ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Jack always snuck into his father's workroom late at night. Michael (because Jack called him that sometimes, when it was prudent to be reminded this man wasn't his real father) had been drinking a lot these past months, and usually always had passed out by the time the moon rose. Jack dutifully completed any homework (or anything that looked like homework, and could render him basically invisible to Michael's eye) until he heard the grunting snores from the living room. Michael hadn't slept in his own room for any two consecutive nights since February. Jack knew why, or thought he knew why, but none of that had any impact on him now standing in the workroom, panning the flashlight around.

The jars were still lined on pristine oak shelves, each brandishing a thin, identifying paper strip, scrawled in a bizarre code Jack had yet to crack. If it was even a code, and not just terrible handwriting.

The flashlight changed the jars' contents from a purply shadow to a shape imminent in form and meaning. Jack had just started sex ed in 7th grade, so he knew what he was looking at. Why did Michael keep such things? They were a woman's business, and he remembered nothing about keeping them in jars.

At least four times a month (once a week), Jack thought about asking his teachers about these jars. But something always stopped him, and Jack was hesitant to call it love.

But Michael had saved his life. When he fell into the underfrozen river that cold January. When the Subaru ran the red light. When the doctors said only an expensive surgery could fix his heart. Somehow all these events held Jack's tongue, though he knew on a basic level that no one should keep these fleshy sacks in jars, mummified in a thick liquid that looked like cough syrup. He held a love in his heart for his adoptive savior. If he told anyone about the jars, he would lose him.
--

Some more stuff related to the whole fetus-story thing. This poor kid is gonna be so fucked up, if I ever get around to actually writing the thing.

I leave Germany in eight days. That is basically a week. I am mildly freakin' 'bout the shit I have to finish up before leaving, mostly in relation to finding my goddamn Hausmeister and checking out, jesus. Can't the man just be in his office once.

My past week started out meh, but then I bitched all over the stupid cold that tried to ruin me. I ate 5 apples, 3 bananas, a pomegranate, and balanced meals over the course of two days and learned that bug. Coughing up phlegm at 4am and drowning in multivitamin juice (yummm) might have played a role as well.

Eventually, sometime in my future, I can see myself going to graduate school. It just seems that everything worthwhile (i.e. rakes in the dollars) needs a master's degree. I don't know if I want to get a Master's in German. I still am really interested in computer science, and even education at this point. Loyola has a nice looking CompSci program (also a pretty website) but my god it will cost bare minimum $22 000. What am I going to do with a degree in just German? I was even looking at College Park's library science program, because hey I've worked a few years in a library, that should count for something...

I just spent maybe 5 hours reading a free book at Google, and I have since completely lost the steam and stamina to finish this in a productive fashion.

DO YOU HAVE TIME FOR A QUICKIE?

He sat down and tried to describe blood. From the television, dark-lit scenes of murders and betrayals. From the library, poetic nuances of slick. From his own head, nothing. He had never been murdered, shot, stabbed, beaten, victim to a horrific crime, a cop, at war, witness to a horrific crime, a gangster, a doctor, or a janitor. What right did he have to describe all the things a pool of blood entails? He had that same blood pulsing through his own body. But that blood was different from the kind you see in movies, on television, the front page, websites. Looking at spilt blood was like peering into a secret. The blood had something to hide, and when its secret became plastered on headlines, it could only hold its cards close and protest. No, it would cry, don't look! Don't be witness to my secret! But what secret, the boy wondered. Life!

AND I WILL BE GREATER--FAR GREATER

I am a big fan of making allusions. Mostly in situations where it makes no sense and has no direct correlation to the events happening, except for the tags my brain has given it. Ugh, I just used internet-speak to describe my brain. Certain situations remind me of certain songs, through subject, word, and god knows what else. If I ever meet someone who gets the above allusion I might have to be his/her friend forever. Rockin' it old school (lawl 90s is oldschool now).

