White--Snow

Whisper-soft flakes fall in slow circles, moving in and out of the dervish of wind like dancers, now caught in a stately waltz, now spinning in wild revelry. 


One small, white hand traces the glass, following the snow with a long finger. "Perfect," she sighs against him.


White eyelashes curtain pale eyes looking down at the crown of her head; an unfamiliarly soft smile pulls at unpracticed lips. He's caught in awe he didn't know he could feel, simply at the feeling of how perfectly her head fits in the hollow of his throat, how easy it is to wrap his arms around her small shoulders.


It's calm and quiet and white around them.


"Perfect," he agrees.


***

It's snowing outside.  Marvelous, driving, ethereal flakes peppering my vision every time I look out a window. I love snow more than autumn; I love snow more than lightening; I love snow more than anything else that has ever graced God's wonderful creation.

There are few things better in this life than opening your eyes to see white enveloping a brown tile roof and simultaneously receiving a text from your boss that the office is closed for the day. I'm going to read by a window with tea and slippers, and play outside with the Hobbits, and sit with my family while it snows outside.

My heart is so full right now. Praise the Lord.

To Be Harrassed Over Cellulars is but a Little Thing when Good Friends Surround--To My Bodyguards

Classes are almost done. Oh how I can't wait to be done school for an entire month. I have a portfolio to assemble, a presentation to write, two papers to pound out, and two finals to take, but by Thursday next week I'll officially be a free woman.

Went to school. Hung out in the library between classes because it was too cold to walk all the way back to the student union building. Admired Martin Luther more than any of my classmates in History. Did a bit dreadful on a Spanish quiz. Ate dinosaur chicken nuggets for the 97% I got back yesterday. Arm-wrestled little brother for the right to my last stegosaurus (and won, poor chap).

Oh I have pudding in the fridge!

Wasted lots of time. Watched Christmas episode of The Office and Bones (excellent episode I must say, especially for a show that tends to be so empirical about religion). Wished for Psych to be back--January 27! Wasted lots of time on Facebook.

And then I was interrupted by a text. A text from Elizabeth "Lix" Leach. A text asking what was I planning to do tonight? Well, I was going to do some studying, I answered, but nothing so urgent, why?

Oh well, would you like to see The Princess and the Frog with me then?

So I said, Yes that's fine.

And we did. Accompanied by Cathleen "Bodyguard" Gemmell and John "Sweetums" Leach. And it was marvelous. A simply astoundingly wonderful film. Ah, the old days of Disney still live somewhere within the hearts of a few animators, directors, and screenwriters.

I do not recommend: I command that you go see this movie this instant. Go. Now. Stop reading this, it's over. Leave. Buy your ticket now and watch it and hitchhike to New Orleans. Godspeed.

Oh Saturday--Oh Saturday

Harumph. Yes. So. It's Saturday. Furthermore it's snowing outside.

Therefore, logically, it's time for some shameless pluggage!

For all who love wonderfully delightful Christmas things:

You must peruse the Etsy shop of my dearest friend and non-biological sister, Elizabeth Leach. She makes the most beautiful paper snowflakes I've ever seen, of varying shapes and unimaginable designs. Each one is different, and made with love and cheer that only Liz can muster. The skill with which these snowflakes are cut have a great tendency to blow my mind. She can make a snowflake that has nutcrackers in it, she can make a snowflake that looks evil, she can make a snowflake that spells out "mom." (You doubt? I have a picture) And those are just the fun ones.

Hang them from the ceiling, tape them to the window (it's what I do, and then the sun shines through and makes snowflake shadows on the floor), use them as coasters. Your house and/or place of residence will be the better for it.

