Car Things

Things I have in my car:

1. An umbrella. And yet I still always forget to take it with me when it rains while I'm walking around (or conversely, it never rains during the times I remember to grab it). I guess what I'm saying is that I've been wet a lot this week.
2. Bath and Body Work's "Autumn" car freshener. Sometimes when I'm smelling the crisp, sweet, earthiness that it bastes my car in, I take the time to contemplate how God has blessed us through this store. Nothing smells bad in there. Nothing. I could go into the store looking for a present for someone, close my eyes and grab anything, and the person would love it because it smells amazing.
3. A bunch of clothes more suitable for summer. I know I should get those tank tops and shorts out of there and replace them with jeans and sweatshirts, but the chances are high that as soon as I do that the weather will shoot to 87 degrees on a day where I decided to wear my long-sleeved polo and ugly pants to work in the morning, thus leaving me with nothing suitable to change into. Thus my hesitation.
4. A pair of earrings. Maybe someday I'll be sitting in my car looking at what I'm wearing and say, "Shoot, I forgot earrings!" and then look down and there they'll be, all perfect and convenient. These are my dreams.
5. Car charger and auxiliary input cable. The only team you need for listening to music in your car. Well I mean you need a stereo that has an auxiliary input plug. And an mp3 player of some kind (like a Zune...just kidding, who doesn't have an iPod?). Anyway.

Things I need to put in [or on] my car:

1. My string dolls. Shut up, one's an outlaw and one's a pirate with a thumbtack peg leg and they'll be magical protective talismans (talismen?) once I hang them on my mirror. You're jealous.
2. Stickers. Lots and lots of dorky, clever, bumper stickers. Right now all I have is the Covenant Fellowship 25th anniversary magnet, which isn't even a sticker it's a magnet. But it is awesome.
3. Cold weather clothes. I think it would be wise for me to keep at least one full outfit in my car for emergencies, and it would probably be helpful if the outfit wasn't a tank-top, shorts, and flip-flops like it is right now. The wisdom in this is pretty much proved to be vast by point #1 in my first list.
4. A towel. Because of the rain. And my ineptitude surrounding that particular life situation.
5. A blanket. This is an extremely useful thing to have lying around your car. It's like a Swiss Army knife, only bigger. You can use it to cover the ground if you spontaneously have a picnic; you can use it as a curtain or something if you desperately need to change in your car (like, if you for some reason got soaking wet walking to your car and had a towel and a nice, dry, warm set of clothes beckoning you from the back seat...theoretically); and I can personally attest to the fact that when you are a passenger driving with someone on a cold autumn's/winter's morning/day/night having a blanket is literally the best thing ever. 
6. A snuggie. So I can drive and still experience some of the wonder of the last point made in #4.
7. A first-aid kit. I'm thinking I want to make one myself. That way the band-aids will be Batman band-aids, and it will include essentials that most manufacturers are remiss in omitting, like stickers and lollipops (but not butterscotch ones, those are gross).
8. Snacks. As the semester progresses I'm falling into this habit of not eating. I don't know how or why this is happening.
9. I dunno, like, survival stuff I guess. Like...water. And road flares, or something. Dehydrated food?

If I plan right I should be able to live semi-comfortably out of my car should some disaster strike. Like, I dunno, the zombie apocalypse. I can drive through the desolate country-side, keeping my Bath and Body Work's car freshener close to my nose to obscure the scent of rotting corpses and stagnating society; I'll comfort myself with songs I used to listen to in highschool--when life was simple and unterrifying--and old PDI worship songs using my car charger and AI cable; at nights I will curl into a ball in the back seat, wrapping my blanket around my body like a protective shell, using my snuggie as both a pillow and to drown out the distant moans of hunting zombies; when I come across survivors I shall do what I can for them, sharing water and dehydrated food, and aiding the wounded with my Batman band-aids. I'll even have at least one extra outfit to change into! I'll probably last like a whole two weeks like that. Maybe three. After that I'll probably starve, or get beaten to death by looters when they break into my car to steal my magical string doll talismen.

