I got into the honors program at Ohio State! I'm so happy! I mean, my essay was truly horrible. We had to write about how we extended friendship and love to our community, which isn't a prompt that lends itself to an interesting or mature essay any way you look at it. So I wrote about how I gave the hand of good nature to Helena in Lit, since the rest of us had a group and she wasn't part of it. Now she is, and it's wonderful and everything is full of camaraderie and love. Unfortunately, she's not good at English, so in our group discussions, she's kind of a hindrance, but I didn't put that in my essay. Doesn't seem very fellowship-ish, you know. Anyway, now that I'm in the honors program, and I have such a good scholarship, it's probable that I'll end up going to Ohio. It's really far away and scary and it's a state school, but how can I pass up such a good offer? It's only sensible. And I'll get to see Allie at the Michigan-Ohio football games (although we've decided that we won't actually go to the game), so at least I won't be completely alone in the world. And I guess it'll be nice to get away and be on my own for real. I'll be an adult. What is even going on.
UGH Dad is sitting on the couch eating nuts and trying to hold a conversation with Mom and Kitty about dance and cheerleading and stuff. I have never heard anyone eat so loudly (although I have); it sounds like there is a train running through the house. Besides this, he doesn't understand anything, nor does he hear anything. I'm pretty sure he's going deaf, and he won't admit it. But even if he could hear, he wouldn't be able to comprehend anything but the simplest of subjects. "Kitty doesn't want to become a professional dancer," Mom says. "What do you mean?" asks Dad. "Can you repeat that?" "I don't have enough time to study," Kitty chimes in. "WHAT?" roars Dad, offended that he hasn't heard her properly. "Is this a special little conclave? Are you trying to exclude me? Say it again!" And so on, ad nauseum. This is why conversations in our house are so difficult. Dad doesn't understand anything, or else he'll just start talking about conspiracies (his new crush is one Bill Deagol, who is truly ridiculous and believes in electric auras, and who shares a name with Smeagol's brother who died because of the Ring), so nothing works out at all. It's rather troublesome.
I've been so exhausted lately. Am I burning out? I sleep a lot, or at least I go to bed at 1:00, which is not too bad for me, but I'm still so tired that I can barely do anything. My head constantly hurts (which is strange, because I usually don't get headaches), and I never eat anything anymore. Eff, I'm going to get fat. What to do? I think I may have a degenerative disorder. I'm almost sure of it. Oh dear. I will die before I am forty.
Wellp, it's been nice, but it's time to do my physics homework (since it is due tomorrow) as well as my ACE review for Lit. Goodbye now!
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
Sunday, March 24, 2013
Sunday Night
That title was an allusion to the poem Sunday Morning, by the way.
Just so you know.
Kitty bought me a boba! I'm so happy. It's like, you know, a beautiful life, man! She came back from teaching her little student and just handed me a large coffee milk tea. It was wonderful. Unfortunately, it's Sunday night, and I have massive amounts of stuff to do. Actually, what I mean is that I have a concert report to do. And I hate doing those with a fiery passion. But that is the way of the world. You know something else that's truly fantastic? Facebook has changed its layout so that you can add the books you've read to a sidebar and everyone can see and admire how well-read you are. It's lovely. However, I only have eighty-five, cuz that's all I could think of off the top of my head. But then again, I only included the classics, or things that I felt to be of literary merit. So maybe that's ok. Or not, I dunno. I'm really not that cultured, though, or at least as cultured as I'd like to be. I'm still kind of a blob of inanity as far as sophistication goes. Ugh. I wish I were like those people in the olden days who thrived on all the fine arts and could spout off poetry at the slightest provocation and could tell a Parmiagianino from a Bronzino at a glance (and who could actually spell 'Parmiagianino') and who were just really cool badasses overall. It's important to know about the world, you know? I try my best, but I still fear that I'm sadly lacking.
That doesn't stop me from being a momentous snob, though.
