Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Roll Call
It's been a while. Yesterday I noticed that people from Harvard, the US Dept. of the Interior, Berkeley, UMass, Belgium, Argentina, Turkey, and the UK National Infrastructure (what does that even mean?) had visited the site. Who are you people?
Who are the rest of you? Delurk yourselves!
Who are the rest of you? Delurk yourselves!
Labels: Cleaning Out The Cupboard
Monday, March 30, 2009
Before the Storm
Yesterday, I went over my parents' house to have a cup of coffee, then stayed up late reading, and decided at 2:00 am to blow off school and spend Monday in my pajamas drinking tea.
The problem is that we are out of sugar (why did I bake those godforsaken cookies?!) (okay they were delicious) (but that doesn't help me get a fucking cup of tea), so I'll have to put on pants and leave the house if I want a hot caffeinated beverage. Furthermore, Parsley bit through our printer cord, and I told a concerned Logic Professor that I would print his notes for class tonight at school. But I didn't go to school. So now, on my shopping list, I have:
You might be wondering how the peanut butter M+Ms factor into this. I don't know. They must have climbed into the list when I wasn't looking.
Re: Parsley's unmitigated destruction of all our worldly goods, I have been trying to spend more time with him. Yesterday I crawled around on the living room floor chasing him, and I've been making sure to pet him every time we cross paths, or get down on his level and look him in the eye when I'm saying hello. I think he might be bored, and that might be why he's acting out, or he might be mad because he feels he's being ignored. I was surprised too, but rabbits, it turns out, can be quite emotional animals. If you know of some way I could make him happier or cut back on the nibbling, LET ME KNOW.
Now I leave you with some pictures of the sky when I was on my way to my parents' house, just before a thunderstorm.
The problem is that we are out of sugar (why did I bake those godforsaken cookies?!) (okay they were delicious) (but that doesn't help me get a fucking cup of tea), so I'll have to put on pants and leave the house if I want a hot caffeinated beverage. Furthermore, Parsley bit through our printer cord, and I told a concerned Logic Professor that I would print his notes for class tonight at school. But I didn't go to school. So now, on my shopping list, I have:
- sugar
- peanut butter M+Ms
- a printer cable
- a teeny-tiny muzzle
You might be wondering how the peanut butter M+Ms factor into this. I don't know. They must have climbed into the list when I wasn't looking.
Re: Parsley's unmitigated destruction of all our worldly goods, I have been trying to spend more time with him. Yesterday I crawled around on the living room floor chasing him, and I've been making sure to pet him every time we cross paths, or get down on his level and look him in the eye when I'm saying hello. I think he might be bored, and that might be why he's acting out, or he might be mad because he feels he's being ignored. I was surprised too, but rabbits, it turns out, can be quite emotional animals. If you know of some way I could make him happier or cut back on the nibbling, LET ME KNOW.
Now I leave you with some pictures of the sky when I was on my way to my parents' house, just before a thunderstorm.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Favorite Graveyard
While we were in Ohio, we visited ten cemeteries in two or three days. I wanted to track down some long-dead relatives. Logic Professor was hundreds of miles from home and trapped in the car. We both had our reasons.
We wound up visiting what turned out to be one of my favorite graveyards of all time (can I say that? is that creepy?). Nevertheless, after we left, I was done graveyard-hunting for a while. You have no idea what it took to get to see those graves.
But I am about to tell you.
We'd visited the main cemetery in a town where some ancestors of mine used to live back in the 1800s; we had been led to believe from a few old obituaries that they'd be buried there. Disappointed, I formulated three possible explanations of what had happened to frustrate my search:
As the first two scenarios would have been frankly unrectifiable, we chose to believe that we were in the wrong place. This meant we'd have to find another cemetery in the vicinity. And by "we" I mean "I"; Logic Professor did not have a vote. He probably would have voted for 2(c), meaning that because my supposedly-dead relatives are apparently superhuman immortals, NO FURTHER CEMETERY-STOMPING WOULD BE NECESSARY.
