I'll Tell You About Thanksgiving Eventually, Okay?

My feet are dry, and my lotion is MIA, so I am suffering quite badly here. I hate the feeling of dry skin. It rubs me absolutely the wrong way. I know you're trying to make some clever pun or wordplay out of that, so stop it. I can't do puns; they elude me, the pesky bacchanals.

Anyway, my feet are dry, and also, my cell phone charger plug keeps falling out of the outlet. Okay, nevermind, I just fixed it. I knew all that watching of MacGyver would pay off eventually, even if I never get a chance to disarm bombs.

I just finished writing the second of many many papers that will be written by me this week, so I'm feeling sort of giddy, like I've just had some champagne. Or what I imagine it'd feel like, which is really what counts. Because what is reality besides what I make it? How can you tell me how champagne will affect me, having never been me? There you go.

I'm sorry -- I just found out that my yellow is not your yellow, so your bananas all probably look freakish and gross, and it's kind of affecting me in a deep and incredible way. I'm going to go have some Hint of Lime chips (they're so good, go try some) and go sleep. Brushing my teeth in between, of course. I like the feeling of slippery-clean teeth; it's almost like glowing.

Happy Thanksgiving!

The good news is that the internet is back, hurrah!

The sad news (for you) is that I'm leaving for Thanksgiving, and probably won't be updating. But who knows what opportunities the break will bring me!

And so I'm off. I wish you a Happy Thanksgiving, and eat lots and lots of food. Also, remember those who suffered so much in the beginning, going through years of starvation to colonize this land. One of them was my great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandfather.

And I Know It's Not Sensible To Be This Passionate Everyday

It is an interesting thing to have someone look into your face and pronounce you in need of mental help, just because you were being honest.

I think there is a certain macabre beauty in the death of Ophelia, in the death of Virginia Woolf, in the death of Joan of Arc. Apparently, that makes me quite odd, and even perhaps frightening. I never meant to frighten anyone with my opinion, though I am quite certain that I am eccentric indeed.

I just appreciate tragedy; it is what comes from perpetually caring too much, about everything. But I don't seek to "fit in," and I cannot really understand why I would. I'm motivated by something greater, something deeper, something grander, nearly every moment, and though it is sometimes exhausting and devastating, my choice is perpetually to hold on and hope.

Wherein Teeth Go Flying All Over The Place

Today, I'm not going to go to class. I'm going to laze about drinking hot chocolate and orange juice and eggnog, and I'm going to play computer games. I'm not going to worry about writing papers or reading 8,000 pages on the "sublime object of ideology." That is exactly what I am going to do.

I wish.

Instead, I'm going to guzzle down the orange juice that was magically left on my doorstep (you can only do that sort of thing in Provo; anywhere else, I'd suspect it had poison in it, or anthrax) to stave off a cold, and I'm going to go to the Pre-Law office and buy overpriced practice LSAT tests for not me, and I'm going to go to class and gradually fade out after the first forty-five minutes, and then I'm going to come home and work work work work work. Because I certainly didn't do that last night, what with teeth getting knocked out of people's faces and everything.

Oh, I didn't tell you about that?

Well, Dallan kidnapped me so we could do homework together and he wouldn't have to be so bored, but then his younger sisters came over. We were all having a good time in the living room, when Claire (the older of the two) threw Alex the remote, and it hit Alex's tooth, and knocked it out. After that, all attempts to do homework were dropped completely, but we did make a fun trip to Target to buy one of those football mouth guard things.

Anyway, I still have much to do, and when all I want to do is sleep and play, much to do doesn't sound like much fun.

I Need A Nap

I hate, hate, HATE writing resumes. HATE. HATE. If it weren't for the fact that having a resume is necessary for a job, and a job is necessary so I can have more projects to stress me out to my full stress-out potential, I wouldn't do it. Ever. I have no need to summarize my accomplishments in bleak formats.

In fact, I have no real need to list my accomplishments at all. I'm carried forward by the rather ineffable notion that somehow I am completely awesome, and that's all I really need. I don't quite know what to say about myself; I'd rather take a potential employer by the hand and let her experience me for the day, or something. And then just not tell me what her impressions are, because I don't really know how to handle praise (you should've seen the awkward situation last night), and censure absolutely crumples me.

Good thing for friends like Keely who e-mail me pre-made resumes that I just have to fill in a bit. (I know Word has resume templates; I'm not dumb. But there's too much picking and choosing that goes on, I'd really rather just copy someone else's already superb work.) So thank you, Keely!

And to all potential employers out there: trust me, you'll love me. Especially if you need me to google something for you and find the lowest of the low prices.

