(no subject)
The Dante's Inferno Test has banished you to the Seventh Level of Hell!
Here is how you matched up against all the levels:
LevelScorePurgatory (Repenting Believers)Very LowLevel 1 - Limbo (Virtuous Non-Believers)HighLevel 2 (Lustful)ModerateLevel 3 (Gluttonous)ModerateLevel 4 (Prodigal and Avaricious)Very LowLevel 5 (Wrathful and Gloomy)ModerateLevel 6 - The City of Dis (Heretics)HighLevel 7 (Violent)Very HighLevel 8- the Malebolge (Fraudulent, Malicious, Panderers)ModerateLevel 9 - Cocytus (Treacherous)Moderate
Take the Dante's Inferno Test
I doubt anyone's surprised by which level I got. Where do the blasphemous, violent, queer, self-loathing types always end up? Level 7. I really had kind of suspected I'd have achieved level 9 damnation at this point. Even in this, I'm kind of a failure.
New in Lala Land, as I've begun to call my life when I refer to it in my internal monologue, is the fact that I made Dean's List for the fourth consecutive semester. My parents won't shut up about it, but that's largely because my rich, obnoxious cousin, who came with his brainless bourgeois parents today to flatter their way into Opa's will, is still failing out of a school that wasn't even his safety school. Ah intellectual elitism! The only elitism I qualify to have.
I had a lovely day today - at least, as lovely a day as can be had bra shopping when you've evidently been doing it wrong all along. Thanks to Zip for helping me not be an idiot. Now I have a bra with chrysanthemums on it. They're my favorites, so I'm pretty pleased. I also wound up with baseball tickets for tomorrow. For someone who doesn't really care about sports, I'll be going to a hell of a lot of games this summer. Meh. At least it'll give me some time to catch up on my reading. Speaking of which, I bought some books at the Waldenbooks' ultimate discount of doom sale thingy: The Fourth Bear (Jasper Fforde), America: the Book (Jon Stewart), and Zorro (Isabel Allende).
The fact that the latter book is in Spanish (I really just want to read it, but it won't hurt to hone m4h 5k1llz) leads nicely to today's pet peeve-inspired rant: Spanish-speakers who think there are no white Spanish-speakers. In all seriousness, if I have to hear one more domestic argument that nobody thinks I understand, I may scream. At first it was kind of cute to eavesdrop with no one suspecting I could possibly be doing so because there's no way a little white girl could comprehend rapid-fire angry Spanish, but it's getting very, very old very, very quickly. When I'm in a public space where people are speaking Spanish in order to have a private conversation in the open, I feel a little like the Trojan horse: an invasive entity hidden in plain sight. I really wish people would start assuming that someone somewhere in the crowd does speak Spanish and save the arguments and bizarre personal revelations for home. I really, really don't need every trip to the store to become yet another awkward listening exercise from hell.
Here is how you matched up against all the levels:
LevelScorePurgatory (Repenting Believers)Very LowLevel 1 - Limbo (Virtuous Non-Believers)HighLevel 2 (Lustful)ModerateLevel 3 (Gluttonous)ModerateLevel 4 (Prodigal and Avaricious)Very LowLevel 5 (Wrathful and Gloomy)ModerateLevel 6 - The City of Dis (Heretics)HighLevel 7 (Violent)Very HighLevel 8- the Malebolge (Fraudulent, Malicious, Panderers)ModerateLevel 9 - Cocytus (Treacherous)Moderate
Take the Dante's Inferno Test
I doubt anyone's surprised by which level I got. Where do the blasphemous, violent, queer, self-loathing types always end up? Level 7. I really had kind of suspected I'd have achieved level 9 damnation at this point. Even in this, I'm kind of a failure.
New in Lala Land, as I've begun to call my life when I refer to it in my internal monologue, is the fact that I made Dean's List for the fourth consecutive semester. My parents won't shut up about it, but that's largely because my rich, obnoxious cousin, who came with his brainless bourgeois parents today to flatter their way into Opa's will, is still failing out of a school that wasn't even his safety school. Ah intellectual elitism! The only elitism I qualify to have.
I had a lovely day today - at least, as lovely a day as can be had bra shopping when you've evidently been doing it wrong all along. Thanks to Zip for helping me not be an idiot. Now I have a bra with chrysanthemums on it. They're my favorites, so I'm pretty pleased. I also wound up with baseball tickets for tomorrow. For someone who doesn't really care about sports, I'll be going to a hell of a lot of games this summer. Meh. At least it'll give me some time to catch up on my reading. Speaking of which, I bought some books at the Waldenbooks' ultimate discount of doom sale thingy: The Fourth Bear (Jasper Fforde), America: the Book (Jon Stewart), and Zorro (Isabel Allende).
The fact that the latter book is in Spanish (I really just want to read it, but it won't hurt to hone m4h 5k1llz) leads nicely to today's pet peeve-inspired rant: Spanish-speakers who think there are no white Spanish-speakers. In all seriousness, if I have to hear one more domestic argument that nobody thinks I understand, I may scream. At first it was kind of cute to eavesdrop with no one suspecting I could possibly be doing so because there's no way a little white girl could comprehend rapid-fire angry Spanish, but it's getting very, very old very, very quickly. When I'm in a public space where people are speaking Spanish in order to have a private conversation in the open, I feel a little like the Trojan horse: an invasive entity hidden in plain sight. I really wish people would start assuming that someone somewhere in the crowd does speak Spanish and save the arguments and bizarre personal revelations for home. I really, really don't need every trip to the store to become yet another awkward listening exercise from hell.