Spring break does approach me

I asked my English teacher after Lit today if Atlas Shrugged was considered to be "literary merit" and he said it probably was, so I was all happy, but then I checked on the list just now and it's not on there. I'm immensely disappointed! I mean, that is the best of book of all time, clearly. It would be lovely to write about on the AP exam too, I mean, there are so many prompts it could go to! If they ask for a love story? Boom, Dagny's got it going on. Comedy? Yes, indeed, there's that one section when every single employee of Taggart Transcontinental wants to be the first to drive the train on the Rearden Metal track. That part was awesome. Jim was so sad. Let's see... What else might they ask for? Perhaps insanity (as our last prompt was)? That works, Lillian and Jim go nuts in the end, or if we're discussing villainy (as another of our prompts made us do) we would have a myriad selection of crazy-ass mofos to analyze. Let's be real here, it's the new Hamlet. I'm going to do an ACE review on it anyway, just for fun, and then if it ever becomes literary merit between now and the exam, I can whip it out and capitalize my way to a five. Whee!
Speaking of Lit, I got the highest score on the multiple choice again. Actually, no, second highest, some bitch in second period scored four points higher than I did. But still, you know, that's close. Sadly, S-hole got the same score I did. Like, the exact same score. Our names were written up on the board together and everything. Ugh. I really do dislike that boy. But I like Lit! It's such a fun class. I wish it weren't so useless to be good at English. You know? Like, it's so awesome, but then when it actually comes down to it, anaphoras have to bow to integrals every time. Which is, you know, ridiculous, seeing as language is part of our every day life and is absolutely essential to survival, while math, though quite indispensable, is not. But society has got us all thinking that if you can't do a differential equation, you aren't fit to live, and if you have to use a calculator for anything short of natural logs, you should be excommunicated and sent to live in Antarctica so you won't infect anyone else with your stupidity. Why is this so? You can freely mix up 'its' and 'it's' and no one will give a single bother, but if you mess up your times tables, well, then you better pray for your eternal soul. DAMMIT. You know, I really hate all the silly mores in this futile, insipid, mockery of a society.
Ooh, I sound like one of those bitter anarchists. Maybe I should take to writing Modernist poetry and going to coffee shops and peppering my every sentence with references to "The Man." I could shave my head and dye it purple and pierce my chin and everything. Wouldn't that be charming, now? I would be very popular among all the creative writing majors in college. By the way, what do you do with a BA in creative writing? Like, do you compose meaningful epics about the terrible working conditions of McDonalds or something? There are supposed to be labor laws and everything, but even the most surgically sterile room could inspire a deep and thoughtful person to try and get his supervisor fired. Then again, no one would be able to understand the poem in the first place, or if they did, they would probably think it was about the death of their great-great grandfather fifty years prior due to dueling Andrew Jackson or something, so maybe it would be all right. I have a problem with Modernist poets. They were the ones I was bashing so assiduously the other day. They're all like whiny middle school kids who are sad because their twelve-year-old girlfriend left them for some prepubescent baseball player with more Pokemon cards and who decide to express their feelings in a stream-of-consciousness rant about how oranges should be blue. It's so silly! They're grown-ass men, for heaven's sake. Is it that hard to grow a pair and stop soliloquizing over why life is so hard? It's like First World Problems, the Expanded Editor's Edition all up in here. At least, if you're going to be all sad and stuff, have the decency to express your thoughts in a way that doesn't make everyone hate you. Sheeeit, man. That just gon' make you more sad.
I have another festival tomorrow (speaking of life being full of first world problems). I really don't want to go. I have to skip my physics test, for one thing, which isn't really that bad, because I'm just making it up at lunch before we leave during fifth period, but it's still a pain, because I'd much rather go to physics than Chapman. Darn. Maybe I can convince the other choir members that I've come down with the bubonic plague. There wouldn't be much of a change in our relationship, but at least I could have an excuse for abstaining. Or maybe I could find myself a nice, sexy college man while I'm there and have myself a grand old time in spite of it all. It would be the perfect fling, as I would never see him again after that day (not having applied to Chapman, like). I think I will start up a scrapbook of my terrible experiences during these festivals of fraternal feeling and foul frippery and publish it in my memoirs as Alfonso Durpenhogen when I am old and gray. People will read it, and be happy that they are not as I am, and it will be a big ol pot of chicken soup for the soul. I'll make so much money that the other Supreme Court justices will try to take out loans from me and I can charge them exorbitant interest rates and make even more money. It's a foolproof scheme. Now I just need to write the silly thing. Which is going to be, you know, a bit of an ordeal, seeing as I have to live through the sad events of my lonely days in order to get material for it. Couldn't I send a proxy? I'm sure I have a double somewhere. Maybe she's even near me now, like in the Twilight Zone. It would be rather unfortunate for me if she managed to steal my existence, but in the short run, it really would come in handy to have her kicking around. She could even take my math tests for me, since I'm sure whatever method of instruction for calculus they have in the parallel universe is superior to ours.
Oh, I got into Cal State Long Beach! Just have to add that here. I don't want to go there, but I'm happy to finally have a school in California. And that brings me up to three! Won't it be great when we get into the March Madness of the academic world and I start receiving rejection letters every day? I'll probably get rejected to schools I haven't even applied to. It'll be great.
Ok, so this is incredibly random, but I just remembered this lovely conversation I had not too long ago with one of my "good friends" from music camp who is quite enamored of my boobs, and not much else about me. He also has no interest in syntax, as shall be painfully obvious in this delightful correspondence I shall accurately impart from the old messages on my phone.
John: *sends me a picture of his happy town* you like that dontcha ;)
Me: Why are you up so late?  (note: he sent me this at 2 in the morning)
John: i send you a picture of my dick and thats all you can say!!
Me: Well, what's the appropriate response to something of the sort?
John: well maybe you should send me something back
Me: *sends a picture of my stomach*
John: show me more!
John: lets see those nice juicy tits :)
John: i like ur nice tight stomach though ;)
John: damn i wanna fuck ur pussy soo hard
Me: Well, thank you, I suppose.
John: omg just show me ur tits! stop teasing me!!
Me: I don't want to. I feel that to be a violation of my right to privacy.
John: well can i atleast see some more cleavage?
Me: *sends him a picture of an octagenarian in a string bikini*
Me: That's the sexy we go in for here.
John: -____-
John: lol haha
John: i dont know why!! your tits are sooo perfect
Me: I'm not really sure I want to know how you know this.
John: because i remember from years ago ;p
Me: Oh. Well then.
John: yup lol
John: i know you wanted to see my dick.so at least show me ur cleavage haha
Me: *sends a picture of a shirtless, hairy chested man*
Me: Aren't I pretty?
John: omg!!!
John: do you want another pic of my dick?
Me: No, but do you want a pic of mine?
John: OMGG!!!
John: your something else
John: i swear, id fuck your pussy so hard
John: imagine cumming on my hard cock as i pound into you over and over mmmmmm
Me: No thank you.
He finally stopped replying after this, and I thought I'd done my work well, but he texted me the next day asking how his "girlfriend" was doing. Sigh. I suppose we must give him points for persistence, but
really, is this what modern courtship has come to? It almost makes me long for the likes of John Donne telling me a fleabite is a sign of why we should sex it up. Are all men like this? I would be so incredibly disappointed. Where are all the Hank Reardens of the world? The Sydney Cartons? The Raskolnikovs? Wait, no. I don't want Raskolnikov (even if he is a lady-killer of the highest order -zing). I guess real men don't exist anymore. What a shame. Now I have to swear off love forever and move to a commune and wear goat hair and eat nothing but natural produce, which I can't wash, because it will be a crime against the natural processes, and vote Libertarian in each election, and really, that's such a pain. So much trouble finding a proper commune, you know. It's not like we have Walden ponds lying around every street corner. Ah well. It's all in the name of love (or lack of it), so it should be considered socially acceptable. People have done much more egregious things in the name of love, so I should be in good, if rather dimwitted, company. Maybe I can write some meaningful poems while I am there.