I heard from Allie that none of the choir people dislike me. Apparently, they look upon me as a cute little pet and want to get to know me, but they think that I'm rebuffing them and am rude and snooty. Just cuz I'm always texting! That doesn't mean I don't want to talk to them! Well, I mean, I don't, but that's beside the point. If they would actually try to talk to me, they would see that I am a nice, friendly, soul, without a touch of the officiousness they think I've espoused. I only ignored them once! And that was by accident! I'm just a poor boy, nobody loves me, and whatnot. Anyway! If they're so dingblasted eager to make my acquaintance, shouldn't they be making an effort? They said they were, but I don't even think so. So I have to surmise that they're misleading Allie so that she won't think they're horrible people (even though they are). But I guess they're trying to dupe everyone, cuz Kitty's would-be beau told me the same thing Allie did, and he was very sincere about it. Da eff, man! This is strange! What if they're actually sincere in their desire to get to know me, and I truly am being standoffish? That would be weeeird. I just... I don't know. WHY AM I SUCH A SOCIALLY AWKWARD PENGUIN UGGGH
Speaking of awkward stuff (ish), my plan for the Writers' Block literary journal has come to fruition past any shadow of a doubt. You see, I wrote a whole bunch of different stuff, with different styles, and submitted it under several different fake names, for publication in the literary journal. Every blessed piece got accepted, and now a good thirty percent of the written work in there is mine. At the officers' meeting (which I only go to under duress, but that's neither here nor there), the teacher began praising one Dagny Taggart's wonderful prolixity and waxing poetic about the literary merit of "his" work. It was interesting that she thought Dagny was a boy, but it was also vastly amusing for me to hear my words being so lauded. I mean, it's me for goodness' sake! I don't even know. But since it seemed to go over so well, I think I'm going to submit some more stuff. Maybe I can get up to forty percent! What do you think?
I love concert reports (even though I really don't) because I can write stuff like this:
For the most part, the audience behaved well during the performance, although there were several problems. For one thing, during our song “I am Not Yours,” one small child took it into his head to start chattering away, and no one saw fit to do anything about it. Thus, some of the quietest moments of the piece were punctuated by the lovely sounds of childish babble. This was not a huge problem, though, since most people did not seem to notice. Also, many of the middle school children did not deem it necessary to behave as well as they perhaps should have ought to, and there was not a little disturbance emanating from their side of the room at regular intervals. One insouciant soul had the temerity to call out to someone on stage, and received a well-deserved lecture as retribution. This was quite satisfactory to everyone in the choir, not to mention several more polite audience members. During Varsity’s performance, too, one brilliant patron of the arts’s phone went off, in flagrant disregard of the many warnings against such an occurrence before the concert. This was nothing short of annoying to everyone else, but fortunately, the incident soon passed. Aside from these minor setbacks, the concert went smoothly, with no unwanted audience participation, and all was well.
And there will be no repercussions. Yay! Ok, but now I really need to finish this report, yes I do. Okay, so I'll be back. Bye!
Just so you know.
Kitty bought me a boba! I'm so happy. It's like, you know, a beautiful life, man! She came back from teaching her little student and just handed me a large coffee milk tea. It was wonderful. Unfortunately, it's Sunday night, and I have massive amounts of stuff to do. Actually, what I mean is that I have a concert report to do. And I hate doing those with a fiery passion. But that is the way of the world. You know something else that's truly fantastic? Facebook has changed its layout so that you can add the books you've read to a sidebar and everyone can see and admire how well-read you are. It's lovely. However, I only have eighty-five, cuz that's all I could think of off the top of my head. But then again, I only included the classics, or things that I felt to be of literary merit. So maybe that's ok. Or not, I dunno. I'm really not that cultured, though, or at least as cultured as I'd like to be. I'm still kind of a blob of inanity as far as sophistication goes. Ugh. I wish I were like those people in the olden days who thrived on all the fine arts and could spout off poetry at the slightest provocation and could tell a Parmiagianino from a Bronzino at a glance (and who could actually spell 'Parmiagianino') and who were just really cool badasses overall. It's important to know about the world, you know? I try my best, but I still fear that I'm sadly lacking.
