Reality: Unscripted

Ground Control

2011-02-05T03:56:00.001-05:00

I may not be Major Tom, but I sure have been up in the air for a while.

Long story short, blogger-babies, I now possess an iPhone and the ability to post from all kinds of mobile locations at all hours of the day or night. This could revolutionize my blogging experience... or I could totally ignore my blog for months at a time. Again.

Booya. XD

BTW, did I tell y'all that I graduated college, was lazy all summer, and then worked my way up from part-time to full-time at Belk in less than six months? 'Cause, um, yeah. I did.

More to come, I hope. That second part of The Guardian will be finished at some point; til then, enjoy the random posts from 2:30am. Lord knows I do. :)

The Guardian, part one

2010-03-22T15:23:00.000-04:00

This is the first part of the story I've been writing for this semester's Fiction class. It's more or less a rough draft, because I ran out of time and wanted to add so much more to the story.
Part Two will be posted sometime around late April/early May, when the final draft is due. This has been so much fun to write - it'll be a struggle to finish it well, but we'll see what happens along the way.
-

The sharp slam of his car door echoed across the quiet parking lot. Mark adjusted his tie and kept a firm grip on his clipboard as he made his way to the front entrance of Christ Hospital. There was an odd stillness in the air, except for the chirping from a few sparrows bathing in the puddles scattered around the hospital parking lot. The gray sky threatened more rain, but that was expected. Spring in Cincinnati was always rainy.

The automatic doors slid open with a hydraulic hiss. Mark took a deep breath as he approached the welcome desk. The girl behind the desk was watching him walk, and it made him uncomfortable. “Hi there.” Be professional, idiot. “ I’m Dr. Buckley, and I have an appointment with Dr. Fletcher.”

“Oh, okay.” The girl handed him a laminated clip-on Official Visitor badge, clumsily working around her long press-on nails. “She’s in Cardiology. Go down the hall and take the last door on the left.”

“Thank you.” Mark clipped on the badge and adjusted his tie again out of nervous habit. Keep it together. You’re halfway there.

The nurse’s station door in Cardiology was locked, and Mark had to show a passing nurse his visitor’s badge before she let him through. Inside, in the midst of all the nurses rushing busily around inside the station, was a forty-something redheaded woman in dress-suit and a lab coat, standing by the patient roster, checking over a hardbound chart while the chaos of the nurse’s station parted to avoid her.

Mark tried his best to look professional and impressive – his first consultation was definitely not going to be his last. “Hello there; I believe you’re expecting me.” He fumbled for his visitor’s badge. “I’m here to consult on a patient’s psych evaluation.”

“Dr. Buckley?” The woman closed the chart and took off her reading glasses. She looked at him, and paused for a moment too long. “You’re early. I’m Dr. Carrie Fletcher – welcome to chaos.”

“Thank you.” He risked a glance at the chart in her hands. The front label had already been filled out: Rita Hayes | Room 201 | Fletcher. “I’d like to get right to business, if you don’t mind. Is this the patient’s chart?” He knew it was – why else would she be holding it already?

“Yes, of course.” Dr. Fletcher seemed hesitant.

Mark looked at her over the rims of his glasses. “Is something wrong, Dr. Fletcher?”

“No, no,” she said hurriedly, which meant there was. “…it’s just that you’re… younger than I expected.”

He smiled. “I get that a lot.” He did. In his school days, becoming a psychiatrist years ahead of his peers used to be a thrilling idea. Since then, the practical world had replaced that thrill with embarrassment. “Gifted” was the term his mother liked to use; others preferred “too young.”

Dr. Fletcher smiled politely and handed Mark the chart. “I’m sorry—I shouldn’t keep you from seeing your patient. She’s just down the hall – if you’ll follow me.”

Since the first few sections of medical charts were always the boring legal documents and informed consent papers, Mark skipped immediately to the Assessments tab. He tried to read quickly as he followed Dr. Fletcher’s brisk pace. The chart said Rita was fifty-seven, that she lived alone, and that a heart attack had brought her to the hospital. The nurses reported that a search for her only remaining family, a seven-year-old son in Dayton, had ended with a death certificate dated sixteen years ago. On the chart, Dr. Fletcher had written (in typical almost legible doctor’s-scrawl) hurried notes like “Refuses to acknwlg son’s death – insists he is alive. Delusional? Call for psych eval.”

Mark managed to scan the last few pages of the chart before Dr. Fletcher opened the exam room door for him. Closing the chart hurriedly, he tried to smile as warmly as possible at his patient.

Rita Hayes did not look very old, but her age showed in the laugh-lines around her eyes. She also looked significantly less crazy, and more like a regular patient, than the chart made her sound, especially now that she was sitting idly in her sterile hospital bed and wearing her standard hospital gown. There were no bandages on her arms, no burns, no cuts; nothing at all like a textbook schizophrenic. Her eyes were watching him, not darting around distractedly or staring into space. She seemed as lucid as anyone else.

Mark moved to shake hands with the patient. “Hi, Rita, I’m Dr. Buckley. I’d like to talk with you for a few minutes, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind at all.”

“All right, then.” Mark sat in the chair next to her bed and had to rummage in his pocket for his pen. How unprofessional. “…tell me, Rita, why are you in the hospital?”

“I had my first heart attack last night. I’m afraid this old body just isn’t what it used to be.” She chuckled.

Mark had to smile. “Well, that tends to happen after a while, you know.”

“Now, you’re too young to know anything about that!” Her voice was level and strong, and she was making eye contact whenever Mark paused his note-taking. And she was still smiling. Was she always this cheerful?

“Has anyone contacted your family, or is there someone else you’d like to call?”

Rita’s smile faded. “I tried to explain to the nurses about my son, Devin, but I have—met with some resistance about that.”

“I see.” Mark hesitated, and tried to choose his next words carefully. “When was the last time you spoke with your son?”

“Last Thursday. It’s not usually so long, but he had to go away for a while.” There was a pause. “Did Dr. Fletcher put you up to this?”

Uh-oh. He fought the urge to look to the other doctor for support –or a bail-out; whatever came first– and racked his brain for an answer. “Well, I…”

Luckily, Dr. Fletcher recovered faster than he could. “I asked Dr. Buckley to come in and ask you a few questions, but that’s all. If you want him to leave, you have the right to say so.”

Rita’s cheerfulness was gone; she was frowning at Dr. Fletcher now, and Mark tried not to look like he was watching. By the time she turned her attention back to him, her frown was more subdued. “I guess it wouldn’t be fair to shoot the messenger; it’s not your fault she dragged you into this.”

“All right,” he said softly, “but we don’t have to continue if you don’t want to.”

“No, I don’t mind.” Except that her furrowed brow said she did; just a little, perhaps, but just enough. “What else would you like to know?”

Mark checked his notes nervously; he had lost his place. “…well, ah—When Devin said he was going away, did he say where, or for how long?”

“No, he said he couldn’t tell me. Worries me to death when he does that – he has to keep little secrets, though. It makes him feel special, I think.”

“That must be difficult for you.”

Rita sighed through her nose. “Well, no, what’s ‘difficult’ is these doctors trying to tell me that I don’t know my son is dead. I never said he wasn’t!”

Mark’s eyebrows shot up. “You—you’re saying he is, then?”

“Well, yes and no – he died, Dr. Buckley, but he’s still with me.” She looked distracted now; she was smiling to herself. “He’s my little angel. My wonderful little boy is always watching over me.”

There was an uncomfortable pause, and Mark felt every moment of it. His mind was racing. He had studied delusions inside and out; he had written his exceedingly well-documented dissertation on this exact disorder; he had, according to experts in the professional world, become Cincinnati’s leading authority on schizophrenia. And now, in the wake of Rita’s perfectly lucid delusion, he had no idea what to say.

After what felt like an eternity, but was actually only a few moments of silence, his training kicked in. Keep her talking. Find out everything you can.

“He visits you often, then?”

“Oh, yes. He comes to see me at home all the time.” Her smile faded a bit, and she shifted uncomfortably in her bed. “If I’m not there when he comes,” she said softly, “he won’t know where I’ve gone.”

Mark gave her what he hoped was a kind (and not a pitying) smile. “I’m sure he’ll be all right for a while, but we’ll try to get you home as soon as possible.”

Rita didn’t seem comforted. “I hope so. He gets so worried when he can’t find me…”

-----

Dr. Fletcher closed her office door quietly behind her, and gestured for Mark to have a seat in the chair beside her desk. “That could’ve been worse,” she said, almost to herself.

“Well, that’s reassuring.” Mark took the opportunity to glance over his notes again, as scattered and semi-legible as they were. “How long do you plan to keep her here?”

“That depends on you, I’m afraid. If you give me the go-ahead, we can have her moved into a treatment program as early as tomorrow morning.”

“It’s a textbook delusion. Rita not only believes in a delusion, but she refuses to accept anything that challenges it. And the strength of the conviction in her voice, in her body language… it’s fascinating. It’s as if she created this fantasy to block out the grief and the reality of her loneliness.”

Dr. Fletcher’s chair squeaked as she shifted her weight forward. “Do you agree that she’s a candidate for institutional treatment?”

Mark looked up from his clipboard. She was watching him closely, her green eyes flitting around to spot each potential tell in his expression, even though he had tried so hard to maintain a stolid front. What is she looking for? Finally, he found his voice. “It’s difficult to say.”

The corners of Dr. Fletcher’s mouth eased into a smirk. “It’s difficult to say that we shouldn’t help a woman who can’t face the reality of her son’s death?”

“No, it’s not that.” Mark swiveled in the chair as he fell deeper into thought. “But something just doesn’t fit right,” he mused aloud. “If Rita truly was schizophrenic, other symptoms would have emerged by now – but she’s as lucid and communicative as I am.”

“The hospital is willing to do whatever it takes to help her–within reason–but I’m not equipped to treat a schizophrenic patient here. One of my colleagues at University Hospital could put her in psychiatric care.” She leaned back in her chair, looking at him over her steepled fingers. “It’s a good program, and they’ll take care of her. That’s what you’re worried about, isn’t it?”

It was, but he wasn’t about to say so; the state-sponsored mental institutions were as close to being comfortable prisons as their HR departments would allow. He knew a teaching hospital like University would be better than that, but only because anything would be. Still, helping a delusional woman lose her only comfort in life was not the way he thought he would start his career—but he was probably too young to have professional pride.

In any case, Dr. Fletcher wasn’t giving him much of a choice.

Mark took off his glasses and rubbed at the indentions they left on the bridge of his nose. “…all right, let’s do it. How soon can University start her treatment?”

-----

Mark was too tired to care about catching the front door, or about how loudly it slammed behind him – it was nice to finally be home. His apartment was dark, as always, and today it smelled more strongly of the cat than usual. He sighed to himself and tried to ignore the odor of urine. With all the fuss he had made about preparing for his first consultation, he had forgotten to change Sybil’s litter-pan this week. He had taken almost ten paces from the door before the black-and-white cat came out to circle around his feet, meowing in her quiet, chirping way and rubbing her loose hairs all over his clean black pants. When he picked her up and reached to pet her, she swatted at his hand and started biting his fingers – he had forgotten to feed her, too.

He carted the irritated Sybil over to her food and water bowls, cringing all the while at the sharp needle-like pain of her teeth sinking into his unprotected flesh. The sound of food pouring into her bowl provided enough distraction; she immediately stopped biting him and began to purr. Mark left her happily crunching on her dry cat food. He had escaped remotely unscathed this time.

After preparing his own dinner of fresh-from-the-freezer chicken, he sat down at his computer and pulled up an internet search for University Hospital. Their website looked innocent enough, like their system had been overhauled by a politically correct web-designer subcontracting to an expensive photographer. They even called their psychiatric unit “Behavioral Health Services”—it all seemed so cheery and helpful. Too cheery and ridiculously helpful.

Sybil jumped up on the desk and started batting at the chicken in his hand, and managed to scrape a claw across one of his fingers. “Hey! Wait ‘til I’m done, brat.” He tore off a piece of meat and tossed it over his shoulder. Sybil took a flying leap and chased it down, scrabbling to get a grip on the hardwood floor. He couldn’t help but chuckle at her. Spastic cat.

Mark brushed the breading-crumbs from his fingers before opening another search. He tried “Devin Hayes” in every public database he could think of, but found nothing. Finally, he unearthed an archived news article from a small-time newspaper with an even smaller website. Devin Hayes, a seven-year-old local boy, drowned a few miles from his home – and the paper called it a “tragic accident.” There were no witnesses or passers-by to save the boy when he fell into the river. The only family, his mother Rita, had refused to comment at the time.

There was a subsequent article of an attempted suicide two months later: Rita Hayes, age forty-one, ran a red light and wedged her car under an eighteen-wheeler’s back tires. Detailed pictures of the gnarled wreckage –what was left of Rita’s car– sent a shiver down Mark’s spine. Half the car had been flattened by the truck’s massive wheels, and the other half had been mangled and twisted beyond recognition, except for the area around the driver’s seat. The car insurance company had to identify the make and model based on their own records. Everyone interviewed by the paper said the same thing: Rita Hayes shouldn’t have survived.

Mark spent the rest of the evening trying to forget about Rita’s case. It was out of his hands now, and there was nothing else he could do; and yet, the images of the wrecked car still haunted him. A crash like that was nearly impossible to walk away from, but she did. She had seemed so happy and confident at the hospital - not at all like a grieving mother with a history of attempted suicide.

Finally, worn out from the long day, Mark went to bed. His apartment was colder than usual – he was shivering when he crawled under the covers. Sybil hopped onto the bed behind him and curled up behind his legs. He couldn’t shake the odd unsettled feeling deep in his gut at first, but eventually he was lulled to sleep by dull pattering of rain on his window and the soft rhythm of Sybil’s breathing.

It didn’t last long. Around three a.m., he leaped out of bed and ran to the bathroom, where he promptly vomited into the toilet. Several times. Shaky and weak, he pulled himself up to the sink and rinsed his mouth out. The godawful taste of acid and liquefied chicken made him feel sick all over again.

He spent the rest of the night on the bathroom floor with his dirty clothes as a pillow, only sleeping in fitful dozes. Every hour or so he would wake up and be sick again – how much could his stomach hold? Even when he thought nothing was left, something came up. It was a miserable night. His back and neck ached from lying on the hard floor, his sinuses burned with the stink of stomach acid, and his abdomen was sore from heaving endlessly into the wee hours of the morning.

As the stormy night gave way to a rainy dawn, exhaustion took over, and he slept.

-----

Cat claws scratching on the wooden door were loud enough to rouse Mark from his feverish slumber. He sat up, stretching out the stiffness in his back as he went, and let Sybil in the bathroom with him. She pawed at his knee to make him pet her and, when she grew tired of being adored, ran out – no doubt to sit hopefully next to her food bowl.

He groggily stumbled out and made it as far as the living room couch. It was already half past ten in the morning. Everything still hurt, and his throbbing head felt like it was stuck in a fishbowl, which could only mean his fever was getting worse.

After feeding his cat, he called in sick at his practice. His assistant would have to cancel all his appointments, but he didn’t care. Mark curled up on the couch with crackers and ginger ale, and prayed he could keep it all down. He slept most of the day, whenever he wasn’t running back to the bathroom; any solid food he tried to eat eventually came back up, and as the afternoon wore on, he found it harder and harder to swallow anything at all. This is ridiculous, he thought drearily. Whatever had decided to wage war against his immune system didn’t feel like bad food, a stomach virus, or even the flu – it felt much worse. It felt like poison.

He didn’t realize he had dozed off until something woke him: a soft whisper, barely a breath, from somewhere in the room. He thought it was Sybil at first, but she was asleep at his feet. It sounded like… Crying—? Someone’s crying? How—?

Mark sat up and looked around. The living room was empty.

The crying grew louder. He dazedly scrambled to his feet. “Hello?”

No answer.

He stumbled toward the kitchen in search of the source. It was already dark outside, and he hadn’t turned on any lights in his apartment. When he flipped the All On switch and flooded the apartment with light, the sound stopped. A young boy sat in a heap in the middle of the kitchen floor, his eyes bloodshot and his face red from crying. Mark couldn’t keep himself from staring.

“How did you get in here?” He asked. Had he been too deeply asleep to hear him come in?

“I can’t—I can’t find her,” the boy sniffled. “I can’t find Mommy.”

Something about this boy made Mark’s stomach churn again. He tried to ignore it. “Where do you live? Maybe I can help you find her.”

“No!” The boy screamed. “Get away from me!”

Another wave of fatigue and nausea hit Mark head-on; he fell to his knees, convulsing with dry heaves. When the little boy thrust out his hand, the heaves stopped. The hand went up, and so did Mark – he was yanked up from his knees by an unseen force. Dangling a foot off from the floor, he writhed and struggled to break free from the invisible grasp.

The boy’s arm was visibly shaking with rage as he stood. His little fingers closed slowly into a fist. Mark felt his airway closing. He panicked, thrashing around in midair, scratching his own neck as he clawed at restraints that weren’t there. His screams were strangled in his throat before they could even come out.

“You’re a bad man,” the little boy growled. “You sent her away. I won’t let anyone take Mommy away from me!”

Poetry Post: Elegy

2010-01-27T00:02:00.000-05:00

Wow. I'm really bad at this whole "blogging regularly" thing.

Ah, well, life gets in the way and that's fine. In the meantime, I unearthed this little ditty from last semester's poetry class. It's another depressing one (because, really, it's hard to write a cheeky elegy), but it's a little more personal than some of my other poems turned out to be.
-

Too Young

The casket made of wood and gold
was built to look like Grandma's did;
he loved her so, thirteen years old,
his trembling hand on her coffin lid.
The memory both heals and haunts...

An ember glows beneath the flames
before it dies... and he, too young
to cope with grief and loss, lies slain.
His still-warm fingers clutch the gun
that silenced all the Devil's taunts.

Poetry Post: Heroic Couplets

2009-11-09T09:18:00.000-05:00

Eighteen lines of heroic couplets in iambic pentameter. I wanted to write about something happy, but after seeing this girl at the mental institution where I work this semester, nothing happy came to mind. Not my best day ever.
-

All in One

At first she seems so simple and composed,
but watch... and down the rabbit-hole she goes
inside her mind, and never bats an eye.
A carousel of people whirling by
behind the placid stare; they want to speak,
they only want to help when she is weak,
for none of them would live were she to die.
They rage when she cannot defend, and cry
when the center cannot hold; the pieces left
behind by trauma and fear, each person cleft
from her, their host, and lashing out in pain.
Their handiwork: the scars that still remain
on her once unblemished arms. The angry one
once tried to drown her, and very nearly won.
As I observe her in her room, I see
the multiple, the girl with D.I.D.;
the girl with scars, with fears, with pain and doubt,
the girl who tried to take the wrong way out.

Poetry Post: Blank Verse

2009-11-05T18:04:00.003-05:00

Iambic pentameter is the least of your worries when battling writer's block. There really was a mantis watching me work. Ever had a bug for a muse? It's a strange experience.
-

Mantis
---

The praying mantis perching near my book
stays safely out of reach, where she can watch
with compound eyes unblinking; every move
is analyzed. It’s hard to concentrate
and read with her in silent audience,
though I stopped watching her some time ago.
I reach to try and touch her sticklike frame.
She tilts her angled head so quizzically
at first, and inches back uncertainly,
then looks away to feign disinterest
in boring, docile humans like myself.
It’s cute. ...diversionary fun, but cute.
I try to leave her be and read my book,
but when I turn around again, she’s gone,
and all my entertainment goes with her.

Long Time, No Blog

2009-09-29T14:24:00.004-04:00

That's right - I'm back, babies. Admit it... all two of you missed me. :3

This semester I'm taking a creative writing class on poetry (which is way more exciting than it sounds... partially because there are no tests. XD).
That said, the weekly poem will probably end up on the ol' blog. Like this poem here! It's a sestina, thirty-nine lines with repeating non-rhyming end words, using both iambic pentameter and iambic tetrameter. Throwing around poetry jargon maketh the poet feel all intelligent and stuff.
And yes, if you couldn't tell, I'm still researching Vietnam and related things. Like post-traumatic stress disorder.
(for extra points, you can play a little game I like to call "Spot the Obscure Yeats Reference"...)
--------
Somewhere in Viet Nam, 1969
—

The long, hard road we chose to follow
We all know we may never leave;
Each man feels the stifled fear inside,
And we know the memories we’ll hold,
The folks back home will never understand.
No soldier wants to die alone out here.

Some of the boys don’t remember why we’re here,
But there are always orders to follow.
At first, I couldn’t understand
Why any soldier would want to leave.
If we still had to fight for our ranks to hold,
Our wish to run would have to be kept inside—

But kids like us can’t keep it all inside!
The bullet that gets you, you won’t even hear…
And all you’ve got is a gun to hold
As you go where even angels won’t follow,
You force your fears to check out and leave.
That’s one thing I never wanted to understand.

This ever-present terror I’ve learned to stand,
It’s like a cold and deadened weight inside—
The kind of weight that just won’t leave;
The kind you know will always be here.
I’m afraid this weight will always follow
me, and the other boys to which I hold.

We know the Viet Cong cannot hold.
I know this army has to make a stand,
And I’ll march on ‘til there’s no one left to follow.
But I can’t seem to shake the feeling inside
That says I could, and would, just pick up and leave...
This war is the only reason I’m still here.

My tour has halfway finished here.
I don’t know how long my post will hold,
But I will fight ‘til the day I leave.
I only wish you could see and understand
The silent soldier screaming to death inside;
After his mind goes, his body is sure to follow.

Good men followed orders to stay out here...
From the inside, the Viet Cong won’t hold,
But I understand why a guy would want to leave.

Transforming Oedipus

2009-05-05T12:41:00.003-04:00

Yeah, it's gotta be Finals week if I'm blogging about stuff like this.

Today's reading comes from a little article on Fox News that, as a student of psychology, I felt bound to share with you, the general blog-centric public.

. . .

If that doesn't leave you disenchanted about old Disney Channel shows, nothing will. Freud's probably chortling from his grave right now.

No wonder Hollywood is going down the drain.
(Is going? Has gone?)

Hey, Mikey, I Think She Likes It!

2009-04-18T00:35:00.002-04:00

Test, one two three... I just want to see if this mobile blogging thing works. Besides, it's about time for an update, right? Does this count?

---

The bit above was texted to my blog. Sweet success is mine! XD
...delusions of grandeur seem to be mine also. :/ Ah, well.

So. The latest obsession is the soundtrack from Across The Universe. I haven't seen the movie yet (curse you, Covenant, for your lack of bandwidth!), but it apparently coincides with an era of history I've started to research this year: the Vietnam War. And if all goes well, over the summer I'll start on the writing project that has inspired this research.

