Cafepress - every time I go there I see this bag, and I laugh. I should buy it, but I don't know what I would do with it. Also - new Black Death t-shirt! I wish I had a reason to buy t-shirts.
Today I am having a fight with my nose. I realize everyone I know wishes I would shut the hell up about my nose already, but you know how sometimes you see yourself in a window and the reflection catches you all wrong and you wear baggy sweatshirts for a week because you think you're twice the size you actually are? That happens to me, but it also happens with my nose. And today I hate it. I'm aware that it could be much worse. It's just that the bridge is so visible and the whole thing is a size too big. As I have been told, repeatedly, by people who wish I would shut the hell up about my nose, it works okay with my face (because I have heavy features that need a larger nose to set them off, especially my terrible cheekbones, but no one says that part) and mostly I don't mind it too much because I don't pay attention to it if I can help it, I'm just having issues today. The really unfair part is that I can't have surgery on it even if I had the money for that sort of thing, because as I said, I have heavy features and a smaller nose would just look strange on my face. THAT DOESN'T MEAN I HAVE TO LIKE THIS ALL THE TIME, OKAY?
I cut off some more of my hair. I don't want to talk about it. It was only about 4 inches, anyway.
My mother has only Skyped me twice since my family left. Thank God. I was hoping that seeing where I lived would cure her compulsion to check every five minutes whether I'm still alive, and it has. Don't tell her about all the wandering around at night by myself, though, or all her hair will fall out.
The library has apparently temporarily increased our borrowing allowances to 20 books at a time, instead of 15. (Research based postgraduates get 25 instead of 20, and undergrads are still stuck at 10.) Apparently they will do this for a month and then reevaluate. This means I'm going to have to go to the library and take out 20 books I don't even necessarily want to read, and I hope everyone else does the same thing.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Friday, January 30, 2009
Yes, I realize it's only been 18 weeks
I can't remember if I've mentioned this here before, but I've decided to stay in England after I finish the master's program here. I'd like to do a PhD at some point, but it won't be next year because I won't have anything worth applying with until I finish my dissertation this summer, if that makes any sense, so I'm going to have to take at least another year off. I refuse to go back home. My parents asked me what I was intending to do on my year off, and I basically grabbed the nearest stationary object and shrieked "I'M NOT LEAVING ENGLAND!" (not really, but almost) so I guess I will be getting a post-study work visa and spending a year working and applying to PhD programs. (Nothing had better go wrong with my brilliant plan, or I'll be devastated - I still have an irrational fear of failing out, because I've been getting B's instead of all A's. No, I don't like the way my brain works either.) I've actually looked into getting citizenship here - I can apply for permanent right to settle after two years here, and full citizenship after five. It's all rather sad that I've looked into this already, but I would like to point out that at least I haven't lost my shit completely and decided to do this for some boy.
My parents have apparently told the rest of my family, and they don't like it. Reactions range from "She wants to be an EX-PAT?" (grandfather) to "Don't worry, I'm pretty sure this is just a phase" (aunt and uncle, mom's side). Actually my parents seem really proud of my declaration that I am staying here, which is why they told me all this while laughing, so I'm not sure why everyone seems to think "it's just a phase" is a comforting thing to say. I actually kind of miss my cousin - you know, the one I wrote about earlier, the one I am completely incompatible with - because I'm pretty sure her reaction would be "That's awesome!"
I kind of think - well, the situational irony here is amazing. I only ended up here because I was in a very prolonged snit over not getting into any master's programs for art, and basically said "Well, FINE, then. I'll go off and do grad work in a new department, a BETTER department. Screw you all." I deliberately applied for a one-year program so I would be able to leave if I hated it here. I was fully prepared to hate it here. I was sick to my stomach for a month beforehand over the thought of how much I would probably hate it here. I'm not really sure what happened, only that this is the first place where I've ever been happy even when I'm having a terrible day or getting B's on all my midterms. Now the thought of leaving makes me sick to my stomach. I have no idea what I'm going to do next year or where I'm going to live and I don't care so long as I get to stay here.
