Let’s talk about papers

My, my, haven’t we been blogging quite a lot lately. Of course, you know that means that I have some sort of paper due. Right now, I am staring quite uselessly at Washington Square by Henry James. I have a paper due on it by 5:00, but I really want to finish much earlier than that. Firstly, I have a class at 1:25, and if I finish my paper before 12:00 or so, it means that I won’t have to lug my very heavy very warm computer to campus in order to finish my paper after my class. Yes, I am aware that there are these thing called jump drives, and I could bring my paper on that and use a computer in the library, but I hate the library computers. I only use them because I have to print, and even then they can take upwards of ten minutes to boot up. Heaven forbid you want to use the Internet because that’s another five to ten minutes to get a browser to launch. Also, I can only get Internet Explorer to open. I think Firefox is too modern for the ancient Gateways. Secondly, I have another paper due at 5:00 tomorrow, and that one is a fifteen page research paper. I got so desperate to avoid the paper on James that I actually started doing my research for the second paper (on Samuel Johnson’s annotated Shakespeare). I was pleased to find a whole lot of articles on the subject. I was also pleased to find large books that have one relevant chapter. I’m actually not too worried about that one now. Still, there is still the matter of writing the full fifteen pages which always seems to take far more hours than I want it to, and I have to factor in work on Tuesday morning from 6:00am to 10:30am. Protip: If you’re counting hours before a paper is due and subtracting time you’ll be at work in order to see if you can finish the paper, your level of procrastination is too damn high.

Lazy College Senior

How many memes do we think I can cram into one sentence? Anyway, my point is that I have a ton of shit to do, but I cannot think of what to write on for Washington Square. You know what my problem is? It’s too easy! Henry James is supposed to give you a headache, but this book is so simple. I mean, it was a fun read, and I sped through it (Fun fact: Apparently James hated it), but it means that I’m at a loss on what to write. Right now, my plan is to simply discuss the final chapter and what it means for Catherine in terms of the rest of the novel (Honestly, I shouldn’t bitch. Neither of these essays really even need a thesis. I just have to analyze the hell out of stuff, which, let’s be real, is what I do best. What is killing me is that I want to trade paper topics with Cuddles, who is currently sleeping off the effects of two Ampeds and trying to keep calm and graduate).

SO! Just for you, I’ve decided to talk about Washington Square. There will be spoilers, if any of you care. I know that the novel is over a hundred years old, but I still don’t like being spoiled for shit. (Fun fact: The beginning of “The Hollow Men” by T.S. Eliot spoils a little bit of Heart of Darkness proving that even famous poets can be Internet trolls.)

Washington Square is the tale of Catherine Sloper, a painfully dull and stupid girl who is actually not that painfully stupid, and what, precisely, is wrong with being a little dull? Her father, Austin Sloper, is kind of a dick, and by that I mean that he is a huge dick who is constantly disappointed that A) His daughter is female and not a son and B) That his daughter is so plain and average and stupid (“as intelligent as a bundle of shawls”). Catherine’s aunt and Dr. Sloper’s (he’s a well-respected man about town, doing the best things so conservatively and also a very intelligent, well-loved physician) silly sister is named Lavinia Penniman. She’s a giddy, romantic widow who kind of fucks shit up. She lives with Catherine and Dr. Sloper. Mrs. Elizabeth Almond is Sloper’s other sister. She seems to be the only character who is as sharp as Dr. Sloper without having the same level of douchebag. I severely wanted to know more about her. Morris Townsend is another asshole, but he’s the asshole that Catherine loves (other than her father, who she is pretty terrified of). Morris loves Catherine…’s money. And that’s the plot. Catherine is plain and in her early twenties. Morris wants to marry her, and she wants to marry him. Dr. Sloper knows that he’s a mooch, but instead of being a decent human being, he’s a huge dick and makes the whole thing really hard on his daughter. Mrs. Penniman gets all up in the “romance,” and generally causes problems and annoys Morris, who is pretty clearly after Catherine’s money. See, Catherine’s dead mother left her ten thousand dollars a year (in 1840 or so, so a damn lot) once she married, and Dr. Sloper was going to supplement that with an additional forty thousand dollars (I don’t think annually, but still, damn that’s a lot of money). However, if she marries Morris, he won’t give that to her. She doesn’t care about the money, but she is afraid of her father and desperately seeks his approval, so she wants him to like her husband. Morris doesn’t want Catherine without the money. Mrs. Penniman thinks Morris is a romantic and defends him for way too long, even after he essentially states that he won’t marry Catherine because he’s worth more than ten grand a year (he isn’t). The story centers on Catherine’s development from a shy, scared girl who craves her father’s blessing into a shy, strong girl who accepts that both her father and her only love screwed her over. Essentially, she has to realize that her father is hideously disappointed in her and that he will never like her. Then, she has to realize that Morris doesn’t want her either.

