Dove chocolates have foil wrappers with lovely little quotes inside, like "Savor small romantic moments" and "Express what's in your heart."
I want to find the one that says "Everybody hurts."
Friday, February 27, 2009
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Flourishing Fingernails
I want to take a moment to share my excitement with the world: I have fingernails!
This is not to say that I never had fingernails before, but never very much. I've been an avid/pathetic nail biter/remover all my life. Every once in awhile my left pinky nail would grow, but it would soon disappear. But after New Years, when I was sitting on the couch with a cold compress on my withered jaw (remember the wisdom teeth?), I lost all energy and will to attack my nails.
The desire has left me completely, and I have gone two months with fingernails, as seen here:
This has made peeling fruit so much more fun.
This is not to say that I never had fingernails before, but never very much. I've been an avid/pathetic nail biter/remover all my life. Every once in awhile my left pinky nail would grow, but it would soon disappear. But after New Years, when I was sitting on the couch with a cold compress on my withered jaw (remember the wisdom teeth?), I lost all energy and will to attack my nails.
The desire has left me completely, and I have gone two months with fingernails, as seen here:
This has made peeling fruit so much more fun.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Erotica
Let me first explain that this is homework.
In Pictures & Words class with Matthew and Robbi, we have been paired up to write and illustrate books together. The pictures and words will build upon one another to create a higher level of storytelling. Karen and I are very excited to be planning a stalker's notebook. It's from the perspective of a college student who becomes obsessed with a guy in her class and begins stalking him.
It's great. Since it's her own scrapbook, we've got her poetry with his shoe prints, her class notes with his head drawn in the middle, and-
Erotica. Yes. We thought it would be fun to show her mental decay as she becomes more and more obsessed with this poor baseball player (who doesn't have a clue). Claire thought it would be fun if I posted it on my blog.
Well, here you go. If you have any constructive ideas on how to make it smuttier, please comment. At this point, it's still in safe mode.
"He was the last person still in the locker room after even the other players and coaches had left to celebrate. The last person- except for her. She watched from behind a darkened corner, admiring his broad shoulders, his chestnut hair, his warm lips.
Even his jersey – which provided just a taste of the chiseled muscles that lay underneath – was perfect in her eyes.
She watched him undress slowly. His strong hands reached over to remove his shirt- she longed to feel the power behind those hands. They knew how to grip a bat and make a ball fly fast and hard out of the park. She wanted to feel that passionate grip and know such sensations as would send her to the moon. She moaned as he finally peeled his shirt off, revealing a golden six-pack of abs. But then he paused- had he heard? No, he continued, unaware that her body was begging, screaming, already giving itself up to his. Finally the snug boxer-briefs were all that remained, but in her mind they were already gone."
After I finish this assignment, I'll continue with the quest to become America's next great writer.
In Pictures & Words class with Matthew and Robbi, we have been paired up to write and illustrate books together. The pictures and words will build upon one another to create a higher level of storytelling. Karen and I are very excited to be planning a stalker's notebook. It's from the perspective of a college student who becomes obsessed with a guy in her class and begins stalking him.
It's great. Since it's her own scrapbook, we've got her poetry with his shoe prints, her class notes with his head drawn in the middle, and-
Erotica. Yes. We thought it would be fun to show her mental decay as she becomes more and more obsessed with this poor baseball player (who doesn't have a clue). Claire thought it would be fun if I posted it on my blog.
Well, here you go. If you have any constructive ideas on how to make it smuttier, please comment. At this point, it's still in safe mode.
"He was the last person still in the locker room after even the other players and coaches had left to celebrate. The last person- except for her. She watched from behind a darkened corner, admiring his broad shoulders, his chestnut hair, his warm lips.
Even his jersey – which provided just a taste of the chiseled muscles that lay underneath – was perfect in her eyes.
She watched him undress slowly. His strong hands reached over to remove his shirt- she longed to feel the power behind those hands. They knew how to grip a bat and make a ball fly fast and hard out of the park. She wanted to feel that passionate grip and know such sensations as would send her to the moon. She moaned as he finally peeled his shirt off, revealing a golden six-pack of abs. But then he paused- had he heard? No, he continued, unaware that her body was begging, screaming, already giving itself up to his. Finally the snug boxer-briefs were all that remained, but in her mind they were already gone."
After I finish this assignment, I'll continue with the quest to become America's next great writer.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Why I Will Not Sleep Tonight
Procrastination:
I had two headbands last semester that I really liked. One was brown and shiny, & the other was grey and glittery. I have not seen these headbands since Thanksgiving. So now, every so often, I have the sudden urge to find my my cranial accessories. I go through every desk drawer, dresser drawer, bookshelf, cabinet shelf, the fridge, toiletries, high school memory box, purses, medicine, and- the hair accessory box. Tonight's venture began around 11:30, probably because I'm finishing an Elm article. Roomie Claire put up with me marvelously as I shuffled noisily around the room, cleaning, sorting, praying, and pathetically searching for these six-dollar headbands that I will never find. I finally gave up and sat back down at my computer over an hour later to concentrate on scholarly pursuits.