I figured that they had died too early to buried in Centerville Cemetery (let's call it), and were probably interred nearby in an older plot, perhaps somewhere called Ye Olde Centerville Bone-Yarde or something.
We stopped at a gas station to ask if there were any older cemeteries around, and the woman at the counter gave me, to my delight, a map that marked, among other things, every cemetery in the county. And lo, down the road, there really WAS an Old Centerville Cemetery, or at least there was one on the map. Logic Professor is probably still cursing that woman.
So we drove down the road, but we didn't see anything. No signs, no stones, no superhuman immortal relatives with glowing red eyes. All we saw were a few scattered farm houses, some hills, some woods, and some cattle. The good news (or bad news, depending on your reason for being on such an adventure) is that we found another cemetery in the neighborhood, and we visited that one, too. It was beautiful, perched high on a hilltop, barely accessible by car up a steep gravel road, with a rusting wire gate and a few shade trees.
After walking around for a few minutes, looking for familiar names, we went back down the hill.
It was by luck, I guess, that we saw what looked like a couple stones high on a hilltop where the map said the Old Centerville Cemetery should be. We tried to find a road up there, but none of them came close. We couldn't walk up there, either; there were barbed wire fences and livestock in the way. I was determined, however, intrigued by the mystery of such a remote little plot of graves. That was how we wound up knocking on the door of the little white farmhouse.
It took a long time for someone to answer the door. I was afraid that they would be carrying a shotgun. But it turned out to be an elderly woman, white-haired and stooped, happy to have company. "I have a crazy question," I said.
"I hope I can give you a crazy answer," she replied.
We explained that we were in from out of town, looking for some old relatives who'd lived in the area, and we couldn't help but noticing that she had someone's relatives up on yon hill.
"Oh, nobody's been up there in years," she said. "The last person who was buried up there was my husband's grandfather, and we never put up a stone. I don't know who's up there. But you're welcome to go up and look."
The important question was how we would get there. She wasn't entirely sure, either. We could go up through this field, but there were horses there, so it would be better if we climbed up through that field on the hillside, but there was barbed wire at the top, so we'd have to get over it however we could, and then follow the ridge over to the other hilltop, and there would probably be a break in the fence around the graveyard somewhere, and we could find it and go in. When we got down, we'd have to be sure to stop back, let her know how it went, and pick up some cookies.
"Make sure you get a good look around," she said solemnly. "I haven't been up there in years, but it is beautiful. Oh, it is beautiful."
And so we started:
Looking at the picture, the hill doesn't look that steep or that high. It kind of looks like a big hay field. But in the middle of the picture, at the top of the hill, do you see that little tuft? That's a fucking tree. A full-grown tree.
The hay field part was correct, though. It was a hay field on a hill. Though dry, the hay had not been baled. Have you ever walked through such a field? On an incline? I hadn't thought about it until I tried it, but it sure is slippery. "We could sled down this hill!" I told Logic Professor.
Mildly concerned about snakes, we climbed up the hay-hill. And climbed. And climbed. I stopped a couple times to catch my breath. Logic Professor gallantly carried me for a few steps, then unceremoniously plunked me back down to fend for myself.
When we made it to the top, we had to locate the break in the barbed wire on the ridge that I thought I'd seen from the bottom of the hill. We found it, and sat down for a bit.
The fence stretched out of sight on the ridge.
We still had to walk across the ridge to the other hill where the cemetery was.
There was no road. There was no path. There were horses, to be sure, but they didn't look amenable to riding. Also, we would have had to cross another fence to get them. The hay up here had been baled and carted off, though, making the walking a lot easier, and the weather was beautiful. There was another barbed-wire fence, but this one had an accessible gate, too.
We shoved each other and laughed as we walked over.
The cemetery was enclosed by a small, square, wire fence. We had to walk around to get to the gate. A few trees were up there, and I wondered how they survived on a harsh, windy hilltop.
And then we were there.
The few stones that were left were in bad shape. Many had cracked, fallen, and wound up partially buried, and the ones that were still standing were barely legible, with a one clear exception:
We recognized some of the family names, but didn't find any of my relatives. The old woman in the house had been right, though: it was beautiful.