Tell me what you think:
An epistolary novel using the letters and journals of three friends; starts around 1960 and continues through the major events in the friends' lives, including the uprising of Jim Jones and the People's Temple, and the effects of the Vietnam War both state-side and overseas. One character will go off with the People's Temple crowd, one will go to Vietnam, and one will stay home (because home at this time was, as far as I can tell, far more complicated than it seemed).

Yes, it's involving a lot of research. Even looking at calendars starting in 1960 to get all the dates down proper, and possibly inventing a platoon for a character who will be the soldier in Vietnam. I mean, heck, if Homer Hickam can do it...
(pick up a copy of Torpedo Junction sometime and imagine all the research that went into that. He's pretty intense.)

Historical fiction could be fun. Hard, but fun.

Give feedback! Any ideas? Book/research material recommendations?

Do Not Adjust Your Blog. We Control The Bandwith.

2009-02-24T13:54:00.004-05:00

It's about time for an Unscripted YouTube post. We shall see if my mad HTML skillz can make the embedding work properly. Let me know if something isn't working.

Enjoy!

First up: living proof that choreography is now vitally important for marketing.

Next: the frequently mentioned (on this blog) author Neil Gaiman, assuring us that buttons are not scary. At all. Particularly not if you're familiar with a major plot-point in Coraline.

Now, happiness all around: more references to musicals than anyone knows what to do with! (I wish I could identify all the songs for you... but alas, I cannot. Nevertheless, hearing Hugh Jackman sing West Side Story makes my life just a little bit more awesome.)
(another note: this video might be taken down eventually, like the other musical number from the 2009 Oscars that I wanted to show off.)

And on the topic of musicals, Gene Kelly was on an episode of The Muppet Show, and I am so sad that I'm too young to remember this show at all (my Muppet-related show was "Muppets Tonight", back when Disney had quality prime-time television). The song is from the Judy Garland/Gene Kelly flick "Summer Stock". Oh, and I freaking love Gonzo.

Finally, a scene from a movie I wish I'd grown up watching: Danny Kaye's "The Court Jester". I don't blame him for getting mixed up - I was, too, when I heard some college friends quoting this scene back and forth to each other.

On Self-Publishing and Publicity

2009-02-02T12:29:00.002-05:00

...well, not really. More like a couple of shameless self-plugs. -_-a

First, take a look to your right - you should see a new widget in that column for Twitter updates sent by yours truly. It's partially an aid to show the world that, regardless of how much or little I update my blog, I still live. Plus, Twitter is one of the coolest things I've mucked about with in the past year or so. Yesh.

Second, the short and fiction-like things are not coming along as well as I'd hoped. Fortunately, something else is: recently I began to load an ongoing project onto WEbook.com, and if you have the time, check it out. I'd love for some feedback, whether good, bad, or just plain ugly. ...with the exception of the last, probably. You can leave comments on WEbook only if you're a member, but feel free to leave comments here on the ol' blogspace, too.
Oh... and please ignore the obvious implications from the choice of character name. I tried to change it, but it just didn't feel right.

In other news...
Have you ever seen a highly attractive man maul a newspaper in a musical number?

Cool Stuff for Today

2009-01-25T23:16:00.003-05:00

Why do homework when you can blog?

I haven't had an entry of random cool things in a while. So here you are: mass linkage, coming up.
(Half of these I, ahem, stumbled upon. If you use Mozilla Firefox, add the program "StumbleUpon" from the add-ons section. Hours of entertainment. It brings up awesome things like this.)

Books and Authors:
Two of my favorite authors are on Twitter - Donna Andrews and Neil Gaiman.

TV:
A complete, exhaustive, and 80% facetious recap of the season 5 premiere of LOST from last Wednesday: Because You Left, and The Lie. (Warning: bad language. Lots of bad language. It is, nevertheless, hilarious.)

Movies:
Did I mention Neil Gaiman in the past five minutes? Because one of his books, Coraline, is now a movie. You can hazard a guess as to where I'll be on February 6th. (and I'm trying to forget that Dakota Fanning is the voice of the title character. Ah, well - you can't have a perfect movie, I suppose.)

Music:
Video for "Love Me Dead" by Ludo...
Video for "The Mermaid" from a Great Big Sea "kitchen party"... may I say, the b'ys throw great parties.

Internet:
This probably should go under TV, but never mind.
A segment from Whose Line Is It Anyway? that cracks me up every time: Irish Drinking Song: Wrong Name
(If that link doesn't work, try this one.)

And that's all for now. When I find something else cool, you will probably be the first to know.

Insert Applicable Dog-Related Pun Here

2009-01-19T15:11:00.005-05:00

This link will be particularly funny to anyone who has ever owned a pet and had to administer medicine to aforementioned pet.

One of my favorite authors, Neil Gaiman, has a blog/journal that I read regularly. He also seems to have a dog.

I never had to give pills to my family's cats, but there's been a time or two over the past year when I've had pill-duty for our dear and wonderful dog. It is the most difficult and most disgusting task I think I have had in the history of Milton family pet-ownership. Cleaning out the cat's litterbox pales in comparison to fingers covered in dog saliva and remnants of wet peanut butter, and that's if Daisy actually swallows the blasted pill.

I may have to try his trick. If you do, too, let me know how it goes.

Small Update...

2009-01-15T23:25:00.002-05:00

In an effort to maintain my sanity, I will be attempting to blog more this semester.

Yes, I realize that every time I say I will blog, I don't.
Hopefully I will have time.
Writing helps de-stress, therefore blogging should too, right?

Right.

Upcoming posts:
-I want to do an entry about the book I was reading at home about Dissociative Identity Disorder.
-Also, maybe show some rhyme or reason for the research I've been doing about Vietnam and, on a surprisingly related note, Jonestown.
-Aaaaand the big Doctor Who kick I've been on may catch on in the blog. Particularly if I keep watching Peter Davison's portrayal of The Doctor. ^//^a

Maybe I'll even post something short and fiction-like, if all possible. Assuming I write something short and fiction-like.

By the way, my dears... whilst I type away by the white glow of a laptop screen, it's 7.9° outside. Wind chill is -5° or so.
I'm in college in Georgia.
This shouldn't be happening.

Stay warm. 'tis the season to lose toes to frostbite, if you stay outside too long. Possibly even five minutes too long.

Walzing with Bashir

2009-01-14T22:21:00.001-05:00

Today's history lesson, and potential Oscar nom, is brought to you by this article from BBC News.

I must confess that I am not much of a "history person". Granted, I find certain eras of history more interesting than others, and I'm known do extracurricular research when something really catches my attention... but for the most part, important dates and notches on a timeline slip away from me like mud through a sieve (some of it stays, but not nearly enough). So don't be too surprised when I say I knew nothing about the Lebanese Civil War before today.
Apparently, it was bad. Very bad. I have no word strong enough to describe the horrible slaughter that this "civil" war brought. And that was before everyone started switching sides.

And now, they're making a movie about it.

Um.

Would it be too morbid if I said I wanted to see it?

Regardless, someone thought it was good. It made the nine-entry pre-pre-shortlist of the Foreign Films for this year's Oscars. If it was narrowed down from sixty-something other movies, I'd like to think there was something redeeming about it. (Then again, Pan's Labyrinth didn't get Best Picture last year... so maybe there's something wacked about the judging process. I hope not.)

This could bring up an entire debate about whether war movies should even be made. One country's suffering as another's entertainment sounds very distasteful, indeed. Then again, if the film is meant to depict exactly how horrifying the Lebanese Civil War truly was, maybe it can help more than it hurts.

In any case, I'll be scouring the Foreign Film section of Blockbuster for this one.

Hibernation

2009-01-13T09:36:00.003-05:00

Huddle against the cold.
Fight the icy wind that
pierces like a knife.
Grumble.
Shiver.
Whimper.

If there is a sun behind the gray,
I cannot see it.
The blanket of clouds covers,
smothers...
Push back the blanket
and let me breathe.

Spring will come
and the gray will go.
But for now,
I must wait
and hold my breath.

There IS a Doctor in the House.

2009-01-03T21:04:00.004-05:00

As of earlier today, there is an eleventh Doctor Who.

I'm excited... and a little blitzed. Maybe it's just because he's so freakin' young, but he looks like a guy I knew in high school.

Of course, with this news (which comes in the wake of a kicking awesome Christmas special) comes the expectation of David Tennant's regeneration in the next special, Planet of the Dead.
I haven't been into this show very long, mind you. The most recent season was already on TV when I started watching. I saw Nine's regeneration, but the knowledge of a very promising Ten was effective consolation.
I'm not sure how an attachment/adjustment to Ten will affect the viewing of the next special and beyond.

But I'm definitely excited about Eleven.
_______________________________________

Edit:
Oops. Totally forgot that Tennant is signed on for, I think, four specials, which will take his contract through the end of 2010.
Good Lord, I'll have graduated college before Eleven's adventures hit the screen. That's a scary thought.

Almost Home for the Holidays

2008-11-23T21:03:00.003-05:00

And by "almost", I mean two days from Thanksgiving break and less than a month from Christmas. My, how time flies.
(My fellow RENTheads should have thought, muttered, or shouted "Time dies!" in response. I hope you didn't let me down.
And yes, you know who you are.)

Hopefully, I'll have a better update in a couple of days. Probably Wednesday or Thursday. It wouldn't be a Milton-family holiday if I didn't blog about it, after all... and the best news: the second-cousins who demand their annual Land Before Time marathon aren't coming this year. That's right: we are controlling transmission this year.

And because it's an exceptionally nerdy day, I'm gearing up a month in advance for the New Year's Eve marathon of Twilight Zone on SciFi. Oh SciFi, have I told you lately that I love you?

To tide you over until my next post, have some fun with this little ditty. It's the short from my favorite Turkey Day special of MST3K, "Night of the Blood Beast".
You'll have to search for the second part on your own, though. =)
Enjoy!

Apparently, We're Changing.

2008-11-04T23:12:00.002-05:00

It's official.

I know I wasn't very politically-minded on my blog during the drawn-out, dramatic, and ridiculously publicized build-up to tonight's election. This was intentional. It's wearisome to hear friends, families, co-workers, fellow students, or anyone else arguing the same old trip over and over again. It's a lot of wasted energy to get so angry about it. Even now, I'm just thanking God it's finally over; as of last month, I made my voting plans and stopped caring for the "right" outcome -- any outcome would have been, and is, a welcome reprieve.

Nevertheless... the finality of it all is odd. I kind of expected an outcome similar to the last election. I knew deep down that Bush was going to be re-elected, no matter what. This time, though, my hunch was off. Way off. It's the first time I've had to deal with being on the "other side" of the political realm.
I think there's a quote in Firefly that is something to the effect of: "It may've been the losing side... [I'm] still not convinced it was the wrong one."

So next time, I'm moving to England so I can Vote Saxon. Or, if I stay here, Denny Crane. He piloted his own starship, you know.

Just Your Typical Superhero Musical Video Blog.

2008-08-08T12:08:00.002-04:00

Well, maybe not. XD

In any case, get excited, because Joss Whedon has struck again. Mutant Enemy put this together during the Writer's Strike; their little project surfaced in July, and I must confess, after I watched all of it I figured it would soon disappear from the internet all together (shameless plug: it is available for download on iTunes. Don't be cheap like me!). So I didn't post in the good ol' blog about it then.

And now that I know it's still up (wheeee!), I present it to you.

My dear readers, I give you Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog.

Disclaimer: it's about forty-five minutes long, so if you'd like to watch the three fifteen-minute acts at your leisure, they're on YouTube in parts. (yeah, I know, for some reason the three acts are each in two separate parts. Nine videos. And linking them all would be ridiculously tedious.)

Enjoy!

Two Words:

2008-08-06T23:42:00.004-04:00

Oh.
My.

To S&M!

2008-07-17T23:12:00.007-04:00

Your reading assignment is yet another news article. Because that's where I get all my giggles when I'm not watching House.

Just "Wow..." A long, drawn out, bewildered and overwhelmed "Wow." Followed by a long laugh.

I could get out my soap box on this one, but I don't know if I should preach about the depravity of society or the stupidity of Mattel's marketing department.
Or both.

I open the floor to the discussion of which is the greater of two evils: innate human depravity or the kid's toy company that seeks to exploit it.

Faulkner's Old South

2008-07-15T20:19:00.009-04:00

"The past is not dead. In fact, it's not even past."
-William Faulkner

No, I don't have my camera back. These are a few months old. But whenever I drive through some of the more rural* areas of central Alabama, I'm reminded of all the images of Faulkner's "old South": ancient landscapes covered in kudzu and Spanish moss; plantations sprawling across and towering over the warm, green grass of a Southern summer; small towns that never grew, but instead shrank away into memory...

And yet, the life from the past somehow remains. Dust and overgrown these buildings may be, they nevertheless stand.
__________________________
*rural (adj. Pron: \ˈru̇r-əl\):
1. of or relating to the country, country people or life, or agriculture
2. of or relating to a place where you must wait for the dog napping in the middle of the road to wake up and move before you can drive by.

Freaky Fourth

2008-07-04T13:58:00.003-04:00

Even as I sit down in the recliner with Rodney to blog, I can already hear the dominoes clattering on the dining room table over the humming of the dishwasher. I predict now that we'll be able to tell who's winning by how many threats they receive from my grandmother.

The holidays make everybody crazy. We made our last-minute trip to Wal-Mart last night with the foolish belief that we could run in and out in under an hour. Considering our normal trips take almost an hour, with ten or so minutes in the check-out line, we knew this was going to be a feat.
After standing in line for forty-five minutes in one of three lines open on our side of the store, Kate looked at me and said, "Do you ever feel like you're living in a sitcom?"
I wonder if the twenty other people in line were thinking the same thing.

By the way, Grandmama has threatened to backhand Dad for the third time in about an hour... sounds like he's winning.

Kate and I have kicked back for the amazing experience of a Twilight Zone marathon. Ever seen "Will The Real Martian Please Stand Up"? It's positively chilling. This is truly a TV show for the storytellers and story-lovers at heart -- you have twenty-five minutes to suspend your disbelief and willingly fall into a realm that teases, baffles, mystifies, and even terrifies the rational human mind.
This is, however, all in preparation for a Hitchcock movie marathon later this afternoon. As if The Twilight Zone wasn't freaky enough, we have to add a little more suspense into the mix. Sweeeeeet.

Oh-- fourth threat toward Dad. He's definitely winning.

I'm running out of battery, and it's probably getting close to margarita time. So while I settle in for "King Nine Will Not Return" (with the guy from Dial M for Murder -- w00t!), I bid you a very happy Fourth of July, dear reader. Tonight I plan to watch the fireworks display at the Prattville High stadium from the comfort of my roof, and maybe get in a couple of Hitchcock movies before turning in for the night. I hope your plans make you just as pleasantly satisfied as mine.

PS: Don't forget to say your prayers.

Free to Scrub Floors and Roll Gossamer

2008-07-02T22:33:00.006-04:00

Long-time readers of my blog (or since at least a year ago this month) may recall that my family is big on tradition. We know exactly where we're going and with which side of the family on each major holiday. Fourth of July brings to mind different things for the four of us Miltons: for Mom and Dad, images of BBQ from Pratt Park and margaritas dance in their heads; meanwhile, my sister and I can only dream of how much cleaning and decorating we'll all have the week before the shindig.

If you've never met my relatives, I would be willing to bet that your idea of cleaning house for a family get-together is different from mine. I am convinced my grandmother has a rare gene that has, as of yet, remained undiagnosed by modern science: it gives a person the superhuman ability to spot when something has not been Lysol'd within an inch of its warranty. In an effort to keep my grandmother bored, Mom and I agreed that this year's big project should be to "deep-clean" the kitchen floor. Point of interest: our kitchen tile was laid in the 1960s and is remarkably resistant to mopping. Our strategy, then, would involve three days, two scrub-brushes, and two-thirds a bottle of Oxy-Clean.
I went into the project with the mental image of Cinderella singing about nightingales, and felt at peace. Silly me. After the first day, I wondered why Cinderella never had bruised knees and wicked arm muscles. If she cleaned the floors on her hands and knees for the majority of her life, she should've had biceps the size of a midshipman's on the HMS Surprise and been able to carry Prince Charming across the threshold.

After completing the heavy-duty preparations, we move on to the next logical step: decorating. And yes, to keep up with the Southern Living example, we must decorate. Mom's ideas for this year involve the blue gossamer and glittery stars that were intended -and used- for our church's annual Independence Day potluck dinner on the 2nd, because she found herself in charge of decorating for both meals. Trust me, this is about as low-key as it comes for my family... one year for Thanksgiving we toyed with the idea of covering large pinecones with gold and silver spray-paint, and we have exactly zero pine trees on our property.

And amidst all the preparations and last-minute dashes to the grocery for the frozen margarita mix, I had the pleasure of attending the aforementioned dinner at church. The fellowship brought to mind the reasons why we go to such trouble of rolling out gossamer and ironing the nice tablecloths. For the first time all week, I wasn't bothered by the thoughts of which part of the kitchen floor needed scrubbing before Friday.
Then, in the middle of the dinner, we had a prayer for those serving in all the branches of the military. We have this kind of prayer every year, but this time I was deeply moved; one of my childhood friends is over in harm's way right now, and another man will soon be leaving to serve overseas while his wife and two little girls wait for him at home. Prayers for the families in particular broke my heart. I found myself to be the textbook example of seeing the forest for the trees; how could I have forgotten why I was free to scrub the floor, celebrate, and even have a church family to pray for?

How can we as Americans care so very much about American Idol and LOST, but not Presidential speeches? Why do we content ourselves with listening to public orators, stand-up comedians, and next-door neighbors who bash the government with all the conviction of the Rotten Tomatoes critics at a viewing of From Justin to Kelly? Why do we pointedly forget how we obtained the right to vote for Bush and then complain about him?

I don't want to get on my soap-box for very long. But before I put the box away, let me say this: if you're going to kick back tomorrow with friends and family, just remember to give a prayer for those who aren't able to be with theirs.

See you Friday afternoon for the annual Fourth entry... I hear there's going to be a Twilight Zone marathon this year.

Time Management... or Lack Thereof

2008-06-11T16:20:00.009-04:00

This is a tale of the inevitable problems that stem from my addictive tendencies.

Recently I picked up one of the most fascinating games to never have a plot: Harvest Moon. And it's taken over my spare time. To briefly surmise, you play as Jack (or Insert Name Here, whatever else you want to name him), who suddenly inherits a farm from a dearly departed friend. The job description of "owner" is not descriptive as to how you run your farm; it only requires that you do.

It's easy for me to get addicted to things like this. There's no plot to the game, unless you count the cut-scene drama of vying for the attention of one of the pretty young girls in the town with your "rival" for her heart. You make this little man work day in and day out for his living. Perhaps it's this vicarious experience that makes the game so fascinating.

So where does this leave Player One? Jack's out living his life, running hither and yon armed with a watering can, a sickle, and a fridge full of turnips. Player One is sitting in front of the TV surrounded by empty soda cans and, if he's been playing long enough, a couple of cobwebs.

Somewhere between taking care of the chickens and harvesting crops of cucumbers, I realized that a game covertly teaching me responsibility on a virtual farm was overtly causing me to shirk my chores in my actual life.

(As a point of interest, are there any other Trekkies familiar with the Next Generation episode The Game? Because the similarities are rather alarming... except that no one has deactivated my fridge in an attempt to take over my house.)

I think the Gamecube is going on the shelf for a little while... just until I stop having dreams about planting crops of potatoes in my backyard.

Blog of a Mad Caucasian Girl

2008-05-18T01:43:00.004-04:00

So today I figured out that two weeks of Stats class, irregular amounts of sleep, homesickness, and the impending stress of hosting a friend's bridal shower combine forces to make me cry during Prince Caspian. Multiple times. For the emotionally wrenching post-battle scenes and the warm fuzzy moments.
Funny, though, I made it through Steel Magnolias with only mildly misty eyes.

Also, I now know I loathe the kinds of people who allow themselves to be seen as "needy" and unable to take care of themselves. Be ye not confused with people who rely on others for support when support is needed, or people who seek out something they need (in a positive sense) from someone close to them. I hate stupid people, too. I really can't stand stupid people. I want to smack them with a two-by-four until it beats some sense into them.
And while we're at it, why do most to-be brides start taking stupid pills the day after they get engaged? I dare you to watch fifteen minutes of Bridezilla and still maintain the belief that I'm exaggerating.

Oh... and apparently I am a "pop culture sponge". Or so I have been told. Should that translate to "well-versed in many, even some obscure, areas of culture" or "a fountain of useless information"?
I prefer the former, but accept the reality of the latter.

Yes... welcome to the rambling thoughts of an insomniac college student. I'm beginning to sound like Holden Caulfield. Without the swearing.

Ramble ramble ramble ramble...

No Need For Vacation...

2008-05-06T18:10:00.004-04:00

Hooray for three weeks of May Term. And hooray for Statistics five days a week, 8am-12pm.

Note my enthusiasm. ...well, I'm sure you could, if there was any to note.
That class shall now be known as Sadistics 101. (Yes, I know I'm terrible. If you can't beat 'em, make sardonic jokes about 'em, right?)

Regardless, I hope you and yours are well, dear reader. The next time you hear from me, I will probably have a story for you; a fable about the evils of bridal showers in a small Alabama city...
...or perhaps a fairy tale, if I can manage it. I haven't figured one out yet, but I might try nevertheless.

Kick back with a book and a glass of lemonade for me. I'll be joining you in three weeks.

Yes, We Have No Prime Directive

2008-04-20T12:06:00.003-04:00

You know it's gotta be the weeks before Finals if I start updating more and more frequently...

I've been scouring the news again for more updates on the aftermath of the raid on the polygamist sect and their Yearning for Zion Ranch. (Yes, this is what I do when I'm procrastinating from a research paper.) The latest buzz is all about the kids: they're finally going to be separated from the mothers, who have been in custody all this time, and taken to foster homes or who knows where else.

So... all the people these children love and trust are being arrested; their beliefs are being questioned; everyone else is trying to tell them what's best for them in the real world, but these kids have probably never seen a mile outside of Zion Ranch. They don't know what the real world is. And everyone they trusted to tell them what the real world was has suddenly become untrustworthy in the eyes of everyone else.
All I can tell you is, in my unprofessional blogger's opinion with two years of a psychology major's education, this will not end well. The younger ones will be alright, perhaps, since they will probably not remember enough of the sect or their real parents. The adolescents who want out of the sect will most likely be fine, though it will be rough to adjust to a different life. It always is.
It's the kids who are too old to forget and still prepubescent for whom my heart breaks. Their stories will probably not end up in the papers as the next Oliver Twists or David Copperfields. In the psychological development timeline, this is the worst age to experience a trauma of this magnitude; the child can't just forget the majority of the life before, and hasn't the full range of coping skills developed in adolescence to help them deal.