I cleaned my desk today. I should've taken pictures of the before and after because Jesus. Christ. I have a few uninvited flying guests to deal with, but I have a can of Febreeze, and hell if it can kill a spider why not? I have finished all the requirements for today and now it is just music and internet without a sliver of guilt.

Lately I've noticed how I sorta miss literature analysis. It's mostly because of the short story class I'm taking this semester. Like, themes and foils and blah are nice, but I think when I say "literature analysis" I mean "let's examine every word and see why the author picked it." I can trace this desire back to yesterday night, when I was thinking out a little paragraph in my head. The sentence I was mulling: "There was a sense of something that had just ended, that they had just missed, and that would start again." Now if you make it this: "There was a sense of something that had just ended, that they had just missed, but that would start again."

Huh. That is the first time I have smashed a fly and seen blood.

Anyway! Awkward parallel structure aside, the choice to use "and" or "but" changes the meaning of the last clause in a subtle but significant way. The former implies that the ending and the starting are constant. Yes, it will end, yes, you have missed it, but (hilarious!) it will start again regardless. Also I think the "and" is bit more menacing. Meanwhile, the latter sentence is more forgiving? because the "but" signals, to me, a message like "it's okay you missed it, it'll happen again." There we go. I lost the thread of thought for a second. So. The first sentence doesn't care if you missed it, because it will happen again. The second sentence does care if you missed it, and so it will happen again.

In the end I went with the former sentence, and the paragraph it came from is this: "It was when the air still hummed with the resonance of the church bells that they found the body. There was a sense of something that had just ended, that they had just missed, and that would start again." Inspired by walking home from the train station and listening to the echoes of the bells. I have grandiose plans that this is the opening to a murder mystery. I had also played with the beginning phrase "it was when..." but I think that's enough overanalysis of words for today.

These past few weeks I have been pondering religion (derp derp). I'm an atheist, and of the general principle that organized religion is anti-intellectual (as are most of my parentheticals). But besides the logical, the emotional side of religion appeals to me, in some way? I have been trying to figure out why, for example, I can be moved by poems like those by Gerard Manley Hopkins, which are blatantly religious, but I don't believe in God. The conclusion I've reached is that for me religion serves a purpose as a literary construct. It is good fodder for stories/poems/etc because it is so rich in emotions and archetypes that shoot straight through logical thought. In that way I'll never not use religion, but I'll never be a user of religion. That's the easiest way I can describe it in mouthspeak.

Also surprise I still like anime. Just finished rewatching Majin Tantei Nougami Neuro and then I went and read all 202 chapters in a day or so. The series is nice and stands firmly apart from the manga, which knocked me flat with its ending. One, thank god for authors having the guts to kill off important characters in a serialized publication. Two, god damn. I would buy this series with real money (gasp shock) because it is magnificent. Character changes! Layers of plot! Motivation! But I still have an issue with things ending, those things being quantified as books/brain-involving media. But it's okay! If I buy it, and or reread it, the ending of the series becomes internalized, and then it is dealt with. I am getting better at this. Anyway omg omg fangirl lul.

And now to leave with a snippet/tangent piece of that story I started writing on my way back from Berlin. Warnings for spoilers! For something that doesn't exist yet!

Stepping into that other world, she closed her eyes and held his hand. The boundary passed through her body. For a white moment she experienced nothing, then it had moved onto her eyes, nose, mouth. Her throat closed like a serpentine vacuum, air clawing at the boundary to pass into her starving lungs. When it reached her heart and squeezed--oh god it squeezed--her memory went and she came back on a bed that was like her own but different. He slept lightly next to her and an arm twitch brought him awake and leaning concerned over her shoulder. "We've made it."

