Sleep Deprivation and It's Effect Upon My Anatomy Grade

Well, I could be watching all of the inaugural pomp and what not right now, but I got bored. Ha ha. Instead I've been writing a story (a good one, I hope--at least my protagonist goes insane!), drinking buckets of green tea and playing black-belt sudoku. Om nom nom. You know, I think I'm treating this blog as a diary. Ah well, no one has to read it. Oh, and a made cookies.

I haven't known what to do with myself recently. I've been so restless; I need a challenge, a distraction, an adventure, anything. But...maybe I'm too young. That's how it seems, at any rate. My adventures consist of going insane in my room and running out into the cold at night, just out of sheer boredom. Bluuuh. And I haven't been sleeping. Today I took some pretty hilarious notes in my anatomy class due to falling asleep a couple of times. I'll put them on here (why not?).

tired tired tired tired tired
tired tired tired tired tired tired
tired tired tired tired tired tired
tired tired confused tired tired
blah tired tired tired tired tired
tired tired tired tired eyes tired
tired tired tired tired tired tired
tired tired Kafka tired tired tired
tired eyes tired tired sleep tired
tired tired tired tired tired tired
tired tired tired Anatomy tired ew
tired increase tired tired drift sleep
almost tired tired tired tired ugh tired
wake up tired engh tired eyes listen
no tired do it tired clavicle ow!

UP.



Yeah, my friend pinched me. Grr. It's not my fault I can't sleep until I get to the classroom that makes everybidy high! So...yeah. Hahaha, I can't write anything noteworthy today.

A Letter to the Victor

What are you? From where do your lustrous colors come? From what celestial source does you light glisten? From which sea do you sail, with satin petals on your skin and soft ivy in your velveteen hair? Did you know?
When you arose fron silver ashes, draped in the golden splendour of ancient Egyptian Pharohs, Greek Gods and Amazonian Queens, did you know? When you soared with vocative passion into a world of glacial blue oceans from your purple spiced veils and crimson beaded lamps? When you flew from the whiskered smoke of yesterland and took your place with silver poakock feathers and violet diamond eyes? When you escaped the muted gray dawn to emerge with crushed pearls on your skin and forget-me-nots in your glorious hair? Did you know?
Why? Why did you leave your solacing world of entrancing mist and delicate fireflies, to enter a world of quiet nights and bitter cold? To find him? Did you know? You, with your tender lips of myrtle, your eastern breeze which neither settles nor follows? When you took him to dance, in and out of sweet spider webs and rippling brooks, through forests of lilacs and lavender and opulent skies, across plateaus of burgundy wine, over towers of spindly rose thorns; when you led him, cloaked in exquisite Samurai robes, with music on your skin and starlight in your scented hair...did you know?
Don't play the fool. Did you know that I was waiting, with simple laughter on my skin and autumn leaves in my hair? Did you know you were better? Did you know you would win?
Congratulations.

Lydia and Isaac's song?

This is for lovely Lydia: Thirteen by Ben Kweller

We've been in the rain
We've been on the mountain
We've been round the fire

In fancy hotels
Drank water from farm wells
We sang with the choir

I kissed your dry lips
We jumped off the high cliffs
And splashed down below

Skin to skin
In the salty river
Made love in the shadow
Woooah ooh

Read books to each other
Read the mind of the other
Flew one thousand jets

We laughed and we cried
At movies and real life
In our ridiculous beds

We danced in the moonlight at midnight
We pressed against back doors and wooden floors
And you never faked it

And frequently
We ignored our love
But we could never mistake it
Oooh ooh

We met on the front porch
Fell in love on the phone
Without the physical wreck

You gave me the necklace
That used to hang
Around your mothers neck

We questioned religions
Fed bread to the pigeons
We learned how to pray

We stood by the ocean
Turned our hearts in to one
We laid in bed all day
Heeey

We skipped on the sidewalk
Skipped stones on the water
We skipped town

We've seen the sunrise with new eyes
We've seen the damage of gossip and true lies
We've seen the sun go down

Had passionate makeouts
And passionate freakouts
We built this world of our own

It was in the back of a taxi
When you told me you loved me
And that I wasnt alone



And here's the link to youtube:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E-gZ9s8CjIg

Yeah. This song always makes me think of her and her relationship. So here it is, Lydia. I think you'll like it.

Shirley Keeldar Finding the Words For Me

I've been poking the idea of love for...ever, and without much, if any, success. Love sounds like it sucks. I've seen people torn up, given up, even thrown up for the sake of love. Igh.

So I thought I shouldn't and couldn't have it. It would be horrible, I would be wretched, and it would end badly. Why would I want that? Aren't I rational enough to avoid it at all costs? Well, I do; except within my thoughts, the most important place of all. Greeeaaat.

The following excerpt is a conversation between Shirley Keeldar and her uncle, who wants her to reconsider marrying the already rejected Sir Philip Nunnely. I've found something of a solution, and much reassurance, in her words.

