Jonny

The morn was all abuzz with the news of 20 Americans hostage at sea, their ship commandeered by pirates. Pirates. Piracy is still a career option? I had suspicions about those academic counselors, but know I can say with full confidence that they are not to be trusted. Who withholds information like that? If not so close to graduation, I would trade in the literature for swashbuckling. How long have I longed for the life of scurvy and loose women...

If the sun don’t come you get a tan from standing in the English rain

I'm in a wretched mood for no reason at all. And I've spent the last 3 hours getting to the root of this rather pressing issue. My conclusion thus far is as follows: Today was a fabulous day. My classes were spectacular. Even my professor, who usually causes my blood to boil and ears to ring, was nothing short of cordial and engaging. So my annoyance missed the outlet that has become routine every Tuesday and Thursday, and as a result has been building like water against a Dutch water gate thingy all day. What is usually a healthy despise for one person has escalated into complete hatred for the Universe in remarkable time. What is to be don? Television. It's the safest solution. No feelings hurt by my snide, bitter remarks directed at the talking heads. I don't think that cool-whip sandwiched between 2 chocolate-chip cookies would be delicious, contrary to the suggestion of the ad I just watched. But because advertising=brainwashing in its most sadistic form, the already obese and economically suffering American population will hop into their earth slaughtering vehicles and drive to the fascist Super Hyper XXX Walmart, where they will buy their carcinogens and transfat in bulk. It makes me so mad. I feel so much better.  

irish dance

I'm not big on mornings. Making it on time to that first class is an anomoly, to say the least. And so during the normal routine, when I'm about half way across campus, the bell tower tolls. And I worry that my ball gown will transfrom into rags and my glass glass slippers vanish into thin air. So as a meausre of prevention I keep to a very strict dress code- jeans, sweatsirt and canvas shoes. In other words, I always look like Cinderella after midnight.
The telly just informed me that this morning campers were found frozen in their sleeping bags. Yes, more victims of "Spring." After 23 years as a Utahn, I can assert with confidence that it's not Spring until June. Probably June 21. Sure there may be some days scattered here and there when the sun gently caresses your palid skin, as you put on your shades and drive with the windows down. But, honey, listen close- I only tell you this because I care- THEY'RE LEADING YOU ON. Sure it may flirt, it may even text now and again, but the cruel truth is that Spring is just not that into you, or the state you inhabit. It hurts, but you can get through this. Eat some icecream, soak in some bubbles, and remember that there are other seasons in the year. I mean, Summer has that dashing moustache and Fall sure is a snappy dresser.

the ancient common sense of things

Today I learned that Flannery O'Connor writes (wrote)the way she does (did) because she was Catholic. When asked why I write the way that I do, I plan to answer "Because I'm Mormon, and we're not all like Stephanie Meyer." Yeah, I just went there. WHAT NOW?! Booh. Yeah. Turns out I write more like Judy Bloom. Every time I create a character, it's a high schooler. Sick. Why? Beats me. Maybe it's because high school was so enigmatic, a mystery I'm still trying to solve? Doubtful. I think it's because it's easy. Because high school is so charged with issues. From one kid to the next we find drugs, eating disorders, promiscuity, loneliness, big-headedness, sincerity, facades, anxiety, and finally stability which no one will ever write about. Ever. My point (yes, I have one)- High School makes a writer's job real easy. Hannah comes home with all sorts of sordid tales, and she's only just begun. So one must ask, do we grow boring as we grow old? What issues are to be addressed in the life of the middle-aged. Dissatisfactin in marriage? Done already. Exasperated sigh. Has anyone made it this far into the blog. Kudos.
Recently, to my horror, and the annoyance to close associations, I've discovered a complete lack of interest in music. So I'm listening to All Songs Considered. Because I think it's NPR's attempt to help the helpless. Give those who only care to listen to Diane Rehm during the morning commute a fighting chance when their hip friends partake in a gabfest about M. Ward. And Bishop Allen. Ward and Bishop? Do they sing of Vampire boyfriends? Oh now it's a Canadian rapper. My reflex is to yell "Oxymoron!" I have articulate terets. "I'm a dreamer, but I aint the only one. We got problems but we lud to have fun." And I lud you too. "It's ok to feel good." But say no to drugs so I don't turn you into a character ok?

Where's the wheel?

-Rachel Rasband is now Rachel Rushforth.  I dig that.

-Because I turned 23, Hannah decided I needed companionship  and bought me a hermit crab.  I've named him Carl.  Carl's not too big on people.  Any attempts at eye contact, and he's back  in his shell. I thought maybe Carl needed a friend.  However, I was  told that a friend, after returning from a vacation, found her once 2 hermit crabs to be 1 hermit crab and a half-eaten hermit crab.   And though crustacean cannibalism would probably sell tickets, I think PETA already has their eye on me (The death of Steve, hermit crab #1, may or may not have been due to negligence).

-Because I  turned 23, Stephen decided I needed to write stuff and bought me a moleskin notebook.  Not more that 2 days later, the moleskin notebook showed up on Stuff White People Like.  I'm white.  I like it.  So sue me.

-Tonight I lost my car key.  And that was delightful in comparison  to the "applefries" I tried at Burger King.  The King's Kingdom does not reach the land  of produce as it turns out, and all healthy menu options should be done away with immediately.

-I might be sick of Mexican food.  Grab your coat, we're going ice-skating on Hell.

-Lists lack style.

Yes, we have no bananas

Sometimes I forget that boys and girls are different.  I mean, obviously, we're different, but you know...I tend to believe that we think the same.

Then I go grocery shopping and remember.

For me, the aisles of the grocery store are treasure troves.  New curry powder, cherry diet coke, almonds sold in bulk.  So many discoveries to be made, so many delicacies to be tasted.  I gleefully weave my cart through the store over the linoleum tile.  I hum along with the soft-rock playlist. My mind imagines creations to be concocted as my cart fills up with brightly colored vegetables, exotic spices, freshly baked bread,  and whatever else it may be that catches my eye during the course of my market exploration.

Last night I went grocery shopping with an individual from the other side of the species.  We spent 8 minutes in the cereal aisle, only to walk away with oatmeal (the usual).  We also bought cheese and milk.  

"I'm  glad I'm not boy."

"I'm  glad I'm  not a girl."

I am currently without country

There's a picture of me hanging on the wall.  I'm 4 years old, dressed as a baby chick, with a feathery tutu and felt beak.  The photo was shot an hour before my dance recital, in which i gave a flawless performance, or so I was told by grandparents, repeatedly.  To celebrate such an astounding display of grace and artistic interpretation, we bought root-beer floats.  Mid float, something went wrong.  Without warning, I leaned over and vomited half the float and dinner all over Mom's lap.  Dad laughed. 

I wonder if sometimes my mom looks at me and thinks "girl who puked on me."  But then there are so many other applicable titles; "offspring which broke the kitchen sink," "the one that hit two parked cars," "daughter that dropped a computer,", etc.  

Thinking about children makes me want to take a preemptive nap.  And ibuprofen.

In other news, today Katie was asked out at the library.  She's going to a math convention with a boy who saved her number in his graphing calculator.