If you have a brain, you will buy some: Liz's Etsy Shop of Christmas Wonder

Narration From the Other Side--Of Course Everything Looks Worse in Retrospect

So, as you've probably all guessed due to the lack of triumphant, awed post, I didn't make it to the finish line. Not even close. Events in November such as school, and (the biggest of all) the wedding of my wonderful sister Michelle, now Moraga, made the month hectic and busy. But, Nanowrimo was by no means a vain enterprise. While it's true that at this point I still blush in shame at all the perceived cliche aspects of my novel (of which there are many), berate myself for not simply turning my back on life in general and writing 'til my fingers bled as any truly dedicated writer would, and fight the urge to pretend that I didn't even enter instead of admitting to my paltry five thousand some words, no amount of self-deprecation will squelch in me the warm fuzzy pride I feel in the fact that I tried. I can now say, "Here, see, this is mine." Those five thousand odd words make up the first piece of original, full, non-academic writing I've done in probably two-and-a-half years. It. felt. Good. God gave me a passion for writing, and the gift for it (such as it is), and it feels lovely to be using it regularly again.

So I'll be continuing my novel as much as possible. And in nursing the sorrow of not being able to finish I remind myself that there's next year I can look forward to. And hopefully no one in the family will be getting married next November. Although with the way this family just adores patterns when it comes to major life events...

Anyway, now I've got a whole year to plan for next Nanowrimo. Muhaha.

SNOW.

From the Pit--Nano Correspondence I

National Novel Writing Month is kicking my [apples]. Five thousand and ninety words. That's about half of what I'm supposed to have. I must remind myself:

• Good writing = bad for me
• Decent writing = bad for me
• "That Perfect Word" will remain elusive and I will satisfy myself with "suspiciously."
• Quality = bad for me
• QUANTITY IS KING.

Anyone have any strategies to suggest as far as beefing up my word count goes? Word-eaters, such as extremely detailed physical descriptions, lengthy expositions, etc.?

Also, Chase Bradford Lowell's superpower is officially time management. But none of us in the Compass community are surprised.

[On a less related-to-the-header note, Constantine is officially fixed. His harddrive at itself, but we got him a new one, and now he has a spankin' new appendicitis story to impress the ladies and regale small children with. Furthermore he has Windows 7 which means: Mahjong Titans. Oh happy day.]

The Verdict--Doomed

So I'm in.

Now...to figure out what to write.

National Novel Writing Month--THIS AUTHOR WANTS YOUR INPUT

So, here's the deal, the 411, the conundrum, the poop, as they say:

November is National Novel Writing Month. Hypothetically speaking, I could sign up, which would hypothetically mean that I would need to write a hypothetical novel of at least 50,000 hypothetical words, hypothetically completely original (meaning not part of any story I have worked on before), all by my hypothetical lonesome. The deadline is November 30.

I admit, I really like this idea. I'm all a-tremble with hypothetical excitement. I don't get any hypothetical prizes save for a hypothetical fuzzy feeling of deep accomplishment in the hypothetical cockles of my heart.

THE CONS:

• I have no ideas. The last time I undertook writing an actual novel was when I was fifteen. Some of you have read the results--it's not pretty. I'm not really good at it. Finishing things is an issue.
• Melissa's wedding, Mich's wedding (more important), and Thanksgiving all happen in November. That might just get in the way a tad. 
• I really should probably focus on schoolwork. This is little because it's not really an issue I care about.
• I'll probably eat way more than I should during this process.

THE PROS:

• IT WILL MAKE ME WRITE. Hopefully. Or it could go in the opposite direction and become a con...
• The aforementioned warm fuzzy feeling of accomplishment.
• Tea. Lots and lots of tea.

Of course there are most likely many more pros and cons. At the moment my mind is a jumble.

Also Master Lowell has already challenged me to do it.

THIS IS THE PART WHERE AUDIENCE PARTICIPATION COMES IN. And you can't complain about it because you haven't done anything for me to write this blog that you read, therefore it's just a fair that you do something for me as I do something for you (assuming one counts writing a blog as "something"...."good").

What do you think? Do you think I should do it? If so, give your reasons. If not, give your reasons. In short, convince me.

