Being Poor Was Never Better

I have a story to tell you. Once, a long time ago, I was watching a marathon of Family Guy episodes. On one of the episodes (the one where Quagmire and Loretta have an affair, you know the one I'm talking about), Peter runs out to this blue helicopter he has stored on his front lawn, starts it, runs into a tree, crashes it, and it spins around and around on the lawn, spitting grass all over the place. This scene made me laugh so hard I was nearly sick. I laughed and I laughed and I laughed, and then I laughed some more. And then I giggled every time I thought about it afterward.

After a day chained to my desk doing homework (Miss Conscience made her prodigal way back last night, and boy, was it Not Fun), I headed out to my living room and flipped the t.v. on, settling down to watch some Fox Sunday Night Television. And that same episode was on! And I laughed and laughed. And I got a little reminiscent. And then I chuckled some more. I cannot describe to you what exactly is funny about that scene, but it's the way the helicopter is blue and is made of Peter's face, and the crazy way it spins on the grass that just gets me, right here....

Things like that make horrible weekends all better.

And thanks to my dedicated fans who have been there for me through it all. I really appreciate all the IMs that have kept me sane. Because, really, with an attention span like mine, I HAVE to be doing something else while writing, or I cannot concentrate, and I have the wittiest, silliest, brainiest, and funnest bunch of friends ever assembled.

Hey Madeline, You Sure Look Fine

To quote Ben Harper, "If you're gonna live, then live it up." That's why I don't even feel bad about not writing a single word of the thousands that are due early next week today. Instead, I cleaned for a few hours, threw my window open to the rain, cranked the heat up, danced, watched "The Matrix" with my roommate, solved the curse of Blackmoor Manor, ate five million pieces of pizza and breadsticks, learned about Selena, cried (that's right, I admitted it, there were tears), had too much fun with my pants, stole another boy's heart (don't feel bad for him, he was some schmuck in a BMW), passed up a kissing booth opportunity, and rocked out to Jack's Mannequin.

When my conscience gets back from her snorkeling trip in the Caribbean, I am going to regret today so much. But for now, it's just a holiday from real.

Some Things Make A Lot More Sense Now

The world's population is divided into two camps: Those who believe in love, and those who do not.

I am of the former camp. I do not think you can hold hope and not believe in love -- and yet, I am surrounded by people who profess to have found a brilliant truth and a bright hope, and yet who settle for something far, far less and claim to be content with that.

"Find a nice boy. Someone who is good enough, who will treat you well." "I like her well enough." "You are aiming too high." "Love is pure fiction -- a chemical reaction at the most." "I don't believe in that stuff." Excuse me, WHAT?

Perhaps I am the one who is flawed. But even as I type that, I know I don't really believe it. Perhaps something has happened, has seeped its way into culture, has bled its malodorous and sickly self into our collective bloodstream, something terrible and uncanny. But I do not know what it is.

All I can do is stare blindly at these people who assert these awful claims and hope. What is surprising to me is how something so weak and wishy-washy could take such a strong grip of people's thought. It does have the smack of "rationality," though, so perhaps it is not so strange. We are taught to be embarrassed for our feelings, and we obey -- but who is saying it? And why are people taking up the cry? It's a lot harder, you know.

And stop it with the impatience. Don't just settle for the girl who's good enough, who is cute and fun, because you want to be happy, and you can be happy with her. That is a sell-out. Poetry wasn't written for that girl, and there's a reason why.

You Can Tell We Go To BYU

A transcript of a test massaging spree with my roommate earlier today (hooray for unlimited texting)...

Me: I just ran into The Voice.

Jennifer: Frank Sinatra is The Voice. MGM said so.

Me: Well, this was the Mormon The Voice.

Jennifer: You ran into Lloyd Newell??

Me: Uh huh. It was surreal.

Jennifer: I met him once. That voice is...overpowering

Me: I can't believe he's real.

Jennifer: He's like a Mormon demigod.

Me: I am unworthy. I'm going to go ritualistically cleanse myself now or something.

For those of you who don't know who Lloyd Newell is, you're why they invented Google. And for the rest of you, bow before me! BOW!! I have walked on hallowed ground!

Yeah, sometimes I love this school.

In Which I Call The Author Of The First Surving Lines Of Western Philosophy A Whore

Now is Official Pumpkin Season, and pumpkins are popping up everywhere I look! Of course this leads to wholesome activities like pumpkin carving and pie baking, and who can resist the thrill of throwing a slimy handful of pumpkin goo at a friend or relative? But if anyone awesome out there wants to take it up a notch and would like to be an accomplice to my pumpkin smashing (in honor of The Billy), feel free to contact me.