Winter Has Come To Provo, And There's No Hot Chocolate In The House

I woke up this morning, looked window-ward, and cursed myself for waking up so terribly early on a day when I don't have to. Then I actually looked at the time, and realized that the reason the sky was so dark wasn't because of the earliness of the hour, but rather because winter has descended upon Provo. Icy wind has been whipping the leaves around today, changing rain into snow, and grabbing my hair in its chilly fists.

This is the time of year for mugs of hot chocolate and fat Dickens novels and fluffy comforters piled around your legs.

Instead, the power went out as I was checking my e-mail; I thought my computer had died and my heart almost leaped out of my chest until I noticed the overhead lamp flickering and then sputtering out completely.

So I bundled up against the cold and went to class, and by the time I came back, power was restored. The awesome thing about it is that heat is free in this apartment, so there's no reason to even wear pants.

Of Carmadillos and Chinese Food

Philosophy ended early yesterday, and I strolled westward under darkening skies with a few classmates, as I headed to a friend's apartment to make caramels. This is the same friend with whom I composed a poem for my British Literature professor a few days ago. Jennifer. Not my roommate, the other one. Wow, this is getting confusing.

Anyway, I got there, and she pulled out the recipe and realized she had no margerine, so we headed of to Macey's to purchase some. Note the spelling: This is not Macy's the fabulous department store, this is Macey's the tragically-laid-out grocery store. The cheese is hidden in the very middle, to give you some idea of what goes on in that place. Anyway, we walked in and were immediately hit with an overpoweringly warm cinnamon smell and the grand strains of a Christmas carol streaming from a boom box surrounded by Christmas trees. Hooray! Christmas has come to Provo! Hooray!

Because of the festivities or something, I'm not really certain why, there were tables set up all over with free samples. They had eggnog! I love eggnog. We bought some. We wandered around sampling. We grabbed the margerine that was the root of our purpose. We made fun of the silly blue covers over the tabloids at the check-out. Okay, I made fun of the silly blue covers over the tabloids at the check-out, I have no Idea what Jennifer thinks of them.

Once we made it back to Jennifer's apartment, we started making the caramel. While I was stirring, it started bubbling, which scared me, but Jennifer assured me all was normal and to not stop stirring, for heaven's sake. The only problem with the whole thing is that we didn't have a candy thermometer, and we cooked it a bit too long, and the batch was pretty much ruined -- but only once it cooled. We poured it into a tin foil-covered bowl and left for Macey's again, to buy a candy thermometer and more sweetened condensed milk.

This time there were some flannel-clad, unwashed men, and they smelled pretty bad. I didn't comment. On the way out, we passed a man who also smelled pretty bad, and I wondered if I should comment this time about the stinkiness of the trip. But I didn't.

We grabbed some cheap Chinese food, intending to eat it with our eggnog and make a feast of it all. We did so upon returning, and then were confronted with What To Do With The Bowl Of Caramel. It hadn't yet hardened, so we took it out and poked it.



And then we got the idea to mold it into something, and I suggested an armadillo. I mean, it makes perfect sense, right? So we googled an armadillo image and sculpted away.



[The caption says "It's an armadillo...not a rat. You can't see the haiku we went to go along with it, because it hadn't been written yet.]

When Jennifer, her lovely roommate Tedi, and I trooped upstairs to show the girls up there our creation, I christened it the Carmadillo, and lo, there was much rejoicing in the land.

And then we went to some guy's apartment that Jennifer and Tedi knew, placed it on the mat, rang the doorbell, and ran away.

This, folks, is what we do in Provo for fun.

But I Didn't Care Where I Was Going

I had fun messing around last night; the changes you see are mostly small ones, just playing around with color scheme and backgrounds and such. I like the leaves, they feel very autumnal to me, which is nice. I liked the pink a lot, but it was time for a change. (Note to those of you who think that I cannot handle any sort of slight vibration in my universe of discourse: You are wrong. But heaven help us all if Jon Stewart wears a non-white shirt, or M&M's change their colors -- little things like that trip me up and I get all scraped up and fumble-y.)

So I hope you enjoy it and keep reading. I try to write the best I can, but my best isn't always very good, and sometimes my best is simply too far to grasp at, but it's been a fun journey so far. I've been blogging for over a year now, and I've come a long way from the despairing child I was a year ago. The nightmares are even starting to fade, and I have to thank you for lending me your happiness to lean upon.

Here's to leading your life juxtapositiously, whatever that means! And someday remind me to tell the story behind that.

For Those Of You Wondering What Deep Philosophical and Theological Subjects Dallan And I Discuss In The Hours We Spend Together

On the subject of Sister Nadauld: "If she weren't married, I'd so hit it."

There Simply Is No Need

How many thousands of millions of people in the world play the guitar? Is anyone else astounded by this? And sort of not impressed by it? You, Jared Mooney, gain exception, because you're an actual for reals rock star, but everyone else who just hacks away at it and then pastes pictures of them and their guitar on everything they own to advertize their "musical" abilities...I do not understand you.

