Happy birthday to me

I have no words left in me; they're all floating out there in the great expanse of virtual bits and bytes. Two things--I have finished my applications, each and every one of them. I am also, as of right the minute this is published (12:53) 18 years old. I can vote, have sex, and get my own passport.

Or I could do what I did ten years ago. See, when I was about to turn 8, I was not so happy. Why? Because I really liked being 7. I was sentimental, and emotionally attached to it as an age. So when I went to my parents in tears about turning 8, they offered me a suggestion: I was not 8, I was 7....plus 1.

I don't think, in all honesty, that I'm ready to be 18. I'm not ready to be "grown up", I'm sure as hell not ready to have sex (really, if I'm being honest, I'm not) or politically educated enough to vote or confident enough to go try and figure out the mysteries of getting my own passport by myself.

I am perfectly content being who I am at this very instant, and that person is not suddenly any different because she is a legal adult. There are a lot of expectations from people our age and from older folks like our parents once we turn 18, and I don't think that's quite fair. I was really no more mature at 7 years, 11 months, and 27 days than I was at 8 years flat.

And so I will remain at 17 plus 1, happy with myself, relieved that applications are in, and ready to sit on my ass in front of my laptop for the rest of the week. Also a little worried, because I feel like this blog is turning into one giant proclamation of "WE ARE WOMEN. WE ARE ONE. ONE BIG WOMAN."

Except it's just me and my Lone Commenter. I guess that makes me Blogger-Tonto--and hell, I can deal with that. I don't mind not getting the glory, staving off the fanfare and the indulgences for another year.

And I'm Indian. Clearly, this was meant to be.

p.s. Happy birthday, Weebil. You're awesome, and I love you very much.

Feliz Navidad

'Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house, just one creature was stirring, and it wasn't a mouse.

It was me!

I'm feeling really sappy, because, well...college. I'm going, you guys are going. And I feel like I've still got some regrets that need to be cleared up. I've got a really hard time admitting how much I care for people face-to-face, and I think that needs to change before the end of the year. You guys deserve to actually hear it from me how awesome I think you are, rather than from your computers via this blog.

That'll be my New Year's resolution, I guess. That, and to be a badass. But that is for later discussion, and so for now--Merry Christmas!

On Weebil

Is it wrong that I actually expected people to realize that I was talking about Dune two posts ago? I didn't think for an instant that people wouldn't get it, because you're my friends...of course you'd all get the reference to a sci-fi classic.

Also, to explain to my dear single commenter: Weebil is my duck-billed penguin alter-ego. She (it? I've never thought of Weebil as anything other than Weebil) makes appearances in 'Do's birthday card from a few years back and possibly in the TOLO-book of eternal awesome, but I can't really remember for sure. Mostly, if I have to write and draw about myself in any way, I draw Weebil...which gives me an idea for my Drawing & Painting self-portrait, and I can already tell it's a BAD IDEA.

But it would be really funny.

Ms. K-E: Oh...well, this is interesting?

Me: This is Weebil. This is how I see my inner self.

Ms. K-E: Ah...So....how did you come up with this?

Me: It came to me in a flash of inspiration and magic.

Ms. K-E: Right...so...keep up the good work?

Me: Thanks. I'll just finish penciling in my platypus bill.

I kind of like Weebil, even though it (she?) doesn't really have eyes, or hands, or thumbs, opposable or otherwise. Weebil is still kind of cute, consider it's a creature of my own invention, and I feel like appearance-wise, Weebil accurately reflects how I feel about myself. IN MY SOUL. Or something.

The essay I wish I could send

Hi, my name is Weebil and you don't know me but I'd love to go to your school. By your school, I mean the school you work for, and while I'm sure working in the admissions office isn't your first-choice job, I understand that in this recession people take what they can get--speaking of which, I'd love if I could get a couple thousand dollars to help pay for tuition. Because you know, I really, really want to go to this school that has hired you in the face of economic hardship (either you're really good, or they're really desperate for cheap labor).

But honestly, when I added that second 'really', and I put it in Italics, it was because I meant it with every fiber of my soul. I swear to karma, since I'm an atheist who fully endorses each religion getting the same amount of respect, regardless of my own beliefs. Did I mention that I was a fake-Asian?

I'm also not only really smart (that's the Asian part), but big on community service and being around other people (that's the fake part, and I'm not sure where I get it from but I suspect my mother has mutant genes). I drink tea and coffee, but I drink my tea black and my coffee with milk, sugar, whipped cream, and a touch of chocolate. My favorite drink is a white chocolate mocha in the cold months and a caramel frappuccino in the warm ones. I like heat better than cold; and yes, I do know that "there are only so many layers you can take off" but I suspect I'm part lizard or something equally diverse, because I love nothing more than to bask in the sun--except, of course, the possibility of recieving an acceptance letter from this college.

If I get in, graduate, and become rich, I promise to buy you guys a really ugly, badly-designed building!

My undying love and devotion,

Weebil

Take me to Glasgow...

...Or, to be honest, just about anywhere that isn't here. New Zealand would be awesome and probably my first pick.

Hell, even Arrakis would also be awesome, provided I met up with some Fremen and got to learn how to ride a giant sandworm. And it's a barren desert planet under the control of a psychopath who says things like "Milk the white cat!"

So that should tell you just how much I really don't want to be here. And yet...I'm not miserable. I'm frustrated, and stressed, and a little ticked off at all my teachers. But I'm not strictly unhappy.

What. I know. Maybe it's because I haven't been rejected from college yet?

Then again, I don't plan on worrying about college. Where I go, I go. And there I shall either be happy, or I won't be there at all for more than a year. One way or another, I am determined that things shall work out. Besides, what else the Internet for except to make a horrible place less horrible? I have Skype, and I have GoogleTalk and four email accounts and also a cell phone that I never use but STILL.

I also have this blog, however much comfort that provides (a surprising amount, actually). I'll probably be just as sporadic a poster as I was when I first created it, but whatever. The point stands. See, I'm not entirely sure whether or not I want to freak out about college, and at this point it looks like a big fat NO.

To quote: Once there was an ugly barnacle. It was so ugly that everybody died. The end.

That's how I feel about college.

On being part of fandom

I am one of a group millions strong. And you know what? Despite all that, I am neither small nor utterly insignificant. It's pretty awesome. Turns out if you love something enough, you'll find your way to other people who love it too. Then they share things they love with you and you share the new things you love with other people, and in the end you are not only touched by someone miles away, but you touch others--and you can be proud of that.

Fandom's been a pretty big part of my life for 5 or 6 years now, and I feel like I've gone from a total fanbrat into someone who actually knows what makes her happy and just likes to spread the love around. It's kind of cool like that.

I don't really have too much to say on the topic, other than a) it consumes a lot of my free time and b) it's worthy every bit of it. How else do you get to constantly be discovering new things that are recommended by people who you know like the same things you do? There are always new tidbits out there on the Internet.

Also, I'm currently serving as a link between the Internet fandom and the RL fandom base, which is a newish experience but totally fabulous all the same. Auntie Beeb, why are you too cool to be contained?

Too many words, too little sense

Too many words. TOO MANY. I've read so much in the past week or so that my brain is leaking out of my eyes. It's worse than the one time I read my dad's old copy of Count of Monte Cristo, which is tiny and has dictionary-letter sized font. I read 300 pages of Anna Karenina and another 100 of Gibbon, plus all the little shorter readings in between from things like Sewell and also that one book I've been reading about the third apocalypse.

Speaking of the apocalypse, I'm not really into the whole 2012 thing, mostly because as awesome as the Mayans were, I predict that when they said "End of the world" they meant "Coming of the Transformers". I translate this as 'If you're really unlucky, you'll either turn into Shia LeBeouf or a giant robot will fall on you. Otherwise you're set.'

I know, I'm probably being really incoherent right now. Proof of my poor physical health as an excuse: if I put two fingers on my closed eyelid, I can feel something pulsing really fast and spastically. It's probably some twitching blood vessels or something (aka I HAVE NO IDEA WHY). But hey, in my brain-dead haze, let me say this! As proven by the last post, I like myself. But I like you guys too, O Semi-Visible Readers!

And also the rest of my friends. Even though they won't see this, so that's moot (which is pretty much the best word ever, because even though it's legitimate, it totally looks like an Internet word: mo0t).

Anyways, I do like you guys, even though it probably doesn't seem like it much anymore. I'm not at my nicest at school, for pretty obvious reasons--none of us are at our best, and while for some people that just means being quietly less happy, I opt for the anti-social brat personality. Let me reassure you all that you are excellent and make me happier than miserable, no mean feat. You are all fine folks, and if you were on a reality TV show I would text in to vote for you even though I NEVER EVER TEXT.

And then I'd laugh a bit, because I feel like if there's one thing nobody wants brought up at reunions or ever, it's their stint on a reality TV show. I mean, they're meant to be entertaining and therefore give people certain edits to make them look like nerds or bitches or total nuts. But really, do you think they're quite that nuts in person? I'm guessing more than half are just acting that way under pressure. The rest ARE nuts, and I hope to stay far away from them.

Wow, I'm blathering. Blather blather blather. This is why it's a good thing I don't have Twitter. All my Tweets (and I am not the sort of person who tweets...I prefer a more savage bird-call) would be like this. Sporadic and off-topic and not only boring, but about as coherent as "Someone set up us the bomb!"

P.S. If you don't get the reference, I cry for your soul. You are going to Nerd Hell unless you click here. And even if you do get the reference, I'm sure you'll click it anyways, because who can resist?

Viva myself! Again!

It's part two of Viva Myself, wherein I talk about maybe sort of even liking myself sometimes. Shocking, I know. But I need it, and I want to, so I'm darn well GOING to.

I'm halfway competent at school, even if I procrastinate like a failure, and I think my continued (relative) success is because I'm actually pretty smart, deep down.