That doesn't stop me from being a momentous snob, though.
I heard from Allie that none of the choir people dislike me. Apparently, they look upon me as a cute little pet and want to get to know me, but they think that I'm rebuffing them and am rude and snooty. Just cuz I'm always texting! That doesn't mean I don't want to talk to them! Well, I mean, I don't, but that's beside the point. If they would actually try to talk to me, they would see that I am a nice, friendly, soul, without a touch of the officiousness they think I've espoused. I only ignored them once! And that was by accident! I'm just a poor boy, nobody loves me, and whatnot. Anyway! If they're so dingblasted eager to make my acquaintance, shouldn't they be making an effort? They said they were, but I don't even think so. So I have to surmise that they're misleading Allie so that she won't think they're horrible people (even though they are). But I guess they're trying to dupe everyone, cuz Kitty's would-be beau told me the same thing Allie did, and he was very sincere about it. Da eff, man! This is strange! What if they're actually sincere in their desire to get to know me, and I truly am being standoffish? That would be weeeird. I just... I don't know. WHY AM I SUCH A SOCIALLY AWKWARD PENGUIN UGGGH
Speaking of awkward stuff (ish), my plan for the Writers' Block literary journal has come to fruition past any shadow of a doubt. You see, I wrote a whole bunch of different stuff, with different styles, and submitted it under several different fake names, for publication in the literary journal. Every blessed piece got accepted, and now a good thirty percent of the written work in there is mine. At the officers' meeting (which I only go to under duress, but that's neither here nor there), the teacher began praising one Dagny Taggart's wonderful prolixity and waxing poetic about the literary merit of "his" work. It was interesting that she thought Dagny was a boy, but it was also vastly amusing for me to hear my words being so lauded. I mean, it's me for goodness' sake! I don't even know. But since it seemed to go over so well, I think I'm going to submit some more stuff. Maybe I can get up to forty percent! What do you think?
I love concert reports (even though I really don't) because I can write stuff like this:
For the most part, the audience behaved well during the performance, although there were several problems. For one thing, during our song “I am Not Yours,” one small child took it into his head to start chattering away, and no one saw fit to do anything about it. Thus, some of the quietest moments of the piece were punctuated by the lovely sounds of childish babble. This was not a huge problem, though, since most people did not seem to notice. Also, many of the middle school children did not deem it necessary to behave as well as they perhaps should have ought to, and there was not a little disturbance emanating from their side of the room at regular intervals. One insouciant soul had the temerity to call out to someone on stage, and received a well-deserved lecture as retribution. This was quite satisfactory to everyone in the choir, not to mention several more polite audience members. During Varsity’s performance, too, one brilliant patron of the arts’s phone went off, in flagrant disregard of the many warnings against such an occurrence before the concert. This was nothing short of annoying to everyone else, but fortunately, the incident soon passed. Aside from these minor setbacks, the concert went smoothly, with no unwanted audience participation, and all was well.
And there will be no repercussions. Yay! Ok, but now I really need to finish this report, yes I do. Okay, so I'll be back. Bye!
Sunday, March 10, 2013
First World Problem Diary
It's spring break! Doesn't that just send a peal of joy and laughter to the heart? It's almost as beautiful as the toneful one-sentence poem, "It's winter break." I could just cry with the delight of the fact right now. The only problem is that it's now the second week of spring break, and I have only seven scant days before I must be back in the halls of learning, but let us ignore that for the present in a carpe diem sort of way and live for the moment as no one else but silly and insipid sophophiles can do.
Hmm, sophophile. I like that word. Made it up just now, I did. Maybe it's a real word and I've horribly misspelled it and I'm showing my ignorance to the world at this point by not knowing it. I hope that's not the case, I mean, I think I demonstrate my lack of knowledge quite enough already without flagrantly parading it about even further.