(You'll have to work hard, because I can argue against either quite adamently)

If you're interested: It's a Scrivener's Ball!

Ahem--Nervous Shuffle

Oh my. It has been a long time.

Highlights:

Twenty-fifth anniversary celebration--happy birthday Covenant Fellowship Church. Oh the nostalgia. I say we toss out all these newfangled countrified flimflangled Sovereign Grace songs and go back to our roots in the eighties and nineties. At the very least, let us please start singing "Ancient of Days" again. Hear, hear!

Outlet shopping. Got my dress for Mich's wedding. Purchased it at the Banana outlet in Limerick. It's black (obviously) with a sort of fifties cut and a swishy skirt. I love it so. I'd show you a picture but they don't have it up online. Also, Sock it to Me--a store only for socks and co. I got three pairs of stripy knee-highs for fifteen dollars. Whoever invented that store was a raving genius, and deserves the Nobel Prize for sheer brilliance.

Not gonna talk about the Nobel Peace Prize.

Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs equals very funny plus not at all dirty. Always a plus in "children's" comedy. Also, Mr. T does a voice; so really, you need to go watch it. Right now.

Fall Break was glorious. What can beat starting out one's break with a Psych-watching-pineapple-eating date that turns into a tidy little Psych-watching-pineapple-eating party? And how can one end one's break better than  baking for/attending a CCF harvest party?

I'm getting a new phone; it should be coming today. Samsung Intensity in "Flamingo Red." It's basically gorgeous. I shall let you know, dear reader, what his/her name is. I'm perversely excited to be replacing Burton. To sum, God has really blessed me in working out The Phone Situation.

So new dress(es--Mom let me get two. Oh ecstasy), new socks, new phone. It's been an exciting month.

Til next time, dear readers!

October!--Waxing of the Poetical Variety

Happy first of October! Oh the joy of the greatest month of the year.

Why October is the paramount, incomparable, indisputably best month of the year:

• It's Fall. Wholly, totally, unadulterated Autumn. No other month of the year can say that. September is the beginning of the story, November is the denouement, but October is the climax.
  
• The Foliage. The leaves are well into the changing, but haven't yet almost completely disappeared. Everything is on fire. Beautiful.
• The weather. There is no other weather more pleasant than what can be defined as "nippy." There are very few things in life that bring more contentment that trotting through leaf-scatter paths surrounded by gold and orange and red, huddled in your favorite jacket while your just cold enough to feel the blood spreading through your body; and then getting to come inside to the warm, and put on a sweatshirt and slippers (sweater-slippers! Everyone should have some!), brew some spicy tea, and curl up to read a book in the golden splash of an early sunset. Oh, bliss.
  
• To piggyback on the above, the clothes you get to wear are the utmost in comfortability and aesthetics. Jackets, fuzzy boots, slippers (sweater slippers!), sweaters, scarves (that are functional!), gloves (hobo gloves! Note: buy hobo gloves), hats...all designed to not only look fantastic but to keep you so very comfortable and warm.
  
• Something Wicked This Way Comes. I've already mentioned this; but it's one of my favorite books, and it's just perfect for reading in October. I think every month should have a Perfect Book (although that might be hard to manage what with such middling months as February, November, and June existing).

Autumn is violins, old memories, phoenix fire, warm embraces. I shudder to think of living in such places as only have two seasons. Horrors.

P.S. Constantine is suffering from some sort of stroke. This entry was written on the very tiny keyboard of my mother's computer (so blame any typos on that).

Back in the Groove--A Quiet Moment that Will Perhaps Persist Long Enough for Me to Blog More this Week

I have officially determined that none of my followers/readers/lurkers hang off the edges of their seats waiting for me to post. While this does bruise my ego a bit, and make me sigh over the laborious process I went through in writing an allegorical tale, I shall rally and recover, I'm sure. To do anything otherwise would be too typical teenager for my taste; furthermore it would beg the question: do I blog for comments or do I blog for myself? Thus far the answer has been myself, and I'd really hate for it to change so something of a more indulgent nature.