I'm not saying the state is or isn't doing the right thing; I think they're taking measures to sort out the innocents from those who have broken Texas state laws. Nevertheless, there's a brilliant quote from Stargate Atlantis that comes to mind: "Listen, kiddies, everything you believe is wrong, and trust us because we've been here for almost an hour!"

The only truly bothersome thing to me is that I can't think of a better alternative.

Fear and Loathing in the New World Order

2008-04-16T19:03:00.004-04:00

It's dangerous to for me to read the news. I read too many headlines, spend too much time looking out from my electronic window down on the world, and I get bogged down in the reality of man's sinful nature, and to be honest, it really ruins my day.

This may or may not surprise you, but religious cults are a fascinating subject to me (though it may surprise you to know that this bit of information is pertinent to my previous thoughts). When I read about a cult getting publicity in the news, it attracts my attention. I guess it's a twisted sort of fascination; it's probably the same sort of thing that inspires people to crane their necks to see roadkill, find interest in the prosecution of a murder case or sexual crime, or become fans of CSI. So when I started reading about all this business with the polygamist Mormon sect in Texas, I retraced the media's steps as far back as May '07. This sect has been getting massive amounts of bad publicity for almost a year... the head guy, Warren Jeffs, is on the FBI's 10 Most Wanted for loads of child abuse charges -physical, emotional, and sexual abuse- and for marrying off young girls to older men as they reach puberty; and even though he's been arrested and his cult forceably "disbanded" (yeah, right), Jeffs seems to be controlling his congregation from his jail cell by allegedly sending and receiving messages by way of his elders. They fear him at the same time they worship the ground he walks on.

Now, as I'm reading all this for the first time, I start to see connections with other famous cults-gone-wild, particularly Jonestown. Seeing as how I'm too young to remember the events, it probably makes sense that I only recently learned the gruesome details of Jim Jones' Peoples Temple and the Jonestown massacre of '78. If you too are unfamiliar, do some research and be as appalled as I was: the end of it all happened when over 900 people committed suicide, whether voluntarily or by force, under the instruction of "Father" Jones and the influence of his "teachings." Now I know people can be very trusting, but I really wish people would use their heads once in a while. He manipulated them initially with sleep deprivation and an overload of work; some of his people would stay awake for weeks at a time. For the record, 60 hours of sleep deprivation will start to mess with your head, and 72 hours makes you eligible for the Special White Jacket Award. Jones was also known, retrospectively, for using guilt manipulation, sex, and drugs to keep his followers hooked.

There's nothing new under the sun, it seems. Using people to feed your own god-complex, making them do your bidding through fear, guilt, and manipulation... and they give back nothing but unashamed, unrestrained loyalty. If that isn't terrifying to you, I'm very sorry, but you are jaded and you need help.

And to further your reading pleasure, the latest news from Tinsel Town is that Scientology has been turning out dissatisfied customers. A TV actor Jason Beghe (no, I don't know who he is, either) has, in recent news, publicly renounced his social religion. I don't exactly understand all the jargon he uses, though the ever-faithful and semi-reliable Wikipedia entry tried to help out, but what I do understand came through loud and clear: for this guy, the novel sci-fi religion-of-the-month didn't make the cut.
(Blogger's note: in the article, there is a link to the YouTube video that the FOXnews article references multiple times. Is a three-minute teaser for an upcoming interview with the actor. If you would like to watch it, go ahead, but be warned of an abundance of language most foul.)

This all somewhat amuses me. Could there perhaps be an ounce of sensibility left in the minds of man?

It Might've Worked for Thoreau, But...

2008-04-13T18:11:00.004-04:00

I'm not completely sure everyone would survive very well living on squirrels and rabbits in a complicated box in the woods for two years.

Why do we try to make society better? I suppose that's a bit of an odd question... but really, when politicians make their promises of how they're going to change the world, do you believe them or roll your eyes?

Personally, I've perfected the eye-roll technique.

Perhaps I'm too familiar with the ideas behind 1984, Farenheit 451, Brave New World, "Equilibrium", and Shyamalan's "The Village", but the idea of some sort of utopian society doesn't really sit well with me.

So when I read about this little place recently, you can imagine how many mental images I got of The Village.

I admit that I am, in fact, tainted by Reformed theology, but I still don't see how a man-made utopia can exist successfully while humans and even the world itself remains in a pervasively depraved state.

I now open the floor for discussion.

To Emotion, Devotion, and Causing a Commotion...

2008-04-07T00:51:00.003-04:00

Freud has finally succeeded in making me laugh in a very good way.
In the middle of my homework, I discovered this little gem within my history of psychology textbook.

And I quote:

"In a paper presented to Veinnese Society of Psychiatry and Neurology in 1896, Freud reported that, using material uncovered in his free-association technique, his patients revealed childhood seductions, with the seducer usually an older relative, often the father.
. . .
The group received Freud's paper with skepticism. Krafft-Ebing, the society's president, said it sounded like a "scientific fairy tale".
Freud said his critics were asses and could go to hell."

No need to sugarcoat it, I guess.
The principle of finding swear words in my textbook is very amusing to me.

Thank you, Freud, for making us laugh at psychology... again... and again... and again.

Springtime, Inside and Out

2008-04-02T11:32:00.007-04:00

My latest endeavor is not exactly as, shall we say... creative as usual.

Take a look at these. I found them outside my door Sunday morning, as a gift from my hall prayer partner.

(Of course, to make the process a tad creative, the photographer must take a semi-artsy photo of them... ^^)

Odd, aren't they? They're little planters. Each one has soil and flower seeds inside; the green is marigold, the yellow is snapdragon.

Please, withhold your "eggplant" puns.

Supposedly, the seeds will germinate sometime around Sunday. However, the only reason this is an "endeavor" is because I have never prided myself to possess a green thumb. I don't even have a green toe (unless I fail to nimbly navigate a room full of furniture in the dark; then it's a black-and-blue toe). So we shall see if these little buggers make it past their first few stages of development.

In the meantime... I hope the happy spring weather has reached you as it has me. We have returned to the days of leaving our windows wide open without freezing to death... and I am very pleased at the abundance of merry sunshine up on the mountain.

Now that the seasons are changing, all that's standing between me and the end of the semester is two-and-a-half weeks of classes, and another two weeks 'til the end of finals.

Random Sighting #42

2008-01-22T10:24:00.000-05:00

Best bumper sticker ever.

Simply Having a Wonderful Christmastime

2007-12-25T16:22:00.000-05:00

Yes, my dear readers, here is the official Christmas Day blog post.
I thought about writing out a Covenant "Twelve Days of Christmas" (Twelve Days of Finals?) that's long overdue, but that will just have to wait. My creativity is taking the holiday off, it seems.

So... Alabama didn't grant us a white Christmas this year. That's alright; the last time I remember snow on Christmas day, I was probably seven or eight. Perhaps one day I will live in a state where it snows during the winter. ^^

Well, let's see.
The presents are open...
The food has been prepared...
The food has been eaten...
That leaves dishes, kitchen clean-up, and the car ride home this evening.
Yesh... It's been a good day.

A very Merry Christmas to you and yours, my lovelies; may it be merry and bright, and full of wonderful celebration of the coming of our Savior.

Just What I Needed

2007-12-12T08:53:00.000-05:00

...and now I hope that song is stuck in your head, too. It's still in mine.

Anyway.

As we wrap up Finals week here on the mountain, the thought of being on Christmas break is a pretty happy thought indeed. If I may wax metaphorical, I imagine the break will be like the moment just after an amateur swimmer surfaces after being underwater for a little too long: his lungs are aching for air; his limbs are burning from the strain; his mind is reeling from the panic of being seconds away from drowning... but as he breaks the surface, he is finally able to breathe once again.*

Unfortunately, this week has been the moment right before all that.

So when my hallmate found this video yesterday, it made this marathon week of enduring pain and suffering just a little less... well... less painful.

I now share the video with you now, dear reader, in the chance that you too might need a session of theraputic laughter.
Remember: it's only insulting and mean if you perceive it that way. :)
__________________________
*No swimmers were harmed in the making of this blog entry.

Revolutionary

2007-11-12T18:04:00.000-05:00

One of the classes I've been taking this semester is "Cultural Heritage of the West", or CHOW for short. We read the works of all the greatest (and sometimes the not-so-great) Western minds and in turn write about them, all in an attempt by the administration to bring "culture" to the Covenant student population.
We started the semester reading Greek and Roman writers like Homer, Plato, Aristotle, Virgil, and Marcus Aeurelius. Our textbook also included passages from the Bible, and when we got to Matthew and the Sermon on the Mount, here's what I wrote for one of my journal entries. I'm not trying to be too theologically deep about this; but if perhaps this is not a restatement of the obvious for you, as it was not for me, there could be a chance you enjoy it.
As a point of interest, I wrote all my journal entries in pencil (and I always write in pencil anyway) until I got this particular entry back, graded, with a note at the top from my professor: "What do you have against pens?"
---------------

While I find it nice to be back in familiar literary territory, I'm reeling from the abrupt change in worldviews. At least the Greeks and Romans differed over little nit-picky details; this is different in a huge way, like going from walking through sand to walking on a juiced-up moving sidewalk. Reading Matthew in light of studying Homer and Plato and Virgil is a shock -- Who is this Jesus guy, anyway? What's he trying to tell us? We've never heard anything like this! One God? Blessed are the meek? Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you? What kind of teachings are these?

But that's the message -and the impact- of the Gospel, isn't it? No to say the intention of the Sermon on the Mount is to just bring shock and awe... rather, it just naturally shocks and awes anyone who comes in contact with it, and with anyone whose life is the portrayal of the teachings of Jesus. And in the time of Christ, his words were not only freakishly new and different to the Greeks and Romans, but also the Jews and those who followed the Law of Moses. When Jesus takes all the "don't"s and pulls out a list of "do"s (or more precisely, "Blessed are those"s, I guess) and adds a new perspective of "inward" religion to a legalistic society, it absolutely blows the mind. "Eye for an eye" becomes "turn the other cheek"; "Love your neighbors and hate your enemies" becomes "love your enemies and pray for them"; "Do not commit fill-in-the-blank" becomes "do not commit fill-in-the-blank in your heart", much to everyone's (and I mean everyone's) surprise. His way of thinking was nothing short of revolutionary.

To take a quote from Back to the Future: "That's heavy, Doc." Very heavy indeed.

I guess I believe in a revolution, then. People could look at this Jesus Revolution (I randomly coin a term that reeks of oversimplification, but I'll save that argument for Doctrine class) and say, yes, this is the most peaceful, nonviolent kind of revolution. But it's only peaceful to those who choose to remain unaffected by it. To be truly immersed in this internal revolution is to see your own selfish thoughts and desires, your own sinful heart and mind be torn apart in the most painful and wonderful way possible. It's an internal one-eighty that I'm fairly certain the rest o the world could never understand.

Nonviolent? Possibly. But peaceful? Hardly. Not "peace" as the world sees it, anyway; it's internal turmoil that most could honestly do without, if given the choice. But from this struggle with sin comes a peace that surpasses human understanding.

So here's to the revolution: the revolution of the Gospel.

That's still heavy, Doc. But no one ever said a revolution was easy.

Remember You; Remember Me

2007-10-30T20:54:00.000-04:00

I suppose I write this because the memories of yesterday can be, if nothing else, bittersweet. And sometimes I like it that way.
----------------------------

Efad leaned back in her chair and rubbed her eyes tiredly. The paper-in-progress that was open on her computer screen just sat there, waiting for her to finish a sentence that, she decided, was going nowhere. With a quick frown and a flick of the Backspace button, the sentence disappeared. Good riddance to bad writing.

The record that had been playing now fell silent, and the record player gave a -click- as it turned itself off. Efad listened to the sounds coming in from her open window for a moment, debated putting on another record, and didn't stand up. Instead, she allowed herself to be distracted by glancing around her desk. College hadn't had the effect on her that she had hoped: in spite of her best efforts to learn how to keep a tidy workspace, her desk was quite messy. That wouldn't surprise anyone who had ever seen her room back home; in fact, if anyone from home had seen her desk just then, they would have marvelled that bits of the desktop were still visible.

And there, peeking out from behind the pile of notebooks and papers, was a picture frame.

Efad reached and plucked it from its hiding place. She felt a pang of guilt as she realized, judging by the layer of dust that came with it, she had placed it on her desk upon her return to Covenant this past August and then forget all about it. It was a simple silver frame with a whispy black design of curves and spirals; she had probably received it as a graduation gift two years ago. In it, she had placed a picture of a group of smiling people kneeling, crouching, and standing in a huddle on a beach. At the top in curvy white letters was the inscription "Panama City Beach, 2003". Efad smiled a little at the picture. She knew all the faces that were grinning back at her. They were all, at one time or another, members of her church youth group, including the youth director. She herself was in the picture as well, in the tee-shirt and overshirt she still owned, and a faded blue hat she had retired into her keepsake box back home.

...a moment captured in time...

"What'cha looking at?"

Efad looked up. Her roommate's chair, which had previously been unoccupied, now held a smiling young man. He was still wearing his normal blue "NIKE" tee-shirt, ripped jeans, and sandals, even though the occasional breeze from the open window told Efad it was well below sixy (or even fifty) degrees outside. Had it been anyone but Aaron, she would've thought the boy to be crazy, if not a little bit cold.

She smiled at him. "Hullo, Aaron."

"Hey." He craned his neck to look at the picture frame. "Wow, what a flashback. Where'd you find that?"

"On my desk. I-- oh, stop laughing."

Aaron choked down what otherwise would've finished a loud laugh, but couldn't suppress the rest of the grin. "Sorry. What happened to keeping a cleaner desk this year?"

"I like keeping things where I can find them." She looked at the piles. She had taken no great pains to make sure they were organized by both height and chronology: the tallest piles were clearly the oldest. "I'm afraid they're just not always in retrievable form."

"I see." Aaron hesitated, then shifted to lean his elbows on his knees. Efad didn't notice; she was looking at the photograph in her hand. He cleared his throat, and she jumped a little. "You, um... you okay?"

"Am I... uh, yeah. I guess so." She looked at the picture again.

...a moment captured in time; put the memory in a frame, keep it safe...

Aaron nudged her chair with his foot. "You sure?"

"Yeah." She didn't look up. "...I just can't believe how much as changed since this picture was taken."

"Ah."

Yes. There they were, all grinning and carefree on just another summer retreat... Efad brushed the cold glass with her fingertips; they started at the top row, moved down along all the happy faces to the next row, then the next, then the last, tracing a snakelike line in the dust. "I remember this year. This was the summer before my sophomore year of high school..." Her fingers started at the top again, resting on a dark-haired boy in a white shirt. "Joseph's actually smiling... he came from Baton Rouge to go to RYM with us." She felt so silly, telling Aaron things he undoubtedly already knew. Any of her memories would be his as well. She went on anyway. "He and his family were in Prattville the summer before last. He was trying to quit smoking, and got mad at me when I found cigarettes in his backpack... and when we all went to Wal-Mart, he rode the kiddie carousel for laughs." She was grinning in spite of herself now. "I still wish I'd gotten a picture of that."

There was a pause from the other chair. "Have you heard anything since the last update from his dad?"

Her grin faded. "...he's probably still recovering from the accident. He... he shouldn't've even survived, y'know, the way that eighteen-wheeler hit him. It's a miracle he did at all."

"Yeah, I know." Aaron looked back at the photograph and chuckled. "And there's John and Nate and Marie -- I didn't know all three Layor cousins went in 2003."

Of course, she knew he was lying, but Efad went with it anyway. "They did. Marie's married and has a little boy now... John is off in the army, and Nate's still back home." She paused. "I had better call John soon. His brother's fourteenth birthday would've been tomorrow."

"Yeah." Aaron looked at his feet. "To be honest, I thought you weren't going to make it dry-eyed through the funeral visitation."

Efad let her eyes drift out of focus as she stared at John's grinning face. "I didn't."

...a moment captured in time; put the memory in a frame, keep it safe, let it watch the world change...

"Soren and Rebecca look happy."

"They do." Efad looked at her two best friends. "Rebecca and Soren's cousin are going to the same college now. Rebecca's probably going to get engaged to that boyfriend of hers, too." She sighed. "I don't even know where half of these people are now... see these three girls?" She pointed. "They've disappeared from my radar. Last I heard, this one was going to college, this one was in a foster home, and this one... I think she graduated high school with Nate, but that's the last I've heard of her."

Aaron took the picture frame from her hands and put it on top of the desk. He smiled at her and tousled her hair. "I guess a picture can be worth a thousand words, then." He crouched down beside her and made her look at him. "E, it doesn't do you well to dwell on the past. You know how melancholy you get when you do."

Efad nodded once, solemnly. "I know."

Then Aaron was gone. The room was silent again, and Efad was left with her thoughts, her laptop (which had gone to screensaver), her messy desk, and her picture frame. She took it in her hands again, brushing her fingers over the familiar faces squinting in the Florida sun.

She wondered what it would be like to go back; travel back to a time when nothing really mattered... A time before death and tragedy had invaded the quiet little community she had once known.

What if Joseph hadn't been in that horrible car accident?
What if John's little brother hadn't shot himself?
What if friends hadn't drifted apart?
What if she had stayed?

What then?

"If we're not supposed to dwell on the past," she murmured, "why do we keep it stowed away in picture frames?"

A picture is a moment captured in time; put the memory in a frame, keep it safe, let it watch the world change around its glass sanctuary.

Say You Want an Update

2007-10-11T10:56:00.001-04:00

I wish I actually knew how "Say You Want a Revolution" went, so I could start randomly singing it on my blog. Oh well.

Because I'm cheap and short on time, here's what I updated my deviantArt journal with. I hope it suffices until I have more time to reflect on these last few months of voluntary indentured servitude to my education.

"BWAAAAAAAAH!
I shouldn't be on dA right now! I have two tests tomorrow (one of which is my most dreaded foe: The Math Menace), and while I've been studying all week for them, I slept in this morning just because I could and now I've gotten nothing done all morning and still have five chapters of Doctrine left to review, a Credo to write, things to memorize, and math to review!
BWAAAAAAAAH!
(how's that for a transcontinental sentence? *snicker*)

Ahem.
Anyway.

"The only thing we can report at this time is that there is nothing to report."
There's a good M*A*S*H quote for you.
And it's true. I have nothing for you right now; no art, no pictures, no writings, no nothing. I've been swamped since my last journal entry with all things school-related. Seventeen semester hours is definitely doable, but it takes a toll on some other areas of my life... like my art... and pieces of mah sanity...

But the good news is, I've been trying since September to finish the Pratchett/Gaiman book "Good Omens", and yesterday I succeeded before the real Apocalypse happened. That became my goal after two months of staring at its status of "Reading Now" on my Facebook page.
That should tell you how much time I get on a regular basis to sit and read.

The other good news is I'll be on Fall Break as of 2:00pm tomorrow!

Okay. Doctrine and Math are totally not being studied right now. I'll get back to you when I'm sitting at home bored out of my skull... And I'm looking forward to every minute of being bored."

So there. See you in a few days, my lovelies -- until then, it's back to studying for me.

Public Service Announcement

2007-10-08T15:16:00.000-04:00

Today's post is a PSA from the video-gamer community.
. . .
I don't know if it'd help to know the characters from this webseries, but I hereby acknowledge that there are a couple of inside jokes mentioned. Sorry. I know it's not nice to use an inside joke when you know someone will be left out of the humor, but I think the rest of the video can stand alone well enough.
Beware of some mild swearing and a couple crude jokes (so put your headphones in to keep the kiddies from overhearing)... but feel free to take in the thinly-veiled satirical humor and smile. I did.
Actually, I laughed. A lot.
Enjoy.
______________________

PS: Andy is a bomb. That's why it's funny for him to be on top of an exploding laptop.

An Addition to the New Book of Proverbs

2007-09-29T15:18:00.000-04:00

(note: this goes in the chapter following "Watcheth where thy maketh thy rest in the Psychology Lab, and beware that thou dost not poketh thy nose into business that is not thine, lest ye discover ye sitteth next to the brain of a sheep.")

"My son, taketh thee not a high-maintenance girl into thine heart. She is the viper that shall bite thy tongue and surely she will sicken thy veins with her venom."

Sometimes, when something like that news article crosses my path, I begin to suspect that one of the direct results of the Fall was the irreversable loss of common sense.

---
edit: in retrospect, this post seems incredibly cynical and insensitive to the consequences of this poor drunken idiot's decision of how to impress his ex-girlfriend. But hey, he's okay now; have a guilt-free laugh, folks.
And watch out for snakes.

Perchance to Dream?

2007-09-27T10:39:00.000-04:00

Just to help put this post in perspective, your reading material for today is a Wikipedia link about dreams and the process of dreaming. The first paragraph is a good summary, but it would behoove you to look at the rest of the article as well.

So. Backstory: Recently I was required to observe a newborn for a Developmental Psychology class, and most of this observation was spent watching the child sleep (yes, I know; imagine the odds of catching a newborn in the middle of naptime...). She slept for about an hour and a half, during which she would occasionally make anxious/distressed grunts and moans in her sleep; these noises were accompanied by the slight shifting of positions (not much, since she can't even hold up her own head...), some gentle kicking, reaching, and grasping.

Sounds like dreaming, doesn't it?

See, the thing is, it's a standing theory that newborns aren't supposed to be able to have dreams. Admittantly, the theory follows a logical train of thought: if dreams are fabrications of the mind and are made from the combination of memories and one's own imagination, then babies, lacking experience in both of these areas, should not have "dreams".
There is also the physiological aspect to consider. In particular, except for some stages of REM sleep, certain neurotransmitters react with associated specific areas of the brain to trigger the emotion- and motor-related responses we see when we watch someone dream.
But which is the cause and which is the effect? Do the neurotransmitters cause a dream, or does a dream cause the brain to fire off the neurotransmitters?
What was making the child distressed? What made her kick or reach to grasp at nothing?

I do not pose this because I have an answer. I merely thought it would make an interesting discussion; if you have any thoughts on the subject or any responses to my musings, feel free to post. I'll try to push the right buttons to make "anonymous" posting possible in my blog settings (still, sign your name so I know who you are), but if not, feel free to drop me an e-mail.

----
Edit: Anonymous comments have been enabled for a while -- if I start getting spam (which happened a lot last time I left the comments open to Anyone), I'll have to change it back, but it's all good for now.

