Here’s the thing, though. This is here because I love to write, and not just when I’m forced to for a grade. I get to practice writing what I’m thinking, telling a story, attempting Funny. Consequently? I’m a much better writer than a good 90 or 95% of you. That’s right, I said it. (How's THAT for conceit?) So it’s really difficult for me to see any merit in your bitchings about “self-serving” and “pointless.” There is a point – I enjoy it, it's therapeutic on occasion, and I currently have an A in the hardest English class in the school. Yes, I also get to share Funny and give shout-outs or subtle anonymous jabs as I see fit, and that’s always fun, too. And this, you see, is what it’s all about.
On days like this, I honestly cannot understand how anyone can be depressed. In case you haven't looked outside, the skies are perfect, a uniform blue that I've always heard described as "robin's egg blue," but since I've never actually SEEN a robin's egg, I'm unsure of how true that is. Point remains, though, that it's gorgeous and looks like it goes on forever, occasionally dotted with cotton-ball clouds. And it's not even October yet. It's afternoons like this that make me wonder if I'll miss Tennessee when I escape to some as-of-yet unnamed college next year. I'm sure it'll have almost everything going for it - an English-speaking population, no bright orange, no confusion involving unbranched family trees ... but the way the water's rippling over the lake today, I could barely tear myself away and I can't stop smiling.
Those shout-outs I mentioned earlier? Here's a big one. I didn't realize how much I needed the spectacular Lauren around until she jetted off to Wash U. She's just always been right there for years - dance, Science Club, IRC. Or, hell, making Cbass a card with his mother's markers and paper, and stapling mini Snickers on the front. She's well-rounded. And I got used to bouncing ideas off of her to check myself. Chemistry, math, politics, whatever. Anyway, point is, yesterday, I was asked a chemistry question. And as I finished answering, I glanced to my left, expecting to see her nodding, and smoothly stepping in to add whatever I left out or correct what I messed up. And next to me was ... Owen's back. Now, Owen's a cool guy, but that was quite a letdown. Six weeks into school, it finally hits me. Miss you, Lai Lai. I've got to trust myself a lot more, now, and be much better prepared for everything.
Oooh. Check this out. I Can't ... I'm Mormon! These are wicked awesome shirts. Except, BYU doesn't agree. Figures. Damn polygamists. Not that I'd ever make uneducated generalizations, or anything like that.
Off to explain how setting gives credibility to the plot of "The Three Strangers," which I don't find to be any more contrived than all the other shit they've had us read ... but it would appear as though this is the one where they finally admit it's all crap. And then they make us explain why it's okay for Thomas Hardy to write like that. Yeah, all right.
Stay classy, San Diego.
Never been prouder of y'all. Holly, Joan, there's not enough adoration and praise. And Caesar played 14 beautifully. Even Jay's wig was fantastic. Wouldn't have missed it for the world.
"Does Heaven exist?"
"No."
"Does Hell exist?"
"No."
"Well, that's something, anyways."
and
Experimentation: It's Not Just For Science Anymore.
jangel139: So, at the ORPH Silent Auction, we have for sale:Later...
jangel139: An English Tea Party
jangel139: A Lot in River's Run
jangel139: A 4-D ultrasound from OBGYN of OR
jangel139: (the ultimate shower gift)
jangel139: A gift certificate to Magic Wok (lol)
jangel139: One Botox Session
poka dotted love: LOL. ohmygosh the little scary chinese place.
jangel139: And ... this is the one that really takes the cake
poka dotted love: bring it on.
jangel139: Vasectomy Surgery from OR Urology Group
poka dotted love: wow.
poka dotted love: WHAT were they THINKING?
jangel139: I. Do. Not. Know.
poka dotted love: hahaha that is hilarious.
poka dotted love: almost as funny as the extra flap of skin on pasety's forehead.
jangel139: LOL
jangel139: OH, I bet the $500 gift certificate from Choices Anti-aging Clinic could clear that right up
poka dotted love: HAHAHA.
poka dotted love: most definitely.
jangel139: We should suggest it.
poka dotted love: we should.
jangel139: I wanna buy the vasectomy for someone I hateOf course!
jangel139: who should not reproduce
jangel139: suggestions?
poka dotted love: W INSTEAD.
jangel139: Conclusion:Damn straight.