ANATOMY? SURELY YOU JEST

I had a nasty little image pop into my head this morning and I decided it would be wise to write it down and share it with the internet. So, um it is somewhat disturbing, and I didn't research anything related to the biology I'm tackling. In my defense, I always have fucked up thoughts after waking up and for some reason I was thinking of The Constant Gardener and the wife's death and yeah. I didn't originally mean for the character to be male but it just sorta worked that way.

Before he knew it the lady was dead and hung upside down and her eye sockets still smoked from the hot poker he threw back into the fire and her belly oozed purple tissue and curls of intestine and something small and shrimp-like caught his eye and there was his hand squelching inside and ripping through connective tissues and brandishing a tiny, heavy thing the color of a tongue and the consistency of an overripe banana as he squeezed his fingers around it experimentally. No real bones to give it solid form just pulpy tissue and

He reached for a jar.

Then of course I thought up a story to go with it which I'll probably not write anytime soon (haha) and it involves pseudoscience growing fetuses into babies and the complications that arise from having a kid when you're a fucking monster who still messes with preggers and their packages.

God, isn't it immature to constantly think of anything "noun and (possessive) plural noun" as a band name? Preggers and their Packages' new hit single "Just Shut Up and Go Away."

I see the light is holding up my heart

I've been going through the fiction archives over at Strange Horizons, looking for a particular story, and of course reading a shit-ton of stories in the meanwhile. Today I was struck by just how much talent is on that site. I followed author bio links to really awesome blogs and it feels like the Internet is alive again. Basically this is an excuse for me to post this excerpt from "Up In the Air" by Richard Larson:

"Break-ups are sometimes necessary, and they are painful, and actually they're always entirely unnecessary. They make you feel worthless, like you wasted your time. Break-ups are like big battles in ancient wars where two armies run at each other from opposite ends of a field, waving big wooden weapons. Break-ups are like being hit in the head with a big wooden weapon after running across a field while knowing all along that you are about to get hit in the head with a big wooden weapon."

It is pure genius, and I think it has everything to do with the relationship of the last two sentences. There's that initial letdown of not carrying through with the metaphor of the armies, and then Larson attacks it from a slightly different angle (we last left the armies whilst they were still running, and now we are at the time after that running) that perfectly fills the expectation of using that metaphor. An added bonus is that note of fulitily that reflects the relationship it's representing. Marvelous.

I have a lot of favorite stories at that website. Link droppings!
Tim Pratt: Another End of the Empire - Clever reversal/antithesis of the "typical fantasy story"
Leah Bobet: Bears - Wonderfully bizarre
Alaya Dawn Johnson: Down the Well - The cincher is that small epiphany the narrator has about his education
Kit St. Germain: As He Was - Tragic, but damn
Tina Connolly: On the Eyeball Floor - One of my all-time favorites

I have started classes here in Germany and it's going as well as I was expecting. If everything gets counted as the classes I want, I'll be on my way to graduation and the overwhelming world that lies in wait. I've been playing with the idea of staying longer and picking up a few minors and maybe "cum laude" but then I remind myself to be a realist. I'm going to have an assfuck of student loans to pay off.

My spare time is generally made up of lots of thinking, and these days I'm trying to be more constructive with what my mind meanders through. Lately it's been on the separation of one's actual, inner self, and the presentation of self that various media give. I don't know if any of you whopping 2 people who read this do it, but sometimes I catch myself thinking of my self in terms of some outside source. Then the question becomes, is there a self of my own that exists without these outside sources? I don't have an answer, because the me that is thinking this doesn't exist without influence from an outside source. I have been raised around people, radios, televisions, the internet, and globalization. People are raised by people, with or without all the technology of today. So has there ever been a definite sense of one's own self? If our universe is our interactions with the world, where is one's self in that tangle? I can understand the urge to hermit oneself, to rip one from the "modern" (read: connected) world in a desire to solidify/form that elusive self.