![]()
I took pictures of all the stones, intending to put them on Find-A-Grave. It was worth it for the adventure, but I can imagine that some people wouldn't want to walk all the way up there just to find out that their relatives aren't there, and I can imagine that there are others who would walk all the way up there if only they knew their relatives were there.
We walked back down, slipping and sliding on the uncut hay.
Then we stopped back to see the old woman in the farm house. She invited us in and gave us some no-bake oatmeal cookies, then made us write down our names and address. We took hers, too, and I promised to send her the pictures, knowing that she will quite likely never again see the top of that hill in her lifetime.
We wound up visiting what turned out to be one of my favorite graveyards of all time (can I say that? is that creepy?). Nevertheless, after we left, I was done graveyard-hunting for a while. You have no idea what it took to get to see those graves.
But I am about to tell you.
We'd visited the main cemetery in a town where some ancestors of mine used to live back in the 1800s; we had been led to believe from a few old obituaries that they'd be buried there. Disappointed, I formulated three possible explanations of what had happened to frustrate my search:
- Tombstone Failure: the graves were not marked, the inscriptions had worn away, or the stones had fallen down.
- Obituary Failure: the relatives were not actually buried there, the relatives did not actually exist, or the relatives did exist but did not actually die.
- Cemetery Failure: we were in the wrong fucking cemetery.
As the first two scenarios would have been frankly unrectifiable, we chose to believe that we were in the wrong place. This meant we'd have to find another cemetery in the vicinity. And by "we" I mean "I"; Logic Professor did not have a vote. He probably would have voted for 2(c), meaning that because my supposedly-dead relatives are apparently superhuman immortals, NO FURTHER CEMETERY-STOMPING WOULD BE NECESSARY.
I figured that they had died too early to buried in Centerville Cemetery (let's call it), and were probably interred nearby in an older plot, perhaps somewhere called Ye Olde Centerville Bone-Yarde or something.
We stopped at a gas station to ask if there were any older cemeteries around, and the woman at the counter gave me, to my delight, a map that marked, among other things, every cemetery in the county. And lo, down the road, there really WAS an Old Centerville Cemetery, or at least there was one on the map. Logic Professor is probably still cursing that woman.
So we drove down the road, but we didn't see anything. No signs, no stones, no superhuman immortal relatives with glowing red eyes. All we saw were a few scattered farm houses, some hills, some woods, and some cattle. The good news (or bad news, depending on your reason for being on such an adventure) is that we found another cemetery in the neighborhood, and we visited that one, too. It was beautiful, perched high on a hilltop, barely accessible by car up a steep gravel road, with a rusting wire gate and a few shade trees.
After walking around for a few minutes, looking for familiar names, we went back down the hill.
It was by luck, I guess, that we saw what looked like a couple stones high on a hilltop where the map said the Old Centerville Cemetery should be. We tried to find a road up there, but none of them came close. We couldn't walk up there, either; there were barbed wire fences and livestock in the way. I was determined, however, intrigued by the mystery of such a remote little plot of graves. That was how we wound up knocking on the door of the little white farmhouse.
It took a long time for someone to answer the door. I was afraid that they would be carrying a shotgun. But it turned out to be an elderly woman, white-haired and stooped, happy to have company. "I have a crazy question," I said.
"I hope I can give you a crazy answer," she replied.
We explained that we were in from out of town, looking for some old relatives who'd lived in the area, and we couldn't help but noticing that she had someone's relatives up on yon hill.
"Oh, nobody's been up there in years," she said. "The last person who was buried up there was my husband's grandfather, and we never put up a stone. I don't know who's up there. But you're welcome to go up and look."
The important question was how we would get there. She wasn't entirely sure, either. We could go up through this field, but there were horses there, so it would be better if we climbed up through that field on the hillside, but there was barbed wire at the top, so we'd have to get over it however we could, and then follow the ridge over to the other hilltop, and there would probably be a break in the fence around the graveyard somewhere, and we could find it and go in. When we got down, we'd have to be sure to stop back, let her know how it went, and pick up some cookies.
