Monday, September 3, 2012
My grand dream
Eff everything. I have to write my college essays, and I have no idea what to write them on. I started one on how I have a "blending" voice and how that helps me relate to the world around me because I can empathize with people and all that, but I don't think it's turning out well. It's terribly self-congratulatory. Although isn't that the point of college essays? I don't know...
Oh, right! I've finally found my major! I want to major in linguistics. Holy crap, that sounds stupid. It's so embarrassing too, since Zac is a math major (double major, actually, math and music), and Kitty intends to be a neuroscientist, and Sungmin has announced his ambition to be a scientist. Mom is a toxicologist who is good at everything, and Dad is a geneticist with a highfalutin pHD. Even my grandmother used to be a nurse, and my grandfather was a chemist (on my mom's side; on my dad's side, I think they were potato farmers or something). And then there's me... Herp derp, I like words. Damn, bitch. I must be a changeling or something. The worst part is, I actually LIKE science. I do. I'm just not really good at it. The only thing I'm good at it is English, which is incredibly useless. Do we have a Periodic Table of the Elements of Style? Are we composed of parts of speech? I don't think so! The only thing worse would be if I were into history or something. Oh wait... Damn.
Well, nothing I can do about it now. It's part of my grand plan for life. Have I intimated my grand plan here? No, I haven't. That wasn't even a rhetorical question. That was just an intro. So, I'm going to get a degree in linguistics (at USC or UCLA if possible, but most likely not), then I'm going to put myself through law school. I might have to become a stripper to do it, but that's ok, because I'll presumably still be hot. After I pass the bar exam, I'm going to become an immigration lawyer and get rid of that horrendous law in Arizona. After that, I'll become a frickin Clarence Darrow and become really rich and famous and maybe become a Supreme Court justice when I've become too old to live. All throughout this, I'm going to eschew traditionality (which is apparently not a word). I will never marry, and I will never have children. I guess I might date and stuff, cuz it'll be really boring if I don't get to ever see men, but I will never own a suburbian house with a picket fence and 2.5 children and an SUV in the driveway. Nope. I'm going to have a little apartment and the cheapest of Honda Civics until I make enough money to buy a house. Then I'll buy a little cheapo house and never spend more than I possibly have to (this is where the dating might come in handy). I will live frugally all my life and become really really rich and not get robbed because everyone will think I'm destitute, and then when I'm a Supreme Court justice (or whatever it is I decide to do in my twilight years), I will live like a one percenter. So perfect. I've decided it all. The only thing I sort of regret is that I won't get to see what my kids would look like. That's kind of sad. But there are internet sites for that, and as far as I know, there are no internet sites for living out your dreams, so it's a small sacrifice to make.
Of course, all this depends on actually going to college. So I guess I better get back to those essays. Ugh.
Thursday, June 7, 2012
Wtf.
I think this is the worst motivational poster ever.
http://www.google.com/imgres?q=macbeth&start=0&hl=en&sa=X&biw=2560&bih=1304&tbm=isch&prmd=imvnsb&tbnid=n3h9LylvrOdm3M:&imgrefurl=http://freepostermaker.com/85xqasdruo/MACBETH&docid=FfD_AdY5Z0pagM&imgurl=http://freepostermaker.com/uploads/saved_posters/free-poster-85xqasdruo-MACBETH.jpg&w=750&h=600&ei=l0_QT_6KEui22gWW5PyxDA&zoom=1&iact=hc&vpx=298&vpy=1000&dur=350&hovh=136&hovw=168&tx=155&ty=199&sig=113651624086067648318&page=1&tbnh=136&tbnw=168&ndsp=140&ved=1t:429,r:124,s:0,i:73
DAMMIT IT DOESN'T SHOW UP.
Is ok.
It was really bad.
Sunday, February 12, 2012
Who am I...
I know you asked me
Who am I
But it’s not that easy
To descry
What is you
And what is me
It all melds so
Harmoniously.