I don't particularly like my nose (it has long been the bane of my face), nor do I like my jaw structure (it's lopsided) or my chin (it's round and protruding) or a lot of other things about my body. But you know what? I like how I look anyways. When I put on makeup, it's because I want to and I think it makes me look nice, even if it really might not. If I dress up, it's for the same reason. And when I do, I am pleasantly surprised by how I look. I actually like some of the photos of me that are online, I just pretend not to. But I do.

I like my taste in music, and in literature, and in movies. I'm a proud fangirl.

I have absolutely no interest in a relationship any more. I feel independent and finally, properly, calm about the whole idea. It was hard to reconcile wanting a boyfriend with not wanting marriage and children, and now I don't have to.

I like that I'm happy most of the time. I'm pretty good at being happy--not necessarily cheerful, but happy.

I'm practical. A little crazy sometimes, and an outrageous dreamer (sheep farm in New Zealand! Re-enacting parts of LotR with the help of iPod music, some horses, and a few friends!) but I have a sensible head on my shoulders more than 80% of the time.

I am not coordinated in the least, but I still feel graceful sometimes.

I like that I'm finally capable of admitting that I like myself. I hope this doesn't somehow make me a social outcast (I have theories on how we like to be miserable), but I kind of feel better all the same.

I may not be able to sell myself to colleges, but I have successfully sold myself to me.

Viva myself!

Thanksgiving

I am, as we've established a thousand times before, a great big nerd. But let it not be said that I don't give thanks where thanks are due.

To my very favorite Japanese boyband--thank you. Thank you for being so utterly ridiculous that I make weird sputtering-car noises all alone in my room. Thank you for molesting each other on national TV. Thank you for cross-dressing (and dressing as Bruce Lee) on national TV. Thank you for deciding who your leader was via rock-paper-scissors (on national TV). Thank you for thinking afros in "your" colors were appropriate concert wear. Thank you for stretching the bounds of "appropriate concert wear" to the point where if you all came on stage dressed as giraffes nobody would be surprised. Thank you for crying about how much you love each other on national TV. Thank you for sliding, shirtless, across an open-air stage in the rain. Thank you for having enough dedicated fans that all of these incidents are posted multiple times on YouTube. Thank you for grabbing your own crotches, each others' crotches, and having your crotches grabbed by a scarily enthusiastic old woman ON NATIONAL TELEVISION. Thank you for trying to kiss the ceiling while bedecked in flowing red and gold-sequined outfits. Even if you failed miserably, the attempt will always be remembered. And televised. And cross-posted on YouTube, Veoh, and Dailymotion.

To a few individuals: Thank you for whipping out a harmonica in front of a giant stadium filled with fans and PLAYING A HARMONICA SOLO. Thank you for walking on the ceiling of an equally giant venue. Thank you for walking on that ceiling wearing a sparkly green, purple, white, and gold outfit. Thank you for getting up at 3AM so you could film yourself waking up your bandmates at crap o' clock in the morning by jumping on them, playing (your own) bad music, and shaking stuffed toys in their faces. Thank you for cutting nipple holes in a bandmate's t-shirt. Thank you for failing at couches. Thank you for being evil--seriously, determinedly, evil--to your bandmates, and then telling stories about it. Thank you for really earnest rap. Thank you for the doot-doot-doot dance and magical pants stars. Thank you (four out of five) for consistently grabbing your leader's ass any time you perform your debut single. Thank you for doing a spaz dance behind your bandmates, assuming incorrectly that the camera would not see you--or even better, knowing it would record the dance and then doing it anyways.Thank you for loving each other more than you love your fans and letting us share a little of that with you for 10 whole years.

Thank you, in short, for BREAKING MY BRAIN.

Also, happy birthday! Your oldest member turns 29 today! I hope you did something really embarassing on TV to commemorate this.

On being friendly (and paranoia)

Naz, the all-powerful word meter, may not make another appearance for a while. This is why I can't do NaNo. I have no depth of plot that can carry me for more than a few thousand words. Quite unfortunate, this. I'm expecting to not have to write any novels in Fiction Writing next semester, but maybe that will help a bit. It doesn't help that I'm totally burned out. What, may I ask, does one do when one is at the end of one's rope (other than give in to the excessive use of the word 'one')?

Also I have this idea that people are a little in love with being miserable. I have proof, even, but this is not something I really want to talk about right now. I just had to bring it up (WTF, I know, but bear with me or use the back-button).

In fact, I'm not entirely sure what it is I want to talk about, I just kind of need to talk. Mind-vomit time! Yay!

So in various talks and discussions today it came up that I'm a paranoid psycho with serious trust issues and hey, who can blame me? You get that way when your friends start waging war on each other.....in elementary school. Now, I'm past the point where I even really care about what happens to the group. It's a little mercenary, but I think we are all entitled to our selfishness. You're kind of fucked if you don't want yourself to be happy ever. We may not always think we deserve it, but deep down, we should all WANT it. And the way I see the world, happiness means sometimes you have to kind of expect that people hate you.

Which, now that I think about it, is really twisted logic. But consider it like this: if you expect that they hate you, then it's a pleasant surprise when they're friendly. You might not make tons of friends that way, but you'll know that the ones you have were willing to work to get to know the real you; they won't see superficial friendliness only to discover that they don't like who you are.

I'm not advocating that you should maintain this attitude in every situation; in short-term friendships I'm all for being friendly and out-going. I had a great time at Stanford because I let people take me at a very cheery face value, and so there was no need for me to be paranoid. They weren't going to be upset by the inner me because they NEVER SAW IT. And they'd never have to, because I was only going to be living with them for three weeks. I can keep up the friendliness (if not the optimism) for three weeks. I just can't do it forever.

Did any of that make sense?

On my old school

I just found out that a guy we used to torture in elementary school is now Grade A for attractive.

And so my immediate response, after "WTF when did he get so hot?" is "OH SHIT! KARMA EXISTS AND I'M SO FUCKED FOR THE NEXT *counts* 90 BILLION YEARS!"

I kid you not, we were awful to this kid, mostly because he'd never stand up for himself. And so like the heartless little girls all little girls are at heart (try making sense of that), we abused this guy to no end.

And now he's really good looking. Fuck. I will be beating myself up over this for a while; it seems like this week has been all about the old school memories. Some of which are positive, some of which are negative, and some of which are just....weird.

LISTEN TO MY MEMORIES BECAUSE I'M PRACTICALLY AN OLD WOMAN NOW SO I'M ENTITLED TO SHARE.

We used to make these things called Soap Cows, and throw them at the bathroom mirrors. They were pretty much layers of soap and wet paper towels, and they made these vaguely onion-shaped missiles of white ooze.

Once, our school librarian walked into the bathroom and said to us, "I've got your number", and we totally misinterpreted it as the only possible threat a school librarian (who knew our library numbers) could make.

Another time, in that SAME BATHROOM, someone told me this story about a hunter sneaking closer and closer to a lion in order to pluck one of his whiskers; it was a ridiculously complex metaphor for her sneaking into the boys' bathroom and grabbing a paper towel. Which I thought was pretty much the coolest thing ever.

In the roundabout school driveway, we filmed Do flailing about on the ground like a fish for a video mockumentary proving that humans evolved not from monkeys, but from fish. For this same video, I dressed as an Egyptian with a colored-paper headband and did a weird dance in front of our social studies room; we also drew a "fish fossil" on a rock in Sharpie and found it a year later when we came back to the dirt hill where we'd been filming to finish our video.

We spent weeks trying to make arrowheads based on the directions of a man who spelled the name of our neighboring state as "Origon".

I made and painted and labeled California with a boy who revealed after he moved to Korea that at the time, he'd had a crush on me.

I listened to my Social Studies teacher explain to one member of our class what a boner was (after listing several other names for it) because she hadn't understood why we were all laughing at the island of Bonaire.

The principal of our school wandered into that same class and gave us a lecture on the "Veekings". While someone was having a epic hiccup attack.

Oh yes, and our entire grade once (or twice) hummed along to the Eyewitness theme music, which is still officially the best opening music to an educational show, ever.

And now you guys know why I grew up the way I did.

It's all my school's fault!

A tiny paper towel in my ear

Before I explain the title, here's another blast from the past-style post!

From 9/10/09:

On my laptop (finally!)

Thank God they finally reimaged the little stinker, who I am now rechristening--more on that in a second. But anyways, the way this laptop's keyboard is set, it's a lot easier on my wrists than the Mac's wireless one. Also, I am glad I no longer have to bum off the desktop or my mom's laptop. I CAN CHECK MY EMAIL WITH REGULARITY AGAIN.

Anyways, I've decided to rename my laptop, because I have been converted to the cult of crazy people who name their electronics. For example, I've named my cell Kirby, because it's ancient and indestructible (sadly, it is not pink). I will probably name my laptop Dexter, because it looks normal on the outside. On the inside, however, IT EATS SOULS.

Seriously.

But it's nice to have it back anyways. I form strange attachments to things like my computer, contact lenses, and old papers demonstrating how talented I was in kindergarten.

--------------------------------------------------

I take this post as an example of my relationship with technology. I love it, but it better be really, REALLY sturdy, or there will be problems. I do things like drop my phone (twice today! Onto concrete!), drop my iPod, drop my laptop, and otherwise generally abuse my technological devices with absolutely no intent of doing so.

I have dropped my iPod in the mad dash from one car to another, in the rain, onto asphalt. And because it's a Mini, and doesn't take any of this iPod Nano super-thin shit, it was still playing music when I picked it up. I have dropped my cell phone more times than I can count, and the worst that has happened is that the back has popped off and the battery's come out. As soon as I put everything back together again, voila! This has come in handy many times, and I approve wholeheartedly of any technology that is capable of such a feat.

Now, to change the subject completely, let me explain the paper towel. My ear had a small cut; I accidentally picked the scab off and it began to bleed again. So in order to prevent awkward ear-bloodstains, I put a little paper towel ball there to keep everything neat and tidy! And now I'm just too lazy to walk over to my trashcan, remove it, and throw it away. So it's going to stay in my ear until it's time for bed.

I'm really cool, obviously.

