(no subject)
So having a ten-month-old puppy as your BFF is not all sunshine and daisies. Madison has apparently decided that I can't be let out of her sight; she now comes to my door to wake me up whenever she gets up, which is usually about 7 in the morning. -.- Also, last night Mutti and I watched a movie on TV, and Madison ended up taking over my lap for a good three hours. What did I do to earn this?
In other news, there is no other news. The shortbread cookies came out fine, although I now know I was supposed to add more butter, not water, to the dough. The important thing is that they're tasty and spirally and pretty. Tonight we're going to my aunt's parents' Christmas Eve extravaganza, and then my parents are going to Midnight Mass. Tomorrow my mom is making some kind bread pudding for breakfast that she got from Paula Dean's show: it's basically Krispy Kreme donuts and rum.
Something about sleeping at home apparently makes my subconscious go haywire, because I've had more than my fair share of screwy dreams lately. A few nights ago, it was Harry, Ron, Ginny and Draco sharing a flat with Dr. Kovac from ER and a robot dog; at some point Ron left in a huff (I think because of rearranged furniture) and then came back in disguise to kidnap the robot dog. And because this apartment was somewhere in the Campbell building (my school dorm) Ron had to check the dog out at the hall desk or something.
Last night's dream was a confused mess involving Super Mario with a shotgun, Zoe/Kaylee, grape Koolaid and tiny animate hovercraft. Katie and Julie were there for a little while and Simon was wearing a flannel shirt. Go fig.
So a few weeks ago a soldier from the St. Louis area got killed in Iraq. He was the same age as me and he'd deferred admission to Truman so he could join the Army, so this has been bothering me a bit more than usual.
At the funeral, the asshole brigade of Rev. Fred Phelps turned out to let us all know that this soldier died because the US is too tolerant of gays. This makes me angry beyond fucking words. Not just because they were harassing a grieving family (a group of veterans screened the assholes from the funeral procession with big flags) and not just because they were dishonoring someone's death. But because, you know what? They're blaming me. I didn't vote for this war or this president, but apparently it's my fault that a guy who should've been taking classes with me and going to frat parties got blown up on the other side of the world, because I'm not straight enough for a "minister" who thinks God tells him to beat his children. Merry fucking Christmas to you, too.
At times like this it's people like theregoesyamum who prevent me from turning to alcoholism and postmodern philosophy by saying things like this. As long as I remember that some Christians actually worship Christ instead of Pat Robertson and George W. Bush, I'll be fine.
In other news, there is no other news. The shortbread cookies came out fine, although I now know I was supposed to add more butter, not water, to the dough. The important thing is that they're tasty and spirally and pretty. Tonight we're going to my aunt's parents' Christmas Eve extravaganza, and then my parents are going to Midnight Mass. Tomorrow my mom is making some kind bread pudding for breakfast that she got from Paula Dean's show: it's basically Krispy Kreme donuts and rum.
Something about sleeping at home apparently makes my subconscious go haywire, because I've had more than my fair share of screwy dreams lately. A few nights ago, it was Harry, Ron, Ginny and Draco sharing a flat with Dr. Kovac from ER and a robot dog; at some point Ron left in a huff (I think because of rearranged furniture) and then came back in disguise to kidnap the robot dog. And because this apartment was somewhere in the Campbell building (my school dorm) Ron had to check the dog out at the hall desk or something.
Last night's dream was a confused mess involving Super Mario with a shotgun, Zoe/Kaylee, grape Koolaid and tiny animate hovercraft. Katie and Julie were there for a little while and Simon was wearing a flannel shirt. Go fig.
So a few weeks ago a soldier from the St. Louis area got killed in Iraq. He was the same age as me and he'd deferred admission to Truman so he could join the Army, so this has been bothering me a bit more than usual.
At the funeral, the asshole brigade of Rev. Fred Phelps turned out to let us all know that this soldier died because the US is too tolerant of gays. This makes me angry beyond fucking words. Not just because they were harassing a grieving family (a group of veterans screened the assholes from the funeral procession with big flags) and not just because they were dishonoring someone's death. But because, you know what? They're blaming me. I didn't vote for this war or this president, but apparently it's my fault that a guy who should've been taking classes with me and going to frat parties got blown up on the other side of the world, because I'm not straight enough for a "minister" who thinks God tells him to beat his children. Merry fucking Christmas to you, too.
At times like this it's people like theregoesyamum who prevent me from turning to alcoholism and postmodern philosophy by saying things like this. As long as I remember that some Christians actually worship Christ instead of Pat Robertson and George W. Bush, I'll be fine.