"...what are your intentions, Miss Keeldar?"
"In what respect?"
"In respect of matrimony."
"To be quiet--and to do just as I please."
"Just as you please! The words are to the last degree indecorous."
"Mr. Sympson, I advise you not to become insulting: you know I will not bear that."
"You read French. Your mind is is poisoned with French novels. You have imbibed French principles."
"The ground you are treading now returns a mighty hollow sound under your feet. Beware!"
"It will end in infamy, sooner or later. I have forseen it all along."
"Do you assert, sir, that something in which I am concerned will end in infamy?"
"That it will--that it will. You said just now you would act as you please. You acknowledge no rules--no limitations."
"Silly stuff! and vulgar as silly!"
"Regardless of decorum, you are prepared to fly in the face of propriety."
"You tire me, uncle."
"What, madam--what could be your reasons for refusing Sir Philip?"
"At last, there is another sensible question: I shall be glad to reply to it. Sir Philip is too young for me: I regard him as a boy: all his relations--his mother especially--would be annoyed if he married me: such a step would embroil him with them: I am not his equal in the world's estimation."
"Is that all?"
"Our dispositions are not compatible."
"Why, a more amiable gentleman never breathed."
"He is very amiable--very excellent--truly estimable, but not my master: not in one point. I could not trust myself with his happiness: I would not undertake the keeping of it for thousands: I will accept no hand which cannot hold me in check."
"I thought you liked to do as you please: you are vastly inconsistent."
"When I promise to obey, it will be under the conviction that I can keep that promise: I could not obey a youth like Sir Philip. Besides. he would never command me: he would expect me always to rule--to guide, and I have no taste whatever for that office."
"You have no taste for swaggering, and subduing, and ruling?"
"Not my husband: only my uncle."
"What is the difference?"
"There is a slight difference: that is certain. And I know full well, any man who wishes to live in decent comfort with me as a husband must be able to control me."
"I wish you had a real tyrant."
"A tyrant would not hold me for a day--not for an hour. I would rebel--break from him--defy him."
"Are you not enough to bewilder one's brain with your self-contradiction?"
"It is evident I belwilder your brain."
"You talk of Sir Philip being young: he is two and twenty."
"My husband must be thirty, with a sense of forty."
"You had better pick out some old man--some white-headed or bald-headed swain."
"No, thank you."
"You could lead some doting fool: you might pin him to your apron."
"I might do that with a boy: but it is not my vocation. Did I not say I prefer a master? One in whose presence I shall feel obligated and disposed to be good. One whose control my impatient temper must acknowledge. A man whose approbation can reward--whose displeasure punish me. A man I shall feel it impossible not to love, and very possible to fear."
"What is there to hinder you from doing al this with Sir Philip? He is a baronet a man of rank, property, connexions, far above yours. If you talk of intellect, he is a poet: he writes verses: which you, I take it, cannot do, with all your cleverness."
"Neither his title, wealth, pedigree, nor poetry, avail to invest him with the power I describe. These are feather-weights: they want ballast: a measure of sound, solid practical sense would have stood him in better stand with me."
"You an Henry rave about poetry: you used to catch fire like tinder on the subject when you were a girl."
"Oh! uncle, there is nothing really valuable in this world, there is nothing glorious in this world to come, that is not poetry!"
"Marry a poet, then, in God's name!"
"Show him me, and I will."
"Sir Philip."
"Not at all. You are almost as good a poet as he."

These are the only circumstances under which I will consider love or matrimony.

It's rather eye-openning: Shirley's sentiments concerning love are the basis of my own, and I feal beneath her levity the soul of the women I very may well become, should I live so long. Oh, Caroline Helstone shares my frame of mind, to be sure, as well as the determined and pointed actions felt towards those we hold close and those we dislike; however, my innermost workings, those impulsive and irrepressible emotions which truly define a person, as well as the unshakable ideals which were self-engraved from the beginning of our existence--those I share with Shirley.

I feel I have most in common with these two characters out of all the Bronte heroines, which is revealing of my character, since Shirley is concideed Charlotte Bronte's worst and most disgracefully boring novels (perhaps rivaled by The Professor, but no matter). Still, I am attached tremendously to these two young women, and I feel I would jump at the chance to befriend either.

Now let me be clear, Jane Eyre is still my favorite novel and character of Charlotte's, but she is not nearly as similar to me. Oh, we have some things in common, and she is most endearing, but I'd be more envious of her incredible nature, and be better to admire her strength of character and faerieness from some sort of distance--to acquaint myself with some natural reserve. Jane reminds me of a truly remarkable person I've known for a couple years now, and I do feel a sort of tenderness towards her, as well as a conscious pull away from her, for I am not the sort who befriends quickly or outwardly admires naturally: but I am working on it, and we shall see how I progress.

Awesome Stuff by Jorge Luis Borges

A QUIEN ESTÁ LEYÉNDOME
Eres invulnerable. ¿No te han dado
los números que rigen tu destino
certidumbre de polvo? ¿No es acaso
tu irreversible tiempo el de aquel río

en cuyo espejo Heráclito vio el símbolo
de su fugacidad? Te espera el mármol
que no leerás. En él ya están escritos
la fecha, la ciudad y el epitafio.

Sueños del tiempo son también los otros,
no firme bronce ni acendrado oro;
el universo es, como tú, Proteo.

Sombra, irás a la sombra que te aguarda
fatal en el confín de tu jornada;
piensa que de algún modo ya estás muerto.

Jorge Luis Borges

(translation)

You are invulnerable. Do you not have
the numbers that govern your destiny
certainty of dust? Is it not
your irreversible time that the river

Heraclitus mirror in which was the symbol
of their transience? We expect the marble
unread. It is already written
the date, the city and the epitaph.

Dreams of time are also other,
No firm or Superb golden bronze;
the universe is, as you Proteo.

Shadow, you'll go to the shadow that awaits your
fate within the end of your day;
think that somehow you're dead.

Reflections of a Sick Girl in Bed at Midnight

When I could barely see her,
The moon was my friend;
My companion
Who let my sickness seep from my fingertips
As I sat alone in bed
Listening to her quiet refrain.

But the light went on
And my friend
Wes enveloped in a strange sort of darkness
And formidable distance.
The Cold gripped my lungs
And I lurched,
Hoping to see her;
Glimpse her charm.
But the softness was gone.