I've already had the "think about what you're giving up" conversation with my parents. Yes, it will be harder for me to buy my own house, which I really want to do, although I haven't come up with a good reason why (mostly so I can line the living room with bookshelves and not have to listen to anyone say "You brought home more books? What is wrong with you?"). Yes, I have already experienced the joys of Amazon Marketplace because that movie I wanted is not going to be released here. Yes, I realize I will always be "the American" because I am never going to get rid of my accent. Yes, everything is more expensive here and finding a dentist is a nightmare and socialized medicine is terrifying. Yes, I have said goodbye to decent sushi and guacamole. Yes, I am leaving New York all the way over there where I can't get to it, which is awful. It's entirely possible that in a year or three I will say "My God, what was I thinking?" and flee back to America. I don't know. I just know that I can't stand the thought of leaving here in September, so I have no choice but to make plans to stay.
This also means I can stop feeling guilty about buying so many books.
My parents have apparently told the rest of my family, and they don't like it. Reactions range from "She wants to be an EX-PAT?" (grandfather) to "Don't worry, I'm pretty sure this is just a phase" (aunt and uncle, mom's side). Actually my parents seem really proud of my declaration that I am staying here, which is why they told me all this while laughing, so I'm not sure why everyone seems to think "it's just a phase" is a comforting thing to say. I actually kind of miss my cousin - you know, the one I wrote about earlier, the one I am completely incompatible with - because I'm pretty sure her reaction would be "That's awesome!"
I kind of think - well, the situational irony here is amazing. I only ended up here because I was in a very prolonged snit over not getting into any master's programs for art, and basically said "Well, FINE, then. I'll go off and do grad work in a new department, a BETTER department. Screw you all." I deliberately applied for a one-year program so I would be able to leave if I hated it here. I was fully prepared to hate it here. I was sick to my stomach for a month beforehand over the thought of how much I would probably hate it here. I'm not really sure what happened, only that this is the first place where I've ever been happy even when I'm having a terrible day or getting B's on all my midterms. Now the thought of leaving makes me sick to my stomach. I have no idea what I'm going to do next year or where I'm going to live and I don't care so long as I get to stay here.
I've already had the "think about what you're giving up" conversation with my parents. Yes, it will be harder for me to buy my own house, which I really want to do, although I haven't come up with a good reason why (mostly so I can line the living room with bookshelves and not have to listen to anyone say "You brought home more books? What is wrong with you?"). Yes, I have already experienced the joys of Amazon Marketplace because that movie I wanted is not going to be released here. Yes, I realize I will always be "the American" because I am never going to get rid of my accent. Yes, everything is more expensive here and finding a dentist is a nightmare and socialized medicine is terrifying. Yes, I have said goodbye to decent sushi and guacamole. Yes, I am leaving New York all the way over there where I can't get to it, which is awful. It's entirely possible that in a year or three I will say "My God, what was I thinking?" and flee back to America. I don't know. I just know that I can't stand the thought of leaving here in September, so I have no choice but to make plans to stay.
This also means I can stop feeling guilty about buying so many books.
Monday, January 26, 2009
One reason to go back to the US for a week or two
I had a totally weird experience earlier this week. My parents, for Christmas, got me one of the books I used to read over and over again at around the age of 8, and then never saw again. I assume there was a lot of hassle and aggravation on their part, too, because I looked for this book for over a year and could never find it. It was Jean Ure's Plague. I used to get it out of the elementary school library every week (I don't know why I was so fixated, okay? Maybe it was foreshadowing of the hold Doomsday Book would have over my life from the age of about 12 to the present day.) And so I did a lot of gloating over it, and then I sat down and actually read it, and it was a completely different book from the one I remember reading. A lot of it apparently went straight over my head, and the book I remember it being was made up from the 20% of it that didn't.
I have had this experience before, of course. Last year when I was living at home and going slowly out of my mind, I went through all my stuff in the attic and unearthed my copy of Diana Wynne Jones's Dogsbody (the spine now consists mostly of Scotch tape). And I realized that although I had retained nearly all of that book, the political part of it had passed me by completely at the age of 7 and I belatedly did a lot of "OHHHH!" (INCIDENTALLY. This book is the reason why I named my blog this, and why the color scheme is black and green, and why I chose Antares for my screenname [although I had completely forgotten that Antares was the high judge in the book until I reread it last year, at which point I lawled], and why I own a telescope, and why I have intended to name my first dog Sirius since I was 7. It has nothing to do with any other female British writers who may or may not have written books that contain characters named Sirius who change into dogs. I'm still angry that my future dog will not be named Sirius because I am not that big of a masochist. Damn, that was a long and angry digression.) But that was the first time I have ever said to myself "Damn, is this really the same book? Because I would totally not believe it was the same book if I didn't remember these tiny details, given that about 80% of the plot is totally unfamiliar to me."