Also, on the subject of other people's blog posts. I know I've been really bad about commenting, and that's mostly because I'm not entirely sure what to say. It seems as though almost anything I would be inclined to say is not something that the poster will want to hear--and this is not meant to be directed to the most recent posters; rather, it is a sad truth that applies to every single soul-baring post that has been made in the past three years. I'm worried about offending people--I'm worried that sympathy will come across as insincere and advice will come across as condescending. I don't know what to say, so I just don't say anything at all. Thumper's Rule, you know.

At the same time, I wonder if my brain simply works differently: when I post (if ever I've posted) on a topic that is of great emotional value to me, especially if it's negative, I feel like I'm grasping for any sympathy at all; perhaps that's simply what I personally want, and my issues are blown out of proportion to achieve that goal. The recent posts are upsetting to me, but on a fundamental level I don't think I can understand them, simply because I've never been in the same position. My real self-percieved failings I tend to keep quiet; the ones I post about aren't necessarily the ones that dominate when I think about the reasons for any insecurity I have.

I guess what I'm trying to say is two things: one, I'm honored that people would choose to be so honest on their blogs, and two, my commenting-deficiency is entirely my own fault.

Wow, I'm really bad at expressing myself concisely when I'm not talking about mundane things like paper towels and iPods on concrete. Colleges are going to love that.

On writing (again) and NaNo

2705 / 50000

Huh, I guess it's actually kind of a good thing I have my little progress bar. I feel almost obligated to write more now, so I wound up working through a stuck point today.

Not that I'm anywhere close to NaNo pace, of course. Still, I'll get there eventually....maybe.

I realized today that perhaps my expectations for myself as a writer are a little high--not only in terms of the quality of my writing, but also in terms of my physical ability to sit down and write for long periods of time. I know that many of the writers who I idolize wrote terribly, trashy stuff when they were younger--I've seen it, and it's no better and no worse than anything I wrote a year or two ago (I'd like to think I've gotten a little more sensible, if not strictly better, since then). Moreover, I also know that now, at a time when they're producing work that I love, they're in their late 20s at the YOUNGEST--and that's a polite estimate. That gives me an entire decade to improve, so long as I stick with it.

Really, I know all young writers want to be the next Anton Chekhov or Christopher Paolini--or at least, be popular like them. I frankly would rather die than publish something like Eragon. But it's simply not realistic! So I will instead just suffer it out as a less-than-competent author for the next ten years, after which point I will have hopefully figured out a thing or two about good writing. And how to finish a longer story. That would be nice too.

And then maybe I'll try NaNo for real. It would certainly be an adventure, but I feel like finishing a 50,000-word novel in 30 days is kind of like climbing Mount Everest. It's going to be the most miserable experience of your life until you get to the top, at which point you can pretty much fling your arms out and proclaim, "I'VE WON!" And do a little victory dance of supreme awesomeness.

My new....rectangle

2027 / 50000

This is my new progress bar.

It tells me exactly how far away I am from my goal of writing a novel (50,000 words).

It is probably going to depress the shit out of me, but I plan on updating it regularly (whenever I actually write).

Its name is Naz, the All-Powerful Rectangle of Doom.

I fear it already.

On love

Because I feel like posting on hate would be a trend-following act, and also I'm having a good week.

So. What I love. I know I've posted lists like this before, so I'm going to try and go broader.

My family! I love my family, even when I hate them for being stupid. I know this actually applies to maybe one other person (if that), but I honestly would not mind going to the UW and staying near them.

Puzzles. I not-so-secretly love puzzles. What sort of puzzles fluctuates, but still.

Sunshine. I love sunshine; love the heat and the dry and the basking in the sun that's required by such weather.

Music. That one should be self-explanatory. People who don't have music that they love are missing out.

History. Not sure why I love it, but world history is pretty much my favorite subject ever.

B-movies. Which you should have already known.

The Triduum: the ones who will go with me to see GI Joe and Zombieland and Doomsday. And Transformers 2, no matter how unwillingly. So much love that it fills my heart with crazy.

Obviously, there are things missing from the list. But I'm tired and have to go to class. So there.

On writing woes

Well, I've turned in my first application. It was kind of exhilarating.

But now I'm beating my head against an entirely different sort of beast.

That would be my novel-in-progress. The idea has refused to die, it's gone through two rewrites, and it's never been finished in any form. Oh yes, and I have NO BETA.

Which is killing me. I like feedback, and I like having someone read my work and say "Oh, by the way, this is unclear--what were you going for?" Not only is it useful, but it kind of keeps me going. On that note, a quick apology for my own failure to beta properly. I definitely died before the last 8 pages of the work I was reading. Sorry--send it again from where I stopped giving you edits and give me a boot!

Anyways, the other problem I have is this dragon. It's kind of a pivotal character, even though it doesn't make much of an appearance, and I am still kind of set on the idea of it being a dragon. The only other thing that would sort of work would be a semi-divine figure akin to the Oracle at Delphi, and that doesn't REALLY work because I need the character to be not only very apathetic but also kind of a threat should that apathy ever stop.

Which means I'd have to go beyond semi-divine figure into the whole god thing, and I really don't want to go there, because that will create problems with later plot points involving deities.

Anyways, for right now I'm going to leave it, and I'll have to see where it goes. I'm also trying to write in third-person present, which is....aggravating. But also feels necessary, because writing in third-past was not working out at all.

So, writing woes. And also, I have eaten approximately three times my own weight in chocolates today, I kid you not, and I'M STILL HUNGRY.

A short post on nothing much

First, a link: http://chipmunkcar.blogspot.com/2009/04/summaries-of-different-sort.html

I posted this for the first time in October, but perhaps since it was a draft from April 23rd, that's the date it got posted to. Anyways, it's severe nerdery warning ahead on that one, but if you're interested in reading about some of what I read, click the link.

Also, I am resigned to life sucking until Sunday or at least until I get my applications in. This is okay. Because you know what? There will always be YouTube, and life will go on no matter how bad my Comp Sci design is.

I FEEL LIBERATED.

On tribbles and Disney movies sucking

What the hell is a tribble?

Well, okay. Technically, I know what a tribble is. It's a small ball of fur from ST: TOS, and apparently it eats, and it reproduces. So it's like a bunny, but slimmed down to the bare essentials. Oh yes, and it sort of makes a dove-cat-hybrid sound.

I wonder if life would be easier as a tribble.

But mostly, I'm wondering what's up with the featureless fluffball type of animal showing up all over the place. I mean, sure, they're cute...sort of. But what purpose do they serve?

And since I have no idea where I was going with this, I'm going to change topics and say that though I am a die-hard classic Disney fan, there are some older Disney movies that just creeped me the fuck out.

Like, for example, Tarzan. I didn't mind most of it. Sure, the gorilla dying was sad, but for the most part everything was okay! And then. The villain's death scene? SO UNCALLED FOR, DISNEY.

We all knew how it was going to end up, and I'll be honest--it was way too gruesome for me. There wasn't tons of blood and gore, but nobody wants to watch a guy accidentally hang himself in an animated kid's movie. Even now, I prefer to watch death scenes where the bad guy dies at the hand of the hero. It seems more...civilized.

Another example of this would be The Hunchback of Notre Dame, which I could quite possibly go on for pages about. First off, the moral of this movie is so warped (and, surprisingly for Disney, accurate): Even if you have a good heart, the "hot" guy is going to get the girl. Because you're ugly, and nobody really loves you as anything other than that one guy who saved their life that one time.

Second, what the hell. The bad guy was pretty much killed by a stone gargoyle. Really, Disney? Are you going to try and push the whole "But Quasimodo is so pure of heart that he can't kill anybody!" shit?

Because that's what it is.

On being happy alone

I came across an untranslated word today while I was reading. The word was shumi, and the way it was described was as "something that makes you happy when you're alone". So I looked it up on Google, and that produced the definition of "hobby".

I'm kind of wondering now if that translation is oversimplifying things. I mean, I enjoy writing, and I enjoy drawing, but I wouldn't call it something that makes me happy. It's more like I have a compulsion to write and to draw sometimes, and I find it relaxing.

So then what makes me happy when I am alone? I feel I ought to exclude the Internet, because it's an interaction of sorts, and it's not like being entirely alone. TV is the same way--you're watching real people, even if they're just actors.

Reading, on the other hand, makes me unashamedly happy. I like sitting down in an abandoned corner with a book and a mug of tea for a few hours.

...It's pretty sad, but that's about the only thing I can come up with. Perhaps that's good enough.

My advice: think about what makes you happy, then take a day where you blow off college stuff and just do that. College is not worth constant misery (just almost-constant misery).

On having problems and wanting them

I live vicariously through fictional characters; I celebrate their successes because I have very few of my own.

At least, this is my theory. I ought to just admit it: I've had no major problems in my life, and so I've had no overwhelming feelings of triumph from conquering those obstacles. My victories are little ones, and for the most part created to make myself feel better.

I'm not saying this necessarily bad, I'm just saying that this is how I observe things to be. I'm assuming I will one day "grow up" and stop wanting to win out over something greater than myself. Again, I don't mean to imply that this is a bad thing or a good thing, it's just an assumption regarding the future.

There's a lot to be said about the loss of childhood, but I think that's a discussion for a later date.

Mostly, what I'd like to talk about is the idea of wanting trials and tribulations. It seems like one of those things where the people who have curly hair want straight hair, and the people who have straight hair want curly hair, and the people who have wavy hair complain just for the sake of complaining. Not to dumb down the concept, but that does sort of seem to fit.

I feel untried and, on a more superficial level, like I have no right to many things (for the most part, wanting sympathy/attention) because my life has been pretty damn easy. I know others who feel the same way. But of course, I'm sure if I spoke to people who I would say have gone through much more than I have, I doubt they'd really say that they like, in retrospect, having had those experiences and becoming--or not becoming--a "stronger person". Is this because we have no higher goal in mind when we suffer? Is it just that people don't go off adventuring any more? We can't take pride or happiness from our achievements, because ultimately no matter how bad our lives are, we aren't suffering for a greater cause--we're just suffering. And yet that still seems preferable to not suffering at all.