And yet even now
I see her honeyed rays across a frozen tundra;
With that vastness of space
Which seperates our kind,
How do these gleams settle across my lap
Like a long forgotten doll
Taken from a silver-lined chest?
I reach to caress her,
Comfort her sweet sobbing,
But with a wisp of soft wind
She vanished,
Fearful,
From my lap,
And sunk into the depths of midnight
Without even saying goodbye.

I turn out the light,
Still hoping to bring her back.

The Perceptions of a Snowflake as it Falls to Earth

I felt strange in my murky confines , aware of a difference between myself and the rippling confines around me. A loosening, and a soft release--what is happening? I panic, aware of my descent, but uncomprehending of my surroundings. My mind spun as I twirled and swirled with a dizzying unaccoustomness. I discerned, vaguely (for I was still vastly out of control), a multitude of delicate, clear chrystal droplets which spun in equal disarray and confusion. My mind closed in on these sparkling beauties, rendered speechless and stunned; what were they? Absolute perfection? Never had I encountered such singular bellezza, such delicate splendour amidst timid opulence. How was this natural fragility obtained? I envied it beyond my mind's comprehension. Why was this spectacle available to those joyous flakes of divine purity, and not to myself? From where did such wonder birth? My spinning slowed and I watched my drifting companions with unmasked jealousy. It wasn't fair; it would never be fair. I felt a renewed gust of western wind and with it dismay at the new frenzied tumult as my very limbs quivered at teh accute harassment of my very fibers. Apparently I had landed, and in a thick blanket of celestial shimmer, the frightening movement had ceased. Then it hit me--I was one of them. I belonged. This was impromptu upon reading a letter my friend wrote, in which she posed and answered her own prompt. This is my answer.

Me Being Even More Sentimental. Dang It, I See A Pattern

Some womanish prose of which I'm ashamed of--while it might be well-written, I don't like being weak. However, I told a friend he'd see what I didn't like. Here it is.

I wish time would bend, and fly back to now, years from today. We would meet in the rain again, you would whisper life in my ear again, and sing praises to the wind again; whilst you caress my skin beneath the forsaken midnight willow. We would dance on the hands of the clock , over frost and flame before we crash in the shades of nostalgia. And I would nestle softly in your safe arms again, set sail upon the mist again, bestow a soft kiss and sweet glances again. Would it be as just and pure? Still true? A binding oath would escape our lips again, and find it's mastry again, beneath our petalled sheets. Innocence is lovely--sentimental and darling--but curiosity is embolding, daring, persuasive. And deadly. The results are the forbiding of such unholy repetition, and in thus, unendurable sorrow. Next along the bitter path--that acrid, moaning path!--is the final token: Death.

Black Butterfly: The Soul's Lament (A moment of teen angst for which I must be forgiven)

I sat down beside her Waited; a sound, a stir, a sign Anything. The Black Butterfly took her ruby ring and sang 'The only way to go is after the fireflies: Weaving within the husky threads of forsaken willow hair In a clearing by the river, Sweet river.' The Black Butterfly held her tainted heart and whispered 'When lilies fade, all is lost And golden dew will never guise the fragrance gone Beneath a silken air, Virgin air.' River rose, I cried While she cherished the wind and made it scream 'Goodnight sweet song, Goodbye.' Sky sank she waited; Watched me praise Demeter in the lavender evening shadow Never knowing, I was vulnerable And she knew When she grasped me, an icy hand, And could not let go. Did she know-- Did she know her soul Could never stand it? Well...that was...stupid. Oh well, I still can't help but like it.

Identifying with Caroline Helstone

Any fan of Charlotte Bronte knows that Shirley is a novel not only about the character for which it is named, but also for Caroline, who, in unusually calm dispair, says the famous line "Half a century of existence may lie before me. How am I to occupy it?" Looking at the text surrounding this statement, I have grown to truly appreciate Caroline and her situation. This text is what follows Caroline's dispairing words:

"I have to live, perhaps, till seventy years. As far as I know, I have good health: half a century of existence may lie before me. How am I to occupy it? What am I to do to fill the intercal of time which spreads between me and the grave?"
She reflected.
"I shall not be married, it appears," she continued. "I suppose, as robert does not care for me, I shall never have a husband to love, nor little children to take care of. Till lately I had rechoned securely on the duties and affections of wife and mother to occupy my existence. I considered, somehow, as a matter of course, that I was growing up to the ordinary destiny, and never troubled myself to seek any other; but now, I perceive plainly, I may have been mistaken. Probably I shall be an old maid. I shall live to see Robert married to some one else, some rich lady: I shall never marry. What was I created for, I wonder? Where is my place in the world?"

Caroline is my favorite charater in this book, and I would love Robert Moore, if he would love her. I feel that many women today can identify with Caroline's predicament, and feel as though no one may comprehend their loneliness and pain. Yet, it was understood over 150 years ago by Miss Bronte! And what made me hopeful was when I learned that Charlotte Bronte was married within the last year of her life. Some may say this is horrible, having only one year being loved, then disappearing, but I take the opposite view: if a person lives in misery and discontent all their life, then finds happiness--wouldn't it be an all consuming joy which would suffice for their entire existence? To be loved at all, truly and simply, is a beautiful way to finish existence. Charlotte Bronte could have died with total and complete happiness in her heart--who could ask for more?

The Waiter: Finalish Draft (the one I have to turn in for a grade, anyway)

I added a scene, then took it out again. Hee hee, oh well. I just made some minor adjustments, mostly grammatical.

