hadn't studied!" The end result, which I found out yesterday? 46 out of 49 questions correct. And I was worried! However, I know darn well that had I not gone so insane with my studying, I never would have done so well. So, in conclusion, my explanation for bringing up the truth tables: p1: If you study, you will do well on the exam p2: I studied my fucking ass off C: I rocked the exam I tried to catch a falling star, but all I got was this damn pixie. * Heh heh . . . Beef ** What? So I have a thing for cute, funny biologists. |
| I have a serious beef with my choir. My wonderful, awesome, beloved choir. This is how it boils down: people in orchestra and band groups are familiar with the practice of "chairs," where the best players of the instrument are in the first and second chairs, and so forth. In chorus, because of the vast difference in the timbres (pronounced "TAM-ber") of all the voices, we must be arranged according to which voices sound well together. My wonderful director, Dr. B, spends about fifteen minutes at the beginning of each semester painstakingly listening to our voices and moving us around until we all compliment those around us. We then are assigned seats based on this arrangement. As we do all of our practicing is this order, one would assume that we would be willing to stick with it to the best of our ability when the concert date rolls around. WRONG. Every single dress rehearsal and concert, utter chaos ensues. It seems that nobody can remember what row they are in, who they stand by, and where their vocal part is in relation to the other vocal parts. I normally stand between the basses and the other sopranos in my row; somehow, during the last rehearsal, I was stuffed near to the end of the row surrounded by second sops; during the actual concert, I was beside another first soprano (thank heaven) and a tenor. A tenor. Why can we not stay in our places? Why do we not recall the faces of those we sing by? Is it really THAT hard to get in line beside your class-time neighbors? Why does all discipline go out the window when we put the little black dresses on? WHY? I tried to catch a falling star, but all I got was this damn pixie. |
| Ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to reveal something special that has happened in my life. I have had a cataclysmic event recently, and though it is not easy to say, I feel the need to share it with the world. Friends, acquaintances, and total strangers, what I would like to relate to you is that I, Elizabeth the Entropic, have lost my virginity. I admit, it was difficult, and in the end, when I thought all was well, I discovered that mistakes had been made, and that it was not as perfect as I wished, but no matter. What is done is done, and I would not change it for the world. The only thing I regret is, after having had that first taste, I now desire so much more. My world has been opened to a new dimension, and I am helpless to stop the flow of events. Yes, my friends and potential enemies . . . I have done my first Su Do Ku. What, you didn't honestly think I'd stop being a frigid bitch, did you? I tried to catch a falling star, but all I got was this damn pixie. |
| Okay, let me get a few things off my chest. This isn't about drug legality, statutory rape, or college freshmen being complete morons. This has nothing to do with gays, blacks, witches, and communists having the same rights as everyone else. It's close, but not the Perihelion of my orbit. No, this is something just a little more personal, to myself and every member of this country. This is about the meaning of patriotism. Really, is anything more sickening than somebody telling you that you don't love your country just because your concerns about it don't match theirs? Well, actually having dogs rape women during the Holocaust, pedophilia, and the aroma of mixed-drink vomit, but is anything a greater insult to one's person? I'm going to go out on a limb here and say "No". For two reasons: first of all, most of the time this is said, the accuser is going on one position the other has taken, such as not supporting the war that's going on at the time. I find that insulting because they don't take into account the freaking human being with the compex mind standing in front of them. As if a person can be summed up in light of a single position they hold. Second of all, to say that a person is unpatriotic, that they hate America and should go live in a communist country . . . that goes against everything this country stands for. Here's a prime example: whenever a pundit goes on TV saying that the war in Iraq is out of control and needs to be taken in a new direction, all of a sudden they are emboldening the enemy and want the US to fail. How in the hell does criticizing th way a few people are handling an isolated event entail hatred of the country? I'm not seeing