Of course since a Facebook quiz assures me I'll only survive at most the first five months after the original cataclysm, I think that's okay.

I'm Back--Sort of

You know what I don't understand? The letter G. It's all silly looking and weird; and it for some reason feels like being the only letter in the English alphabet that can make the sound it does isn't enough and therefore it must mug J for its sound every once in a while. G is all, "Hm, 'garage'...oh man, I got so exhausted making the 'guh' sound at the beginning of that word. Plus I always end up sounding like someone punched me in the stomach. I think I'll make the 'juh' sound for the next one--that's not weird or confusing, right? It's cool, it's not gonna make first-graders cry from frustration as they struggle to grasp the purpose of it, right? Right!" Meanwhile J is like, "Come on, this is all I have! So I can act like a Y or even an H in foreign countries--WE'RE SPEAKING AMERICAN HERE, G. For flips sake!"

Conversely, you know what the most awesome letter is? Q. No matter what font it's wearing it looks like an ancient rune or a military insignia from Star Trek, and is always all, "Hey, man, I'm pretty much whatever you want me to be...check this out, I can make 'queue' just say my name! How awesome is that, it's like six letters, but still only one syllable. Booyah."

Also the vowels are the elitist clique of the alphabet world, and the IPA are the gods of all the alphabets.

Yes, I'm Still Alive

The first fifteen minutes of Gladiator, an entire recent conversation with (the glorious and beautiful) Olivia Stout, and three school assignments in as many days have all been completely wiped from my memory.

(Well, to be fair, the memory-wipage of the school assignments wasn't complete so much as it was utter-until-my-professors-brought-it-up. And boy did that damage my calm.)

The other week, I was sitting next to my friend in the computer lab. She sneezed, and I didn't say "Bless you." A few minutes later, I sneezed and she didn't say "Bless you" (although the girl behind me did). I felt a lot less guilty and a pleasant sense of balance was restored to our friendship.

That's basically the story of my life this semester.

Thank God He's controlling my life; what said life would look like if it were solely up to me inspires the utmost of horror.

All My Thoughts Today Center Around One Thing...

In the case of strawberry banana flavored yogurt, banana always comes out the lesser party. This blatant bigotry is outrageous, as everyone knows banana is by far the more popular fruit anyway.

Last night I ate the most wonderful thing the world has ever seen, but it was in one of my dreams. I dreamed I was in a place reminiscent of the Reading Terminal Market, and at an ice cream stand was favored with culinary perfection: a banana, on a stick, dipped in marshmallow and rolled in coconut and chocolate chips, and finally smothered with peanut butter and chocolate drizzle. I am now alight with the fire to obtain this Dream Banana in waking life.

Midnight pizza does wonders for my subconscious cerebral awareness.

Have you ever played with those foam packing peanuts, enjoyed the airy squish of it beneath your fingers, and said to yourself they would be really fun to chew on if only they didn't taste like hand lotion and tree sap? I have. Imagine my delight, then, when I realized today that dried apples are of that precise texture.

How does SoBe make their lifewater so delicious without a single gram of sugar? I suspect witchcraft is involved.

The most disheartening bit of trivia I've learned this month is that Sun Chips are actually fattier than potato chips. What in the world are they good for?

"Fruit punch" is probably the most suspicious sounding name for a drink I know of. It's as bad as "brown sauce" and "food store." Exactly what fruit is in that stuff, Hi-C, that you aren't willing to specify, hm? Not even "orange drink" is as evasive.

You know what's the most unkind name for a movie genre ever? Spaghetti Western. It calls to mind all manner of fantastical visions regarding what such a name could mean, like a Western that comes with a complimentary plate of spaghetti, or wherein the characters fight using spaghetti instead of guns (as illustrated above, please click to zoom), or all the cast are noodles. Reality, however, is nothing so awe-inspiring--a Spaghetti Western is merely a Western made by Italian people. Which doesn't make any sense, because Italians never had a Wild Western era.

