The Cyclical Nature of Time

With a title like that, I can't possibly begin by talking about my pithy dissatisfaction with the Oscars last night...oh yes, actually, I can. Despite the fact that I, for the first time in four years, won my annual Oscar bet with Matt, I was dissapointed with the Oscars. Three reasons: 1) A film about boxing won, 2) Sean Penn looked fat, and 3) Johnny Depp looked like an unemployed writer going to a funeral. While I did not see "Million Dollar Baby," and it may very well be the best thing ever committed to celluloid, I have a hard time getting behind a movie directed by Clint Eastwood that involves any kind of man to man fisticuffs. Sorry. And then there's Sean, who normally toasts my waffle in the best way, but looked like an alcoholic who just spend the last five hours at TGI Friday's. Sadness. And he took up for Jude Law, which let's all face it here, may be eye candy, but is wearing out his welcome to say the least. And then there's Johnny, and don't get me wrong, I looooooooves me some Johnny Depp, but come on. Ascot? Blue jacket? Geek glasses? THIS IS THE OSCARS! YOU ARE JOHNNY DEPP! COME ON! I know you want to look eccentric, but God, you got 364 other days for that. Just come out and look hot and give me good memories for the next year. Ok? Is that too much to ask, Mr. Depp? I didn't think so. And by the way, I would STILL go see you dressed up like a hot dog and hell, I would be the mustard. Seriously.

So on to more observant, less accusatory things. I am starting to realize that the older I get, the more I become like myself at age 13. It's like I've had this vacation from me for about 8 years, and then BAM, I come home, and everything's just as I left it.

How I Resemble Me at 13
1. Current strange obsession with Billie Joe Armstrong and all things Green Day.
2. Current desire to move to NYC.
3. Current choice of writing as appropriate career goal.
4. Current wearing of Doc Martens and Chuck Taylors (albeit lighter, more comfy Doc's).
5. Current state of hair (long and dark).

Seriously. It's weird. And what's weirder about it is that I feel comfy in my own skin. I'm happy. I'm good. I'm totally at peace with where I'm going and what I'm doing. It's like I had it figured out at 13, and then spent all these years fighting against that knowledge of what I am. I mean, I've tried it all over the years. Once I wore trendy shoes from some hideous store in the mall. Once I entered the School of Education, a thing that was just as stupid and ill-conceived as the uncomfortable shoes and high prices spent on the damn things. Once I listened to show tunes and wanted to move tto Nova. I had short, PTA mom hair.

So I wonder: How many other people had it figured out when the were young, and then changed because they thought they had to, because of something this culture told them was wrong and was not worthy of their time. I wonder what our nation would be like if we all went with what we dreamed about when we were 12. I mean, why can't people follow their dreams? It's cheesy, but I mean, shouldn't it just make sense? You'd think.

Well, I guess that's enough for today. I don't know if I fulfilled the lofty ideas of my title, but, sorry. I guess I devoted too much time to my obsession with Johnny Depp. Oh well. You just can't devote too much time to Johnny, no matter what he's got around his neck.

Reason #446 To Move to New Zealand and Become a Sheep Farmer

I hate this goddamned town.

Ten Places I Would Rather Live than Williamsburg
1. my mother's basement (keep in mind that it has a dirt floor and frequently floods)
2. Beirut
3. swamp
4. in a van down by the river (as long as it is not the James or the York)
5. Australian Outback
6. Afghanistan
7. War, West Virginia (if you have not been there, you cannot possibly comprehend what I am speaking of)
8. Dante, VA (same thing)
9. Siberia
10. on a deserted island with only a volleyball to keep me company

I hate this place so much.

Things I Hate
1. my apartment complex
2. the people who live here (barring those affiliated with the college, of course)
3. my apartment complex
4. tourists
5. Did I mention my apartment complex?

So, use this as a word of warning. If you are coming to William and Mary, live on campus. If you are thinking of coming here on vacation, don't. It's yuppie, SUV-driving, judgemental, I'm-charging-you-money-for-the-hot-water-that-you-don't-have hell. Bastards.

Did I mention I am angry?

If Laziness Was a Crime, I'd Get the Death Penalty

Today is my day off, a day that I hope will be devoid of all academic thoughts. You see, that's how I manage my strange little existence. I climb the Ivory Tower all week long, and climb it I do, complete with discussions with professors and trips to the library. But on Friday, the sweatshirt goes on, the Hershey Kisses go in, and it's all true crime drama, all the time. It's probably the most un-academic thing you can think of. But it's survival, and it works for me.

Last night I probed (I did not stalk, mind you, I just merely asked) and found out that Moviescene guy is attending a Modern Poetry class before my Milton class. Interesting. Very interesting. That means, he has to be an English major, because no one would take Modern Poetry if they weren't using it for English credit. Hmmmm. I don't know quite what to think of this newest development, but the fact remains that he is a cool son of a bitch, and that's all that I need to know.

My mother is reading Anna Karenina to see what all the fuss is about, and is actually liking it. This raises my respect level for my mother ten-fold. I mean, she's an accounting professor, she's not supposed to have this latent appetite for Tolstoy. But she does, and that's cool, even though she is driving me crazy by asking me all these strange questions. Oh well.

To Do List for This Weekend
1. finish all applications for summer workshops
2. clean house
3. read for pleasure
4. sleep
5. make a big meal for Matt, probably involving a trifle, as I have about 3 things of heavy cream that die in a week
6. work on novella, which my opinion of has been raised forty fold by the kind comments of classmates. Awwwww....

Have a good un!

Death to Weathermen and Other Soothsayers

It didn't snow. Once again, they said it would, and it didn't. Bastards.

Today started out as a really, really harrowing day, but has gotten better, due to my overzealous excitement about Yeats and all forms of iambic pentameter. Last night, I had the most delicious sleep...you have no idea. Well, this is starting to be very pomo--beginning spliced with ending, so let me go traditional and start things from the beginning, which was last night. There. That's better.