I have a whole boatload of problems right now. I hope you don't mind me sharing them with you; I find it inconceivable that anyone wouldn't be interested in every facet of my life, felicitous or otherwise. Anyway, so. One day, about a week ago, I looked down at my right hand, and there was a dramatic bloody cut there. It was rather astonishing, as the most dangerous thing I'd done that day was read Rousseau's Social Contract, and as politically questionable as that may be, it's not exactly conducive to corporeal injury. So I was forced to come to the conclusion that I'd gone to another dimension and fought an epic battle there and possibly become the beloved despot and lived a long fruitful life as such before coming back to the present time with only one lovely laceration to remind me of my exploits. I still have the scar, by the way. It's just sitting on my hand like a reminder of my inherent awesomeness. But isn't this interesting? And problematic at the same time? I can't keep going off to other dimensions and having life-changing adventures and then not remembering any of it! It's just not right! Maybe my memory will improve as I get more adjusted to the idiosyncrasies of the time and space continuum. So that's all well and good then, but I have another problem. I was sitting in the kitchen yesterday, peacefully eating toast and reading a novel from the 19th century about some girl who decides to get married to her cousin (which is quite disgusting, really, only I don't think they were actually related), and Dad came up and gave me a kick on the leg (practicing his tae kwon do skills, you see). In the spirit of things, I thought it would be expedient for me to reciprocate, and, with a loud battle cry, I kicked him back. The only problem with this excellent strategy was that I'd used my ankle, and kicked him on his knee, and my part in our tangible repartee only left me with a giant swelling and a difficulty in walking straight. It's very dramatic, really, and I'm proud of it. Sadly, I think the swelling is going down. But for a short time, I was as winsome as the next wounded warrior. Speaking of my legs, though, I have all these bruises, and I'm not sure where they came from. I hope I haven't been sleepwalking or anything. That's so creepy, I always think. What if I've been going out and mugging people and I didn't even know it? I better start locking my door at night to protect the innocent. Now. Are you ready for the worst problem I'm facing? It's quite gross, actually. Maybe I shouldn't write it. But no, I have to, future generations must know of my pain and find comfort in it (the assholes). So. You ready? Well, ok. So, you see, I have a zit. Like, a legit zit. (That sounds like some kind of pseudo punk band, no?) It's literally the size of the head of a pin, and I'm using literally in the most literal sense, because I could never subscribe to the hateful practice of using "literally" figuratively. There's a white top on it and everything. It's so gross! I've not had a zit for about as long as I've been in high school, and now, just when I thought I was in the clear, one shows up! I'm so grossed out that I can't look at myself in the mirror (and, since I am a narcissistic egoist of the highest order, that's saying something). All I can see is Zachary the Zit (whom I've named after the president, since I dislike log cabin charm), and it's driving me insane. I wonder if I'm actually going to go insane? That would be very interesting from a clinical standpoint, and maybe an aspiring Russian novelist could write a story about me and achieve great acclaim. He wouldn't even have to share the immense profits with me, because I would be locked up in an asylum and not care for anything of the material world. So it would be win-win all around (except for me, of course). Damn! This makes me hate the world (more)!
Woah, dude. It used to be 1:59. Now it's 3:06. What happened to the extra hour? Mystery. Maybe the Illuminati took it. No, but really, it's now daylight savings time (or else daylight savings time has been revoked, I'm never sure which), and time will feel all funny for a couple of days until we all get used to it. I'm glad this has happened during break, or I would feel myself getting up an hour earlier than I'm used to, which wouldn't be an enjoyable experience for anyone concerned.
You know, right now Sonia is in England. That's why she couldn't go with Allie and me to San Diego on our archetypal spring break road trip. The lucky bastard! I bet she's having a marvelous time. What if she comes home with an accent? That would be the tightest shiznit ever! Or what if she comes home with a hot English boyfriend? He would be like Sydney Carton. Damn! I want to go to England! I could visit Oxford and see Strawberry Hill and Chiswick House and everything. Man, some people just have all the luck.