Watched an excellent documentary on the censorship of the Intelligent Design Theory in scientific academia...but am paying for it today. I see a nap on the third floor in my future. Lacking that there will definitely be a nap in my Psychology of Sports Injuries class. I'd rather avoid drooling in front of people.

Official sounds of autumn (IT IS HERE):










A Thousand Shark's Teeth, My Brightest Diamond









Anything by Andrew Bird, especially Armchair Apocrypha and Noble Beast/Useless Creatures










Beauty and the Beast official motion picture soundtrack












The Blue Notebooks, Max Richter










"My Legionnaire" from Fresh Pair of Eyes, Brooke Waggoner











"One Year, Six Months" from Ocean Avenue, Yellowcard











"Such Great Heights" from Such Great Heights, Iron and Wine












The Crane Wife, The Decemberists


(First ever blog post with pictures. Mark this historical event on your calenders for posterity's sake.)

The Tale of a Confused Artist--Metaphorically Speaking

Once upon a time, there lived an architect.

She was not very famous, nor was her work very special. But she loved building things. Since she was a little girl, her favorite thing to do was to take a new, sharp pencil and crisp, clean paper and break through the white monotony with bold lines, curving swirls, and huge arches.

More than anything, she loved making her structures beautiful. Her designs probably weren't the best, or the most unique, but it made her happy to carefully bend metal railings into swooping shapes, or send red and blue flowers rioting over a wall with a paintbrush.

One day, whilst she was working feverishly on a little bridge in her backyard, a man came to visit her. He watched her squiggle her paint brush back and forth for a little bit, then cleared his throat in an important sort of way.

"Ahem," he said. "What are you doing?"

The architect, who didn't know that anyone had been behind her, jumped. The bumblebee springing from the end of her brush suddenly became much more quizzical looking. She turned around to look up at the man, smearing her cheek with yellow.

"....Wut?" She said eloquently.

The man pointed at the bridge in an accusing sort of way. "Why are you building a bridge in the middle of the grass? You're being extremely wasteful.That bridge won't help anyone sitting where it is. And it's much too small. That's very irresponsible. You should be using your talent to help the world. You're being a bad citizen."

The architect was very troubled by this; she really strove to be a good citizen.

"Don't worry," continued the man in a placating sort of way. "Come with me. I'll show you where your talents can be used to better the world.

He took the architect to a large river. "Build a bridge over this river, so that people can visit their grandparents." Patting her back in an encouraging sort of way, he left.

The architect didddled for some time, enjoying the soft sound of the grass and the white noise of the river. Finally, after sketching a bit, she set to work. She worked for a day and a night, humming contentedly. She carved frolicking groundhogs and storks on the railing, and painted them blue and yellow. When she was nearly finished, and feeling very pleased, the man came back to visit.

He frowned and harrumphed in a disappointed sort of way. "This is just silly!" he exclaimed. "No one is going to take this bridge seriously, and it couldn't possibly withstand the wear and traffic of so many cars and people. You must rebuild it. Use this." Thrusting precise blueprints in her hands, he left in a huffy sort of way--but not before sending a crowd of big, burly men to tear down the first bridge.

The architect shed a few bitter tears, but she was still very anxious to be useful to her community, so she set to work on the bridge the man had designed for her. She worked a day and a night, and a day and another night, and part of the next day, and then fell asleep, and worked another day and a night, and finally finished.

She stood back and surveyed her work. The bridge was grey and square, spatting between the two banks and casting a dark shadow over the river. The supports spiked to the sky and dug into either side, and there were no frolicking animals, or painted colors.

The architect blew a giant raspberry, went back to her house, and finished her little bumblebee bridge.