"Make sure you get a good look around," she said solemnly. "I haven't been up there in years, but it is beautiful. Oh, it is beautiful."
And so we started:
Looking at the picture, the hill doesn't look that steep or that high. It kind of looks like a big hay field. But in the middle of the picture, at the top of the hill, do you see that little tuft? That's a fucking tree. A full-grown tree.
The hay field part was correct, though. It was a hay field on a hill. Though dry, the hay had not been baled. Have you ever walked through such a field? On an incline? I hadn't thought about it until I tried it, but it sure is slippery. "We could sled down this hill!" I told Logic Professor.
Mildly concerned about snakes, we climbed up the hay-hill. And climbed. And climbed. I stopped a couple times to catch my breath. Logic Professor gallantly carried me for a few steps, then unceremoniously plunked me back down to fend for myself.
When we made it to the top, we had to locate the break in the barbed wire on the ridge that I thought I'd seen from the bottom of the hill. We found it, and sat down for a bit.
The fence stretched out of sight on the ridge.
We still had to walk across the ridge to the other hill where the cemetery was.
There was no road. There was no path. There were horses, to be sure, but they didn't look amenable to riding. Also, we would have had to cross another fence to get them. The hay up here had been baled and carted off, though, making the walking a lot easier, and the weather was beautiful. There was another barbed-wire fence, but this one had an accessible gate, too.
We shoved each other and laughed as we walked over.
The cemetery was enclosed by a small, square, wire fence. We had to walk around to get to the gate. A few trees were up there, and I wondered how they survived on a harsh, windy hilltop.
And then we were there.
The few stones that were left were in bad shape. Many had cracked, fallen, and wound up partially buried, and the ones that were still standing were barely legible, with a one clear exception:
We recognized some of the family names, but didn't find any of my relatives. The old woman in the house had been right, though: it was beautiful.
I took pictures of all the stones, intending to put them on Find-A-Grave. It was worth it for the adventure, but I can imagine that some people wouldn't want to walk all the way up there just to find out that their relatives aren't there, and I can imagine that there are others who would walk all the way up there if only they knew their relatives were there.
We walked back down, slipping and sliding on the uncut hay.
Then we stopped back to see the old woman in the farm house. She invited us in and gave us some no-bake oatmeal cookies, then made us write down our names and address. We took hers, too, and I promised to send her the pictures, knowing that she will quite likely never again see the top of that hill in her lifetime.
Labels: Travel
Friday, March 27, 2009
Grapevine Fires
If this doesn't make you cry your fucking face off, you're not human.
Buyer's Remorse Rescinded
I gave my sister Jul my username and password, challenging her to find something interesting in my genetic profile on that DNA-testing website, other than that my eyes are "likely" to be brown and that I am, indeed, snowy white.
So it turns out that I'm a carrier of the BRCA1 mutation. It is often found in Ashkenazi women. That includes me!
This does not mean I'm going to get cancer, and it doesn't mean my sisters necessarily inherited the gene, and it doesn't mean that my children will, either. It means that my risk of breast cancer is now 3 to 7 times greater than that of the general population, which is not good, but I found out about this early enough to keep up with mammograms.
So I guess the DNA test was a good thing?
So it turns out that I'm a carrier of the BRCA1 mutation. It is often found in Ashkenazi women. That includes me!
This does not mean I'm going to get cancer, and it doesn't mean my sisters necessarily inherited the gene, and it doesn't mean that my children will, either. It means that my risk of breast cancer is now 3 to 7 times greater than that of the general population, which is not good, but I found out about this early enough to keep up with mammograms.
So I guess the DNA test was a good thing?
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Buyer's Remorse
Today I got the results of that DNA test that I spent a disgusting amount of money on.
It told me that I'm white.
Good to know.
It told me that I'm white.
Good to know.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Interlude
I have tons of cool stories from the hills of Ohio, but I'm currently writing a linguistics paper (woot). This is to let interested parties know that my phone is acting sketchy. I've had it for something like five or six years, and just yesterday the screen started going blank from time to time. So texting might be out for the next day or two until I get a new phone.