So now, I would actually really like to go home and go through the attic again and see what else I am completely misremembering. Stuff I still pick up and read from time to time when I am cranky won't work, like the Redwall books (shut up, they rule) but stuff I haven't picked up in at least 15 years should be interesting. I had every single Oz book ever written (L. Frank Baum actually wrote 9 of them, and then a bunch of other people wrote a bunch more, and I was spoiled and had illustrated hardback editions from the 1930's, I think, that I still hoard in my room) but I haven't read any of them since I was 8. Then I had most of Madeline L'Engle's books, but I've only read a few of them since I was 10, and the rest are in the attic somewhere. And I know there are more, because my parents were good about providing books, and our house is a black hole into which books disappear and are never heard from again ("WHAT? Get rid of books? ARE YOU INSANE?") and that complerely surreal reading experience has made me curious.
I have had this experience before, of course. Last year when I was living at home and going slowly out of my mind, I went through all my stuff in the attic and unearthed my copy of Diana Wynne Jones's Dogsbody (the spine now consists mostly of Scotch tape). And I realized that although I had retained nearly all of that book, the political part of it had passed me by completely at the age of 7 and I belatedly did a lot of "OHHHH!" (INCIDENTALLY. This book is the reason why I named my blog this, and why the color scheme is black and green, and why I chose Antares for my screenname [although I had completely forgotten that Antares was the high judge in the book until I reread it last year, at which point I lawled], and why I own a telescope, and why I have intended to name my first dog Sirius since I was 7. It has nothing to do with any other female British writers who may or may not have written books that contain characters named Sirius who change into dogs. I'm still angry that my future dog will not be named Sirius because I am not that big of a masochist. Damn, that was a long and angry digression.) But that was the first time I have ever said to myself "Damn, is this really the same book? Because I would totally not believe it was the same book if I didn't remember these tiny details, given that about 80% of the plot is totally unfamiliar to me."
So now, I would actually really like to go home and go through the attic again and see what else I am completely misremembering. Stuff I still pick up and read from time to time when I am cranky won't work, like the Redwall books (shut up, they rule) but stuff I haven't picked up in at least 15 years should be interesting. I had every single Oz book ever written (L. Frank Baum actually wrote 9 of them, and then a bunch of other people wrote a bunch more, and I was spoiled and had illustrated hardback editions from the 1930's, I think, that I still hoard in my room) but I haven't read any of them since I was 8. Then I had most of Madeline L'Engle's books, but I've only read a few of them since I was 10, and the rest are in the attic somewhere. And I know there are more, because my parents were good about providing books, and our house is a black hole into which books disappear and are never heard from again ("WHAT? Get rid of books? ARE YOU INSANE?") and that complerely surreal reading experience has made me curious.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Pretend this post makes sense.
I have two essays and a presentation to get done before noon on Friday, and then a final at some point after that (the school has so far refused to tell me when, and I'm beginning to have the horrified suspicion that it might be Monday morning, but I'm trying not to think about it because panicking never helps.) And so I've spent all day trying to be brilliant, and I haven't really gotten as far as I should have, but now it's evening and whenever I try to think there's this funny grinding noise and I smell burning. I've therefore decided that it would be entertaining to write a blog post without engaging my brain. Have some disconnected thoughts. You're welcome.
Every so often, I look in the mirror for longer than is necessary to make sure nothing inappropriate is hanging out of my clothing, there's nothing stuck in my teeth, and my hair isn't sticking up funny. This is usually when I notice that my eyebrows are large and bushy and appalling and I should really do something about them. I get out my tweezers. I usually average about one hair removed before I remember why I usually just try to coexist peacefully with my large, bushy eyebrows, because HOLY SHIT PLUCKING MY EYEBROWS HURTS. I realize it gets better after you've been doing it for a while, but I usually have to wait five minutes for my eyes to stop watering so I can see to move on to the next hair, and I simply don't have time to dedicate a full day to my eyebrows until I adjust. Also, I get the impression that makeup and manicures and waxings lie further down that path, so at this stage of my life, I'll just put up with them.