Dear readers, this is how I feel sitting in my English theory class. The primary focus of the class is studying essays on theory, and the key-term is "exigency": which basically means "a problem that we are writing about in an effort to spur people into fixing it." We are always asked to find the exigency of each piece, and make sure we have exigency of our own in our writing.

And during all my lectures, I'm thinking: "Geeze....I gotta have a reason for everything?"

Ironically, the above story is exactly what I just complained about...

I await with great longing the day I start creative writing courses. If I was wondering about what to minor in, I'm sure now.

Naptime!

Staring at the Thing--is it a Monster?

I now have a Facebook. Somehow, I feel one of my internet-networking venues will become obsolete.

Sunday, lazy Sunday. Candy. Eagles lost. Full worship times. Jared dominating from the pulpit. Lauren--gone!

Oh dearest Lauren
Swirl into my life, then out
How you break my heart

Leaches. Rudely interrupted quizzes. "Little people" who are cooler than I am. Wishing to write. Having to write--about theory. Grumble grumble. Sweater slippers/slipper sweaters.

Soft warm comfortable
Are they slippers or sweaters?
Either, I love them

I'm getting lazier in my posts. Or perhaps it's just because it's Sunday. Be sure to use your "haiku voices," children.

Eh, I'll Do it Tomorrow--How Quickly the Thrill Fades

Well I forgot to blog again yesterday. And the guilt I felt last time has promptly gone from mild to nonexistent. It appears the novelty of blogging has worn off (it tends to happen rather quickly between novelties and me). Fear not, dear readers, I shall still be faithful to Archives. Just everyday-faithful, not good-heavens-this-girl-has-too-much-time-on-her-hands-faithful.

Another obstacles has just presented itself--my power cord appears to be going through minor death throes. It has flickered in and out of consciousness a few times now. Perhaps it's just a fluke, but I fear it may be indicative of a long-lasting problem ending in doom. This is exactly how it started with Michelle's power cord.

Note to self: if current power cord dies, buy power cord faster than sister.

(Just wondering what it looks like to align things to the write. Perhaps I shall use this sometime in some sort of poetry.)

English class/theory discussions are made so much more enjoyable with classmate Theresa to banter with. After every session we walk together to our next classes (which are conveniently located in the same building) and go on glorious tangents about a new subject every day. And of course, we completely do not whisper comments back and forth during the class itself. Certainly not. And we certainly didn't have a wonderful exchange about how "Dreadful Vampire Novel" has become a genre in itself, during these time that we do not murmur in class.

Oh the joy of making new friends. Presently I will start bringing up subject of substance, and then we shall really bond.

Cold weather! I lovest thee! Oh, beauteous fall coming ever closer, you have already heralded your arrival with air of coolness, and breezes of the below seventies variety. How my heart swells with gratitude as I am able to adorn my feet in fuzzy boots.

Alack! I must go shopping or I won't truly be able to enjoy autumn when it arrives.

Oh boots of fuzz
Embracing my feet in warmth
Fill me up with love

Oh Horrors!--Two Days Missed

The first was a Sunday though. I feel I can use the defense: "It would have been heathenish!" to carry my cause. And as for yesterday I have two legitimate excuses: the internet at my house eloped with the cable, and it was a Monday. I feel that is enough said.

As I said, the internet is gone, so currently I'm writing this at a table at Panera, sipping tea that tastes like a forest (in a good way).

Spent the afternoon doing some mad studying at the Gemmells on Sunday. What good times. Purposefully-sabotaged Whisper Down the Lane, mini-paper airplanes crafted from Starburst wrappers, griping about my theory book...ah, these are the things that we'll remember when we're old.

Interesting exchange between me and Shannon yesterday. The background: while waiting to leave for school, we both gathered in the kitchen. Shannon looked quite put-together in a jean skirt, striped sweater (that apparently I've worn more than she has), and brown fuzzy pom-pom boots (mine), beatifully makeupped and read to go. I gloriously present myself in jeans, an old t-shirt, a sweatshirt (to hide my food baby), a hobo (or skater bum--the two are almost interchangeable, save for the fact that hobos are cooler) knit cap (to hide my awful hair that I had no time to fix), and last night's mascara.