the correlation. I'm not seeing why this helps the terrorists, I don't see how this hurts the troops, and I sure as hell don't see how it hurts America. Please, somebody tell me why offering a different solution is hurting America!! I may as well admit, if I must, that I am not a Bush lover. I despise he and his entire administration. Every single policy has been a total failure: No Child Left Behind, the Patriot Act, anything to do with oil, the environment, and people's lives. It would give me great joy to see Bush, Cheney, Gonzales, and the rest of the pack get carried off to prison for war crimes. These feelings of disdain toward the current leaders of the country have put me at odds with a great number of anchors and pundits. It is in these people that I truly see the harm of America that everybody likes to preach so damn much. I see the liberties we work so hard for belittled on primetime news, all in the name of national security and so-called "patriotism." I see the whistleblowers accused of trying to demoralize the troops. I see those who want to make a difference called unAmerican. These sick fucks who call themselves "reporters" don't even know what it is to BE American. Here's why: Reason 1: No free speech allowed. That's right, these hacks can say whatever they want about whomever they want, but if somebody disagrees is either stupid, morally inept, or wants the terrorists to kill Americans. Names that come to mind: Sean Hannity, Bill O'Reilly, Ann Coulter BIG TIME, Glenn Beck to a lesser extent, and that walking corpse smitten with rigor mortis, Brit Hume. Reason B: Monarchy rising. It would seem that many people would have us bow to Bush and forsake questioning of his policies, no matter how flawed or illegal they may appear. Apparently the fact that we are at war makes Bush safe from criticism. True, there are many good reporters and commentators who don't fall for that, but there are so many other members of politics who seem to think that even showing concern for a plan that doesn't look quite reasonable will show weakness to Al Qaida, or worse, make the President's job even more difficult. Oh, woe! You said that the President's strategy to surge more troops in Iraq was unlikely to succeed! Now he can't think of the best way to find Bin Laden, he's so confused! The poor children! Again, Bill-O, Hannity, and countless republican congressmen fit this category. I tried to catch a falling star, but all I got was this damn pixie. |
| . . . That I am in love with Blue Stone. Lovelier music I have yet to hear. Oh, that voice! If only my vibrato were not developing and disrupting my own, I could sing that way. Ah, joy! If anyone is actually reading this, you may have noticed that there has suddenly appeared on the header a red banner proclaiming that the content of this journal is now rated 18+ and woe to the child who doth stumble across this book! I thought that I would be able to keep my thoughts within at PG 13 context, but reconsidered while watching the Abstinence episode of "Penn & Teller BULLSHIT!" Considering my admiration of anatomy in a purely nonsexual way, I felt that I might make a slip and say "penis" or "orgasm" and traumatize some poor 14-year-old Christian boy. Indeed, it would seem that my impartiality toward most things society-unfriendly would get me into quite a bit of trouble. It is better to be safe than sorry, and better to swear unimpeded than to rupture one's jugular. |
| When this current semester of Spring 2007 came along, and all of us Brunswickians were well-established in our familiarity and friendship, I heard about an interesting phenomenon that had been practiced the previous school year. It was an interesting ritual called "Deep Thursday." Oh my, where are my manners? "Brunswickians" is the term that applies to members of first floor of the dormitory building called "Brunswick." Mind you, this is the first floor only; the second floor of the building has no such connection between residents as the first, and as the third floor is given over entirely for the use of a sorority, they are naturally exempt. And not all residents on the first floor qualify for Brunswickian status, either; any person who does not "mingle" or who is generally an annoyance, and thus is not really permitted to mingle a great deal, is excluded from the privilege of calling themselves a Brunswickian. Mind you, that does not mean that the chosen of the hall are mean or take aims to exclude them from activities; it simply means that, instead of being sought out for food runs or restaurant excursions during birthdays and holidays, we pretend that nobody exists behind that door. They have the opportunity, of course, but it is only for those who accept the challenge that may take the title of Brunswickian. But yes, to return to the matter at hand: the year before I arrived in the dorm, certain