I think this post is very obnoxious

I've just looked at my recent google searches, and they are as follows: Sformato, Hans Reichenbach, google translate, Willem de Kooning Light in August, Hercules Garden of the Hesperides, FAFSA, California voter registration, Antioch College application, hedge funds, and Dylan Thomas. Lovely, no? It makes me look so cultured. Or something. I don't know. Anyway, I just felt that it was imperative to share the information with you. It gives the world a bit of insight into who I am as a person, and that is of the utmost importance on this internet soapbox I have made for myself. I also wanted to record my searches for posterity, so just in case someone comes along to browse the Red Tube in my login, I can bring up this entry and point out my innocence with righteous indignation and furor (though why anyone would get in trouble for looking at the pretty pictures is anyone's guess, and why they would choose to do it in my login is even more of a rank mystery, but let us be prepared for all the possibilities, since the world has still much good, but much less good than ill, and we should face it as wise men, and whatnot). I could be a true lawyer, no?
I had the misfortune to go to a choir festival today. It was truly terrible, unaided by the fact that is the second one in two days. I'm really getting quite tired of these people, and we haven't even gotten to our other four festivals yet, not to mention tour. Anyway, we all got gussied up in our gowns and suits and sallied off to the local university to hobnob with all the USC and UCLA rejects who try to soothe their pride with fake (and rather alarming) school spirit. Most of them were rather strange looking individuals, I must say. Maybe they wanted to stay local so they wouldn't be judged abroad for their venomous visages. We went to all these workshops in the morning (the festival was in the afternoon), and it was incredibly awkward, because we were supposed to walk around together and sit down randomly wherever we liked once we got to the rooms. Do you know how hard it is for an Alfonso Durpenhogen doppelganger to find a seat? I had to sort of furtively slip into a half empty row, near the end, so someone could sit next to me if they liked, but they wouldn't feel obligated to out of politeness. Then I had to busy myself texting so that I wouldn't look like the loneliest loner of the land (though I'm pretty sure I did anyway). Man, what in the name of John Quincy Adams's silk underwear is wrong with me? I am like an unholy mixture of Heathcliff and Cady Heron (after everyone found out about the Burn Book). Maybe I have a chemical imbalance. That could be it. I've heard that can mess you up real good. Or maybe I'm allergic to choir people. What a quandary. I need to resolve this, man. Cuz I don't like being That Guy in the group. Ugh, That Guy. He is awkward and dorky and chronically funny-looking. He has horrible skin and wears glasses (or should, at least, because he has a terrible squint). Sometimes he tries to get in on people's conversations, which is incredibly awkward, because he has the social skills of a refrigerator. He is fairly smart, but that no one notices, because he fairly exudes awkwardness from his pores (along with another, almost more objectionable substance, but that is another matter). Usually, his name is Kevin. He's in every part of the globe, in every country, in every group. There is probably a penguin one in Antarctica. And in the Chamber Singers, it is me! Why must this be? Oh, cruel fate. Maybe I will write a meaningful poem about it.
Why is life so vastly harsh?
Why all these curséd stings?
The world beleaguers my poor soul
For naught but strife it brings.
The rain falls on my windowpane
The pain falls on my heart
My awkwardness has pierced my soul
Like Dohvakiin's dread dart.
Alas, I am a Kevin!
This world is not my home
Alone upon the darkling moors
Forever I must roam.
There. That's so meaningful I could cry. Someone must set it to music someday, and choirs can sing about it. I'm sure it will have special meaning for one person in the group at least.
I think I should go take a shower. I really should. My hair looks like a tapeworm. Well, at least figuratively speaking, it does (actually, not even that). But it's all cold upstairs, and then I'd have to get up from my cozy repose of sedentariness and get something of value done. And that's, you know, just so frowned upon in the upper echelons of society. It's not proper to exercise except to work the pedal on the golf cart, or maybe drift languidly from party to cocktail party if you're feeling particularly daring. I mean, what if you fell down dead from exertion? That wouldn't be very polite, now would it? We have to think of our surroundings as well as ourselves.
I think I might be lazy.
Well-p, you know, I have to do what needs to be done, so that everything will happen that can't be done (or something of the sort). It makes me feel noble whenever I get up off the computer, and that's a gratifying feeling. Almost on par with changing the world, baby. (Tangent: Can we have something be above par? There's on par, and there's subpar, but in this gloomy world of cynicism and bad golf games, can we ever admit to something being good?) (That sounded really philosophical, and it wasn't supposed to. Also, is it golf where you have par? Or am I thinking of rugby or something? I don't even. I'm just not hitting any home runs today.) Anyway, off I go, so bold and brave! I wish all the children could hear my story and learn of courage. Goodnight now!