"I don't come here often."
I nodded, twirling my fork in the soupy wreckage otherwise known as tortellini. It really didn't matter. I knew he was excusing his poor taste in restaurants, but that wasn't the problem. There was no real problem. Except for me.
He glanced down at his soggy fettuccini alfredo and exhaled a meager sigh. "I'll drive you home."
I shook my head, fiddling with my unused spoon. "No thanks." One cold spoon.
He raised a sparse eyebrow. "It's a long walk."
"I don't mind it." I really didn't. I never mind walking.
He gave a resigned shrug. "See you."
"Yeah." I nodded and looked up into his face. He was one of those people who looked perpetually tired. His brown, practically gray hair was lank and his eyes gave off a faint glimmer, like a light bulb at the end of a long, dank sewer. "See you."
I heard the bells on the door jingle as he left. I grabbed a few sugar supplement packets and opened the first. Splenda. I poured a small amount into my hand tentatively sampled the hard white flakes. They were bittersweet, and I had half a mind to spit them out. Their unpalatable flavor spread over my tongue like a virus, and I quickly downed some water. I do that everywhere: sample the sugar packets at restaurants to see which one's best. Not that I ever use them; real sugar is just fine for me.
The waiter sauntered up to my table. "Mind if I sit? It's my break."
I glanced around the room. Plenty of similar red velvet booths were empty, and this table happened to have a terrible draft. "I don't see why not."
The waiter smiled and sat down across from me, grinning softly. The waiter was definitely Oriental, but his eyes were a hazel green that caught my interest; not what you'd call good looking, but he did have a sort of charm that made me want to stare at him all night.
"That your boyfriend?" the waiter asked, gesturing, unperturbed by my staring, to the door.
I shrugged. "I don't mind him."
The waiter's eyes twinkled. I couldn't look away. "You don't mind him? How romantic." The waiter laughed, leaning forward slightly and closing his eyes. It was a nice laugh. You might call it sincere.
"Well, he's nice, he doesn' mind me-" I couldn't think of anything else.
The waiter chuckled. "Am I nice?"
"Sure."
"Well, I don't mind you. Does that make me your boyfriend?"
I considered that. "I know almost everything about him." The waiter's eyes laughed. "No, really," I explained, "there's not much to know. We've been together for a long time."
The waiter nodded. I could tell he understood. It was just one of those things. "What if you knew everything about Frank Sinatra? Would he be your boyfriend?" I marveled at the perfect seriousness, no sarcasm involved.
I gave that one some thought. "He's dead."
"That's a problem?"
"Maybe. No. It depends."
"It depends?" The waiter's eyes shone.
"It depends on the person he was when he was alive."
The waiter nodded. "That makes sense."
"What's your name?"
"Haven't got one."
"Haven't got one?"
The waiter pointed at his nametag. It was blank. "Haven't got one."
"Sorry."
"Why?"
I wasn't sure. "You're the first person I've met without a name."
The waiter was amused. "Do I seem worse for wear?"
"I guess not."
The waiter glanced at his small black watch. 11:24. "It's almost closing time. I can give you a ride home after I finish cleaning up, if you don't mind waiting."
I didn't mind. I never do.
We made love in his room that night. The waiter was surprisingly gentle. The waiter probably knew it was my first time. Still, it wasn't awkward, like I'd imagined it would be. I'd never cared about the whole virginity thing in the first place, but I'd never gotten around to getting rid enough.
Afterwords I showered and the waiter gave me a ride home.
...

"You've got to understand," my friend told me sheepishly, sipping her black coffee and staring intently into my eyes. Both were habits she'd picked up from the waiter.
I nodded. I knew how easy it was to get caught up in a person.
"The waiter knew too much," she continued fondly, letting her hand stroke the handle of her mug, "I could say anything and he'd understand. Anything." Her eyes cleared for a moment. "I never loved him," she mused, "but I let myself believe I did. We're all able to trick ourselves like that, I think." Another tentative sip. "You know the rest."
I nodded again. I knew that things had gone on like that for months. She would go to the restaurant at 10:30, hang out for an hour, help clean up, go to the waiter's house, have sex, shower and go home. All very methodical, invariable, and according to her, wonderful. Then it just ended.
"Everyone has to wake up from a dream sometime," she told me, "and I got to dream for a long time. I guess I was lucky."
...

"The waiter wasn't at the restaurant one day. Just like that. I asked the hostess if the waiter was sick. She didn't know.
"I was scared. I realized how much I depended on him, on the connection we shared. I know it sounds corney, but I was addicted to him. I ran to his house, but I think part of me knew he wouldn't be there. I couldn't comprehend it. He just disappeared. Gone. It's possible he never existed. Not that I'm crazy. It's just one of those things."
"The door to the waiter's house was unlocked, but it didn't feel like I remembered it. Th waiter's Subaru was gone. I went inside.
"Everything was gone. A bare, cold skeleton of a house was all that was left. I didn't find any of it unnatural though. It just felt like the way life worked. His bedroom was empty too, not that there had been much in it in the first place; the waiter lived like a monk. I walked to the shower as slowly as my feet would let me, running my fingers over the stark walls of his bedroom. I didn't feel a thing maybe it was a dream after all. Maybe I hadn't woken up."
...

"I still don't think I've woken up," she whispered, "I don't think I'll wake up until he comes back." She pulled a small, white rectangle out of her purse. "This is the waiter's nametag," she explained, handing it to me. "You see? Nothing."
I turned the nametag over in my palm. Terrence. "Yeah," I said, handing the nametag back to her, "nothing."
Sometimes people need to keep dreaming.

La Luna, Que Belleza

Ewwwwwwwww....standardized testing is horrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrid.

I realized just now that Doris Day is an cute little woman (upon watching The Ballad of Josie), and a perfectly average actress. But so adorable! She's like a sugar cube or pink frosting with sprinkles. I wonder what it would be like to be her; purely feminine warmth and sweet glances, like a fragrant angel.

