Oh, And:

This is my new favorite song.



It's called "Still Alive," by Jonathan Coulton, and it's the ending credits song to the video game Portal. Two things to note - 1. This was definitely the year for the Jonathans out there, and 2. I have no idea how MLA would punctuate a video game title. MLA, this matter needs to be addressed, and quickly. When I go back to school, you KNOW I will need this for several varied papers on intelligent subjects. That's just how I do.

Why It's Taking Me So Long To Save For A PS3

I have an application on Facebook (no, Mom, you cannot be my Facebook friend) that lets people see what books I'm reading, ones I want to read, and ones I already have read. It's a game to me to see how many books I can chug through to add to the "already read" section, and I feel a little gleam of triumph each time that pile grows.

The problem is, it's growing a lot these days, but "currently reading" is going nowhere. I was in Target on Christmas Eve with my Mom (everywhere else was closed, and we wanted to go shopping), and I snagged up a copy of Love in the Time of Cholera that I happened to see as I was walking by, and I lovingly cradled the book in my arms. I adored his One Hundred Years of Solitude, and I've been hearing so many wonderful things about this book. But the debate began in my head: "It's only twelve dollars!" "It's TWELVE WHOLE DOLLARS." "That's not much. Twelve dollars? You can't buy a pair of shoes for that. And this is a book! Books are so much better than shoes! You don't even need shoes anyway if you're inside all day, caught inside a book." "It's more than you make in an hour. Think of how much work you have to do to make that money. Think of all the Christmas presents you just bought for people, and the bills you have to pay. You don't mess around with money."
"I hate you. You're not even rational." "I've saved your butt on at least six different occasions." "Well. Poopsmith." And I put the book back.

And also, poopsmith is my new "well, shucks" expression. Because my brain thinks that since it's a reference to a popular humor website, then it's more topical, and therefore BETTER than saying poop.

Sigh. I don't need to debate about buying any new books. I definitely need to re-crack the ol' Complete Works of Shakespeare. He makes talking dirty sound so lyrical.

On The Subject Of Making Out

[01:42] SanctAgnes: i hear it's kinda boring
[01:42] aroundbychance: really?
[01:43] aroundbychance: that's a let down
[01:44] SanctAgnes: but maybe you can jazz it up!
[01:44] aroundbychance: how how?
[01:44] aroundbychance: do tell, wise sage
[01:44] SanctAgnes: with glitter glue and some snazzy accessories
[01:44] aroundbychance: or maybe some old fashion iron-on logos
[01:45] SanctAgnes: i'll bring the puff paint!

You'd never guess what we were talking about if you just read the conversation. And those are the conversations I love the best.

Perhaps This Is The Sort Of Thing You Worry About As You Get Older

I am desperately afraid, in this moment, of becoming boring. Or that I'm already there. Maybe that's why I don't blog that much anymore: I read other people's blogs, and some of them, the ones of the people who remind me of me, or of Future Me, are so, SO boring.

Whimsy, if you ever leave me, I am pulling a Virginia Woolf, and don't you forget that.

On The Fridge

I am going to preface this by saying that I am not perfect. And frequently I like to share things about myself that are not perfect, but that give me that human edge, that whimsical charm you don't get from robots, mostly because they don't have souls, but also because they ARE perfect, and perfect is foreign, and alien, and grating.

This is a different sort of not perfect, not something meant to win anyone's hearts or affection. It's mostly just a confession that I realize I can be a horrible, flawed individual, and I want to revel in that for a moment.

And then I want it preserved in Google archives for the future of the entire world to be able to read about forever. It's a guilt thing.

There are three shelves in the fridge I share with my roommates. There are three girls who live in my apartment. Three total, including me. This has not been the case for most of the year and a half I have lived here, so I gladly and willingly shared a fridge shelf with other people, cramming my milk and my pickle jar and my seedless strawberry what-have-you in there, which were mainly the only things I DID have in there. But now, three and three, there needs be no sharing.

So a while ago I asked to have my own shelf, and my roommates complied, moving there things about and hither, and I had my own shelf. Which contained:

• 1 jar of pickles

• 1 snack-size container of applesauce

• 1 small, half-empty container of chives & onions cream cheese

• some old salsa

So it's not like I can't spare the room. Yet in my mind, that shelf is My Shelf, and nothing else should touch it. It's not that I'm lacking in my own personal, private space because I am smashed up living with too many people and fighting to brush my teeth while someone else styles her hair and someone else applies her fourth layer of mascara in the same itty bitty mirror and OH SWEET MERCIFUL HEAVENS I HAVE NOTHING ELSE TO CALL MY OWN, JUST ALLOW ME MY FRIDGE SHELF.

No.

I have my own, very spacious room, to fling about my dirty laundry as I please, so that when I wake up in the middle of the night it looks like an old minefield. I keep odd hours, so I'm almost never brushing my teeth when anyone else is even around. I can jump about and cavort and frolic in my own space as much as I wish, and yet. And yet. When I open that fridge door and see something foreign on my shelf, I can feel my jaw tightening, and seriously, the urge to throw everything in there on the ground and petulantly let it decay in non-refrigerated agony does spring to mind.

But there is another Yet. I have not said one word to my roommates about it. Sometimes I move their things to whichever shelf I guess those things belong to, and sometimes I let some things stay. But I haven't said anything, because I realize how irrational my fridge coveting is, and - well, I did use the word covet on purpose. It's bad, it's stupid, it's SINFUL, and maybe if I persist in it, maybe I will grow out of it, or trick myself into a more worthwhile application of my time.