These paragraphs are getting shorter and shorter. Soon I'm going to be writing one-word sentences and leaving it at that (though that would be quite meaningful, I'm sure).
Oh! Speaking (ish) of which! I think Pablo Neruda is the William Carlos Williams of Chilean literature. He has odes to everything under the sun, and they're all written in a completely Modernist style. If they weren't in Spanish, I think they'd be almost indistinguishable from Williams's work. Ugh, that just goes to show how ignorant and uncultured I am. Now the world is going to laugh at me and mock my pretentious delusions of sophistication. Ah well. They would probably do that anyway. It's a fun occupation, you know. I do it myself frequently. Speaking of writing, though, I should probably write some more stuff for the school literary journal. The club people who are actually invested in it (read: the teacher) will get on my case if I don't. I'm planning to bomb the journal with a whole bunch of stuff I've written, all with different styles and under fake names, and get it all published, since I'm the person (or at least one of the people) who gets to decide what's going to be in there. It's going to be fabulous. Now I just have to write some stuff. I've already written this wonderfully morbid poem called "Vanitas" which is technically a Shakespearean sonnet, and is full of the most trite symbolism you can possibly imagine. I submitted it via email to the teacher, and she said it was acceptable. Sadly, she thinks my name is Dagny Taggart, because that's the appellation I used for the account, but I suppose I can live with that. I also wrote an epic poem about some dictator who takes power and is all corrupt and terrible and who is modeled after the teacher herself, since her crimes against us officers of the club could fill a book, and submitted that too. Dagny Taggart seems to be quite prolific. Maybe she can get a secondary job in New Atlantis in her spare moments from running the railroad. Now I think I better write some fluffy stuff. Or maybe stuff that's not poetry. Hmm. Since tastes seem to run a bit plebeian, maybe I can resort to parody (which our beloved teacher has touted frequently as comedic gold). Wait, that's not to say that all parody is pedestrian, it's just that it's very hard to write well in that genre. You know? Superior skill is needed (which I don't possess), and subtlety too. It's so easy to be annoying. Well, I guess that's true of all writing. But still. Ok, here's a fabulous piece I've written. I've entitled it "Raspberry Flynn."
"Mornin, y'all," drawled Raspberry, coming out onto the veranda with a mint julep in his hand. "Old dog's still a kickin, huh?" "Sure looks like it, Raz," agreed Jam affably, producing a mint julep of his own. "Never seen nothin so full-up down the river in my life, like." "Say," began Raz after a lengthy pause, during which Jam had been calmly polishing his shotgun, "How'd we get on this here veranda anyway? Last thing I knew, we was on a raft down the ole Mississippi." "Well now," Jam looked around with undisguised admiration, "I reckon you're right! How'd that come to be, ya think?" Raz took a draw on his corncob pipe. "I guess we done crossed that durn Mason Dixon Line at last," he said with a contented sigh. "Ya hankerin after some good ole corn pone?"
Wow, that's beautiful. I could be the next big sensation on the literary scene for sure. I've never beheld such stunning writing as that! And I think "full-up down the river like" should be incorporated into everyone's daily vernacular. It has deep meaning that belies its countrified charm. Wellp, not to be abrupt or nothin, but it's time to hit the hay! It's 3:45 AM, and I have to get up at noon to teach that unapologetic insouciant brat of a student I have. Ugh, I don't like him. You know, his dad stalked us for six months to get a spot in our studio and now that he's here the little blister won't practice? His parents record his entire lessons too. SO annoying. If he weren't one of my fifteen-dollar students, I'd fire him. Be that as it may, I can't change the irritation for the present, so I have to provide for it and get my beauty rest. Maybe Zachary the Zit will fade away during the night and I can be myself again. Anyway, goodnight!
Hmm, sophophile. I like that word. Made it up just now, I did. Maybe it's a real word and I've horribly misspelled it and I'm showing my ignorance to the world at this point by not knowing it. I hope that's not the case, I mean, I think I demonstrate my lack of knowledge quite enough already without flagrantly parading it about even further.
