(no subject)
In an effort to fully initiate myself to Live JournalLand, I will simply start posting my Xanga entries here as well. (Why didn't I think of this sooner?)
It's high time to document this apathyyyy, the Britishisms everywhere, the cutting short of a tiresome-though-well-intended-but-still outing to talk about Blake, everything with the two others in my Triumvirate, god bless them! I have half the mind to jet off to Palm Springs week after next with my freshly-returned-from-France soulsister to reunite with Zach, who assures me twice daily that at least one of his five Harvard roomies will be enraptured by my Eliotobsessed ways, and Miguel, who is going to take Chicago by storm by means of Freudian analysis and flashy Ferragamo loafers. I do think this Tuesday's South Carolina Sojourn will do the trick, if I don't murder my father en route to the Partridge Family's Annual Myrtle Beach Debauchery/run out of reading material, which isn't about to happen, damned anxiety of influence, among other anxieties. Then it's back to grant proposals, and oh no!, no one to discuss sex and poetry (how redundant) with at 4 a.m. I just realized [JULES WILL BE IN CHINA], so I'll be watching the sun rise with just a Red Bull (have lost almost all my taste for tea) and then reading Goethe when I should be sleeping/working on funding reports/learning Greek, French, Italian, and if you'd like me to go on, German, Czech.
Erin's house, that airy mecca of unsalted pretzels and pretty pool liner-induced serenity, has been the perfect place to escape to--we take long bicycle rides at dusk then drive around the tiny town I grew up in blasting the Moulin Rouge soundtrack and basking in the glow of all things Milton. I am blessed to have a friend who invites me over clad in track pants to collapse on her bed after delivering a diatribe on the sticky situation the agency I'm employed by is currently ensnared in, but not before handing me collected essays turned right to the Addison I've been needing to read. I can then lazily reopen that never-ending conversation on aesthetics or not.
Other phrases that characterise these past few days and to which all conversations, thoughts, and unfortunately-not-uncontrollable fits of laughter come back would be The Wordsworthian Poet's Plight, Princeton: That Venerable Institution!, and BodyElectric, the best new adjective ever. And so ends my short spree of Oxford Commalessness. I wish it could be symbolic of overcoming this The Graduate-esque limbolike state, but know better.
Still, it does help to know your ex-loverrr's stealing from Abercrombie as all this (now that's a stretch) unfolds.
It's high time to document this apathyyyy, the Britishisms everywhere, the cutting short of a tiresome-though-well-intended-but-still outing to talk about Blake, everything with the two others in my Triumvirate, god bless them! I have half the mind to jet off to Palm Springs week after next with my freshly-returned-from-France soulsister to reunite with Zach, who assures me twice daily that at least one of his five Harvard roomies will be enraptured by my Eliotobsessed ways, and Miguel, who is going to take Chicago by storm by means of Freudian analysis and flashy Ferragamo loafers. I do think this Tuesday's South Carolina Sojourn will do the trick, if I don't murder my father en route to the Partridge Family's Annual Myrtle Beach Debauchery/run out of reading material, which isn't about to happen, damned anxiety of influence, among other anxieties. Then it's back to grant proposals, and oh no!, no one to discuss sex and poetry (how redundant) with at 4 a.m. I just realized [JULES WILL BE IN CHINA], so I'll be watching the sun rise with just a Red Bull (have lost almost all my taste for tea) and then reading Goethe when I should be sleeping/working on funding reports/learning Greek, French, Italian, and if you'd like me to go on, German, Czech.
Erin's house, that airy mecca of unsalted pretzels and pretty pool liner-induced serenity, has been the perfect place to escape to--we take long bicycle rides at dusk then drive around the tiny town I grew up in blasting the Moulin Rouge soundtrack and basking in the glow of all things Milton. I am blessed to have a friend who invites me over clad in track pants to collapse on her bed after delivering a diatribe on the sticky situation the agency I'm employed by is currently ensnared in, but not before handing me collected essays turned right to the Addison I've been needing to read. I can then lazily reopen that never-ending conversation on aesthetics or not.
Other phrases that characterise these past few days and to which all conversations, thoughts, and unfortunately-not-uncontrollable fits of laughter come back would be The Wordsworthian Poet's Plight, Princeton: That Venerable Institution!, and BodyElectric, the best new adjective ever. And so ends my short spree of Oxford Commalessness. I wish it could be symbolic of overcoming this The Graduate-esque limbolike state, but know better.
Still, it does help to know your ex-loverrr's stealing from Abercrombie as all this (now that's a stretch) unfolds.