The good news is that this phone owes me nothing. According to the call timer, displayed on the screen which is currently working but probably not for long, I have made and received some 11,682 calls totalling 497 hours, 14 minutes, and 48 seconds. It's kind of creepy to think that I have spent 21 days on the phone.
Back to my paper.
The good news is that this phone owes me nothing. According to the call timer, displayed on the screen which is currently working but probably not for long, I have made and received some 11,682 calls totalling 497 hours, 14 minutes, and 48 seconds. It's kind of creepy to think that I have spent 21 days on the phone.
Back to my paper.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
As Visions Of Zombies Danced In Their Heads
Last night I had a vivid dream about the zombie apocalypse. Well, I'm not sure if everyone was a zombie, but people were certainly acting that way. I woke up as LoPro and I got to my parents' house to take them with us, and found my mother feverish and too sick to travel, but happy to see us. We had to stay close to the floor to avoid being spotted in the windows. We'd stolen a van. There were zombie-type people in the back yard. I was looking for canned goods. On our way, we'd passed a new national border, marked in Russian... the Russians had taken over Mexico?! And we were living within sight of the border?! That was new. The plan was to head out west to Ohio, were we had family in the middle of nowhere with a keen sense of how many canned goods it takes to ride out the zombie apocalypse.
I woke up scared. "I had a bad dream," I told Logic Professor, and he tucked me under his arm like a football.
Then I got up to make tea and pack for our trip to Ohio. It's spring break here in Cupboardsburg. Time to go look at some udders of the type that won't make it on Girls Gone Wild. We're leaving in a few minutes.
I woke up scared. "I had a bad dream," I told Logic Professor, and he tucked me under his arm like a football.
Then I got up to make tea and pack for our trip to Ohio. It's spring break here in Cupboardsburg. Time to go look at some udders of the type that won't make it on Girls Gone Wild. We're leaving in a few minutes.
Labels: The Imminent Zombie Apocalypse, Travel
Monday, March 16, 2009
Leaves
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Medicated
Parlsey is doing much better. Last night he finally started moving around, and we knew everything was okay went he stretched out in his favorite sleeping spot instead of bunching himself up in a corner. He indignantly cleaned himself off, and thoroughly inspected the vital area. This morning we stirred his liquid pain medicine into a little bowl of tea and he drank it all.
Meanwhile, I am high as a kite. Does DayQuil do this to everyone else? I'm giving a presentation in one of my classes, and would rather be stupid than coughing. At least I'll be calm.
I got a 77 on the midterm, and I'm satisfied.
Later, I have to go get vaccinated because the school is holding my transcripts over my head until I can prove I'm not going to spread meningitis and hepatitis B to the other students, the faculty, and the statue in the courtyard. I probably should have done this earlier. I also need to dig up my old immunization record to show that I can't get measles, mumps, or rubella, either.
I don't feel sick, but I do feel like I'm going to fall out of this chair. Who would have thought that I'd be getting high with my rabbit?
Meanwhile, I am high as a kite. Does DayQuil do this to everyone else? I'm giving a presentation in one of my classes, and would rather be stupid than coughing. At least I'll be calm.
I got a 77 on the midterm, and I'm satisfied.
Later, I have to go get vaccinated because the school is holding my transcripts over my head until I can prove I'm not going to spread meningitis and hepatitis B to the other students, the faculty, and the statue in the courtyard. I probably should have done this earlier. I also need to dig up my old immunization record to show that I can't get measles, mumps, or rubella, either.
I don't feel sick, but I do feel like I'm going to fall out of this chair. Who would have thought that I'd be getting high with my rabbit?
Labels: Bunny
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Par Update
Parsley is fine. He is also nutless.
This morning I watched him hopping around with a sense of foreboding in my chest. The vet had told me that bunnies can be unpredictable under anesthesia. They like to hop off toward the light at the end of the tunnel, expecting carrots. What if my stupid desire to have him stop humping my foot leads to his death? I thought. I mean, wouldn't I rather have a safe but horny rabbit than an apology from the vet, a shoebox, and a shovel?