Going back to the last post, this is the sort of thing that makes me interested in psychology. There's a whole mess here that's been wired into our brains (or in the case that I'm totally off the mark, just mine) and it needs untangling. I'd like to cast some blame on my love for fantasy/sci-fi novels as a child, but the truth is that many books and films have some sort of connection to these ideas--why, after all, do we make movies about certain people? Because they've had to go through something we never will, and this fascinates us.

Perhaps I'm being too general with my assumptions. Draw your own conclusions, or just wait until I cheer up and go back to posting my usual fare of spastic topic-jumping. I should be back to my usual self soon (actually, another topic for a later time--what constitutes my "usual" self? The self I show my family? My friends? The self that appears, like now, when I think I won't be judged/heard by anyone?).

On psychology and zombies

I'm pretty much screwed for my Computer Science quiz, and for the design due Friday for the next program, and for Computer Science in general, which I actually sort of detest just a little.

In more positive news....erm. We have some dead bees in a plastic container? With a little lens so we can study them up close? I feel like we obtained this a long time ago, and those bees have actually been dead for YEARS. In which case, hey, cool, mummified bees!

...It's really sad that this is my more positive news.

Just saying.

Also, I was blog creeping. A spambot said that one of 'Do's posts "was likeable". Nobody says my blog posts are likeable. Nobody said my blog posts were likeable even before I'd locked the blog and squirreled it away at a different URL. Mom, the spambots are excluding me again!

And I'm hungry. Am I actually this bad at staying on topic in person? If so, serious kudos to all of you as this would make me one of those people who everyone doesn't like but who is totally oblivious to that. I am very good at being oblivious. Apart from being an apathetic bitch, it's one of the main reasons why I'd be great as a psychologist.

See, look. I'm on a different subject again, and this time I didn't even mean to be. But while I'm ON the subject, I might as well touch on it for a moment before my butterfly-brain goes off. So we had an interesting discussion today about how people see their own attractiveness and whether or not it's more complicated than the studies that simply say "Oh yes, and women see themselves as less attractive because of the media and discrimination" make it out to be. Which I'd really hope is true. But my point was that getting into people's heads like that makes me nerd out with happiness. Not in a creepy way--it's less about specific examples and more about what makes different sorts of people tick. I mean, I see aggressive behavior from someone, and I just want to sit down and dissect it, because not everybody gets angry for the same reasons. Some people bottle up emotions and eventually hit the stereotypical breaking point, others are less straight-forward. I don't think I'm an emotions-bottler, but I'm one of those people who has cumulative emotions. Lots of little things bothering me will make me seriously angry by the end of the day, and it takes time, rather than one big explosion, to make me unwind. And when I'm angry, I don't direct it. It just....goes. People sitting next to me who are too close, people who talk too much, all the things that normally I wouldn't let bother me just drive me up the wall. It happens all the time, too, which is inconvenient. Especially in class.

Granted, what would be really nice would be to work out a way to help myself NOT fall into this mess. But I guess that's what other people are there for, right? We can't tell ourselves this stuff and have it really work, but sometimes hearing it from other people is a nice shock, and it does us good. Ponder that for a while, and then (and I can't believe I'm writing this) leave a comment if you too have ever tried to dissect someone WITH YOUR MIND.

Oh wait, I'm not done yet.

I saw Zombieland. And let me just say right now...BEST ZOMBIE MOVIE EVER. Mostly because zombies, and shotguns, and not taking itself seriously, and college coed zombies, and giant truck love, and redneck love, and my new favorite piece of advice:

Nut up, or shut up.

On stories

So two things. One, I changed the layout, because I was feeling empowered. Yes, I can!

Two, I sort of want to tell a story. So I'm going to, even though my hands are STILL really cold and not working (I went for a run because I was really pissed off, and then some lady on a bike yelled at me to hurry up and cross the crosswalk or she'd hit me, and I really wanted to tackle her but she was attached to a small child. So I didn't).

It's the story of the lemmings, the turtle, and the partridge. Or maybe it's not. Maybe it's the story of me being supremely pissed off and not entirely sure how to deal with it. Maybe it's the story I'm supposed to write for English but don't want to (because I think Chekhov is, quite honestly, not worth imitating).

But it's a story.

....And apparently that little paragraph was it. My brain is suddenly empty of all stories save for the first story I ever really told on my own, which involved a port-a-potty named Honeybucket and his quest. Really. I sent a port-a-potty on a quest. He (of COURSE it was a he) met a bunch of other inanimate objects on his way to the junk yard, and the last one was, and I kid you not, the Big Car-Crusher-Thingy-That-Crushes-Cars-Because-That's-What-It's-Supposed-To-Do.

Seriously.

That's what I called the story's villain. This story was apparently hilariously funny to small children, and it involved chirping, "My name's Honeybucket!" pretty much every few seconds. I don't really remember how it goes, but I feel like Honeybucket was eventually able to convince the Car-Crusher-Thingy not to crush him (even though that's what it's supposed to do), and live a free and happy life in the wild. Or something. Maybe he was just happy to go on fulfilling his purpose of holding people's bodily waste.

It's probably the best story I've ever come up with. I sort of wish I could remember it all, write it down, and turn it in.

Sadly, I can't remember it, so I have to write another story, which I should probably get started on. But I hope you were touched by Honeybucket.

On cats and chocolate and yesterday

So a) I totally called it and b) THERE IS NOT ENOUGH CHOCOLATE FOR COPIOUS CONSUMPTION TO OCCUR. Which is depressing. I plan on running to QFC tomorrow to stock up. In between running around the island trying to drop people off and pick people up and do a dance involving three walruses and a cup of tea. Don't judge.

On the other hand, this Saturday is Diwali, which usually means yummy food.

On the other, other hand, I just took the SAT. The high school kids from where I took it make me feel better about myself, but 4 hours of testing is a pain in the ass no matter what. And I woke up at six. And I was babysitting, so I went to sleep at 12:30.

Majorly ew.

At least I got paid, so even if I didn't go to Homecoming (which, in my opinion, is no great loss), I wound up a little richer. Money is power and all that. Or, as LS would say, money means eventually, everyone will work for me. Muahaha.

Oh, the life lessons I've learned from high school. Aren't they precious?

Speaking of precious, we got barn cats, finally. We've been having a serious rat problem, but the problem is that there are always a couple of rather large dogs wandering around, so we've been having a hard time finding cats who'll catch rats and not flip out at the sight of a German Shepherd. Presumably, someone managed to track a pair down. I've only met one so far, but it's super cute. Not as cute as my puppy, or Cuddles, or Elsie the slab cat, but still super cute.

I'm just hoping it doesn't leave dead rats everywhere, because that is almost as gross as the SAT. Almost.

On PMS and massive sleep deprivation

Arr, I be marooned on the island of no inspiration!

And this is pissing me off.

Mostly because I feel a really strong urge to write....but the words aren't feeling so happy with me right now.

And I'm feeling an even stronger urge to read, and I don't want it to be Anna "Love Hexagon" Karenina.

I want to read something good. Something that makes me cry a bit. I need to get that out of my system. And then I can go back to liking books that involve dragons and zombies and badasses in pink jumpsuits.

I'm also really grumbly right now because of these various feelings (oh, the inconvenience of not being a robot). If I grumble at you, or ignore you, or hunch over into a grouchy little fetal position, forgive me. I'm hoping it's PMS. At least then I can cure it with the copious consumption of chocolate.

Also, on the subject of PMS (AKA THIS IS YOUR WARNING: RUN NOW, SQUICK WILL FOLLOW).

I feel like girls blame it for a lot of things, but at the same time it's really weird how consistent it is in terms of what sort of havoc it plays. Like, I always get really mopey, which makes me angry, so I'm miserable to be around. I also definitely have wild chocolate cravings. And then equally consistent, I have terrible cramps for a single day. Which, you know, it could be a lot worse. And I've noticed that if I get distracted (by video games or bad TV or good TV or my PUPPY), they're pretty much ignorable. Which, okay. I should hate less on the girlbits than other people.

But. But. Here's something really weird. Having been a beanpole for most of my life (until my metabolism slowed the fuck down around 8th/9th grade, curse it), I sort of expected I'd get my period...late. And I was all "Oh rats, once again I will be the late bloomer". Except this was not to be. And I realized, as soon as I got it, that it was pretty much THE WORST. I mean, it's inconvenient and awkward and painful and just kind of gross. And it has no respect for the fact that you were in class, trying to go about your every day life. Or on your class trip. Or about to go to Hawaii. Or in India, where most places don't actually have toilets.

Oh, the stories I could tell. I'm not sure if it's just that my luck sucks, or if everyone has tons of stories like I do, and we just never swap them (we should. It would be amusing and I would feel better about how unlucky I am). Is it sad that in some ways, I can't wait for menopause?

OKAY THE SQUICK IS DONE NOW.

But I'm not done yet! I've got more to whine about in a vaguely pathetic manner! Like the fact that I'm so exhausted, I've been driving hunched over the wheel like an old lady in order to stay awake! My sister calls it Beaver-Mode. Beaver-Mode Ishani has created a new dance style called "How to dance while not falling asleep on I-5, which would probably be a stupendously bad idea". Seriously. I was yawing so hard I was crying on the way home today. This is bad. Someone should do something. Like write my college apps for me.

That would be nice.

On imitation and literature

In English class the other day, the teacher said that unless you're a genius, you learn how to write by copying other writers. Now, I don't think I'm a genius (if only, right?), but the few attempts I have made at copying other, talented writers have gone miserably south. I would demonstrate just how far south, but I don't think you would appreciate it. Also I'm not sure I could stand the humiliation.

So here's the question of the day: can a regular person really not learn to write on their own?

Personally, I'd think that good writing comes from reading, and reading alone. You don't have to directly imitate one writer or another; rather if you have a library of sorts in your head you can take your favorite writing styles from various authors and put your own twist on them. It's really damn hard to make yourself write exactly like someone else, and in my opinion it's because you SHOULDN'T be trying to write in a single author's style. Kind of seems like plagiarism, you know? And honestly, it's not anything groundbreaking if someone's done it first-- aren't you limiting yourself by sticking to a preordained style?

