The next time a guitar string breaks I'll paint the body.

I don't have a face for emotional strain.

For whatever reason, people see fit to give me an overabundance of fancy, black lady-gloves. They're totally non-functioning against the cold. I'm gonna have to start committing crimes to put them to use.

I wish American politics had a satirical political party. There are countries out there with more than one party competing for the silly vote. Seriously.

At this moment, I may possibly have the best series of Wiki articles I've ever had open at the same time. It's been a wonderful night.

Christmas Eaves

Freshman year, sometime during my first winter break of high school, I contentedly ate milk and cookies, all PJ'd up against the chilly evening. Though my face was never to appear on any milk carton, I was about to get kidnapped. From the night, a terrifying figure appeared at my door. The cold air that rushed into the house with him chilled my bare toes. It was ye olde section leader. I finished my cookies, assured that I would not leave the car and would not have to change out of my pink PJs with cats wearing hats. We drove through Katie's and Wasiq's neighborhoods looking out through the windows at Christmas lights. Though I cannot remember any singing or talking between us, the night has a sense of laughter. Despite the previous assurance, I had to evacuate the vehicle in order to ask Laura which house was Wasiq's. Knocking at the house we were directed to, Wasiq's hot older sister answered the door. But Wasiq doesn't have an older sister. We thought perhaps we'd mistakenly knocked on the only other Pakistani house in GV. Even better, it was simply that Wasiq's mom has got it goin' on. Tragically, Wasiq would not leave his house to join us in seeing the lights.

One of the very few regrets I had in not driving until this past summer was my inability to imitate this night with my freshmen buddies.

"No! Not Tiny Ira! What could we have done against such a lovable scamp?!"

Censorship Wreck

On this blog, I almost never directly reference Jeff except in recollection of daily activities. Being a teenage girl, thus subject to emotional afflictions, and this blog, being quite generally a public diary, it is perfectly natural that I should write frequently about the relationship that has unequivocally influenced my adolescence. The pertinent word is public. This material may be found at any time, by any associate of mine, with or without my knowledge. In addition to the potential strangers, there are the recurring few who ever so occasionally check in on my scribbling.

Pens are mightier than swords, and keyboards are faster too. I recognize that everything I write here can create direct, real-world consequences, not necessarily negative, and not necessarily directed at me. Until I alter the privacy settings, it is in my best interest to publish without conflict, necessitating censorship. Still, there seems to be a number of times when my vague and cryptic posts retain their subject despite redacting. Analyzing my own writing, I've concluded immaturity. However, the personal necessity of public censorship in otherwise intimate content leads to an interesting approach in analyzing literature outside of myself.

Currently reading Bridges of Madison County, I've found too much presence of authorship as a result of this thinking. The novel claims to be reconstructed from diaries and public sources, such as newspaper articles, accordingly, I'd expect a gritty, truthful feeling to the book. Unfortunately, the poetic style, while nice, seriously detracts from the reality. Life doesn't happen so sensuously, destroying any belief I could've had in the content.

Nonfiction for Emily

No, you are not beautiful in the sense of ideal Western aesthetic. It doesn't mean you couldn't be; there's face paint and computers and surgeries and little deceptions to perfection. I mean, you are pleasing to the eye: pretty, cute, hot, sexy, things vary depending on how you aim to appear. But you are not a picture. You feel beautiful to me. My beauty was found karaoke'ing in a basement in Chinatown, in a capella where no other music could be found, in a corn field by moonlight, in being young and without obligation, in running through rain and children and parents to reach the car and pancakes. Beautiful beyond the eyes, something to remember. Your beautiful is something frail, something that can be lost, a little magic that may be outgrown. Your beautiful is not a look, it's not something I see. It is the essence of you. You are worth fighting for, I just don't have a 1000 ships.

Disreguardian Angel

An inexplicable presence.
These people who so effortlessly enter my life and change me with disregard for my self, I love them. I'm learning so much from them and with them, even if it's not going to be for their eventual benefit.

Sometimes, I feel mature for recognizing my love but not always acknowledging it. I've never supported myself. I've never lived on the West Coast. There is so much living I have yet to accomplish. Still, I know that love is there. It's not waiting; it will exist despite me.

I can't stand the thought of being someone's manacles. I can't stand the thought of people I love missing their world because of my actions. Mrs. G. says that the prom picture affixed to her fridge is a warning to high school sweethearts, not that it's very effective.

Being the center of someone's life is an awful thought. I want someone who does, not someone who solely appreciates the done. And anyone who thinks I am interesting enough to focus on does not have high enough expectations for excellence.

Tonight, I chatted pleasantly with pleasant people. I laughed.

Realization While Watching TRON

I would like it if Dip n' Dots produced tiny ice spheres to replace ice cubes.