You Never Know What You'll Find Around Here

2007-09-22T10:57:00.000-04:00

I have no earthly idea what class requires such a thing as this, but it was found late at night in the Psychology lab.

Yes, you read that right. "Sheep brain". And while you're at it, check out the name on the label. Mike Rulon is my professor and academic advisor; he's shown us a human brain in class before, so I suppose a sheep brain shouldn't be that shocking...

The story behind this isn't terribly extraordinary. I was sitting in the Psych lab with some friends (and with my camera) last night, and at some point I accidentally bumped a container that sloshed, so naturally I investigated. I put some distance between myself and the brain before I came back and took the picture.

The moral of this story is, don't go poking your nose into business that isn't yours. You might find out you're sitting next to a sheep brain.

What's This?

2007-09-07T16:02:00.000-04:00

Two blog entries in two days? Try not to look too surprised, folks. It probably won't happen again.

See, a funny thing happened on the way to chapel today...

...well, alright, it happened while everyone else was in chapel. Everyone except the girls from Caledon, that is.

They came in right in the middle of worship and moved in a semi-solemn procession in front of the stage looking something like this.

Those robes belong to Brethren, a guys' hall in Founders; Caledon is another hall in Founders. Be ye not fooled by the limitations of my picture: there are twenty-something girls on Caledon. It was a long line of monk-robed girls waking in front of everyone in the Chapel. I don't know how the girls got their hands on the robes, but I've got to admit: I am deeply impressed.

The spirit of pranking is back at Covenant, my dear readers. And I must say... I think I like it.
Mwahahaha....

And Now For Something Completely Different...

2007-09-06T17:52:00.001-04:00

Your college tuition dollars at work!
Yes, my friends, this is what we do in class here at Covenant College.

(Please ignore the fact that this shot makes my right thumb disappear.)

. . .

Let me explain.

...no, there is too much. Let me sum up.

We did an experiment in Drawing I this afternoon involving contour lines and markers.

Fear not, it is washable.

And yes, even though class got out at four, I kept the stripes 'til after dinner (which is now). ^-^

Booya.

____________

Edit: My summing up was not complete. For those who don't know, in high school I had a history of getting in trouble with my parents for drawing on myself. Thus, I found today's exercise particularly ironic. ("But Mom, Professor Carpender made me do it!")

It's That Time of Year Again

2007-08-22T13:29:00.001-04:00

I've been back on campus for a whole twenty-four hours (roughly, anyway). Highlights include moving furniture, an episode of extention cord/power bar confusion (in which we sought to borrow two power bars from a former hallmate, only to find a power bar and an extension cord that my dear roommate had forgotten about), one Wal-Mart run, one Bi-Lo run, two meals in the Great Hall, a visit to New Residence Hall (which is desperately in need of a name), and more hugs than I can count.
I'll probably be homesick for the first week. I already am. How does a nineteen-year-old justify homesickness?

Hopefully I'll be kept busy; being busy will help me to focus on where I am and keep me from thinking about where I'm not.
I have to register, i.e. give the admin. all the information they already have so they know I'm still me.
I have register my car, i.e. make sure I can park on campus even though the parking lots are overcrowded.
Classes start tomorrow.
I never finished the book I resolved to read over the summer.
Sigh...

In the immortal words of Samwise Gamgee: "Well... I'm back."

Fleeting Glances: Documenting Real Life As It Passes By

2007-08-13T22:17:00.000-04:00

Previous titles include: "What I Did On My Summer Vacation" and "Look Who Figured Out How to Upload Pictures!"

-----

Heh... a glitch in the Matrix! These twin bugs were spotted outside the Rave theater in Montgomery.

The funny thing is, we spotted these on our way into Harry Potter... and on our way out, we saw someone cosplaying as Harry Potter driving one of these two bugs. o.O I can only wonder what happened to his Firebolt.
-----
And now for something completely different.

This was found in a flea market in Montgomery.
You might be a redneck if you ever owned this. Jeff Foxworthy, eat your heart out.

-----

I still haven't figured this out...

Who even makes signs like that?
-----
The epic moving of the foosball table! I got Kate to take the picture; it was a comedy of errors getting the foosball table from the study to the den.

Good times... good times.
-----
Big, dark clouds... and I was driving as I took the picture. Totally safe, I know... but it explains the poor quality of the picture XD

A massive storm hit Alabama back in June; the day it hit, Kate and I drove from Prattville to Mobile and back again, each time passing through different parts of the storm. This was taken as we left Mobile. About five minutes later, I was a few feet from the car in front of me and could only follow the phantom brake lights; we couldn't see the car at all.
-----
Fourth of July at the house...

We were watching the fireworks show at Stanley-Jenson Stadium from the comfort of our roof. Dad got a little bored. :)
-----
Just lookin' at a David in a box.

It was almost as fun to see him climb in as it was to see him climb out.
-----
Never miss an opportunity to practice "artistic" photography!

^-^ I like clocks.
-----
I also like typewriters.

This was found in a house on the open house tour back in May. The clocks above were in the same house -- it was a nicely decorated place...
-----
I know I have this up on Facebook, but I couldn't resist putting it here, too.
I'm not kidding you. Chunky, Mississippi really exists.

Unfortunately, I didn't get a chance to take a picture of the sign for "Chunky Creek".
-----

The truth is often stranger --and funnier-- than fiction.

Everything has a story.

[Camera Pans Left: Close On the Steeple of the Church]

2007-08-09T21:15:00.000-04:00

Without you
the ground thaws
the rain falls
the grass grows

Without you
the seeds root
the flowers bloom
the children play

The stars gleam
the poets dream
the eagles fly
without you

The Earth turns
the sun burns
but I die
without you

The moon glows
the river flows
but I die

without you

Should we ever grow accustomed to the timely, yet unpredictable nature of death?
At best, we would be declared logical or realistic; at worst, calloused.

The world revives
colors renew
but I know blue
only blue
lonely blue
without you

Without you
the hand gropes
the ear hears
the pulse beats

Without you
the eyes gaze
the legs walk
the lungs breathe

The mind churns
the heart yearns
the tears dry
without you

Wednesday night, a thirteen-year-old boy in the congregation killed himself. No one saw it coming.
Please pray for our church congregation. The funeral is Saturday.
______________________________
("Without You" -- from RENT)

Spontaneous Mission Trip? Why, Sure!

2007-07-14T00:53:00.000-04:00

This afternoon, my friend Kathryn and I were talking on the phone. Earlier in the week we planned for her to stay overnight here at the Milton Hilton, since she would've been staying the next town over on her way to a mission trip in St. Louis. She let it slip that some of her group had dropped out of the trip at the last minute, and that their already-paid-for slots were open to anyone who wanted to go.

Now, seven hours later, I'm packed to go to St. Louis in the morning. o.O I don't really know how it happened. It just... happened.

Perhaps there will be a blog entry about the trip when I return next Saturday. In the meantime, keep us in your prayers -- it's going to be a fun week. XD

It's taken two months for my summer to get interesting. Hooray for spontaneous mission trips!

The 4th Update

2007-07-04T16:08:00.000-04:00

And in regards to the title... please, check your puns at the door.

Well, my lovely bloggers... another year, another July 4th with the fam. My relatives are currently engaged in the annual domino's match, Kate and I are watching a TV marathon of Law and Order, and I've had my yearly margarita. All is well. Of course, most of our little second-cousins have left, and the ones who are here are out back in the pool under careful first-cousin supervision... so I'm just happy to not be babysitting right now.

For those unfamiliar with the Milton family traditions, the Fourth of July means lunch with my Dad's side here at our house. And I'm not afraid to admit that the fun begins long before the actual event. Cleaning the house begins days before, especially now that my Dad's office is no longer in our house (this is first year since Dad started his appraisal business ten or twelve years ago) and Mom and Dad are not at home during the day to help prepare on the 3rd. I admit, the cleaning is not nearly as bad as the time we prepared the house for weeks before my cousin's post-wedding reception reception (yes, she had two receptions, and the second was "small" enough to host in our house), but memories of that experience still haunt me and have conditioned me to dislike house-cleaning. And all the cleaning has to be done at least an hour before everyone is supposed to show up, because there's always someone who comes early. This year, everyone was supposed to arrive around 11:30. My grandmother was walking in the door at 10:45.

Once all the family comes, the lunch itself is quite enjoyable. This year there were several more little second-cousins than I was prepared to handle; four, to be exact, when we were only expecting two. But we could've had five -- cousin Andrea, mother of two-year-old Noah, is expecting a little girl and is going to the hospital tomorrow to enduce labor. We didn't have to do much babysitting today, and for that I am glad. Matthew and Andrew still come over expecting to watch "Dinosaur" --The Land Before Time movies-- and nothing else, and even though we tried hard to push Disney to them this year, Beauty and the Beast is "full of girl stuff", in the words of six-year-old Andrew, and they're just not interested in Aladdin. Sigh. They just don't know what they're missing.

After lunch, if Matthew and Andrew aren't watching enough Dinosaur to make the typical adult brain explode, the adults break out the domino's and Kate and I break out the TV remotes. And after an hour or so of that, they break out the margaritas. Now, don't think any less of me, but I like margaritas. I have since I tried one a couple years ago (at July 4th... the only time my family mixes and drinks margaritas).

By the way, don't get tequilla in your hair. Dries it out somethin' awful.

Anyway.

Unfortunately at this point in my rambling, my dear blogger, I must leave you. There is clean-up duty yet in store for me, now that I've had a few hours of Law and Order and blogging on Rodney. Tonight I'll climb out on the roof with Dad and Kate, and watch the fireworks from the show down at the Prattville stadium downtown. It's the part of the day I most look forward to... other than this blog entry, of course.

Happy Fourth of July, everybody.

Additions to the Quotes Page

2007-06-12T11:12:00.000-04:00

Eh, it's about time I did another one of these just for fun. Now here's hoping at least half of these quotes can make sense stand-alone... or perhaps they're funnier because they don't make sense on their own. XD

I love my friends. Really, I do. But interesting things happen when my friends all hang out...
For instance, we can't watch a TV show or a movie without making fun of it.

While watching "Magic Knight Rayearth" (don't ask me WHY... x_x):
"It's a scantily-clad toga!" --Pat
--
"...did that thing just say 'poo'?" --Jasmine
(brief explanation... there's an odd little critter that makes what is supposed to be a cute-little-critter noise, but really... it's just saying "poo". It also makes food appear out of nowhere and somehow speaks telepathicly with the main characters.)
--
"My green is hair like your eyes!" --Efad (supposed to be "my hair is green like your eyes")
--
"There are words in my heart... along with the poo." --Pat
--
"Hey, small irritating creature, can you fart me out a Coke or something?" --David

While watching Cyrano DeBergerac:
"They're going to populate the world with stupid, pretty, superficial babies!"
"Well, it worked. [...] They're probably responsible for Brad Pitt." --Efad and Kate

While watching Reign of Fire:
Efad: "I want a dragon!"
Kate: "What?"
Efad: "I want a pet dragon! I'll name it Herbert!"
Katie: "That's probably not a good idea..."
Efad: "Aw, c'mon!"
Katie: "No, no no... Herbert go RAWR! Herbert go FWOOM! Efad go crisp!"

But we don't just watch movies with each other.
We also like our video games. We like them a lot.

Katie: *opens up her fortune cookie* "Hmm. 'A man who dares to waste an hour of time hasn't discovered the value of life...' Well, we don't waste time. Now where is that other Gamecube controler?"

We tend to become a tad vocal whenever we play.

--
"A car just fell on my head!" --Katie (Super Smash Brothers Melee)
--
"Squirrel! ...who appears to be wearing a tablecloth..." --Kate (Animal Crossing)
--
"Lyude, I cannot properly defend myself with cheese!" --Efad (Baten Kaitos)
--
"Right now, your life's ambition is to wear pants." --Efad to Katie (Final Fantasy XI)
--
"Hey -- you there! Get back in his mind!" --Katie (Legend of Zelda: Wind Waker)
--
"I spy with my little eye... something I can set on fire..." --Efad (Legend of Zelda: Wind Waker)
--
"I'm pulling an 8-bit Rambo!" --JJ (Gallaga)
--
"AAAGH, I hate him, he's so hard to kill! Especially when he's... um... not easy to kill." --JJ (one of the Dragonball Z games...)
--
"FEAR MAH ELBOWS!" -and- "My butt is on fire and I'm flipping you off in Koopa!" --Efad (Mario Kart: Double Dash)
--
Efad: "Hey, it's got little bits of soup in it!"
JJ: "Of course there's soup in it. It's SOUP." (Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess)
--
"Captain Falcon: Moose Inspector!" --JJ (Super Smash Brothers Melee... Capt. Falcon's taunt is "show me your moves" and we kinda misheard him...)
--
"I'll see your P-button and raise you a DEATH!" --Kate (Super Mario World)
--

And, like any group of friends, we have our running jokes, too.

-walk up to Pat, look him in the eye, and say "Little bottle of bleach".
-Start saying "Wheee!" randomly during a conversation with Katie.
-Every roof in Miami is red. Because 'CSI: Miami' says so.
-A list of Anime guys who have a Wrong Time of the Month. (Inuyasha... Ranma from Ranma 1/2... Dilandau from Escaflowne...)
-The phrase "Freezin' my FRICKIN' ARMS OFF!"
-The "WHO WEARS SHORT SHORTS!" song.
-Coffee Gnomes.
-And, of course, the exclamation of "Quotes page!" when someone achieves Quotes Page status.

But other than that, we're pretty normal.

--
"I had to rate my latest fic PG-13 for sustained scenes of danger and graphic pottery violence." --Efad
--
"I'd like to have a sensible voice in my head that gets hangovers." --Kate (watching A Beautiful Mind)
--
Katie: "Oatmeal isn't supposed to make you high!"
Michael Ben: "This is some awesome oatmeal, then..."
--
Katie: "Angst-muffin!"
Efad: "Angst-muffin?"
Katie: "Angst-muffin."
--
*Katie tries to stick a grape juice label on Efad*
Kate: "Don't label people, it's rude!"
Efad: "Yeah -- how would you like to be labeled a prep, or a jock, or..."
Katie: "...a bottle of grape juice?"
--

...well... essentially normal, anyway.

Katie: "This is your sneeze... THIS is your sneeze on crack!"

...okay, perhaps not.

The Dangers of Writer's Block

2007-06-08T13:25:00.000-04:00

---------------
Yes, I know, I take forever to finish even the shortest of projects. I started this in the most opportune of writing conditions: it was a day when I had absolutely nothing to do; I was sitting in a place where no one would distract me, armed with my notebook and pencil... and still it took me a month to finish it. Aargh.
That said... enjoy.
---------------

I lean back against the walls of the booth and let out a tired sigh. I've been trying to write. I've been trying to write something, anything, for weeks now. My notebook falls aimlessly onto my lap as I stretch my legs out, and I slip my pencil behind my ear for safe-keeping. It's still too early in the morning to concentrate on writing, anyway. I let my eyes wander until I find myself watching the ways the morning light reflect through my plastic glass, and I occasionally turn the glass to see the reflected light on the table change, morphing like a kelidescope of Powerade-yellow light. The sounds of the Great Hall are buzzing around my out-of-the-way booth, but the breakfast crowd can't hold a candle to the dull roar usually caused by the dinner crowd; most of the sensible Covenant students are asleep at this hour of the morning, anyway, and I don't know why I'm not. It's the day after finals and I should be resting... but all I want to do right now is write, even though I have nothing to write about.
I stop playing with my drink, sit back again, and close my eyes. If I listen, I can hear people talking, dishes clattering, silverware clinking, the drink machines humming... and if I concentrate, I can make myself hear nothing at all.
But a sound penetrates the silence: two sets of footsteps, shuffling along on the tile floor. I listen harder. Both people are wearing flip-flops or sandals, but not the flimsy ones the girls on my hall so often wear; and whoever is walking, both of them have long legs, judging by the length of their strides...
"Hey."
I open my eyes. Two tall boys are standing beside my table. The one closest to me, Aaron, is smirking and looking expectantly at me, and the other, Kevin, looks a bit cross, but I'm not worried. Kevin always looks cross anytime before noon.
"Oh, hey, guys." I'm a little surprised, to say the least. I haven't exactly been expecting to see them... "What are you doing here?"
"Never mind us. Don't you have things you need to be doing?" Kevin crosses his arms. "You're going home in a few days and there's packing to do."
I grin at him. "It's not like I've forgotten about going home, Kevin. Give me a break -- I just finished finals yesterday, for goodness sake." I look up at them again. They haven't moved to sit down yet. "Um... you can have a seat if you want, you know."
"Don't mind if we do." Aaron slides into the booth beside me, and Kevin stretches himself out on the seat across from us. I try not to grin at him again; even with his back against the back wall of the booth, his feet are still sticking out over the side. Aaron takes a sip of my drink, and his expression makes me laugh. "What is this?"
"Sprite and Powerade. That'll teach you to take other peoples' drinks, won't it?"
"It's not my fault you can't drink one or the other like a normal person." He looks sideways at me, and the twinkle in his eye betrays his jest. I chuckle at him. If anyone else had said it, I probably would've been a little put out at such an accusation, but I've been familiar with his sense of humor for a long time.
Kevin kicks off his sandals onto the floor. "What do they have to eat around here?"
"If they had anything worthwhile, I wouldn't be drinking Sprite and Powerade. You're welcome to look for yourself, though." I slip my pencil from behind my ear and start to idly fidget with it. Call it a nervous habit, but I tend to fidget with things when I'm not completely at peace with the world. A part of me knows that it's been a little too long since the last time these two showed up. Aaron was good about popping in every now and then, but Kevin was mostly content to wait and come until he knew I wasn't going to be busy with school or around all my Covenant friends. But now, both of them coming at once... something must not be right.
There is a slightly uncomfortable silence, during which Aaron takes another sip of my drink. I wonder, why can't he just go get his own? But before I can ask, he breaks the silence. "Alright, I know that look."
"What look?"
He sighs a little. "I know it's been a while since you've seen us. We've kinda tried to let you live the life of a college student without having to keep up with us--"
"Oh, don't be silly," I begin to protest, but he won't let me finish.
"--but really, there's a reason why we're here."
"You mean you're not here to make sure I'm packing to go home?" I inwardly wince at how sarcastic my tone sounds. I'm not angry with them...
"It's a little more serious than that."
I look up. Kevin is sitting with his arms crossed, and he's staring moodily at the wall on the other side of the room. Whatever's on his and Aaron's minds, it's not good news. "What's wrong?" I ask, and proceed to make a poor attempt at acting casual by reaching for my drink.
Kevin won't look at me. "Derek's gone."
"...what?" The plastic glass in my hand suddenly feels heavy and I fear I'll drop it, so I put it back down shakily. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Aaron shift uncomfortably. Kevin still won't look away from the wall, even though I'm speaking to him. "What do you mean, gone?"
"I mean, he disappeared! He vanished! He's completely gone, and he's never gonna come back!"
Aaron tries to warn him, "I think you should calm down," but he continues.
"I will not calm down!" Kevin fumes. "There's no reason to calm down! It's obvious that Derek disappeared because she" --he points at me-- "stopped writing, and you and I both know that the rest of us could be next!"
Now I'm the one who can't make eye contact. "I haven't completely stopped."
He scowls at me. "We wouldn't have come if you hadn't... because Derek wouldn't be gone if you hadn't. You don't even care that he's gone, do you?"
"That's enough." Only the tightness of Aaron's voice and his glare across the table give away how angry he is. "I think you should either calm down or leave. I didn't bring you so you could interrogate her." Kevin tries to say something more, but Aaron won't let him; he finally sits back, looking rather peevish about being reprimanded. I hear Aaron sigh through his nose. "I understand that Derek's disappearance isn't exactly sudden," he says, picking his words carefully. "He stopped coming around long before you stopped writing him into stories and such. But that doesn't change the fact that one of your characters is gone for good. You know the rest of us are at risk of disappearing like that too, right?"
I feel a pang of guilt. "Yes, I know."
"If you know," Kevin interjects, "then what's the problem?"
Aaron scowls at him. "Kev, if you won't stop your mouth from talking again, I will."
"No, it's okay," I say. "He's right. I can't seem to keep up with writing with y'all, and it really is my fault." I look back down at my notebook so I don't have to look up at Aaron and Kevin. "But I'm almost out of school for the summer. I'll have more time to write when I'm home, but there's still so much to do right now that I can't really sit down and concentrate on writing with a clear mind, you know?"
"We're not trying to pressure you or anything," Aaron says soothingly. "We just wanted to check and make sure everything was okay. ...well, I did," he adds with a pointed look across the table.
Kevin frowns. "Oh, come off it. I'm not heartless -- I was worried, too."
I smile to myself and start to say something, but I stop as I feel an odd shift in the room; the sounds of the Great Hall come flooding back to me and I jump, startled by the sudden noise. I look around for a moment, but Aaron and Kevin are gone. Perhaps they're content to leave me be for a while, now that they've gotten their point across to me.
I look down at my notebook again, and then at my watch. I've been in the Great Hall for almost an hour. With a small sigh, I close my notebook and pick up my drink as I leave the booth. It strangely didn't pain me to know that one of my characters had left me... he had always been reluctant with me, anyway, like he didn't want to be written after all. But maybe I could keep my other characters, the ones I've truly grown attached to, from disappearing forever. Now if I could only find some inspiration to write again, and such a thing was hard to come by these days.
As I think about my characters, the image of Aaron and Kevin sitting in the booth with me flashes before my mind's eye, and as I leave the Great Hall a smile creeps its way across my face. Perhaps I have something to write about after all...

No Wonder They Call it "Hell Week"

2007-04-25T18:14:00.000-04:00

Today was the last day of class. This can only mean that finals are just around the corner.

A week from today, I will be completely finished with my Freshman year of college.

Ten days from today, I will be home for the summer.

Ten minutes from now, I'll still be wishing that today was next week.

This afternoon I was cleaning up my desk; packing up the non-essentials, throwing away papers from last semester, putting my books into boxes, and all the while feeling like I was packing up to go home tomorrow. Talk about agonizing. I'm two grains of sanity away from jumping in my car and driving home tonight. And driving home tonight would mean leaving my worldly possessions behind, getting fined for leaving my worldly possessions behind, and leaving my college friends for the summer without saying goodbye.

I have a heart full of wunderlust and a schedule full of tests. How dreadfully ironic.