EggoBrown: yes?
jangel139: the vasectomy that's up for sale at the silent auction at the Gala
jangel139: (yes, That vasectomy)
jangel139: will be bought by me and Jennifer
jangel139: and we will give it to Adam
jangel139: to prevent him from reproducing
EggoBrown: i'm sorry, i had to get myself off the floor before i could respond
EggoBrown: i was laughing too hard
jangel139: I'm sure we'll win the auction; no one else is gonna bid on thatbut the general concensus?
Theaterbop: there might be some angry, frisky, middle-aged housewives looking to get it?
poka dotted love: oh holy eff.And a partridge in a pear tree ...
There were pirates in Hamlet?
So, hi. I'm here. And there you are. A meeting of minds in cyberspace, again. Inter-web. I've always pictured it as a massive spiderweb with computers sitting on it and lots of lights blinking, in pitch black. What do I have to say that could possibly keep you coming back? Because Statcounter says you do. I guess I'd better give you something to read, or look at, or think about ... add something to this massive and addictive spiderweb that's worth my procrastination.
Last week, Nibble took off one of his size-14 K-Swiss tennis shoes and started tossing and catching it in Psych. He gets this pensive look on his face, and then turns to Cush and says, how much will you pay me to throw this at BLT? Now, this is a golden opportunity, because Nabil has Excellent aim, and if anyone would follow through with that, he would. Between me, Cush, Chris, and Joey, we come up with about $80 we're willing to pay to see her smacked, and this is enough for Nibble. So, the bell rings, we leave class and cluster right outside the door to the left. She comes out, takes a right, starts down the hall, and Nabil takes two steps, hauls off, and NAILS her right between the shoulder blades. I wish you all could have seen it. It made my week. And the screech that went along with it ... priceless, and it can never be recreated, though I did try to imitate it all day. We all stood there, unable to move, laughing and laughing. She turns around, squeaking in disbelief. We still can't turn away from The Beauty. Nabil walks over and picks up his shoe, just as nonchalant as ever, puts it on, all the while laughing. Shipley comes out to check on the disturbance and The Screech, and sees BLT in a state of shock, and the rest of us having convulsions. I didn't calm down until upwards of two hours later. Nabil is my hero. He promised to hit her in the head, though, and missed. And for that, we penalized him about $35 for depriving us of that much Funny.
In the end, I owed about $5, and it was the best $5 I have ever, ever spent. And, though I've already told nearly everyone this story, I just had to immortalize it here, so I never forget how utterly wonderful it is to see the one best argument against lesbian parenting get what she deserves. (note: not that I'm against lesbian parenting, it's just that, if I were, she'd be my fighting point. Also, I wonder what the Angelfucker ads are going to do with THAT.)
I, thanks to Ben, have finally seen Good Will Hunting. And, though the whole movie is amazingly wonderful (Oh Ben, How You Have Fallen! Surviving Christmas? Noooo!), Matt Damon's monologue when he's refusing a job with the NSA as a cryptologist is positively eerie. Now, I know you've all seen the damn movie, because of course everyone's seen it before me, but I feel the need to reproduce it here anyways, in case some of you missed the cutting brilliance of it. Courtesy IMDB:
Why shouldn't I work for the N.S.A.? That's a tough one, but I'll give it a shot. Say I'm working at N.S.A. Somebody puts a code on my desk, something nobody else can break. So I take a shot at it and maybe I break it. And I'm real happy with myself, 'cause I did my job well. But maybe that code was the location of some rebel army in North Africa or the Middle East. Once they have that location, they bomb the village where the rebels were hiding and fifteen hundred people I never had a problem with get killed. Now the politicians are sayin', "Send in the marines to secure the area" 'cause they don't give a shit. It won't be their kid over there, gettin' shot. Just like it wasn't them when their number was called, 'cause they were pullin' a tour in the National Guard. It'll be some guy from Southie takin' shrapnel in the ass. And he comes home to find that the plant he used to work at got exported to the country he just got back from. And the guy who put the shrapnel in his ass got his old job, 'cause he'll work for fifteen cents a day and no bathroom breaks. Meanwhile