By her middle age, she does. She defies her father, and, when Morris comes for a final visit, she shuts him down. He continues to suck, Dr. Sloper continues to suck, Mrs. Penniman continues to pave the road to hell with her good intentions, and Catherine “picking up her morsel of fancy-work, had seated herself with it again—for life, as it were.” The last chapter is pretty interesting because she finally gets to confront Morris, so I think that I’m going to go with that as my topic. I’m a little concerned that the heavy dialogue will make my block quotes (this teacher requires lots of block quotes) a hot mess. I had an idea to compare Morris to a character in another book we read, but I can’t find the passage where they are essentially described in the same way, and I also don’t ever want to read anything by Hawthorne again.

I just don’t know what my “point” will be. I know that it’s an exploration, but even a silly exploration of a single chapter has to have some significance, otherwise why bother writing a paper on it? I mean, it’s very theatrical. The whole book is theatrical. There are some references to “liberty,” and the book seems to have an undercurrent of the political to it. I kind of see Sloper as the ultimate politician. After all, he knows what’s best for you, and he’ll take your choice away as best he can. If he can’t, he’ll cut off your funding in some way, but despite all his wrongs, the public loves him. Morris proves himself to be a right jackass, and Catherine simply sits down to the quiet life of sewing things alone in the parlor. I JUST DON’T KNOW HOW TO RESPOND TO THIS TEXT, MAN!


If that weren’t enough, if I double space this blog post, it’s four pages long. The essay is only six. What the hell is wrong with me?

NEXT TIME ON MY BLOG (probably) I have plans to talk about The Hunger Games movie, and I want to review the last two books. There may be more Shakespeare! (Spoiler alert: The Taming of the Shrew can die in every fire.) There may be Shakespeare AND Samuel Johnson (He wrote the dictionary mostly by himself in like, seven years, I think. He also beat people with folios and had a cat named Hodge.) I may even review a single episode of something! Who knows what wild and crazy adventures I’ll have next?!

PS: My apartment is making me pay them rent again. I do not like this.

PPS: But I went shopping for the first time in about a year and a half. I have no money, but I do have some business casual clothing AND some boss business inappropriate shirts. I do like this. So, you know, it evens out to me having no money.


I want to walk on the ceiling so that I can get the upside down books

So, for those of you unfamiliar with the layout of my apartment, my boyfriend’s room has a little bookshelf near the very top of the ceiling above his desk (or the piece of plywood bolted to the wall that our apartment complex tries to claim is a desk). I have recently been feeling rather cheerful, which is a change from my usual feelings of rage and sadness. However, for me, feeling cheerful often means less “cheer” and more “dopamine induced stupor.” I’ve never actually experienced the effects of a mind altering substance (not counting caffeine and alcohol), but I wonder if my cheerful mood is comparable. First, I drank three cups of tea while watching Mad Men (oh how I love Mad Men) and rolling around on the couch. Then, I decided to roll around on a softer piece of furniture. While poor Cuddles attempted to play his video games, I was laying with my head upside down, dangling off the edge of the bed saying things like: “Woah. Your ceiling looks so cool upside down. It’s like the floor. Except, I know it’s the ceiling. But I still want to walk on it. You should look at it like this. It’s so floor-like. And your books look so cool. Like, they’re just hanging on that shelf. I want to walk on the ceiling so that I can get the upside down books. I love upside down books.”

I don’t really have that much to say that doesn’t involve me ranting heavily about my issues with an order I placed a month ago (who knows, I might regale you all with that story someday), but I felt the need to post something because I haven’t updated in a while.

Anyway, when I wasn’t completely drunk off my good mood, I also read my very first Playboy magazine! I would give a thorough review, but, well, it was really sad. I mean, none of the women were attractive. None. It was so sad. All that nudity and nothing, man. The articles weren’t very good either, and there were a billion of those crappy watercolor comics that you find in every magazine. You know, the ones that always end in a painfully bad joke. Except here the cartoons were diiirrrtty. Oooooh. Adding blurry nipples to your sad little watercolor comic doesn’t improve the quality of the jokes. So, if you were planning on purchasing a Playboy magazine, I would recommend just pirating that crap instead. Or you know, watch porn online.

I am, as always, ridiculously responsible

So, last Sunday, I decided that my time would be best spent employed in literary pursuits. As an English and history major, I have to read a lot for my classes which generally means that I avoid reading a lot for my classes, and then I spend all of my time on the Internet. I very rarely read books for fun, and when I do, they’re often books that I’ve already read. However, I had a paper due Monday, and I decided that instead of my normal stalling techniques, I would pick up a book (or in this case, an iPad). That’s right, my dearest readers: I read The Hunger Games.

Before I get started, I warn you that this is a spoiler review. Writing reviews without spoilers is really difficult, and, quite honestly, I want to talk about all aspects of the book. So, there are going to be spoilers all up in this post.

Deal With It Crab

First things first: Suzanne Collins’ writing style. Well, it’s not bad. I mean, not horrifically bad. In general, she’s better than Stephenie Meyer but not as good as J.K. Rowling. Honestly, when I judge children/young adult literature, usually choose to focus on whether or not the writing style distracts from the plot rather than judging the style itself. My biggest problem I have with her is the way in which she uses stylistic fragments. To emphasize a point. They’re everywhere. In chapters, very often ending paragraphs. Other than that, I really can’t complain too much. She does spend a lot of time just telling us what people are wearing, but it rarely has (at least to me) that fanfic-y quality of the camera panning down over a character’s outfit.