A Practical Application of Clinical Psychology

2007-04-20T12:27:00.000-04:00

Dysthymia (dis-'thI-mE-ah): (n.) depression characterized by a lack of enjoyment/pleasure in life that continues for at least two years. (See also: college)
Clinical Depression ('klin-I-kal dI-'pre-shun): (n.) a state of intense sadness, melancholia or despair that has advanced to the point of being disruptive to an individual's social functioning and/or activities of daily living. (See also: finals week)

Cheeky ('chE-kE): (adj.) Flippant; making light of something usually regarded as serious or sacred. (see also: signs and symptoms of sleep deprivation from studying 'til three a.m. for a psych test)

Two more weeks...

Look, Ma, We're In The News!

2007-04-03T15:45:00.000-04:00

I'm actually not as excited as the title makes me sound. Read it again, this time with sarcasm and just a dash of frustration.

You might want to read this before continuing with the rest of my post.

. . .

No, this is not an April Fool's joke.

See now, I don't know if my frustration is justified in any way, but I am honestly more than a little miffed. Whoever wrote that article did a botched job, I think; unless they were trying to leave out some important details, in which case they absolutely excell at their job. The greatest offense is that the article doesn't mention the "terms" discussed between the two parties, but instead leaves it to the imagination influenced by the power of press-made suggestion. As far as I have been told, the Covenant administration tried to extend multiple opportunities for the Equality Riders to come onto the campus; they would be allowed to talk with the students, the faculty, attend chapel, and have lunch in the Great Hall. Soulforce would not agree, so they were not permitted to come onto the campus property at all. After three hours of dialogue between the students and the Riders, four of the protesters came onto Covenant property in full knowledge of prior warnings, and consequently were arrested.
...also, the article left out that the Covenant students took boxed lunches to the Equality Riders. But that might just be me being nit-picky.

I think Channel Three has a better article than The Chattanoogan, but Channel Nine has a video with the coverage that I believe is the most fair and balanced for both parties. The Chattanooga Times has a pretty decent article, too.

Now, I know where I stand on all this, but I want to know what y'all think.
For your consideration:
the Soulforce homepage
Covenant's statements regarding the Equality Ride visit

UPDATE:
The Soulforce on-the-road blog updated with their take on the visit.
I must say, when I read it, I didn't know how to react. I still don't. My mind is still trying to muddle through conflicting experiences of indignation, distress, and confusion.

But I put all this up for you, the reader, to make your own decision based on all the evidence (or literature) that surrounds the Soulforce visit to Covenant College. I hope you will take everything into a careful evaluation of what happened this last Monday morning.

The March Post... Update... Thing

2007-03-29T12:35:00.000-04:00

I'm afraid there might not be too much to this post; I'm just trying to remind the electronic world that I haven't been wholly beaten and broken into submission by Realityland yet.

March (AKA spring) has hit full-force up here on the mountain. I think there might've been a day of transition between winter and spring, but that's just life in the South for you: Tuesday you go through the day wearing two layers and a jacket, and Wednesday you're down to a tee-shirt and a light windbreaker tied around your waist. And it's not just the weather that's taking a turn for the better -- the entire campus is coming back to life. Trees are budding, flowers are blooming, birds are singing... and there is a good number of students who can be found sprawled out on the sunny chapel lawn like a plague of lizards coming out of hibernation. And keeping in mind that we are a Christian college, I do wonder (with some amusement) if visitors think the students are encouraged to participate in sun-worshiping, what with the way they're all lying prostrate on the ground whilst in the presence of the almighty sun. I would say they're all doing their yoga, but this goes so far beyond just Sun Salutations into a near-religious zeal and infatuation. Of course, irresponsible sun-worshiping does bring about an epidemic of sunburn... and I bet there is a remarkable shortage of aloe around here. Heh.

Another point of interest: Wikipedia says there is no biologically scheduled mating season for the homo sapiens species, but I beg to differ. From all my psuedo-scientific observations from the Official People-Watching Window of Room 340, I have concluded that if there is no mating season, there IS a biologically scheduled "coupling season". In the same way a majority of the Covenant student body has rediscovered life in the warm weather and sunlight, they also have apparently rediscovered that there is, in fact, a decent representation of the opposite sex on campus. I know that coupling up in the winter is a little bit difficult at times; after all, it gets hard to tell who's who when everyone is bundled up and only exposing the three-ish inches of skin from the tip of the nose to the eyebrow line. You either give all your friends name-tags or you get really good at identifying people by their eyes.
But in regards to the increasing number of happy little couples engaging in the Let's Get Together game, it baffles me as to how some of these people DO get together when I'm relatively sure some of these couples didn't know each other existed before the end of February, much less all last semester. This is typically the pattern of the Firs' Year student. Yes, although it might give the 2010 class a bad rep, I'm afraid that most of the "Spontaneous Coupling" contest participants are of the Freshman variety. It is a tad amusing, though, that I hardly see one partner in a Freshman couple without the other inseparably joined at the hand. My cynicism tells me that very few of these couples will make it past the three-month mark, but my common sense tells me to mind my own business. And my muses tell me to write about it :)

Fear not, dear reader, for not all is sarcasm and cynicism in this little world of mine. There is something in particular that has kept me excited all month: Founders Music Video Night. Now for those who are unfamiliar with this one magic night of entertainment, I'm pretty sure you can put two and two together here... all the halls in Founders (the building in which I live) each have the opportunity to make their own music videos that will be shown in a single campus-wide event. It is a competition --the hall who wins gets $50 for their hall, I think-- held in the highest regard, but it's more fun than I've had in a long time. The actual event is tonight, but we Gallery girls have been planning and filming our video all the way up until the deadline (last Friday)... and, of course, I was heavily involved with the filming. We had to use my camera, after all, so I was automatically assigned the role of Head Camera-Person, but I didn't mind at all. I think I'm too much a kindred spirit to Mark Cohen to ever turn down an opportunity for filmmaking. Of course, this all involved frustrating brainstorming sessions in when the filmmaker and the self-proclaimed director locked horns more than just once or twice (much to the annoyance of several other Gallery girls... apparently it's okay for everyone else to have opinions except me), the filming process and taking too many takes, too few takes, not enough varied footage, too little varied footage... not to mention the painful hours that our wonderful and amazing editor put into making the footage into an actual video (thank you, Ike!). I know it all sounds like a great way to get a stomach ulcer, but up from the ashes of disaster and frustration came a music video. I think that's pretty shiny. I'll try and post it if someone ever puts it on YouTube or the like... :)

And here at the end of March is where I must leave you, my dear reader. Until next time... (or next month...) Same blog time, same blog place.

SEPA, Or "Fear and Loathing In New Orleans."

2007-02-28T12:42:00.000-05:00

(note: I've taken the liberty of assigning nicknames to everyone, just so's I can write about them without their permission and get away with it. And yes, it did take me a day and a half to finish this entry. Warning: this post is long, so beware of frequent digressions into nothing of great importance.)

The trip actually started when we left Mac Circle at 1:30 (eastern) Wednesday afternoon, but the bus ride was so uneventful that even taking pictures of the sleeping people lost its interest. Everything became much more interesting for us when we arrived in Louisiana.

It was 9:30 (central) when our bus slowed to a stop in front of the Sheraton on Canal Street. It was normally a very busy street, what with it being just a stone's throw from the heart of New Orleans, but with the exception of a car or two and very few people, it felt desolate and dormant. It was quite dark for a city, despite the orange security lights and white streetlights that illumined splotches of the sidewalk and even less of the street, but the last two trips I had made to New Orleans had been in the broad daylight. The darkness and the desolation combined only made the city all the more eerie to me.

We found out to our delight that we were all staying on the twelfth floor, and with our room assignments and luggage in hand, group after group went up the elevator to get settled for the evening. Keep in mind, dear reader, that everyone getting on these elevators lives at Covenant and with the Covenant elevators; and if you are unfamiliar with the significance of Covenant elevators, then, well... to just call them "slow" is an understatement. I'm fairly certain that every Covenant student spends 25% of a semester waiting for or standing in an elevator. So when I say that the elevator at the Sheraton positively flew up and down the shaft, I want you to know exactly what it felt like. I'd never ridden the Tower of Terror until I rode the elevator in that hotel. And I wasn't the only one -- stomachs lurched, hands gripped for support on handrails (or the nearest person who was already holding a handrail), and guys and girls alike let out grunts of discomfort at feeling their entrails being squashed down by the force of the G's. Twelve floors and 0.2 seconds later, we staggered out and found our rooms.

We'd already had Adventure #1, and we hadn't even spent five minutes in the hotel. Oh, my.

There was a mandatory meeting at 10:00, after which some of the group decided to explore the hotel and find the conference rooms where we would all need to be tomorrow. I brought my map, conveniently printed on the back of the conference program, and followed one of my roommates for the weekend, who I will from here on refer to as Cassie, and a couple of the guys down to the third floor. As it turns out, going down in the Mach Five is even worse than going up had been, and I felt I had to hold onto the handrails to keep from feeling like most of me was still up on the twelfth floor. But we arrived safely and started to look around, following the map that was not only not drawn to scale, but also more of an artistic interpretation of the hotel layout than an actual map. We walked up and down the long hall several times before we got our bearings, and soon after we had found most of what we were looking for, our small exploration was joined by another group consisting of Cyclops, Beagle, Rockstar, Wings, and a few upperclassmen, including Captain, who was the senior SEPA-attendee in my room. And when we helped them find the same rooms we had already found, Cassie and I learned that they were all planning to go walking around the French Quarter, and we jumped on the elevator with them and zoomed down to the lobby without a second thought.

If Canal Street had looked desolate when we had pulled up in front of the hotel an hour ago, it was all but abandoned now. Hardly anyone was walking around except our group of college kids, and thanks mostly to Cyclops, we were a slightly rowdy group for that time of night. As we walked, we noticed bits and pieces of broken Mardi Gras necklaces lying on the sidewalk and in the street: "Oh, Mardi Gras was yesterday, wasn't it?" Someone mused. Now reminded of that, the guys got the idea that if there were still some unbroken necklaces around, they would find them and take them home as souvineers... so the first leg of the trip consisted of the girls watching the guys climb fences, trees, and each other to get beads from ridiculously high places. Cyclops and Rockstar were even yelled at by some bouncers at a club across the street for their climbing antics. As the trip went on, the rest of the group got tired when one or two of us would stop to retrieve yet another necklace, so the stragglers eventually started to be left behind until the necklace gathering was put on the back-burner for a while. Instead, we scaled the stairs of a little semi-circular performance area (where I remembered I had seen a magician/comedian perform when I had been in New Orleans for my first time), found a little area up above that overlooked the nearby train tracks, and we all were entertained by watching a drunk guy stagger across the tracks and off into the night.

We eventually found ourselves in front of Cafe du Monde, home of the famous dougnut creation "the beignet", which is actually quite like a funnel cake on steroids. I'm telling you now, dear reader, you MUST have a beignet before you die. Yes, it's just deep-fried dough and mountains of powdered sugar... but eating a plate of beignets is something that must be experienced. And my finely-tuned pastry sense (thank you, Nii-san!) was going off like crazy when we found that the Cafe was open all night, but there were no late-night beignet stops in our plans, seeing as how more than half of us had blindly followed the party-goers without stopping to think about fetching wallets or purses. Sigh.

On the way back, we almost got arrested.

...okay, I exaggerate. The cop didn't even get out of his car, so it doesn't really count as even an "almost".

Alright, it isn't even that exciting in retrospect, but at the time it was a little scary. The full story is, as we had finally turned around to head for the hotel for the night, Rockstar spotted some beads in a tree that he deemed within reach, so he climbed the fence below them and started to try to get them down. The rest of the group didn't seem to notice he'd stopped, so I stayed behind with him since I didn't know what else to do. Unfortunately, in his rush to get the beads and in my mild panic about being left behind, neither of us noticed that the fence he was climbing was one of the fences of Jackson Square (at least, I think it was Jackson Square...), which had been locked up for the night to keep our mischievous imps like us. And when the police car that happened to be driving by slowed to a stop on the street behind me to see if we were trying to break the law, I panicked even more, and all I could think to say to Rockstar was, "Um... there's a cop behind me..."
"Are you serious?"
"Very."
Rockstar looked at the police car, gave the necklace one last obvious look, and jumped down. We started after the rest of the group at a brisk walk, but it escaladed to a jog. And he had a little too much fun relaying the story to everyone else when we caught up with them...

After our first night of awesome adventures, we made it back to the hotel and turned in for the night sometime around 12:30 or 1:00... only to wake up the next morning at seven and be late for breakfast at Cafe du Monde (Pastry senses... tingling...!) with the rest of the team. Three out of four girls in my room and a few others who had been left behind all power-walked down the the French Quarter, which in the morning light looked very normal and considerably less eventful -- a huge contrast from the sleepy, kinda shady downtown we had seen the night before. The clubs that had been thriving with nightlife and slightly intimidating in the dark were now dead, abandoned, and the buildings themselves seemed to have hangovers. All the small alleyways we walked by no dead bodies or passed-out drunk people, much to the dismay of the CSI fan in me. It was all almost as disappointing as discovering that the monster in your closet is actually the family cat tearing up a cardboard box at two in the morning.

But I digress.

After breakfast (hooray, beignets!) and registration for the conference back at the hotel, we spent the entire day sitting in paper sessions and lectures, wandering around the poster displays, and asking questions of a lot of people who were far older and much smarter than we. We all had so much information crammed into our brains in just one day, but I shan't bore you with the details, because I think the only thing I learned that I could easily communicate to a mass audience is, "I really DO need to take Statistics."

For the sake of brevity, I will skip ahead to the next adventure: dinner. Now, keep in mind that the group I hang out with could make anything into an adventure; dinner just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, in a manner of speaking. All thirty of us hiked down and around New Orleans until we came to Acme Oyster House (and you are not a true Looney Toons fan if this neither sounds suspicious nor makes you snicker), marched in the front door only to be shooed back out because of the size of our group, filed up the side stairway only to come back down because of a failure in communication, until we were finally standing outside while the servers played rock-paper-scissors to decide who would lose and have to work the tables of twenty-nine college students and their professor. And we all proved to be quite an ordeal after all -- even though there were repeated attempts by some of the "of-age" students to get permission to break contract, we were quite the rowdy crowd, rather messy, and when the oyster and crawfish plates were passed around... well... the simplest explanation to it all is that boredom begets creativity. It was the most entertaining night I'd had in a long, long time.

After dinner, there was nothing left but to resign ourselves to our fate: the notebooks. Since we SEPA-goers were all getting two credit hours to take the conference as a class, we all had to show our "process of learning" for a class that had no tests. These notebook assignments asked us to journal our "new learning", some ideas we wished to remember from the SEPA convention, the summary of each day we were at SEPA, a summary of our "new learning", a summary of what we had discovered about our major because of SEPA, a lot of other random notes and such, and things like five favorite memories of going to/being at the convention with everyone, five issues that stuck out in our minds, five ideas we wanted to apply to our daily lives after the convention... as you can see, it was a lot of writing. ...at least, a lot more than we thought it to be. And looking at this mostly empty notebook on Thursday night with the promise of "Oh, I can do some of this tomorrow night...", a lot of us put off the majority of the notebook writing until the beautifully indefinite Later and went downstairs to watch the SEPA presentation of Crash (brief summary: an intense and powerful movie, but definitely not for the kiddies...).

This "Later" turned out to be the next night, when a lot of us ended up writing 'til well past three in the morning to finish those dern-blasted things. We took over the hall of the twelfth floor and sat and wrote until we could write no more, and even then some of us were still rushing in the last few hours Saturday afternoon to get finished before the deadline of 2:00. So, as the deadline drew nearer, more and more students found themselves suffering through symptoms of carpal tunnel as they scribbled furiously in their notebooks, desperately praying for a miracle to slow down time itself, willing their hands to write just a little faster...

In retrospect, the convention was just one big rush-around chaotic trip; it was amazing fun, but absolutely insane. We were all so stressed and sleep-deprived that we could barely walk a straight line Saturday afternoon, and it was a long ten-hour bus ride later that put us back at Covenant after one in the morning on Sunday. We staggered out, went our separate ways for the night, and collapsed into bed; by Monday, we were barely back on our feet in time to tackle the last week of school before Spring Break.

If given the chance, I would do it all over again.

Life Lesson #23: "Scary" is Subjective

2007-02-04T21:50:00.000-05:00

There's a little bit of history involved in this little lesson, so try and stay with me.

The Backstory:
I do not like horror movies. In fact, in the tiny, barely visible corner of the universe where I'm allowed to file My Likes and My Dislikes, horror movies are filed in the way far back of the My Dislikes drawer. And it's not like I don't want to watch them because "They're stupid!" or "They're a waste of time!" (even thought they are...); my overactive imagination takes anything that is realistically impossible and convinces me that the impossible is hiding in wait for me in my closet, behind my door, or underneath my car. However, show me anything that is completely possible or let me read the supernatural freaky things, and I'm just fine. That's why I can watch CSI, Criminal Minds, Secret Window, and LOST (dude, trust me, it's a lot freakier than you'd think) and I can read Bram Stoker, Neil Gaiman, and Frank Peretti, but I have nightmares from just seeing the trailers for Chucky, Freddy vs. Jason, and Saw 1/2/3. Maybe it's the visual aspect. I don't really know.

The Situation:
Kate and I regularly watch Criminal Minds, which (as you hopefully gather from the title) often delves into the darker side of the human mind, into the thoughts and motives of the most sinister, most psychotic, most frightening people. As you can imagine, when it shows the crimes as they are being committed, it can be rather frightening to see what human beings can do to each other. Now, since the TV-watching pattern is predictable, we sometimes get hallmates who come in and start watching with us, but they come in a little unprepared. Because of this, some of them get a little freaked out about the show. One girl got up from an episode declaring, in all seriousness, "You guys have fun, but this is too scary for me."

The Lesson:
What is defined as "scary" in TV or movies is dependant on the viewer. Why did it take me this long to figure this out? I don't know. It's also a bit amusing how I expect people to be sensitive to my inability to watch horror movies, but when someone finds something that I like "scary", I can't for the life of me figure out why.

Hmm.

I'm not sure if this teaches me to be aware of others' tastes and tolerances, or if I have a really weirdly-wired mind. I'm willing to believe that both are true, and to add that I'm a bit of a slow learner. ^^; But no matter, everyone else can have their horror movies as long as I can have my psychological thrillers.

The Weather Outside Is Frightful...

2007-01-29T14:10:00.000-05:00

...and the classrooms aren't delightful...

*ignores the bespectacled asparagus in her head screaming "And stop being so SILLY!"*

And another semester begins. I've only been through my first month of classes and I'm already tired, even though I attribute most of the fatigue to my 8am class, which is a pretty big change in my schedule for night-owl me; also, I've only been back for a month and it's already snowed a couple of times. Well, nothing stuck, so it I suppose it flurried. ...very short-lived flurries. More like a distribution of snowflakes that one day hopes to grow up and be a flurry like its daddy. And while I'm on a rant about the weather, the cold temperatures freezing our fair campus only serve to remind me that, though I was born in the northern lands, I have yet to develop a decent tolerance to the cold. The only solace for my shivering soul is the knowledge that with this kind of cold comes snow, and with snow comes a snow day... and keep in mind, I'm a twelve-year homeschool alumnus from Alabama. Even when it DID snow (five years ago) I had no excuse of "There's no school today!" So the concept of snow days is, to me, the best thing since mashed potatoes. So, yeah. Baby, it's cold outside. (I'm sure you're just dying to know how many song titles I can fit into this post. Oh ho, ye of little faith -- I've only just begun.)

Tomorrow is our January "Day of Prayer", the news of which is greeted by most Freshman with a look of excitement and "You mean we get another one?" Yes, after the first month of each semester Covenant students are given a day to pray, have worship services outside of Chapel, and bond with our brothers and sisters in Christ... and, most importantly, not have to get up for an 8am class. And even though we, unlike other schools, may not get get off for Martin Luther King Jr. Day, Labor Day, President's Day, Columbus Day, Groundhog Day, Winter Stolstice Day, National Talk Like A Pirate Day, Saturnalia, Lupercalia, and Every Crazy Person Gets A Driver's License Day... we get Day of Prayer. And we like it, almost as much as we like Preview Weekends (it's a weekend plus good food to impress the ikkle previewers -- what's not to love about it?).

I'm afraid this is all the update I can give you for now, dear reader. For now, I must go and read more in my philosophy textbook. Oh, how I love reading about Socrates and his wily boy-loving ways... but I leave you with your Website of the Update (warning: contains foul language and spoilers for 24). Until next time!

And on another ADD note, I now know that I'm too big a fan of Crossing Jordan; I debated doing a celebratory dance when I figured out that Lu was written out of the show for good. Is that bad? ...does it count for anything that I didn't? o_o;

Pointless Update #2!

2007-01-14T14:47:00.000-05:00

^^a More videos for your entertainment, but they're not mine. It's a Harry Potter fan-made flash video series called the Potter Puppet Pals; the videos are ridiculous, bizarre, and positively hilarious. And, although something so random should not follow a sequence, they have a specific order in which they must be watched. Here they are:

The first...

...the second... (slightly longer than the first, and more entertaining)

...and now the third.

I don't know if it helps to have a vast knowledge (trans = the tendency to do obsessive-compulsive Wikipedia searches for all those weird little questions that fans ask when they have way too much time on their hands) of the Harry Potter world, but they're still fun. The third video deals quite a bit with things related to Order of the Phoenix, like all the wizard angst and Harry's random outburst of swearing, and it kinda helps to know who Dobby is and why it's funny to the fans that Harry has nightmares about him...
On the other hand, if you're a Harry Potter fan that gets injured by fanstuffs easily (not that I blame you, considering the never-ending supply of fanfics that make you beat your head against a wall), let me warn you that these flash videos are actually a bit irreverent and rather stupid as entertainment goes. A naked Dumbledore is such an absurd idea that it goes through the back door of comedy and comes all the way around the universe until it's funny. Personally, Wizard Angst (the third) had me laughing out loud, and now there's the running joke between myself and three others on my hall that we Bother! each other in passing... so...

On an ADD note, Crossing Jordan is finally back on the air tonight! W00T! *dances*

Much Funnier Than It Should Be...

2007-01-11T18:58:00.001-05:00


My grandmother got the ten-year anniversery, THX-embedded Tickle Me Elmo for Christmas. I got to see it when my family went to Huntsville for New Year's and, well... you just can't help but laugh. ...and yeah, I know, it's bad that I found Dad grabbing Elmo's eyeball almost as funny as the toy itself. ^^;

A Holly Jolly Rice-And-Gravy Christmas

2006-12-26T12:41:00.000-05:00

(Yeah, so I'm a little behind in getting this finished and posted... but I finished and it's posted, miracle of miracles, and I hope to update very soon with news from the start of the new semester. Wheeeee.... it's crazy, it's crazy, this place makes me crazy...)