Anyways, something to mull over. Also, on a somewhat unrelated note, people (in general) need to pull their heads out of their asses and realize that just because a piece of writing isn't "great literature" doesn't mean it has no value. I used to make this argument and say that the point of a novel was to be both interesting and entertaining. I feel like I should add that I've found a few novels that fit those qualifications and are also astoundingly well-written. And I don't mean, "Oh, they're better than most of the other novels that I think are fun." I mean, "Holy shit, I think I like this better than anything else I've ever read EVER." And that's saying something--I know I don't read tons of "literature", but I am still fairly well-read, and a lot of the classics actually just can't compare to the novels I'm thinking about.

Eventually, I'll brainwash you all into not being the least bit skeptical about my taste in music or books. Really. It will happen.

On being social (or not)

I would not mind the coming of the apocalypse so long as I had a giant flying robot friend. Presumably, with the help of Gigantor or Optimus Prime, I'd be able to save what I cared about.

On a more serious note, it bothers me how willing people are to be peer-pressured into doing something. I'm not saying I haven't done this (I have, and many times), but it's a distressing tendency anyways. On the other hand, it's not like the alternative is much better. I know people say "Your real friends won't care, and you should ignore everybody else", but it's sort of miserable to live that way. I would know. I tend to spend time almost exclusively with my "real friends", and I feel awkward with anyone else. Which makes a lot of things really uncomfortable--I'm just plain awful at being sociable. People who I don't know very well avoid me because I make them uncomfortable in turn.

And the weird part about all this is that I'd like to think I'm pretty good at reading people(admittedly, I can be oblivious about some things-- mostly romantic interest between two people). I'm good at analyzing why people do what they do. So it follows that I should be able to figure out why I'm making people uncomfortable and then remedy that.

Sadly, that would require me to talk to people I don't know. Eek.

I'd rather live in my own little world--I don't mind interacting with masses of people, but I much prefer to be alone. You actually learn a lot about yourself that way, and you get to do some good thinking. For example, I've started working out a formula for the sort of movies I can't get over my love for. It's not precise yet, but it's pretty cool to see what I like and what I don't like in particular--rather than just saying, "Oh, these are my favorite movies because they're awesome." It turns out there are more than a few common factors.

Also, this way I can save myself from the embarassment of giggling at random intervals in front of other people. And I get to read, and listen to music, and read some more. I've actually read some amazing things online (also a lot of crap, but it's a price worth paying). So you all should take my advice: BE A HERMIT. IT ROCKS.

On pants and other things

Once again, dear readers (and the senior retreat was very enlightening--it turns out there are more than two of you!), I have failed to post.

So let's talk about pants. In particular, red pants (red pants, blue pants, one pants, two pants).

Now I personally have nothing against the color red. But. But. As I'm sure everyone knows, denim fades. Dyed denim is no exception. So if you have red jeans and you wash them...won't they eventually turn blotchy pink, a la calamine lotion on chicken-poxed-skin?

Just a thought.

Also, there are some phrases that should never be taken literally. Like "scared shitless". I'm sure it could happen--if, say, you woke up one morning and you were dangling upside down over a pit of toothed giant slugs by your shoelaces, it would be pretty much forgiveable. But otherwise? It better just be a figure of speech, because ew.

Speaking of ew: starving people. Not like people starving people, but more like people reaching the point of starvation on their own. I understand why people suffer from eating disorders, but the truth is that if you watch those ridiculous beauty pageants on TV, the contestants are often appallingly thin. Not, oh wow, she's got great abs and no visible body fat. More like, oh look, I can count ALL OF HER RIBS. And clearly, many have had...enhancements. When you lose weight, I'm pretty sure that the fat from your chest area goes too.

But enough on that topic, because it's kind of making me want to brain-vomit.

Let's talk for a minute about how glad I am to not feel all cotton-stuffed. Granted, my sinuses are still filled with unmentionable fluids, but at least my head doesn't feel all funny. I mean, honestly. There's a point at which the sane person just says screw it, I'm going back to bed to sleep it off. If I'd had any modicum of sense, I'd have done the same. I just have this weird compulsion to work through illnesses. I'm guessing it's because I get sick ALL THE TIME. If I didn't go to school every time I caught a cold, I would quite possibly miss enough school to not graduate. Which would suck. Because I really don't want to graduate with this year's juniors. They are crazy and scare me.

On sci-fi and religion

I am feeling spiritual. Like, "Praise the Maker!" kind of spiritual.

Translation: I am feeling nerdy like whoa, and wish to ponder sci-fi for a minute.

See, if you're really, really nerdy, you'd understand when I explained how I was referencing two different sci-fi gods in that one quote. But you'd would have had to have read Dune and seen Episode IV recently.

But I digress. I was vaguely sort of interested in mumbling (virtually) about religions in sci-fi, and why they can't just, you know, offer peace and hope and shit. Instead, they've got to be half religion and half granter-of-mystical-power. I mean, belief in the Force is practically like believing in a high power, except no God that we've managed to come up with lets us choke people with our minds.

In the same way, the Bene Gesserit sisterhood is very much like a cult religion, but once again they're somehow granted mind-control power and also the ability to change their baby's sex in the womb. Or something. How else would one have the ability to choose which gender their child is? Sperm manipulation?

And the Fremen all but worship the giant sandworms, who bestow upon them the good drugs and hallucinogenic water that lets certain people gain the knowledge of all those other special people who came before them and drank successfully from the magical toxic water.

On the other hand, there's Star Trek, in which technology is the religion. Never mind about those backwater aliens. For those on the Enterprise, there appears to be very little belief in a higher power. I'm sure there's an interesting conclusion to be drawn from all this, but I'm not interested in drawing it. I just felt the need to post.

So I did. Obviously.

On mother-hens

AHHHHH SCHOOL'S ALMOST HERE!

And I nearly put a period after the exclamation point. I'm going to fail English so badly. 

But who cares? It's senior year! This is the year we get to be free and wild and crazy and who am I kidding, I personally plan on being exactly as stodgy as always. I can't help it. 

I actually think it's a reaction brought on by the people around me, because I know I've done some stupid, ridiculous, immature, and crazy shit before in the name of having fun. I mean, I'm perfectly capable of being a mindless, risk-taking individual (really). But it seems like there's a pattern. 

When I'm around people who are acting in the above manner, and I feel like nobody is being rational, I turn into a major mother hen. You all should know this--no doubt you have fallen victim once or twice. And it seems like it really only happens with groups, or with people who I feel some responsibility for. 

Obviously, my crazy hoo-haa-ing badass friend never provokes this reaction. And I get weirder the more quiet my companions are. Dubs has probably suffered from this before. Anyways, it is something to ponder about, and as I've spent shitloads of time in the past three days on airplanes, I have had a lot of time to ponder. I've also come to the realization that no airport codes make any sense. Except for ours. But, for example, SFO? Does that stand for San FranciscO? And apparently, there's an X in Los Angeles. Or X now stands for international, as well as christ (X-mas), which the really radical Christians probably see as a sign. 

Wow, digression!

Back to being a mother hen for a minute--it's for this reason that I'm really hoping I fall in with a nerdy, quiet group of friends in college. I'd worry too much about any wild partiers. 

On the new year

Well, a lot has happened since I last posted. Some of it's been good, some of it's been bad, some of it has just been plain strange. But most importantly, I may have finally gotten it through my head that I'm going to be a senior this year. Not next year. This year. I'm wildly unprepared, but you know what?

I figure that after the initial panic has passed, I will take this year just as I have taken every other year--with a liberal dose of nerdiness and an even more plentiful dose of slacking. And I'm guessing that regardless of what happens with colleges, I'll be happy at the end of this first doom-filled semester. I mean, the absolute worst that can happen is I'll go to BCC and will just transfer out after my first year, and even that seems....unlikely. And the best that can happen is that I'll get into an awesome school in a nice warm location *coughCaliforniacough*.

And really--why fuss? It's undergrad. IT DOESN'T EVEN MATTER.

So with this new permission from myself, I have begun to play REALLY STUPID GAMES. Games like Nobby Nuss (which is about a badly animated squirrel trying to collect nuts and flowers and avoid bugs...because apparently bugs kill squirrels). And, of course, games like Gunny Bunny (which is about a badly animated bunny with machine guns taking out badly animated mice, also with machine guns). Gunny Bunny is my favorite. There is no plot, there is no purpose, and there is no game more fun.

You should all check it out.

p.s. Zombies.

On having too many noobs to function

Which is exactly the problem with my volunteer job. Pretty much all the really experienced people left, and we have instead a bunch of 12-13 year olds who are, while well-meaning, utterly useless.

Today, one of the girls walked a pony down having not secured his saddle properly. By the time they'd gotten to the arena, the saddle was literally hanging sideways off the pony. For those of you who don't know much about horses, let me tell you why this is a BAD DEAL. Even without a kid in the saddle. Horses are preyed on by animals that attack by jumping on a) their backs/necks and b) their bellies. A horse that is not ridiculously brave and well-trained will FLIP A SHIT if their saddle rolls, and let me tell you that even a little 900 pound pony can and will break fences and heads if it gets scared enough.

Luckily, this pony is not only brave but has also been around long enough that he has faced everything from bears to Blue Angels. He was perfectly calm, but it exemplifies just how clueless these volunteers are. Basic rule of riding: check your saddle before you go anywhere.

And honestly, I did feel a little bad at her (the farm's director was there, and she's about six feet tall and can be REALLY SCARY when she gets mad), but for all the stupid things I did as a green volunteer, I never did anything quite that stupid or that dangerous. But, more importantly, she would never have touched a horse without someone supervising if we hadn't been so short on trained help.