I'm really interested in philosophy, but it seems like such a huge subject to broach. In order to understand modern philosophy, I have to understand the ancient, and somewhere along the lines I just get distracted. Leads to trolling wikipedia a lot. Today I was reading about solipsism and fallibilism. The former is basically the tenant that one's mind is all there is; everything else is out of one's own context and therefore uncertain. Fallibilism, in short summary, states that all knowledge could be wrong, for nothing is objectively knowable. When I was trolling TED.com earlier today, I watched this talk and it echoed some of (what I understand of) fallibilism and all that. Really nice insights. I seem so intelligent today, jeesh.

Another thing about not knowing about philosophy is that I don't know if what I'm mulling over has been mulled over before, and with better results. I need a walking talking philosophy encyclopedia.

Started the bare bones of a story during the trip back from Berlin. It was refreshing, because it's been a while since I've felt comfortable enough to do so? I think a lot of it had to do with having a row of seats to myself (us BCA-ers had the entire top of a train car) and with really inspiring music, by which I mean Elbow. What's funny is that the whole thing erupted out of some mindless doodling, which is really the first time that's happened. What sucks is that I started with a terrible, mindless droning of a prologue before getting to characters, so the world is set up in my head, but not on page as an easily accessible port for a reader. But I was in a German mood so I made a German character which is a shameless blatant ploy to use random German sentences. Mwhahahaha. German German German.

OH DEAR LOOK AT THE TIME

Things have aligned to point to the universe that today is a good day for me. Even though my Vienna class was more like a competition to see how many stairs we could climb until we passed out. I wish my camera battery wasn't dead; it was such an idiotic oversight. I believe it is safe to say I climbed probably a thousand stairs, up and down. Just here:
imagine this in the sun
see all those people? see how tiny they look?

That, on top of walking around for three hours beforehand, climbing staircases to and fro and to and fro the U-Bahn stations. And she didn't even pay for my Eis. Sigh. But! It is pumpkin season and everything here follows the seasonal availability of foods and so every restaurant has all this delicious pumpkin stuff that I want to imbibe. I mention it only because I got a scoop of pumpkin ice cream today. First, Viennese Eis is so resplendent and amazing. Second, I had mouthfuls of toasted pumpkin seeds. !!!!

This post will now never be anything but banal, because I feel like going to bed a bit early. Viele Gruesse aus Wien!

THE BIG TWO-OH

Leaving for Germany in almost two weeks, and dealing with last minute flipping-a-shit financial problems. But the proper emails have been sent, and we'll see which direction things head. I'm at a bit of a low point of excitement because I have no language skills, and things at the house have been thrown off by my uncle's death. There's a lot of monthly bullshit to pay off/cancel subscription to, which I should make a list of.

My current list of things to do before leaving country includes silly things like finishing the continuation of my bookshelf comic project. This will not happen because I am never home and suck at knowing my artistic limits. Lol what is perspective? I get the basics but of course I go for the complicated changing-angle shot. Sigh. Also the only working copier in the house isn't, so unless I cut up the book I won't be able to even put the "words" up anyway. But I did paint a river and it looks like a mean river.

I'm not sure what I was thinking, dropping myself in a foreign country by myself. I'm a tad lacking in the social skills, but I've begun to conclude that a lot of the time this awkwardness is internalized. I can hold conversations with people if they line up with my level of humor. That last sentence doesn't explain nearly at all what I wanted to say. Anyway, I guess when it comes down to it, I don't remember how I made the friends I have now, so the same will happen again. I inherited some sense of natural charisma from my father.

I have a problem with my overwhelming naiveté. I subscribe to the "Sweep It Under The Carpet" notion and I sugarcoat the world when I see everyday what a terrible place it can be. There is not enough realism to temper my idealism, I have been told in a roundabout way. (On a side note: stop taking the opposite side to every argument.)

Whelp I am bored with this now

PREACH ON

Extra family members are throwing off my groove. I have to tiptoe around my room after eight due to small child. Umm but I think I am good with kids because my idea of fun can be very simplistic. Maybe that is not the word I'm looking for. A less-conscious-effort-needed sort of fun, like just settling into repetitive roles that everyone's familiar with? God this shit only makes sense in my head. Perhaps I do mean simple and I am just overthinking this all.

