Midnight musings

I fear that there is something truly wrong with me. Truly wrong, I say, and none can contradict me, for in this day of sadness, I have discovered that I like the Ramones.

Wat.
This is a travesty. Have I become one of these horrible people who think they are so hardcore because they listen to music that was produced before 1970? Will I soon begin to dress my hair with flowers and decry LBJ as the traitor of American society? Will I go further back than that and change my last name to McCarthy as I eschew everything bearing the slightest tint of red? Or will I lose all sense of proportion and make my way back into the early days of imperialism, calling all Filipino people my "little brown brothers" and petitioning all the world around me for a global empire? I know not what to do. Life is so confusing. Maybe I should become a nun. I could make art for the refectory and the triforium and all those wonderful places that sound so beautifully Latin. I know how it all works now (thanks to Art History). I will change my name to something quite properly artistic and Italian, like Giovanna del Sexypantsia. My name will be known forever, and someday people will analyze my work for obscure meanings. Sounds like a viable plan.
Speaking of analysis, I have found that art historians are even worse than English majors when it comes to finding information in works. At least English majors back up their points with rhetorical devices. Art historians have not that faculty. They merely make things up, and then justify them by vaguely referring to line or composition or sufamato or some beautiful thing like that. It seems quite the easy job. Maybe I will take a minor in it when I go to Compton Community College for my BS in Uselessshite (which is an ancient Swedish word for "useless shite").
I submitted my USC app today. No words can describe the stress in my mind at the moment that I clicked the "send" button. It was worse than every awkward choir performance I have suffered through, worse than that creepy cross country guy's pedophile pickup lines, worse than Fish Face's bug-ugly Caucasian ass. It was truly a moment to live for and yet to die for at once. I experienced a higher consciousness in those few seconds, and that transcendental feeling none can take away from me. Unfortunately, I can't put the mysticism of the moment to any suitable use, since all my essays have already been written, but it will live forever in my heart.
I just figured out how to do HTML on this thang. It's wonderful. I feel like the most advanced of technological geniuses for doing it. Maybe I should become a computer programmer and work at top-tier companies and make exponential amounts of money and consort with the uppermost of echelons everyday for the rest of my life. Wouldn't that be something, now. I hope I wouldn't have to marry a doctor. Then I'd have to host social dinners and balls and all that sort of stuff and take up golfing and adopt a whiny chihuahua named GracielouPeachyTinkerSparklebelle and pretend I was interested in one percent problems. Maybe I would even be tempted to dye my hair blond and change my name to Ashley Lewis or something. No, I couldn't risk it. I will be lonely and desolate all my days, with no light of love to warm my frigid isolation. No presence will cheer my poor life but my cats' (I intend to have five). I will be the most bitter, insular old woman the world has ever seen, and I will like it. After all, who needs love letters when one has writs of certiorari? Reed v. Reed is the closest I ever want to get to marriage, and bear in mind, if you will, that that was a divorce case. Supreme court justices need no one in their lives but the law. But, if I did get married, I would want a man with the following qualifications:
1) He must be as hot as the day the earth stood still.
2) He must be as rich as Mitt Romney. Nay, he must be richer still. His pockets must be as deep as the proverbial sea.
3) He must be a veritable Einstein. I love me that manly smartness.
4) He must have music in his soul and rhythm in his blood. If he had the voice of an angelic angel, that would also be splendid (so we could sing duets and such, ye ken), but this is not an absolute necessity.
5) He must be as humorous as humor itself. At least, he must bear a sense of humor. After all, I don't really want some immature practical-joking sitcom star.
6) He must have a sense of social justice. That is to say, he cannot act white.
7) Well, you know, while we're at it, if he's not white, that might be really nice too, because I'm a racist bigot.
8) He must be able to argue about many things. Specifically, with me. So, see, he must have the strong will of a lawyer (which he will preferably be).
9) He will be as independent as the wind that flows through the trees, and as romantic as the least romantic thing ever. Although he can buy me stuff, that would be nice.
10) He must be as economically oriented as I am. Cuz if he goes out spending millions of dollars on insulated sofas, that's grounds for divorce right there. Amirite or wat?
And there we have it, the perfect Adonis for me! Of course, such a man does not exist (save in the pages of dubiously written romantic novels that are not really fit for public consumption), so I will be free of the burdens of love forevermore. Oh, damn! I just realized, that describes S-hole! What is going on. The little twat is almost exactly like me, and I loathe him for it. As they say, like repels like (or at least that is the case when it comes to magnetism). So I shan't fall in love with him, nor he with me, and all shall be comity and felicity forevermore.
I have to go to Allie's birthday party tomorrow. She invited none but her closest friends (which is me, Sonia, Annabelle, and Ivy), and I feel as privileged as pie. We are going to have a high tea at a very glamourous little tea shop, and she is paying for it all, and it all is going to be splendid and fabulous. Still, it's at 1:00, so I will have to drag myself from my bed of slumber, and that is an arduous task indeed. But what is friendship but arduous? Or is it ardent I mean? Well, you know, 'tis something like that. It is all about heart (which is, I think, the root word. I hope.).
Oh, that means I should go to bed, does it not. It is 2:40 AM, and everyone else is happily off in slumberland. I will wait until this piece is done (it is Variations on a Theme by Corelli, and is the most lovely little piece in the whole wide world), and then off I shall go. Oh, there we go. Goodnight, sweet prince!