residents would celebrate Thursdays by staying up all night, and going to a restaurant called The Bistro for breakfast, as it is the only establishment on campus that provides breakfast during breakfast hours. Well, there is La Patisserie, and that horrible buffet-thing in the Center Court, but from what I hear, the Bistro has a better selection of food. I would not know myself; I've never woken up early enough to benefit. However, as most of the residents were free of Friday classes, their way of entering the weekend was to "go deep" or at least make the attempt; many have tried, few have succeeded. This semester, they attempted to reinstate Deep Thursday. Unfortunately, so far nobody has shown a great deal of interest this time around. The desire is there, but so is the high amount of homework due the following Monday. I have made one attempt, during the period when residents were still enthusiastic about it; however, I had a really bad cough that was only getting worse, and we all decided that it would be in my best interest to go to bed, after taking a healthy dose of Nyquil. Well, it woulds seem that the fun is being reinstated in Deep Thursday this week; or shall I say, Peep Thursday? Andrew, one of the veterans of Brunswick, has been dared to consume sixty of those horrible Easter guilt-reducing devices known as the Peeps. In forty minutes. Without throwing up until noon on Friday. Apparently he will be paid twenty dollars for a successful execution of this challenge, and plenty of residents are betting on when he will hurl. I think like, one person actually thinks he will succeed, other than Andrew himself. Anyhoo (there, see? I did it again. It's purposeful!), Bradley became exuberant two nights ago, and leaped up screaming, "PEEP THURSDAY!" He then proceeded to run about the hall and jump on his bed. Ah, Bradley. I know not why it is called "Deep Thursday." I am not entirely certain that I want that query to be answered, either. Nor do I think it really matters. All that matters in the case of anything Brunswickian is that we have a good time and spend that time together. Welcome to Brunswick. I tried to catch a falling star, but all I got was this damn pixie. |
| Sometimes, I think I must be mad. It makes perfect sense, sometimes. After all, everyone else seems so complacent, so content and satisfied with their existence. It seems like nothing ever goes wrong for them, nothing is that big of a deal. Why, then, does it seem like I am always plagued by misfortune and plain old-fashioned misery? All I ask is the same enjoyment in that which life has provided me that it would appear that everyone else in the world has. I know there are exceptions; someone out there is always unhappy. The trouble is, most of the time they don't act like it. Take the battered wife, for instance: nothing in that scenario is good or pleasant, yet for the most part, she does nothing to better her life. She hides the bruises and the hurt and keeps on with life. Maybe she thinks that if she only waits, things will get better. Why is this? Why go on? It seems that so many people have the ability to at least try to improve their lives. Battered spouses can go to friends or the police to get away from their abusers. Children in neglectful or abusive households can go to the school counselor, instead of push away those who inquire. Sweatshop workers can gather their numbers and rise to fight for their rights! The people of America can stop bitching about the cost of gasoline and the invasion of their privacy by the government and tell the officials that we won't take their shit anymore! People can grab life by the reigns and turn it into a direction that favors them and their ideals. But, does this happen? No, it doesn't, at least not for most of us. I should know: from fourth grade to eleventh, I had social workers coming to talk to me about my situation at home, my relationship with my parents, my feelings toward my classes and teachers, and so forth. And every time, I either lied about how I was doing, or became belligerent when taken from my classes. I will say that part of my anger was at being removed from class, in full view of the other students. On the one hand, I was being removed from class, and part of the reason for the removal was to help me do better at my schoolwork (kinda defeats the purpose, you know). On the other, the other students saw that I needed "special attention" which only added to my feelings of being an outcast. Still, that is no excuse: things were not okay in my life, and I bloody well knew it. I had the opportunity to get out of a terrible situation, or at least to get the state to breathe down those fuckers' backs and make them clean up the house to the point where the entire first floor did not smell like feces. However, the chance I had was disregarded, and I did everything I