Still have not unpacked all my stuff from moving out of Erickson. Tomorrow I vow to make progress however. I need to take my fridge and microwave out 'cause I ain't using them. My closet really needs to be cleaned out, but honestly I don't know if I'm up to that. The pile of crap in there is basically as tall as I am, and probably almost as old. Think I need a new bookshelf too, so I can clean off my dresser and work on my paint/comic/thing more.

Speaking of which, I was brainstorming more stuff for that painty-comic (combining lines of poetry with crappy acrylics) and came across the poet Gerard Manley Hopkins. His work is quite interesting. I don't quite know what it means when I can relate so well to deeply religious poetry. I love how he messes with rhythm, and the imagery used is shockingly modern for the time it was written in (mid-late-1800s). Like, there's something so powerful about a well-placed parenthetical exclamation.

I made a delicious dinner! I have this staple now, where I cook some rice, saute some veggies in soy sauce/honey/ginger and heat up one of those pre-cooked chicken patties. I usually season the patty with soy sauce, but today at Wal-Mart I bought some teriyaki glaze and delicious fruit. So I sauted some green beans and mushrooms, and they were chilling while I waited for the rice. The chicken was in the oven getting delicious and I decided "hey dammit I bought canned pineapple and I'mma exploit that ish*" so I dumped about half of them in the pan and got everything heating through. Most of the time I add a quickie-egg on top but I wasn't in the mood. No matter! It turned out so wellllll (well except for the undercooked green beans). The mushrooms were melt-in-your-mouth soft and the pineapple and teriyaki were ridiculous partners of culinary crime. I also bought some peppers, so I might throw them in next time. (Guys yellow peppers are the greatest.)

*verbatim

My bad wrist has been giving me such problems lately. Wednesday, during billiards (an actual course at UMBC!), I (literally) just pressed down on my hand and something seized up and completely sucked that entire day. Not even ibuprofen could help. It was something tendon-y, but it thankfully went away with sleep. Except it's still a little sore. I am sad. This follows the terrible shift-and-I-can't-breathe muscle sprain in my back on Tuesday, and the teeth-edging burning ache of pulled muscles in my shoulders/neck from Thursday. Blargh. I didn't want this kind of grown-up.

Positive note!

PANDORA HOLD MY TONGUE

I work too fast. It leads to free time, which is paid free time!

LOCAL BOY HIT BY TRAIN A FUCKING IDIOT

HAGERSTOWN - Shawn Lonsey, 14, was playing by the tracks last Saturday night when he was struck and killed by a passing CSX train, leading neighbors and friends to label him a "fucking idiot."

"We used to play together by the tracks, yeah," said friend Michael Billinger. "But we grew up a bit and realized the dangers. Shawn was always the stupidest of our bunch."

"It's tragic, losing a son at that age, but, man, can you imagine what he'd grow up to be?" Shawn's father, Andre, works as a logistical engineer at Lockheed Martin. "I mean, natural selection exists for a reason."

A funeral is in the works for the young boy. Signs have been seen around town with the following: "He was stupid but we maybe loved him -- Say goodbye to Shawn -- July 1, 2009 -- Markson Bauer Funeral Services"

--

I had this headline pop into my head while riding the shuttle over to campus (thank god for shuttles even if they are late and almost pass me) so I decided to write a little diddle on it. Sort of inspired by those short little articles on The Onion. Reminds me of journalism class in high school. Now I think I miss writing fake news articles. It is so much fun!

I wrote something else while at work but I do not know what it is exactly about? Also it uses silly little poetic devices. But um here it is anyway...?