Last night, Matt and I had a fight, so I stalked off the the library and into the waiting arms of William Butler Yeats, which is so sad, that it defies comment. I mean, I could have at least stopped for some sort of alcohol, but no, like any nerd worth her salt, I head off to Swem. I read, read, read, and then I leave and drive around a while. I got lost and ended up in some town called Charles City, which was mildly interesting at 11:00 at night, but I don't think I will ever visit again. And then, I started thinking about the possibility of me getting a flat tire and being stranded with some toothless country cop, and I came home. Then, I stalked off to my bedroom and read approximately 2.3 sentences before falling asleep.

But what a sleep it was. Damn good sleep. This sleep was like the Dom Perignon of sleep, in that, it makes all of my other sleep look like that cheap bottle of Taylor Pink Champagne that I am so regularly mentioning. It was good. So good in fact, that I didn't want to get up this morning, and managed to make myself nearly late for class, where I was supposed to give an oral presentation on my main man Yeats. But somehow, I made it to class on time, made up with Matt (mostly by my mentioning of cute underwear, and his mentioning of broken umbrellas) and did a fairly good job talking about ole W.B., even though I left out the Milton reference I was planning and the green belt I had worn to add to the whole Irish spirit of things wasn't as blatantly visible as I had wanted. Oh well. We can't all be perfect, I guess.

So, in my experiences as of late, I have come to the conclusion that I am a wanderer of some sort. I love to drive around and see things--there is nothing quite as beautiful as an ordinary landscape bathed in the light of the moon. It's this cool experience to be somewhere when you're not really supposed to, when it's not really right. But it's fun. I am looking forward to moving because there will be lots of new things for me to wander around and see.

Well, I should go. I am in the Language Lab since it is much too dreary to venture down to the bookstore to read, and I needed to print off things for my creative writing class. I am not sure what I am going to do for the next hour, as I have printed out all materials and have even printed out applications for the Publishing Institutes I am hoping to attend this summer. Somebody stop me--I am doing way too much for this to be truly me. Ho hum.

And now, for a Yeats quote, even though it doesn't really fit today's post. It's chaotic and cool like my worldview as of late, and well, it's going up because I said. And nobody's the boss of me. At least not yet.
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worse
Are full of passionate intensity.

Damn.

In Praise of the Simple Life (No, this is not about Paris Hilton)

Today I am thinking about hedonism. A quote for your enjoyment: "I cannot praise a fugitive and clositered virtue, unexercised and unbreathed, that never sallies out and sees her adversary, but slinks out of the race where that immortal garland is to be run for, not without dust and heat." I love that. I love it for its incredible grasp of the language, for its simple thought so elegantly put.

I also love it because I have determined that life is all about experience and getting to know things about yourself, mostly by doing things that you like. Without experience, technically there can be no life. But anyway, and more practically, I am beginning to feel a sort of fear about next year. I wrote a resume yesterday, and was shocked at what a loser I look like on paper. I can't write down that I have often considered the meaning of existence while laying in a pool of sunlight. I can't say that I have the ability to make one damn good pie crust. I can't write down all the things about me that make me me. And it makes me feel weird. Because any job that I can get with my resume, is probably not the job for me. It is weird. Is everyone so resistant to doing anything? I am starting to feel like the laziest person on earth. Seriously.

Maybe I should go to grad school...ugh.....

Morgan's Top Ten Feelings in the World, All Notably Different from any Work Experience
1. flannel sheets that have been washed a lot
2. the taste of chocolate covered strawberries
3. a sweater on a cold day
4. Sunday mornings
5. hot coffee
6. a warm bath
7. sex (keep in mind these are in no particular order)
8. the last day of exams
9. writing
10. loud music in the car

These are the things I love. Not going to work for the man. Sigh, sigh. I am a lazy, lazy, worthless person.

Some Random Thoughts At Midnight

It is my second post of the day...or maybe my first since it is almost Wednesday. Oh well.

I just finished my paper for my women writers class. I actually think it is pretty good. It is about naturalism, class, and sexuality and...oh, wait, you don' t care. Wait a minute. Neither do I.

So here are some random thoughts I have wanted to write about but haven't yet because, well, they are random thoughts. But like ipod says, Life is Random, so we should embrace it. Why the hell not? It's midnight and I haven't got shit to do, except read about 160 pages of Zora Neale Hurston and start an oral presentation on W. B. Yeats. Oh well. I'll get to it eventually.

My fiance is snoring on the couch. So Al Bundy like, it is pathetic.

There is a girl in my Milton class who has an ability to make me feel like a garden slug, no matter what. She just always looks perfect. It doesn't hurt that she is tiny and has this perfect strawberry blonde hair. God. But she also has the most amazing wardrobe. And she sits right in front of me, so I have to look at her all goddamn time. I spend way too much time in class wondering where she got that skirt, or that shirt, or this coat. Hell, if I spend all my time actually concentrating on Milton instead of hating her, I could probably be Prof. Savage's best friend and have a martini with him. No shit.

Are all humans by nature competitive or is it a special trait garnered by us females? Because I'm pretty sure we're better at it. Seriously.

Speaking of Milton, here ya go: Many a man lives a burden to the earth; but a good book is the precious lifeblood of a master spirit, embalmed and treasured up on purpose to a life beyond life. Ain't that just the coolest thing? A little gift from me and the Areopagitica.

The MovieScene guy has a class before my Milton class and always comes out when I'm waiting to go in. Sooo...here we go with a handy dandy list:
Reasons Why The MovieScene Guy is a Genius and Thus, The Sweet to My Bee
1. He can tell you where any movie is in that whole goddamned store, even if it is a Russian movie from 1939 (believe me, I've tried it), and odds are, he's seen it and can tell you about it.
2. He's bettering himself at an advanced age.
3. He runs a tight ship. MovieScene can kick Blockbuster's ass anyday of the week. Yeah, Blockbuster, you just try to bring it with your No Late Fees. His foreign film section will take you down to Chinatown and back, bitch.
4. He's got a new style now, and well, it takes guts to work the shaggy look.
5. He drinks tea out of a coffee mug. And men who drink tea rock. Hard.
6. He once used the words "socialist realism" in conversation. Before he came to Tucker to get some larnin'. Damn.