Which is what we really need. I, entirely on my own, am more efficient at setting up for pony camp than six new volunteers. I pretty much set up the past two days because I'd gotten there early--today, I was running a little later than usual, and the whole thing was chaos. And they'd gotten less done, to boot. None of them know what needs to be done, so they mill around getting in the way, and none of them will ASK what needs to be done. Which, you know, is the whole point of volunteering--VOLUNTEER TO DO SOMETHING EVERY ONCE IN A WHILE. IT WON'T KILL YOU.

What else would be nice would be if they could ask for help when they need it, rather than trying to do things on their own to show off and then screwing things up. I know they all want to look good so that they can start handling horses, but the reason they aren't working with the horses is because THEY'RE NOT CAPABLE YET. Honestly, I don't even mind babying them a bit, rather than having to save them when they've already messed up. One of the two boy volunteers actually asked me for help today, because he didn't feel comfortable catching a really big horse who's not used for camp. And so yeah, I caught his horse and the one I was supposed to get myself, but it wasn't like I was complaining about him not doing his own work. I was there to support him in the first place, and it'd be nice if some of the other volunteers got that through their heads. We're not trying to upstage them. We're trying to HELP.

Obviously this is a subject about which I could go on and on. But I'll stop. After all, they're probably all going through puberty (ick). I should cut them some slack.

On gamer nerdery

Recently, I've been playing on the PS2 a lot more than usual. And it turns out that like many other excessively nerdy people, I am an obsessive gamer. It's not that I really, really like to win, or that I like to strategize so that I will always win (both of which I do).

It's more that when I have a goal in mind, I will BORE MYSELF TO TEARS SO I CAN ACCOMPLISH IT.

For example, I wanted to get my black mage to her next spell, which required a fair amount of leveling up. I wanted the spell prior to the next boss battle, so I had to stay in one monster-heavy area. And I wanted to be able to heal without having to waste potions or MP so I could just level up in one session of gaming.

I should have realized this was a bad idea.

I wound up running my party in circles around a save point, waiting to get attacked and then hacking through the same type of monsters OVER AND OVER AND OVER AGAIN.

It took me hours.

The worst part is, I'm now going really fast through this game because of my newfound obsession. And this is a problem because the game, in a way that makes me want to beat my head against a wall, inevitably ends with the player's character DYING.

So basically the whole point is you work your ass off for hours and hours (22 and counting), keeping your character alive through copious applications of Cure and Life, and WHEN YOU FINALLY BEAT THE GAME OOPS TOO LATE HE'S DEAD.

It's sad, to be sure, but more than that it's ridiculously frustrating. Isn't the purpose of every RPG ever created to defeat the bad guys, save the world, and not die while you're doing it? I wouldn't even mind if it was another one of the party's playable characters, but no. It's the main character, and not only does he die, it turns out he never really existed.

How's that for a tragic ending?

On posting and posting

Ha, I made a horse-related funny. Shoot me now.

First, I've noticed I've been posting like a fiend lately. I'm guessing it's been because up until today, I wasn't really feeling satisfied like I usually am, working camps. I always bitch about it, but this summer I really meant it. Thankfully, a little girl helped me get my head on straight (she's really quiet, and today she finally opened up to me and started talking of her own accord and I felt good about working).

Second--well, three little things, really. It should not be that hard to stand up and sit down in the saddle when someone is telling you WHEN TO STAND UP AND SIT DOWN. How people manage to still screw up their timing is beyond me. Also, you can play other games on horseback (and off it) than Red Light, Green Light.

No, really. I don't care that apparently it's a sacred rule of horse camps that this game must be played at least once, THERE ARE OTHER GAMES. I seriously had more fun playing Red Rover with the kids last year, and we didn't even break any bones.

And finally, one very chatty little rider decided she was going to ask me why several other horses stabled at the barn weren't being used for camp.

What I told her: All the horses are very nice, really good horses, but some of them require more advanced riders because they're not as patient, and they're more easily scared.

What that's code for: THOSE HORSES ARE GOING TO KILL YOU BECAUSE YOU CAN'T RIDE WITHOUT A BABYSITTER.

And when I say they're "good horses", I mean that they'd as soon kick you as let you get on their back and ride them around.

Tact. It comes in handy when working with small children.

Also, I lucked out--I got to spend a whole hour standing in the sun with Pony A. Pony A is the pony I've been assigned this week, and he's a smart, headstrong little thing. We get along pretty well, and he's been more than tolerant of me dragging him around at the slowest possible trot (he likes to go, and go fast). At the same time, he's not the sort to say no to a morning nap in the sun. His first rider didn't show until after her riding slot, so we were literally waiting in the middle of the arena, figuratively twiddling our thumbs. A super sweet rider who I'd worked with last year came and hung out with me. She broke her arm before camp, so she's been doing crafts and walking alongside the rider who didn't show--they're good friends from when they were both kids I was in charge of last year. Anyways, it was a nice way to spend the first bit of camp. Pony A is very cute when he's having dream-twitches, though of course not as cute as Cuddles, who is absolutely adorable and also a dear to work with at camps because he is as patient as Jesus with little kids. Seriously, he just stands there and lets them poke and prod him and he doesn't even make like he's going to take a nibble. Which, if I was in his position, I would have done.

And wow, the Saga of Pony Camp. Sorry about that.

As a post script, I ought to offer this little tidbit: registered Quarter Horses (like Cuddles and Pony A) have to be named something original--no repeats allowed. I think there are some other rules as well. Anyways, what this leads to is their registered names being REALLY TREMENDOUSLY STUPID. Cody's name is TF Royal Zip Code (no, I don't know either). But Pony A?

Pony A is registered as, and I kid you not, Hokey's Pokey.

....Just contemplate that for a minute. NOW WATCH AS YOUR BRAIN LEAKS OUT OF YOUR EYES.

Pixelated words make no sense

LIKE NEENJA I POST AGAIN AND AGAIN.

...

Yeah, sorry, have no idea what that was about.

Also, butterfly sunglasses and people adding a "d" to the beginning of my name and snuggly teddybear horse being snuggly. AND THE BEST MOVIE EVER. WITH THE BEST DIALOGUE EVER.

And about 3 gallons of tea, a bathrobe, and my third load of laundry this week. Screw it.

Chinese food, two acupuncture booths at a street fair, small dogs wearing jackets, big dogs wearing enough fur to make jackets for the small dogs.

Cruella deVille. Who ought to be mentioned any time someone talks about making jackets out of dog fur.

Ariel, and little girls who are possibly ADHD or just young who like penguins and the Little Mermaid. Coworkers getting pregnant. Coworkers not getting any. Coworkers being prepubescent, and therefore hopefully neither pregnant nor getting any.

Tiny Asians. Bad ripoffs of animated TV shows, part II. Zombie movies galore.

A runny nose, a thunderstorm, and all the SilliPutti I'll ever need.

Things I like and why

I like to make my pupils change size. It's really interesting to watch.

I like Advil. Advil makes my world go round, and it's a handy thing to carry.

I like stupid music videos. It's really hard to take most music videos seriously, and the ones that are intentionally a little crazy are more fun and less pathetic.

I like knowing that there are other people out there who are intelligent, talented, and genuinely nice who still haven't had a boyfriend yet. It makes me care less about the whole relationship deal.

I like having semi-serious conversations with people I barely know. We don't have to talk about the national debt or anything, but I learn a lot about people that way, and I actually have to think before I speak.

I like glasses that aren't cylinders. We have a set that are either 8- or 6-sided (I'm not sure which, and I'm too lazy to go check), and even if they don't look as nice, I'm fond of them.

I like people who don't scream their heads off when they're called by a talk or radio show and they learn they've won something. The people who won't stop screaming sort of need to chill, and it's rude when they just scream over the person who's GIVING them their prize.

I like driving. It's not exactly fun, but it's convenient, and having time alone away from my room is nice.

I like you, my imaginary (and real) readers. It's amazingly cathartic to post knowing that even though it's out there and off my chest, I don't have to worry about people reading and being offended. Last count, two people read my blog with any semblance of regularity (hello, you two!).

I like writing non-fiction. Writing stories doesn't count as a "like", but writing like this is a great way to get thoughts sorted out and often out of mind when I don't want to deal with them. It's not a passion, but it's good for me.

I like feeling justified in not liking someone. Or, if you'd prefer, I like not feeling guilty about not liking someone. Either way, I should think it's fairly straightforward as to why.

I like failed relationships that stay failed. I think that in real life, nobody who gets dumped in a humiliating or painful manner ought to take back their ex. You better have a damn good reason to forgive.

I like mediocre tiramisu. Bad tiramisu is sacrilege, good tiramisu is heaven. "Like" just about describes mediocre (because of course, it's still tiramisu and therefore still really good).

I like my blog. I would cry no tears if for some reason I had to stop posting, but I like it anyways. It shows how I've gone from a whiny, melodramatic teenager who was rather desperate for approval to an only-occasionally melodramatic teenager who is pretty damn happy being alone with her thoughts (and her laptop). Or so I'd like to think. I've made progress. Maybe I'm not as funny, but I'm hoping I'm more honest and openly nerdy bean.

I like beanage. All hail the great god Beanhomie!

On trenchcoats and symbolism

Two posts in one day! But this one is way more light-hearted and more like my usual nerdery.

So in the land of Japanese TV, trenchcoats are basically like big flaming signs written by the hand of God. The color of the trench indicates the alignment of the character wearing it--black means they're a good guy, white a bad guy, and any other color means that they're not the main protagonist/antagonist and so don't need to be bothered with.

For example, the most twisted animated character in the history of ever wears a white trench. This is the guy (I'm sure I've mentioned him before) who is, first off, a serial rapist and murderer. BUT THAT'S NOT ALL. He's also a doctor, has a weird robotic eye, and is engaged to a perfectly normal woman. He can travel between dimensions, and is apparently immortal. Oh yes, it gets better. He wants to take the undying body of the man he tries to molest on a regular basis, chop off the guy's head, and replace it with the head of his dead half-brother so that the half-brother will live again. Why? Because he hated his brother and wanted to kill him, but someone else got to him first, and now he's going to revive him so he can kill the guy HIMSELF. Basically, he's going to kill the man he loves so he can kill a guy who's ALREADY DEAD. And did I mention that he's a serial rapist? Who enjoys putting curses on people so they die over a period of three years after he's gotten to them?