How To Clean Your Room Like Meagan

Step One: Decide to clean your room. This decision must only be made after the piles of clothes (vaguely organized into "clean" and "unclean"), random envelopes that probably contain important financial aid information that you've forgotten, your unmade bed(s) and unchanged sheets, and other random knick-a-brick such as empty shoe boxes, toenail clippers, ripped Target bags, unmatched socks, and mostly-unpacked luggage have all been staring at you resentfully for several weeks, and are now so sick of being in the same place that they attempt to murder you in various ways--mostly involving tripping and/or smothering. Usually said conflict comes to a head--leading to the decision to suck it up and pick up your crap--after you have pulled a muscle in your thigh or lower shoulder whilst flailing to keep your balance.

Step Two: Pick a free day where "Clean My Room" is the only thing on your Inner-Brain Calendar (this entire process is made null and void if you use an actual calendar, such as an e-calendar or planner--THAT IS NOT HOW TO DO LIKE MEAGAN DOES). Set your alarm the night before for a reasonable 8:45 am to give yourself a fresh, healthy start on the day. When the morning of Cleaning Day dawns, and reasonable alarm wakes you with an appropriately obnoxious and peppy ringtone (ideally with a Latino-inspired beat), remind yourself that you have nothing else to do that day and therefor if you sleep in another half-an-hour you'll still have plenty of time to get cleaning done. Sleep until 11:30.

Step Three: Meander downstairs in you pajamas, because breakfast is the most important part of the day. After scouring the cabinets, decide that there's nothing good for breakfast and you weren't hungry anyway. Use your set-aside "breakfast time" to check email and Facebook. (Do not eat breakfast--THAT IS NOT HOW TO DO LIKE MEAGAN DOES)

Step Four: Get bored of both Facebook and waiting for the five-year-old kitchen computer to load pages, and make your way back upstairs to your room. Start Cleaning Day in the official way by choosing to view all clothes as "unclean" (because they've been lying on the floor long enough that if they were clean they're probably contaminated by dust and feet and the unclean clothes by now anyway) and tossing it all into your hamper. Allow for about fifteen minutes of gathering all clothing whilst in your pajamas before you come to the conclusion that though you had originally planned to wear pj's all day, you're starting to feel gross and kinda fat; spend twenty minutes picking out an outfit combining comfortability, cleanness, and not-feeling-fat-no-moreness in equal parts (this process may and probably will be lengthened by the fact that you've just thrown all your clean clothes into your hamper, and so need to dig them out). Brush your hair and teeth so you don't feel half-ready for the day anymore. Go back to cleaning.

Step Five: Organize everything in your room into an obscure filing system of piles that only you can decipher. Do as much as you possibly can to put things away sitting down--i.e., work on the trash pile and pairing socks first. Soon your small trashcan will be full and you'll realize the necessity of procuring a bag to empty it into. Haul yourself to your feet, and trundle downstairs to get one (trundle, as opposed to frolic or stroll: THAT IS NOT HOW TO DO LIKE MEAGAN DOES). Notice while you're downstairs that it's about lunchtime and you're hungry because you didn't get any breakfast. Make lunch [an hour long process altogether, which perhaps someday I will explain in another blog post].

Step Six: Go back upstairs. Remember that you forgot the trash bag. Go back downstairs and get it. After arriving back in your room and emptying the trashcan, gaze about yourself and realize that you have no idea how you organized each of the various-sized piles surrounding you. Spend approximately an hour feverishly pinballing between piles to pick up random objects and put them in their proper place (if at any point you think to yourself that the whole reason you made piles of like objects in the first place was to avoid this exact pinballing, shame on you: THAT IS NOT HOW TO DO LIKE MEAGAN DOES)--all the while accumulating a new pile simply brain-labeled "Where to?" This is where the really gritty, sweaty, pant-inducing bending and reaching happens. If this is your first time Cleaning Like Meagan, you may want to stretch before Step Six.