could to dissuade those people from wanting to help me. Just like the battered wife, just like the victim of incest, just like the downtrodden who has something coming to him but won't bother to ask. You know what? Maybe it's not me. Maybe it is all of us: we're all fucking nuts. Look at the alcoholism, the drug use, the rates of adultery. These are not the symptoms of a happy society. These are the signs of people who are fucking miserable, but have decided soon into their lives that they do not wish to, or simply cannot, change the paths upon which they trod, and therefore must find ways of escaping, forgetting, or in the least just trying to spice up their pathetic, unhappy, out-of-control lives. Sad, isn't it: with people like this in the world, you cannot tell who is truly happy, and who is screaming for help. I tried to catch a falling star, but all I got was this damn pixie. |
| So here I sit at my nice, fast computer with its nice, fast Internet provider at my nice, not-so-very-fast University, in the hours proceeding the time when I shall say goodbye to the great, game-enabled Hewlett Packard with its DSL hookup provided by George Mason University, and commence with my Spring Break. The irony of the fact that, two days before the time of this writing, the Fairfax area was hit hard by a series of snow flurries, is not lost on me. I now grow to understand why locales such as Daytona and Miami are so popular during the time of the Spring Break: it has nothing to do with the beautiful beaches, the fine dining experiences, or even the interesting seaside shops where, for a few dollars, any person with a checkbook can be the owner of a bleached crocodile skull. No, it all boils down to the fact that the time gifted to us college students for a break in the Spring is taking place at an incredibly stupid time of the year. Yes, I can understand that the breaks must be staggered so that the whole college population is not intoxicating itself at the same beachfront at the same time, and thus many of us must celebrate either very early or very late, but seriously: Spring Break should really be taking place in the spring, at some point succeeding the Vernal Equinox (March 21), NOT two weeks before. No wonder almost every inebriation-inclined university student hits the beach; it's the only place that isn't below freezing this time of year! I should probably get to the point of this first entry; me and my silly tangents. You can expect a great deal more of that if you continue to read this journal. And I suggest you do! It's going to be very interesting. After all, I'm an interesting person. Anyhoo, and yes, I know I misspelled "anywho." I do that on purpose, as a personal quirk. DEAL WITH IT. Anyhoo, as I sit here with forty dollars less in my bank account, as per the sacrifice needed to even begin this fine journal, I ponder what exactly it is I thought I was doing the first time I paid for an account here at Writing-dot-com. And then I remember: they reduced the number of allowed items on the free membership account to a mere ten, and cut off our benefits. Sneeeeaky, Writing-dot-com. But do not get me wrong: the mere fact that I was willing to pay at such a young age, with no job (and I admit that I am still unemployed, at 20, but hey: I'm in college and just got a 3.78 GPA last semester), it should be clear that just being a part of this community was very important to me, and that I was willing to sacrifice that which I but barely had in order to remain a part of that community. After all this time with no new entries, no new work in general, it did come as a surprise when I spontaneously jumped onto the site, began the daunting task of clearing out my mailbox, and paid what should have been fifty dollars to upgrade my account. I did always intend to move upward in the ranks of paid memberships of Writing-dot-com, but after so little activity, it does seem rather odd. No matter, though, because I realize WHY I chose to do it: because we are more likely to get our asses in gear and work if something is at stake. Well, that's some of my creative motivation, anyway. Heh. In sincerity, though, I felt that, if I could expand my horizons, and get back in "the Mood," I could return to my lost creative tendencies and, with the experience of college writing experience, actually create something, and do it WELL this time! I DO want to be an artist, I DO want to create, and I DO want to live a life of creativity and appreciate all the beauty in the world around me. And now, with the exchange of forty dollars, US, for the bigger portfolio, more folders in my email account, and the permission to create "Books," I think I might be motivated enough to start down that path I so long ago lost. I tried to catch a falling star, but all I got was this damn pixie. |
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