Tis a beautiful three-day weekend

It's a three-day weekend! I'm delighted. It's just what the doctor ordered (or at least should have ordered). Now maybe I can get some sleep. Hopefully, I won't have to hang out with anyone. I was all set to make myself tea and settle in for the evening reading Crime and Punishment and poetry and the like, but then bless my soul, if Allie didn't call me and Sonia off to go see the school play! So we did, and it was cute (though very sparsely attended), and then we went to Sonia's house and ate cheesecake and drank tea and talked about sine curves and had a jolly old time. So I guess it all turned out. But I did want to spend my life in solitary seclusion as well.
Dad has gotten an injury on his elbow, and it's infected, and quite disgusting. It's made him even more irritable than usual, and apparently, incapable of doing anything without loud grunts, groans, outcries, and complaints of the unfairness of the world at large. Which is, you know, not too far off from the normal. But still. We tried to get him to go see a doctor yesterday, but he wouldn't do it. He wanted to inject tea tree oil into his arm instead, and when we eventually dissuaded him of the notion, he declared he was going to use one of our sharp kitchen knives to perform a surgical operation. This grossed all of us out, so Mom put a poultice on him and he's forbidden to change it by himself lest he try to effect some unorthodox natural remedy on it. He's disappointed by the staid-ness of it all, but on the whole, I think not too ill-pleased, since his boil cover is made of clay and charcoal and stuff like that. Very natural. I think he may have missed his true calling as a homeopathic herbalist.
Zac, along with his quintet, has won the JCM competition and is going on the radio. They're making a podcast, and it's all terribly fancy and important sounding. I was hoping his piece would air in the middle of one of my students' lessons so I could make them listen to it and still charge them, but I had no such luck. Too bad. Maybe I'll get the podcast and make them listen to that. Zac had no idea what to call his group, and texted us frantically half an hour before they were all supposed to go on. It just goes to show you have wonderfully organized musicians are. I thought they should call themselves the Fellowship of the String, but for some reason, they didn't like the idea. Silly people. They went with the name Quintessentials instead, which makes them sound a bit like a superhero team, or maybe a mediocre jazz band that plays at cheesy clubs, but I'm not one to judge. After all, they might potentially save me from some amount of teaching.
Oh dear. My nails are truly ghastly. They look like I've just used them (and only them) to break out of the Bastille. Maybe I should stop picking at my cuticles? I wish I could paint them, but I'm terrible at maintaining manicures, and it looks sloppy to have chipped off nail polish all over your fingers. Plus, I have festivals coming up, so I'd just have to take it off anyway. Oh damn. Festivals. What am I going to do? I hate festivals. They're so awkward. I have to text random people whom I don't really like just so I won't look like the loneliest and awkwardest of Alfonso Durpenhogens, and then when people (read: Fish Face) see me standing over in the corner like some kind of melancholy trash can, they feel the need to come talk kindly to me. Which, you know, succeeds in making me feel even more awkward. I mean, it's bad enough to be the requisite outcast of the group, but when people start talking to you out of pity, well-p, that's where the rubber meets the road! Or do I mean something else? I rather think I do, but let's not be vulgar here. It's bad enough being Alfonso. I just don't know what I'm going to do about tour. I mean, we have a whole free day of wandering around San Francisco by ourselves! If I were with any other group, that would be like a penguin massage, but with these people, I just don't know how I'm going to manage. We're supposed to be in groups of three or more, you see, otherwise I would fade off by myself and have a grand old time. Or maybe I wouldn't. I'd probably get lost, and then where would I be? (Both literally and figuratively) (that transcended the meaning of lame, ugh) Nah, but I probably would. I really want to see The Girl with the Pearl Earring, since it's there, and it's going to be there when we go, but I don't think any of the philistines I call choir mates would care to accompany me. No one actually likes art, you know? Even at CSSSA, when we went to the Getty, only Evan and I really liked looking at the exhibits. Everyone else went because it was cheap. Oh no, now I sound like I think I'm more cultured than everyone else. I'm not a faux snob, though, really! Or am I? Damn, I think I am. Goes along with the territory of being a plebeian and all. Maybe I should take up a really humbling and demeaning activity so that I can become one with the masses. Like, I don't know, basketball. That would be humbling, all right. I would become the very definition of a benchwarmer as soon as I set foot on the court. Although, maybe I could finally learn the rules of the game from my vantage point. One never knows.
I read part of a truly awful book today. It was from the 1920s or so, but it wasn't about the war or the Lost Generation, or even Prohibition. Nope, it was about this girl who goes to college, but drops out because she's bad at algebra. She has the incredibly admirable goal of becoming a writer, so she decides that she needs no education (which, if the story is autobiographical, could potentially explain everything), and goes off to Europe. She would be having a lovely time there, except she can't speak any language besides English (since she needed no education, see), and she's constantly pining over her ex-boyfriend, Joe, whom she cheated on while he was away at Harvard. So, you see, life isn't beautiful for her. Then she goes to Italy and meets this super sexy hottie who speaks three languages fluently, knows everything there is to know about culture, and can sing seemingly every opera he has a mind to. He falls in love with her, but she turns him down cold because she still loves Joe (who is spectacularly boring and unpleasant, besides being white and rather unatractive-sounding). Then, for no adequately explored reason, Joe turns up in Europe and starts putting ads in the paper for her saying that he still loves her, too, and they should get married. Betsy is so happy that she gives up all pretense of education (as well as all her dreams of being a writer), goes home to Minnesota on the first ship she can find, marries her loverboy, and settles down in her podunk town to raise a brood of children and mend Joe's underwear for the rest of her life. I mean, like, wat. Is that what passed for literature in those days? It was horribly depressing, and left me with no faith in the human race until I went off to read some nice, wholesome, Dostoevsky. Maybe that's why the Great Depression hit- people were too busy flunking out of college and getting married to actually do something with their lives and contribute to society, and because of the lack of available human capital, the economy went plummeting as fast as Betsy's GPA. I figured it out! All of humanity's ills can be attributed to stupidity. Wait, I think I already knew that. Oh well. This is an example of the truth, then.
This happened about a week ago, but I think I forgot to say anything. Anyway, I got a 14000 dollar scholarship (renewable each year) to Ohio State, and now tuition will be like a Cal State, even with the out-of-state charge. Dude! What if I don't even need FAFSA? That would be so awesome. Although, once I think about it, 14 grand isn't really a lot. Sure, it helps with tuition and stuff, but I still have to get books, and I guess I need a plane ticket (unless Allie gets into Michigan, and we can drive down together). And I need to buy a rice cooker and a laptop and sundry other such important items of living. So I'm not really sure how far the money will go. Over spring break, I think I'm going to make a budget for myself, or at least a rough one, and I'll refine it as time goes on. It'll be good practice for when I decide to join to OMB or something. Actually, that might be a good idea. I could write such excellent tax codes that the president couldn't help but notice me and nominate me for the Supreme Court, and the Senate Judiciary Committee, struck by my pecuniary judiciousness, would approve me on the spot. I don't know who would write the tax codes after that, but surely they would be able to find someone. Hopeful young economists abound in Washington (or at least they do in Atlas Shrugged, though come to think of it, I don't really want anyone like that in charge of the money system either). I have such good ideas sometimes that I just want to cry.
Speaking of crying, I really should finish my Crime and Punishment questions (the end of the novel, when Rasky says goodbye to Dounia, it just really makes you cry, see). Whee! You know, I actually quite like the book. It's full of angst and violence and crazy Russian people, but it's so interesting too. And some of the characters just make you so mad that you have to go on reading to see if anything terrible happens to them. It's kind of like a reality show, only with more symbolism. For sure, it's a whole hell of a lot better than Hamlet. Anyway, better go write about the imagery evoked by Sonia's diction. Goodnight for now, my love!