Reasons Why Don Slater is the Devil
1. Wavy 10 sucks.
2. He's always wrong.
3. He says stupid stuff like, "There's a recipe for snow, and we've got all of the ingredients! More at 11." Dumb bastard.
4. Wavy 10 sucks.
5. He needs to go down to Newschannel 5 in Bristol, VA, where he can learn some damn good weather abilities from my main man, Johnnie Wood, a man who loves Ryan's Steakhouse, yet can tell you if it's actually going to snow or not.

Suffice it to say, I have had it with the weather men up here. I have determined that the weather is inversely related to whatever I have on. Case in point: today I wear a 3/4 length sleeve shirt with a light blazer. Cold as shit. Tomorrow I will wear a parka, and I'll get a sunburn. No shit.

I should read and then go to bed. I should clean my living room.

I was dissapointed by L&O: SVU tonight. Not enough sex, too many victims (or rather, too many special victims, not enough unit). And who cares if Stephanie March comes back? She was a bitch then, and she's a bitch now. I ain't cryin' no tears because she has to move to BFE, Nebraska and sell insurance because some guy tried to kill her. I want perversion, dammit. If you can't give me that, shut up, and at least show Stabler, because well, for obvious reasons, I loves me some Stabler.

Must go. Have a good un!

To Be or Not To Be

I have sooooo much shit to do right now. You have no idea. But I choose to wax philosophic about something I was thinking about, more for me than you, as I am horribly, horribly confused as to what Prof. Savage, John Milton and Nirvana are trying to tell me. Read on if you must...

Today in Milton, we had an interesting conversation/lecture about Lycidas (I'm not being sarcastic--it really did kick ass). And Prof. Savage says (I wrote it down because it struck a cord with me, I usually do not take such detailed notes), "the longer you live, the more time you have to prove your worthlessness." Which, if you think about it, is about spot on. Because when you are young, you are filled with the grandiose views of youth, and while you may be somewhat aware of the pointlessness of existence, you have not wholly conceptualized just how that pointlessness relates to your own life. In youth, the future is always bright, is always full of questions and answers and found dreams. And not just for you. Those around you hold the same expectations for your life, and whether knowingly or unknowingly, gently prod you in that general direction. Therefore, if one dies while in the thick of this promise, there is an eternal sense of what could have been, real or imagined. But if you die in old age, everyone knows that you are nothing but a fuck up, some guy who ate up air for 95 years and did nothing but sell insurance and bet on the ponies (no one in mind, of course, just a general idea of what people amount to). So, in that case, you have proven your worthlessness.

So, what is there to stop you from ending it all when you feel that you have nothing more to prove, nothing more to attain than actually waking up in the morning, nothing at all? It seems that suicide is actually a valuable tool in the life of a human, something that can save us all from understanding our own worthlessness. If everyone died at the peak of their game, not only would we be smaller in number, but we would be greater in promise, as we would not fully comprehend the unexamined, unfulfilled life. I know this is getting into shaky ground.

I have often thought that I would rather die than get old. Now, I think, it is not merely an idea, but should be a credence. No, I'm not going to kill myself right now. Rather, I think that the knowledge that one could do just that and not go through with the strange death that is old age is illuminating and interesting. There is a certain wonder and relief in the idea that you could just kill yourself if the worthlessness got to be too much.

Please note that this not an emotional argument, but one related to a work of literature (at least vaguely).

I don't know. I have been having many thoughts about life and how mine should be lived lately. It is weird. Today I went to the Career Center, but all I could think of was laying around and being happy in my own thoughts (and bed). Maybe, in my line of thinking, a career is the first indication of the worthlessness of existence. Dear God. I just can't behind the idea that we were put here to work our fingers to the bone all the goddamn time. I am a hedonist.

So on that note, I leave you with my favorite scene from a play, from Mad Forest by Caryl Churchill. It is not existential, so do not fear. Rather, it is the perfect explanation of happiness as I see it. (Note: I will leave off the names of the speaker as they are Romanian and would just confuse.) Here, the characters are discussing what they want to do with their lives and end up discussing what it takes to make them happy.

I want to go to Peru.
Rome. And Pompeii.
A holiday by the sea.
Pause.
Sleep late in the morning.
Pause.
Paint what I see in my head.
Go into work tomorrow and everyone's better.
Gabriel walking.
Rodica talking.
They laugh.
New shoes.
Paintbrushes with fine points.
Pause.
Drive a fast car.
Be famous.
Toblerone.
Pause.
Make money.
Pause.
Learn everything in the world by the end of the week.
Pause.
Not be frightened.
The Pauses get longer.
Make Florina happy.
Long Pause.
Make Toma happy.
Silence.
Live forever.
Longer silence.
Die young.
Very long silence.
Go on lying here.

New Pants and Faulkner Like Tendencies

I am writing from home. It's weird. My mom and I have been doing some powerful internet related stalking tonight, mostly by looking at a local college's website. It's amazing how many of the women have married. So many that I am starting to feel like an old maid, and you must remember I am here to try on a wedding dress. Sad, sad.

So far, I am having a good time back home. It is really strange being here and seeing the kind of flight that is leaving this place. Everywhere I go, I see houses for sale or just standing empty, their owners having left without looking back. And I know I am guilty of this just as much as anyone. I live 7 hours away and I am moving farther. But sometimes I think that all I want to do is just stay here and write on the side of a mountain, and not have to deal with anything. I would like to be a hermit here within this place that I love and hate so virulently at the same time. I have this really strange relationship with this place, and the people who live here. When I am here, I can't think of being anywhere else, but when I am gone, I look at it with a kind of nostalgia and not much else.

Saturday Night Live sucks. Whoever writes it should be drug out in the street and shot.

(Sorry for that. I just caught Weekend Update, and well, suffice it to say that I was not entertained.)

Well, I should go. I have to go back home tomorrow. I think Matt misses me. And I am going to try to shop some more...ugh...material desire is inescapable. I'm so weird.

When Karma and High Modernism Go Bad...

My neckhurts. My throat hurts. My bones hurt. I can see that all that positive karma I have tried to garner by taking the shopping cart back to the holder in the Target parking lot is not coming to my rescue.