Is that harsh of me?

Ah, Whimsy

It's another odds and ends post! Whee!

>>Kristin and I went on a date on Friday that progressed rather interestingly. It ended with her getting a free soft taco from a fifteen-year-old Taco Bell employee, due to her extreme hottie status, and we had to have Dallan come rescue us. We had fun trying masks on at Wal-Mart and rounded off the evening with Amélie, which is such a superb film.



You can see that either we are the most disgusting couple of all time, or else our studies have stressed us out to the point of insanity. I'm voting for the latter, because as wonderful as Kristin is, physical contact with girls freaks me out, and I like kissing the boys far too much.

>>I have a British Literature midterm that closes on Monday, so my friend Jennifer Me. (not to be confused with Jennifer Mo. who is my roommate) and I went rambling to the F. Smith building to go study, our reasoning being that the winding and tortuous passages therein greatly resemble that of a cave, and Jennifer likes studying in odd places. Before we sat down to study, however, we took a trip up to the fourth floor, there to view the Room With Nothing. While on our way, we passed our Brit Lit professor's office, and were struck with the need to compose a poem for him. Here following is said poem:

Today we studied extra for the test
In hopes that we would get a passing grade;
You see, we want to be the very best
And rise above our stand of lemonade.

Both Tennyson and Arnold we do read,
And our friend Dickens carefully review;
Rosetti's rhyme scheme makes our noses bleed,
Then off to Africa with Marlow's crew!

The Queen of England wore a lot of black
Just like the children working in the mines
(Note: we are brilliant, please cut us some slack)
The Empire spread, committing heinous crimes.

We've nothing to declare but our genius
And hope your tutelage leads us not amiss!

Poetically yours,
Jennifer + Elizabeth

>>A friend of mine sent me a package, and I came home to find it sitting on my bed. I opened it, and inside discovered a can of escargots. I am so excited. Geneius, you are a favorite.

Fin

And All The King's Men

Right now, I hate this thing. I was doing okay until it decided to swallow a post I'd written, and then all of a sudden, we had Humpty Dumpty on our hands.

So I'm probably going to recode it all in the next few days. The less reminders of badness, the better.

A Recounting Of My Halloween Adventures, Sans Pictures

If Beth rhymes with death, then Nate certainly rhymes with hate, and it is this hatred for Nate that has aquired new significance.

Yesterday was Halloween, but I didn't celebrate it yesterday, as I had a strict schedule of reading reading reading and then some writing to follow. The only activity I allowed myself was a trip to Wal-Mart to buy groceries, as I had two cans of tomato soup and a box of macaroni and cheese left to me. Mom, I know you're reading this and panicking, but it's okay. No one would let your little girl starve.

Anyway, Dallan called, and we met up in Wal-Mart, and he was dressed like a priest! He even had a Catholic Bible! It was enough to distract me from whatever argument Art and I were having (and even though I can't remember what we were talking about, I'm sure there was an argument, because that's how it goes between us, especially when he refuses to believe me that I'm the coolest person he's ever met), and it made my day. Dallan makes an excellent priest.

When we got back to the apartment, he made a game of tossing all my food at me for me to catch and put away, which put us in a jovial mood, and we sat around and talked for a while. I was keeping careful track of the clock, and determined to get back to my studies soon.

That was all shattered, though, with a knock on the door. I opened it and saw a stiffly sweater-vested young man standing there, asking for Johanna, one of my roommates. She wasn't there, but I invited him in anyway.

Ladies and gentlemen, Dallan and I hate this young man. He was there for about twenty minutes, and in that short span, we wanted to kill him or save him, we don't know which yet. He was enormously pompous, pulling out his ethos (excuse me, eetos, which is how all TRULY educated people pronounce it) at every opportunity along with his palm pilot. Yes! His fricking PALM PILOT! He pulled it out and made notes, as if that would impress anyone. And he's an econ major, did you know that! Well, we were certainly informed of such! Because, I suppose, majoring in economics makes you infallible, unlike the rest of the unwashed rabble, which Dallan and I were certainly a part of. Because we were making jokes! Jokes mean you are dumb, apparently. I hate people like that, who are so smug with themselves. Guess what, bucko, I wasn't impressed, and next time you try your little act, I'm not going to be nearly so nice.

Because I realized this was the same boy who kidnapped Johanna a few days earlier and told her her life was "a living hell" because she wasn't dating anyone. And he dropped hints all over the place about how he had soo much money and how he was soo going to heaven because of it.

Nate rhymes with hate, dude. Remember that next time you lean smarmily against my stovetop with your air of false superiority.