I can’t see myself
And you less so
You fuck up the little
You actually know
I’m not real, am I
To you
I’m an opinion
A bigoted view
I won’t express
I won’t believe
I know it’d be wrong
What you’d perceive
I don’t matter; I’m
Only defined
By the picture you see
Inside your mind
It doesn’t matter who I am
And even less what I can be
Your opinion’s all that really counts
You won’t believe what you don’t see
So, with veracity denied
Who then am I?
You decide.
I wrote that beautiful poem. It's beautiful. It describes me.
But I can't use it for English.
And it's not at all like Theme for English B by Langston Hughes.
So eff.
Who am I
But it’s not that easy
To descry
What is you
And what is me
It all melds so
Harmoniously.
I can’t see myself
And you less so
You fuck up the little
You actually know
I’m not real, am I
To you
I’m an opinion
A bigoted view
I won’t express
I won’t believe
I know it’d be wrong
What you’d perceive
I don’t matter; I’m
Only defined
By the picture you see
Inside your mind
It doesn’t matter who I am
And even less what I can be
Your opinion’s all that really counts
You won’t believe what you don’t see
So, with veracity denied
Who then am I?
You decide.
I wrote that beautiful poem. It's beautiful. It describes me.
But I can't use it for English.
And it's not at all like Theme for English B by Langston Hughes.
So eff.
Sunday, January 15, 2012
Friday, December 16, 2011
Brattiness.
Tis break. Winter break, in fact. What joy is mine!
That's part of one of our choir songs. "What joy is mine today, since I have fallen for you!" Cute, right? Except it's in German, so it sounds like guttural whining instead of an impassioned love song, but that is surely all right. After all, our choir conspires to sing it so beautifully. *eyeroll*
My finals, man. Ugh. I can't believe them. For the AP Chem final, no one got an A. Even Miss Smarty-Sweatpants. The highest score was an 80. Fuuuuuuuu.... I was probably the first person in the history of the entire high school to ever get a zero. -.-
My math test wasn't that bad, but it was. You see?
Oui. I make le sense.
Bleh. I'm so tired. I don't want to go to bed, though. I mean, this is all the chance I have to surf the web and perform other important tasks, all of which are too important and fabulous to enumerate here. I have to watch my hentai, and catch up on redbox, and... (what is that site called? Redbox? No. Red listing? Dream of the Red Chamber? Oh dear. I fear I have just demonstrated my ignorance to the world). What tha heck, I'm not a guy.
Today, Allie, Sonia, and I went geocaching. It was a beautiful experience. We caroled people, much to their chagrin, and whistled at attractive college students (we were on a university campus, you see), and ate until we were fit to bust. Allie bought us all stuff. ♥ Then we found caches! I'm not bad, if I do say myself. I figured it allllll out. Found one all by my little self. Woo! I'm so clever, I should be in a hall of fame somewhere in South Korea. Allie got her license, finally, so she drove us around. It was awesome. I felt very collegiate. All I needed was some Ayn Rand and Pabst (and maybe an ironic spray of facial hair or two). Seriously, what is it with college students and wanting to be hipsters? I find it to be a disturbing trend, myself. I mean, really, why is it all of a sudden good to look like an absolute and complete idiot in front of the whole, cold, mocking world? Oh.... I get it. Being so mocked and despised makes them sad. And then they can write whiny poetry about it and stare soulfully off into the ocean. That's always good for a laugh.
Here is a beautiful hipster sonnet on life and meaning that I have composed just for you. I call it "As Dies My Soul Alas."
As dies my soul, alas
My face looks up above
The only thing that keeps me sane
Is your undying love
I love you more than diamond
Than earth or tree or flame
Just like the carbon in the air
Is your beloved name
I smile with a certainty
Of sadness born of hope
That resolution leads the way
To courage
And a rope.
Oh, that's beautiful. I should publish it. It obviously symbolizes the pitiful state of humanity as a whole thanks to the demons of crude industrialization and decries the absence of empathy in human nature. Obviously. The "carbon in the air" is a... metaphor. Of course. What are you, a scientist or something?
Hmm. I wonder if I did the italics right. Computers are quite confusing.
