And we're out of coffee.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Stitch 'N Bitch: The Friday Night Knitting Club.
You know what's interesting? Things can be great, and then, right on schedule, I feel the need to seduce atrophy. I sigh, of course.
It's mirthful to think that after a while, people begin to wear on you. Judgment fatigued, expectations altered; even the most elementary of humanistic variables juxtaposed. For example, when you're hanging out with a group of individuals that knit all the time, you're slowly going to start inquiring about it, or better yet, find yourself wandering through Michael's looking for maroon-colored yarn. An unforeseen and equally unavoidable influence takes its toll, consuming, whether you approve or not. No matter how much I profess my independence and Hamlet-like true-to-self nature, in less than a month of close contact, I too, began to knit.
Unless someone points it out to you, you're never going to notice how skilled you've become at purling.
No, I don't know how to knit. And yes, making a point via metaphors has never been a proper mode of self-disclosure. However, I'm both ashamed and encouraged, roughed-up and ready; The dish washer droning on in the background even gives me hopes of a return (and clean dishes).
There are a few things I need to elicit from my once-upon-a-time disposition. I looked back over some of my older post
s in a bit of a reflective state, playing doctor in search of a diagnosis.
I was patient, I was simple. I was sick, yet found a reason to trek to the educational kingdom. The reason goes on to be found with a talent to charm, not to mention firearm compatible, furthering to promote the theory of comfortableness. November. December. January.
Apparently, now I'm needy, I complain a lot, and in turn, I ask for too much. All I know is one month can kill you, as I am officially retracting my subscription to Knit 'N Style. Sorry ladies, but this plain-Jane has had an epiphany: reasons are far more important than scarfs or afghans.
CourtReplies
It's mirthful to think that after a while, people begin to wear on you. Judgment fatigued, expectations altered; even the most elementary of humanistic variables juxtaposed. For example, when you're hanging out with a group of individuals that knit all the time, you're slowly going to start inquiring about it, or better yet, find yourself wandering through Michael's looking for maroon-colored yarn. An unforeseen and equally unavoidable influence takes its toll, consuming, whether you approve or not. No matter how much I profess my independence and Hamlet-like true-to-self nature, in less than a month of close contact, I too, began to knit.
Unless someone points it out to you, you're never going to notice how skilled you've become at purling.
No, I don't know how to knit. And yes, making a point via metaphors has never been a proper mode of self-disclosure. However, I'm both ashamed and encouraged, roughed-up and ready; The dish washer droning on in the background even gives me hopes of a return (and clean dishes).
There are a few things I need to elicit from my once-upon-a-time disposition. I looked back over some of my older post
s in a bit of a reflective state, playing doctor in search of a diagnosis.I was patient, I was simple. I was sick, yet found a reason to trek to the educational kingdom. The reason goes on to be found with a talent to charm, not to mention firearm compatible, furthering to promote the theory of comfortableness. November. December. January.
Apparently, now I'm needy, I complain a lot, and in turn, I ask for too much. All I know is one month can kill you, as I am officially retracting my subscription to Knit 'N Style. Sorry ladies, but this plain-Jane has had an epiphany: reasons are far more important than scarfs or afghans.
CourtReplies
Monday, January 25, 2010
3 Cheers for Ambiguous Indirection.
I'm disgruntled, and I'm not quite sure how to articulate it.
Maybe disgruntled isn't the right word - frustrated, perhaps? Nubs keeps kneading at my thighs, just to further my enjoyment of the darkening day. Her tail is so weird. I felt it today. Like, really felt it. And you know what it feels like? A crooked nub. Her face makes up for it, though, and I love her - abnormality and all. Because that's what love is, right? That's what caring about another is about, I suppose. Or you would think I'd suppose.
I think I think too much. I think more than I should have thought, and thought more than I should have thunk. I end up driving myself crazy over nothing in hopes that it's something, or just the opposite. Maybe it's the estrogen, or maybe it's simply my haggard eyes staring at the screen, searching for any means of a focus to inscribe at the moment. Creativity is lagging, yet somehow, the sharp claws of the feline are pushing me onward.
What to write.
I know right from wrong.
I also know up from down. Furthermore, I am now knowledgeable of the fact that samples are slim at Costco on Monday afternoons. My severely disciplined-in-the-art-of-ethics self is hard to please; my conscience consistently gives me slack. Like an overbearing parental figure making me rethink the decision of another bite of cake, I can't seem to escape. I'm running, and running as quickly as I can to, well, live. The enigmatic shackles that drag behind me continue to hold; I want to be happy.
That's it. I just want to be happy. The sounding of a text message on my phone just went off down the hall, and I would like to go get it. I would like a lot of things. But I only need a few. Please be the one I need.