If something had happened, I wouldn't have been able to forgive myself.
It was hard dropping him off, too. "Have a nice day," I said to him, stupidly, knowing full well that in a matter of hours someone would be surgically removing one of his favorite body parts (based on licking statistics). The scary part was that I would be in class for most of the day, and Logic Professor would be the one picking him up, dead or alive.
I called when LoPro was on his way to get the bunny. He said the vet told him over the phone that everything went well. Then I called after my next class, to see how the bunny was holding up. Groggy, but all right, LoPro said. Parsley had hopped out of his cage on his own, and went to hide under a table.
He was still under the table, groggy and indignant, when I got home. His little whiskers aren't even twitching. His ears are cold and his nose is warm. He turned down a carrot. But the good news is that he accepted a couple apple slices, and doesn't look like he's obviously suffering. We have pain meds to give him in the morning.
Seeing him bunched up in a corner like that brought on a wave of guilt. I can't wait until he's back to normal.
This morning I watched him hopping around with a sense of foreboding in my chest. The vet had told me that bunnies can be unpredictable under anesthesia. They like to hop off toward the light at the end of the tunnel, expecting carrots. What if my stupid desire to have him stop humping my foot leads to his death? I thought. I mean, wouldn't I rather have a safe but horny rabbit than an apology from the vet, a shoebox, and a shovel?
If something had happened, I wouldn't have been able to forgive myself.
It was hard dropping him off, too. "Have a nice day," I said to him, stupidly, knowing full well that in a matter of hours someone would be surgically removing one of his favorite body parts (based on licking statistics). The scary part was that I would be in class for most of the day, and Logic Professor would be the one picking him up, dead or alive.
I called when LoPro was on his way to get the bunny. He said the vet told him over the phone that everything went well. Then I called after my next class, to see how the bunny was holding up. Groggy, but all right, LoPro said. Parsley had hopped out of his cage on his own, and went to hide under a table.
He was still under the table, groggy and indignant, when I got home. His little whiskers aren't even twitching. His ears are cold and his nose is warm. He turned down a carrot. But the good news is that he accepted a couple apple slices, and doesn't look like he's obviously suffering. We have pain meds to give him in the morning.
Seeing him bunched up in a corner like that brought on a wave of guilt. I can't wait until he's back to normal.
Labels: Bunny
Monday, March 9, 2009
WE Don't Even Know What We Were Talking About
CUPCAKE puts something in the sink.
LOGIC PROFESSOR (from another room): I heard that.
CUPCAKE: I'll stab you.
LOPRO: No murder.
CUPCAKE (muttering): God damn it.
LOPRO: Less murder.
CUPCAKE: All right then.
LOGIC PROFESSOR (from another room): I heard that.
CUPCAKE: I'll stab you.
LOPRO: No murder.
CUPCAKE (muttering): God damn it.
LOPRO: Less murder.
CUPCAKE: All right then.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Things I Did Recently
- Gave up a shift at work.
- Heard a POP! as the power went out. Turned the breaker back on. Determined, with the help of the blue sparks behind the refrigerator, that Parsley had finally killed the power cord. Forever.
- Watched an unburned, unafraid, fairly happy rabbit hop out from behind the refrigerator to go rip up something else.
- Turned breaker back off, and with the aid of electrical tape, diagonal pliers, wire strippers, a box cutter, a flashlight shaped like a fish (remind me to explain that one), and a boyfriend, replaced the diseased section of the cable.
- Chicken wire, industrial-strength Velcro, and two butter knives as makeshift metal reinforcements: a recipe for bunny-proofing a fridge.
- Went sledding on trash can lids at ten o'clock at night. Rolled around in the snow and looked up at the start with Logic Professor. Met a man sledding with his nephews, who said he had been arrested six times in the past week since his father had passed away. Made cocoa and crackers with peanut butter.
- Made a chicken curry with fake chicken. Ate it. Became ill. IT WASN'T EVEN REAL CHICKEN!
- Handed in a linguistics quiz, realized I had most likely failed, freaked the fuck out on the inside and left class quietly. You know, as if I had an appointment to go to. Which I kind of did. An appointment with being crazy. I'm not sure if I've calmed down yet.