Ooh. I have le hilarious story. Well, ok, more of an anecdote. And it has not yet concluded itself, since I never really bother to check my phone. But, you see, that is a minor stitch in the fabric of life, and we may move forward from that with hope. A sadness born of it, too. Ok. So, there was this guy from Camp (Not So) Hell who was my first love. Wait.... no. I was HIS first love. There we go. So, he fancied himself a creative writer, which was really quite hilarious, considering the sad specimens that he dug up for me to coo and praise, but I suppose we must not judge. After all, he may have meant to use the word "golden" three separate times in one little sonnet to the moon. Even though when I asked him if he was, he sort of stared at me blankly, hung his mouth opened, muttered "Um" a few times, and shook his head. Anyway, he just randomly texted me a long, dark, deep depressing poem about the darkness of his soul. It was a little strange, actually. If I hadn't known that he was trying to become the next T.S Eliot, I would have swiftly called him and tried to talk him off of the ledge that he was no doubt standing on. But as it was, I was sure that he was merely letting his creative juices flow a bit. Being the kind person that I am, I did not suggest to him that the "darkness" that he was talking about actually referred to the deep, cavernous hole inside his head. I asked him perkily, "Did you write that?" I even included the ubiquitous ":D" face. And the little bugger didn't reply until the next day! I mean, how rude. If you're going to send someone a textual novel, you should at least have the decency to wait around until they excoriate you for doing it (not that I did, because I'm nice)! Although maybe he was bathing his hand in ice water. It must be indeed difficult to type all of that. But even so! If he's that depressed, shouldn't he welcome the chance to be able to talk to someone, even an ugly bitch such as I? (was that even grammatical?) You see, I have a point. He is being an attention whore. Or else, maybe he does have deep issues. I'm going to feel terrible about writing this tomorrow morning. Man, I'm a horrible person. Maybe I should read those other two texts he sent me... they might be bidding me and the rest of the world farewell and decreeing his intention to go and jump off a bridge. Oh dear....
What if he does? I'm actually scared. Where the fudgecake is my phone?
Found it. Let's see.... Oh, here's a new one. He didn't of himself. "How are you?" it reads. How innocuous. How jejune. I was hoping for an undying profession of love. Oh well... that would have been awkward to deal with anyhow.
Oh flizzleshit. Shana just called me. Now I have to call her back. I hate calling people. Man! Unless... Maybe she called before I saw her today, in which case I don't have to. Let us check, shall we? Oh. Wait. 10:41 am? We were in class! Were we not? Unless we were taking our choir final, in which case we were off gallivanting around the city taking pictures.... oh, I get it. That must be it. Yeah.
Man, I have a ton of new messages too. Life suuuucks.... Let's see what my one worthy suitor has to say. "Hey :) wanna go on a date?" Oh, no. That wasn't the worthy one; that was the dumbass. Let's check on... er, Bob. Yeah, Bob. (Isn't there a sexy cartoon character or something after which I could call this man?) D'aww, he thinks I'm witty. D'aww.
I just realized something. I sound like Tina. This is terrible. She is SO annoying! And she's the only other soprano who can actually sing, so she and I are constantly thrown together! Plus, we're both short. And she seems to think that I am her best friend in the whole group (which may be true, considering everyone else's strange antipathy towards her). Anyway. She is not that bad, I suppose, at least when she's singing or keeping her mouth shut. No, I take that back. When she's not talking, she's either picking her nose, biting her nails, or shoving her fingers down her throat, hacking and gagging, bringing her fingers back up covered in something, and wiping it on her pants. It's DISGUSTING. I can't look at her, or I'll start feeling nauseated. But it's pretty hard, because she's so effing loud... man, she's like a fire truck or something! Got a set of pipes, she does. I guess she can't help the way she is. I mean, Speech and Debate will do that to a person. And Anime Club... well, let us not speak of that. Suffice to say that she often comes to school in full cosplay outfit, thinking of no ramifications or dress code policies at all. (Does that suffice to say in the least bit?)
Ho hum. I'm being mean again. I need a good, hard, smack upside the head.
I want to hang out with KiKi. I haven't seen her in a long time. Nor anyone, but especially her. Hmm.
