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Friday, July 4th, 2008
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1:13 pm
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Zed is coming to stay for twelve days.
This is either going to be epic, or awful. I'm not sure which.
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| Tuesday, April 29th, 2008
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12:13 pm
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In a fit of desperation (or possibly stupidity), I posted an ad on Craigslist, under the "strictly platonic" section.
Text thereof:
I'm a 20-year-old college student looking for someone to hang out with on the weekends--you know, someone to go to films/grab coffee/game with--just a platonic friend. Intelligent or at least semi-literate people preferred; hipsters need not apply. Gender/age don't matter. Interested (or at least interesting)? Hit me up.
. . . yeah, I'm hoping I don't get any responses.
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| Tuesday, March 4th, 2008
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7:54 pm
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| Sunday, February 17th, 2008
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11:11 pm
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I think I started a monster. :O
In non-internet news, Devin came over today. I taught him how to make vichyssoise. He was very disappointed that it contained onions.
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| Friday, February 8th, 2008
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4:19 pm - Oh, life.
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The spill I took on Wednesday, the one that's left me limping after I banged up my right leg, pretty much perfectly summarises my life right now.
I'm limping. But I'm OK!
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| Tuesday, January 8th, 2008
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10:13 pm
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Oh, today.
-Woke up at 4AM with the laptop still on. Apparently I fell asleep at the computer . . . had messages waiting from a couple of people, too. Oops. Couldn't fall back asleep after I woke up, and so was extremely tired all morning.
-Ran (literally, ran) across campus so as not to be late for my Chem discussion . . . only to find out it was canceled.
-Was late for work, and got chewed out by my boss (who was apparently joking? . . . dunno), who about lost it himself when I started bawling (I was stressed, and this manager and I have never gotten along; I thought he was serious).
-The veiled chameleon we have in at work right now escaped while I was feeding him—nearly gave me a heart attack when I looked in and noticed that he wasn't in the Critter Keeper we're supposed to keep him in—apparently the little devil is smart, and has figured out how to escape from said Critter Keeper by bashing on the roof.
-I have a Creative Writing assignment due tomorrow that I really didn't like, and don't like what I ended up writing. Brill.
On the bright side, though . . .
-I made plans with one of my coworkers to go to Chipotle tomorrow, which'll be nice.
-Same coworker gave me my Christmas present—Tool's "10,000 Days" and Placebo's latest album.
-The CD I thought was unplayable ripped to my laptop just fine, and is now on my iPod.
-I found the chameleon not more than five minutes after losing him, and while he tried to bite me, he didn't succeed. Mwaha.
-After Day Two of class, I'm still feeling better about this semester than I was about last semester. I really like my math prof.
-I have chem tomorrow.
-I don't have work again till latelatelate Thursday.
-I ran into Valerie on the train today.
-I'm reading Tom Jones, and actually liking it.
-While the Creative Writing assignment might be horrible, it's done, so all I have left to do before I go to class tomorrow is read the Anne Sexton poem assigned. Success!
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| Sunday, January 6th, 2008
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8:42 pm
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I'm surprised at how many of my interests are unique here . . . I haven't quite gotten used to the idea that this isn't as large a userbase as LJ is, I guess.
I don't know that I'll be updating this much. This is mainly so I can comment with a name attached—being anonymous does horrible things to your credibility, after all—no one wants to believe you if you don't have a name.
Everything you need to know about me is in the bio.
Really.
Except, maybe, that I don't have a favourite colour, that my bedsheets match the background on this journal, that I have three cats, three fishtanks, and a dog, or that I work at a pet store and do calligraphy on the weekends. That I play NetHack? I dunno.
I'll leave this up as a question post; if you have something to ask, this is the place to do it.
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| Tuesday, January 1st, 2008
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12:00 am - Still searching for something beautiful and true.
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She's dreaming, and she knows it's a dream, because he's alive again, and they're walking along the beach in midwinter, when he never came down here with her, and certainly not in the middle of December. In the dream (for surely, this must be a dream, it cannot be real, she must remind herself of this constantly, or lose her admittedly tenuous grip on reality), it is the middle of the night, and the stars hang in the sky, mute jewels, or perhaps eyes, watching them, waiting quietly to see what will happen, and it is silent, until he speaks.
“The last thing I said to you before I died—I didn't mean it, you know.” His voice is flat, betraying no emotion, yet she can tell by the look on his face that he is sincere. Perhaps this is how the dead are. “I didn't want to upset you.”
A lie. She watches the waves, brooding, before she speaks. “You told me then, right before you said it, that it was only a ploy to upset me. You wanted to see me hurt, so you could leave with the satisfaction of knowing you'd gotten the upper hand once again. That was what you said, wasn't it?” Her words tumble from frozen lips; it's so cold here, and the waves are creeping closer and closer to her feet—up to his ankles, threatening to drag him under. She takes a step back, reminds herself that the dead can't drown.
“I didn't mean it,” he protests, in the same queer, flat tone. He sounds nothing like the voice she hears in her memory, when she cares to remember him at all.
“I didn't mean it,” he repeats, now earnest, though how she knows this, she can't say. Certainly not by his face.
“You did mean it, and you didn't love me, or you wouldn't have left, and neither of us would be here right now.” Now it is her voice that is flat, emotionless. She wonders idly if she is dead, remembers that the dead could not feel this cold, and is reassured. “You were honest with me before you died; that was all I could have asked.”
He opens his mouth as if to speak; pauses, and gives her what she thinks is a wounded look. “I'm sorry.” The water is up to his waist now.
“For something you couldn't control.” A statement of fact, nothing more.
“For something I couldn't control,” he agrees, and sighs. “You were beautiful. It should have been easy to love you.”
“If you had loved me only for my beauty, I think I would not have cried quite so hard nor so long at your funeral,” she retorts, noting with with discomfort that the water is around his neck now.
“You have a point,” he concedes, or that's what she thinks he says; the water has risen to his chin, and it's hard to tell. “I love you now.”
“It's too late now,” she says bitterly. “I refuse to love a dead man.”
“It is too late,” he echoes. “I cannot love a living woman.”
There is a pause.
“I'm sorry,” she says delicately, as the waters close over his head. She waits for his reply—the dead cannot drown, surely he will say something, come rising out of the water triumphantly—but there is no sound but the waves, lapping at the rocks, and nothing to see but the stars, bright chips of ice hung in the winter sky, reflecting the numbing cold, reminding her—as if she could forget—that whatever season it may be there, where she lies sleeping, it is winter here.
She wakes just before dawn, numb with cold, feeling as though she has lost something, though she does not remember what.
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