Lately, I feel like I don't really exist. (Bear with me here, this does make sense. I think, anyway.) I don't normally have a terribly exciting and glamorous life, but since I got here I have to work so hard to keep up with everyone else that I pretty much don't do anything except eat, sleep, do basic exercise and hygiene, go to class, and study. It's the most horribly boring, sterile existence, and I actually don't mind it because I'm solitary anyway, but this evening it occurred to me that I'm kind of like the backdrop for everyone else's more exciting life, because I don't have one of my own. An extra, if you will. Front Row Girl # 3. No one would notice if I died in my sleep and didn't come to class, because no one knows who I am anyway. It's a little depressing.
On the other hand, I've noticed a sudden upswing in the number of men staring at me. This is how men normally interact with me - none of them ever talk to me, they just stare - but there's been a lot of it lately and I'd like to know why so I can make it stop, because I really don't like it (really, does anyone like people staring at them, but refusing to actually engage with them? It's creepy and rude and is a large part of the reason why, despite my best intentions, I have such a low opinion of men. I'm a person, not a piece of scenery. Grow a pair and at least say "hi", for Christ's sake). My clothing, hairstyle, and general deportment basically whimpers "don't look at meeee" so I'm not sure what I'm doing wrong here. Please advise.
Today, I learned that it isn't only the dryer that eats socks. It's the washer, too. If you have a front-loader, they get stuck between the door and the tub. The washer I used this morning would have gotten away with three of my new ones if I hadn't noticed the corner of one of them sticking out. I haven't worked out what the dryer does with them, but I plan to.
Earlier this week, when I was taking another break from thinking, I wandered out of my normal corner of the Internet to look at Half-Blood Prince trailers. (It's my favorite Harry Potter book - I skip all the teenage angst and just bask in the wondrous glory of the dramatic irony - and I thought this time I would pay some attention, since Order of the Phoenix kind of snuck by me.) Unfortunately, IMDB wouldn't play any of them for me, and I had to go to a fan site. And then I had to go lie down from the sheer force of all the crazy coming out of my monitor, and I feel better about having been a Star Wars fan. I'm also relieved that NephthysWrath is planning to come over and see it with me, because I'm afraid to be alone with these people.
The paper I'm writing right now is for my theory class, and it's kicking my ass. The sad part is that it really shouldn't be, because I managed to get the topic that deals with agency and social structure, which I've actually already done in art theory. But the problem is that now I have to come at it from the other way around, and it's harder than it seems (I actually think it's giving me more problems than the other students who have never heard of it before). Also, I seem to be back to my old writing speed of 2 hours per page, which is depressing, especially as I have 6 more pages to go, I think. And basically, I'd really like to give up for the night and deal with it tomorrow morning, but I have to put my presentation together tomorrow since I have to give it on Tuesday (it's not graded, they just like wasting our time) and then I have to do that Egyptology paper that I put off for the entire break, and I estimate that will take me a minimum of 2 days. The two papers are due Friday at noon. It's going to be a long week. And a long night. Shoot me now.
Every so often, I look in the mirror for longer than is necessary to make sure nothing inappropriate is hanging out of my clothing, there's nothing stuck in my teeth, and my hair isn't sticking up funny. This is usually when I notice that my eyebrows are large and bushy and appalling and I should really do something about them. I get out my tweezers. I usually average about one hair removed before I remember why I usually just try to coexist peacefully with my large, bushy eyebrows, because HOLY SHIT PLUCKING MY EYEBROWS HURTS. I realize it gets better after you've been doing it for a while, but I usually have to wait five minutes for my eyes to stop watering so I can see to move on to the next hair, and I simply don't have time to dedicate a full day to my eyebrows until I adjust. Also, I get the impression that makeup and manicures and waxings lie further down that path, so at this stage of my life, I'll just put up with them.