I hate February. No, T.S. Eliot, February is the cruelest month. It's a proven fact. More people get sick in February than any other month. And if they're like me, they get two things back to back. Because, you know, February is short, and it has to sneak it over on you someway. Bastard.

But I am still going home this weekend. Three reasons: 1) Try on wedding dress. 2) Go shopping, hopefully having my mother pay for part of my purchases so I have something to wear when Matt and I traipse across the country. 3) Get already purchased pants hemmed by grandmother, who doesn't charge a fee. Is this sad? Shouldn't I say that I am going because I love my family? I mean, I do, but come on. A girl needs things. Nice things. Especially when her boyfriend is a wanted, loved, cajoled genius and she has to save face somehow. See, material desire strikes again. Isn't it awful? I am so conflicted on the subject of my own material shortcomings. I mean, part of me wants to be poor and bohemian but the other part wants to sell her soul for J.Crew blazers and Anthropologie dresses. And that's the biggest part. The one that's winning. Boethius would frickin' hate me. Hell, sometimes I frickin' hate me.

Maybe my desire is what is defeating my good karma and making me sick...hmmm...

Matt found out yesterday that when we go to Berkeley, we are going to get to stay with another grad student. So that means we can stay longer because it will be a pretty much free trip. I am so excited. I mean, assuming February doesn't kill me by then, I will get to stay in San Francisco during Spring Break, and then when I finally come home to (groan, groan) Williamsburg, I will get to tell all those around me that I actually did something that does not include a Law and Order marathon or the internet. I will be cool, and it's fitting, because this is my last Spring Break. Hummm.

Well, I should go. I need to pack. And I need to watch TV and eat Reese's cups. Something tells me that when I go try on my wedding dress, I'll be lucky to get it over my left thigh. Sadness. *Cough, cough*

DAMN YOU FEBRUARY!!!!!!!!!!

I feel really out of sorts today for some reason. I'm just kind of blah. The stomach thing has subsided for now, but I can't tell if I am getting sick again or if I am just weak from all of the puking and such I have been doing. At any rate, I am not up to facing the world today, so I am sitting at home staring at the computer.

I do have to venture out at around two today, as I finally worked out my geology affair, and I have to go take that test. I have a feeling that I will fail it. Oh well. As you can see, I am not up for really caring one way or the other.

I am going home this weekend to try on my wedding dress, and do other wedding related things with my mother. I am actually looking forward to it, even though Matt is staying here to work on some things. We have to go tomorrow and look at our reception location and decide about some things. Should be fun. This wedding thing, while it seems out of control at times, is moving along nicely, and is actually a good time. I am looking forward to really getting into the fine details where we can really show people how quirky-cute we are.

So since I am tired and uncreative and totally unamusing, I am deferring to some survey goodness I found on a friend's blog and that I think will make me smile. Certainly more than watching The Nanny which is on the accursed TV that eats up too much of my life anyway. Ho hum.

2. Last word you said: Bye (I was talking to my mother on the phone, and I hung up.)
3. Last song you sang: Wayward Angel-Kasey Chambers (I was in a strange mood.)
4. Last person you hugged: Matt
5. Last thing you laughed at: last night when Matt and I were discussing that if Columbia professors saw how we act at home, they wouldn't be so peachy keen on giving him a Ph. D, especially with all the ass shaking that goes on around here
6. Last time you said, "I love you": this morning
7. Last time you cried: on Valentine's Day (sigh...tears of joy)
8. What's in your CD player: I have a changer: 1. Valentine's Day mix cd made by Matt 2. Green Day 3. Power Ballads mix cd4. Kasey Chambers 5. Garden State 6. The Killers
9. What color socks are you wearing: my feet are naked
10. What's under your bed: storage boxes and old photos
11. What time did you wake up today: around 7:45
12. Current taste: chocolate truffle
13. Current hair: in a rather haphazard pony tail
14.Current clothes: green khaki's, button up shirt with pearl buttons, jean jacket (it is cold in here)
15. Current annoyance: geology
16. Current longing: Matt, a bed, and a day
17. Current desktop picture: home photos made with our camera (it was this scary picture of the monkey that lives in Chris's closet from The Family Guy, but it was much, much too threatening)
18. Current worry: a mild one about failing that test
19. Current hate: this girl in my women writer's class who was totally wrong about Anna Karenina and has the tendency to wear pink velour.
20. Story behind your LJ name: I'm going to change this to blogger...and it's self-explanatory I think
21. Current favorite article of clothing: Express editor pants. ah yeah.
22. Favorite physical feature of the opposite sex/same sex: hands and eyes
23. Last CD that you bought: Interpol-Antics--it is in my kitchen cd player
24. Favorite place to be: in bed with a book and a Matt
25. Least favorite place: McGlothlin Street Hall (the geology building--I am really dreading this)
26. Time you wake up in the morning: usually around 7:30 ish
27. If you could play an instrument, what would it be: piano
28. Favorite color: light purple, especially when it's with sage green
29. Do your believe in an afterlife: This is a toughie...if I say no, can I receive a full pardon from both the Devil and God and just stick around here?
30. How tall are you: 5'4"
31. Current favorite word/saying: Cry me a river, bitch.
32. Favorite book: probably AK or McTeague. Or maybe Lolita.
33. Favorite season: Fall. When it's a little of everything.
34. One person from your past you wish you could go back and talk to: my granddad
35. Favorite day: February 14
36. Where do you want to go: Paris...you can send honeymoon donations to me at any time, you know.
37. What is your career going to be like: if it's writing, dreamlike. If it's something else, Hell.
38. How many kids do you want: How many did Ray Charles have? Like 12? Oh yeah, he wasn't the one popping them out. In that case, two.
39. What kind of car will you have: probably a VW bug foreva and eva
40. Type a line you remember from any book? 'His presence was like a fly on the face of a loved one.'--War and Peace
41. A random lyric: Seig Heil to the president gasman! ( I have been rageful lately.)

Whatever happened to the 24 hour virus? IT'S BEEN SUPERSIZED!