Related to the writing style, I really loved how believable Katniss was–particularly when it came to the love interests. Often, usually in young adult novels that feature romance, the main character will be average. She’ll be so average looking. Yeah, about a million other people think that she’s beautiful and fawn on her, but she just doesn’t see it. She’s always talking about how plain and limp her brown hair is and how average she feels next to her pretty friend. Katniss does not do any of this. She doesn’t really harp on her own looks at all. When Katniss doesn’t believe that Peeta loves her, it makes sense. She really doesn’t believe it. She doesn’t see herself as particularly attractive, and she particularly doesn’t see her personality as attractive. It totally makes sense. She doesn’t harp on her boyish, tiny frame because she has bigger things to worry about. When she does bring up her figure, it’s related to not being killed by the people bigger than her. She has no qualms about letting the reader know that she doesn’t shave anything, and she certainly doesn’t mind letting everyone know how unfriendly she is. I believe her disbelief because she hasn’t spent pages doting on her own average face and body and how no man will ever find her awkward, angry disposition attractive. When she talks about Peeta, she focuses on her sense of honor and how she “owes” him. Then, amazingly enough, the novel follows up with that sense of honor and desire not to be in a person’s debt reappearing–in more than one character no less. So, I must applaud Collins for making Katniss so accurate and believable.

And speaking of love interests, why the hell does anyone care about Gale and Peeta? Before I read the book, I knew there was a ton of Team vs Team going on, so I wasn’t prepared for how little romance there was. I mean, I know shippers are always gonna ship…

Pregnant X Men

(That’s totally canon, if you were wondering) …but there really isn’t a whole lot of love running about. Gale might like her, and probably does, but she doesn’t know. Peeta definitely likes her, but she doesn’t know. Most of all, she doesn’t want to get married or have a family, so she doesn’t even want to make a decision. She just wants her friendship with Gale to be normal and to survive, you know, that fight to the death she’s in while preserving her sense of honor and kindness. Incidentally, I liked how the fake romance angle left her sympathetic. In Twilight, I actively wanted to hurt Bella for the way that she insisted on being friends with Jacob, even when she knew that he was helplessly in love with her. Katniss still isn’t sure about Peeta, and she knows she needs to fake love in order to live. That’s pretty solid motivation right there. Personally, I finished the book really wanting her to end up with a third party or with no one. So, if you were avoiding these books because of romance, there really isn’t much.

Of course, that leads me to the point that this book isn’t about some teenage girl in a love triangle. It’s about the horrors of living in a dystopian (Firefox, why is your spelling suggestion for “distopian” pianist?) police state where the wealthy are so privileged (because they live off the backs of the majority poor) that they literally cannot understand the horror of making teenagers fight each other to the death. It’s about being trapped in a world where you have no power to control the laws that govern you, and you have almost no way to rebel against it. It’s a very interesting story.

Let’s see, other things: I really liked Foxface, the girl who gets the most anti-climactic death ever. I know that my strategy would have been to hide and let everybody else kill each other, so I was rooting for her just a bit. Oh, on a political note, I liked how, even in the wilderness where everyone was supposedly on equal footing, the wealthier people still had a distinct, unfair advantage. Rue’s death continues to be the saddest thing, especially when her district sends the bread. I have to wonder what the movie is going to look like (my plan was to see it Tuesday night, but I got death cold and stayed in the fetal position instead) as it’s rated PG 13. I mean, there is no way that they are going to show Cato getting eaten alive for hours or Glimmer’s body melting into hallucinatory green pus. I kind of wonder how they are going to make the Mutts in the movie too. I really hope that they cut out the whole “they’re the tributes” thing–especially because that was a really heavy handed metaphor.

So, I would actually recommend The Hunger Games. Well, I’d recommend them all, as I spent my death cold day reading the other two books, but I’m not going to talk about them just yet. I really loved the world building, and I loved Katniss. It’s nice to have a heroine that’s genuinely interesting. She doesn’t have to tell us to be compelled. She’s just compelling. If you’re looking for a romance, I don’t think this is the book for you. Oh, and don’t get attached to anyone, because everyone dies.

I’m clearly going insane

So, the promises I made to update regularly are not, naturally, being fulfilled. I would like to take this opportunity to say that I define “regularly” as at least once a week, and I’m pretty sure that my newest update was on last Friday. To be fair, I was counting on my Writing for the Web class to remind me. It’s a Tuesday/Thursday class, so I figured that I would be reminded to get my blog-butt in gear in time to get a post together. However, because I am going insane, I missed class on Thursday. Now, how could I miss class due to my own insanity? Simple–I left for class an hour later than I should, and I had no idea that I was late until I parked my car. I’m not kidding. My class is at 11am, and I left at 11:30am without thinking anything of it. Maybe, after two years without taking any math classes, my brain has finally forgotten everything number related, and the numbers “ten” and “eleven” are now merely arbitrary terms devoid of all meaning. Whatever the case, I woke up early so that I could finish my forum postings that were due that afternoon. I did so and had a decent amount of time to spare (I cannot imagine why), so I made an egg sandwich, or more accurately, I scrambled some eggs and tried to keep them in-between two pieces of toast for the amount of time it took to bring the whole mess up to my face. Then I took my shower and drove to class. On my way to class, I marveled at the lack of traffic and wandering pedestrians. Pleased, I parked only to suddenly realize that my clock read 11:45. It had read 11:44 only a minute ago, but I hadn’t been forty-five minutes late for class then. At 11:44, I still thought that I was on time.

