Only got eight minutes to save the world!!!
Shit! I just tagged SO MANY Livejournal entries from last year, and they all seemed very interesting and very relevant to my life and sometimes just tagging them "best" didn't feel like enough. I felt like maybe I should invent a tag called "extra super best" but that's just getting a little excessive.
Now, there are only SIX minutes to save the world! AKA update this before it becomes a new day and I miss a day of NaBloPoMo. I feel like there is something from my comparative lit reading I wanted to post in here. BRB.
From "A Distant Episode," by Paul Bowles.
The tiny ink marks of which a symphony consists may have been made long ago, but when they are fulfilled in sound they become imminent and mighty. So a kind of music of feeling began to play in the Professor's head, increasing in volume, increasing in volume as he looked at the mud wall, and he had the feeling that he was performing what had been written down for him long ago.
Well, I'm going to end this post now, because it's 11:58 and I don't want to risk it.
Edit: HOW COULD THEY CUT CHANNING?!??!?!?!! SHE WAS TOTALLY KICKASS!!!!! ARGH.
Another edit: I just went into my room to go to bed, then randomly decided to write a poemish thing about my first kiss with all the boys I've ever kissed. I mean, actually, when I started writing it I wanted it to be a little paragraph describing each one, but as soon as I attempted this, I realized once again that I can't write anything remotely sexual without feeling dumb. So it ended up involving a lot of sentence fragments so that I would feel a little less awkward. It's not a super long list, so it's not a super long poem. Also it's pretty much terrible. But it's late so I think I should post it, yes? Also, how cool is it that my journal says this entry was posted on Wednesday, but now I'm writing it and it's Thursday? I'm contacting you from the other side of the future.
AHEM.
Time for you to mock me a lot.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In the hallway. I am late for algebra. He surprises me.
In the hallway. Forty feet north, one year forward. I am late for Euro lit. I go for it.
Original. Party, slow dance, the games. We find a couch. The lights unplugged. It is happening. It is perfect.
Cuddled when we shouldn't be. Reciprocation. This is perfect. Was this real?
We are already crammed into such a tight space. Unnecessary. Bound to happen. If we're going to do it, we have to act fast. Staring contest. I win.
Unexpected. His hot breath on the back of my neck sends shivers, smells like beer. Why not? It is happening.
He will always be there for me when I need you. New Year's proved it, and the ferris wheel did too. It is over before it starts. Like the ride. This is real.
Now, there are only SIX minutes to save the world! AKA update this before it becomes a new day and I miss a day of NaBloPoMo. I feel like there is something from my comparative lit reading I wanted to post in here. BRB.
From "A Distant Episode," by Paul Bowles.
The tiny ink marks of which a symphony consists may have been made long ago, but when they are fulfilled in sound they become imminent and mighty. So a kind of music of feeling began to play in the Professor's head, increasing in volume, increasing in volume as he looked at the mud wall, and he had the feeling that he was performing what had been written down for him long ago.
Well, I'm going to end this post now, because it's 11:58 and I don't want to risk it.
Edit: HOW COULD THEY CUT CHANNING?!??!?!?!! SHE WAS TOTALLY KICKASS!!!!! ARGH.
Another edit: I just went into my room to go to bed, then randomly decided to write a poemish thing about my first kiss with all the boys I've ever kissed. I mean, actually, when I started writing it I wanted it to be a little paragraph describing each one, but as soon as I attempted this, I realized once again that I can't write anything remotely sexual without feeling dumb. So it ended up involving a lot of sentence fragments so that I would feel a little less awkward. It's not a super long list, so it's not a super long poem. Also it's pretty much terrible. But it's late so I think I should post it, yes? Also, how cool is it that my journal says this entry was posted on Wednesday, but now I'm writing it and it's Thursday? I'm contacting you from the other side of the future.
AHEM.
Time for you to mock me a lot.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In the hallway. I am late for algebra. He surprises me.
In the hallway. Forty feet north, one year forward. I am late for Euro lit. I go for it.
Original. Party, slow dance, the games. We find a couch. The lights unplugged. It is happening. It is perfect.
Cuddled when we shouldn't be. Reciprocation. This is perfect. Was this real?
We are already crammed into such a tight space. Unnecessary. Bound to happen. If we're going to do it, we have to act fast. Staring contest. I win.
Unexpected. His hot breath on the back of my neck sends shivers, smells like beer. Why not? It is happening.
He will always be there for me when I need you. New Year's proved it, and the ferris wheel did too. It is over before it starts. Like the ride. This is real.