Step Seven: When you have arrived at the point where most of the work is done, and you have nothing but the "Where to?" pile and making your bed left--about a half hour's worth of work, at most--decide you need a break. Compose a blog post about an inane subject no one was wondering about. Double-check that you have no new emails, and that no one interesting is on chat at the moment.

Step Eight: Spend another frenzied fifteen-to-twenty minutes finding random homes for the "Where to?" accouterments and making your bed. At this point you have conquered Cleaning Day. Get a bottle of water for you parched throat, flop onto your bed, and sip it whilst panting and sweating and moving on to the most important:

Step Nine: Congratulate yourself that while it did take you from 12 noon until around 4 in the afternoon to clean your room, that's still significantly less time than it took your sister too when she lived in the room (THAT IS HOW TO DO LIKE MEAGAN DOES).

Jooj

For those of you who remain ignorant to the glorious bit of news--which probably means that you're not remotely my friend because I've been texting/facebooking/g-mail-statusing it all the time--I am officially a first time aunt. Julia Mae Smith was born July 14th, and she's most definitely the best niece ever. She's all pink and squishy and she located her fingers within ten hours of out-of-the-womb life and apparently thinks them delectable. Alas, I have only been able to visit her once--and alas thricefold, I have yet to hold her since I have a cold--but what a visit it was.

The absolute highlight was watching my little brother Dan hold her. My dear readers who are unfamiliar with Dan should know that he's usually extremely reserved when it comes to people and situations he's not completely familiar with, so we weren't sure exactly how he was going to react to this sort of red, squishy, drooly thing his family was making him hold (considering a new baby is both persons and situations unfamiliar to him). Dan sat in hospital chair that completely dwarfed him, and Dad arranged JuJu carefully in his skinny arms, and Dan sat for about fifteen minutes with a huge grin on his face just giggling.

New favorite memory? I think so. I've taken to just reflecting on it in my spare time to make me smile.

Julia is three days old, and these are the things I know about her so far:

• I want my particular special nickname for her to be Jooj.
• At this point she seems to take after both her parents equally--she's pretty fat (nine pounds! that would be Michael, he was a fat baby), and also tall (21 inches, if I remember correctly, which is all Sarah because Smiths are short). As of yet her face is still working on being unsquishy, so it's hard to tell whether she looks more like a Smith or a Sharp.
• As I have mentioned, she thinks her fingers are delicious.
• She's a genius, as evidenced by the fact that she pooped on Uncle Sean.
• According to the pictures taken of her, she sleeps all the time (as evidenced below--picture courtesy of my sister-in-law's facebook). Clearly Mike's daughter.
• She, who was once the single most anticipated baby on the planet, will now be the single most loved baby on the planet (at least until Michelle and Alex get down to business; then it will probably start being a tie).

I love my little niece so much. I can't wait to visit her again. I also can't wait til I don't have a cold, so I can get started on those extra holding rights.

Nondescript Monosyllables

You may have noticed that I haven't blogged anything interesting recently, or blogged anything at all, nor have I started my sparkley super amazing pixie blog for writing. Aren't you clever.

Unfortunately, Constantine--the Laptop, for all you n00bs (aka, non-family members) out there--suffered a bit of an accident. Actually it was more like a direct attempt on his life, executed by an old Nintendo DS. Clearly embittered by its looming obsolescence, the chunky console got the drop on Con while was chilling out on my carpet--the jealous blighter. Constantine is still technically functional, but his screen is a bit shattered, in an LCD way.

I've been free-loading off of my mother's and sister Shannon's laptops for necessities--like e-mailing, Facebook, and watching Doctor Who on Netflix Insta-Play--but for something that requires extensive, intense, personal time such as writing, obviously other persons' laptops aren't going to be available and/or useful. Shannon uses her's a lot, and mother's is super tiny. Very, very small. Trying to type on it for more than about an hour or two every week is like begging for carpel tunnel syndrome and chronic claw-hands. And I won't get into details because this is a G-rated blog and I intend to keep it that way, but the house computer is my arch-nemesis and therefor not an option either.