I'll be here, chained to my computer, until I've written 2,000 concise and brilliant words regarding ancient philosophy. Just drop me a line -- and don't be offended if I respond in gibberish or Greek letters. It's not you, it's Anaximander, the whore.

I Deconstruct My Thoughts At This Computer

When I'm mean, I'm mean. And today, Christina Rosetti gets it, for penning "Goblin's Market" that, now 143 years later, has wended its trite, worn-out way to the page before my eyes.

A pox on you, Rosetti. A pox indeed.

"I Am Half Sick Of Shadows" She Said

I play the part of shadows. That is me, in the corner there, the glimmering ghost of a girl; if you watch closely, you might even catch the faint traces of a flickering smile. But that means you're not paying attention, because I...I play the part of shadows.

You see, shadows are insubstantial illusions -- fairytales filtering into a world that remembers. It is my burden to be missed. It is my fault -- I left in the first place. But is it fair in the slightest to be so constantly missing, and to require that people pay that homage to my memory?

I like being missed, I really do.

But I'm afraid I like it too much, and I refuse to ask it of anyone anymore.

I left, and I'm not coming back. Trust me, I know how that hurts. It is precisely because I know how it hurts that I do what I do. I am not going to be the void or the missing piece or the scent still lingering on the pillow that recalls fresh dreams clearly to your mind. I want to be more than a shadow.

I won't be, though. I'm not certain what I will be, but I am not settling, and I am not stopping until I have saved the world.

Such requires that I play the part of shadows -- and so I do.

"I Call That Piece A Wonder, Now"

I have this theory that Robert Browning killed his wife Elizabeth Barrett Browning. It's all there, preserved in the dramatic monologue "My Last Duchess." It's a lot more autobiographical than they let you think, really.

And so what if he wrote it before he'd even met or married the woman -- I know what I know, and I read those blackly accusing words today, a confession staring up from the page before me. Either that, or the low level of intelligent thought and literary critique in my British literature class is driving me to irrational interpretations.

There's something to be said for supposedly irrational points of view; for instance, I still believe that Courtney Love murdered Kurt Cobain. Pop culture completely glosses over that theory, and I'd like to know why for. On the surface, it seems highly unlikely, but just dig a little deeper, my friend...dig a little bit deeper.

My point is, what they tell you in school doesn't mean anything. It's just a bunch of "big stories" that have been perpetuated by culture and convenience. Robert Browning probably DIDN'T poison his wife, but at least I was thinking, and that thought didn't follow the traditional routes that people puff themselves up over.

And sometimes, it's just a pretty story.

Online Family Council

"Stormy" is the queerest name for a cat I have ever heard of.

Its name is Christofer.

If You Had A Time Machine, You Could Either Stalk Me, Or Thwart Aristotle -- Take Your Pick

THURS. Went to class, as usual. Lit Theory is kicking my butt, but I love it so much, so even when I spend three hours staring at a page and not comprehending what is going on at all, I still feel kinda giddy, like the rush you get when you fly down a snowy hillside on a sled. Of course, that might just be lightheadedness from trying to read about saying the unsayable and all the interminable circles that leads one in, but oh well.

After class, I headed back to my apartment and chilled over some more Levinas, trying to cram all my homework in. I hopped into the shower real quick and then went out. Okay, first of all, Once Hermanos has INCREDIBLE food. Second, it's completely, authentically Mexican. As in, you have to order in Spanish, beause no one there speaks English. It was so great. I was so lost. Good thing other people are fluent in the language, because I know it not at all, but they took care of me, and made sure I wasn't stuck with cow brains...yeah, I'm dead serious on that one. Gross, eh? The guacamole there is to die for; I highly recommend it to everyone, just be sure to bring a Spanish RM with you or something.

Dinner took a couple hours, and I was a little frightened by the "The South Will Rise Again" undertones (c'mon, I'm from Maryland, I'm a Yankee), but all in all, it was fun. I headed back to the apartment, had time to change into pajamas to crack into another textbook when my cell phone rang. It was Matt, and before I said hello I shouted out, "Flan party!" Our friend Misty had invited us over to her apartment for flan that night, because Matt loves it and bugs her incessantly to make it and she finally cracked under the pressure, and we were about ten minutes late. So I threw myself into a pair of jeans and ran across the street to his apartment -- except no one was there when I knocked! My phone rang just then, and he told me he was already in the car IN HIS PAJAMAS. I didn't have to change after all. Sigh. We called Misty a couple times to get directions, and her friend Joseph came outside to guide us through the winding Labyrinth that is Stadium Terrace to Misty's apartment where several flans awaited us. I had a piece. Okay, half a piece. Okay, about a one centimeter sliver I cut off from a piece. Flan isn't my thing; this stuff wasn't too foul, at least I managed to choke the stuff down. For those of you who haven't had it, it's kind of like eating eyeballs coated in a caramelized sugar sauce -- at least, I imagine the consistency of the stuff is much like that of eyeballs. I could be wrong, but use your imagination on this one.