There was something moist, wet and heavy inside her. Moist like a towel after the thunder, wet like the spurt of saliva at a sour candy. She considered these differences. Sometimes it grew wetter, and sloshed through her insides as a sieve. When it lost physical moisture it hung in her frame like a stormcloud that wasn't ready for you yet. She hated this second moisture. It bundled up like wet cotton through her body and she felt ready to rain from her pores. This kind of relief never came. For it was only moist just long enough to become wet again, it just bid its time until the water grew too much, and unflowed. Times like these she wished for steady fingers.

This also follows the Formula (*dundundun*) and it is not supposed to be about the babymaker. The front line popped into my head and then the image/phrase about the saliva and the candy, so I just went from there.

I had to go to the dentist like a bazillion times in the past few weeks because I'm an idiot. I have noticed that, after those goddamn needles are jabbed into my gums, the entire procedure consists of me just slightly... quivering. It was bizarre. My own little primitive reaction to stress and threats of bodily harm. But then I wrangle back control of my brain chemicals and am all calmed-the-fuck-down and just crusin'. I like the angle of looking up at faces that are inches from your own. Though I thought it would be weird if I looked in their eyes. So that was that. Now I will stop being an idiot and hopefully never have any more cavities. (Twenty years strong goddammit!!)

Whelpers there goes my time for leaving work. I get to return to dogs that need to pee! So exciting.

LIMITED TIME OFFER!

News flash: I have many coupons scattered about my desk.

So man, I'm for real going to Germany in the fall. Today my program sent me a handbook, sports bag, luggage tags (d'awww) and my International SOS card. I am so done with being nervous; one benefit of overthinking things is a lack of surprise (that is not the word I'm looking for) at new stuff. I suppose I'm confident enough to forge ahead, or, as I think is more likely the case, I'm not emotionally involved.

I've been pondering this to myself for a while now, because pondering is something I'm good at. There are two sides to me, the emotional and the rational, and I am a rational girl. Emotions are nice, but they aren't the driving force in my life. This would be why I appear to have no desires, I suppose. I tend to lean toward the action that gets me direct results. I picked German as my major because it leads to direct results of employment, i.e. translation, etc.

Being so rational makes it really hard to come home, because I've grown to believe that the people there are ruled by emotions. My dad is stubborn and quick to anger, my mom flies into tantrums, and my little sister is a teenager. I just don't really see the point of being angry, though I often am compelled to ire myself. I won't spout out crap reasons like "we have too little time on this earth" because that's not the reason I think that way. I'm really good at distancing myself from a situation and getting a smidgeon of perspective (sometimes that's all you need). I am most often angry when other people can't do this because to me it is so easy.

Blah. In conclusion, I am glad I know myself. I'm pretty happy with what I ken.

Friday is the library picnic! I am currently torn between two recipes, one for pink lemonade cupcakes and the other for blueberry mint lemonade. I had originally wanted to make something with matcha or Earl Grey tea, but then I didn't. I am sorta leaning toward the lemonade because I don't think many other people will be bringing specialty drinks, and I want to stand out. No salad from this enterprising holy shit I'm not a teen I can't use teenager chef.

Slowly starting to write and draw more often. There was a period of time after moving back when everything was still packed up and I was lazy. The latter still holds true, but my itch had to be scratched. I'm considering adding something else to my bookshelf comic, for as of now it consists only of the top half. I've been scouring through random poetry books I have, and I think I have enough stuff to slapdash a continuation together. And I saved all that acrylic paint from the dump-drive, so the materials and inspiration are there. Need the motivation and the lack of clutter. Maybe I'll be completely unpacked by the 4th of July. That is my completely sensible deadline.

Here, some word vomit that has a direct inspiration. It doesn't exactly express what I wanted, and it got away from me a bit at the end there.

When he played with the children, he was always the monster. It awoke something primeval in him, a rush of secretions and hormones that flashed through his brain in wave after wave. The children tried the usual tactics, the valiant sword fights, the yelling and screaming, but just when it appeared the monster had succumbed to their might, he rose again from the blanket-castle. They would learn eventually that not all monsters can be defeated.