The exchange--shorter than the background--went as follows:

SHANNON: (cheerfully sniping) I look more like a college student than you do!

MEAGAN: (grumpy at 7:15 and therefore snarky) No...no really this is what college students actually look like.

I know you current students and recent graduates are nodding. I could only looked more like a real college student if I had been wearing Uggs (oh shudder).

Monday hardly bears mentioning. I won't, other than the fact that I got to hang out with dear Mary again.

In class today: extremely roundabout theory discussion that had no real conclusion, "Geri's Game" (it's a favorite); out of class today: found a kindred spirit in the feminism issue and spent ten minutes griping about FemNazis and their scary, intense ways. Fun.

Something to consider: Charles Dickens and Herman Melville were both payed by the word. I love Dickens, partly for his wordiness; I hate Herman Melville, mostly for his rambling. Interesting.

This post has a lot of colons. New trend: possibly. Probably not.

My Dear Aquaintances--To My Readers

I admit it: I pilfered that heading from a Regina Spektor song.

Intrepid heroine Meagan finds herself trapped at a plain yet spacious desk deep in the bowels of the church office. Unable to leave, she is metaphorically chained to her station by the accusing glare of the Avaya telephone. The dire situation would perhaps be a little more bearable had she not brought upon herself; however, having unwittingly volunteered for the post, the only comfort she has in the quiet, stretching hours before her is her mind's own cold reproof: "You asked for a job on Saturdays."

Dear reader, I'm bored. Bad for me, for obvious reasons; bad for my colleagues, as the more bored I get the greater my insanity level increases, the more doses of it they're exposed to; but good for you, because it compels me to write yet another post.

Of course one may call me presumptuous to imply that this fact is actually a delight to you. I find myself ignoring this judgmental and ever-mysterious "one."

To start, many of you have graced me with comments calling for some sort of response, which I have neglected to respond to. I've decided to do it here, because I want to and I need a vague subject for my post in order to create a sufficient heading.

First, to all you dear readers I'm really quite surprised and extremely pleased that you are what I call you: readers. To borrow the beaten-to-death cliche: "You like me! You really really like me!" I mean really, seven comments on the first post. You warm the cockles of my heart; and more importantly, the cockles of Archives' heart (because I think this blog is too pretty to not be a sentient, personified being), who would otherwise be in danger of a very low self-esteem for how flippantly I treat him.

Now as to those questions...

Master Bradford-Lowell: my deepest thanks for the musical suggestion. Yes, the cheese fry pizza was both as intriguing and delicious as it sounded. Fitzwilliam is my favorite too, which is why he got the best name, but don't tell the other fish. I do believe the internationally-recognized official language of love is Mongolian.

Mrs. Smith: 6:45 is early, just not the earliest; and that in no way detracts from it's unGodliness. Extremely gratified you like my blog. Do you know an Eric Fournier? He is my history professor and I thought it would be interesting if you did. "Must needs" is a nonsensical phrase that I use in place of "I need to" because I'm ridiculous and think it's sounds old-timey British. Thank you for the warning about the fruit bar, I may just steer clear of the sushi all together. And finally more showers of thanks for making Archives a favorite.

Well readers, you can finally release the twisted knot of anguish you have been carrying in your hearts for me; I got my soup yesterday. And a panini, which could not have made the meal more a favorite. Liz, Jean and I embarked on a great excursion to Panera after all our classes were done. Fun-filled, delicious times.

The stop-animation version of Peter and the Wolf is mildly terrifying. And so very, very Russian. But somehow it awoke in my a desire to write my own version.

The parents have taken the small ones and frolicked off together for an adventure down at the shore, leaving those of us who are past the age of fourteen and therefore no longer matter to fend for themselves in the cold, harsh world. I hope they bring me back a dinosaur from The Dough Roller...