It makes me giggle how wonderful people can be. I'd like to be one, really; it would be amazing to be darling. That or to be a kindly senile woman--if I could count on being senile, I'd want to live a long life. I wouldn't be the Arsenic and Old Lace type, necessarily, but I would at least be the Wedding Singer type granny. Hmhmm, that would be nice.

I don't know how to deal with my writing right now. I ave plenty ideas, but I just can't focus, as if my mind decided to play tag and I have to chase it. I wonder if that's considered idiocy or lunacy. Huh, lunacy. I really like that word: it's as if the moon makes you crazy. La luna, que belleza. Mis ojos sonrien para ti. Dulcemente, Carinosamente, perfectamente....Ha ha, Spanish is beautiful to me, even if I do some of the grammatical stuff incorrectly. The moon, what beauty. My eyes smile for you. Sweetly, lovingly, perfectly. I'm in a rambling mood and I'm just not saying anything sensible or useful. Oh well, rambling is nice.

Semi-Screamo Bands Before Wall-e and Unpacking

Yesterday I heard this song in my friend's car, and it made me think. And then I was a little sad.


La Dispute: One

In the last quarter of the twentieth century
much of the world sat on the edge of an increasingly expensive theater seat
waiting for something momentous to occur.
Christian aficionados of the Second Coming scenario were convinced that,
after two thousand years, the other shoe was about to drop.
And five of the era's best-known psychics predicted
that Atlantis would soon reemerge from the depths.
To this last, Princess Leigh-Cheri responded,
"There are three lost continents: we are one: the lovers.
"In whatever esteem on might hold Princess Leigh-Cheri's thoughts, one must agree
that the last quarter of the twentieth century was a severe period for lovers.
It was a time a time when romantic relationships took on the character of ice in spring,
stranding many little children on jagged and inhospitable floes.
Nobody quite knew what to make of the moon anymore. Consider a certain night in August.
The moon was so bloated it was about to tip over.
For more than an hour, Leigh-Cheri stared into the sky. "Does the moon have a purpose?" She inquired.
The same query put to the Remington SL3 elicited this response:
Albert Camus wrote that the only serious question
is whether to kill yourself or not.
Tom Robbins wrote that the only serious question
is whether time has a beginning and an end.
Camus clearly got up on the wrong side of bed,
and Robbins must have forgotten to set the alarm.
There is only one serious question. And that is:
Who knows how to make love stay?
Answer me that and I will tell you whether or not to kill yourself.
Answer me that and I will ease your mind about the beginning and end of time,
Answer me that and I will reveal to you the purpose of the moon.

Almost Done, Dang It. I Was Getting Obsessed.

This is the third piece of my Shakespeare soliloquy, and I'm back to iambic pentameter (thank goodness!)

And yet, t'was not so consarn'd i'th'beginning;
Temple Grafton gone, experimentation
T'was the essence o'my youthful being.
So insidious was the time, and love:
(5) Venturous, imbecilic 'n'fantastic!
Harmonic Emilia! Where hast thou gone?
Back to thine husband? Thy sickly consort
O'whom all my jealousy rivited up'n?
Ah, perhaps you've gone, ebbed n'waned away
(10) 'Til nothing remains but ardent mem'ry.
Sidney's Puck quoth, "What fools these mortals be!"
Th'flippant faerie may've comprehend'd rightly;
Beings malodorous as I're easily
Confounded. This being th'case, I'm decieved.
(15) Fool-hardy, mine fascinations of old--
Undiluded, unrefined, a'diamond i'th'rough--
Such callow romance did cloud mine eyes,
Those constant, veridical crystals t'th'soul,
That intelligable meditation
(20) T'was unattainable, nay, insanable, a'th'time.
The course of true love never did run smooth;
Lysander found veracity i'that.
Fools who dream do lack th'straight integrity,
Which doth seek out th'dignified n'magnific,
(25) Do gain th'nugget o'purest silver: amour--
Th'fervor which doth battle 'gainst enmity
And pluck detestation out o'th'hard'st bossom.
'Tis true, for Mary Sidney claim'd it so,
And her love for Brooke surely proved it'all.
(30) Ah, tender anemnesis doth dry m'tears
And so lead me t'Aphrodite's sweet pool,
Where meadows n'glen offer breezes o'primrose
And m'darling rests her head up'n fair lilies.

My Music of the Day: A Bunch Of Losers Who Might Not Know It

This is a song of Bruce Springsteen's that the Format redid, and I really like it. For You Princess cards she sends me with her regards Barroom eyes shine vacancy, to see her you gotta look hard Wounded deep in battle, I stand stuffed like some soldier undaunted To her Cheshire smile. I'll stand on file, she's all I ever wanted But you let your blue walls get in the way of these facts Honey, get your carpetbaggers off my back You wouldn't even give me time to cover my tracks You said "Here's your mirror and your ball and jacks" But they're not what I came for, and I'm sure you see that too I came for you, for you, I came for you, but you did not need my urgency I came for you, for you, I came for you, but your life was one long emergency And your cloud line urges me, and my electric surges free Crawl into my ambulance, your pulse is getting weak Reveal yourself all now to me girl while you've got the strength to speak `Cause they're waiting for you at Bellevue with their oxygen masks But I could give it all to you now if only you could ask And don't call for your surgeon even he says it's too late It's not your lungs this time, it's your heart that holds your fate Don't give me money, honey, I don't want it back You and your pony face and your union jack Well take your local joker and teach him how to act I swear I was never that way even when I really cracked Didn't you think I knew that you were born with the power of a locomotive Able to leap tall buildings in a single bound? And your Chelsea suicide with no apparent motive You could laugh and cry in a single sound And your strength is devastating in the face of all these odds Remember how I kept you waiting when it was my turn to be the god? You were not quite half so proud when I found you broken on the beach Remember how I poured salt on your tongue and hung just out of reach And the band they played the homecoming theme as I caressed your cheek They ragged, jagged melody she still clings to me like a leach But that medal you wore on your chest always got in the way Like a little girl with a trophy so soft to buy her way We were both hitchhikers but you had your ear tuned to the roar Of some metal-tempered engine on an alien, distant shore So you, left to find a better reason than the one we were living for And it's not that nursery mouth I came back forI t's not the way you're stretched out on the floor `Cause I've broken all your windows and I've rammed through all your doors And who am I to ask you to lick my sores? And you should know that's true I came for you, for you, I came for you, but you did not need my urgency I came for you, for you, I came for you, but your life was one long emergency And your cloud line urges me, and my electric surges free

