28.4.07

brooke fraser

I really rather love her.

15.4.07

assignment of the year

Amazing Grace.

Go. See. And then change the world.

11.4.07

news

I am a writing fellow.

(!!!)

10.4.07

honors geography

In a Past Life...

You Were: A Brave Sailor.

Where You Lived: Russia.

How You Died: Decapitation.


These sorts of things tend to happen when all around you is dark and tired but the lovely girls of 3200 just won't shut up. Still, for a silly little quiz that involves all of the press of a button, it seems remarkably accurate. Who else knows about my Russian infatuation?

*edit*

Michael: Oohh... can you imagine how much blood there was? If it happened right here, it would reach all the way to reception. Probably get on Pam.
Phyllis: Okay that's enough.
Michael: What?
Stanley: We do not wanna hear about this.
Michael: Well, you know what? I didn't wanna hear about it either, Stanley, but I did and now I can't stop picturing it. He leaves work, he's on his way home... wham! His cappa is detated from his head!

Hee. [/Kevin]

9.4.07

editor's note

I am alliteratively afflicted.

confessional

Ever since I last typed a post title, it's refused to leave me. The swing of "ponytail" has haunted every spare thought, a rhythmic reminder of bygone bitterness. I've resisted it for days, but I know this now: I must confess.

Liv, this is for you:

Years ago, we used to play My Little Pony: lovingly grooming rainbow manes with plastic brushes, puppeteering fantastic tales of brazen bravery. My horse was purple, the standard princess-fare. Her pink hair was strung through with sparkle, her left buttock stamped with a cheery bundle of balloons. She was your typical pony, all short and squat with the signature stumpy legs and over-large eyes. I pretended to love her.

Your plastic friend was green, a sort of sea-froth color that complimented her bubblegum pink hair. Long and leggy, she was everything but the status quo, right down to her almond-shaped eyes. She had an Audrey Hepburn neck and sleek muzzle; an innocent cluster of daisies marked her name. She smelled slightly of strawberries and I would have done anything to make her mine.

Yet month after month we played, you with yours and I with mine. They cavorted about emerald fields and sapphire streamlets, whinying for the highest good and stomping out the most despicable bad. My purple pony developed magical traits, certain tricks I loudly declared could never be yours. I refused your green girl a chance to fly. I ceased play the minute you suggested she might be in some small way superior to my chunky charge. In short, I despised you and your horse. But only because I so badly wanted to be a part of its single glory.

I tell you this now, in the hopes that this petty pony-hate be all forgotten and I can move on, undeterred by a simple mention of "ponytail" or any of its counterparts. Still, a part of me has found unnerving parallel in the writing: do you know, I envy you stil? You've always been the one to stand out, to exude "I am an individual" with real authority. Whether your fab fashion, instant comedy or your easy-going people skills, I stand in awe. How many times these past months I've only wished, "If only I could be like her . . ."

And yeah, sometimes it's your own long, lean legs and petite frame that drive me to these wishes. But physical supremacy aside, I wouldn't mind being given a part of that uniqueness that is you.

In other words, you're pretty cool. And no matter how many times I wished death to your plastic friend as dad seranaded our pony days with "My Little Phony," I'm glad we stuck it out. Together.

3.4.07

first things first

assignment of the week so far: Take a two hour break and check out Baraka. It just might change you, although you could also ask, "what's with the chickens and the fast moving asians?" You decide.

news item of the day: as of 2.43 this afternoon, I am a vegetarian (once again).

surprise of the hour: I don't like onions as much as I thought I did.

* * * * *

I just walked back from SFA in the cool twilight and felt like singing (it's inexplicable) Oklahoma. Paolo made fun of me for loving Viggo today in Italian. I chatted with a superly adorkable boy at the LRC desk this afternoon because he noticed my insane doodlings along the scrap of paper I provided him with the DVD number I needed scrawled across it. All in all a pretty typical Tuesday, and I am utterly exhausted from the living of it---but not horribly so. This is the good kind of tired, where you can fall asleep at 10 o'clock guilt-free because you know you deserve it. Fall asleep, that is, if X will stop all that sporadic laughter.