I think Alphonse may be slow, the poor fishy. He's always bumping up against the edges of his little pond.

Everyone around me seems to be developing varied forms of insomnia. I hope it's not catching.

I can't express how excited I am for fall to come. The days keep getting cooler and soon (oh soon!) the leaves will change.

Fall reading suggestions:

1. Now We are Six by A. A. Milne
2. Something Wicked This Way Comes by Ray Bradbury (for best results, read in October)
3. Spindle's End by Robin McKinley
   

Contemplating My Naval--or, What I Did in Class (Mostly) Today

So before you all nudge-nudge each other while casting knowing glances my way, I'm supposed to be posting every day. It's part of the whole "journaling" aspect of the assignment (from the French jour, meaning "day"--see Professor? I pay attention in class!).

Grumpy today...perhaps subconsciously I feel that since I like rainy whether so much, I should mirror it. Either way I didn't want to go to class today. I want to go puddlejumping with Dan and Amy; I want to curl up in my giant blue armchair with a cup of flower tea and read The Book Thief again; I want to listen to quiet sad songs and write something in shades of blue and grey; I want to nap...

Basically, I want to be doing anything but sitting on a lumpy couch in Sykes (the one Sean broke, the fatty) typing another blog entry while I try to contemplate what I should have said in my history class and how I should have spoken up more. Is not my life tragic? Do you not feel dark, sorrowful empathy for how hard things are for me?

In sum: I want soup.

An Ode (of Sorts) to Professors--because it is Too Easy to Complain

You might be somewhat surprised by the smudge of guilt I feel hanging over me, courtesy of the previous comment on my history professor. I know I am. But really, I feel I didn't quite do him justice. Really I like him quite a lot; he's very interesting, as is his class, and he has a slight French accent. Also he has Harry Potter glasses--which isn't to say he looks remotely like Harry Potter, but the glasses are there none-the-less. And I can't find I blame him for the way he talked about the Hebrew faith; compared to others on West Chester campus, he was extremely kind about it, and presented the material free of any bias. I suppose if I wasn't a Christian, that's how I would view religion as well. I feel somewhat sad for him. But the whole point of this paragraph is that I really rather like him on a whole.

Really I would like to generally honor all my professors, for being the kindest, most engaging I've had as a whole in three semesters of West Chestering. For having the most interesting quirks, the most open attitudes, and in Professor Blake's case, a humility not exactly expected of teachers in general (you know the instance to which I am referring--I greatly appreciated it, Professor). I always feel like I want to send out thank you notes to all my professors after a term, for putting up with us and working at least as hard as we do for probably much less return; but it always turns out that I'm to busy during finals week, and/or I am daunted by the idea that it may be perceived as trying to garner special favor...so this is my homage, my ode to professors! You are all appreciated!

Updates from tonight:

So many new faces at CCF! My heart sings with happiness. I am so excited to have the privilege of being an avid onlooker into the complex and wondrous workings of God. This is going to be a good year.

Dearest Lauren is leaving for London in too short a time. I shall miss her so. Inadvertently I almost made her cry tonight--not my intention! But I am planning on taking this opportunity to become a fledgling letter-writing (Note to self: buy stationary).

A word to my dear readers: if you have not yet the delight of meeting/knowing Mary Gemmell, your life is sadly without. I would recommend remedying this immediately. Possibly I have just opened the portal for a conglomeration of budding Mary-stalkers. If so, my deepest apologies friend Mary!

Exchanged notes of deepest desires en espanol this afternoon with a certain someone. Love.

(Somehow, "remedying" looks entirely wrong...spell-check says it is correct. I don't if I trust it.)

Well...that's it for me I believe. Farewell!

(And naturally as soon as I cheerily attempt to post my latest journaling dump, blogspot decides to forcibly inform me that I did something wrong in a dialect I don't understand. You're just trying to make yourself look superior, aren't you blogspot?)