On the way home, Matt mentioned he had been ring shopping. Yikes! She's just a kid! In fact, that's what we call her -- The Child. But he seems to like her, so that's what counts. As long as he stops giving me long lectures about "dating the wrong guy" and needing "to find someone awesome." Thanks, Matt, I'd really rather NOT find someone awesome.... I think I'll just settle for a dull, personality-less towel who will make my mortality a long and brutal nightmare of unflfillment and ashen dreams. Jeez, I'm not a retard, give me SOME credit.

I ended the night by finally hopping online and chatting some people up, which is always a good thing. Then

FRIDAY. Flew through my homework and digested as much Tennyson as I could before class. I really enjoy Tennyson (I know, some of you will probably hate me for that, but frankly, I don't care. I like what I like.), so I was sad that I had to breeze through it superfast, but I made it through everything in time to run up to campus and meet Kristin and Russell for lunch.

Russell had some pretty big news: Keith's coming to BYU! Heck yes! He got his acceptance for Winter Semester, so we're all pretty excited for that. The Virgin Boys may be wee-uhd, but they are FUNNY. Oh, and Carl (hi, Carl!) got his mission call to the Utah Provo South (I think South) mission, so he's going to be out here starting in December too! Whee!

I made it to Creative Writing on time today (On time, people! That shows you what happens when professors write meltingly nice comments on my short stories, I actually drag my sorry legs out of the Wilk and up the ugly carpeting of the JKB ON TIME.), and put my head down and pretended to be asleep for fifty minutes. So much for being on time. But the story we were discussing wa pretty lame and did nothing for me. I found out later that the author had written it in high school -- pretty good for a high school kid, and I gave her a thumbs up after class, but still not enough to stir me from my lethargy.

Philosophy was so terrible I wanted to gnaw my face off. Someone asked the professor what logic was, so he went off an a forty-minute tangent explaining deductive vs. inductive and outlining proofs. Pretty much I wanted to go back in time and punch Aristotle in the face for ever inventing the stuff. I love the stuff, but not in that situation. It drove a guy who sits near me to such desperation that he snatched a girl's barette off her desk and began examining its facets. So we spent five happy minutes discussing what he'd look like in pink plastic barette bows, and then went back to our mindless stupor. Stupid philosophy. Eventually, though, the bell rang, and I was set free...and that's when my weekend REALLY began.

Curious?

I Flossed Today. Wholly Irrelevant, But I Thought You Should Know.

I'm in a cookie baking mood. I love these moods. Nothing to do, and you look about your kitchen and think, aha! cookies! and then start pulling ingredients off of shelves and creaming and mixing and plopping (very scientific, this plopping) and baking. And the smell -- ohh, the smell. Of course, in a student apartment, baking cookies requires a lot more preparation than it did at home, where I knew right where my favorite chocolate chip recipe is kept, and have sugar and flour and chocolate chips at my ready disposal, but still. A cookie baking mood is upon me. You might even get some, if you stop by, or give me your address.

Two Reasons Why Today Was Awesome

Reason #1 - As I was walking home from my Old Testament class, I heard someone call out something that sounded a lot like "Elizabeth stinks!" I turned and saw Nate! Walking to campus! Calling out hurtful things about me! So of course I turned around and walked back to campus with him. I mean, it's Nate; I haven't seen the kid for months. We talked about Stephen Hawking, AA meetings, and kissing referrals -- all on par for a conversation with Nate, of course. Then we got to his building, and he hugged me, which apparently married people are allowed to do; I didn't know that.

Reason #2 - Meeting Dallan in the Wilk and spending hours peoplewatching on the third floor. Most people don't realize how easy it is to watch them from a little perch overlooking the Terrace, but we inferred a lot from body language and dress and had an awesome time chatting away about how much Dallan hates girls (Girls have feelings, and feelings are irrational and incomprehensible and gross; it's perfectly understandable) and our favorite people to watch down on the floor. Finally, when the Wilk had pretty much emptied out, we went down and approached two girls we'd been observing for a while, telling them we were in a behavioral communications class and were doing a homework assignment, etc. Dallan is one suave liar, lemme tell ya that. Those poor girls.

In summary, real people are better than any t.v. show.