my buddy from Southie realizes the only reason he was over there was so we could install a government that would sell us oil at a good price. And of course the oil companies used the skirmish to scare up oil prices so they could turn a quick buck. A cute little ancillary benefit for them but it ain't helping my buddy at two-fifty a gallon. And naturally they're takin' their sweet time bringin' the oil back, and maybe even took the liberty of hiring an alcoholic skipper who likes to drink martinis and play slalom with the icebergs, and it ain't too long 'til he hits one, spills the oil and kills all the sea life in the North Atlantic. So my buddy's out of work and he can't afford to drive, so he's got to walk to the job interviews, which sucks 'cause the shrapnel in his ass is givin' him chronic hemorrhoids. And meanwhile he's starvin' 'cause every time he tries to get a bite to eat the only blue plate special they're servin' is North Atlantic scrod with Quaker State. So what do I think? I'm holdin' out for somethin' better. Why not just shoot my buddy, take his job and give it to his sworn enemy, hike up gas prices, bomb a village, club a baby seal, hit the hash pipe and join the National Guard? I could be elected president.I'm gonna let that speak for itself. Except, Ben and I would never do a thing like that.
Joy: I think we should play that scene on a loop in front of all the voting booths on election day.Mocking and hilarity follow, as tends to happen. And, oh yes, the Other high note:
Ben: I don't think the Republicans would stand for that.
Joy: They can go jump off a cliff.
Ben: laughter, because I'm pouting
Joy: Except ... they wouldn't fall, would they? They'd jump, but then the strings would kick in and they'd just be hovering in midair.
Ben: With Cheney jerking them around ... 'heyyyy look, I can make them do the macarena!'
Ben's phone: plays Psycho theme songSo, that, and some odd text messages, and poking around where I shouldn't, and the nightmare I had last night, they all lead me to wonder why it is that we have to drag around all this history, all this baggage? Are we really better for being unable to escape the things our stupidity or immaturity or lack of experience put us through? There should be a way to collect knowledge, and yet not accrue too much of that which makes life difficult, that which chases and doesn't let go. I'm vaguely recalling the lecture Mr. Gawrys gave at GSIS about Eastern religion, and how some put their faith in second and third and fourth incarnations, where you come back with something of a knowledge base, but you can't remember the events that put it there. Working towards enlightenment, you can't bring all that along. Ugh, it's all too much to think about, and when suddenly the events in someone else's past affect your present -
Ben: Hello?
Ericka: Hey, what're you doing?
Ben: Watching a movie at Joy's.
Ericka: Ohhh ... sorry.
Joy: Oh, so NOW she apologizes!?
"I'm looking for baggage that goes with mine" ... that's how the song goes, but isn't that harder? Because then, instead of just putting it neatly on a shelf, it's always There. Even if it's not discussed. Or even mentioned. Sharing trauma just magnifies it. More trauma to go around. (Or, even if it's not trauma like my nightmare was last night, even if it's just something you don't care to think of all the time ... sharing it just means there's more, it doesn't get rid of any of it.) And it never goes away, because staring straight at you is someone who knows where you've been - a reminder. It's a big black unwelcome suitcase, sitting in the corner and getting in the way when you try to ice-skate in the kitchen .... which I did yesterday, and I think I sprained my ankle. Enough of this.
Chris Dowdy won homecoming king, which should inspire unknown black drug dealers everywhere to aspire to something better. What IS our high school coming to? ... don't tell me. Stupid freshmen, they get worse every year. I know that's partially just because the vantage point of Class of 2005 is drastically different from everyone else, but come ON, guys. I thought we were all voting for Ethan by force of instinct by now ... I know I am. Oh, and I tried to drop Bio, but it didn't take. Mr. Green and I had a little chat about it and, well, I'll be toughing it out. Now I just have to hope that she doesn't hold it against me, that I was nearly completely out of her class and everyone knew it. 154 days, 154 days ... Wash U better appreciate all these sacrifices, dammit. And I'd better get un-lazy enough to remember to apply for the Jefferson nomination.
