I think it is likely that very few things deserve the importance we attribute to them. I would be more impressed by fiction and life if they were rather more gay. I would also probably be less often disappointed. I suppose there is always subtext. And slash, for reminding fandoms of the pairings that really, they should have had.

Sometimes, I wish for a story in which everyone lives and gets paired off slightly inexplicably at the end. But maybe, the reason I can only find really amazing stories which are, ultimately, rather disheartening, is because cheesily happy stories are by their nature unable to ring true. Perhaps I'm just cynical, hearkening back to childhood, ( Read more... )

Students and their metaphorical anchors like bothering the squirrels in my backyard. It, like the process of abrasion, is not appreciated, except on the off day when I crack eggs for marmalade. Other times, it is fantastic.

Hair gel is Hegel in the way that fate is futile -- by nature of my spectacular handwriting. Someday I will learn that notes to myself are only helpful if I can read them. I solved my rubik's cube and am inordinately pleased with myself.

Getting from one place to another, which takes time by nature of having to pass through the region between them, is greatly more annoying when people lobbying for the student elections are everywhere, waiting to chase you down. Life is vastly improved by slash and free gelato.
I am less like a star, and more like a rock.

I was pleased with my boldness when I rebelliously ended a sentence with a preposition,
pondering ways I could justify mentioning coruscation.
I wanted to ask Stanley Kubrick how to make a monolith.
"Leave me alone," he told me, "I'm dead."

I spent the afternoon in the library and everyone grinned at me. I have embarrassingly little to do, but it's likely that I could actually get away with trick or treating this year, because I look about 13. I want to compare people to stars: "you're like a type m, totally cool...but rather small and dim." I stutter when professors ask me questions.

My cellphone has lapsed maliciously into a telephonic coma. I think it is upset because the car got a name, and it didn't even get a gender. Also named are my computer, umbrella, mandolin, and left breast. If you knit argyle socks for a boy, he won't marry you.
The sun is decidedly not purple.

I have seen him on his bicycle. Orange tabbycats blend quite singularly with my carpet. I can't distinguish between my lips and tongue either, at the moment, but disorientation is what general anesthesia is all about. Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn.

I went to have my wisdom teeth removed;
I had to sign a form to affirm 
that I would not sue if the procedure destroyed the nerves in my jaw.
And I thought,
"I should get some kisses,
in case I never feel my mouth again."