Lately, I feel like I don't really exist. (Bear with me here, this does make sense. I think, anyway.) I don't normally have a terribly exciting and glamorous life, but since I got here I have to work so hard to keep up with everyone else that I pretty much don't do anything except eat, sleep, do basic exercise and hygiene, go to class, and study. It's the most horribly boring, sterile existence, and I actually don't mind it because I'm solitary anyway, but this evening it occurred to me that I'm kind of like the backdrop for everyone else's more exciting life, because I don't have one of my own. An extra, if you will. Front Row Girl # 3. No one would notice if I died in my sleep and didn't come to class, because no one knows who I am anyway. It's a little depressing.
On the other hand, I've noticed a sudden upswing in the number of men staring at me. This is how men normally interact with me - none of them ever talk to me, they just stare - but there's been a lot of it lately and I'd like to know why so I can make it stop, because I really don't like it (really, does anyone like people staring at them, but refusing to actually engage with them? It's creepy and rude and is a large part of the reason why, despite my best intentions, I have such a low opinion of men. I'm a person, not a piece of scenery. Grow a pair and at least say "hi", for Christ's sake). My clothing, hairstyle, and general deportment basically whimpers "don't look at meeee" so I'm not sure what I'm doing wrong here. Please advise.
Today, I learned that it isn't only the dryer that eats socks. It's the washer, too. If you have a front-loader, they get stuck between the door and the tub. The washer I used this morning would have gotten away with three of my new ones if I hadn't noticed the corner of one of them sticking out. I haven't worked out what the dryer does with them, but I plan to.
Earlier this week, when I was taking another break from thinking, I wandered out of my normal corner of the Internet to look at Half-Blood Prince trailers. (It's my favorite Harry Potter book - I skip all the teenage angst and just bask in the wondrous glory of the dramatic irony - and I thought this time I would pay some attention, since Order of the Phoenix kind of snuck by me.) Unfortunately, IMDB wouldn't play any of them for me, and I had to go to a fan site. And then I had to go lie down from the sheer force of all the crazy coming out of my monitor, and I feel better about having been a Star Wars fan. I'm also relieved that NephthysWrath is planning to come over and see it with me, because I'm afraid to be alone with these people.
The paper I'm writing right now is for my theory class, and it's kicking my ass. The sad part is that it really shouldn't be, because I managed to get the topic that deals with agency and social structure, which I've actually already done in art theory. But the problem is that now I have to come at it from the other way around, and it's harder than it seems (I actually think it's giving me more problems than the other students who have never heard of it before). Also, I seem to be back to my old writing speed of 2 hours per page, which is depressing, especially as I have 6 more pages to go, I think. And basically, I'd really like to give up for the night and deal with it tomorrow morning, but I have to put my presentation together tomorrow since I have to give it on Tuesday (it's not graded, they just like wasting our time) and then I have to do that Egyptology paper that I put off for the entire break, and I estimate that will take me a minimum of 2 days. The two papers are due Friday at noon. It's going to be a long week. And a long night. Shoot me now.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Pardon my TMI
Also my lack of entries. I have three finals to do in about the next week and a half, and I'm trying not to waste any more time on the Internet than I absolutely have to, although that's not working out too well for me.
Anyway, besides my finals and the sudden problem I've been having with controlling my depression (I've never had a problem with SAD, so I don't know what this is all about), for the past few months I've been spending about 75% of my time suffering from The Hormonal Crazy, and I am seriously considering going to the student health center and having myself put back on birth control pills. I give BCPs half the credit for my being so fat and angry during the second half of USC (Zoloft gets the rest of it) but I really cannot take the insanity anymore. The only reason I haven't been already is that I just know there would be a gyn exam if I did, and I've only had one since I was 18 (I like to take full advantage of the fact that I don't have a sex life) and on my own personal torment scale I rate gyn exams somewhere around "ripping out my own toenails with pliars."
But this week was seriously the last straw. I am accustomed to the fact that I usually spend at least 50% of my time dealing with The Hormonal Crazy, between getting PMS for a full week (I don't know how I get so lucky) and my period for another, which normally leaves me normal for 14 days and insane for the other 14. But sometimes I get these months where I go a little crazy for the week I ovulate too, and thus my month sometimes looks like this:
1 week of ovulation: 7 days of alternately fighting the urge to cut my hair up to shoulderlength and lying in a heap on my bed with the portable DVD player in my lap (does anyone remember last January when I cut off a bunch of my hair? That was probably why, although I made up a bunch of stuff that sounded rational at the time, mostly because I didn't want to say the totally irrational reasons why I was actually doing it).