Wimbledon is cute. You should go see it. (Unless you haven't seen Garden State yet, and then you should be saving your allowance for that. Who does Downtown West think they are, anyways?!) Remember Paul Bettany? He was the roommate in A Beautiful Mind ... yeah, him. He was good, wasn't he? Yeah. He's better here. They wanted Hugh Grant to play that part originally ... I can't even imagine how disastrous that would have been. He can only play the charming British asshole, and that simply would not have worked here. Though I'm definitely looking forward to seeing him in the new Bridget Jones. Oh, and, ooo! Unrelated in ANY way, Ocean's 12 has GOT to be coming out soon. I cannot wait much longer. So, I finally saw 21 Grams. What's up with that? It should totally be a drug movie, and I'm very annoyed that it was philosophical or whatever the hell it was trying to be instead. "How much does guilt weigh", indeed. I couldn't stand it. It did Sad really well, but I didn't feel as though there was a point to my sadness. It didn't say anything. Or, maybe I'm wrong and it was deep/symbolic/poignant/whatever. I didn't get it. It happens.
I refuse to re-read and perhaps edit any portion of this entry, despite the randomness, despite the rambling, despite anything stupid I might have said. I can only hope there's no spelling errors - I've always found it easiest to focus on the mechanics and not the content.
Keep fighting the downward spiral, all of you. And, I said perhaps one day I'd get so busy that I'd forget, but I drastically underestimated my own ability to keep at the forefront of my mind the things that bother me the most.
Oh, you'll understand when you're older. Or anyway, not understanding will become second nature, and it won't matter.
And that's really all I have to say about that.
Hilarity ensued. The smoke alarm was set off twice - icing, cupcake wrappers, the ring in the cupcakes, the plastic container for the cupcakes, Laura's tablecloth, brownies, candles, old matches ... these are all things that burn, with varying degrees of colored smoke and horrible smells. No one drank the soda. No matter what we played, Ariella always got the hardest level. Always. Eugenio had a demonic laugh, which could only be stopped with "moist", and then there were compromising positions on the kitchen floor and no one was safe from snapped towels. Little Smith held the phone to her ear for 4 solid hours. Chuck's absentee present was me with a bow on my head. The Barbie balloon was an unhealthy role model, and also a blowup doll. Signs kept Kitty and Cat safe, and no, Laura, the rest of us do NOT have instructions posted all around our houses. If you're happy and you know it, clap your hands. Ariella threatened to beat people up, and was reminded of her height again, and again, and again. Everyone but Andy wanted to go to Wash U. Hava Nagila, Hava Nagila ... It stopped. Neil and Napoleon were quoted time and time again. And 32-bit sucks.
Eugenio: I shot him in the ass!Some things are best out of context.
Mikey: I don't want to know what the ammo was.
The Dresser at CBT was fanfuckingtastic. I am somewhat at a loss as to what I was supposed to get from it, but it was a beautiful performance. And how could it not be - with JD and John Cullum. The set pulled the perspective trick to great effect, even getting the mirrors and furniture in on the act, and creating a perfectly believable backstage/stage area. Mother leaned over in the middle and whispered "Joy! The doors CLOSE! It's like ... it's like they're REAL doors!" and we both sat enraptured for several moments, enthralled by the sound of the door smoothly clicking shut.
If you've ever wondered why I'm alternately unimpressed and disgusted by UT, Knoxville, and the football culture, this is your answer. "Welcome to Auburn. I hope you like football." Overwhelming, but somehow never obnoxious. Just one city (and 40 000 other people), united in a common obsession. Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain.
Following the in the illustrious footsteps of my step-uncle twice removed, I've added Comments. Don't let me down.
And I have the most wunnerful Roo in the whole wide world! Not so much on the parenting and supervision, but lots on the loving me very much and wanting me to be happy. I can dig it.
