And on the 8th day, God sobered up.
I'm actually in NJ for this weekend, as in, today, as in, right now. It doesn't seem like anything's changed at all but then again I'm not sure what the hell I was expecting anyway. It's only been four weeks. I was pining for a dozen hellmouths opening up or something, I don't know. I won't be long, leaving tomorrow afternoon at around 2:30 pm. But then again you all know that the next weekend and the weekend after that I'll be voyaging home again anyway. This trip was a bit unplanned for and just sort of happened, though that's not to say I'm not happy about it because I am. It was a well deserved break.
One of these days I'm just going to join the freaking navy. Not as an actual soldier but in accordance to their educational programs for law and medical students and things of that sort. Assuming I don't fall into hysterics one day and finally decide to be an English major or a pianist or a professional demon hunter. Though I have dreams about (all) that too.
The other day when I stopped by the school bookstore to pick up my daily edition of the New York Times, I managed to snag Chris Baty's No Plot? No Problem! for $1.00 on their blowout sale shelf. It was the only one there amongst a bunch of ridiculously pink romance novels and books about feminism and dogs. That evening I literally skipped back to the dorm with my greedy, greedy fingers wrapped around this wonderful little treasure.
So a few days ago Julie and I decided to create a club called the "Joss Whedon Appreciation Society". We've already got a charter and a supervisor (the Pre-Med adviser/Gen-Chem professor, actually. He's probably as old as a velociraptor (and, according to some of his students, just as terrifying when handing back graded tests) and likes to wear light blue plaids. But he's an avid Buffy fan so all is forgiven). We realize we have some serious issues, most likely explainable by her being too drugged up to think straight and me being not drugged up enough not to (and most of the time, we fancy ourselves too amazing to really care).
...and we're going to get T-shirts.
New Jersey is so damn cold, it's giving me a migraine.
So my parents are lovely people. Who else would drive all the way up to the Poconos just to get me a limited edition Coach purse? That and a $700 trench coat with a collar made of real rabbit babies. If you ask real nice, I'll let you pet it. :)
I have two midterms coming up next Friday. Then one more the Friday after that. You probably don't care.
Here's something else you might not care about but something I realize and find comfort in, in the middle of a quiet night: there is no such thing as a straight line in living. Life is one big math problem filled with additions, subtractions, multiplications, and divisions of all sorts of events, all sorts of people, and all sorts of mistakes. I believe this. And I don't even like math.
Okay so, it turns out that I really didn't have the time to go to the movies today. But regardless, I still really want to go watch Eagle Eye one of the next weekends I'll be back. Anyone up for it?
In Georgia, Miley Cyrus' face is plastered to everything. I'm so certain that one day I'll wake up and bread loafs will be baked in the shape of her head. I'm still having a little bit of trouble getting over this.
Yes, I am doing NaNoWriMo again this year. No, I'm probably not going to finish. Yes, I am probably psychologically impaired. (It has fake lungs! And bees! You'll all love it, I'm sure. If not, then at least I know oldstarnewshine and angelbirdemmi will. For the sake of the bees.)
House is still the best thing since smoothie blenders. And on the same vein, so is Supernatural. I am not caught up with Heroes yet. So take whatever it was you were going to vomit out (spoilers, excited squealing, criticisms) and swallow it.
Speaking of the telly. J.J. Abrams' Fringe is not a bad show at all, really. Kind of choppy and wobbly here and there but hey, it's like having a crack baby - it may be biologically retarded in its structure and function and it may never serve society any real good in the near future, but it came out of your va-jay-jay after a lot of hard work and sweat and it's yours. And you love it anyway. Sort of. Only when it doesn't up and pee a bad episode on you. (My analogies are getting increasingly more disturbing as I go along, I've noticed) (I'm just waiting to see how many people are going to go ballistics refuting me on this. I am seeking a bomb shelter as we speak.)
Despite all the terror and all the disappointments and all the general struggle, something in the back of mind tells me I'll be okay. It's a small voice (so I don't have to worry about being diagnosed with MPD just yet) but it's there. And I like to trust it.
One of these days I'm just going to join the freaking navy. Not as an actual soldier but in accordance to their educational programs for law and medical students and things of that sort. Assuming I don't fall into hysterics one day and finally decide to be an English major or a pianist or a professional demon hunter. Though I have dreams about (all) that too.
The other day when I stopped by the school bookstore to pick up my daily edition of the New York Times, I managed to snag Chris Baty's No Plot? No Problem! for $1.00 on their blowout sale shelf. It was the only one there amongst a bunch of ridiculously pink romance novels and books about feminism and dogs. That evening I literally skipped back to the dorm with my greedy, greedy fingers wrapped around this wonderful little treasure.
So a few days ago Julie and I decided to create a club called the "Joss Whedon Appreciation Society". We've already got a charter and a supervisor (the Pre-Med adviser/Gen-Chem professor, actually. He's probably as old as a velociraptor (and, according to some of his students, just as terrifying when handing back graded tests) and likes to wear light blue plaids. But he's an avid Buffy fan so all is forgiven). We realize we have some serious issues, most likely explainable by her being too drugged up to think straight and me being not drugged up enough not to (and most of the time, we fancy ourselves too amazing to really care).
...and we're going to get T-shirts.
New Jersey is so damn cold, it's giving me a migraine.
So my parents are lovely people. Who else would drive all the way up to the Poconos just to get me a limited edition Coach purse? That and a $700 trench coat with a collar made of real rabbit babies. If you ask real nice, I'll let you pet it. :)
I have two midterms coming up next Friday. Then one more the Friday after that. You probably don't care.
Here's something else you might not care about but something I realize and find comfort in, in the middle of a quiet night: there is no such thing as a straight line in living. Life is one big math problem filled with additions, subtractions, multiplications, and divisions of all sorts of events, all sorts of people, and all sorts of mistakes. I believe this. And I don't even like math.
Okay so, it turns out that I really didn't have the time to go to the movies today. But regardless, I still really want to go watch Eagle Eye one of the next weekends I'll be back. Anyone up for it?
In Georgia, Miley Cyrus' face is plastered to everything. I'm so certain that one day I'll wake up and bread loafs will be baked in the shape of her head. I'm still having a little bit of trouble getting over this.
Yes, I am doing NaNoWriMo again this year. No, I'm probably not going to finish. Yes, I am probably psychologically impaired. (It has fake lungs! And bees! You'll all love it, I'm sure. If not, then at least I know oldstarnewshine and angelbirdemmi will. For the sake of the bees.)
House is still the best thing since smoothie blenders. And on the same vein, so is Supernatural. I am not caught up with Heroes yet. So take whatever it was you were going to vomit out (spoilers, excited squealing, criticisms) and swallow it.
Speaking of the telly. J.J. Abrams' Fringe is not a bad show at all, really. Kind of choppy and wobbly here and there but hey, it's like having a crack baby - it may be biologically retarded in its structure and function and it may never serve society any real good in the near future, but it came out of your va-jay-jay after a lot of hard work and sweat and it's yours. And you love it anyway. Sort of. Only when it doesn't up and pee a bad episode on you. (My analogies are getting increasingly more disturbing as I go along, I've noticed) (I'm just waiting to see how many people are going to go ballistics refuting me on this. I am seeking a bomb shelter as we speak.)
Despite all the terror and all the disappointments and all the general struggle, something in the back of mind tells me I'll be okay. It's a small voice (so I don't have to worry about being diagnosed with MPD just yet) but it's there. And I like to trust it.