So I'm still sick, in case you couldn't tell by my stupid, marketing-ploy-esque title. I'm all queasy and gross and just kind of generally unwell. It's not that I'm really that sick all of the time. In fact, this is like the Chinese Water Tortures of Stomach Viruses. It's just a little at a time, until you can't take it anymore and eat a damn brownie and then you're doing the Pepto Bismol dance and sticking your head in a toilet. Wretched, really.

Anyway, more interesting than my bathroom habits of late, is the fact that my fiancee is a fricking genius, at least according to the graduate programs of several universities. Last night Columbia calls him and up and offers $19,000 a year and full tuition and all of this other crazy stuff, just to come there and read and do that cute nod that he does when he has something interesting to say and wants someone to shut up so he can say it. And then Berkeley emails and says that they are paying for us to come out there and give it a look-see. So we get free money and free trips. Or rather, he gets free money and free trips, and I mooch. And then next year, I will be the one working the stupid office job with some idiot named Flo for a boss who smells like canned soup and wear high-waisted, pleated pants while he soaks up the sun of academia and reads Tolstoy for money. Bastard. No, I take that back. He's not a bastard. In fact, he's wonderful, and perfect (stares at glittering ring), and I couldn't give him up if I wanted to. It's just that I am starting to see that for the next four or six or eight or fifty years, I am going to be the girl at the cocktail parties who is constantly asked "And what are you studying?" and I'm going to sigh deeply, take a drink of gin, and say, "The human condition," which, if you think about it, is just pretentious enough to work. I don't know. I need to write, and write fast, so I won't be this anti-feminist beast who follows her husband around and works dead end jobs so he can talk about deconstruction and PoCo and PoMo and such for fun. Under pressure.

And as I am writing this, the University of Pittsburgh calls and asks to speak to "Joseph" in this heavy accent because they have something to offer him. Dear God. It's like living with a slightly hairier Brad Pitt.

My geology matter has still not been totally worked out, so I have that hanging over my head. That and the fact that I haven't done my reading for any class in such a long time. It's so sad. I have been destroyed, utterly and totally, by senioritis and stomach bug. All that remains is a conflicted shell of the girl I once was, a girl who just wants to sleep and write and eat a meal without seeing it in a half-digested state. Sigh.

Last night I dreamed that I was in an all-girl punk band. I sang. Scary.

Well, I should go. I have TV to watch, and truths to ponder. And Matt will be calling any time now, saying "Guess what?!?" and I will have to smile and look at the future in glowing Technicolor as he details just what they are giving him and how much and whose lips he is prying off of his ass for the moment. The Life and Trials of Those with Splendid Futures. Sigh.

Yesterday was the strangest, yet best Valentine's Day ever. Ok, so here's a disclaimer: If you are someone who hates Valentine's Day, quit reading. Go floss your teeth. Seriously. I don't want anybody bitching about hyper-commercialism, or the non-romantic nature of a day planned for romance. I know it is over commericialized, but the thing is, I LOVE Valentine's Day (always have, always will) and it is my all-time favorite holiday. So I am going to talk about what a splendiferous day I had, no matter what you think. So there. Cry me a river, bitch.

Onward. Yesterday I awoke, and got up happily knowing that it was the day that I adore perhaps more than I love ice cream and Anna Karenina combined. I blame this on the colors red and pink, which let's all face it, are pretty awesome colors. But anyway, I got up, screwed around the house for a while, studied for a Geology test, and put on some sexy clothes I had secured just for the occasion. Then, at 12:06, I get this great idea: "Hey, we had pizza last night. There are some leftovers in the fridge. I think I'll have some!" Bad, horrible, stupid, dumb, crazy, ugly idea. By 12:20, I was puking my guts out, which is a horrible image, but comes closest to describing what I was going through at the time. I was wretchedly, horribly sick, perhaps the most sick I've been since I drank 3/4 of a bottle of $4 pink champagne, and then decided to demonstrate my walking of a straight line. ANYWAY, it was bad. So I laid on the couch and wished I was dead, all the time knowing that I was missing my geology test. It was horrible. I called Matt and was generally miserable for a good 3-4 hours. Wretched, wretched.

Then Matt comes home, and things start to look up. He brings me flowers, which are pretty and fun, and all that jazz. And we talk about the Grammys, and I read a funny article concerning them on salon.com which makes mention of Jerry Lee Lewis and the beheading of rats which I thought was roll on the floor laughing kind of funny, but which barely prompted a curling of the lips on Matt. Then, pumped up on love and Pepto Bismol, I journeyed into the kitchen to start dinner, which consisted of two desserts, vodka-cream pasta, and salad. It was fun, especially given the fact that I was singing Journey, and well, everything's better with Journey and cream. Once more, it was fun. No overworked waiters, no obnoxious fellow diners, just good old fashioned romance. And a bottle of merlot. A really, really good smoky bottle of merlot.

Then we open our presents (I know this is dreadfully blow by blow, but indulge me, ok?). I give Matt liquor filled chocolates and "Love Machine" pajamas. He gives me unmentionables and some chocolate. It's good. We are listening to David Bowie's "Will you Rock and Roll With Me" which is dyno-mite. Then, David Bowie's "Be My Wife" comes on, and Matt gives me a ring. Of the engagement kind. I swoon, gasp, repeat. Very, very perfect.

So we had a good night. We drank another bottle of champagne, which I promptly threw up, but you know, you win some, you lose some. And I have a ring on my finger and it glitters, and although I feel like the Indy 500 is going on in my lower digestive region, it is ok. I am part hung-over, and part ill, and all the way happy. And how often do you hear an English major say that?

I had qualms about putting this on here, as I am airing our little private moment (well, not all of our private moments, wink, wink, nudge, nudge, say no more) to, well, the 3.2 people who read this, but the thing is, seeing it here just makes it all the more real. Right now it's too good to be real. I mean, we had just fallen into the wedding thing as a kind of thing that you just do because it is the right time and right place and whatever. But this makes it even more...just perfect. I don't know. It's one of those things that is surreal (Matt would probably hate me using that word) and magical and still so strangely there. It's like when you're asleep for a long time, and you wake up, and you see the person beside of you and you can't tell if you're still dreaming or not. It's just like a permanent phase of that. Clumsy metaphor I know, but somehow strikingly true. I don't know.