What this means for you, dear reader, is that the whole writing blog thing will be a bit of time. I need to figure out how/where to get my screen replaced, and to do that I'm going to have to find someone to discuss my problem with who's more interested in telling me how much that will cost, not trying to sell me on the latest super special awesome deal on Dell laptops including their two year, $150 service plan complete with a new cord every year. Yeah, Staples guy; I wasn't even there and I saw right through you, so don't think you sold my mother on the idea either.

So I thought I'd let you know. In case you were wondering. I can hear my one fan weeping in the distance--it's gratifying.

If anyone knows how to replace a laptop screen, or knows about anything related to that, like where to get one cheap, you'll probably be my new favorite person. I'll find a cute/funny picture on the internet and post it on this blog for you.

Who can resist such incentive?

My Heart is a Bird that was Just Approached by Another Bird that Didn't Know Her but Still was Super Nice and Said "Hey, Nice Shirt!"

In other words, my heart is super duper gratified. Gratified seems inadequate, but I can't think of a better word. I'm super duper excited right now, because I just got my first:

STRANGER COMMENT

Huzzah! Ashley Cail gave me a lovely comment on my last post with lots of good ideas on how to brainstorm writing ideas. Honestly, I'd probably still be really thrilled if she had left a comment to the effect of "You smell. Stop contaminating the Internet with your gross boring posts, you Smelly McSmellpants", but I digress. My heart is full of fuzzies for her right now. Ashley, you officially beat out Jeremy Wade as my favorite person that I don't know right now. Admittedly, that list is usually totally dependent upon what I happen to be reading or watching on television. But you could be on top for at least...three days! I wish I had something nice to give you...Do you like ladybugs? Do you like dinosaurs? This picture moderately relates to those questions:

See, it's a patchwork dinosaur trying to eat the ladybug...he's probably just curious and will spit it out right away when he realizes it tastes yucky, and then the ladybug will fly away (it won't even have to wait for its wings to dry, because see the dinosaur is just full of cotton and the love of children, so it doesn't have spit). How's that?

Anywhoosie, I'm pretty positive that I'll be starting that writing blog. Thanks to you all who commented with advice/encouragement--I'm so grateful I have friends like you. Now, the remaining two questions in my mind are: should I make it private or no? And how am I going to make it pretty?

Pretty blogs are very important to me. I really like pretty blogs. I'd like my writing blog to be pretty; this way, when I write a really crappy post, I can dazzle people's attention with the snazzy design of my blog and then they won't notice that the post they're reading is made of ugliness. "What pizazz! I'm bookmarking this blog, definitely."

Oh, one more question: judging from your comments, most of you seem to be under the impression that one dimension of this writing blog is to put myself out there, so to speak. That isn't my intention--I'm really only interested in the exercise--but I'm wondering if you really think that's what will happen?

Since I Never Claimed to be a Nonconformist....

So, I've been thinking.I've been a very bad writer for the past yea months, in that I've hardly written anything at all. The problem is, I haven't really written consistently for about a year now, maybe more. Which means I'm rusty, which means everything I write is so inadequate and dull even I notice. Which means that I stop writing whenever I start (who doesn't know the frustration of trying to continue with something you're doing horribly at?). Which means I get more unpracticed. Which means I get more dreadful, which means I get more frustrated, which means I get more unpracticed, and so on.