And then they broke up! Grrr...

And this is Bo Burnham, who seems to be a teenage Tom Lehrer for this millenium. Only dirtier. Thanks, E and J, for taking that much innocence out of me.

whats a pirate minus the ship? just a creative homeless guy,and an anteater plus a large hungry mutant ant? an ironic way to dieand whats domain, domain, range (xxy) a kid with too much in his pantsand two balls minus one, six titles at the tour de france.
split a decision with long division, take the circumference of your circumcisionlive like your data and when you're all "set"put it all together and whatever you get.
is new math...
whats a bag of chips divided by five, thats a nike worker's mealand santa clause mutliplied by "i" well i guess that makes him real,and the square root of the NBA is Africa in a box,how do u trace a scatter plot? give the pencil to michael j fox.
take the approximate moral proportion of the probable problem of a pro-life abortionlive like your data, and when youre all "set"put it all together and whatever you get...
is new math.
and if you made a factor tree of the factors that caused my girl to leave me youd have a tree...full of asian porn.C-A-L-C-U-LATOR (see you later) mathetmatical minds make industrial smog.and whats the opposite of lnx, duraflame the unnatural log.
support the farmers with a pro-tractor, link kennedy and lincoln with a common factor (fact, or)live like ur data...blah blah
word problems
if theres a fat guy in a pastry shop with a twenty dollar bill and he's ready to buy,in order to predict his volume change you need to know the value of pi (pie)and theres a metal train that a mile long and at the very back end a lightning bolt struck her,how long til it reaches adn kills the driver, provided that he's a good conductor,and if ten percent of men are gay and twenty percent of men are chinese, what are the odds that a men chosen at random spends his freetime and mealtime while on his kneesand if kim is half as old as bobby who is two years older then twelve year old tori,for how many more 30 day months will their threesomes be considered statutory rape
cause havin sex is like quadratic expansion if it cant be split then its time to stop,and havin sex is like doing fractions, its improper for the larger one to be on top, and havin sex is like math homework, i do it best when i'm alone in my bed.and squarin numbers are just like women, if theyre under thirteen just do them in your head....
and new math

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=obIGsb-IZMo

Ha ha ha ha ha, I feel better now. Time for Ben Kweller!

Shakespeare's Nostalgia...and Where It's Taking My Soliloquy!

This is part two to my Shakespeare soliloquy. I don't like it as much as the first, but it's only a rough draft.


A dangerous tune to which we danced
I'th'beginning o'our glorious fame.
Whence I left kindred Lancashire
T'drain lively London's fortunes dry,
(5) Met me said courtiers,
All o'whom desired my assistance.
Rapacity, avidity;
No excesses lessen'd m'desire
For those treasures freely given,
(10) And as such, freely taken.
But O! Vivid, dark, doom'd Macbeth!
Hecate was my lum'nous glory,
My bitter, acrid enchantress,
Unsullied partner t'sultry Nyx;
(15) Her impassioned speech t'th'Weird Sisters
Was my prized contribution
T'th'cursed play, our James ancestry.
O! Fair is foul and foul is fair!
How dost life seem now, so artless,
(20) Lacking th'substance o'intrepid man!
Ah me, how foolish. My dull brain
Was wrought with things forgotten.
How well our own Edward writ it!
Truth, Brooke was th'tortured soul o'Macbeth
(25) And so writ th'lines eternal: Life's
But a walking shadow, a poor
Player that struts and frets upon
The stage and then is heard no more....
T'was such idyllic tyranny
(30) Upon a soul, so that refrains
O'mine t'were heard by God in Heaven!

I Wrote This Story Called "The Waiter"

and I really like it so far, but it needs a lot of work. So if anyone likes proof reading...