So that's what's going on with me. I am warring with my geology TA about when I am going to take this test and the fact that I did not get an excuse note from the health center because I was puking all over the place and unable to drive to the goddamned student health center at the time of the class, and it seems so far away and not like something I should be caring about. I don't know. It's weird. I guess the world stops for those in love. Sappy, sappy.

Well, I should go. I really should do more work. I have senioritis of the worst, worst degree. I am about 300 pages behind in Dostoevsky, and I have 150 pages to read and a response paper to write by tomorrow. Then there's the damn geology test. Oh well. We'll see how that goes. Sigh.

Here's a post-Valentine's Day list of Good Songs for You to Get It On To:
1. Love Song--The Cure. All time favorite. God, so good.
2. Always--Bon Jovi. Cheese should be a good part of your diet.
3. Blue Eyes--Some random guy on Garden State soundtrack.
4. Fade Into You--Mazzy Star. Favorite of my dramatic high school days.
5. Heroes--David Bowie. Need I say more?
6. Take It Off--The Donnas. Quickie music!
7. Doin' It--LL Cool J. This is so cliched that if someone ever played this in the bedroom, I would crack up, but this doesn't diminish the fact that I can recite every word on command. How's a big girl like it Daddy? Nice and large.
8. Open Arms--Journey. For those times when you find yourself with a bald, hairy man in sweatpants from New Jersey.
9. Darts of Pleasure--Franz Ferdinand. Love the title. And the guys are nerdy looking which will get any good English major in the mood.
10. Iris--Goo Goo Dolls. Haven't heard it in years, but it was "our song" when we were 16 and were concerned with such things. Sigh.

Randomness

I have exactly 20 minutes before I have to go to Milton, so I'm going to see how much crap I can throw out here before I go. I am in the Language Lab at school which is a hotbed of pretentiousness and pettiness, let me tell you. This girl just looked at this guy beside of me and said, "Those words are sooooo Indo European. It just makes you sick." I swear to God. Exact words. Shoot me now.

The Official Hierarchy of Coolness (as Deemed by Society, not be me) of Majors
1. Government/Public Policy--These are the kids who were voted most likely to succeed in high school and most likely to fuck a whole sorority in college. They wear J. Crew shirts everyday. They smell like beer and money.
2. Chemistry/Biology--These people will have money someday, so you want to like them for that, but they are so fucking annoying you just end up hating them and reminding yourself that Tolstoy said that rational science was the devil. So there.
3. History--Kind of on the cusp--not cool enough to be government, not quite hip enough to be English. Questionable. If they really like history (like too much), they look it and probably haven't bathed in the past week. If they're just there because it's a major that you can go to law school with, they have a inferiority complex to the government majors. And they drink a lot.
4. English/Art History--Too cool to be cool. Rather, not cool but hip. (I am, of course, included.) Consider a volume of Pope to be a fashionable accessory.
5. Spanish/French--Ok, so there are a few of those girls who wish they lived in France or Spain and are romance novelists waiting to happen included in this, but there are also a lot of talented literary type people. There are also the Government wannabe's, but their clothes are too tight and they don't drink enough to truly fit in.
6. Physics/Geology/Computer Science. Haven't seen the light of day in 15 months. Not cool.
812. Russian/Arabic/obscure languages--Still play Dungeons and Dragons. Smell like Bactine. Once had an online date, but it didn't pan out. Take classes on Terrorism and fuck it up for everyone. (My boyfriend is of course excluded--he is an anomaly.) Not cool by anyone's standards, not even mine.

The most hideous person in the world works in the Language Lab. She is incredibly physically ugly. Mean, but true. I like to think of her as the bellringer of Washington Hall.

Prof. Savage is the coolest man on earth, possibly because he is the antithesis of cool. I love me some Milton, and that my friends, is disturbing.

There are two kinds of people in the world: Dostoevsky people and Tolstoy people. I am a Tolstoy person. Tolstoy is a writer who just happens to philosophize. Dostoevsky is a philosopher who just happens to haphazardly write.

It is cold in here. I don't understand why people insist on having windows open at all times, like they just have to have some link to the outside. God, people, we're not in prison. Not literally, at least.

Today Bon Jovi's Shot Through the Heart came on the radio as I was driving to school. It rocked. My day was made.

Must go to Milton and see my main man. Have a good un!

The Pro's of Pulling a Britney

Ok, so this tiny little shindig that started out as my wedding has blossomed into this huge thing with all these people coming who I didn't even think I would send an invitation to. Seriously. Suddenly my great aunt who I haven't seen since I was about 15 and who (let's face it) has continually scared the living shit out of me for a good 3/4 of my life is going to come and share a hotel room with my grandmother. Driving seven hours (probably more--she lives in Tennessee) to come to my wedding. This is a woman who is constantly suing people and who sounds like a gravel road when she talks. And she's coming to my wedding. Or probably she's coming--she has to clear it with her shiftless son who beats his wife and buys $10,000 horses, all on his huge mall employee salary. WHAT THE FUCK?!?

So ok. It's going to be ok. When it comes right down to it, who wants to drive seven hours to go to a wedding that is going to contain nothing more than a song or two from the Garden State soundtrack and the pretentious reading of various literary quotes? No one. That's right. No one. Thank God. I mean they may talk a big game now, but when it comes down to actually laying down the cash to come, they won't do it. Right?

On a more joyous note, Matt and I registered on the illustrious target.com, so that we can ask for lots of strange things that we probably have no business owning. It was fun. Matt asked for this plaque that says, "Grad School: The Snooze Button on the Clock Radio of Life" which I thought was apt and cute as well. And I decided that when we move to whereever we are going I will have a red kitchen. So that's cool. Right?