Ooh. I also need to invite Sonia and Allie to New Years. Especially Sonia. I wish I could take her up to San Francisco with me for Christmas too...
Okeydokey. Man. I have no friends.
I need to go to bed. It's two in the morning. I'm too tired, though. And, irrational though it may seem, I have a deep fear that CIA agents will be waiting for me as I go up to my room to ambush me and sell me into wage slavery or make me the assistant bureaucrat to the Secretary of State or whatever it is that malevolent CIA agents do.
I'm so childish.
Ok, I seriously need to go to sleep. What am I even doing up? Obviously, I am typing on this blog. But besides that... ugh, when I start to make outstandingly precocious pieces of rhetoric like the one I have just evinced, it proves that I'm too dumb to spend another waking moment awake. I need to go to sleep. I just don't want to...
Dem CIA agents, man. What am I going to do? This is a problem. Maybe I should have thought this through.
Oh well. I guess I'll watchMy Little Pony: Friendship is Magic The Manly Show with Bob Jackson and Buffalo Tuffhide and gather up my valiance to face the dark and frightening aspects of my bathroom.
In the event of my kidnapping by CIA agents, Kitty is to have my clothes.
That's part of one of our choir songs. "What joy is mine today, since I have fallen for you!" Cute, right? Except it's in German, so it sounds like guttural whining instead of an impassioned love song, but that is surely all right. After all, our choir conspires to sing it so beautifully. *eyeroll*
My finals, man. Ugh. I can't believe them. For the AP Chem final, no one got an A. Even Miss Smarty-Sweatpants. The highest score was an 80. Fuuuuuuuu.... I was probably the first person in the history of the entire high school to ever get a zero. -.-
My math test wasn't that bad, but it was. You see?
Oui. I make le sense.
Bleh. I'm so tired. I don't want to go to bed, though. I mean, this is all the chance I have to surf the web and perform other important tasks, all of which are too important and fabulous to enumerate here. I have to watch my hentai, and catch up on redbox, and... (what is that site called? Redbox? No. Red listing? Dream of the Red Chamber? Oh dear. I fear I have just demonstrated my ignorance to the world). What tha heck, I'm not a guy.
Today, Allie, Sonia, and I went geocaching. It was a beautiful experience. We caroled people, much to their chagrin, and whistled at attractive college students (we were on a university campus, you see), and ate until we were fit to bust. Allie bought us all stuff. ♥ Then we found caches! I'm not bad, if I do say myself. I figured it allllll out. Found one all by my little self. Woo! I'm so clever, I should be in a hall of fame somewhere in South Korea. Allie got her license, finally, so she drove us around. It was awesome. I felt very collegiate. All I needed was some Ayn Rand and Pabst (and maybe an ironic spray of facial hair or two). Seriously, what is it with college students and wanting to be hipsters? I find it to be a disturbing trend, myself. I mean, really, why is it all of a sudden good to look like an absolute and complete idiot in front of the whole, cold, mocking world? Oh.... I get it. Being so mocked and despised makes them sad. And then they can write whiny poetry about it and stare soulfully off into the ocean. That's always good for a laugh.
Here is a beautiful hipster sonnet on life and meaning that I have composed just for you. I call it "As Dies My Soul Alas."
As dies my soul, alas
My face looks up above
The only thing that keeps me sane
Is your undying love
I love you more than diamond
Than earth or tree or flame
Just like the carbon in the air
Is your beloved name
I smile with a certainty
Of sadness born of hope
That resolution leads the way
To courage
And a rope.
Oh, that's beautiful. I should publish it. It obviously symbolizes the pitiful state of humanity as a whole thanks to the demons of crude industrialization and decries the absence of empathy in human nature. Obviously. The "carbon in the air" is a... metaphor. Of course. What are you, a scientist or something?
Hmm. I wonder if I did the italics right. Computers are quite confusing.