1 week of PMS: basically, a lot of bloating. And sore boobs. And craving salt, which makes me more bloated and sore. And extra crankiness, although I'll be the first to admit that in my case it's hard to tell.
1 week of menstration: we've all been here. (and by we, I mean all the readers I know about, as you're all women.)
1 normal week.
It's like having some sort of reverse werewolf syndrome. I get one normal week and three weeks of being in pain, psychotic, or both.
And, as I said, this past week was the last straw. I got all the symptoms of being pregnant and I have no earthly idea why. I got morning sickness and bloating and random waves of nausea and acid reflux and vertigo and I even had one evening where my lower back was killing me, although I think that may have had something to do with the fact that I went for an 8-mile walk in the vain hope that more exercise would help my serotonin levels. And then yesterday I started feeling better, for about 2 hours, before I realized that my bra didn't fit anymore and PMS had struck.
Please, I'm begging for the madness to stop. I really don't want to go back on BCPs and have to put up with all the associated crazy from that as well (I remember a particular incident when I started shouting at a security guard, which is never a good thing to do) and we all know I won't go to the student health center anyway unless they promise I can keep my clothes on, but I can't take The Hormonal Crazy on top of the depression and I really need to get things done this month.
Anyway, besides my finals and the sudden problem I've been having with controlling my depression (I've never had a problem with SAD, so I don't know what this is all about), for the past few months I've been spending about 75% of my time suffering from The Hormonal Crazy, and I am seriously considering going to the student health center and having myself put back on birth control pills. I give BCPs half the credit for my being so fat and angry during the second half of USC (Zoloft gets the rest of it) but I really cannot take the insanity anymore. The only reason I haven't been already is that I just know there would be a gyn exam if I did, and I've only had one since I was 18 (I like to take full advantage of the fact that I don't have a sex life) and on my own personal torment scale I rate gyn exams somewhere around "ripping out my own toenails with pliars."
But this week was seriously the last straw. I am accustomed to the fact that I usually spend at least 50% of my time dealing with The Hormonal Crazy, between getting PMS for a full week (I don't know how I get so lucky) and my period for another, which normally leaves me normal for 14 days and insane for the other 14. But sometimes I get these months where I go a little crazy for the week I ovulate too, and thus my month sometimes looks like this:
1 week of ovulation: 7 days of alternately fighting the urge to cut my hair up to shoulderlength and lying in a heap on my bed with the portable DVD player in my lap (does anyone remember last January when I cut off a bunch of my hair? That was probably why, although I made up a bunch of stuff that sounded rational at the time, mostly because I didn't want to say the totally irrational reasons why I was actually doing it).
1 week of PMS: basically, a lot of bloating. And sore boobs. And craving salt, which makes me more bloated and sore. And extra crankiness, although I'll be the first to admit that in my case it's hard to tell.
1 week of menstration: we've all been here. (and by we, I mean all the readers I know about, as you're all women.)
1 normal week.
It's like having some sort of reverse werewolf syndrome. I get one normal week and three weeks of being in pain, psychotic, or both.
And, as I said, this past week was the last straw. I got all the symptoms of being pregnant and I have no earthly idea why. I got morning sickness and bloating and random waves of nausea and acid reflux and vertigo and I even had one evening where my lower back was killing me, although I think that may have had something to do with the fact that I went for an 8-mile walk in the vain hope that more exercise would help my serotonin levels. And then yesterday I started feeling better, for about 2 hours, before I realized that my bra didn't fit anymore and PMS had struck.
Please, I'm begging for the madness to stop. I really don't want to go back on BCPs and have to put up with all the associated crazy from that as well (I remember a particular incident when I started shouting at a security guard, which is never a good thing to do) and we all know I won't go to the student health center anyway unless they promise I can keep my clothes on, but I can't take The Hormonal Crazy on top of the depression and I really need to get things done this month.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
I don't believe I gave permission for it to suddenly be 2009.