The Waiter

“I don’t come here often.”
I nodded, twirling my fork in the soupy wreckage otherwise known as tortellini. It really didn’t matter. I knew he was excusing his poor taste in restaurants, but that wasn’t the problem. There was no real problem. Except for me.
He glanced down at his soggy fetuccini alfredo and exhaled a meager sigh. “I’ll drive you home.”
I shook my head and fiddled with my spoon. “No thanks.”
He raised an eyebrow. “It’s a long walk.”
“I don’t mind it.” I really didn’t. I never mind walking.
He gave a resigned shrug. “See you."
“Yeah.” I nodded and looked up into his face. He was one of those people who looked perpetually tired. His brown, practically gray hair was lank and his eyes gave off a faint glimmer, like a light bulb at the end of a long, dank sewer. “See you.”
I heard the bells on the door jingle as he left. I grabbed a few sugar supplement packets and opened the first. Splenda. I poured a small amount into my hand and tentatively sampled the hard white flakes. They were bittersweet, and I had half a mind to spit them out. They spread through my mouth like a virus, and I quickly downed some of my water to rid myself of the taste. I do that everywhere: sample the sugar packets at restaurants to see which one’s best. Not that I ever use them. Real sugar is just fine for me.
The waiter sauntered up to my table. “Mind if I sit? It’s my break.”
I glanced around the room. Plenty of similar velvet booths were empty, and this table happened to have a terrible draft. “I don’t see why not.”
The waiter smiled and sat down across from me and grinned softly. The waiter was definitely Oriental, but his eyes were a hazel green that caught my interest. The waiter wasn’t what you’d call good looking, but he did have a sort of charm that made me want to stare at him all day.
“That your boyfriend?” the waiter asked, gesturing, unperturbed by my staring, to the door.
I shrugged. “I don’t mind him.”
The waiter’s eyes twinkled. I couldn’t look away. “You don’t mind him? How romantic.” The waiter laughed, leaning forward slightly and closing his eyes. It was a nice laugh. You might call it sincere.
“Well, he’s nice, he doesn’t mind me-” I couldn’t think of anything else.
The waiter chuckled. “Am I nice?”
“Sure.”
“Well, I don’t mind you. Does that make me your boyfriend?”
I considered that. “I know almost everything about him.” The waiter’s eyes laughed. “No, really,” I explained, “there’s not much to know. We’ve known each other for a long time.”
The waiter nodded. I could tell he understood. It was just one of those things. “What if you knew everything about Heath Ledger? Would he be your boyfriend?” I marveled at the perfect seriousness, no sarcasm involved.
I gave that one some thought. “He’s dead.”
“That’s a problem?”
“Maybe. No. It depends.”
“Depends?” The waiter’s eyes shone.
“It depends on the person they were when they were alive.”
The waiter nodded. “That makes sense.”
“What’s your name?”
“Haven’t got one.”
I stared at the waiter. “Haven’t got one?”
The waiter pointed to his nametag. It was blank. “Haven’t got one.”
“Sorry.”
“Why?”
I wasn’t sure. “You’re the first person I’ve met without a name.”
The waiter was amused. “Do I seem worse for wear?”
“I guess not.”
The waiter glanced at his small black watch. 11:30 pm. “It’s almost closing time. I can give you a ride home after I finish cleaning up, if you don’t mind waiting.”
I didn’t mind. I never do.
We made love in his room that night. The waiter was surprisingly gentle. The waiter probably knew it was my first time. Still, it wasn’t awkward, like I’d imagined my first time would be. I’d never cared about the whole virginity thing in the first place, but I’d never gotten around to getting rid of it. Afterwards I showered and the waiter gave me a ride home.

… … … …

“You’ve got to understand,” she told me sheepishly, sipping her black coffee and staring intently into my eyes. Another habit she’d picked up from the waiter.
I nodded. I knew how easy it was to get caught up in a person.
“The waiter knew so much,” she continued fondly, letting her hand stroke the handle of her mug, “I could say anything and he’d understand. Anything.” Her eyes cleared for a moment. “I never loved him.” She mused, “but I let myself believe I did. We’re all able to trick ourselves like that, I think.” Another tentative sip. “You know most of the rest.”
I nodded again. I knew that things had gone on like that for months. She would go to the restaurant at 10:30, hang out for an hour, help clean up, go to the waiter’s house, have sex, shower and go home. All very methodical, invariable, and according to her, wonderful. Then it just ended.
“Everyone has to wake up from a dream sometime,” she told me, “and I got to dream for a long time. I guess I was lucky.”

… … … … …
“The waiter wasn’t at the restaurant one day. Just like that. I asked the hostess, who had gotten to know me over the past few months, if the waiter was sick. She didn’t know.
I was scared. I realized how much I depended on him, on the connection we shared. I know it sounds corney, but I was addicted to him. I ran to his house, but I think part of me knew he wouldn’t be there. I couldn’t comprehend it. He just disappeared. Gone. It’s possible he never existed. Not that I’m crazy. It’s just one of those things.”
“The door of the waiter’s house was unlocked, but it didn’t feel like I remembered it. The waiter’s Subaru was gone. I went inside.
“Everything was gone. A bare, cold skeleton of a house was all that was left. I didn’t find any of it unnatural though. It just felt like the way life worked. His bedroom was empty too, not that there had been much in it in the first place. The waiter lived like a monk. I walked to the bathroom as slowly as my feet would let me, running my fingers over the stark walls of his bedroom. I didn’t feel a thing. Maybe it was a dream after all. Maybe I hadn’t woken up.”

… … … … …

“I still don’t think I’ve woken up,” she whispered. “I don’t think I’ll wake up until he comes back.” She pulled a small, white rectangle out of her purse. “This is the waiter’s nametag,” she explained, handing it to me. “You see? Nothing.”
I turned the nametag over in my palm. Terrence. “Yeah,” I said, handing the nametag back to her, “nothing.”
Sometimes people need to keep dreaming.



Good? Bad? Ugly?

Sometimes All You Need Is a Musical and A Wendy's Frosty (not the vanilla kind)

Life has been really stressful lately, and part of me feels as though it's my fault. I've got about two good friends at my school. I'm not doing so well in math--Okay, I'm almost failing. I've got competitions for my best sport in the upcoming weeks and I don't feel like I'm strong enough. I need to get a job and I haven't got a car yet to get anywhere, much less my liscense. Boys are being stupid (not that that's new).

That's why I jump at the happy chances. Sometimes you just need to jump in your friends unsafe car to go watch a cheesy musical. Sometimes you need to catch up with the people you've been missing for months. Sometimes you need to play with the radio and the GPS (which I forgot to name--dang it!). Sometimes you have to turn the wrong way at the light and wonder how to get home from there. Sometimes you need to go to Wendy's, freak out because you think it's closed, then realize the drive thru's open and buy two frosty's and sit in a Walmart parking lot and enjoy chocolatey goodness. And sometimes it makes everything better. Especially if it's a good friend who will put up with your crazy antics (and doesn't mind being bitten).