Love!

Happy Valentines Day! I got so much candy. It's really quite ridiculous. Unfortunately, as I was going to pay for my AP tests, the bag I was using broke, and everything went flying all over the ground. I had to awkwardly bend over, like I was trying to do some kind of contortionist yoga exercise, and pick up each individual piece. People were watching too. I could feel their stares of judgement. Ai-ya. What a tricky business love is.
Money is my one true love, though (I'm listening to the song, see).
Oh, speaking (ish) of which! I may have gotten asked out! I don't know, though. I never do. I think I did a good job of turning the fellow down in any case, but whether his intentions were good or not, I believe I shall never know. Here is the dismal tale: I was just hanging around waiting for Art History to start (since our teacher was busy in her office), and I decided to see if I had any new messages. I had, most were fairly standard pieces of communication, and there were some from my mom, but one was from that creative writer I met at CSSSA. "Hey cutie," he greeted me intelligently. What a nice greeting, I thought. Maybe he's finally learned to talk like a human being. "Hey there my dear chap," I responded, and thought nothing more of the correspondence. But then I checked my phone again after fourth period, and he was asking me if I wanted to do something. Rather taken aback, I asked him if the distance between us was not an obstacle. After all, what sensible soul would want to drive for hours just to see me? (Although let us remember that he is a creative writer, and therefore not a sensible soul, but my point still stands) When I looked at my phone again, I found that he had told me confidently that no distance was too far for me. Hmm, I thought. Does he want me to drive off to see him? Cuz there is no way in hell I'm going to do that. Also, I can't drive. But that is neither here nor there. So I told him I lived many miles away, as I do, and left it at that. I don't know if he's responded yet, because my phone is reposing off on the other sofa, and it's far too much trouble to go and get it. La la. Was this a legitimate asking-out? Or was it not? You see, I am terrible at discerning romantic attempts, so I assume everything is platonic (which is how I get roped into going on dates with people, mostly). But maybe this isn't platonic! Maybe this is... socratic! (Cuz getting asked out involves questions, you know lol so clever omggg) I just don't know. At any rate, it's too late to do anything about it now, even if it had been a quest for love, so that's all well and good. Time will take care of everything.
I think I will work on my Art History report. It's due tomorrow and all. So, off I go. Whee! Better listen to some Wagner while I work too, just to get the ambience. Dat Tristan and Isolde, baby. Oh yeah. Ok, farewell, now, and may your Valentine's Day not be as Durko's!

Illusion

I used to be in love with love
It was my favorite theme
Not earth or sky or heaven above
Could pale my rosy dream.
I thought that if I had you, dear
My troubles would all cease
I would know neither hate or fear;
My soul would be at peace.
The sky would glow with colors bright,
The earth rejoice and sing:
Love’s day would never fade to night
True harmony would ring!
But now I am in love no more
My fancies aren’t so free
I have seen love down to its core
My dear, for you love me.

That was the sonnet I was made to write for Lit. I just thought you should be the first to see it and appreciate its true merit. Hopefully this isn't plagiarism. But I feel that if they construe it to be, I can handle the case as a true lawyer would and bend the law to my will. Or something. We shall see. Anyway, happy Chinese new year to you, and a lovely goodnight!