Fear not, dear reader, both the rice AND the gravy shall be explained in due time. But for now...

December 24th, 10pm Central Standard Time. I can't believe a year went by so fast...

*stops typing, turns off her RENT playlist, and continues typing*

Right then. As you may or may not know, my family is quite keen on keeping holiday traditions, though not to the point of keeping a tradition for a tradition's sake. Most often, our Christmas traditions were started when Mom and Dad sat down and said, "All right, how can we see your family and my family before New Year's without going completely insane?", and thus what we have done for as long as I can remember --switching back and forth between the two families so that we are not with one side of the family on Christmas Day two years in a row-- is for the sake of keeping our lives simple and keeping all the relatives happy.

First in the tradition process? The preparations. As I stated in my post about Milton Thanksgiving traditions, our Christmas decorating starts Thanksgiving Night after all the extended family members have gone home. Mom and Dad first figured out back when my sister and I were but wee kiddies that bringing out the Christmas tree on Thanksgiving Night kept the family from getting the post-holiday blues; again, a tradition begun to keep our lives simple and keep everyone happy... besides, it gives us something to look forward to after the headache-generating chaos of Thanksgiving. I have so many fond memories of the annual tree decoration, many of which revolve around the humorous process of annually forgetting which tree branches get installed first (often accompanied by Dad shoving a branch at me or my sister and asking, "Does that look like red or orange to you?"), the painstaking task of keeping the cats out of the tree once it's set up, and endless hours of playing The Find-The-One-Bad-Bulb-In-The-String-Of-Five-Thousand-That-Makes-All-The-Others-Go-Out Game. Truth be told, we have even been known to play The Oh-You-Mean-THAT-Giant-Hairy-Spider-In-The-Tree-Bin! Game, but only on very rare occasion. And, after the tree is up, whether or not the garlands go up in the Dining Room is often dependent on how many giant hairy spiders we've found throughout the evening. :)

The events leading up to Christmas are almost as exciting as celebrating the holiday itself. There is a semi-annual caroling party with the members of our church, which always starts the downhill snowball of anticipation for Christmas. Every year we bundle up and gather together at our church, load up in car caravans and the church van with kids, our pastor, our choir director, the youth group, and any brave souls who don't mind riding in the van with the youth group; we have a box of candles, a box of carol songbooks (since no one seriously knows anything past the first stanza of a Christmas carol, as far as I've observed), and more gusto than we have actual ability to sing. However, this year's party was a bit of a bummer. There were no candles, hardly anyone from my youth group, and worst of all, it was sixty-five degrees outside. I've never seen so many carolers in tee-shirts and shorts in my life. ...it was a tad depressing, to say the least, but there's always next year to make up for it.

Another fine tradition we Miltons look forward to is the annual Office party, in which all six of the office workers, including Mom and Dad, gather together for fellowship over the dining room table... okay, so it's not as snazzy as a full-blown office party -- we pretty much just sit around and eat ribs. Lots of ribs. There's a place here in town that makes the most amazing, mouth-watering, fall-off-the-bone ribs this side of Birmingham, so if the promise of a good time is not enough to get everyone together, the dangling carrot of Fat Man's ribs certainly is. My sister and I are not workers in the Office, but seeing as how Dad's business is stationed in the house and Kate and I kind of live here, we are fortunate enough to not be left out of the festivities. ...plus, we like the ribs, too.

But I digress...

Family! Ah, family. I can't understand why folks my age say they hate visiting relatives. Every other year we spend Christmas with my mom's side in Huntsville, and that's where all the fun begins. Whenever we all get together, it's known that someone will inevitably begin yet another family running joke; this is where the "rice and gravy" comes in, as it is one such joke. At my cousin's graduation in May 2005, the night my family arrived Aunt Kim had prepared a huge pot of rice to go with our KFC dinner, but she thought the rest of the family was coming that night and fixed far too much rice (it was enough to feed a small army, but not quite enough to feed my church's youth group). And, considering KFC gave us twice as much gravy as we'd asked, we had (easily, IMO) a gallon of gravy and more rice than anyone should want to eat in a lifetime. Needless to say, we ate rice and gravy with everything that weekend, and nowadays we still grin and rib each other at the mention of the rice and the gravy. Another joke of which my mother is fond of reminding me has to do with my rather accident-prone nature. Growing up, I thought it would go away as I entered adolescence, but it only got worse as I entered Jr. High. So, when I was fourteen, we spent Christmas Eve in the Huntsville emergency room because I had mysteriously gotten poison ivy around my eye. Ever since then, when we drive past the emergency room, Mom says, "Elizabeth, let's go visit everyone at the hospital, just for old times' sake!"

Every year at my grandparents' house, we endeavor to cram as many people into a house that, as it has been noted, could crumble at the foundation if my grandfather's snoring boston terrier decided to sleep in just the right place. In fact, for many years there was so much snoring between my uncles, my dad, and BeeJay (the dog) that I'm surprised no one came to investigate the unexplained seismic activity in my grandparents' neighborhood. But the house has survived; that three-bedroom/two-bathroom house has been the cozy lodging for all thirteen of us (fifteen if you count the two dogs; sixteen if you count my cousin Britany's boyfriend) for as many Christmases as I can remember, but we're all so noisy and having so much fun that we never think twice about how tight a squeeze it really is. As a matter of fact, we seem to run out of room for presents once we fill up the house with humans and dogs, and one year Dad the Engineer came up with a solution that we came to call The Tower of Presents, built in the corner of Koo Koo and Papa's dining room. It was an elaborate and delicate operation that, since then, has become a bit of a tradition... mainly because it's so entertaining to watch Dad, Uncle Jim, and Michael get so involved with the Tower construction. These three are also the amigos who must, must, must have a game of Risk whenever the opportunity arises. Ah, yes, nothing quite brings a family together like a friendly game that will ultimately determine world domination.

Oh, and as a point of interest, Aunt Kim was in charge of the prep for Christmas dinner. We had ham, casseroles, carrots, deviled eggs, rolls... and, of course, rice and gravy.

An Exerpt From Myrran

2006-12-11T01:07:00.000-05:00

Shameless plug #2? Naaah... Of course not...
An excerpt from a chapter of the story I'm working on (I say "THE story" because it's the only long-term project I've had for the past three years...), supposedly --if you take Suzanne's opinion of things-- the best one so far. It's also the most recent, and I've only barely started on the next chapter. The rest of the story can be found by clicking on that little link on the right side of your screen that looks like it might be connected to the stuff I've written
With that said, I must confess that the story itself is not so good. My writing keeps maturing as I get older (so by the time I'm 30 I'll have something written that a publisher won't laugh at, methinks), and since I've been working on this for so long, I'm to the point where the beginning frustrates me but I'm mostly satisfied with everything from about chapter seventeen on.
It's two in the morning. I'm rambling, I'm about to fall asleep here in the commons, and I should really be in bed, but Jack won't leave me alone. Aargh... stupid Aussie! >_<
----------

"Yeah, "don't get yourself killed"," Jack muttered to himself. "Great advice..." He tugged off his sneakers and socks, took one last look at the lake, and left his shoes with his shirt and vest at the place where the lake's rocky beach ended and the canyon's rock began. After making slow progress on the slippery wet rock behind the waterfall, Jack peered carefully past the edge of the cave's entrance. When nothing moved or jumped out to eat his face, he slid around the corner into the dim cavern.

It was, at best, a cavern. After careful examination of his nearest surroundings, Jack felt a little disappointed at the plainness of it all; he had at least expected a booby trap of poisoned darts, maybe a giant rolling boulder... but this was just a cave. It was wet, it was cold, and (seeing as how Jack had not slept in the past twenty-four hours) it was irritating.

But something had to be here. The magic of the necklaces never lied, and everyone's had pointed him in this direction. So, with one last look around, Jack pressed on farther into the cavern passageways.

His necklace glowed bright, but the faintest candle could have been a lighthouse in that inky darkness; however, it was all he had, so he slipped it from around his neck and held it like a crystalline torch as he went on. He let his fingertips run along the damp wall, though he was unsure why. There was no way he could lose his path, since the passage he was following did not fork right or left, nor did it present any challenge at all. To him, it just seemed like the thing to do.

Something up ahead glinted in the light: a reflection on a pool of water. Jack approached it slowly, watching all the while how the glow from his necklace seemed to grow brighter as he moved towards the water. The water was clearer than any he had ever seen; he could see all the way to the bottom of the pool, and he followed the steep underwater slope with his eyes until it disappeared under a wall some twenty feet from him that turned the passage into a dead-end. Jack searched for anything to serve as handholds or footholds so that he might climb over the wall, but all he could find was a single hole; a hole through which he could see another cavern on the other side. The wall only seemed twelve or eighteen feet thick... it was a moment before Jack resigned himself to his fate and, after wrapping his necklace around his wrist for its safety, jumped into the water. It was freezing! The coldness constricted his chest and choked out the air from his lungs; Jack resurfaced gasping for breath, then gritted his teeth, dove back under, and pushed off as hard as he could from the rock behind him.

He swam with his eyes open, even though the cold water stung painfully at them. With one arm he swam as best he could; the other held his necklace outstretched, bathing the underwater tunnel in blue light that danced along the walls. Jack was only swimming for thirty seconds or so, but he was already feeling a little faint by the time he saw the darkness of the opening ahead of him. He swam hard and burst from the water with a loud gasp. For a moment he floated tiredly on his back and listened to the sounds of his hard panting echo against the cavern walls.

When Jack felt he could move again, he crawled unsteadily out onto the rocky ground and began to wave his necklace around in random directions to find another lead. But something caught his eye: a gleam just past the edge of the darkness. He stood, albeit a little shakily, and started towards it; his necklace glowed brighter, and Jack felt a jolt of excitement that made him walk faster. Thirty feet from the tunnel, embedded in the wall and reflecting blue light onto the rocks, was the shard.

The sight rejuvenated him. Jack dashed over to the wall and reached to pull the shard from its rocky home. To his surprise, the wall began to dissolve when his necklace brushed against it. The shard fell easily into his hand. It felt strangely warm against his cold, wet skin, and its clear luminescent glow on his hand was a more than welcome sight.

Jack grinned. Strewth, I'm good, he thought and easily tossed the shard to himself.

But as he turned to go back to the tunnel, the ground started to tremble. Jack stopped. What was that? He looked around warily and waved his crystal to ward off the darkness, but he could only see the disturbances in the water from the tremors. He grimaced; why couldn't something go smooth, just once?

A loud roar echoed through the cavern that sent Jack sprinting for the tunnel. He jumped in with a running dive, keeping a firm grasp on both the shard and his necklace. An ominous booming vibrated the water around him; it sounded like a large boulder was being used in some titanic pinball game. What could be making so much noise?

Jack emerged on the other side and scurried up onto dry land. He barely had time to shake the water from his eyes before something heavily rammed into the wall behind him, and the shockwave through the floor knocked him off his feet. The shard flew from his hand and fell back into the water behind him, and Jack scrambled to try and catch it before it sank to the bottom, but his fingers merely brushed against it on its way down. No! He shoved himself back under the cold water, groping around on the rocky floor of the pool before he felt the warmth of the crystal shard against his fingers; he grabbed the shard, pulled himself out of the water, and made a mad dash back through the passageway.

As he skidded around the corner, another deafening roar filled the cavern of the waterfall. It was louder than the thunder from the most terrifying storm imaginable, and it shook the stone walls of the cavern even through the floor. Jack was closing fast on the entrance to the cave and he tried to slow down to turn the corner, but he slipped on the wet rocks and hit the ground hard before falling heavily into the water below. His body was throbbing painfully from his collision with the ground, but he managed to hold firmly onto the shard this time.

He surfaced coughing up water and opened his eyes as something flew overhead; by the light of the setting moon, Jack could see that it was long and sleek; it looked like a prodigious winged serpent, but it had a whiplike tail and ice blue scales that shimmered in the moonlight. It threw back its head and let out the roar of a dragon, and the other Saviors on the shore jumped in surprise and started shouting in panic. From where he was, Jack could see that Anne was running towards the waterclimb cavern with her fists engulfed in her magic fire. He called to her, but she couldn't hear him. The great serpent turned around, spotted the running girl, and growled low in its throat as it flew towards her. Anne froze halfway up the path, staring at the oncoming dragon and unable to move.

Jack's mind was racing. He put two fingers to his mouth and whistled loudly; the dragon stopped and turned its freezing blue eyes on him. A wicked grin spread across the boy's face. "Hey! You're trying to eat me, remember? Come and get me!"

The dragon glared and growled at him, and Jack felt a surge of adrenaline that pushed him into action. He shoved the shard into his pocket and dove under, swimming hard against the current of the waterclimb in an attempt to draw the dragon away from the others. Behind him, he heard the great beast break the surface of the water, and Jack panicked. He hadn't thought the dragon could swim...

It didn't swim; it flew through the water, furious and undeterred. Jack opened his eyes to see the dragon as it shot effortlessly past him, but he couldn't move to avoid being hit by its tail and he was sent tumbling aimlessly through the water. His lungs burned, weary from and unaccustomed to this sort of abuse; his limbs ached and felt hot regardless of the cold water around him, then he felt the familiar cooling sensation that spread through him from the inside out. His body was healing.

Jack righted himself in the water by swimming towards the brightest blur he could see. When he surfaced, he saw that the dragon was already ahead of him and was turning around in midair to dive at him again. The other Saviors were trying to help; Kitt was firing at it with her blaster and Soren and Shawn were using their energy attacks, while Erin kept one hand on each of their shoulders to heal them if they grew weary. Though the attacks made direct hits on the dragon, in its rage it could only see that Jack was the one with its precious shard. The Saviors were only fueling its anger.

He started swimming towards the shore opposite his friends, all the while knowing he could not out-swim a flying dragon. It made no splash when it dove underwater twenty yards behind him. Jack clenched his jaw and pushed every muscle in his body to swim just a little faster... if he could make it to shore, he could run--

The dragon's head came up underneath him and violently threw him into the air. Jack cried out, scrambling to grab at a handhold that wasn't there; he fell helplessly back into the water closer to shore than before, and his back hit the rocky bottom hard and knocked the wind out of him. Jack painfully fought to swim to the surface and burst from the water gasping for air. His hand flew to his pocket, and he inwardly sighed in relief. The shard was still there. Above him, the dragon was readying itself for another pass. The water around him was only up to his shoulders now, so Jack started once again to swim for the shore despite the protests from every part of his body. He saw Anne running along the shoreline to meet him, but he was too out of breath to call to her and tell her to run; couldn't she see the dragon behind him?

Just when Jack's feet could finally touch the bottom, he heard the dragon's roar pierce the cool morning air once more as it circled menacingly above him. He tried to run, but his legs could no longer support his own weight and they gave way underneath him. The dragon was diving for him again, its cold eyes fixed on him in a fearsome glare...

A blast of white fire came from behind Jack's head, so hot that he cowered in surprise and watched it fade slowly back to yellow before he moved again. He turned his head to see Anne, or what should've been Anne, standing behind him on the shore and giving that dragon everything she had. She no longer looked like her normal self: her entire body was engulfed in flame. Her skin was blazing in the twilight shadows, her hands had become flames themselves, and her eyes were glowing even brighter than the white fire had been. The boy shivered at the sight of her. She was almost as frightening as the dragon!

Jack took the opportunity to scramble for the shore, where Shawn and Soren were the first to meet him. They briefly exchanged glances, then Shawn started to fire upon the dragon while Soren helped Jack to his feet. The healing within him turned unbearably cold and he hissed his indrawn breath, finding himself too proud to even groan at the pain. It was only for a moment; the pain died away and Jack drew his sword just as Anne's fire flickered out and she fell to the ground. Jack glared fiercely at the dragon and, with a cry of rage, hurled his sword like a spear at its head. The sword had all his strength behind it; in a remarkable stroke of luck, its blade hit the dragon in the eye with a sickening squelch, and all but the hilt disappeared into the head of the beast.

The dragon shrieked and writhed in pain, but it had no arms to reach or remove the sword. Navy blood fountained from the wound and spilled into the water below. Shawn took aim and fired one last shot; it hit the wounded eye and exploded like a bolt of lightning through the dragon's brain. There was one final roar of suffering as the dragon fell into the water with a great splash, and then there was nothing at all. It was dead.

Jack ignored the pangs of cold within him and fell to his knees beside Anne. She was lifeless; her skin was pale and unusually cold, blood was trickling from her nose, and her hands were red and shiny from the burns left by her own fire. Jack felt her forehead and face with his wet hand, and put his ear close to her nose and listened. She was still breathing! "Erin, get over here!" He shouted hoarsely.

Erin skidded to a stop beside him and knelt to put her hands on Anne. She closed her eyes in concentration and, in a moment that seemed to last an eternity, the burns on Anne's hands slowly disappeared. Erin let out a gasp and cradled her head in her hands. "I can't do anything else," she moaned. "I'm almost out of energy! I must've used it up on Soren and Shawn." Off of Jack's harsh look, she glared right back at him. "I did as much as I could!"

"You're sure about that?" Jack growled. When he received no reply, He forced himself to stare angrily at the lake. The water was slowly turning navy from the blood of the dragon, and the light of the rising sun reflected dully off the surface of the lake. It would've been a calming sight if his mind was not clouded with worry. Why didn't Anne stop just before she ran out of energy, like Erin did? Why did she have to be so reckless...?

Behind him, he heard someone's footfalls on the rocky beach and he was almost surprised to see Kitt kneel down next to him. She put a hand on his shoulder and said, "I know you want to help her, but healing others isn't your power. You have to let Erin rest. In a few minutes she'll try to revive Anne again."

"I wonder if you could actually try not to read my mind," he said tersely.

Kitt frowned. "I don't have to. I could feel your emotions from across the lake if I wanted to!" She stood and started to walk away, but turned around and gave the boy one last look over her shoulder. "Oh, and because you were wondering... she didn't stop because she didn't want to."

"She didn't... what?"

"Exactly that," Kitt said. "When I got into her mind and asked her to stop, she claimed she couldn't; but really, I think she just didn't want to."

Anything Is Funny In Retrospect

2006-12-07T15:34:00.000-05:00

I suppose that all I'm really looking forward to next year are the stories.

You know the kind of stories I mean. They're different from the stories you try to tell people from back home. They're the ones that upperclassmen tell to lowly freshmen in their first semester; the one that rekindles a running joke, or perhaps starts a new one all together. Now, I've been watching for these stories all semester, and while I'm a little sad that I don't have anything to top The Gallery Couch/Window Story (to which the moral is "Make sure the RD is off the mountain before you try to throw an old disgusting couch out the window"), I have been assured that nothing could top that.

Currently in the lead:
*Our biggest running joke on Gallery, I think, is Tuesday. Tuesday is the crazy day, so if you do something completely insane that could become a story later in the year, just blame it on the fact that it's Tuesday -- the fact that everyone acts crazy on Tuesdays has to do with a conspiracy theory that the administration dumps their supply of liquid crack into the waterworks, specifically the pipes that go to the water fountains. And if you're caught acting crazy on a day other than Tuesday on Gallery, we have the perfect solution: "Every day is Tuesday on Gallery!"

Runners-up:
*During Orientation Week, we kept finding new ways to meet people within our O-Team. In fact, our own dear Annie met Wes when he stepped on her foot during a violent game of "I Have Never..." and made her toe bleed.

*In this semester alone I have gotten used to being introduced to people as "Caroline's Twin", which is, in itself, a long story.

*The Psych Animal Lab suffered the loss of three rats, one seemingly right after the other, in the middle of the rat training process. One of the rats starved, we think; as for the others, no one is completely sure as to their COD (not like they're going to get Dr. Robbins to do a rat autopsy or anything...), but there was a scare that there might be a "sickness" going around the rat lab. Funnily enough, at the same time, my Psych class seemed to be sharing a cold from student to student :) ...okay, funny in a kind of sadistic way, I guess, but irony is fun.

*Kilter at the Tennessee Aquarium was cut abruptly short when the aquarium staff discovered that "someone" had tampered with the exhibits and threatened the once-protected aquatic animals' lives. There was also a turtle in the girls' bathroom, but he was unrelated to the exhibit vandalism. I don't know if the culprits ever came forward, especially when they saw the way the entire student body reacted (let's just say the posession of large amounts of dangerously hot tar does not go against contract...).

*Thirty minutes into Around Founders, the boys on Blackwatch accidentally set off the fire alarms with their fog machine. But all was not a completely horrible experience. Even though we got to stand out in the cold, foggy night for much longer than it should have taken to switch off the alarm, I got to watch the firemen try to get into Founders without an ID card. (Oh, I'm SO reassured that we will all be safe if we have an actual emergency -- especially if the police, the fire department, or the paramedics can't figure out how to get the gorram doors to open...) So please, if you're visiting Covenant, we ask very kindly that you not set off the fire alarms. I have a five-pound key in my room; it, like the tar, is not against Contract, and I'm not afraid to use it.

*On a trip into "the city" around midnight, Kate, Anne, and I were asked for drugs from a guy who claimed to be a runaway-from-home. We calmed ourselves down afterwards by hypothesizing that the guy could have been an undercover cop, since he really looked too old to still be living at home... (note: we also learned from this experience to NEVER GO ANYWHERE AFTER MIDNIGHT)

*In 23-degree weather, a trip from Founders to Carter with wet hair will most likely result in frozen hair. Yes, I admit, it's possible that I got a little too excited about it when it happened.... but it was wicked awesome, and it crunched, which made it all the more awesome. (Anne's reaction was the best -- she said "Oh my goodness..." all worried-like, only to follow with, "Wow, can I touch it?" ^^ I love my roommate...)

I'm actually rather fond of the latter two stories and hope they are eventually promoted into the story category. Though, if you keep watching the comment conversations at the end of the blog posts, they are quite amusing and, most of the time, somehow inevitably end with the realization that "this is just a HUGE misunderstanding!"

Your website of the day is yet another random bit of fun. Enjoy! ^^

Family Gatherings, Take Two

2006-11-30T18:32:00.000-05:00

I love holidays with my family. Food, fun, and running joke fodder can all be found within the confines of a house that, depending on the holiday, the side of the family, and the house, should not be able to hold as many people as we cram into it. Every holiday is full of the delicious chaos that I've grown to know and love.

But I have to tell you, as much as I love my extended family, they are a little, um... shall we say, eccentric? Odd? Sitcom material?