Outages

If you tell people mistruths for years it starts to be the truth in their minds. I didn't mean to lie to them, or mislead them, or misrepresent myself. I came up with excuses to hide some fundamental confidence issue and now I'm afraid there's no undoing this. The one thing I'll never know is what other people think of me, and I tend to forget everything except who I know I am at the moment. Other people's opinions of me don't grow as mine does, because I am the one who lives with myself. Sometimes other people are too complicated to deal with. I'm enough complication, thanks. How do I reconcile this with a larger, airbrush love of humanity? I ignored that woman asking for help across the street, damn it, and how can I tell myself I love all people? Why can I never look at people as I walk past them? Why do I fib to get out of social situations quicker? I don't want to be this disconnected, but I've brought it upon myself with the damn fantasies I escape to. I am so naive, guys, and it hurts so much because I can see how naive I am. But if I lose this naivety, I might lose my optimism. My optimism is all I have.

It totally and completely bothers me when, say, I'm walking down a hallway behind someone, or their back is to me (say they're sitting at a table) and they turn to look at me, see who's there. I, uh, have other senses? If the person behind me knows me, they also know my name? And you know, footsteps. SO I've taken to just staring at him/her like a creeper until they turn around. It's only a second or two, but god damn does it bother me.

I haven't written in a while. I just can't get a drive going, or find good time, or a good reason. I pass through important parts of my life and just pass them by. I still have all these ideas, but I don't use them as writing fodder. If I do, they're never finished, because there's always been a distinction between ideas for me and ideas for the page. One of them I like better? It's all a bit muddly, because I'm so removed from a world where people write all the time. This is a science college.

But! I have been working on my drawing style, and guys now I draw necks! My legs are getting more realistic, and I am kinda half-assing proportions and etc. I think I'm pretty good at working from a stock image, at least when it comes to proper arm bends and hand-stops. I can totally fluke a pretty collarbone. I still need to deal with overlarge heads, but I've been using guide lines to keep them roughly in scale.

And I have recently been obsessed with The Office and am now in the middle of season 3. It is kinda ridiculous. I sorta can't stand Michael sometimes, god damn.

I feel like my real friends have graduated already, and I uh, don't have much more than my roomie and some conveniences? This becomes clearer and clearer as the semester continues. It really makes me sad/terrified/pissed. Surprise, even I am a social creature!

WE WERE HAVING SOME FUN

I am at work! I recently skimmed through some old livejournal entries and I was struck by my monetary struggles. I used to stress out over a $10 monthly payment? This is what it must mean to be an adult. I have "financial documents" now (really just one) and my tolerance for money has increased. What do I mean by that. Um, that now I pay nearly $60/month on my phone bill and it doesn't flip me out? Also, I am rolling in the money this semester. Twenty hours a week at $7.75 equals, minus some taxes, $300 paychecks. Like the one I got today. It's weird to consider that, if I saved two paychecks, so many things would be in my grasp. A car. A new computer. A plane ticket. Also, due to my "financial documents," I am not wasting money on as much junk. Except groceries. oh god groceries. My one weakness.

This weekend, I think, will be glorious. It stopped raining here at some point (I am locked in a windowless basement) and the clouds are still puffed and rimmed with hints of the morning grey. I, sorta did not want to come back. Damn you social and monetary restraints! 

Hmm. I really have no complaints about my life. I will show the world that not-conflict is not-boring.

I AM A SHADOW CAPTAIN

Guys, vague allusions to songs are awesome. Hello it is very early in the morning and a small fly just flew in front of my face. Typing in the dark is hard, a bit.

Well hello to everyone who reads this. God damn it took me a while to find that period. I sorta feel bad because my roommate is sleeping and my keyboard is not that quiet. If need be, I can justify it by remembering she dries her hair at 8 in the morning. Thank god her internship is over. I think such terrible thoughts when I'm awoken at 7 am.