Modern Loner

It's a beautiful Saturday night, and what am I doing? A great deal of nonsense, actually, but that is beside the point, which is that instead of partying or drinking or having myself a merry old time with any of my blessed compatriots, I'm sitting at home, trying to sing along to classic rock songs, reading tumblr, and making scones. Ah, they're done now. Very beautiful they are! I didn't adhere to the recipe at all, hopefully that won't result in any culinary disappointment. Ok, I've made tea, and now I'm sitting here with some a plate of scones a mug of tea, and half an orange I found on the cutting board. I feel very cozy. The only problem is that I'm somewhat cold. But dear me, we can't have everything, can we? I don't want to turn on the heat, no I don't. I really should be doing homework. That's why I stayed home from the concert today; I have about six assignments for calc that I need to do before Wednesday.  But would it be so bad to finish my scones here before I go off to math land? No, twould not. I'm just readying myself for the experience, that's all.
Oh, actually. While I'm here, I might as well start on my Lit assignment. I have to write a Valentine's Day sonnet about love, you see. That's heinous! I don't like love at all! It ranks high on my list of things that annoy me (which is quite extensive, but still). I feel like this is tyranny. Still, I suppose I can give it a shot. Let's try here:
My darling, you are not much for the eyes,
No dashing cavalier.
Your face could represent fourth prize
You look like Boromir.
Although you act as if you thought
As much as Montesquieu
Intelligence befits you not
And foolery's your due.
Though money makes my heart rejoice
To you it's an offense
You've never made a fiscal choice
That showed a bit of sense.
Yet though an ugly fool you be
More dear than gold you are to me!
Oh dear. I am no John Donne, clearly. Should I just bite the bullet and write something in free verse? It would offend my mortal soul, but at least it might be interpreted as being artistic. Or something. I don't know. Maybe I should just change the pronouns in James's "poem" for me and hand that in. I would be laughed out of existence, but at least the shame of composition wouldn't be mine to bear. Or maybe I could hand in Francisco's song. It's quite bad, though. And quite obviously written for me. Oh, wait! Maybe I could write a poem for myself! It would be called "Modern Narcissus" and wouldn't be a rip off of Arthur Symons at all. Sounds like a plan. Ok, we good.
I suppose I really should get some math done, though, so I shall leave off babbling on here and go integrate. Whee! Would that everyone had a life like mine.