Ooh. I have le hilarious story. Well, ok, more of an anecdote. And it has not yet concluded itself, since I never really bother to check my phone. But, you see, that is a minor stitch in the fabric of life, and we may move forward from that with hope. A sadness born of it, too. Ok. So, there was this guy from Camp (Not So) Hell who was my first love. Wait.... no. I was HIS first love. There we go. So, he fancied himself a creative writer, which was really quite hilarious, considering the sad specimens that he dug up for me to coo and praise, but I suppose we must not judge. After all, he may have meant to use the word "golden" three separate times in one little sonnet to the moon. Even though when I asked him if he was, he sort of stared at me blankly, hung his mouth opened, muttered "Um" a few times, and shook his head. Anyway, he just randomly texted me a long, dark, deep depressing poem about the darkness of his soul. It was a little strange, actually. If I hadn't known that he was trying to become the next T.S Eliot, I would have swiftly called him and tried to talk him off of the ledge that he was no doubt standing on. But as it was, I was sure that he was merely letting his creative juices flow a bit. Being the kind person that I am, I did not suggest to him that the "darkness" that he was talking about actually referred to the deep, cavernous hole inside his head. I asked him perkily, "Did you write that?" I even included the ubiquitous ":D" face. And the little bugger didn't reply until the next day! I mean, how rude. If you're going to send someone a textual novel, you should at least have the decency to wait around until they excoriate you for doing it (not that I did, because I'm nice)! Although maybe he was bathing his hand in ice water. It must be indeed difficult to type all of that. But even so! If he's that depressed, shouldn't he welcome the chance to be able to talk to someone, even an ugly bitch such as I? (was that even grammatical?) You see, I have a point. He is being an attention whore. Or else, maybe he does have deep issues. I'm going to feel terrible about writing this tomorrow morning. Man, I'm a horrible person. Maybe I should read those other two texts he sent me... they might be bidding me and the rest of the world farewell and decreeing his intention to go and jump off a bridge. Oh dear....
What if he does? I'm actually scared. Where the fudgecake is my phone?
Found it. Let's see.... Oh, here's a new one. He didn't of himself. "How are you?" it reads. How innocuous. How jejune. I was hoping for an undying profession of love. Oh well... that would have been awkward to deal with anyhow.
Oh flizzleshit. Shana just called me. Now I have to call her back. I hate calling people. Man! Unless... Maybe she called before I saw her today, in which case I don't have to. Let us check, shall we? Oh. Wait. 10:41 am? We were in class! Were we not? Unless we were taking our choir final, in which case we were off gallivanting around the city taking pictures.... oh, I get it. That must be it. Yeah.
Man, I have a ton of new messages too. Life suuuucks.... Let's see what my one worthy suitor has to say. "Hey :) wanna go on a date?" Oh, no. That wasn't the worthy one; that was the dumbass. Let's check on... er, Bob. Yeah, Bob. (Isn't there a sexy cartoon character or something after which I could call this man?) D'aww, he thinks I'm witty. D'aww.
I just realized something. I sound like Tina. This is terrible. She is SO annoying! And she's the only other soprano who can actually sing, so she and I are constantly thrown together! Plus, we're both short. And she seems to think that I am her best friend in the whole group (which may be true, considering everyone else's strange antipathy towards her). Anyway. She is not that bad, I suppose, at least when she's singing or keeping her mouth shut. No, I take that back. When she's not talking, she's either picking her nose, biting her nails, or shoving her fingers down her throat, hacking and gagging, bringing her fingers back up covered in something, and wiping it on her pants. It's DISGUSTING. I can't look at her, or I'll start feeling nauseated. But it's pretty hard, because she's so effing loud... man, she's like a fire truck or something! Got a set of pipes, she does. I guess she can't help the way she is. I mean, Speech and Debate will do that to a person. And Anime Club... well, let us not speak of that. Suffice to say that she often comes to school in full cosplay outfit, thinking of no ramifications or dress code policies at all. (Does that suffice to say in the least bit?)
Ho hum. I'm being mean again. I need a good, hard, smack upside the head.
I want to hang out with KiKi. I haven't seen her in a long time. Nor anyone, but especially her. Hmm.
Ooh. I also need to invite Sonia and Allie to New Years. Especially Sonia. I wish I could take her up to San Francisco with me for Christmas too...
Okeydokey. Man. I have no friends.