So yes, I have finally gone totally insane. Soon, I’ll be leaving the house only to realize that I didn’t put on shoes after I’ve been at work for an hour. I’ll read ten chapters of a book for class on Monday only to realize that we aren’t, in fact, studying the novels of Terry Pratchett in my Shakespeare class. I’ll be less than twenty-four hours away from the due date of a seven page paper before realizing that I haven’t read any of the source material that I have to write about. Oh wait. That’s actually happening now.

PS: Sometime in the coming week, I plan to post a review of the movie Melancholia, but for now, I must paper.

An open letter to those who would belittle studies within the liberal arts

People… people… look, we need to discuss something. It’s, well, comparatively speaking, it’s an incredibly unimportant issue; however, it’s an issue that has been weighing on my mind recently. This issue relates to liberal arts degrees. Specifically, everybody just needs to shut the hell up. No, really shut the hell up. Because, people of the world, I have heard that my degrees are going to be absolutely meaningless. In fact, I can’t seem to go anywhere without hearing how useless they are. I will never, ever, ever, ever, EVER be getting a job. And in this economy? Whew, engineers are having trouble getting jobs. I mean, those are smart people who do real things. What chance does someone like you have against intelligent people with actual skills? Sure, you study English. I’m certain that you will be called upon to explicate poems all the time in the real world. Oh yes, studying history means that you’ll always be welcome on the trivia team. It’s not like you learn any useful skills.

People, I have grown up hearing this. And do you know what’s funny? People still encouraged me to get the degree that I wanted. I was always told to study what makes me happy and to find a job that I enjoy. At the same time, I am currently studying what I enjoy, and, for some reason, I seem to be getting no end of shit for it. And I’m part of the problem. I’ve spent the last five or so years of my life joking about how useless my degrees are going to be. I’ve told everyone how I have no idea what I’m going to do with my future. I’ve made cracks about how easy English and History are compared to real degrees. Well no-fucking-more. From now on, anyone who condescendingly inquires what, exactly, are my plans for the useless piece of paper I am soon to receive? will be told to mind their own goddamned business. I don’t know what made me snap. Maybe I saw one too many of those “Math + Science = Success!” signs that encourage parents to teach their children important subjects. Or maybe it was that blog post I saw. It featured what appeared to be a whiny, privileged, little snot who had graduated from Stanford with an English degree and found himself unable to find a job. He whined about how he had no skills or work experience and how, when he took a year off to “find himself” and “work on his writing,” he wound up sitting on his ass all the time. Oh, he was in a frat back in college too. So, he decided to start a blog in order to do something. Look, if you spend all of college getting wasted and barely scraping by in your classes, I don’t think you can blame your degree when you can’t get a job.

And you know what else? My degrees in English and History ARE useful. Do you know what I can do? I CAN FUCKING WRITE. I can put ideas into words that other people can read and understand, and I CAN DO IT BETTER THAN MOST PEOPLE. Nobody seems to appreciate the importance of writing. And no, I do not want to be an ~author, nor do I consider myself a particularly creative writer. The fact is that, if you have a great idea or a magnificent breakthrough in science, and you cannot write, no one is going to care because POOR WRITING MAKES YOU LOOK STUPID. I’ve had people tell me: “Grammar and style don’t matter for this paper; the teacher doesn’t grade for that. It’s the ideas that matter.” Hell, I’ve had teachers tell me that. EVERYONE WHO SAYS THIS IS WRONG. DEAD. FUCKING. WRONG. Yes, some teachers don’t take off points for grammar or style. That’s true. However, anybody who reads your paper is going to be influenced by your writing. A well-written paper will be more positively received than a poorly-written one simply because it sounds better. A good writer is able to express their ideas more clearly and intelligently. That sort of thing ALWAYS affects the way a paper is graded. English and history also, surprisingly enough, encourage analytical thinking. Now, I’m not a super-smart science major or anything, but I would make the cautious assumption that engaging with texts and attempting to draw conclusions from them in an analytical fashion is probably good for your neurons.

“It’s soooo easy to get an English degree!” You might protest. Yes, it can be. It’s fairly easy to BS things or slam together a last-minute paper. It’s relatively easy to avoid reading things. And yet, I see a lot of people within the English department with poor GPA’s. I see people walk out of my classes clutching C’s. Maybe, just maybe, it isn’t quite as easy as everyone thinks. And what I don’t see are all of the holier-than-thou science majors being told that they have to write a six page paper on a six line poem, which is a shame because I think it would be funny. And no, there really isn’t an English equivalent to O Chem. Hell, a science degree, especially UGA’s, are harder than an English degree. That doesn’t make your degree inherently better than mine. It isn’t a pissing contest. The arts and the sciences are both important in their own ways. I went into the liberal arts because it is what I enjoy doing, and it is where my skills are. If your skills lean towards science and math, great. Just don’t act like you deserve more credit because your degree is somehow more “useful” or “important.”