I have a whole boatload of problems right now. I hope you don't mind me sharing them with you; I find it inconceivable that anyone wouldn't be interested in every facet of my life, felicitous or otherwise. Anyway, so. One day, about a week ago, I looked down at my right hand, and there was a dramatic bloody cut there. It was rather astonishing, as the most dangerous thing I'd done that day was read Rousseau's Social Contract, and as politically questionable as that may be, it's not exactly conducive to corporeal injury. So I was forced to come to the conclusion that I'd gone to another dimension and fought an epic battle there and possibly become the beloved despot and lived a long fruitful life as such before coming back to the present time with only one lovely laceration to remind me of my exploits. I still have the scar, by the way. It's just sitting on my hand like a reminder of my inherent awesomeness. But isn't this interesting? And problematic at the same time? I can't keep going off to other dimensions and having life-changing adventures and then not remembering any of it! It's just not right! Maybe my memory will improve as I get more adjusted to the idiosyncrasies of the time and space continuum. So that's all well and good then, but I have another problem. I was sitting in the kitchen yesterday, peacefully eating toast and reading a novel from the 19th century about some girl who decides to get married to her cousin (which is quite disgusting, really, only I don't think they were actually related), and Dad came up and gave me a kick on the leg (practicing his tae kwon do skills, you see). In the spirit of things, I thought it would be expedient for me to reciprocate, and, with a loud battle cry, I kicked him back. The only problem with this excellent strategy was that I'd used my ankle, and kicked him on his knee, and my part in our tangible repartee only left me with a giant swelling and a difficulty in walking straight. It's very dramatic, really, and I'm proud of it. Sadly, I think the swelling is going down. But for a short time, I was as winsome as the next wounded warrior. Speaking of my legs, though, I have all these bruises, and I'm not sure where they came from. I hope I haven't been sleepwalking or anything. That's so creepy, I always think. What if I've been going out and mugging people and I didn't even know it? I better start locking my door at night to protect the innocent. Now. Are you ready for the worst problem I'm facing? It's quite gross, actually. Maybe I shouldn't write it. But no, I have to, future generations must know of my pain and find comfort in it (the assholes). So. You ready? Well, ok. So, you see, I have a zit. Like, a legit zit. (That sounds like some kind of pseudo punk band, no?) It's literally the size of the head of a pin, and I'm using literally in the most literal sense, because I could never subscribe to the hateful practice of using "literally" figuratively. There's a white top on it and everything. It's so gross! I've not had a zit for about as long as I've been in high school, and now, just when I thought I was in the clear, one shows up! I'm so grossed out that I can't look at myself in the mirror (and, since I am a narcissistic egoist of the highest order, that's saying something). All I can see is Zachary the Zit (whom I've named after the president, since I dislike log cabin charm), and it's driving me insane. I wonder if I'm actually going to go insane? That would be very interesting from a clinical standpoint, and maybe an aspiring Russian novelist could write a story about me and achieve great acclaim. He wouldn't even have to share the immense profits with me, because I would be locked up in an asylum and not care for anything of the material world. So it would be win-win all around (except for me, of course). Damn! This makes me hate the world (more)!
Woah, dude. It used to be 1:59. Now it's 3:06. What happened to the extra hour? Mystery. Maybe the Illuminati took it. No, but really, it's now daylight savings time (or else daylight savings time has been revoked, I'm never sure which), and time will feel all funny for a couple of days until we all get used to it. I'm glad this has happened during break, or I would feel myself getting up an hour earlier than I'm used to, which wouldn't be an enjoyable experience for anyone concerned.
You know, right now Sonia is in England. That's why she couldn't go with Allie and me to San Diego on our archetypal spring break road trip. The lucky bastard! I bet she's having a marvelous time. What if she comes home with an accent? That would be the tightest shiznit ever! Or what if she comes home with a hot English boyfriend? He would be like Sydney Carton. Damn! I want to go to England! I could visit Oxford and see Strawberry Hill and Chiswick House and everything. Man, some people just have all the luck.