I need to go to bed. It's two in the morning. I'm too tired, though. And, irrational though it may seem, I have a deep fear that CIA agents will be waiting for me as I go up to my room to ambush me and sell me into wage slavery or make me the assistant bureaucrat to the Secretary of State or whatever it is that malevolent CIA agents do.
I'm so childish.
Ok, I seriously need to go to sleep. What am I even doing up? Obviously, I am typing on this blog. But besides that... ugh, when I start to make outstandingly precocious pieces of rhetoric like the one I have just evinced, it proves that I'm too dumb to spend another waking moment awake. I need to go to sleep. I just don't want to...
Dem CIA agents, man. What am I going to do? This is a problem. Maybe I should have thought this through.
Oh well. I guess I'll watch
In the event of my kidnapping by CIA agents, Kitty is to have my clothes.
Friday, October 28, 2011
Awkward Penguin!
This is incredibly awkward.
Incredibly.
And I have the word "extemporaneous" stuck in my head.
Life is beautiful.
So right now, I am sitting, alone and unsociable, on the internet (or rather, at the computer) while in the other room a battle rages. Pawns are being sacrificed left and right, knights are leaping everywhere, bishops are careening around and capturing queens... it's a mess, it really is. I would watch, but that would entail being sociable, and that is something that I am incapable of doing. Apparently. (Seriously, Dad has this whole schtick about how I need to make friends and stop studying all the time. It's very funny. Every time he gives it, which is about twice a day, I feel like the nerdiest nerd on the face of the earth, or else a My Little Pony. Either one.) (Although, it's not like I, you know, watch My Little Pony. Right? Yeeeah. I've just seen... you know, a few clips in passing. Maybe an episode or two.... or the entire first season and all of the released episodes of the second... not too much!) Anyway, where was I?
Ah, yes. Our friend is here.
Very awkward.
AND HE'S STAYING THE NIGHT! GAHHHHHHH!
>.<
Anger.
Ok, time to (awkwardly) eat.
Bye. -.-
Incredibly.
And I have the word "extemporaneous" stuck in my head.
Life is beautiful.
So right now, I am sitting, alone and unsociable, on the internet (or rather, at the computer) while in the other room a battle rages. Pawns are being sacrificed left and right, knights are leaping everywhere, bishops are careening around and capturing queens... it's a mess, it really is. I would watch, but that would entail being sociable, and that is something that I am incapable of doing. Apparently. (Seriously, Dad has this whole schtick about how I need to make friends and stop studying all the time. It's very funny. Every time he gives it, which is about twice a day, I feel like the nerdiest nerd on the face of the earth, or else a My Little Pony. Either one.) (Although, it's not like I, you know, watch My Little Pony. Right? Yeeeah. I've just seen... you know, a few clips in passing. Maybe an episode or two.... or the entire first season and all of the released episodes of the second... not too much!) Anyway, where was I?
Ah, yes. Our friend is here.
Very awkward.
AND HE'S STAYING THE NIGHT! GAHHHHHHH!
>.<
Anger.
Ok, time to (awkwardly) eat.
Bye. -.-
Monday, August 8, 2011
Ethan Frome, the Last Douchebag
I'm back from Camp Hell... now I'm depressed because I want to go back. All the men there fell deeply in love with me, and bought me eveeeeerything, and one wrote me a song. Everyone was really nice and smart, and I got a lot better at violin. Now I'm depressed. I want to go back. (Did I already mention that?)
Now I'm trying to get ready to go back to school on Wednesday. It's going to be a pain in the ass... I don't want to get up early! I do want to see everyone again, though. Hmm... what to do? Maybe I should finish my homework.
Bleeeeeehhhh.... why is Edith Wharton such a depressing writer? I can write a novel too! I will call it... "Evan Prome". Here it is. It is very short and will be concluded within these pages (ish).