And maybe sometimes you have to help your friend dress up as a mummy (or a crash test dummy). Sometimes you have to dress up as a hippy (who got cold and put on her jacket) and go trick-or-treating and garage haunted housing. Sometimes you have to play mafia and find (to your utmost shock) that Bean and Anberlin lover killed you off. Sometimes you have to watch a scary movie you can't deal with and scream (yes, I'm sorry to admit, I do scream during scary movies). Sometimes you have to eat a rediculously large amount of candy. Sometimes you have to dash outside and try in vain to make curfew.

Hee hee, life feels better now.

I Haven't Got Anywhere Else to Write This, and I Need to Copy and Paste It, So Here Goes

Life may never be looked back upon with complete and utter objectivity. There are too many things in the way: grief, guilt, general trifles, all of which seemed so senseless and trivial, now plague the haggard mind. With this idea in grasp, Richard Rodriguez fills his passage with a nostalgic tone, purposeful diction and a mysterious narrative structure.
Understandably, Rodriguez fills his passage with a nostalgic tone frequently used with any sort of family gathering in mind. The purpose of reminescence in his passage is to establish the trade-off between a family in itself and a family combined with the excess of wealth and, arguably, modern society. Mama Rodriguez in particular finds necesity in clinging to yet "Another Christmas" (Rodriguez, line 20) in which the spark of jubilant excitement lacks the luster of Rodriguez's youth. The idea that "...it was not quite...the Christmas one remembers having had once..." (Rodriguez, lines 33-35) furthers the initial wave of nostalgia. The almost remorseful tone of Rodriguez indicates his mother's sorrowful longing for the days when she told her children to expect riches.
Initially, Rodriguez's diction difinitively points to the sought-after wealth of his family and the ironic lack-luster existence it entails. From the ownership of "shiny mink jacket(s)" (Rodriguez, line 29), "expensive foreign cars" (Rodriguez, line 25) to the jobs of "business executives" and "lawyers" (Rodriguez, lines 2-3), it is easily comprehended that Rodriguez's mama's predictions hav come true. And yet, the happiness she wished for seems to have eluded her entire family and their style of living. The sadness expressed in his mother seems to be the effect of the realization of the hopelessness in her family's situation. Rodriguez specifially points to his new life as "paradise" (line 36), but one does not come to hte comclusion that he believes what he states.
Most interestingly, Rodriguez's intriguing narrative structure introduces a surprise: the depreciated father and his unexpectedly tenuous relations with his oldest son. Throughout the entire piece, all emphasis lies on the relationship between mama Rodriguez and her children, minimally mentioning his father. This lack of literary presence may cause one to wonder at Rodriguez's motives for even bothering to mention the man at all; his name makes only small appearances, when the grown daughters and sons shout at their "father"Rodriguez, line 28) or when mama Rodriguez askes Richard to bring "Daddy" (Rodriguez, line 39). As if papa Rodriguez lies amidst crumpled Christmas wrapping paper and worthless expensive trinkets, forgotten. This idea only grows more potent by the end of the passage, when Rodriguez realizes the absence of his father's involvement in the family, merely asking if his son is "going home now" (Rodriguez, line 46). The fascinating unimportance of his father furthers the idea of the less-than-perfect life the Rodriguez family gained. It is as if Rodriguez realizes the futility and emptiness of his family's circumstances.
With his nostalgic tone, purposeful diction and intriguing narrative structure, Rodriguez paints a portrait of his family life and the disillusionment it brings. The futility which engulfs the reader is but a reflection of Rodriguez's work of art, however, and one can only imagine the emotions which play in the midst of the author's mind.

I'm Really Frustrated With My Shakespeare Class Because They WON'T Comment on My Soliloquy

So I'm posting it on here, dang it! I have to write a soliloquy from Shakespeare's point of view, and my idea is that he didn't write a large majority of his plays. He's reflecting upon the hour of his death, and this is what's running through his mind (this is only the opening--I haven't written the other four segments yet).


How now? Are my days curs'd to end as such?
T'would be well deserv'd, i'faith. Night pulls th'veil
O'Nyx 'cross my frail eyes; surely day's gone.
O! That I could sink i't'the Khaos from which I sprung,
Or else fly t'Aether on silken clouds; No-
I am Pontius, curs'd t'wash my bloodied hands
Which do reek o'th'carnage of life's o'erthrows.
Aye, what suff'ring does plague my haggard mind
As if some serpentine poison settled,
Seeping int'those fescennine crevices
Which the soul doth attempt to sepulcher.
Still, was it not fate's hand which interven'd?
Hath I all the blame? No no, surely not.
For if conscience made cowards of us all,
Good England would lack much posterity;
'Tis better the world gain the folio,
Be it hardly of my own withered hand,
And reap the benefits of truest art
Gained by perfidious means 'n'motley pens.
Th'most fervid of pens was Edward de Vere,
That solemn, poetic aristocrat;
Then Sirs Francis Bacon, Walter Raleigh
And th'intellectual Edmund Spencer,
Those gentlemenly philosophicals;
Last came Lord Brooke and Sir Philip Sidney,
And his charitable sister Mary
Of whom th'incomparable pair were sprung.
Ah! Art ardent memories t'plague me such?
Whilst wonders became masterpeices
In this circle of stage worthy players,
I scarcely gave to't, yet recieve th'applause!
Yet peace-I'll let reminecence take hold And live in blissful recollection
Until night pulls it's everlasting shade.