Well, it's summer (for me, anyhow) now, so I want to break free from this rut. And I know how to do it--I have to knuckle down and start writing crap and just keep at it until it looks less ugly--but it's the actual carrying out of the solution that always stops me. Therefor, I'm toying with the idea of committing to write something--a sentence, a paragraph, a scene--just something creative every day (as much as is possible, because there's always vacations and Youthcamp and days where I'm just weak). Following that vein of thought, I'm toying with the idea of following in the footsteps of basically every creative friend I have and starting a writing blog.If I did start one, I'd be open--nay, rabid--for suggestions and prompts on what to write on, because I really can't just pull ideas out of my couch cushions. I'm also thinking I'd at least loosely use that "100 Themes" list that seems to be so super popular around the cybersphere these days as a potential framework for the project.

The process of thinking through this idea is extremely back-and-forth in my mind.On the one hand, having a blog that other people (potentially) would read might keep me more accountable than I would by my onesy; on the other hand, it may just mean that I have more people to throw pitchforks and full wine bottles at me during those long gaps of weakness and lack-of-posting than just my own brain. On the one hand, it would help me if I had people reading and critiquing my work as I went along so I could continue to improve; on the other hand, my creative psyche quails at the thought of subjecting you poor readers to some of the melodramatic, inane space-waste I have been known to and most likely will produce. On the one hand, the vain side of me has grand dreams of complete strangers reading my blog and thinking I'm the next...Marcus Zusak, and lavishing me with praise and book deals; on the other hand, the more practical side of me knows that will never happen and it's more likely that if it's read by strangers at all they'll glance over it, never read it again, and forget they ever heard of me; and then there's also my paranoid side that wants to make it sacrosanct so no one evil will steal my brilliant ideas; so the vain side and the paranoid side are at war and neither of them are speaking to the practical side because she's against both of them and is just mean to suggest that someone would think my literary prowess is less than the level of a god-Shakespeare.

You may be telling yourself I'm over-thinking this. If you are, are you surprised? You shouldn't be.

Thoughts? And I mean complete, helpful thoughts on the whole subject entirely, not just "Gawsh I love reading your stuff!" Don't just tell me to do it because you want me to write more (Ben). This isn't exclusively about me writing more.

[You'll notice I've broke the lovely repetitive format of my post titles. It's my blog, I can do whatever I want.]

Back to Real Life--This is Probably Anticlimactic

After spending--oh my word, four months? I spent four months of my life that involved in the Twilight Saga?! I'm not certain of how I should feel about this. Should I be proud of my dedication to the cause of thorough, educated analysis? Should I be apathetic since it really doesn't matter all that much? Should I be horrified that I dedicated that much time and energy and witticism into something that in the long run probably matters less than Paris Hilton's autobiography?

I think yes.

But I'm digressing from the point...what I meant to start out with was:

After spending four months (guh) blogging (oh my, I'm blogging. I'm a blogger. I feel like I should know more about this world with a title) about the Twilight Saga, I feel like going back to my normal blogging--aka, "Have you ever pondered Mondays"--is even less adequate than it was before. And it helps very little that I just read over some older posts and am now wondering why on earth anyone bothers to read this. I'm so puzzled--this stuff is boring. I think there's something wrong with you people. Of course, I'm going to keep writing anyway, because I'm far too fond of Archives to just abandon him now, but I really do look at you all askance for reading. Truly.

I think I should carry a tape-recorder around with me everywhere I go, and this is why: in the past week, I've been legitimately (marginally) preoccupied with what I would post now that I'm done with Twilight forever. Every once and a while something would happen, something epic, or funny, or that just made me happy, and I tucked in away in my brain as "Blogging ideas." But the problem I face now is, since they already happened (and just ages ago, too) I really don't feel like mustering the narrative prowess it takes to retell things so they sound as awesome and cool as they were the first time. However, if I had a tape-recorder, then I could just narrate them in the moment, with dialogue peppered with witticism and emotional language inspired by my feelings for the moment at that time. In the moment. Because usually about a day after I meet the moment I get bored of the moment, and to each other we become one of those weird acquaintances that one smiles and waves at as they pass but at the same time tries to look extremely busy and destination-bound so that one doesn't have to stop and actually make conversation.