Things here are swell. Just a few more weeks of class left (how the hell did that happen?) and then a lovely summer semester. A bitchin' professor is teaching a class about "War in the Modern World." I am ridiculously excited--this is the same guy who taught the American Intelligence class last semester. I was all !!!!! when I saw his name in the summer catalog. I wish his class was at a different time, because another awesome professor (my first college prof, actually) is teaching a class about the Crusades that isn't ungodly early. But there is a scheduling conflict, boo. Also, expensive (!!) like woah.

By the time this semester is over, I will know whether I'm going to Germany or not. It um, is weird to think about. I sort have been assuming I'll be going, like when talking about class registration and dorms and all, but in that way of "it's not really happening" and if I get in--well, then it's really happening. I will be all panicked out by the time I get there. I am confident in my ability to adapt, because I can look behind me and note situations in which this quality came to light. Also I tend to glaze over things once they've happened. I guess schooling myself to live in the moment worked? I am sorry if I forget something important you tell me.

I am still working out the kinks and details of my DNIR universe. It is difficult to make it more realistic, people-wise, because I think the general idea is that young, hip people are the awesome computer hackers, but these guys are older? And not so stereotypically cyberpunk? I keep adding layers to the story, and they are all fringe layers. I still don't have a resolution or arc for the main plot. It's so delicious to build outlying intrigue though, and I am not a girl to resist its temptations.

I cannot wait until it is thunderstorm season. Today the clouds were large and billowing and glorious and I just wanted to watch them for ever. It is like watching people walk. Absolutely hypnotic. I get such a rush of emotion from towering clouds--I can't even form the idea into words, but sometimes I just look up and bam. I'm in love. Do not inquire as to how many photos of clouds I have on my phone, because the answer is many. Thunderstorms are a different beast; the humidity fills the air and everything is moving and static at the same time. I like hearing the differences in rain, and the thick rumble of thunder in my chest. My future house will need to have a covered porch to accomodate my infatuation. Guys I like weather.

Well besides that there is not much going on in my life. I still like earrings and I still have all my fingers.

THOSE KINDS OF WORDS

There was a welling of pressure at the base of her stem and her spine and she woke from the dream. There were sprinklings of dust underneath her fingerpinks, misty white and translucent. Too much sugar in the bones.
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I feel like a lot of my free writing begins the same way. Past tense + vague female character + words not used as the proper form of speech + ending sentences that are on a slightly different track (wow that was eloquent). Oh well.

Yesterday I turned in my application to the study abroad office. Now all I'm waiting for are my recommendation letters, and y'know, if I get accepted or not. I really want to go. This is something I'll congratulate myself about when I'm older. My only fear is that it won't mean much, once it's over.

Tomorrow is my last day of classes before spring break! And of course they're the most work intensive. However, in my German history class we're interviewing an 98 yr old about stuff (the class is based in oral histories). But I still need to muster through Parzival (Parzival......!! *fist*) and ugh. Taking classes you don't have prerequisites for: not always the best. But then I'm free!

And then it is time to cook! I'm planning on making apple steak and (I can't find my list) stuffed onions and chili and bratwurst and maybe black bottom cupcakes. I love kitchens! And cooking supplies! I do not like buying groceries! I would protest if I didn't need them so hard. C'mon, seriously? Spending ~$50 a trip (or more) on shit that'll be gone in a week or two? It makes me angry.

Whelp here have another tiny freewrite (which, lo and behold, follows the Formula):
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Being sick was a way to know her body. When she heaved she felt the hot line of esophagus reaching into her belly, and every pore of her lungs as she gagged on the bile retching. Broken bones to feel where her muscles began and sprains to feel the boundary of a bone. She could tell you how each allergy tasted and paint you a picture of nausea. Her body was a masterpiece under duress. She was not a fan of doctors.