Afternoon Té Amo

Although the saying exists that no news is good news, I think I really am justified in saying that I can add to the pool of delightful dispatch without silencing my tongue. You see, I've heard back from another university, and it's another acceptance letter! I'm so happy. I mean, it's all well and good to be accepted one place, but what if they decide to defer you? You would be up the proverbial creek without even so much as a Raft of Medusa. So now I have something to fall back on, even if Ohio State sees my B+ in Gov (for which I will disparage myself forever) and decides I am not worthy to be a true Buckeye.  And I have a choice now, too, I mean, I've always wanted to have the pretty problem of deciding which school to attend. It's so academic and all. Now I can finally be on equal footing with the Erasmuses and Aquinases of the modern world! I have only one problem. The university I heard back from was no USC, nor was it UCLA nor even Brandeis. Nope, the school that might potentially be fortunate enough to have me as a student is none other than the University of Kentucky, Lexington KY, otherwise known as the Big Blue Nation.
Yup. That's the one.
Well, you know, a school's a school, though. I'm not ungrateful. In fact, I'm quite the opposite (if that makes any sense). I feel like I owe them a debt of gratitude for accepting me, and I shall only be able to assuage the feeling of duty in my soul by going over to the admissions office and saving everyone from a raging bear or something. That's something Durko would do, no? And as we all know, Durko is but an expression of my true self. But that brings up another pertinent query. Would Durko go to college? He might not. After all, he lives out in the wilds of the land and lives by his wits and skills alone. He is like a more surly version of Aragorn (though he doesn't become king in the end). So maybe education would be too eggheaded a concept for him. But then again, Durko is filled with a deep sensibility and knowledge of the arts (else he couldn't dolorously croon Wagner operas to himself), so maybe he is a learned fellow after all. One never knows, does one? Poor Durko.
I read the most beautiful essay in the world in Lit today. It's so beautiful that I tracked it down on the AP website so I could have the pleasure of reading it again. Just to provide evidence for the verity of my nerd-love, I will risk copyright infringement and put the link here. I might want to read it again sometime, after all.
 http://apcentral.collegeboard.com/apc/public/repository/ap03_english_lit_q2_28067.pdf
There we go. I wish I could write like this, yes indeed I do! This person, wherever he is (or she, I suppose, but let us be grammatical here), must be enjoying a career of the greatest brilliance and magnitude. I want to meet this prolix genius and adopt him as my mentor. Maybe I could write such beautiful prose that everyone would be in awe and I could pen my way to the Supreme Court without having to bribe any congressmen. I mean, let's be real here, anyone who has such a way with words is capable of accomplishing whatever he wants. If, as an eighteen year old high school senior, and in the thirty-five minutes allotted in the AP exam, he can create such a masterpiece, what couldn't he do now? I reiterate- this fellow must be so covered in glory he would put a Romanticist to shame.
I went to the Olive Market today with Dad (after school). It's such a quaint, kitschy little place! Just like a hobbit hole, only for commercial purposes. Our economy mustn't be too bad if we can support such establishments. Right? Anyway, I got this flourless brownie that was so adorable I almost didn't want to eat it. But, you know, it was chocolate, and it was there, so I did. Abstemious I am not. Dad got this bilious-looking scone that was shaped like hemoglobin and looked more unappetizing than an English dinner, but was so happy with it that I didn't have the heart to express my opinions. He thought that its psychedelic appearance would give him a more "uplifting" experience in eating it. Perhaps it did; I am not one to judge. All I know is that I am in no hurry to test out its effects on my own.
Kitty and I met up at lunch today and bought each other valentines (which are delivered in class on Valentine's Day). Maybe it is a bit sad and pathetic of us, but we were determined not to be the lonely-looking loners on campus this year. I mean, even if you feel the most debilitating verisimilitude to Alfonso Durpenhogen, there is no reason everyone else should perceive it. And, you know, it's not like either of us are really forever alone either. Kitty has at least two guys chasing after her (one of whom asked her out a couple weeks ago and was not at all deterred when she vehemently told him no and ran away), and I could be the coy mistress for Francisco or James any old time I felt like it. So it's not that we are alone out of necessity; we are alone out of choice. After all, man is born to trouble as the sparks fly upward, and people live and die truly alone, so why should we not reflect the truth in our lives? Or, you know, something. I am no philosopher. But hopefully, this year I can hearken back to when I was a sophomore and got fifteen valentines (or so), and all will be rapturous and delightful. Those were my glory days, yes they were! Oh, life. Maybe someday I will look favorably on love, but until I meet a Sydney Carton of my own, this is not that day.