And for the love of God, stop asking those of us with liberal arts degrees what we intend to do with ourselves–even if you are expressing genuine concern or interest. After hearing it for a while, you all just start to look like assholes.

PS: It goes without saying that this blog post was written in order to avoid working on that aforementioned degree. However, the work currently being avoided is Latin rather than my usual paper. My impending midterm is making me greatly miss the papers of last week.

It’s a Cool Story, Bro!

Do you know what time it is?

That’s right. It’s time for a Cool Story, Bro! Before I begin my Cool Story, Bro, I want to let my reader(s) know that I may or may not do more TV/Movie reviews in the future. I was planning on doing one for every new Supernatural episode, but I was really uninspired by the newest one. I mean, it wasn’t bad, but it didn’t have much that I wanted to talk about in it. The writers totally cockblocked Leviacas’s awesome, and it was bleh. ALSO the Snoogally one and I have started watching Breaking Bad, which I also may or may not start reviewing. It is supposedly one of the best shows on television right now, but it’s left me a little irritated, so we’ll see.

ANYWAY! Today was a great day. I went to work at ungodly in the morning (literally, as I would soon find out) and was assigned to dining room which means that I would not be pelted with large amounts of half-eaten food like I was on Saturday when I worked in the dishroom. As my shift shuffled along, I began to notice small, green bibles littering various tables. It turns out that, once the hour became godly, a whole bunch of old men in suits had migrated to every bus stop and important street crossing in order to spread the word of God to us collegiate sinners. I only passed one set of them on the way home from work, and it pretty much went like this:

AAAANNNDDD upon returning to campus, there was a man standing on the wall of the big-ass stairs on North Campus (For those of you who have not been to UGA, North Campus has some big-ass, marble-y/granite-y looking stairs that pass right between Park and LeConte Hall. He was elevated on a wall-type-thing. That is the moral of this story.) with a MEGAPHONE. AND HE WAS TALKING ABOUT JESUS-UH. HE WHO LOVED_UH US SO MUCH, THAT HE DIED ON THE CROSS-UH FOR OUR SINS-UH. WE MUST ACCEPT HIM INTO OUR HEARTS-UH IN ORDER TO BE-UH SAVED-UH. So, I got to enjoy lots of hilarious attempts at evangelicalism. My classes passed without incident, and I got a new bank account set up. Then, I finally bought something expensive (for me, you wealthy mofos) that I have wanted for ages. CHACOS!

AREN’T THEY BEAUTIFUL? I SHED A SINGLE TEAR. I also got them on sale for 55 dollars, so heck yes. So, I’ve just bought my shiny new Chacos. I debate briefly whether or not to put them on before deciding that I’ll wear my old shoes. So I call my Dad to tell him about my new bank account and shit, and basically to let him know that I am having a happy day where awesome things happen. AND THEN. SOME FUCKING HOW. I GET A VERY SPIKY PIECE OF MULCH. JAMMED BETWEEN THE SOLE OF MY SHOE AND MY VERY SOFT VERY VULNERABLE FOOT. I hobble over to the not-so big-ass stairs of Park Hall and pull off my shoe to assess the damage. While I wince and hate life, all I can think is GODDAMMIT, THIS WOULD NOT HAVE HAPPENED IF I HAD PUT ON MY SHINY NEW SHOES BECAUSE THE THICK SOLE REPELS THOSE CHUNKS OF WOOD WHO LURK AT TOE LEVEL. It looks as if I have two pieces of wood jammed into the bottom of my big toe, right where it bends. The first is small and comes out easily. The second one, well, the second one looks pretty fucking deep. A few tugs only seemed to cause pain, and the wood itself remained imbedded. Now, I must explain why this fucking splinter caused me to unravel. You know that time that you feel really happy. Like, you just feel comfortable. All the problems you thought were big seem small. And then– you hurt yourself or break something important. SOMETHING swoops down and knocks the good mood right out of you, and you get unreasonably upset because you fell from a high point of happiness. Yeah. That would be me.

The other thing is that, well, I have a thing with splinters. They freak me out. I haven’t had a problem with one since I was a little kid, because most of my recent splinters have been either easy to remove or easy to ignore until they become easy to remove. This one involved a relatively thin stick of wood actually hanging out of my foot. And pulling on it does nothing. So, I’m all panicy and feel like throwing up. After calming down, I talk to my Dad again, and then head into Park to try and make calm, rational progress. Neg. It continues to not move. Also, pulling out shit that is embedded in your flesh hurts. Like, I don’t think I’ve had anything close to a puncture wound before, so this was surprisingly painful. ANYWAY, I begin to get all sweaty and fainty because holy shit A TINY PIECE OF WOOD HAS STABBED ME, and I continue to feel this way all the slow, hobbling way to the bus and then to my car. By the time I make it to the apartment, I am shaking like a leaf (and also vaguely entertaining the notion of launching a preemptive strike against small chunks of wood) by the time I get back to the apartment.