I could say more, but it would mostly be rants about how I lost 20 points on a bio lab for not using a straight edge (and consequently producing perfectly readable and color coded graphs, whose axes deviated slightly from the lines of the graph paper on which they were drawn. Minus 2 for each graph and table, plus an overall minus 4 for "general messiness". Yeah, bite me.), but I won't do THAT. I also won't talk about how I'm doing vectors in two class periods a day, how I have to ACT for English tomorrow, or how I'm so hopelessly behind on my French that it makes me feel as though I should be punished by a beating with baguettes. And I definitely won't talk about how I can't seem to come up with a good focus for my college essay, which obviously will be about theatre, but which, thus far, has no other directing theme or topic or idea.
So, if I'm not going to talk about any of that - and I'm not - I think that I should mention how, last last Friday when I was flying in seventeen different directions trying to finish sound, Chris noted that the library books thrown across my front seat and my floorboard were due, rounded them all up, took them back, and then brought me an icee. I just started grinning, and I haven't stopped yet. Even when I'm complaining, I'm grinning. Just doesn't have the same effect, somehow. Because, really, who cares about vectors and survivorship curves when you put it all into perspective?
I can feel you read my mind.
I get it now, why he didn't burn all his bridges or call it off or let a momentary disagreement have a domino effect. No matter what, they were going on a date. They were going to celebrate his birthday or their anniversary - whichever it was, I can no longer remember. She was too important for him to ruin that because he's easily annoyed or because she was being flighty. He could see that in 24 hours, she would still matter, but the fight would not. That seeing ahead, that holding back ... that's completely contrary to his nature. And to mine, making the whole idea incomprehensible to me. But ... sometimes we do things that don't follow. There are things more important than rationality and playing it safe.
Want something. Want something.
That is really all I have to say about that.
About other things - my sound design is finished, and I wish KATC was still around so I could get some appreciation for the 8 hours' worth of mixing me and the computer went through for this show. Funny thing, though. I was annoyed about all the time I had to spend on this design until I actually started spending time on it. I loved 10-to-10 at the Playhouse on Sunday, mixing and editing and setting up and recording. I love the late rehearsals, even as I complain (and send 40+ text messages to Chris, as Eugenio's father's office unwittingly foots the bill). I love that I can type a text message with my right hand, have a cue up on both the CD player AND the MD player, and can still answer the phone when my mother calls. I love tipping over backwards in the office computer chair because I'm laughing so hard with Tony and I love Reggie regaling us with recaps of Reno 911.
I thought of quittin', baby, but I just can't. I promised Mother that I'd never do another show, that this is the last week she'll have to sit up late on school nights when she knows she has to teach in the morning. Hell, I promised me that I'd never do another show. And, well, it's not up there with Whorehouse, but I've devoted myself more to this show than I thought I would ever again. (But how could I not - Reggie wears a sparkly blonde wig! And this totally completes my life.) When Kyle was running sound yesterday with me over his shoulder, rather like a mother who has taken her child to his first day of school and then is unable to leave the room, I realized how badly I wanted to be running the show. How much of it has just become innate - my fingers have all the buttons memorized, even the ones on the brand-new (but still sucky) CD player, and I instinctively know levels and fade times and which wires and lights to check when something is failing. And of course, how much of it I still don't know. I can't get away, I never will. It's the only thing I want to do that badly, probably because it's the only thing I've ever had to work at.
Other other news - relationships with some people have become strained or forced or something, as I knew that they would be. Another one is AWOL. Huh. My fault, I guess. Other things on my mind. Perfect score on my Physics C test (earning me an "Astonishing!), but 13/16 on the posttest, which she did not tell us was for a grade. And a sobering grade on the first Calc II quiz score, which will teach me to do Bio in Calc and come to class on 2 hours of sleep. (I knew I wasn't in any shape to take the test when I leaned over to get a pen and ... just ... kept falling, little bits at a time, until I was sprawled on the floor with 18 people pointing and laughing. But what can you do?)
Oh, I'm National Merit Semifinalist. Wahoo. And I'm already behind on that application. Awwwwesome. There's 17 of us this year, which is A Fucking Lot. Class of 2005 is ridiculously brilliant; it's entirely unfair because it makes us all work so much harder than we'd ever have to otherwise. I guess the competition is good for us overall, but honestly, guys! Seventeen of you? Come on! You're taking away my edge!
I've stalled long enough. It's vector time.
I'd stop the world ...