These paragraphs are getting shorter and shorter. Soon I'm going to be writing one-word sentences and leaving it at that (though that would be quite meaningful, I'm sure).
Oh! Speaking (ish) of which! I think Pablo Neruda is the William Carlos Williams of Chilean literature. He has odes to everything under the sun, and they're all written in a completely Modernist style. If they weren't in Spanish, I think they'd be almost indistinguishable from Williams's work. Ugh, that just goes to show how ignorant and uncultured I am. Now the world is going to laugh at me and mock my pretentious delusions of sophistication. Ah well. They would probably do that anyway. It's a fun occupation, you know. I do it myself frequently. Speaking of writing, though, I should probably write some more stuff for the school literary journal. The club people who are actually invested in it (read: the teacher) will get on my case if I don't. I'm planning to bomb the journal with a whole bunch of stuff I've written, all with different styles and under fake names, and get it all published, since I'm the person (or at least one of the people) who gets to decide what's going to be in there. It's going to be fabulous. Now I just have to write some stuff. I've already written this wonderfully morbid poem called "Vanitas" which is technically a Shakespearean sonnet, and is full of the most trite symbolism you can possibly imagine. I submitted it via email to the teacher, and she said it was acceptable. Sadly, she thinks my name is Dagny Taggart, because that's the appellation I used for the account, but I suppose I can live with that. I also wrote an epic poem about some dictator who takes power and is all corrupt and terrible and who is modeled after the teacher herself, since her crimes against us officers of the club could fill a book, and submitted that too. Dagny Taggart seems to be quite prolific. Maybe she can get a secondary job in New Atlantis in her spare moments from running the railroad. Now I think I better write some fluffy stuff. Or maybe stuff that's not poetry. Hmm. Since tastes seem to run a bit plebeian, maybe I can resort to parody (which our beloved teacher has touted frequently as comedic gold). Wait, that's not to say that all parody is pedestrian, it's just that it's very hard to write well in that genre. You know? Superior skill is needed (which I don't possess), and subtlety too. It's so easy to be annoying. Well, I guess that's true of all writing. But still. Ok, here's a fabulous piece I've written. I've entitled it "Raspberry Flynn."
"Mornin, y'all," drawled Raspberry, coming out onto the veranda with a mint julep in his hand. "Old dog's still a kickin, huh?" "Sure looks like it, Raz," agreed Jam affably, producing a mint julep of his own. "Never seen nothin so full-up down the river in my life, like." "Say," began Raz after a lengthy pause, during which Jam had been calmly polishing his shotgun, "How'd we get on this here veranda anyway? Last thing I knew, we was on a raft down the ole Mississippi." "Well now," Jam looked around with undisguised admiration, "I reckon you're right! How'd that come to be, ya think?" Raz took a draw on his corncob pipe. "I guess we done crossed that durn Mason Dixon Line at last," he said with a contented sigh. "Ya hankerin after some good ole corn pone?"
Wow, that's beautiful. I could be the next big sensation on the literary scene for sure. I've never beheld such stunning writing as that! And I think "full-up down the river like" should be incorporated into everyone's daily vernacular. It has deep meaning that belies its countrified charm. Wellp, not to be abrupt or nothin, but it's time to hit the hay! It's 3:45 AM, and I have to get up at noon to teach that unapologetic insouciant brat of a student I have. Ugh, I don't like him. You know, his dad stalked us for six months to get a spot in our studio and now that he's here the little blister won't practice? His parents record his entire lessons too. SO annoying. If he weren't one of my fifteen-dollar students, I'd fire him. Be that as it may, I can't change the irritation for the present, so I have to provide for it and get my beauty rest. Maybe Zachary the Zit will fade away during the night and I can be myself again. Anyway, goodnight!
Thursday, February 28, 2013
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.
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.
Friday, February 22, 2013
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!
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!
Monday, February 18, 2013
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!
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!
Thursday, February 14, 2013
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!
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!
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