Thanksgiving is all about traditions for my Dad's family, and I have figured out over the years that "traditions" translates to "a huge list of do's and don't's. For starters, Grandmama has only taught one of her granddaughters the "secret family recipe" for the dressing that must be made every year, and she has supernatural senses that let her know if the dressing isn't exactly right (in fact, I seem to remember a story in which she chastized my cousin for not wanting to pull the chicken off the bone with her fingers...). And if she arrives while the food is still being prepared, she personally watches over the baking process, including giving instruction on how to properly stir the not-quite solidified dressing. But not to worry, my dear grandmother does not descriminate -- she is this way when it comes to any dish. I mean, heaven help the soul who puts marshmallows on the sweet potato casserole instead of brown sugar, or does not have a proper Ritz-cracker-to-cheese ratio on the pineapple casserole.

The meal is always at our house, which means Mom is in a reasonable state of panic if everything is not ready before eleven. We always have to have a table decoration theme worthy of a Southern Living magazine, and it has to be different every year for fear that one of the in-laws will notice that, "Lord have mercy, Debbie reused Thanksgiving decorations!" My mother also puts a quick stop to any wonderfully impish Weasley-twins ideas my sister and I might have, and has ever since we threatened to put live creatures in the pinecone arrangement two years ago. She was not very amused last year when we managed a clever little trick with the salt shakers on the main table, especially when the first victim turned out to be Grandmama (and why I was the only one who got in trouble, I will never know). But it's still fun to dream of troublemaking schemes, even if we can't get away with anything.

Table conversation is sometimes like walking on eggshells. One must not talk of religion, politics, or football while at the table, but inevitably someone will break this unspoken rule. My personal favorite is from a clever little stab like trying to get a cute little member of the second generation of cousins to say "Roll Tide!", to which someone (Mom or Dad, most likely) will reply, "No, no, you're saying it wrong, it's War Eagle!", and Kate and I mentally add a tally to the cumulative "number of times we've heard that one." And during the meal, everyone who made something must be complimented on their dish. This is often a tricky situation, as it is imperative that the right dish be attributed to the right person, otherwise you're likely to step on Aunt Kathy's or one of the cousins' toes and start a feud. ...okay, I lie, maybe not a feud. At most, maybe a hissy fit.

The new traditions are already starting, too. It's weird to have our cousins' children running around; Matthew and Andrew, who are respectively 8 and 6 (I think... o_o how old are they now?), MUST watch my old Land Before Time videos after the meal, and it has been this way ever since they learned to put the words "little" and "foot" together and somehow make it sound like a ferocious demand. The first two years, I didn't mind. In fact, it was kinda cute -- they were carrying on an obsession that had, at one point, been near and dear to my heart. But I never thought my once-sweet memories of happy little dinosaurs would turn into ghastly torturous sprints down Memory Lane, chased by the haunting sound of high-pitched voices singing all the songs that the rest of my family had long ago suppressed from memory. It's utterly beyond me why my little first-cousins-once-removed have not discovered the magic and wonder of 80's and 90's Disney movies -- I mean, at least I can shamelessly sing along with those without finding myself thinking things like, "Thank you, Lord, for sending us the Ice Age!"

And, as we progress through the afternoon and the little cousins leave (at which point Kate and I dive for the storage bin of Disney movies), the adults begin their "new" tradition: dominoes. I don't know who got my grandmother and my aunt into dominoes in the first place, but most of my adolescence is tainted with memories of that sharp crack of a domino being slammed on the dining room table so loud that our neighbors across the street could testify that Aunt Kathy has one domino left. But I guess I shouldn't complain -- their last game obsession was Spades, and that one went on so long that even I, the one who on a game-by-game basis still has mild difficulty remembering the rules of Uno, learned how to play. All the same, I usually find myself in the TV room with Kate and an old Disney movie we haven't seen since I was six... and when we run out of those, it's up to whoever is quicker at the draw as to whether we watch my Aladdin DVD or her Beauty and the Beast VHS.

The one thing I most look forward to comes after everyone else has left our house. We pack up all the Fall decorations that Mom put out back in September, put them away, and get out our family Christmas tree (artificial, of course; have you ever tried to get pine sap out of carpet? Ugh...). Kate puts Mannheim Steamroller in the stereo, we put up the tree, Dad does the lights (and I help, sort of ^^;), and all the jam-packed bins of Christmas ornaments come down from the top of Kate's closet; in those bins we have collected more ornaments over the years than could fit in the local Hallmark store, not to mention the collection of around-the-house decorations. We have more decorations than I can consciously recognize anymore -- I'll point out something with a "When did we get that?", to which Mom says, "Oh, don't you remember? We got it the year that..." and rattles off a tale from a Christmas that I do remember, but the recollection as to the origin of the decoration still evades me. Sometimes it makes my failing memory feel better to believe that she makes up a new Don't You Remember story for things that she, in reality, bought in the summer from a clearance sale and managed to pack it away before I caught a glimpse of it.

And with the changing of seasons comes the transitions to other holidays... maybe next I'll get to write about my Mom's family and the chaotic Christmases in Huntsville. Ah, good times...

Shameless Plug? Oooh, Yeah.

2006-11-29T14:00:00.000-05:00

While I'm working on my Thanksgiving update (yes, that's how much free time I DON'T have right now!), here's a little thing to tide you over. ...and by "little", I mean "only start watching if you have an hour and a half of free time on your hands".

This is a full-length movie that is, quite possibly, the best Mystery Science Theater 3000 I have ever seen. I know I have not seen very much (I mean, if I could sit down one month and watch all ten seasons, I most certainly would...), but I am never quick to label anything "the best" or "the greatest" or "the most awesome thing on the face of the earth". And besides, the movie speaks for itself.

(If you are unfamiliar with the premise of MST3K, Wikipedia has a cornucopia of information that I suggest you become mildly familiar with before clicking the link. And this might not be the best intro MST for some, but it worked for me ^^)

And now our feature presentation, an incredibly '80s movie called Space Mutiny. For full effect, after the movie loads you can flicker some lights on and off while screaming "WE'VE GOT MOVIE SIGN!" :) And make sure to watch for the undead crew member!

Sometimes The Light At The End Of The Tunnel Is A 1,500 Word Paper Strapped To A Flashlight

2006-11-15T22:44:00.000-05:00

With the first semester drawing ever nearer to Finals (a.k.a. Hell Week), I've had time to reflect upon my first four months of Covenant life. ...not very much time, I'm afraid, but enough to analyze my observations and put them into my dear little blog.

The daily routine up at Covenant is more along the lines of a weekly routine; ask any student what their near-future plans are like, and they'll probably say something like: "Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays I do this, Tuesdays and Thursdays I do this, and weekends I do a whole lot of this!" The days go by like the twenty-four hours they are, but the accepted unit of time up here seems to be "weeks", seeing as how anyone will voluntarily unload their week's schedule to you if they are stressed enough. However, this is only true when we are not eagerly awaiting -or doggedly struggling towards- an upcoming break. Then we bring back "days" so we can count down how long we have until we can sleep the sweet, sweet slumber of the academically dead; the kind of sleep that comes to those who are not worrying about tests, papers, grades, or even getting up in time for morning classes.

(If that rant didn't make any sense, just blame it on my 3,785 minutes of accumulated sleep deprivation.)

Everyone is crazy during the week. Classes keep the students running around from one building to the next, and some are calmer than the others -- I can be stressing and wailing about a next-day test for which I've already studied my brains out, but some of the more seasoned individuals study in silence with iron expressions only worn by those in utmost concentration. I don't know how they do it, but somehow the distractions of the hall don't seem to faze them.

With all the studying that goes on, much to my surprise there are still more daily antics than we know what to do with. I would have thought that college life would drain any regular human being of his very life force and leave him a dry, withered heap in mid-crawl to his Xbox. But college kids... we're an interesting bunch of individuals. Where others would buckle under the stress and suffer nervous breakdowns, college kids thrive by feeding off of the stress like it's a bag of chocolate-covered coffee beans. It does... things... to our brains... Some of the stronger make it to Finals before some of the stress leaks out; others are not so fortunate. They succumb to the infectious symptoms of insanity and start to let it out by performing random antics in public, and always where you least expect it: for instance, a guy in my Psych class came in one day wearing a superhero cape in mid-September. Other people spontaneously act out in the middle of the Great Hall (I swear, it's only a matter of time until someone re-enacts La Vie Boheme in there!). Just a month ago, a friend of mine wheeled a suitcase into the Great Hall, pulled it over to a table, and unzipped it so his hallmate could climb out and go swipe his card at the register. Yes, Covenant students are nothing if not creative.

If the days and weeks go by like this, I can only imagine what years of exposure could do to the upperclassman brain. But I guess I shouldn't assume that everyone reacts to stress in the same way as the suitcase guy... actually, lately I have begun to notice certain adaptive traits in the upperclassmen that we "poor wee freshies" have yet to develop. When someone screams in the Great Hall, only the Freshmen look to see what's going on. When a hall hangs a banner from the chapel roof, only the Freshmen seem impressed. When it's Veal Fritter Day in the Great Hall, only Freshmen have included the meaty monstrosity as a part of their balanced meal. If someone is wandering around the administrative part of Carter with a hopelessly lost look in his eyes, or someone is complaining about the "bathroom problem" and she lives in Mac... well, you get the idea.

(Wow. I just noticed how long a list of "You Know They're a Covenant Freshman When..." I could write. Shiny!)

My point is, it seems that the semesterly (is that a word?) stressors are likely to bring out peoples' "true" natures; but whether that nature includes dancing on tables, becoming a hoveling mass of tears, or adapting for survival and moving on is different for each student.

Hey, I think I just found a topic I can use for my SIP in three-and-a-half years...

You Think YOU Had a Bad Day?

2006-11-09T14:49:00.000-05:00

Okay, no, I have not had an unreasonably bad day today. I was just looking through some of my journal entries from my Latin club's trip to Europe and was remembering just how terrible our first few days in Rome were. Seriously, Shakespeare could not have written a better comedy of errors.

This has been revised from the original entries for your reading pleasure. Enjoy.
---
Names! So you're not unbelievably confused...:
[The students: myself, Chrissy, Naomi, Jennifer, Katina, Jordan, Andrew, and Abigail.][Important people to remember who are not students: Lee (my teacher), Phil ("Papa Phil", her husband), Miss Teri (our female chaperone, and mother of Katina), and Patrick (Lee's and Phil's son, who was of legal age to be a chaperone but declined the title).]
--

Rome promised to be quite a learning experience even before we set foot outside the airport. Through ways of which I am still unsure, we were invited to join the yearly Founding of Rome parade. All of us, a little group of homeschoolers from Alabama, were going to be the first group of Americans to ever walk in the parade. It was a great honor, and a few of us were excited about it. Now... the arrangements Lee had made with the historical reinactors ("Groupo Historico" ...no, I'm not joking) were that someone was supposed to meet us after we landed and made our way through customs. When we finally got our luggage and walked past every sign-carrying pedestrian, there was no member of the historical group to meet us. This struck us as a little odd. So, we sat in the airport until Papa Phil, who had been exploring around a bit, rushed back to us to say that the people had been waiting for us outside this whole time. Oops.

Exiting the airport, we were hit head-on by a steady rain and a cold wind. The weather made the chaos outside even worse than it was, and it took me a minute to realize that the two strange Italian guys wearing the nuclear highlighter-yellow vests were taking our suitcases because they were from Groupo Historico. They loaded our luggage into a white cargo van, and I hoped to high heaven that their van had seats enough for all of us. Unfortunately, I was wrong: it was a van with only seats in the front and room for luggage in the back. Most of us would have to sit on the luggage en route to our accommodations. Ha. It was awkward for the first few seconds, but when the first drop of rain made its way down my neck, I was willing to sit ANYWHERE that would be potentially dry.

So, with five in the front (counting the driver) and the rest in the back (including Mr. Blinding Vest who didn't speak a lick of English) sitting on top of luggage, we set out. And when I say "set out", it's because "drive" is too good a word for our method of transportation. We swerved through heavy traffic at speeds that no cargo van should go. When the traffic was at its worst, the van went into the emergency lane like it was his right to be there, and I think we actually passed an ambulence on its way to an accident.

It should be known that, in any part of Europe, the lines on the road are only for perspective.

We finally arrived at Camping Fabulous, where we were to stay with the other traveling reinactors. Unfortunately, the van dumped us out in the rain with only our luggage and a prayer before leaving for more... er... duties, I guess. And while Lee went into the welcoming center to get the keys to our rooms, those of us with umbrellas stood outside in the mud. We were still cold, half-drowned, and our luggage was getting very wet as well.

[note: some in our group still consider "fabulous" to be an unspeakable word. Long after the trip, we continued to use "fabulous" in a sarcastic manner... or just to hear someone else from our group laugh.]

It seemed an eternity until Lee and Phil emerged with keys and directions. Now, the place where we stood had promise: the so-called "bungalows" nearby looked like glorified trailers, and made me feel like we were back in the South. However, when we were led through the rain and mud dragging our suitcases behind us, our humble accommodations were a bit less, well.... just less. One single-wide was split down the middle into two separate "hotel rooms", consisting of a cramped bedroom with three beds and one closet-sized bathroom We really didn't care, though; it held promise of a dry, warm place out of the rain.

Well, at least it was dry.

All of the rooms were cold, had non-working heaters, no blankets, and no hot water. So, we (myself, Chrissy, and Jennifer) put our muddy suitcases in the dryest places possible, stashed our umbrellas in the shower stall, and headed nextdoor to Naomi, Katina, and Abigail's room. They made us wipe our feet and remove our shoes before we could venture farther in, and while the room was warmer than ours had been, it smelled of sweaty feet in there. Jennifer disappeared to find Jordan so she could talk to Lee, and I stayed for a little bit before leaving with Katina and Chrissy to visit the guys. I was getting tired of smelling other's feet.

At some point during the visit to the guys' room, I asked Patrick to come look at the heater in my room, because I knew he would have better luck at fixing the blasted thing than I would. He and I headed back around to the cold room, and upon investigation, we flipped the circut breaker and Viola!, it lived! Almost. It still wasn't putting out warm air, and would reset itself when we tried to adjust it. Oh, how amusing. But it was working, in the loosest sense of the word, so Patrick started to leave.

And now comes the tangent aboutnthe doors. All of the doors had at least one issue with them: two of them would not latch unless locked with the deadbolt, one's handle would fall off in your hand (though Katina was able to climb out the window and open it from the outside), and the door to my room would latch a little too well (e.g. I had to throw my shoulder against it the first time before it let me out). Patrick thought that our door was like his, which did not completely close on its own, and that naturally we would have latched it upon entering the first time. So, to get out, he accidentally locked the deadbolt, and then couldn't figure out what was wrong with the door. We tried to get out, but we flipped the deadbolt back and forth so many times that we couldn't remember which way to turn it to open the door again!

So, as Patrick patiently fiddled with the lock, he turned his head to grin at me. "Oh, by the way, you're trapped for now."

My first thought was, 'I'm accidentally locked in a room with a guy. Wow. How cliche.'

After a while we grew increasingly desperate to leave the room, but just as Patrick was readying himself to climb out the window, I shoved against the door and (luckily for me, who could've ended up with a broken shoulder) it finally opened. Another crisis averted.

But when we had all regrouped in the warmest, least threatening room (the other girls' room, which still smelled of feet), Lee came in to give us very bittersweet news: we were still going to the banquet for the re-enactors tonight, but we were promised that we would have working heaters and running hot water by the time we got back that night. With that carrot dangling in front of us, we almost didn't notice when she reminded us to dress in costume.

Hang on... what was that? Costume? The students had all been under the impression we could wear our warm, comfortable streetclothes instead of our non-rain resistant Roman garb. Evidentally not... Lee had been told that the re-enactors should be in costume. Well... fine, if everyone else was doing it, maybe it wouldn't be so bad. So we grudgingly layered as best we could with whatever would blend into our costumes, grabbed our jackets, and trudged out into the cold afternoon. Sunlight was streaming through the breaking clouds, thus holding a bit of hope on the horizon.

With the promise of hot water and heat on our return later in the evening, our weary group headed down to the area where the buses were parked. May I remind you that we are in full costume at this point, and the most observant amongst us began to notice that no one else was in costume. Needless to say, a few of our conspiracy theorists (myself included) began to mutter about how the Groupo Historico members were probably laughing at us behind our backs. The entire banquet went like this, and many were more than peeved that we were the only visiting group who came in costume, aside from the entertainment. And, when we got back, the rooms were freezing cold, and we were still unwashed with no intent of bathing in ice water. We prayed for good weather over the parade the next day as we fell into bed that night, huddled together.

We awoke from our cold slumber to a mildly sunny Sunday morning. It was almost too good to be true! Could today really be a happier day for us?

Hmm... let's put it this way: before we left the States, someone suggested we name our to-be scrapbook about the trip "A Series of Unfortunate Events". If I ever find who said that, I will personally strangle them for being right.

Trouble started even before we left Camping Fabulous that day. When we tried to board the charter buses with the other re-enactors, we were stopped by several people talking to us in Italian. They finally found a translator, who struggled through anything from "Where are you from?" to "Where is your group?" in an attempt to help us. We thought she meant, "Where is the REST of your group?". Oh, no; she was asking where our group's bus was. Weellll, we had just hopped on the last available seats to go to the banquet the night before -- we didn't have a bus. So when she told us, "This... this not your bus," we panicked. How were we going to get there?

Fortunately, some other group let us jump on with them. The girls (plus Lee and Miss Teri), Jordan, and Andrew rode with the Bacchanalians (which turned out to be a bunch of people singing in Spanish and bearing the most frighteningly realistic adhered horns on their heads), and Patrick and Papa Phil jumped on with the group they called "Grumpy-Old-Men-Re-enactors, Italian Edition." It was a short ride, thankfully... I was getting a little wary of the guy across the aisle from me, whose horns looked unreasonably sharp.

It was starting to cloud up in the distance as the buses slowed to a halt and shuffled us out onto into the busy city, but we soon figured out they had dropped us off across the street (and nearly a block away) from where the other re-enactors had congregated. Had I known I would have to run across a busy Roman street at Patrick's heels, I would NOT have worn sandals without a heel strap. In any case, we found our way through the crowd to the head of the event (who called himself Nero...) and asked him where we were supposed to be. He showed us a paper of "formations" that instead resembled a text version of a pan of lasagna, and cheerfully told us he had to go deal with everyone else and ran off. Dazed, confused, and overtired, we resigned ourselves to stay put between the groups on either side of us.

Our formation? Naomi and Katina were in the front with their bright, cheerful, and particularly too-thin-for-rain costumes; I was between Patrick and Andrew, and we were second in line; Chrissy and Abigail were behind us; Miss Teri and Lee followed them; and last came Jordan and Jennifer. Papa Phil was on the sidelines, filming the parade. Luckily for him, he had enough camera equipment that no one thought he was one of "those weird Americans" and he was not questioned or stopped by anyone.

The cool thing was, we got our own flag-carrier! She was a nine-year-old Italian girl named Sylvia (and like almost everyone else, she spoke no English) who had either volunteered or been volunteered by her group. Her mother wasn't far off, and she had briefly spoken with Lee (because she spoke enough English) before we set off in our cozy little formation. Sylvia was placed at the front, shyly carrying the American flag she had been given.

As the parade went on, we heard an ominous booming in the distance. My head shot up from where I'd been trying to stare at Katina's ankles, and I swallowed nervously and said, "please tell me that was a drum horribly off-rhythm..." But a loud crack of thunder caused us all to jump. As we had feared, the clouds were getting bigger and darker by the minute, and heading straight for our precession. By the time we had nearly reached the Colosseum, a light shower had started to fall on our heads (and down our necks, which was cold!). The eternal optomists of our group agreed that in a matter of moments, the rain would stop and the sun would be out again.

Oh, yeah.

The bottom dropped out of the clouds. In a matter of moments, the rain had gone from an uncomfortable shower to a fabulous downpour that was a lot of rain on a lot of people who had no means of shielding themselves. Sylvia, our poor flag-carrier, was taken to the sidewalk by her mother and sheltered under an umbrella; we felt so sorry for her, as frozen and half-drowned as we all were. Andrew took the flag and we reassembled our fleet a little: Patrick was between Naomi and Katina now, and I was between Chrissy and Abigail.

The rest of the parade went on in this manner, rain and all, and at the end of the procession was a small tent at the bus stop where most of the groups had already congregated. But it was dry. We all huddled as tightly as we could, and I ended up resting my forehead on Patrick's back, partially hugging Katina, and squished between Andrew, Naomi, and Abigail. Normally I have fear of being trapped in such a crowd, up to the point at which I get violently desperate for personal space or make myself as small as possible and cry, but I suppose this only shows how a basic need can overcome an irrational phobia.

Also, some of us were able to strip their top layers of dripping wet costume, tolerating their mostly wet topmost undershirt (yeah, I was THAT prepared) for when they found a dry place to wear just their middle and lowest undershirts, and that morning I had slid on my jeans had been under my costume with the legs rolled up around my knees. ^^v I was happy -- I HAD PANTS.

a troupe of shivering bellydancers offered to give Katina a ride in their van, and unbeknowst to the adults in charge other than Lee, she jumped at the opportunity to be warm and left with them. Soon, our bus came, so we boarded eagerly only to find that we were still cold, wet, and slightly miserable, but now we had additional elbow room.

Just think: all this has happened, and it's only just lunchtime!

Okay, we arrived at the restaurant where the other re-enactors had already congregated. We searched desperately for Katina, and we were very surprised to see that she had changed clothes... and whatever she was wearing, it was blindingly emerald green. She told us that the dancers had borrowed a tablecloth and pinned her together in the bathroom, and she honestly didn't know how she was going to get back to Camping Fabulous in anything but her tablecloth.
Finally, it was time to eat. In all honesty I don't remember what we ate -- it disappeared too fast from my plate for me to become well-acquainted with it. But as fast as we all ate, it was still closer to three or four in the afternoon before we all managed to get out of there.

But our day was still to be eventful yet. Someone -probably with the dancers, because they were everywhere- caught Katina by the shoulder, pointed to her tablecloth fashion statement, and said, "Be careful, the restaurant might want that back!" Those of us who were nearest to her (including myself, Papa Phil, Patrick, Naomi, Abigail, and Miss Teri) panicked. Papa Phil quickly bundled her in his jacket and we smuggled her out of the restaurant before anyone could see, but by the time we found our way out, the rest of our group had vanished. We hurriedly searched buses in hopes of finding them, but to no avail; then we turned and, to our horror, a bus we hadn't checked was speeding off down the street. Wouldn't you know, our group was on that bus, and now we were somewhere in Rome without a ride.