Feed the Fish--you know you want to

After all, they're irresistible, yes? Their names are Alphonse (white), Remington (yellow), Steinway Himmel (red), Fitzwilliam (black), and Earl (blue). Is it not endearing how they stalk your mouse as you scroll over them?

So needless to say, I'm having a little more fun perfecting my blog (alt. definition: wasting time I should be using to do homework). You have no idea what agonies I went through before I finally decided on "wine red" as my heading color. Decisions, decisions, and I am an indecisive person.

The weather is once again delightfully cool, and "spittin-a-bit", as is the common vernacular in the Smith household. If this keeps up I will be able to appropriately sport my to-be-bought sweater vest in true style.

(No, Reliant K, I do not want to listen to you right now.)

My poor Spanish professor puts up with our blank, under-caffeinated stares every morning, and this morning she had the added difficulty of coming in with some sort of mild laryngitis. For her sake (and I must admit my own) I found myself wishing she had stayed home with a nice mug of tea and honey.

Listened to my history professor lecture on the mystical Hebrew faith, and how on earth did they make the transition from polytheism to monotheism without a revolt of the people? Oh, honestly.

I've been borrowing my younger brother's headphones lately (as mine seemed to have eloped--probably with matching companion to one of my favorite pairs of socks). Pros: they are the ultra-padded kind, and give me the impression that my cranium is being cocooned in concert-quality sound waves, that Matthew Bellamy is serenading in my ear (no, that is not at all creepy. Why do you ask?). Cons: after approximately ten minutes I can no longer feel my head. They are quite tight (metal headpiece, you know).

Must needs watch The Rocket for Psychology of Sports Injuries. Does anyone know what that is? I don't.

Ram's Head Cafeteria was serving cheese fry pizza today. How, oh how, can one see something like that and not believe that only God could inspire such glorious brilliance in Man's finite imagination?

Made a pleasing discovery today: one Chase Bradford Lowell (see "comments" on previous post for reference) is a Twitterer. He Twits. Ripping.

I suppose I really should go read now. Ten whole pages, can you believe, dear reader? It daunts me as well.

I will leave you with this question: what do bats and acrobats have in common? Is it merely the existence of the word "bat" in the two, or perhaps some deeper, more oblique relationship? Such questions would seem much to convoluted for your ordinary second-grade workbooks; however, brother Dan's Wordly Wise would beg to differ.

The Explanation--that is to say, the Excuse.

The short answer is university compels me. Not that I can honestly say I mind. But you, dear reader, probably will, seeing as how if you're actually here you're subjecting yourself to some extremely mundane and self-centered ramblings.

(There, I almost said "very" but didn't. Does "extremely" serve a better purpose, Professor?)

So a brief assignment for WRT 205 has smashed the "Should I-shouldn't I?" debate into irrelevancy. Probably this means I'm going to keep this blog. Drat it all, I broke.

Dear Professor Blake, I warn you that the longest journal I've ever kept consisted of eleven entries. But I suppose I'm more self-controlled now, and will be able to keep it up for your sake (I hope). Which means I should probably start the actual journaling aspect of this assignment...

Today I literally almost cried when I realized it was six forty-five and I had to get up. This bodes quite ill for the potential emotional impact of longer school breaks. I do, however, enjoy the greyness of today. I like cloudy weather, in the most non-emo way.

Let me think...coming up with interesting anecdotes from my life is hard--a mildly worrying fact.

Horrifyingly I am enjoying my history class.

Steph is coming over later; and there was great rejoicing.

9 comes out tomorrow, which I am excited about! (As denoted by the exclamation point!)

I have twenty dollars of iTunes and nothing I particularly want (except the "Hockity Pockity" song from The Sword in the Stone, which they don't have...no I'm not bitter). Suggestions?

So....that's all I can think of. Probably later posts won't be this...verbose, but I entertain myself.