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We were going to see the Sound Off at the EMP, but apparently it sold out. Ha, ha. So we got on the Ferris Wheel, where the lovely attendant sang En Vogue per request for our entertainment as we went round and round. Then we went back to Dick's because we all forgot to eat, and thus decided to go see Taken, because let's face it, Liam Neeson is a fucking badass and that entire movie is just him being the Ultimate Badass.
Then we stood about in the cold before investigating Dan's apartment, which is cleaner than most male-abodes, I have to say. His camera was super swanky so we decided on an improv, late-night model shoot that had his lower neighbors banging on his floor in irritation.

My night was effectively ruined when I remembered I have work in the morning. Fuck, fuck, fuck, it's 3am already. AHHH.



So I actually had an awesome Valentine's Day. Who knew?

I also ate a duck and a lamb in a very, very shiny restaurant; here's really grainy, bad-lit proof of such:

Yes, I wore that shirt to show off my tits.

Also, there's a canoe in my garage that wasn't there before. It's large and metal and looks like it's killed at least four people.


So, it's Darwin's 200th Birthday. We had a big event at work to celebrate. Someone apparently invited the creationists along...

...complete with EXPLOSIVE AMOUNTS OF PUNCTUATION!!!! Oh, and is there more.

I asked one guy if he was cold, and he said, 'No, miss, for I've the HOLY FIRE OF JESUS INSIDE OF ME!'

I wonder if he'd appreciate that I keep my Bible page saved with a Lucy's Legacy bookmark.


Feb. 12th, 2009


Oyeah. Yay for sleeping in.


school will be the end of us all

I just finished and submitted my application to UW to finish up my Creative Writing/Film/Japanese degree. Read: I just spent the last four weeks ripping my hair out, shouting at random family members demanding their tax information, generally having nervous breakdowns for breakfast, lunch and dinner, writing, re-writing, completely trashing and burning the old draft and re-writing once again, a five-page Personal Statement about how awesome and talented I am and why they should chose me over the thousands and thousands of other illiterate robots trying to get a spot in their university.

And, having gone through all of that nonsense, I won't know that I've been accepted (or denied) until the end of the summer. Those universities just love to lay on the suspense. And even now, I'm thinking, oh my god, what if I forgot a comma? What if I put in too many commas? I'm supposed to be an English major, for crying out loud, and you know they'd minus points if I can't even keep my verb particles in order. I'll get my application back with red marks in the margins screaming 'MISPLACED MODIFIER! OUT OF PARALLEL! BE-VERBS CAN'T TAKE DIRECT OBJECTS!'

I'm going to go drown myself in the shower for a while.


transcendental funk

So we're talking about Transcendentalists in American Lit--anyone who's taken more than basic English in college has had a similar class in some form, but how much students actually retain... I'm sure most 4-yr students (an graduated adults) would recognise the name Emerson or Whitman (or, hopefully, both) and possibly even Thoreau. If they fully digest the message, though, I sincerely doubt. So here's my attempt at a rough summary, focusing on the major link between the three--their views on Nature.

transcendental rantingCollapse )

... or so read my paper, which the professor flaunted about endlessly. My real thoughts? Emerson was a fucking pimp, Whitman was a man-whore, and Thoreau was an egotistical maniac who seriously needed to get laid. Sure, they're all literary masters, but you can't be a master and entirely sane, I don't care what anyone says.


damn and damn

Rosie loves to point out the errors in my ways; fair enough, though, as she seems to be the only one who can find any. As far as the rest of you are concerned, I'm the epitome of perfection. Just deal with it.

I think I'm going to spend today taking pictures of various types of pavement, then adhere high-quality prints to canvases and sell them for thousands of dollars. If Carl Andre can sell a pile of bricks for a million, I can sell pavement art and make a fortune, you just watch.

Also, apparently, "Dungbombs" is not only one word, but also capitalised. Well, sue me, you evil slag.


Happy Birthday to me! I'm getting old!


much ado about nothing in particular

Apparently, my body has decided to celebrate it's first day back to class since CFS started kicking it's ass with a good, old-fashioned, brain-stuck-in-your-nasal-passages flu. The kind of flu you aren't supposed to go out in public in, much less sit in a tight box with no air to breath with forty other students who will be rotating from tight box to tight box all day with other students to swiftly spread the disease. But, as you may well know, if you miss the first three or so days of class, flu or no flu, good luck keeping that class. Especially when all of my classes are English classes, and Seattle Central canceled over half of their English classes, so all of the students needing anything other than the basic 100/200 composition have squeezed into the remainder and left us with unhappy, tight boxes of students.

They kept my poetry class (which I am completely hopeless at, but it's required for the degree, so I must suffer with my incompetence) and my contemporary world lit class, which is good, because both I need and want to some degree. It means lots of reading and writing and no final exams, which is my perfect cup of tea. But then there's this thing with me since my freshman year, Murphy and his Laws or something, making it completely impossible for me to ever fit a Shakespeare class into my schedule without leaving out something else important. So this year, I thought, hey, Shakespeare at 9am, look at that! Three classes in a row nice and early, leaves the whole day for sleeping/eating/reading!

But, of course, they went and canceled the Shakespeare class.

I mean, come on, he's only Shakespeare. Why wouldn't I rather take Af. American Lit (which has two Morrison and two Baldwin novels, check out that variety!). To quote a girl (a black girl, even) in my class this morning, it'll be a cold day in Hell when we finally get a black history-oriented class that features happy literature. Maybe, just maybe, one day we'll let people know that, hey, it's not all that bad being a black person in this country. They have fun, too, believe it or not! The reason the majority of the class had enrolled: "They canceled everything else, and I had to take something in English."

Meanwhile, I can only describe my poetry professor as such: a blonde surfer-hippy. Possibly gay, but the jury's still out on that one. That was the first and lasting impression, anyway, and he even talks cool; he asked each of us random questions in turn while taking roll, like, 'Hey, how was your day? Go anywhere cool this summer? You happy to be here? That's cool, me too!' He's a bit on the get-sidetracked-by-nonsense-and-ramble about it side, which is reassuring because I tend to be like that... well, all of the time.

He spent the first five minutes of class being late, and the next five minutes investigating the bottle of spray adhesive someone left on his desk with interest, whispering things to us like, 'It says, "No ozone diminishers." Well, that's cool. "Harmful if swallowed, keep out of reach of children." Hm. What do you think? Want to try it out?' Wink.

I take it back; I don't want to take contemporary lit. The books are terrible, I can smell the terrible inside of them, and the teacher is an idiot. My fucking kingdom for a literate professor. I want to learn shit, dammit.