- Taped The Linguists. It was linguariffic!
- Found a book that was written for me: Statistics In Linguistics. Hallelujah!
- Submitted to a background check at the police station so I can be a volunteer. They need a hand analyzing crime statistics and writing stuff like press releases, among other things. Excuse me, did I hear someone say they needed a hand with STATISTICS AND LINGUISTICS? EVERYONE STAY CALM; I'M ON MY WAY.
- Took Parsley to the vet so she could see if he was fit to be neutered. He is. On Tuesday, he loses his little nuts. Considering castration? Bite through our new fridge cord.
- Went to see The Watchmen; was transfixed by Dr. Manhattan's giant blue penis.
- Started getting ready for work. Going to finish doing that now.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
On The Day Of The Midterm
Dear Wellbutrin,
Look. I know. I know you're mad at me. I'm sorry I forgot about you yesterday. It wasn't like I skipped off merrily, having put our relationship behind me. No, it might have slipped my mind when I was leaving the house - I admit that - but believe you me, by lunchtime I was overwhelmed with guilt over having ignored you. Well, that and an obsessive, pervasive paranoia that everyone was against me. I've realized that we can't be without each other, and I hope that starting this morning, we can begin again. Please don't hold it against me, because this morning I have a midterm for which I am grossly underprepared, and without your guidance, I might jump not just out a window, but through a window.
Love, your humble servant,
Cupcake
P.S. WE CAN DO THIS! UNDEFENESTRATION IN '09!
* * * * *
Dear Midterm,
I know how it seems. It seems like I don't care about the subject. That's because I don't. Don't take it personally. No, wait. Actually, yes: take it personally. You suck. In fact, I hate your whole fucking class. I have calculated that, given my class participation and recent A-worthy paper, I only need to score a 33 on this test. And I will. (This is called Spite Math.) I only hope that I can rack up at least 33 of your points before becoming overwhelmed with shame and guilt - either because I've been ignoring my Wellbutrin or because I've been ignoring the professor for the past ten classes - and jump through a window.
Fuck you,
Cupcake
* * * * *
Dear Self,
It's just because you skipped your Wellbutrin. It's just because you skipped your Wellbutrin. It's just because you skipped your Wellbutrin.
Sincerely,
Yourself
Look. I know. I know you're mad at me. I'm sorry I forgot about you yesterday. It wasn't like I skipped off merrily, having put our relationship behind me. No, it might have slipped my mind when I was leaving the house - I admit that - but believe you me, by lunchtime I was overwhelmed with guilt over having ignored you. Well, that and an obsessive, pervasive paranoia that everyone was against me. I've realized that we can't be without each other, and I hope that starting this morning, we can begin again. Please don't hold it against me, because this morning I have a midterm for which I am grossly underprepared, and without your guidance, I might jump not just out a window, but through a window.
Love, your humble servant,
Cupcake
P.S. WE CAN DO THIS! UNDEFENESTRATION IN '09!
Dear Midterm,
I know how it seems. It seems like I don't care about the subject. That's because I don't. Don't take it personally. No, wait. Actually, yes: take it personally. You suck. In fact, I hate your whole fucking class. I have calculated that, given my class participation and recent A-worthy paper, I only need to score a 33 on this test. And I will. (This is called Spite Math.) I only hope that I can rack up at least 33 of your points before becoming overwhelmed with shame and guilt - either because I've been ignoring my Wellbutrin or because I've been ignoring the professor for the past ten classes - and jump through a window.
Fuck you,
Cupcake
Dear Self,
It's just because you skipped your Wellbutrin. It's just because you skipped your Wellbutrin. It's just because you skipped your Wellbutrin.
Sincerely,
Yourself
Labels: Insanity
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
It Had Better Be
CUPCAKE: This semester is an exercise in frustration!
LOPRO: Hey, that's an improvement! It used to be "futility". I hope "indifference" is next.
LOPRO: Hey, that's an improvement! It used to be "futility". I hope "indifference" is next.
Labels: Higher Education