I insist to my father that the splinter MUST be deep enough to need a doctor. Really, it looks like it’s a full millimeter below the surface. THAT REQUIRES LOCAL ANESTHESIA, RIGHT? So I call the health center. The poor nurse who has to talk to me recommends that I go to the urgent care center for a 36 dollar fee (because it was after 5pm) if I can’t get it out myself. My Dad also says that I should do this if I’m “too much of a wussy to just yank it out.” He also recommends that I calm the fuck down because I am reaching a point of hysteria. So, literally shaking and crying, I yank at the end a few more times before I have to pick up the Snogally. Thankfully, my glasses can disguise the fact that I am crying. Because if someone saw and asked if I was OK, I would have to admit that I was crying OVER A SPLINTER. Anyway, Snoogally also says to just yank it out and offers to do so himself. HE CLEARLY DOES NOT REALIZE THE INFINITE PAIN THAT I FEEL, so we go to the health center. I tell the lady at the front that I’m not sure if I need a doctor to remove it or not, so she sets me up with a nurse. I show the splinter to the nice nurse who seems rightly concerned about my panic, and, before I can finish explaining, leaves and returns with a pair of tweezers.

“Do you want me to try and get it our for you? It looks pretty close to the surface to me.”
“Erm” Panic, sweat, shake, panic, “No, um, not yet. I mean, it really doesn’t seem to give at all when I pull, and it hurts a lot.” Oh crap. Involuntary hysteria tears!

Nurse comforts me and tells me not to cry. I explain to Nurse that I am not really as upset as I seem. Really, I just have a thing about splinters and poking a needles and the whole day-ruined thing. These aren’t rational tears. Nurse looks even more concerned. Anyway, I wind up getting out my own tweezers and asking if I can try a little more before she does. She says fine, and I babble at her for a while as I yank.

“You’re turning awfully white. You might want to relax for a bit. Deep breaths.”
“Yes. I should, shouldn’t I? I mean, I don’t think that I’m about to faint. Although I did faint the last time I was at the doctor’s office when they tried to take my blood.”
“Please, don’t faint.”

So I decide that I might try and bring it to the surface with a pin.

“That’s a good idea, but all I have is a needle, and you said that you weren’t good with those.”
“Oh, I have a safety pin in my purse!”
“Is it sterile?”
“It was.” The safety pin comes out covered in varying shades of purse lint. “It’s OK. I have a lighter.”
“Why don’t we just use an alcohol pad?”

So, after more poking and pulling and traumatizing Nurse, I am informed that I stop breathing whenever I go to pull out the splinter. So, after a little more digging, I pull, making sure to take deep breaths. I look down, and the splinter is out. Nurse is very polite. I will not be charged a fee because I did not see a doctor, and I used my own tweezers. I thank Nurse profusely (“Really, I couldn’t have done it without you here.” and “I’m so sorry about this.”) before leaving. In other words:

1. Get splinter
2. Panic
3. Cry
4. Shake
5. Go to doctor
6. Allow doctor to watch you remove your own spinter
7. ???????

Both Snoogally and Father laugh at me, but I do not care. For I have CONQUERED the SPLINTER. And now my day is wonderful again. I do not care if I am ridiculous. I am splinter-free. Fuck yeah.

Now, I have eaten a sandwich and written a blog post. Although, now that I look at it, my day seems pretty lousy. I mean, I was happy about my new shoes, but I can’t think of what made me so pleased before I impaled my foot…


I have a take-home midterm due tomorrow. I haven’t studied for it or done any reading or, you know, actually taken the test yet either. I had built up my confidence while I was buying shoes until I spent more than two hours wrestling with a splinter. And then another hour or so writing a blog post about said battle.

… Well, it should be easy after the splinter, right? I mean, paper is wood pulp. That’s not even remotely pointy.

PS: That is not a challenge, paper. I would like my fingers unscathed. My last paper cut just healed.

OMG Supernatural! Have a cracked out review!

So… most of you probably know of this show that I watch.

Yeah. That one. And lately it’s gotten a little… well, terrible. I mean, I’ve never thought of Supernatural as quality television, but the last season (season six for those of you who aren’t counting) was absolutely terrible. I personally thought that season five was pretty weak, but it at least had its moments. I came into the season seven premiere of Supernatural a little blind because I had actually dozed off several times during six’s finale. Like, I sort of faded out when Castiel started talking to Balthazar, and when I woke up, Cas was stabbing him. I also missed the actual opening of Purgatory and Sam’s brain-wall-thing collapsing. Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that it was pretty weak. Not only that, but I do not know what exactly happened to the directing, filming, and editing during the last half of season six, but MAN was it terrible. Like, “they gave a Red Bull and some Pixi Sticks to a seven year old boy and then let him shoot a couple scenes for the lulz” terrible. And the editing… well…


Anyway, I’ve decided that I should start reviewing things because I love over-analyzing and bitching and the people who I love are sick of hearing it. (Note: I’m pretty sure that the people who I love make up roughly 100 percent of my readers. Sorry.) SO! It’s time to discuss the season seven premiere of Supernatural!


“Meet the New Boss” begins with a little recap of that season that I really fucking hated, including the marvelously terrible and not actually shocking CGI of Sam in hell.