But then, I went to Milton, and we were discussing Boethius and Prof. Savage just had to read this whole passage about material desire and how it's just plain evil, no questions asked. So I ask (in my mind of course) How can one live in our culture and defeat material desire? Because I am good card-carrying socially minded Democrat, but I swear, if you tried to take my stuff, or my tax refund, I would kick the living shit out of you. Seriously. I talk a big game about the sharing wealth and underprivelaged children and helping out, but what I truly want is stuff. Lots and lots of stuff. (Actually right now, I want a new blazer and some new hot underwear for Valentine's Day, but that's neither here nor there). Isn't that weird? And how do I defeat this aching, cruel desire? Boethius would say that I have some inner emptiness that needs to be filled with some deity, but he lived in the Middle Ages, people (or actually, pre-Middle Ages). It's not applicable. Maybe it's the American Curse. I should coin that term and write a book about this.

And this brings me to my final thought, which is related to everything I've said here: people are selfish bastards. We all want stuff, we all want to get some happiness. Hear somebody whose happily in love is going to celebrate that love in a meaningful ceremony? Go to their wedding and have them cater to your every need! Oh dear lord. Stop Morgan Stop.

Back in...White?

I am on the computer and not reading Dostoevsky as I should be because the wedding bug has bitten both me and my mother, and has rendered me into a totally useless, weepy, strange little woman. My mother is at a bridal store in Kingsport, TN giving me blow by blow updates as she orders favors and buys candy molds. It's so weird. And I am signed up on this godawful weddingchannel.com that keeps me abrest of what I should be doing (rather, what I should have done three months ago). It is so so strange. What's stranger is that it is starting to be fun. I have catering menus and guest lists and two artists bidding to do invitations. I feel like freakin' J Lo (not the English professor, the diva) in my ability to order others around. "GET ME THE WHITE BOXES WITH THE SILVER WRITING!" "BRING ME PULLED PORK AND STEP ON IT! "BRING THE NOISE, BRING THE PAIN!"

Ho hum. So what started out as a boring little evening in June has turned into something big, that people are starting to look forward to and plan on. Seriously odd. People want to see me, boring old book reading me, do this. What has the world come to?

Well, I should go. I have to go to my geology lab, which is akin to the Republican National Convention in levels of excitement and fun. Leaving the glossy ideas about weddings behind, I will try to function in the real world. Ho hum.

The Muses Have Come to Dinner and Other Tales of Possession

Ok. This morning when I got up, I had 2 1/2 pages of my novella written. Now I have 10 and some change. And I have been gone for the better part of the afternoon. This means, of course, that I have been writing feverishly for about 2 hours. I feel as if I have been possessed by these writing demons which have turned me into this prodigiously wordy, crazily creative, pretentiously observant beast. It's not wholly a bad thing.

Seriously. Writing (fiction of course) is to me what doing crack is for a lot of people. I am so totally wired right now. I am bidding on Ebay and drinking, and sending out frantic emails that say, "READ MY STUFF, DAMMIT!" to my trusted friends, and, well, my mother interestingly enough. I just won a pair of pants, and if things go according to plan, in the next four hours, I could be the proud new owner of a set of Alvin and the Chipmunks glasses from 1985 (you know, the ones that came from Libby or some such giant food corp--I had Simon and Theodore, and Theodore--who will always be my favorite--got broken, so Simon is lonely, BUT NOT FOR LONG, BITCHES!!!). And in the middle of all this, Matt is snoring on the couch in a pair of Underdog pajama pants and a Kramer t-shirt, with Fight Club splayed all over his chest. It is ruining the binding, but I don't have the heart to wake him and tell him. Oh well.

It is oddly exhilerating. Really. But I don't quite know what to do with myself. Should I write more? Should I stop? Should I pray? Is Law and Order on anywhere? How many more of these Mike's Hard Lemonades do we have, because if I'm going to lose my mind I want to do it while throwing back pure sugar and alcohol. It's hard for me to imagine Tolstoy getting this crazy while he wrote, but maybe it happened. Maybe he threw back a few vodka shots, and ordered himself some commemorative tsar plates. The world will never know.

I seriously am at loose ends. I have new underwear. Did I tell you that? I am so cool.

Well, I am going to go, as I can't think of anything more to describe how I feel right now and far be it for me to beat and old dead horse. Think of me as you lose your mind!

I didn't write yesterday because I was wretchedly busy with classes and then had my creative writing seminar last night. And then it snowed, which was mildly exciting to Matt and me as we are the kind of people who don't spend the winter months wishing that it were 100 degrees. Seriously. People like that piss me off. We are all older than seven--you should be used to the seasons by now. I mean, there are much bigger things to worry about than the weather, which is something none of us can change, so should not even be considered. Seriously. With all the time people spend watching the weather channel and goddamned Wavy 10, we could probably stage a bloodless coup and make this into a socialist state where at least you could go to the damn doctor without having to sale off your first born. Seriously.

So anyway. As I mentioned before, I had creative writing last night, which was good. Really good. Everyone liked my story, which made me happy, but also made me feel like a real heel as I have said (and typed) some pretty bitchy things about their respective works. Oh well. Especially this one girl, whose first installment was godawfully predictable and very unbelievable, but then wrote me a whole page of favorable, smile inspiring comments. I am happy, and have decided to gain some positive karma by returning the favor and not writing "What the fuck are you talking about?" on my peers' papers (not that I ever did that to start out with, but, well, you know).

I also realized that those in my creative writing class are sublime people (most more than sublime, if there is such a thing) compared with the drones who inhabit my Terrorism in Lit class. Now, don't get me wrong. There are a few reasonably intelligent, analytical people in there. But they don't speak. The people who do talk are given to using words they do not understand--Hell, that no one probably truly understands--and saying the most pretentious things. Case in point: two girls who sit in the front are talking about Dostoevsky and how, damn that Fyodor, his chapters all end in cliffhangers that make you want to keep reading. All right ladies. First off, everyone, including writers who are a lot less talented than Dostoevsky, use cliffhangers at the end of their chapters. IT'S CALLED GOOD, ENGAGING WRITING, GENIUS!!! Further, the fact that you have read Dostoevsky is not as interesting as you think it is. You are sitting in a classroom full of people who pay good money to be thought of as well-read, so the fact that you have read him is not only uninteresting, it is dreadfully average. And the fact that you are talking about it so that I can hear it in the back row is utterly, pretentiously annoying. God.