I just. I do not understand how anybody could come up with this character. But, more importantly, he is never seen without his stylish white trench. And the guy he loves, our protagonist? Black coat. Probably symbolizing his inner demonic side and his conflicted struggle with the darkness within and shit. Or maybe they just thought he looked good in black.

Here's another example. There's this show. With one of the weirder premises that still attempts to be serious (as opposed to the one show about a man who fights crime and an evil hair-stealing maniac with nose hair kung fu). It's about these four male assassins who take care of people too powerful for the government police to get to. Their day job? Florists. Yup, you read that right. Four young men, no older than their twenties, staffing a flower shop by day and killing people by night. What do they wear? Black trenchcoats. Now, I understand this is probably for camo, but you'd think that as assassins they wouldn't want any extra material flapping around, so they'd opt for shorter coats. Oh no. This way, when they have their dramatic, moon-lit entrances, the black coats flare out behind them as they hang, all but levitating, before the bright full moon. It is always, always a full moon in Japanese TV land.

So now I have to go to bed, because I have to get up at a ridiculous time, but I hope this was informative. YAY.

Fake leprosy and a rant

Hexagonal patterns (like, just a bunch of hexagons all fitted together) make me think of disease and of people literally crumbling away into pieces. I think this is from a movie, but I'm not sure which one. It's a little scary. I was doing a jigsaw puzzle with hexagon-shaped pieces, and the program had a minor spaz out and the outlines of the pieces I'd already connected went darker all of a sudden and it scared the shit out of me. I guess it's a pretty strong mental association, because the creeped-out reaction of "ZOMGPEOPLEFALLINGAPART" was instantaneous.

Also, I'd like to just say right now that if you're going to volunteer to do something, don't whine about not getting credit for your hard work. THAT'S THE POINT OF VOLUNTEERING. You do something for other people who won't necessarily be able to give you anything--money, credit, cupcakes, whatever--in return. Just...either find yourself a real job, or shut up. . Anyways, that's the little brain-babble for today.  

And if you're going to work with kids, dress appropriately. Especially if you know you're going to have to play outside with them, flip flops are not such a bright idea. Neither are short skirts, high heels, or caked-on makeup. Dressing to impress is not the point. Dressing for a fun day at the beach is not the point. Dressing so you can do your fucking job is the point.

....Yeah, I'm not always fond of all my co-counselors.

And while I'm on the subject of makeup, here's something I've been thinking about. So a lot of girls wear makeup on a daily basis, right? And this is fine--I mean, if they want to look their best, and they feel that this is how they can do that, I couldn't really care less. But what I don't really understand is this weird hangup some girls have about not being able to leave the house without their makeup on. Let's take, as a theoretical situation, a girl who has never seen her boyfriend when she's not wearing makeup. In this situation, say the girl is older than we are, and the relationship is to the point where they're going to start living together. When does she stop feeling like she has to put on makeup before she sees her boyfriend?

Or if I, for example, wanted to make myself look more attractive to guys, so I started wearing makeup on a regular basis. The people I'm trying to show off for will never actually see what I look like. My eyelashes are only so long and so thick, I don't actually have well-accented cheekbones--whatever it is, isn't it sort of a pain to cover it up before people can see you?

Who knows, maybe I'm just an epic fail. This probably came off as a rant against the wearing of cosmetics in general, and it's not meant to be that. More like....examine why you're wearing makeup, because if it's for other people you're probably not doing yourself any favors?

Augh. I'm old-fashioned, I know.

On movies and nerdery (sort of)

I've seen a fair number of movies in the past four days (five, as of this evening), so I figured I might as well write about those. Why not?

Obviously, there are spoilers below.

Transformers II: Like Pimp My Ride, but better

....There is so much I could say about this movie. First, its subtitle: "Revenge of the Fallen", which, okay, sort of implies that all the "fallen" bad guys from the last movie are going to....you know. Get revenge. No shit, right?

Wrong. The Fallen apparently refers to a single, prehistoric robot who was for some reason more powerful than his six robot brothers and then betrayed them and made them turn themselves into a tomb for a little pointy thing called the Matrix of Leadership (WTF). But I digress--my problem with this title is that they couldn't call him The Traitor. The Backstabber. The Heartless Bitch Who's Up In My Grill.

No, they have to call him the Fallen, even though he didn't fall from grace and in fact rose to power. And did I mention he is Emperor Palpatine but more metallic and Davy Jones-esque and less like an old man's wrinkly butt? Because he is.

Also, what is with the ornery Australian stealth plane/robot turncoat? EXCUSE ME, LET ME RIP OUT MY STILL PULSING ENERGY SOURCE AND GIVE IT TO YOU BECAUSE I THINK YOU'RE SO AWESOME BECAUSE YOU'RE SOMEHOW DESCENDED FROM THE SEVEN ORIGINAL ROBOTS.

This? This was bad decision making, even if it did spawn the Pimp My Ride comment in an amazing sequence.

And check off another point for Optimus. This is the second time he's died....and then gotten revenge on the robot who killed him. As the Badass of the Week site correctly says, this is pretty damn cool. To be honest, I watch these movies for the trashy special effects and the shiny robotic badassery. Plot? Not so much.

I will admit, however, that every time Starscream came on with his little cowering, whimpering, I'm-so-useless act, I wanted to flip a shit. Excuse me--this is the second in command of the second in command of the Evil Robotic God. So....Judas (which is fitting, considering Starscream would as soon kill Megatron as help him, canonically), but more hardcore. Imagine if all the early Christians were five-story robots--that Judas. He shouldn't be so pathetic!

Finally, every time Bumblebee has to save Shia's sorry ass, complete with screams for help from the weaker party, they wound up staring into each other's eyes. Hello, robo-bromance. Robomance. Robromance. Something. I sort of wanted to laugh, because they had more chemistry than good ol' Megan brought to the party. Considering this is a teenage boy and his first car/transforming robot pet/bodyguard....that's pretty damn sad.

And wow, I've written an epic just for this first movie. How am I going to get through another two?

Star Wars: Pornos! In space! Made easier by the conspicuous lack of underwear!

So much innuendo. So much win. But the best part, by far?

Episode IV. Luke fires his proton torpedoes, and then throws his head back as he experiences sexual pleasure for the first time in his life--I mean, feels them penetrate deeper and deep--um.

Right. So one could assume that he's simply happy. Or one could look closer, read deeper, and see that he's very...happy. Blissful. You can practically see the cigarette.

And, after all, think about the scene. He fires his load into the shaft, pulls out, and gets high off of thinking about how his missiles are penetrating the core. I'm not the only one who reads that and does a double-take, right?

Though I've got to say, this go around I was actually really into the more romantic love story. Han and Leia are probably one of the most badass fictional couples ever, and they're ADORABLE. It's sort of like what they tried to do in the Mummy, but Star Wars did it better and the girl wasn't a pathetic whiner. She just had anger-management issues.

Anyways, there's not much I can say about Star Wars that hasn't already been said a thousand times. But it will always be my favorite, and let's be honest--as amazing as Star Trek was, I am a Star Wars fan before all else.

Inkheart: I'm not sure why I watched this, but it was less painful than the book

My story about Inkheart goes like this. I tried to read the book multiple times after having it be highly recommended by many close friends. I got about 20 pages in, realized the only character I remotely liked was Dustfinger and his role wasn't big enough, and stopped reading. The main characters left me yawning, and the names Meggie and Mo made me wince.

So I had no idea what the plot really was except for "and then they read characters into existence and some of them are evil". And it turns out this is basically the whole plot. Also there's a really, REALLY girly-looking Arabian dude from Ali Baba and the 40 Thieves. And Dustfinger needs to be hotter (granted, I imagined him as really hot). And the ferret makes me cringe, because I hate ferrets as plot devices, and they ALWAYS ARE. And the climactic battle scene actually had the potential to be incredibly epic, but they screwed up the editing and the camera angles and so it was super slow and kind of the worst part. And why did the dad speak in an American accent while his kid spoke in a British accent and his wife didn't speak at all?

In conclusion--only the minor idol worship between girly Arabian dude and Dustfinger was good. The rest made me go "meh". But at least I finished it, which puts it above the book.

Summer plans

I'm definitely going to go neurotic over the summer. I know this because I have started talking to my laptop with alarming frequency. I have also applauded, slapped a hand to my forehead in amusement/despair, and done a happy eel dance. And did I mention I was completely alone?

I really think I ought to just record the various noises and phrases I mutter to myself over the course of a day. I've turned into a crazy hobo on the subway, but without the subway because I don't want to get up off the rug.

And it'll be even harder to stand after summer's over. Apparently they've messed around with the schedule at the farm where I volunteer--I'm working three or four days where duties run from 8:30 to 5. So I'm going to be out of the house by 8, and I'm going to get home again....at close to 6. If I'm lucky and traffic isn't a complete bitch (it inevitably will be).

I suspect I will drown after falling asleep in the bathtub after one of these days.

Because as much as I love my volunteer job, we get about half an hour to sit down (for lunch) and we're quite literally on our feet the entire rest of the day. Which, given the sad egg state of my muscles, is kind of a problem. So lots of warm baths afterwards, except those make me sleepy and then...well. Come to my funeral and say nice things about me, even if you have to make them up.

Korea, part II

Man, Korea's actually just much more awesome than I realized, especially with regard to its heroines.

There's another show I'm watching a bit of right now, where the heroine find a bit of bubblewrap and goes "Ooh!!!" It's something all sane people should do when they find spare bubblewrap, because there are actually very few things that are more relaxing than popping the bubbles.

The giant bubblewrap from the laptop case that 'Do and I stomped on outside of St. Nicks was actually just THE MOST AMAZING THING.