I graduated high school in 2003, for heaven's sake. That means it'll soon be 6 years since I left. And it's not like that's so much scarier than 5 years, and it's not like I've spent all that time twiddling my thumbs. But still. It alarmed me for some reason, and I thought I would share.
My New Year's resolution is the same one it's been for quite a few years now - not to turn into my mother. I realize that, as a size 10/12 woman, society requires me to resolve to reduce the size of my ass, but this is way more important. You see, there is probably no one in the world besides me who will ever care how big my ass is, what with my being permanently and happily single, but this means I will spend the rest of my life fending for myself, and in that case I cannot afford to turn into my mother. She is, despite her master's degree, service in the Peace Corps, and subscription to Ms., the most helpless and dependent woman I know. I love her, but she cannot do a thing for herself. When confronted with a task, she will stand there helplessly until someone, usually my dad or myself, becomes exasperated and does it for her. She was single until she met my dad just before she turned 30, and if she was as bad in her 20's as she is now, I have no idea how she managed to survive them.
Also, she does not use or understand sarcasm. The thought of living in a sarcasm-free world simply blows my mind. It would be like losing my soul. (Yes, she does have a crush on House. I have no idea how.) So: I will not turn into my mother this year. Or the next. Or ever.
And on a less crucial note - I used to do daily updates in my old journal. I was thinking I might try going back to doing that, because clearly this "update when I have something interesting to say" thing is just not working out. It means I have to wait around until I come up with something that I feel is worthy, and that means that I don't write nearly as much as I should. Sure, daily updates meant I was sometimes reduced to talking about the state of my fingernails, but at least I was writing something, and the whole point of keeping this thing is so that I can continue to get over my teeth-grinding hatred of writing and consequently do better on papers. (This has been backfiring somewhat because I am still no good at formal writing, but at least it means I can write faster than my old rate of 2 hours per page.) I don't ask for comments here because I don't think I have many readers (there are only about 2 that I know about, and I don't use a site tracker because I think they're creepy) but if you would prefer daily, but probably more boring, updates, let me know.
Finally - I stopped using tags quite some time ago because I felt they were completely pointless. Having heard no complaints (possibly because all my writing disappears into the Void of Echoing Silence), I'm going to continue to leave them off.
My New Year's resolution is the same one it's been for quite a few years now - not to turn into my mother. I realize that, as a size 10/12 woman, society requires me to resolve to reduce the size of my ass, but this is way more important. You see, there is probably no one in the world besides me who will ever care how big my ass is, what with my being permanently and happily single, but this means I will spend the rest of my life fending for myself, and in that case I cannot afford to turn into my mother. She is, despite her master's degree, service in the Peace Corps, and subscription to Ms., the most helpless and dependent woman I know. I love her, but she cannot do a thing for herself. When confronted with a task, she will stand there helplessly until someone, usually my dad or myself, becomes exasperated and does it for her. She was single until she met my dad just before she turned 30, and if she was as bad in her 20's as she is now, I have no idea how she managed to survive them.
Also, she does not use or understand sarcasm. The thought of living in a sarcasm-free world simply blows my mind. It would be like losing my soul. (Yes, she does have a crush on House. I have no idea how.) So: I will not turn into my mother this year. Or the next. Or ever.
And on a less crucial note - I used to do daily updates in my old journal. I was thinking I might try going back to doing that, because clearly this "update when I have something interesting to say" thing is just not working out. It means I have to wait around until I come up with something that I feel is worthy, and that means that I don't write nearly as much as I should. Sure, daily updates meant I was sometimes reduced to talking about the state of my fingernails, but at least I was writing something, and the whole point of keeping this thing is so that I can continue to get over my teeth-grinding hatred of writing and consequently do better on papers. (This has been backfiring somewhat because I am still no good at formal writing, but at least it means I can write faster than my old rate of 2 hours per page.) I don't ask for comments here because I don't think I have many readers (there are only about 2 that I know about, and I don't use a site tracker because I think they're creepy) but if you would prefer daily, but probably more boring, updates, let me know.
Finally - I stopped using tags quite some time ago because I felt they were completely pointless. Having heard no complaints (possibly because all my writing disappears into the Void of Echoing Silence), I'm going to continue to leave them off.
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