Once upon a time, there was a depressed young man named Evan Prome. He was depressed because he was taciturn and awkward and could get no ladies like his friend Alcee Arobin could. So he decided to move out to a bleak midwestern town in the depths of New England, because he felt that that was the only place that there would be desperate enough women to take to him. He was probably right in theory, but he approach was sadly lacking. For when he got there, he proceeded to curl up in a drafty garret all day and write extremely bad poetry, talking to no one and never going out except in the dead of night to steal some food from his unfortunate neighbors. This went on for several weeks, until one day he encountered a beautiful young woman while stealing the Caucus family's eggs. Being the bashful and awkward man that he was, he decided to creepily hide behind a tree and see what she would do. As he watched, his jaw dropped in astonishment, because what she did was very remarkable. She was walking around and stealing eggs too! Her technique was flawless. She tiptoed around the yard like a ninja and took every good egg there was to be had. In a few minutes, she was gone. Evan was struck with the first amorous impulse he had ever felt in his life, and in two seconds flat, he had leapt over the wall to go after her. He had hard work keeping up with her, because she was an extremely fast runner and his bike had only two speeds, but he managed to keep her in sight until she pulled up into the Mozart family's yard. Then he lost her, but only for five minutes, when she returned bearing all of their groceries and their AK47 too. She then skipped over to the neighbor's yard, hotwired their pickup truck, and drove away. Evan was entranced! He spent the rest of the week writing poems about her and stalking the Mozart's yard in case she should show up again. Finally, his patience was rewarded! She danced up one night at two in the morning, just as he was about to leave. "You!" he gasped out, trying vainly to catch her by the hand. "Um. What the hell?" she asked calmly, extricating herself and kicking him in the nuts. "you-you..." he moaned, writhing around on the ground in pain. "Will you marry me?" A look of interest crossed the girl's face. "What?" "Marry me!" he repeated, gaining insistence, even as his ballsack began to bleed. "Please! I've never seen anyone who can steal food so well!" The girl looked at him. A rosy flush dawned on her golden cheek, as the iron dark of the midwinter night began to break into sparkling morning. She opened her ruby red lips to speak to him in her mellifluous voice, and already Evan began to hear the chorus of a thousand angels singing in harmony and a thousand bells chiming in silvery harmony, as this goddess of beauty and starshine readied herself to speak the wonderful words that would make her his. Then the door opened to the Mozart's house, and a man stormed out. "WHAT'S ALL THIS???" he shouted angrily, brandishing a rifle. The girl drew her gun, which happened, coincidentally, to be Mr. Mozart's old one. "I'll take you on," she said coolly. "The HELL you will! And is that my old gun???!!!" screamed Mr. Mozart, coming closer. "DON'T HURT HER!!" cried Evan, throwing himself in the way. "And, hey, it's YOU!" realized the irate man. "You're the one what been stalking my family and stealing our food! Why, I oughtta shoot you!" but instead, he shot the girl. She fell to the ground in a streak of golden and scarlet, like lightning over a dark desert valley, like the shooting star that no one sees before it loses its glory in oblivion. As she lay on the ground, her blood pooling around her like the petals of some rich exotic blossom, Evan felt his life flash before his very eyes. What now was there to live for? He looked at Mr. Mozart in his deep, cold, eyes, and said in a voice like icy stone, "You have destroyed me." Then he wandered off forever into the night of blackest despair, never to see the light of day again; his sun had set forever.
The end.
Wow, I'm good. I especially love all the opulent and excessive adjectives. Ooh, opulent. Should have used that one. Her hair of rich and opulent gold and her eyes of sapphire lightning and all of that. Man, I should have been a writer. What am I even doing with my life? Anyway, I can totally write meaningful fiction. Easy as pie. Obviously, their thievery is a symbol of how humans rob nature of its resources and decries the pitiful human condition. Any fool could see that, I mean really!
Maybe I should write my actual homework now. This was fun, but... the homework is due on Wednesday, and this, no matter how satirical, is not. Sadly. So, my friend, I will see you anon.
Now I'm trying to get ready to go back to school on Wednesday. It's going to be a pain in the ass... I don't want to get up early! I do want to see everyone again, though. Hmm... what to do? Maybe I should finish my homework.
Bleeeeeehhhh.... why is Edith Wharton such a depressing writer? I can write a novel too! I will call it... "Evan Prome". Here it is. It is very short and will be concluded within these pages (ish).