See, fans of the show (aka Delaney) will remember the season three finale where Dean winds up in hell. You know, looking like this:

See, one looks fairly bloody, dark, and disturbing while the other one looks like someone was trying to make some flaming text to put on their Angelfire fansite. ANYWAY, I DIGRESS. The first good thing I noticed about this episode is that the camera guy seems to have downgraded from ecstasy to cocaine. The camera movements are noticeable, but far less headache inducing, and, at least for now, they seem to be matching the emotion of the scene. Also, all of Sam’s new hallucinations look a lot more like that image of Dean up there. A few of them looked legitimately creepy. I’d like to take a quick look at things that are usually positives for me and see how they behave in this episode specifically:

Bobby: Bobby is one of the only long-lasting main characters to maintain a stable personality. He was the best thing about season six, and I particularly like his ability to smack some sense into Sam and Dean when they start acting like damn fools. Sadly, he doesn’t really get to do that in this episode. Nor does he to really shine snark-wise. Bobby is pretty neutral here.
Crowley: Much like Bobby, Crowley is just sort of there. He at least gets a little snark out, but he doesn’t do much except serve as a plot device. He is also pretty neutral.
Death: I fucking love Death. He is the best. I don’t know how anyone could not like him. Honestly, whoever they got to play him is so perfect. His appearance in this episode is all kinds of flawless. He manages to make exposition decent too.
Cas: I really like the way that they deal with Godstiel. He isn’t really bad, just way overclocked. His smiting was pretty great. I think that they walked a fine line between making him relateable (Well, I think it’s a word, spell check) and deplorable. Like, don’t we ALL want to shut up the Westborough Baptist Church or ridiculous politicians like Michelle Bachmann? But you can’t just go around smiting those assholes. It’s sort of like, everyone thinks that they’ll be able to run things properly if they controlled everything, but Cas finds out that, well, maybe you can’t. After all, smiting individuals does seem a wee bit petty. So yeah, good job there. ALSO! BEHOLD THE GLORY OF STAINED GLASSTIEL!

One thing that really makes Supernatural great is the lightheartedness. Sure, there is a lot of dark, soap-opera-y drama going on, but there has generally been an element of comedy to everything. Someone on ONTD pointed this out, and I can’t think of a better way to put it. Sam and Dean are so dead now. If you watch the first few seasons, they had so much life and banter. As the show has gone on, more shit has gotten real, and the two of them have gotten angstier and angstier. You’ll notice that most of the humor comes from side characters now rather than the protagonists. A nice part of this episode was getting to see at least a little life brought back to the characters. Dean’s cynicism seems to have doubled back around and become lighthearted. I mean, sure he and Sam had the same: “Why didn’t you tell me the truth, man?” argument that they always do, but Dean ended it by watching Asian cartoon porn instead of storming off or something equally asinine. So maybe, just maybe, the new season will be able to bring back some sort of brotherly dynamic.

HOWEVER! Someone really needs to call Dean out on his shit. His refusal to forgive Cas or see Cas’s side of things is grating on me. I mean, Dean has always been a bit of an asshole but man. He thinks his best angel buddy is dead, and all he can say is “I told you so.” He needs a smack upside his head like, yesterday. This is the guy who sold his soul to a crossroads demon. He and his brother started the damn Apocalypse! Why exactly does he have this self-righteous attitude toward one mistake of Cas’s? I JUST HAVE A LOT OF FEELINGS, OK!

As for Sam, I’m looking forward to how they explain the mindfuck that is Lucifer just showing up and just taking him away. Like seriously, how does that work? I think it could be cool though. So as of right now, I would be giving the episode a positive meh. It’s certainly a surprising improvement over last season. Still, the episode itself was a little lackluster. You may, my astute little readers, notice that I said “would” rather than will. That’s because I have not talked about the best part of the episode.

Do you Harry Potter fans remember that scene in the Half Blood Prince movie where they basically just let Daniel Radcliff act like the crazy mother fucker that he is?


See, apparently, there were these things called the Leviathans which were the first beasts created by God. But they were totally running amok and being batshit insane, so God created Purgatory to keep them locked up. Cas accidentally a whole bunch of Leviathans when he was taking in the souls of Purgatory, and his attempts to throw them all back up (ew) failed because the Leviathans held on inside him. AND ALL OF THIS IS AWESOME. I LITERALLY MADE THIS FACE: :D I WAS SO EXCITED THAT I TURNED INTO A DAMN EMOTICON.

This is the damn truth. I really hope that they keep Leviacas around for more than one episode because this is going to be glorious.


PS: I have two papers due next week. I’m pretty sure both of them have a lower word count than this blog. I am, as always, a spectacular failure at time management.

PPS: I refuse to apologize for never posting. Almost every post would have to start with a damn apology because I fail at keeping a blog.

PPPS: Psst! Leviacas!

This post is very boring, but I have inflicted it on you anyway.

Hrm. I suppose that I should post something.