(I have a few people in my life under that category. I'm rightfully ashamed of my lack of gumption and social dexterity.)

What was the point of that paragraph? I think it was to say that if I had a tape recorder I could narrate said event while I was still excited about it and then in effect dictate it to myself later. I think that was it.

So biggest news in Meagan's life to date is that her poor fish are starving! I just realized neglecting this blog means neglecting to give love and tender care to the pixelated koi pond and it's adorable denizens! I'm a horrible parent...Remington, Steiny, Alphonse, Earl, Fitz--forgive me.

Oh yes, I'm also on summer break. Which is extremely nice for me, but probably not the most awesome for you, since that means right now I'm determinedly doing literally nothing. Well, I am going through Les Miserables; I think that's pretty epic of me if I do say so myself. But other than that, you probably don't want to hear about it.

I smell like an Icee right now. And now I want an Icee.

Things I am looking forward to:

• Prince of Persia and Eclipse because they both look hilarious.
• The return of Psych--Season 4!.
• Seeing the Leaches again (soon, soon, please be soon!).
• Getting together with Hannah (aha! You didn't think I was thinking about it, did you? Well I was).
• Getting to meet my niece, Julia Mae Smith, in July! [it's special. It gets special formatting]

Mbye!

An Anecdote--Interruption of the Flow

So, I know I'm supposed to be writing the final review of the Twilight Saga, but it's taking a while so I thought I'd favor you with a humorous anecdote from life. Mine, specifically.

My creative processes need a little more discipline added to them. This fact was cemented in my mind after hour three of trying to write a short story due today last night. You, dear reader, may have some words about my grasp on the obvious, but I have to say: don't try to write a story the day before you have to hand it in. It's just a miserable experience.

Anyway I know that now.

Around ten all creative juices dried into acid. Around eleven the temptation to type "the last thing he saw was the barrel of a gun pointed at his head" was stronger than it ever has been in my life. Around twelve thirty I was done and disgusted (it's really quite extraordinary the amount of self-loathing one can muster during a creative endeavor. Just ask my sister).

Around one, I was dozing over the keyboard while trying to get the family printer to spit out twenty five copies. Cue noticing a huge typing error. Meagan cancels print job, fixes error, resumes printing. Cue black ink trickling to nil. Meagan cancels the print job, changes all text to blue instead of black, resumes printing. Cue printer printing at the speed of one page per five minutes.

You should be admiring my perseverance at this point--even though it had morphed into more of a one-track, zombie-like "Must get done....must get done..." compulsion. But eventually, the practical part of my mind concluded, "This is dumb." Meagan cancels print job for the final time, making satisfactory plans to print the rest out at school.

So of course, I need to bring a stapler to staple them all together before I hand them out, and logically I should check to make sure I have enough staplers because it would just be in keeping with the whole process if I got to school in the morning and discovered I was stuck with a stapleless stapler. Naturally this leads to prying open the forty-year-old stapler, and after finding satisfaction in the number of staples therein, wrestling the decrepit tool closed.

Protestingly it finally snapped shut, and the action was accompanied by a stranger sensation in my finger. Curiously, I glance down at the digit, only to be met with the sight of a staple in my finger.

Before you stop reading, dear reader, I will add that it didn't hook. A fortuitous circumstance. But I still found myself with an old metal staple dug a good half-inch into my finger at one-thirty in the morning. Through my fuzzy brain (that I'm pretty sure was trying to thrust me into an out-of-body experience), I stared at the skewered appendage blankly. Reason compelled me to remove it, which I did, and then immediately worked my frayed mind to think who I could talk to about the experience at this time of night.

How very telling.

After this, I put a band-aid on it, scraped up enough incredulity to spout some profanities (shameful of me; I'm glad everyone was asleep), and went to bed.

And this morning I typed up a completely different short story, that I despise slightly less, and am now minutes away from turning it in.

I'm not sure what's wrong with me, but something definitely is.

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.)