I think I'm going to go to Market Night and get tamales. I love them so, and as it so happens, we're having a fundraiser for choir so that half the profit of each baked bundle of bliss we buy goes to our tour. I wouldn't ordinarily let such things as school spirit and pride bother me, but you see, this helps me go on tour and bring the gospel of choral music to the poor folks in San Francisco and give the group a sense of togetherness and you know, I just want tamales.
I eat a lot. How am I still so small? Ah well. Such is life, and I'm not complaining.
I need to do some stuff, y'all. Gotta do it. But I don't want to. Man, why is life such a vale of tears? Wellp, time to get off my butt. After all, when the journey's over, there'll be time enough to sleep. Bye now!

Po-etry

Po-etry, cuz you see, it's po. Like, poor. But more in the vernacular spirit. Yup, yup. I ain't  gon' be a linguistics major for nothing, baby.
Oh dearie me. This week has been truly horrible. I've had at least one test every single day of the week (except for Monday). Just so the future generations can know my pain and battles through the trials and tribulations surrounding me, I shall endeavor to provide an accurate transcript of my week right here and right now. Here tis:
Monday: Poetry response due (AP Lit), Unit 3 essay (Art History)
Tuesday: Crime and Punishment questions due (Lit), unit 1 homework due (AP Econ), Unit 3 FRQs (Art History)
Wednesday: Poetry questions due (Lit), Unit 3 multiple choice (Art History), Unit 1 FRQs (Econ), calc quiz (calc duh)
Thursday: Physics homework due, Unit 1 multiple choice (Econ), in-class essay (Lit)
Friday: Calc test (on the hardest chapter ever), Unit 1 multiple choice part two (Econ), vocab test (Lit-very easy, but still), physics test, auditions for Pie Jesu solo in choir, giant scholarship packet due.
And there ye have it, folks. That's my dismal life. I think I'm missing some stuff, but that's the general gist. Damn, girl, it's like finals week all up in here. I feel like I shall never be rested again. I almost can't wait until college, cuz I feel like it might actually be less work. Or will it? It might not be. What if I have to schedule all my classes at six in the morning or something? Or what if I can't get the classes I need and I have to stay at school for nine years and never graduate and accrue massive amounts of student loans that I can never pay off? That wouldn't be an optimal thing. I think I'd rather take the 6 AM class. Hopefully, my AP credit will help me. If I go to Ohio State, I'll have like 50 credits (if they accept them all, but I didn't see anything to the contrary, so I'm hoping they do). That's like a full year. I could start as a sophomore, and even if my credits didn't go to help me graduate (which I'm not sure they would), they would still help me get the classes I need, I think, or at least according to what I read on the internet. And we know that everything on the internet is always factual and correct.
You know, I've decided I really like poetry. Ugh, that sounds so plebeian. I mean, everyone and their uncle Ted professes to like poetry nowadays. It's de rigeur. You just have to have an inordinate love for poetry, or they'll kick you out of all the nice cafes and hipster barrios, If you don't know who T.S Eliot is, it's cause for complete and utter scorn and rejection, and if you venture anything against free verse, you might as well just brand yourself a heretic and run away to the furthest reaches of the globe immediately. No one needs an uncultured person around, and you should know it. But that's not what I mean by liking poetry. I don't like anything modern, for the most part, because it's too meaningful, or rather, it tries too hard to be meaningful. Like, I mean, if you want to express some kind of despairing sentiment, it doesn't make it any more poignant to write it in all lower case letters or with syntax that looks like a cow sat on it, or backwards in mirror image script, or whatever it is these crazy kids think up. If you're a talented poet, you can make something that people will enjoy reading that will still carry your meaning through. I'm not saying it all has to rhyme or be in iambic pentameter or anything, but when you start writing masterpieces like this, you know you have something wrong:

the. catsatona wall with-the milk. .it looked like the moon, i like moonS*

but. the moon constant no! not constant not constant constant constant. WhaT is CONsTaNT.
Bliss. moon and stars togethe.r are 4 me & you too.
with a Runningskippingflying Over the Moon! me&you
.the cat sat on a walL
And then it's supposed to represent the triumph of the human spirit over the prurient urges of nature. I mean, really now, I think they're just messing with us. Like, I bet there's some secret society somewhere, like the Illuminati of the poetry world, and they set the agenda for everything that goes on. There's probably some Grand High Poet of the world, and he has a long beard and flowing robes and looks like Gandalf after he turned white and he's in charge of everything. He probably thinks it's funny when one of the minions produces some tripe that's supposed to decry the struggles of the rich man in a lower class world and is written using nothing but punctuation, and everyone thinks it's really deep and buys it so that they can look cultured when they go to Poetry Night at the local bookstore. How else can we explain this movement towards unintelligibility? I bet now that I have it all figured out, some hitman is going to sneak into my room in the middle of the night (or even more "middle" than it is now) and stab me with an ampersand as I sleep. Then he can write a poem about it, which no one will understand, because it will have nothing in it but synonyms for the word "disquietude." But at least I will have been the impetus for artistic creation. Just call me Magica the Muse, that's my new name. But anyway. Where was I before I started going on about how terrible modernity is? Ah, yes. So, I really like poetry. We're doing it in lit now, and I love to sit around reading the little poetry sampler we got from the textbook room. It's a really terrible waste of time, actually, because it sucks me in, and I keep thinking I can just read one more poem, but then I finish it and feel like it was too short, and the whole cycle repeats. But I really do love it so. I really like A.E Housman. I want to get his book that he wrote, because I haven't yet found a poem of his I didn't read about five times in a row, and I haven't gotten tired of any of them yet. I quote Reveille to myself every morning when I get out of bed, which makes me sound like a huge nerd, but dearie me and bless my soul, a nerd is what I am. And it's really quite motivational, too, I mean, it just makes you feel like if you slept in and missed the morning, you would have committed some heinous crime against nature sensibility. So it does help me get up and get ready for school (though not necessarily on time). You know, the guy in that one poem without a name (but we called it Terence, This is Stupid Stuff) sounds so adorable. He's all poetic and smart, and he gets drunk with his friends, and keeps telling them poems that they don't really want to hear, and he's all thoughtful and everything, and he's all into friendship, and he's so realistic about life. So adorable! I also like the name Terence. It's cute (though I would not want to be named that). Could any of these meaningful, doleful, modern poets put that much personality into a character in their poems? For that matter, could they even have a character in their poems? The poet is always the speaker for them, unless they're channelling the spirit of a broken-down refrigerator or something. Well, I suppose that's nice in its way. Refrigerators deserve love too. Still, I hope that someday people will rediscover a love for sonnets.
I went to Barnes and Noble today, hoping to sit around by myself and read The Economist, but I ran into Sonia. Then we had to hang out the entire night. Ai-ya. Why do I have friends? Maybe I should move to Siberia like Raskolnikov. Oh, but then Sonia would follow me, because that is what people named Sonia do. Hmm. This is a difficult thing indeed. I guess there's no hope for it, I shall have to go off and become a wandering hermit (if that's possible) and wander around the world solving crimes. People will call me G.K because I will be the tattered outlaw of the earth, and I will have ancient, crooked, will. Well, now, that sounds like the future for me. Maybe I will even get to have a pet penguin someday.
Oh dear. It's 4 in the morning. Well, then. I'm going to bed. (That was really abrupt, I apologize.) Goodnight, then, ladies, goodnight, everyone! (Or whatever it is that Ophelia says when she is crazy) Or rather, good morning. Damn.