It's Been Awhile Since I Could Say I Wasn't Addicted

The internet broke. It was really bad; messing with my routine is never a safe bet, and boy howdy did this mess with my routine. But it's okay, I called Kevin at MStar, and he got the ball rolling...and then later that night, I called J-something, who got the ball rolling a little bit further, with particularly insightful comments such as, "Your internet is broken!" No duh, J-something, that's why I'm calling you and complaining. But now, it is fixed. We'll see how long it lasts, but what am I, a pessimist? For all I know, the internet will never break ever again, and then I won't have to be The Designated ISP Caller for the apartment complex. Because that is what I am, currently.

And now, I am going to be The Girl Whose Professor Noticed She Skipped Class And Worried He'd Offended Her So Now She MUST Get To Class On Time, and that class is at 10 a.m., and 10 a.m. is very, very early in the morning for me.

Ciao.

Just Something The East Coast Does To Me

From a couple IM conversations:



and



...homesick much?

Were I Keats, I Would Have Composed An Ode -- And Died Of Tuberculosis Five Years From Now

I'm composing this, not from my regular post at the ol' compy, but from Mr. Laptop instead, who has some interesting quirks. You see, Mr. Laptop likes to shut down randomly, and to not recognize external hard drives sometimes, and he's very quick to notice and complain when the angle of the power supply cord does not meet his exact specifications and preferences. He does all of this, of course, because it amuses him to make his owner's life difficult. If I were Mr. Laptop, I'd probably do the same. First, because yay for recalcitrance. Second, because I would be an IBM ThinkPad, and I can imagine few things worse. Pink iPods. Yep, pink iPods are pretty much the only worse possibility in existence.

Don't get me wrong, I love Mr. Laptop. I love how he affords me the freedom from my apartment while still allowing me to complete my homework assignments. I love how I stroke him and croon to him and baby him so he'll be good to me. I love how I save my Word documents every four and a half minutes because I live in sheer terror of the moment that Mr. Laptop decides to spontaneously shut down on me and erase all the fruits of my hard labor.

Can I just say, yay technology. And I'd like to add a desperate plea for this week to end, because I am tired of being busy and running from one meeting to another and not completing my homework until five in the morning. Because, yick.

I Feel Like Such A Benedict Arnold, Revealing My Secrets Like This

I love secrets. Actually, no: I love KNOWING secrets. Secrets in general just drive me crazy and I simply MUST KNOW. And you can actually get me to do some pretty crazy stuff like, oh, actually PICK UP A PHONE and CALL SOMEONE if you dangle a secret out in front of me. I realize now I'll probably get 5 trillion voicemails that all sound remarkably like "I have a secret, but I'm not telling you what it is, so bye." First of all, Lame. Yes, with a capital L and everything. At least come up with an intriguing tag.

Second, I've already foiled your plans, you see, because my voicemail inbox is nearly full; soon, it'll just start rejecting your voicemails until I get around to actually cleaning the thing out, which might be in February, or (if we're all really lucky) it might be when Art calls and leaves a message, because he can work the curiosity thing like nobody's business.

So, anyway, I love knowing secrets. And I actually have a fairly big one sitting right here in my pocket. Not literally, of course, because when am I EVER literal -- but I'm excited to see how it all pans out.

Existentialism On Conference Night

Probably if you've been trying to contact me this last week and failing, it's because you're looking in the wrong place.

Where there is free food and a hot tub, there will I be, and always with an interesting assortment of people.

Come find me. We'll have fun, and go rummaging in the cupboards at 6 a.m. when everyone else is asleep and we're ravenous. I even know where all the good stuff is kept now, so we won't be stuck looking through endless boxes of Raisin Bran.

The only problem is, I've been feeling fairly ill the last few days, and it's hard to have fun when you're trying not to throw up in the newly-chlorinated water. And I feel bad every time I have to ask people to change the subject, but I figure they'd rather interrupt their conversation about spitting on potential prom dates than have me barf on their faces.

And if you've ever wanted to know ANYthing about guys or girls, it's the place to be. So come on by -- I miss you.

This Night's A Perfect Shade Of Dark Blue

People fill my daytimes, and their presence even stretches long into the night as hours are whiled away under the stars.

The reason I usually get antsy by a certain time is not because I'm strangely neurotic and afflicted with a Cinderella Disorder, as I'd previously supposed. I've just found no replacement to retire to at night, and the hope that something that I need will be waiting for me when I return to my chamber wraps itself so tightly round my throat that I can hardly keep from choking at times.

Hope shouldn't do that, I know -- it's the near-certainty of disappointment that does it. It is the broken faith and the scattered wishing and that small, small sliver of an echoing word: devoted.

And when I no longer need that, then I will be free. But for now, I need it. And of all the bitter ironies I have swallowed like foul tonics, this, THIS, is the most treacherous. I showed what devotion can be and should be, and I paid such a price to show that. I feel I deserve something in return, at least once in a while.

But no, still, the empty descent to a half-sleep that I must trick myself into and the whispered...what.