Once upon a time, there was a depressed young man named Evan Prome. He was depressed because he was taciturn and awkward and could get no ladies like his friend Alcee Arobin could. So he decided to move out to a bleak midwestern town in the depths of New England, because he felt that that was the only place that there would be desperate enough women to take to him. He was probably right in theory, but he approach was sadly lacking. For when he got there, he proceeded to curl up in a drafty garret all day and write extremely bad poetry, talking to no one and never going out except in the dead of night to steal some food from his unfortunate neighbors. This went on for several weeks, until one day he encountered a beautiful young woman while stealing the Caucus family's eggs. Being the bashful and awkward man that he was, he decided to creepily hide behind a tree and see what she would do. As he watched, his jaw dropped in astonishment, because what she did was very remarkable. She was walking around and stealing eggs too! Her technique was flawless. She tiptoed around the yard like a ninja and took every good egg there was to be had. In a few minutes, she was gone. Evan was struck with the first amorous impulse he had ever felt in his life, and in two seconds flat, he had leapt over the wall to go after her. He had hard work keeping up with her, because she was an extremely fast runner and his bike had only two speeds, but he managed to keep her in sight until she pulled up into the Mozart family's yard. Then he lost her, but only for five minutes, when she returned bearing all of their groceries and their AK47 too. She then skipped over to the neighbor's yard, hotwired their pickup truck, and drove away. Evan was entranced! He spent the rest of the week writing poems about her and stalking the Mozart's yard in case she should show up again. Finally, his patience was rewarded! She danced up one night at two in the morning, just as he was about to leave. "You!" he gasped out, trying vainly to catch her by the hand. "Um. What the hell?" she asked calmly, extricating herself and kicking him in the nuts. "you-you..." he moaned, writhing around on the ground in pain. "Will you marry me?" A look of interest crossed the girl's face. "What?" "Marry me!" he repeated, gaining insistence, even as his ballsack began to bleed. "Please! I've never seen anyone who can steal food so well!" The girl looked at him. A rosy flush dawned on her golden cheek, as the iron dark of the midwinter night began to break into sparkling morning. She opened her ruby red lips to speak to him in her mellifluous voice, and already Evan began to hear the chorus of a thousand angels singing in harmony and a thousand bells chiming in silvery harmony, as this goddess of beauty and starshine readied herself to speak the wonderful words that would make her his. Then the door opened to the Mozart's house, and a man stormed out. "WHAT'S ALL THIS???" he shouted angrily, brandishing a rifle. The girl drew her gun, which happened, coincidentally, to be Mr. Mozart's old one. "I'll take you on," she said coolly. "The HELL you will! And is that my old gun???!!!" screamed Mr. Mozart, coming closer. "DON'T HURT HER!!" cried Evan, throwing himself in the way. "And, hey, it's YOU!" realized the irate man. "You're the one what been stalking my family and stealing our food! Why, I oughtta shoot you!" but instead, he shot the girl. She fell to the ground in a streak of golden and scarlet, like lightning over a dark desert valley, like the shooting star that no one sees before it loses its glory in oblivion. As she lay on the ground, her blood pooling around her like the petals of some rich exotic blossom, Evan felt his life flash before his very eyes. What now was there to live for? He looked at Mr. Mozart in his deep, cold, eyes, and said in a voice like icy stone, "You have destroyed me." Then he wandered off forever into the night of blackest despair, never to see the light of day again; his sun had set forever.
The end.
Wow, I'm good. I especially love all the opulent and excessive adjectives. Ooh, opulent. Should have used that one. Her hair of rich and opulent gold and her eyes of sapphire lightning and all of that. Man, I should have been a writer. What am I even doing with my life? Anyway, I can totally write meaningful fiction. Easy as pie. Obviously, their thievery is a symbol of how humans rob nature of its resources and decries the pitiful human condition. Any fool could see that, I mean really!
Maybe I should write my actual homework now. This was fun, but... the homework is due on Wednesday, and this, no matter how satirical, is not. Sadly. So, my friend, I will see you anon.
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