Papa Phil immediately took charge and shuffled us to the nearest bus stop, checked the schedule, and cheerfully told us there would be a bus along in a few minutes. From there, we could navigate back to Camping Fabulous between a couple buses and two or three Metro stops (which seemed strange because, compared to where we were at that moment, Camping Fabulous was on the end of nowhere). So, when our bus came, we hopped on and took a seat. Keep in mind, more than half of our traveling circus was in street clothes, two were in costume, and one was in a tablecloth with a gold hairpiece on her head. It's safe to say we got some weird looks.

After a series of running to catch last-minute buses and an event in which Katina's tablecloth began to become unpinned in the middle of the subway, we made it to our last bus stop. We only waited a few minutes for our ride, but night had already fallen and we were getting hungry again, and with hunger came the overwhelming desire to be back at the Hell-On-Earth that was Camping Fabulous. But when we got on that bus, we were so tired that we forgot to watch where we were being taken.

After a little while, Patrick looked suddenly alert and glanced out the window. He looked back at Papa Phil a little worriedly and said, "Um... Dad, wasn't that our stop?"

Oops.

We got off at the next stop, which was a little over a half-mile from our intended destination. So... cold, tired, hungry, sore, and minorly lost, we started walking in the direction from whence we came along the side of the road. It was exciting to walk on the side of a busy foreign road, for some reason... I think I was possibly delirious at that point to think it our entire day had been "fun", because I should have been grumbling about how the day had been nothing short of a lively romp through Hell.

But the day ended happily for us. When we got back, we found Lee in utter relief that we had finally returned. She had worried herself sick because the buses wouldn't go back for us, and she had held a sit-in at the front desk of Camping Fabulous until our group was either reunited or given better accomodations. Fortunately, both were eventually granted -- we now had heat, hot water, and a dry place to sleep. There was much rejoicing ^^

I guess it's true that, as the saying goes, "That which does not kill us makes us stronger."

Writer's Block

2006-10-29T01:50:00.000-04:00

It's 12:01 a.m., and I'm still up on a Monday night/Tuesday morning waiting for Katie to call me back. I lay back in one of the commons' chairs and set my cell phone on my stomach as the sounds of Great Big Sea blare over Rodney's* speakers, and I look over at the couch where no one is sitting. But if I concentrate hard enough, I can see that someone is sitting there; he has nonchalantly stretched his legs across the chair in front of him, and as usual he's paying me no mind. In fact, he's munching on the chips and salsa that I left there, and he hasn't yet paused to brush away the crumbs that are falling on his faded blue 'NIKE' shirt.

I pause my music. He finally sees that I'm looking at him and, after he finishes his mouthful, he grins at me. "Hi there. Surprised?"

"Oh, definitely." I turn my eyes back to the computer screen in front of me. "It's been a while."

"It has."

He says nothing more, and after a few moments the silence becomes too awkward for me to bear. I close Rodney with a tired sigh and look up again. "Okay, I give. What's the occasion?"

"None," he says, setting the chips and salsa on the floor. "Can't I just visit because I want to?"

"You usually don't. And besides, you aren't real."

He grins again. "It's not like this is the first time you've ever seen me."

"...well then, you'll have to forgive me. I'll never really get used to being able to see my muse." Not by yourself, I mentally add. Usually he is accompanied by my four other muses, and all five of them pester me incessently until I start writing with them again. It is in fact odd to see my muses when they are on an inspiration mission, but even stranger to see one by himself. There has to be a reason.

I look at my cell phone in anticipation of Katie's call, but to my dismay the screen remains blank. There's no convenient way out of the conversation that he undoubtedly wants to have with me. This doesn't make me very happy. "Okay, let's try this again," I say. "Why did you decide to randomly show up?"

I watch as his grin fades and, to my surprise, he begins to look very serious... and a little sad. Now I feel a twinge of guilt about being so abrupt with him, but he starts to talk before I can apologize. "It's been two months since you last wrote anything. We both know that isn't a good sign."

"No kidding." I mentally cringe at how harsh my tone sounds, but I continue anyway. "It's no fault of mine... I've been swamped with schoolwork. I'm sorry." I let my gaze fall to the floor, and he says nothing. I'm waiting for him to reassure me, offer a simple "No worries" to let me know that I'm not completely letting him down... but he says nothing. The silence cuts deeper than a verbal knife, and finally I can stand it no longer. "Look, I... I'll work on it, okay? I'm just having trouble finding time to break through the writer's block, that's all."

His voice is so soft that I barely hear him say, "you've had writer's block before, but never like this. You used to have time for everything you enjoyed..."

"Last year I didn't have to set aside time to write -- I was in high school." I grimace at nothing in particular. "...you know how it eats away at me when I can't write. Everything I start I never finish, everything I think of flies away the instant I touch a pencil, everything I write I erase or delete because it's just bad writing!"

"It must be so frustrating. I mean, to have all those ideas in your head and be unable to get them out..."

"Yeah, thanks," I sigh. "You're really succeeding in making me feel better."

He smirks. "What can I say? I'm a muse, not a therapist." When I refuse to respond, he lets out a sigh of his own and smiles tiredly at me. "Okay. If it'll help, I'll get the guys together and we'll scheme up something." Now he grins. "I could probably play a harmless prank or two to get things started."

I smile in spite of myself. "That would help. You're always up to no good, anyway."

He laughs. "Oh, I aim to misbehave."

--

The sound of my ringing phone startles me, and I awake with a jolt and scramble to catch my phone before it falls onto the floor. I rub at my sleepy eyes and look over at the couch, but I am alone in the commons. I sigh a little. It's always a bad case of writer's block that brings about dreams of my muses...

Rodney is still open and my music still playing, so I pause the music to answer my phone before it switches to my voicemail. It's Katie. I smile at the sound of her voice and, as I start to talk to her, I give the couch one last fleeting look.

On the floor in front of the couch, the salsa is still open.
______________________
*For those of you who don't know, Rodney is the name of my computer.

A Little Bit of Fun

2006-10-18T12:24:00.000-04:00

Yeah, so this might be a cop-out update. I hope it is entertaining nevertheless. ^^

First, a few quotes for you.

-From family-
from Kate (all said to me, funnily enough)-
-"No, I will not card-scan your butt."
-"You're obsessing about the butter. Forget about the butter! The butter is just there, it is nothing! Do not agitate the butter!"
-"I'm poking you with the Finger of Blame!"
-"There is no age limit on stupidity."

from Mom-
-"Yay, tropical depression!"
-"The eighth wonder of the tri-county area: The Verbena Triangle."

from Dad-
-(while watching CSI: Miami)
Horatio Caine: [pointing a gun at the suspect] "Move and I'll blow your brains out."
Dad [as the suspect]: "I don't have any brains. So there."
-(while watching The Snorks) "You realize that all we're doing is watching seaweed talk to each other."

from Elizabeth-
-"Microsofy? Oh, I do love typos..."
-"Croikey! Oi'm an Aussie poirate!"
-"Stupid Neopets. At least Beanie Babies had names you could pronounce..."
-(on the subject of Strip Monopoly:) "Alright, give me Park Place and your pants!"

from conversations between me and Kate-
-(while watching Sleeping Beauty)
K: "Oh, great, she's gonna look like a super nova."
E: "You mean, like, frightening and yet awe-inspiring at the same time?"
K: "No, more like millions of exploded gas particles..."
-(from Fourth of July 2005)
E: "I love family gatherings. It's the only place you can hear Aunt Kathy say 'queer' and Grandmama say 'crap'!"
K: "Yup. Once the magaritas come out, you can just sit back and listen to the blackmail fly."
-(while driving)
E: (looks out the window) "Oooh, birdsh!"
K: "Who are you, Sean Connery?"
E: "Yesh..."

-From friends-
Katie: "You don't want to see my cheese in the pool."
Lizzy to Suzanne: "Your brain is wired wrong."
JJ, after watching The Fantastic Four: "Alright, I need some metal gloves and a bunch of jumper cables!"
Katie, in regards to Phantom of the Opera: "Masquawooooo!"
David making fun of my typos: "What the crap is a Fruby?"
Suzanne to Katie: "KT-sama, I'd thank you KINDLY not to hit me over the head with a giant salmon!"
Katie in my kitchen: "I think that freezer just tried to eat my hair!"

And, for a few more laughs, the website of the day is a fun little experiment that shows how easily entertained a human can be. Enjoy. (and yes, poking DOES do something... just keep at it.)

Never fear! My next update will be back to normal.

This is your brain. THIS is your brain on college.

2006-10-11T19:01:00.000-04:00

Any questions? *grins*

...sorry. I couldn't help myself.

Everyone at Covenant is feeling the weight of the anticipation for Fall Break. As Friday draws closer, it only means more tests and papers to frantically finish (because, evidentally, the students are more eager to have a break than the teachers) with binge studying and all-night fervent typing that would make any amateur's fingers bleed. I would not be the least bit surprised if I walked into the Gallery commons one morning to find three or four of my hallmates lying askew on the couches and curled up in the chairs, their books still open, their fingers still clasped around pencils that have stopped writing intelligble words and have lapsed into straight lines of non-text; around them are the carcasses of Vault bottles and Red Bull cans lying in pools of their own caffeinated blood, with one lone survivor, a Coke can, balanced precariously on the arm of the chair and within two inches of an elbow-enduced death and its two-feet plummet to the floor.

Okay, I had way too much fun with that.

I do not think I could stress enough how much of a marathon week this has been for everyone I know. Taking test after test, writing and rewriting each essay or midterm paper until it is beyond mortal satisfaction and sufficient to be placed on the Altar of the Grading Gods*, and staying up 'til two in the morning every night trying to keep your head above the ocean of pages of homework, required reading, and thrown-out drafts of essays. And, to top it all off, it seems that every teacher on campus gets the bright little idea in his or her head that, "Oh, the students will have plenty of time to do THIS unrealistically huge homework assignment over Fall Break!" until there are so many assignments handed out that, in all honesty, I'm beginning to think that Fall Break is only truly a break from the Great Hall food.

(If you have not yet heard my spill on the Great Hall food, don't worry. I have no doubt that I'll tangent into it in another entry.)

Wednesday I decided to sit back and watch everyone in all my classes (which was hard in Old Testament, since we were all taking a test) to see how the average student was going about their week. What I saw, of course, did not surprise me. It was not unlike watching a group of travelers slogging through knee-deep mud that had no path around or over it; even a select few who were smiling during the morning, when I saw them later in the afternoon, looked tired from the extra energy they were spending to slog alongside everyone else and look cheerful doing it. I am reminded of my favorite definition of trudging as given by Paul Bettany's character in A Knight's Tale: "To trudge: the slow, weary, depressing yet determined walk of a man who has nothing left in life except the impulse to simply soldier on." In light of that, it seemed to me yesterday that everyone has, in fact, succumbed to their fate of trudging their way through the rest of the week.

I am now debating the idea of a banner: "Fall Break: loathe it or leave it."

But now it is Thursday afternoon, and classes are almost finished for the day. For most, tomorrow will be the day that we all must survive (trans: "must stay awake during class"). For some, tonight will be the last of the horrifying dinners from the Great Hall until next Wednesday. For a few, it will be the start of a long journey to someone else's home for more experiments in learning to get along with new people.

For me, it will be a three-hour car ride home to my family, my cat, and the lingering hope of at least one guilt-free Big Mac or trip to Outback.
____________
*No, Covenant does not condone the belief of bizarre deities. Students are, however, allowed to hold candle-less sayonces, and offer not-very-burned sacrifices to the Snow Gods (burnt offering = melting ice cubes with a hair dryer) as long as there are absolutely no candles involved whatsoever because of the fire regulations.

More Reflections Upon the First Month

2006-09-29T16:16:00.000-04:00

A second update this week! I'm spending too much time writing about college instead of studying for it... and yet, I am content. Fear not, this time I promise to not go on a spontaneous rant about any of my teachers.

It's strange to think that I've only been at Covenant for almost six weeks, and that I've known everyone I've met for such a short amount of time (compared to my friends back home, the most recent of whom I've known for two years). Honestly, it feels like I've known everyone for much longer than I really have, especially the friends that I've adopted as "my" friends.

I adore my hall. Ours (called Gallery) has the reputation of hosting the non-conformists, the "artsy" people, and those who should be wearing leather jackets that say "Born To Rune" (yes, rune, because it's hard to find a Presby who doesn't like Tolkien) on the back. I love having this reputation -- if I tell people "I live on Gallery" and if (even with foreknowledge of how strange I allow myself to be) they still want to be my friend, I've truly found acceptance. And even if no one else on campus found me to be an appealing friend, I rest secure in the fact that my fellow Gallerians would still accept me. We all love each other, and I'm not sure why, but I'm not about to mess with a good thing. The community of Gallery is something that, apparently, is not as common for other halls on campus (note: I have not completed an official survey, and I'm prone to biased statements, so... yeah). Hugs are a common Hello for us. We leave our doors open to passers-by when we aren't studying. A semi-regular group of Gallery girls go to dinner at five o'clock because we don't see each other any time before or after dinner. We enjoy each other's company, not because we're forced to live on the same hall, but because we genuinely like each other. I can't wait to grow with my fellow Gallery freshmen and see future freshmen come to find out just how amazing the bonds of friendship between hallmates can be.

However, to put my reader's mind at ease, I must say that I am finding a life outside of Gallery. I love being with my friends from the former O-Team (I hate to admit it, but the Covenant faculty had a really good idea for getting some freshmen to know one another before school started... because it worked), who have now become my friends from Psych and Christian Mind. We already have some nicknames (BEAGLE! ^^) and running jokes that are going around. I've found friends who are from anywhere in the US, who come from completely different backgrounds, and all of whom have no idea what is so funny about any running joke from my friends back home. And, strangest of all, I like it. I see people walking on campus and not only have the opportunity to wave at them, but they wave at me, too. I've gotten to know a few of them more personally than others, and while they might not feel like they know me very well, I believe that I've found friends I never knew I could have.

I've found that I haven't been writing as much fiction since I've been at Covenant... because, for once in my life, reality is so much more appealing to me. (note: this is scheduled to change for Finals week) If only I could have my friends from back home up at school with me, life might actually be perfect!

More later. I have a lot of studying to do today. I'll probably get into my favorite stories from on and off the hall next time I update... I've got to think them through first and make sure I won't get in trouble sharing them with the general public :)

Reflections Upon the First Month

2006-09-27T13:52:00.000-04:00

Where to start? There's quite a lot to cover since my last update. So much has happened, and most of it is actually a so comedic (slapstick, tongue-in-cheek, irony, absurdity, take your pick...) that I'm thinking about journaling every week about the bizarre or flat-out hilarious events in which I inevitably find myself involved after I graduate, using my journal entries to write a book about a wonderfully caricature-esque Covenant College.

Let's start with my classes. My major (psychology) dictates that I must take this-many "core" classes in edition to the Psych classes, so I am trying to get a lot of my required stuff out of the way so I can get to "the fun stuff". Ironically "the fun stuff" also requires the most work, as it is a four-hour class and all my others are two- or three-hour classes, but the only time I complain is the week before an exam. I will have had two exams in Psych before I take my first tests in Old Testament Literature, English, and Covenant's little "intro to reformed theology" called The Christian Mind. Tomorrow we get our assignments for this year's Psych lab: rats. We each get our own little rodent friend to train throughout the semester, but we do not yet know what we will be training our little rodent friends to do. I sometimes wonder if my professor likes to play mind games with us and see how far his students will speculate or how much anxiety he can cause. It also helps that my Psych professor is also my Christian Mind professor; when we have to take our final for Christian Mind, I won't have to explain to anyone that I couldn't take the test because I was on a field trip to a mental institution.

I also enjoy Old Testament, considering it is one of the few classes in which I have not been penalized for letting my required reading fall behind. Every day my teacher, who is quite possibly the kindest and most amazing man I have ever met, reads something from one book or another for a bit of a devotional; normally it's something written by C.S. Lewis, or from this little wonder called the "All-Better Book". Go look it up on Amazon -- it's so amazing that our entire class misses this little book whenever the teacher reads to us from something else.

However, I have to say that the most interesting class as of yet has been Concepts in PE. True to advertising, this class has more to do with concepts than PE. We write essays instead of running laps or taking hikes on the walking trails on and off the campus. We research and read articles online that scream "Get a life and go exercise!", and then we write a page-long summary about each assigned article. I read my long-winded textbooks for hours, only to learn that thousands of people die every day from a sedetary lifestyle. I don't understand why we are not practicing what is being preached to us, but this is all that the teacher (he is not a professor, and yes, that is significant enough to merit a raised eyebrow) prescribes, and we must, by his orders, make him happy.

Now I feel that I must tell you -nay, warn you- about my PE teacher. He is a lean (trans: skinny) man who is easily over forty, judging by the age in his face; his graying hair is always "styled" (if one can call it styled) to such a wiry and bizarre degree that I've begun to wonder if he sticks his finger in an electric socket every morning on his way out the door; his glasses, if the lenses were put side-by-side, could roughly equal the surface area of a pair of ski goggles; and he always wears the same horrible blue wind-suit because, apparently, someone forgot to tell him that certain highlights of eighties/early nineties fashion was buried in the same cemetery as disco and pet rocks. He preaches to us every day about how TV dinners are going to give us high blood pressure, about the evils of high fructose corn syrup and red dye number four, and about how every soft drink except root beer is going to kill us (it seems that, due to the skyrocketing levels of acid in sodas, our teeth will rot out and we'll choke on a rotted and fallen-out tooth in our sleep). However, his most memorable trait is that he is a very detail-oriented person and expects every other person on campus to be the same. In all honesty, I believe that he does not worry about what his students learn, just as long as they turn in their one inch margin, eleven point Times New Roman font, twelve point Arial Black heading, zero-point-five indented paragraph, left flush, horizontally stapled in the left corner, two to three page papers on time. He gets very upset if these insanely fine details are not followed to the letter. I am convinced that one day a student is finally going to turn in a paper that is exactly opposite of what is required, and it will push him over the edge and he will spontaneously combust. The only things left to prove his existence to future generations of freshmen will be his sneakers, those horrid bug-eye glasses, and a pile of smoldering ashes that smell faintly of Splenda.

Most upperclassman, when told that a freshman has this specific teacher their first semester, have typical responses of either "He's a psycho but he's easy" or "Oh God, really?" I have heard this same man described by my fellow students -mostly by those who have failed, by no fault of their own, to meet every nit-picky requirement for an assignment- as a "lunatic", a "Nazi in a windbreaker", and a "psychotic freak-bag" (though I personally believe calling him this is an insult to the psychotic freak-bag community). I have been so fortunate as to have been spared from his wrath, and even though he has invoked the fury of my peers, he has so far been spared my own. So far.

In as much as I have rambled for the past few paragraphs, I have not even touched the topics of my classmates, my hall, or the random but on occasion hilarious stories that occur from day to day. But that must all be saved for another entry... I think I hear my Psych book reminding me how much reading I've yet to complete before Monday's exam.
-----

Today's Song: either "Let Love Grow" (Paul Coleman Trio) or "In The City" (The Eagles)
Today's Obsessions: Shinedown, The Three Musketeers, Terry Pratchett, MST3K, "Criminal Minds"
Today's Quote: "Wednesdays are like the hangover Tuesday leaves behind."

Family Gatherings

2006-09-26T18:12:00.000-04:00

I found this on another blog of mine that I presumed Dead the other day, but I liked this little bit so much that I wanted to save it. Originally published 4/7/06.
------

Ah, the Fourth of July... one of the three or four times a year when semi-extended family invades my house. Mom is always flustered about getting the house ready, and normally my sister and I grow tired of hearing her shout, "Come BACK, girls!" from down the hall, so we stick near the living room where she can find us.

If Dad's family is coming, Grandmama beats everyone else to our house by twenty minutes or more. She's not a normal grandmother... she's more like the kind of old lady you find in a bar, caterwauling Irish drinking songs with the drunk, burly men and showing them pictures of her grandchildren between shots of tequila. However, as she is a devout Christian, she must vent her eccentric nature through other activities. Like dominoes.

My family loves dominoes, but it's not so much the game that we enjoy. It's the fellowship, the laughter, and the running jokes that begin from off the cuff comments from one Uncle to another. Someone always manages to land in the "Oh, Is It My Turn?" chair, and it's usually Aunt Kathy, Grandmama, or Aunt Karen. Jokes fly, laughter echoes through the house, and everyone generally has a good time. I even manage to have fun when the magaritas come out -- after the drinks are served, I find that I can sit back and gather wonderful blackmail with a smug grin on my face.

The festivities continue on throughout the afternoon, but I often find myself in the TV room watching an old Disney movie or two and, if word got out too far, I would be laughed at. But I don't mind. I even get my own magarita now that I'm (almost) eighteen. Hmm... Disney movies and magaritas. Not exactly the most traditional combination, but it somehow works.

And now, as I finish this post, I can hear that Aunt Kathy is singing (if by singing I mean making a musical attempt) , Grandmama's joking about being pulled over for drunk driving, and from the sounds of Aunt Kathy's song, Dad must've won the dominoes game.

I rather do enjoy family gatherings.
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Today's Song: "Baby I Don't Cry Over You" by Billie Holiday
Today's Obsessions: Mystery Science Theater 3000, Alexandre Dumas, iTunes
Today's Quote: "I am such a geek... I know what DNA stands for, but I forget where penguins live!"

Aug. 24, 2006

2006-08-24T10:19:00.000-04:00

Yeesh. I don't update this often enough. See? I get a journal and I forget to update. It's a cycle.

Anyway...

I've moved up to Covenant, I'm settled in, I'm finished with orientation... oh, man, I've met some amazing people in the five days I've been here. Everyone on my O-Team is great! (O-Team = Orientation Team: the group they shoved us into last Friday. They grouped people of like majors, so we're mostly Psyche majors with a few English majors and a couple Undecided's) I get to spend a lot of time with the Team, too, since it transitions from O-Team into Christian Mind class. I've met two guys on my Team who remind me of two guys I knew back home, and likewise I've met a girl who says I remind her of her friend Caroline (and even started introducing me to her friends as "Caroline's Twin" o_O ). My hall is awesome -- they're friendly and hyper and stranger than I thought, but I like it that way. ^^

I've been sleep deprived to the point of hysterics, gotten behind in my required reading, and been late once already... and classes haven't even started yet.

College is going to be fun. I'll keep you posted.
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Today's Song: either "Hollywood Waltz" (Eagles) or "The Night Pat Murphy Died" (Great Big Sea)
Today's Obsessions: Stargate SG-1, The Eagles, finding time to write, Facebook, Mystery Science Theater 3000, and Paul Bettany.
Today's Quote: "I had to rate my latest fic PG-13 for sustained scenes of danger and graphic pottery violence."