And then there are Existential Guy and Irony Guy, two people who must pepper every comment they make with the words "existential" and "irony." These are both good words, but seriously, not every work of literature is existentialist or ironic. Oh, and look up "irony." It is ironic that what you say is ironic, is not actually able to be defined as true irony. Seriously. Learn to read, bastards. And that's all I have to say about that.

Yeah, it's a rant. Sorry. I had to get it off of my chest. I feel better now.

And I know that this is getting long, but I have one more thing: I think I have a mental disorder. Seriously. I am obsessed with buying books. I have four bookshelves in my tiny apartment, and they are all full but a huge one in the living room, which has about one shelf of space left, but which I originally thought would stay empty for a while. And the thing is, I buy books knowing that I have not read others that I have bought. I buy them on the off chance that I will read them someday, but if I read at a feverish pace for the next five years, I probably could not get them all done. But all I can think of is buying other ones that I hear professors talk about or whatever. I wonder if I could get medicated for this. I mean, I wonder if this is an actual disease that I could be fashionably suffering from. I wonder if I could use it to get away with crime. I mean, could I kill someone and have some gifted litigator say, "Your honor, at the time of her arrest, this poor wayward child was found with a debit card and three volumes of Edith Wharton, not to mention the Dave Eggers she had just purchased. She is obviously suffering from a horrible, debilitating illness." Because if sex addiction is an illness, book buying addiction should too. I can just see Matt weeping on Oprah's couch someday on a very special episode where they show me coming down from my high. Dear God.

Well, I should go. I need to work on my novella, which is now titled Velvet Elvis, and is going to be in total first person. Weird, huh? My professor demands it (well, not demands, I guess). Oh well. First person is hard because it's so revealing and...oh, why do you care? Sorry.

Have a good un. And today, as you go through life, try nnot to say the word "irony." It will make the world a better place.

Material Girls and Love Slaves

You like the title? It's also the title of a paper I am writing about protagonists in Edith Wharton. I just finished writing the intro paragraph and all that jazz. Oh and I just finished reading Summer, which I highly recommend if anyone is into realism/naturalism. Good times. Good times. I mean, I buy the book and it says something about "erotic fiction" on the back, so I'm expecting to REALLY like it, if you know what I mean, but, you know, it's Edith Wharton and was written in 1917 so I guess I should not have gotten my hopes up. But if you like your eroticism a little cerebral and really veiled, take it up. It's a pretty awesome little book.

So I should probably make it real short and sweet as I've got a small mountain of reading to do before tomorrow, and which in all sincerity is most likely NOT going to get done. I have 200 pages of Dostoevsky (sp?) to read, and I haven't started because I've been indulging myself in Wharton. Sigh. I have a long night ahead of me, I guess. This is, of course, not to mention The Consolation of Philosophy, which I read ages ago, and am going to hope I still remember for tomorrow's Milton class.

Matt and I had our merlot last night, and I guess I should blame this on it, as I was utterly useless after drinking a goodly bit of it. Sigh. I'm actually still pretty useless. Dramatic sigh.

Well, I should go. I am roasting a chicken to have in quesadillas tonight, so I need to check on it. I am very unexcited-able today. Sorry. So I'll leave you with this.

The Official Southern Literary Queen Must Read List-February 2005
1. Edith Wharton--just read something, it's all good in the hood
2. Heart of Darkness--I know it was painful in high school, but you're smarter now, and the language and mood it creates is sublime.
3. Flannery O'Connor's The Habit of Being--I got this for Christmas, and have not read them all by any stretch of the imagination, but it's definitely a great scanning book--perfection in letter form.
4. And finally...Diary by Chuck Palaniuk--This is a recommendation from Matt as I am officially the last person in America to read something by this guy, and am currently chomping at the bit to get to read it. So read it, and gloat at me that I have to read Milton while you're reading good stuff. You bastard.

John Milton Marries Britney Spears and Other Disconcerting News from the Front

Yeah, so today my Milton professor (who looks like the archetypal English professor complete with squarish glasses and baldness) professed his undying love for Britney Spears's "world class pelvis" and how he (through the aid of both Levitra and Viagra) would love to "use" (in the Augustinian sense of the word) said pelvis throughout Super Bowl weekend, as one desires companionship at the especially romantic time. Seriously. That defies comment--I'm just going to post it here for your combined enjoyment and revulsion.

Lots of stuff (unrelated to Britney, of course) happened in the world of me today. For instance, I saw Capt. K walking across campus which elicited a scream and hug from me, which I later had mixed feelings about as I hate people who do that, but which seems (still) to be wholly justified by my love for said Capt. Further, Matt and I went and turned in a very important bureaucratic form related, of course, to our upcoming nuptials, which set the wheels of marriage to grinding incessantly. I am still excited, and am currently feeling no sense of the foreboding that I probably should feel being a child of divorce and living in a country with a 50% divorce rate. Oh well. It just seems strange to me that there is so much bureaucratic bullshit one must wade through in order to pledge your undying love for another. Forms, forms, forms. Kinda takes all the love out of it, if you ask me, but we Americans are rational if we are anything, and I guess I should be used to it by now. Ho hum.

What else? Oh, in Milton class I came up with a great title for my strange little novel--"A Perverse Sweetness," a title that I think is divine even if it sounds like a Harlequin romance for foot fetishists, and surprisingly came straight from St. Augustine. So there's that. And now, I am sitting here writing and eating Droste pastilles that are hinted with an orange flavor that ranks somewhere on the divineness scale a tad above Tolstoyan metaphor and slightly below orgasm. They are that good. So it's a good day. I am fixing some ziti with roasted vegetables and feta tonight, and Matt and I are sharing a bottle of merlot. Another good thing. In fact, life is so good right now, that I could just pop, and probably will if I eat anymore chocolate. Either that, or in the immutable words of my creative writing professor, "You need to kill someone off."

So that's it. I am too cute and happy right now to do anyone any good, so I am going to go and dissolve into either Edith Wharton or Law and Order, I haven't decided which yet. Have a good un, and stay away from Britney. She is a married woman now.