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!

True rage is mine.

I hate dramatic irony with an unmitigated passion. It annoys me the world over, and makes me want to throw things at white people. Like, I mean, it's like when you're watching a movie, and you know if the person goes into the decrepit old mansion filled with ghosts, they are going to be killed, and then the dumbutt does it anyway! It should elicit cries from the audience of "Dumbass, no!" and "Don't leave Verona!" but no one ever objects. In fact, worthy souls such as English teachers and nerdy suck-ups like it! They say it's so "ironic" (which it is) and "fun and suspenseful" (which it is not). They are probably the kind of people who enjoy watching Honey Boo Boo and Hoarders. Literary characters are people too, and it's not any more fun to watch them ruin their lives than it is for real life people! (Did that even make grammatical sense?) So, all in all, dramatic irony is one device that should never have been devised. (zing) I got a 29 on my ACT. That too, makes me angry enough to go on a Caucasian-punching spree. I got a 29! That's terrible! I have brought shame and dishonor upon my clan forevermore. Maybe I will cut off all my hair, join the army, and defeat the Huns, thereby saving China. I could finally get in shape, anyway. Oh dear, but then I'd have to marry a prince. Don't really wanna do that... Hmm. What can I do? I suppose I've no recourse but to become a stripper. I will change my name to Sensual Stevia (Steve to the ladeez) and be akin to all the Sugar Pies and In-the-Sacharinnes that go prancing through single men's wet dreams (do men have those?). I will be a big success and open my own strip club one day and be the badass woman who hangs around in a fur coat smoking foreign cigarettes and making deals with other badasses. It will be quite lucrative. Maybe, if I play my cards right, I will still get a presidential recommendation and Congressional approval and become a Supreme Court justice. There are no qualifications, after all. So see, there are many paths, but only one destination. (Oh damn, Confucius say whaaaaat?) I visited USC yesterday and now am excessively depressed because I am not in the one percent and can't even afford to use their bathroom without taking out 300 years of student loans. It's like... perfection, man! It's so beautiful, and the classes are so wonderful, and there are so many libraries, and I could have a music minor (or any minor, really) to go with my linguistics major, and there are millions of beautiful people there, and they take the common app, and it's all so enchantingly lovely that I have used polysyndeton, which is a rhetorical device that ranks rather near dramatic irony in my affections. Oh me, oh my soul! I feel like pouring out a veritable paean of praise for the virtues of the school! But what would be the use? I can't get in because I have gotten a 29 on the ACT and a 2160 on the SAT and even if by some miracle I did get in, I wouldn't be able to go because I am not the daughter of Bill Gates. Oh me, oh my soul! The sun is indeed dark to my eyes. Perhaps I will write a meaningful poem about it and apply to Cal Arts as a creative writing major. They would love that. People think creative writers are the shit, when in reality, they are literally the crap (if you appreciate my delightfully subtle nuance). Using vernacular to make a POINT bitches. Whaaat? Now I must go and work on some essays and applications and whatnot. I have written one on Pokemon (an essay, that is), comparing myself to the useless Magikarp, and everyone has read it and declared it to be eminently suitable, so I must write more of its ilk (only about serious things). So off I go to engage in more fruitless endeavors. Fare thee well and have a lovely Thanksgiving break as I am sure to be having!

The worst of times.

Today was the very worst day of my life. Or close enough, anyway. We can apply the squeeze theorem, being that it was in the neighborhood of c (C being crap). What am I even talking about? Anyway. Here is my list of reasons why my life is terrible. 1. I had about three hours of sleep (though this is far from being unusual for me). 2. I think I failed my calculus test, and it wasn't even my fault. There was stuff on there she'd never taught, and there were so many problems that I didn't finish. It made me so mad that I wanted to punch someone's lights out with a lightsaber (and I don't even know how lightsabers work). (Like, are they lasers? Or beams of light? Perhaps illuminated swords? And why are people so into them anyway?) Oh, yes. So. 3. I think I did my quarter report on Andokides painter wrong for Art History, and I may get a zero now. And I had a 91 in the class. 4. I had my unit 3 test for gov today, and I didn't study at all. I sort of looked at the chapter on interests groups last night, though. So I probably failed that. 5. I feel so incredibly shitty. My dear friend Tom is visiting, and with him have come all the symptoms of a premature death. I almost passed out in gov. Very embarrassing. 6. I stepped in peanut butter that some wonderful environmentalist had left lying about on the sidewalk, and it got all over my shoe. Speaking of which! 7. Someone's done something with all my shoes! I can only find two pairs! It makes outfit coordination really hard. 8. I had to talk to ASS for a REALLY long time. The ass. 9. I tried to study physics at lunch, and people kept talking to me. What cheek! 10. I tried to get letters of recommendation, but I couldn't because I was too late. (I did get two, though.) 11. I wanted to study in choir, but we sang the entire time, so I couldn't. 12. I think I failed my physics test. Just cause. 13. I bought my homecoming ticket, and Sonia's parents may not be able to take us all (Ivy, Annabelle, Lisa, Sonia, me, and Allie). And it was 60 dollars. 14. I had to go to a college presentation at school for two hours, and they said absolutely nothing I didn't know, and it made me feel completely inadequate about everything and like I will never find a college in a million years. And, the crowning indignity to it all... 15. I look like complete shit today! So. You see. This is why my anger doth not abate. Why is it illegal to go around mugging people? I should very much like for other people besides me to know the hardship I have gone through. Maybe I will obtain a soapbox, set myself up on the corner of Barton and University, and tell them all about it. That sounds like a plan. SEXY SHIT. I FEEL SO HORRIBLE.

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.

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.

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.

Happy new year!

I reiterate, happy. new year.
Andddd, that is all.