Well, I waited until two and a half hours before my paper (on Dr. Jekyll, Jekyll, Hyde, Jekyll, Hyde, Hyde, Jekyll) was due to even start it. I have no idea why. I mean, I made a blog and wrote a post to stall it. Then, I went to bed when I wasn’t even tired. THEN I snoozed the early alarm I had set for myself (so that I could write the paper after I had slept some) until my normal wakeup time, and THEN I did not start my paper during the thirty minutes before my first class (I felt that reading Wuthering Heights was a far more pressing concern), nor did I work on it during that class even though I had my computer out and was not paying attention. I do not even know what is wrong with me. I did get it done, though I’m not sure how quality it is.

Anywho, my life has been exceptionally lazy since then. The snoogally one and I went out for an early Valentine’s Day dinner on Thursday, and we went to a birthday party on Friday. I am currently at the home-home rather than the apartment-home or the dorm-home (aka, the storage unit with a roommate) because I needed to do my taxes, and I actually like my family. My Madre is in the process of making a daybed out of a futon. My Padre has been roped into helping her, and he had to help me do my taxes. Poor Padre. Also, I get 31 dollars back from the government because I make no money. I was informed that I might actually have to get a real, live job this summer that actually gives me hours (unlike every other goddamn job that I have ever worked.) I might also put in the effort (money) to get the AC in my car fixed so that I do not wind up driving in HEAT BOX OF DOOM for a third summer in a row.

I feel like I should have some sort of interesting story to tell. I do not think that I do. OH WAIT! Tonight will be a night of EPIC NERF BATTLES! IT HAS BEEN SO LONG SINCE I HAVE TAKEN PART IN AN EPIC NERF BATTLE! I WANT TO GO TO WALMART AND GET SOME MOTHERFUCKING DARTS FOR MY MOTHERFUCKING NERF BLOWGUN. WHAT? YOU DON’T HAVE A MOTHERFUCKING NERF BLOWGUN? YOU SHOULD INVEST IN ONE; my ring finger is getting sore, so I’m going to need you to just imagine that I am shouting (No I cannot just press capslock! Why? Because.) Also, this is my gun:

LIKE A BOSS. It’s a motherfucking Firefly (YOU CAN’T TAKE THE NERF FROM MEEEEEEEE!) It can even light up when it shoots! And yes, yes those are glow in the dark darts. I’m going to get some matching glowing darts for my blowgun. Because I can. I also have two less-legit guns:


I mean, I pretty much always lose, and I rarely do anything because I am ultra cautious, but dammit, there are forts and guns and under my sweet, girlish exterior lies a warrior ready to riddle the enemy’s skull with foam ammunition. Yes.

‘Cause I was Jekyll, Jekyll, Hyde, Jekyll, Hyde, Hyde, Jekyll…

Good evening dear reader(s)!

I should, even right now, be working on a paper (On The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll, Jekyll, Hyde, Jekyll, Hyde, Hyde, Jekyll), but I am not. I should be contemplating the question of Stevenson’s critique of Victorian society. Well, I technically I am doing that. It isn’t too difficult a question. The problem is that I have to squeeze four pages out of the idea that repression leads to even greater wrongdoing. I know, right, what a new and exciting idea. I am certain that no one has ever thought of it.

…And my vagina has now been compared to the One Ring. I do not even want to consider all of the complications that comparison will lead to.

On a less terrifying note, I am really disappointed with this paper’s limitations. My choices are all doable in terms of writing, but they are also a little blah, and I feel like there is so much more to talk about in these stories that we didn’t bring up. I really wanted to look into the language of the Doctor in the “Story of the Physician and the Saratoga Trunk.” Hell, the language of the Prince in all of The Suicide Club would be worth looking into as would the descriptions of the American man, Silas. Of course, this means next to nothing to you, dear reader(s). After all, I tried to discuss this with friends over lunch, but none of them have read The Suicide Club, so it made the conversation a little bit lame. And I didn’t discuss any of this story in class because, well, I hadn’t read any of it until we got to the last of the stories. Naturally, that was the day that, instead of fully discussing the text, we did an exercise on summarizing and ways of looking at text. I’m hoping to remain caught up in the class from now on because it really is a nice class. It’s only boring when I haven’t done the reading. Plus, the teacher is very nice, so I feel bad when I don’t do the work. Blech. Paper. If I hadn’t waited so long to work on it, I might have been able to customize a different topic based on…

Something in Jon’s room just made a terrifying noise. I think that it was coming from the closet, but it is hard to tell with his ridiculous speakers. Seriously, it sounded like the noise a high-tech bomb makes in a bad action movie. Like The Fifth Element. That sort of multi-toned beeping. Creepy. I really hope HAL isn’t plotting anything. I would not doubt that this computer has some form of sentience. It does turn itself on sometimes. Leave it to The Boy to inadvertently invent Skynet.

…the other ideas that I had. Of course, that would take a whole lot of research that I simply do not have time to do. I also think that emailing my topic to my professor at 10:30PM doesn’t count as getting approval ahead of time. Ah well. I also have a Microtheme due on Thursday, but it doesn’t get turned in until before midnight, so I will deal with it then. I desperately want my draft back for that class. I probably shouldn’t talk about it too much since my feelings are largely negative. I’d rather not have to take it again due to some errant blogging.

On that note, I really must head off to skim The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll, Jekyll, Hyde, Jekyll, Hyde, Hyde, Jekyll.

You’re welcome.