Heebie-Jeebies
Suddenly, Claire gave a startled shout and sat up in bed, where she had been comfortably reading Revolutionary Road. Such an action usually means one thing: monster. She confirmed my suspicion as I scrambled for a really big paper towel. After its initial attack, it scuttled down to her book shelf and hung upside down, menacingly. I can usually lead a charge against such beasts, but there is a limit. I will not go after certain creatures unless a shoe is involved because I know that if I miss, the monster will flip in the air, land on my arm, and scuttle around without mercy. Claire took the lead on this one, bravely attacking the thing twice, and successfully flushing it down the toilet. So it doesn't lay eggs in our trashcan. We know what could happen.
I had two headbands last semester that I really liked. One was brown and shiny, & the other was grey and glittery. I have not seen these headbands since Thanksgiving. So now, every so often, I have the sudden urge to find my my cranial accessories. I go through every desk drawer, dresser drawer, bookshelf, cabinet shelf, the fridge, toiletries, high school memory box, purses, medicine, and- the hair accessory box. Tonight's venture began around 11:30, probably because I'm finishing an Elm article. Roomie Claire put up with me marvelously as I shuffled noisily around the room, cleaning, sorting, praying, and pathetically searching for these six-dollar headbands that I will never find. I finally gave up and sat back down at my computer over an hour later to concentrate on scholarly pursuits.
Heebie-Jeebies
Suddenly, Claire gave a startled shout and sat up in bed, where she had been comfortably reading Revolutionary Road. Such an action usually means one thing: monster. She confirmed my suspicion as I scrambled for a really big paper towel. After its initial attack, it scuttled down to her book shelf and hung upside down, menacingly. I can usually lead a charge against such beasts, but there is a limit. I will not go after certain creatures unless a shoe is involved because I know that if I miss, the monster will flip in the air, land on my arm, and scuttle around without mercy. Claire took the lead on this one, bravely attacking the thing twice, and successfully flushing it down the toilet. So it doesn't lay eggs in our trashcan. We know what could happen.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
No Time to Slow the Hell Down
Off to an excellent start, as always, I am slightly lagging this semester. Not hugely, but by now I should have: read more for Museum Studies; filled out more applications; started writing the Shakespeare paper; edited a Writers' Theatre script; and done 20 push-ups.
Why am lagging as such? Because I'm Laura, nice to meet you.
And because I've been working more hastily this week, I have made a number of incredibly over-hasty mistakes, including twice speaking to people in a confident or confidential way, only to realize I had no idea who they were. Inspired by my most recent slip-up, I decided to write them all down, so I can properly examine my psychopathia.
Tonight I went to the library to discuss a Shakespeare essay with the prof, who was teaching a class there this evening. Somehow, I managed to turn my back for the one minute when she walked out. Panicking, I booked it out of the library, following her and a handful of students students to the second floor of another building. "I can't talk right now," she said after I huffed out my question. "I'm in the middle of a five-minute break with a graduate class that still has two more hours to go. Could you email me?"
Stupid. Why didn't I just email her in the first place? Just like yesterday, when I emailed her out of the blue to ask about the format of the essay. She politely instructed me look at the topic paper she handed out in class, which is also on Blackboard, which is also attached to the email. It was then that I opened my notebook and found the hard copy.
Stupid. But I did email her my topic later tonight, and in re-reading the already-sent message, I noticed the last line: "Thus, I am writing about [etc.]. What do you think? Thank you? -Laura"
What the hell is that question mark doing there? She probably thinks I'm questioning her ability to teach. "Um do you merit a thank you? Are you actually going to help me out on this? Thanks, maybe?"
Further evidence of my over-hastiness: I'm applying for an honor society that requires three recommendations. So I went to three professors and asked for full letters of recommendation, here's my résumé, blah blah, etc. They kindly agreed. One asked if there was any other paperwork. "Not that I know of," I said. But he asked an advisor and soon told me that, yes, there is a form that everyone needs to fill out.
Great. I have to give everyone forms now. I had no idea. Suddenly, I was preparing to send the honor society advisor an email politely requesting that the forms be directly linked from the webpage. One minute before I was about to push send, I discovered the all-too obvious link to the necessary forms.
Miss Genius-Pants here deleted the every word of that email before exiting the page. Thank goodness that letter didn't go through. Still had to give the forms to my professors, pray that they hadn't wasted much time on the letters, and hope they'd still be willing to write letters in the future. After successfully straightening everything out with them, I suddenly took notice of a mass email the advisor had sent to the campus, mentioning the "letters of recommendation" that were due soon.