But basically, I was more impressed with the fact that they put something so human into a show, because it's something most laidback teenage girls would enjoy and yet it's so scarily normal. I like it when characters are slightly quirky but otherwise normal people (at least, in a show set in modern, unaltered times).

Also I am super excited to watch more of the crazy show I was talking about last post. Because there are clearly devious political occurences going on, and that always makes a show more interesting. Also in the first 15 minutes of the hour long second episode, a kid gets possessed by a giant blue dragon, two villages are burned to the ground, and someone gives birth in what appears to be a golden bathtub (look, I don't get it either). It's sort of great.

Badassery of the most epic sort

For once, I'd like to recognize an Asian country that is NOT Japan or India. In fact, I'd like to recognize a country that gets very little positive recognition at all (...and for a good reason, too).

Major props to KOREA! WOOHOO!!!

Everyone should applaud a bit, because Korea did something kind of awesome. In a world where heroines are, more often than not, pretty much useless whiners, Korea came up with a TV show that is not only epic and really well done, but stars two incredibly kickass women.

Woman one is the villain. She's absolutely psychotic and looks it, routinely takes out several armies ON HER OWN, and likes revenge and manipulation. 2000 years later (after purposefully falling off a cliff to spite the man she hates--who is, by the way, Jesus), she's somehow reincarnated into someone with the exact same skill set, appearance, and personality as her original self. Basically, she's still a fairly pretty, completely batshit warrior priestess. I chalk it up to her being scarier than death, God, and the giant CG turtle-snake.

Woman two is both a heroine of legend and her present reincarnation (who's one of the protagonists). She's a strange mix of a cavewoman/samurai/healer/Legolas. Also, because she goes into labor right before her village is attacked, she pops out the baby, struggles to her feet and says, "TO BATTLE!" Then SHE proceeds to take out an army on her own. So add a Spartan warrior into that mixture as well.

Oh, and perhaps we ought to take into account that immediately after the battle is over, she goes and CLIMBS A FUCKING MOUNTAIN!!!

So yes, give Korea credit for doing something right. A lot of things right, really--this show is a masterpiece, and not just because of its characters. The special effects are well done, the scenery is gorgeous, the plot has no holes. And did I mention this show is epic?

I'm really excited to see where it's going. I have been promised there is even a fight scene IN THE RAIN.

A post with no point

So I'm really hoping Japan doesn't actually have a venue called Pacific Yokohama National Big Hall. But if it does, I vote we all go there and dance.

I also vote that Richard Wilson's eyebrows somehow be immortalized. His "uh huh o rly" expression is clearly the work of the gods.

Actually, talking about Richard Wilson, I'd like to point out that bastardizing Arthurian legend can always be excused by copious amounts of bromance and really hot male leads.

And bastardizing Diana Wynne Jones can be excused by sketchy magical creations that look like anthropormorphized blobfish.

Our head of school could possibly be a more interesting speaker if he was a blobfish. Graduation was pretty good, until he opened his mouth. And then talked about someone who'd already come and talked to us--about airplane bits. Sad eggs, beanhomie. Sad eggs.

Also I got my schedule for summer finalized and it looks like I'm working a total of seven hundred billion weekdays! I'm EXCITED! Hermit-hood, here I come!

Except not, because I'm stealing the senior child and making her watch trashy Japanese soaps and shit. But other than that!

Words I have learned from the internet....

...in one short poem.

Trawling the Interwebs
So I've never shipped my girlbits
Like a bugfuck crazy slasher
And I've never gone "D'aww"
Over a troll-like preteen basher
But I'll always squee like crazy
For batshit canon pairings
And headdesk 'til my brains come out
When a fanbrat gets too daring



Why, you ask, have I written this monstrosity?

BECAUSE THE INTERNET HAS EATEN MY BRAIN, THAT'S WHY.

Oh, nooblets, what's wrong with me?

Actually this post has very little to do with nooblets, and more to do with the strange inner workings of my brain. Of which I myself understand very little, but there are a few things that have recently occurred that have gotten me thinking.

Thing number one: I know how to prevent myself from remembering my dreams. Conversely, I know how to make myself remember them. It's really weird, actually, because this is a relatively new trick (as in, past four or so years). Turns out if I can fake dreams, it fools my brain into not letting me remember any proper dreams I may have had. Which is sort of convenient, actually, because my dreams always leave me feeling really restless and on-edge.

Which is thing number two: I've had two dreams involving confinement in the past week or two. I'm guessing this means I feel stifled by school and life and I want to be free from obligations, which--well, duh.

But it's a little strange, because one of these dreams also involved needing to fulfill an obligation to a friend and the dream-me sort of ducked out of it. Apparently I'm at the point where I no longer care about responsibilities at all, even to people I should be caring about. Which again I sort of already knew, but it's a little depressing.

Thing number three: I have always, always had cracked-out dreams because, like many people, I take what I see and experience and think about during the day and convert it into one big dreamworld mosh pit. Which has led to Yu-gi-oh being played from broomsticks and J. Schmidt helping me save the unicorns and toe-biting zombies.

Except occasionally, I apparently do the same thing when I'm awake. So I'd been discussing the Air France flight that crashed, and I'd been reading about a really ruthless, logical character, and suddenly this scene pops into my head and plays out. And I'm vaguely aware that it's going to go in a somewhat romantic direction eventually, but the beginning of the scene involves this character hearing about the flight going missing and laughing.

This was creepy enough, because I don't need another psychotic individual living in my head. Already got one, thanks. But it gets weirder, because then the guy says "Ha--I beat them."

It takes me a second to sort of reanalyze that, and it turns out that this guy is saying he's won because the passengers have all died. And as he's not dead, he's beaten them. In the game of life, as it were.

It's almost funny, except it's also really fucking weird. I mean, what kind of an asshole sits there and laughs because--and it's not because he's happy to be alive, even, it's because he LIKES TO WIN. And this is another way of winning.

I wound up writing the scene down, and it morphed from something with the potential to be cute (there was another person in the room who gets really upset and the analytical character thinks to himself about how this is one emotion he's not going to analyze because he doesn't ever want to see his friend cry again since it makes him feel all weird and uncomfortable inside) into...well.

I'm appalled at myself. I mean, I know it's a good thing to be able to write despicable characters, but damned if it's not a thoroughly unpleasant experience. Needed to get it out of my system.

More on Star Trek

So I got most of the squeeing out of my system. BUT I CAN ALWAYS DREDGE UP MORE LOVE FOR STAR TREK.

First, tentacled female reproductive system!ship is a winner. Also I am a fan of the fact that they made this a proper prequel to the first series and didn't go all "Let's just fall back on the Star Trek Storyline of finding a new planet/crazy alien species for Kirk to make out with!"

Instead, they practically had Kirk make out with Spock. Which, in my book, is A++++++.

And okay, if you knew anything about my Super Secret Internet Life, you would realize that this had been coming ever since I saw there was a ST movie with hot-off-the-griddle Spirk.

But I'm sorry if I just traumatized the rest of you.

Anyways, I also am a great big nerd. So of course, when I saw the Enterprise, the first thing that I thought is "WHAT A GORGEOUS SHIP." I may have actually squealed a bit when Old Spock flashed the StarTrekHand. But the best part of the nerdery?

When Kirk gets marooned on the ice planet--as soon as he popped his head out, my father and I turned to each other (grinning madly) and said "HOTH!!!"

It's all in the DNA, folks.

Anyways, I also would have loved for Old Spock in the cave to just be Luke Skywalker. And I DID love how the first monster Kirk meets on the ice planet gets chomped by another monster in a total "There's always a bigger fish" moment.

Yes, I made gratuitous Star Wars references throughout this movie. No, I don't care.

Also, I love how all it takes to turn a perfectly nice guy absolutely batshit is to threaten his preggers girlfriend. It worked for Anakin, and it worked for Nero.

Totally loved the mind control slug, want one like burning. And the cute Russian kid. Also want one like burning.

But easily, the part that made the movie beyond great: "Since my customary greeting would seem oddly self-serving..."

The world is a better place because Leonard Nimoy is in it. He makes my little fangirl heart explode with joy.

On Star Trek

I just had the nerdgasmic experience of the year. And Spock is FUCKING ADORABLE.

Also our beloved Mr. Nimoy's nose has grown to epic proportions. More epic than the Enterprise, even.

A continuation of this post tomorrow!

More thoughts on lacking oxygen

So I went to the stables again today, but while I was stall-cleaning I started to have trouble breathing. It was super dusty, and all the shavings were going everywhere, and I was coughing a lot. It sort of felt like I was having an asthma attack or something.

Anyways, the point is that it was really sort of scary. And also it impressed upon me the difference between not being able to breathe, and not being given the chance to breathe. Like....that guy in Star Wars, who's getting Force-choked for dissing Vader. All that has to happen is the grouchy old commander says "Let him go" and he can breathe again. Or if you're underwater, all you have to do is come up to the surface, and you're golden. Even if you're choking on a baby carrot, just find someone who knows how to do the Heimlich.

But it would be absolutely terrifying to be completely incapable of getting enough oxygen simply because your own body isn't letting you breathe. I've never gone into anaphylactic shock (and I can honestly say I'm ridiculously grateful for this every time I get an allergy) but I imagine that it's probably the scariest way to die. You're entirely conscious, and you're basically sitting there trying to get your own body to STOP COMMITTING SUICIDE. It's not even like getting cancer, where you have the chance to come to terms with death. It's just "Whoops, there's a peanut" and bang, you're dead.

Absolutely awful way to go. Also, I'm not sure why I keep thinking about this, and I really ought to stop, but since I haven't yet, I'm going to keep posting about it!

P.S. This doesn't mean that people with life-threatening allergies who don't carry an Epipen are excused when they go all drama-llama about it. It really bugs me, actually, when people come to Kelsey Creek and they're like "Oh, if that has peanut butter in it keep it away from me because I might die and I don't have my Epipen with me." WHY DON'T YOU JUST CARRY THE STUPID EPIPEN IT'S NOT THAT INCONVENIENT.

....Yeah, I know I really need to stop thinking about this.