Letters of recommendation. I wanted to cry. I wanted to heave my brain off a cliff, and watch with stupid, unknowing eyes as the grey blob became what I knew it to be: a pile of goo. In a flury I emailed the man, begging to know if a letter was required in addition to that over-simple form. The answer:
No. I was safe. I was safe! Have you ever asked someone to do something big, then taken it back, then had to ask all over again? I haven't, and did not relish the idea of doing it thrice. I have learned my lesson (at least, I'm trying to). I need to slow the hell down.
And hurry up and finish my essay.
Why am lagging as such? Because I'm Laura, nice to meet you.
And because I've been working more hastily this week, I have made a number of incredibly over-hasty mistakes, including twice speaking to people in a confident or confidential way, only to realize I had no idea who they were. Inspired by my most recent slip-up, I decided to write them all down, so I can properly examine my psychopathia.
Tonight I went to the library to discuss a Shakespeare essay with the prof, who was teaching a class there this evening. Somehow, I managed to turn my back for the one minute when she walked out. Panicking, I booked it out of the library, following her and a handful of students students to the second floor of another building. "I can't talk right now," she said after I huffed out my question. "I'm in the middle of a five-minute break with a graduate class that still has two more hours to go. Could you email me?"
Stupid. Why didn't I just email her in the first place? Just like yesterday, when I emailed her out of the blue to ask about the format of the essay. She politely instructed me look at the topic paper she handed out in class, which is also on Blackboard, which is also attached to the email. It was then that I opened my notebook and found the hard copy.
Stupid. But I did email her my topic later tonight, and in re-reading the already-sent message, I noticed the last line: "Thus, I am writing about [etc.]. What do you think? Thank you? -Laura"
What the hell is that question mark doing there? She probably thinks I'm questioning her ability to teach. "Um do you merit a thank you? Are you actually going to help me out on this? Thanks, maybe?"
Further evidence of my over-hastiness: I'm applying for an honor society that requires three recommendations. So I went to three professors and asked for full letters of recommendation, here's my résumé, blah blah, etc. They kindly agreed. One asked if there was any other paperwork. "Not that I know of," I said. But he asked an advisor and soon told me that, yes, there is a form that everyone needs to fill out.
Great. I have to give everyone forms now. I had no idea. Suddenly, I was preparing to send the honor society advisor an email politely requesting that the forms be directly linked from the webpage. One minute before I was about to push send, I discovered the all-too obvious link to the necessary forms.
Miss Genius-Pants here deleted the every word of that email before exiting the page. Thank goodness that letter didn't go through. Still had to give the forms to my professors, pray that they hadn't wasted much time on the letters, and hope they'd still be willing to write letters in the future. After successfully straightening everything out with them, I suddenly took notice of a mass email the advisor had sent to the campus, mentioning the "letters of recommendation" that were due soon.
Letters of recommendation. I wanted to cry. I wanted to heave my brain off a cliff, and watch with stupid, unknowing eyes as the grey blob became what I knew it to be: a pile of goo. In a flury I emailed the man, begging to know if a letter was required in addition to that over-simple form. The answer:
No. I was safe. I was safe! Have you ever asked someone to do something big, then taken it back, then had to ask all over again? I haven't, and did not relish the idea of doing it thrice. I have learned my lesson (at least, I'm trying to). I need to slow the hell down.
And hurry up and finish my essay.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Truth About the Circulation Desk
Today at work, Mike G came in and noticed the small shiny placard on the main desk at the library. He stared at it for a while and asked a question that set us off on a journey of knowledge, truth, and betrayal: "What is desuetudinal?"
The little sign affixed to the desk near the book drop reads: A gift from a desuetudinal friend. I've noticed the existence of this sign, but never taken notice before. So I attacked the internet, but like the spell check on this computer, it doesn't accept desuetudinal as a word.
The closest word I could find was "testudinal" which relates to tortoises and their shells, and is therefore, probably unaffiliated with our desk. But finally, the noun form of desuedinal appeared. Here is a composite definition:
The little sign affixed to the desk near the book drop reads: A gift from a desuetudinal friend. I've noticed the existence of this sign, but never taken notice before. So I attacked the internet, but like the spell check on this computer, it doesn't accept desuetudinal as a word.
The closest word I could find was "testudinal" which relates to tortoises and their shells, and is therefore, probably unaffiliated with our desk. But finally, the noun form of desuedinal appeared. Here is a composite definition:
Desuetude: a state of disuse and inactivity, or quality of being obsolete
Thus our circulation desk was funded by an obsolete or inactive friend. Nice. Whoever wrote that placard was a pretty clever wordsmith. The donor must have been someone who was affiliated with the college long ago, but fell into disuse as a friend. Maybe it was someone who gave money, but who no one liked. So the placard people chose an adjective that no one would understand, so patrons would see some nice, unimpressionable vocabulary that told the bitter truth about who donated the desk.
Man, I love words.
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