CourtReplies
Maybe disgruntled isn't the right word - frustrated, perhaps? Nubs keeps kneading at my thighs, just to further my enjoyment of the darkening day. Her tail is so weird. I felt it today. Like, really felt it. And you know what it feels like? A crooked nub. Her face makes up for it, though, and I love her - abnormality and all. Because that's what love is, right? That's what caring about another is about, I suppose. Or you would think I'd suppose.
I think I think too much. I think more than I should have thought, and thought more than I should have thunk. I end up driving myself crazy over nothing in hopes that it's something, or just the opposite. Maybe it's the estrogen, or maybe it's simply my haggard eyes staring at the screen, searching for any means of a focus to inscribe at the moment. Creativity is lagging, yet somehow, the sharp claws of the feline are pushing me onward.
What to write.
I know right from wrong.
I also know up from down. Furthermore, I am now knowledgeable of the fact that samples are slim at Costco on Monday afternoons. My severely disciplined-in-the-art-of-ethics self is hard to please; my conscience consistently gives me slack. Like an overbearing parental figure making me rethink the decision of another bite of cake, I can't seem to escape. I'm running, and running as quickly as I can to, well, live. The enigmatic shackles that drag behind me continue to hold; I want to be happy.
That's it. I just want to be happy. The sounding of a text message on my phone just went off down the hall, and I would like to go get it. I would like a lot of things. But I only need a few. Please be the one I need.
CourtReplies
Monday, January 18, 2010
Soggy Monday.
There's one thing that a massive mother nature air strike can undeniably consummate: soaked jeans.
I've never been a fan of wet clothes, and the more I think about it, the more I cringe at the mere idea. All that added amount of friction between your legs hardly makes walking throughout Target enjoyable, which we all know, would normally bring pure contentment. The cats have approached
my soggy trousers with a sense of unease a couple times now, only to be just as put off as I am about the dampness. I'm contemplating wrapping myself in Reynolds wrap, but realized my self-esteem isn't prodigious enough.
The wet weather is supposed to stay for the next week, and although my Seven's have seen dryer days, I welcome it with open arms. Just not a tornado - hospitality embracement will not be available. FYI, I have a huge fear of flying up inside a cyclone, with farm animals joining in on the ride. Some movies, like Twister, should not be shown to 7 year olds. Sorry Helen Hunt, but my children will not have to mentally cope with Meg being stuck in the basement. However, I digress.
Just be sure to dust off the rain coats and umbrellas, California, and leave the jeans safe at home.
CourtReplies
I've never been a fan of wet clothes, and the more I think about it, the more I cringe at the mere idea. All that added amount of friction between your legs hardly makes walking throughout Target enjoyable, which we all know, would normally bring pure contentment. The cats have approached
my soggy trousers with a sense of unease a couple times now, only to be just as put off as I am about the dampness. I'm contemplating wrapping myself in Reynolds wrap, but realized my self-esteem isn't prodigious enough.The wet weather is supposed to stay for the next week, and although my Seven's have seen dryer days, I welcome it with open arms. Just not a tornado - hospitality embracement will not be available. FYI, I have a huge fear of flying up inside a cyclone, with farm animals joining in on the ride. Some movies, like Twister, should not be shown to 7 year olds. Sorry Helen Hunt, but my children will not have to mentally cope with Meg being stuck in the basement. However, I digress.
Just be sure to dust off the rain coats and umbrellas, California, and leave the jeans safe at home.
CourtReplies
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Happily Ever After A Week.
I just finished an intensive one-week three-unit winter-session class. If the plethora of dashes weren't enough, try to imagine running a marathon in an hour. Maybe 1.5 with a foot cramp, but that'd be stretching it. Meet Communication 352, or for the CSULB handbookless*, Storytelling.
What? That's an actual class? Go figure, but apparently in order to be an effective and dynamically cogent major, one must practice their art of reciting fairy tales and producing proper audience utterances of "oohs" and "aahs." Because that's what Comm 352 is, right? Or as a fellow individual noted of intersession courses, PS2 would occupy most educational time.
News flash: Storytelling is the ideology that fueled the creation of acronym FML.
I'm pretty sure I've never worked this hard in a class. Ever. I'm also pretty sure my mind was complete mush by day 3. Coffee, if it had any effect before, was consumed like water. The baristas/baristos at Starbucks were incredibly sympathetic with their offering of free refills every day - maybe because the $.05 change I dropped each time into the tip jar really started adding up. Who knows. However expressive I can be, just know, this class violated all prior expectations.
Day 1: It's never a good feeling walking into a room, sitting down, and the first utterances from the professor is, "This week is going to be hell, say goodbye to your life for the next 5 days. Seriously." After that remark, the class tally dropped from 28 - 20 students.
Day 2: My snacks for the day run out by 11AM. It can only get worse. Oh, that's right, my boyfriend leaves for Mexico.
Day 3: The professor tries to encourage us with some doughnuts, but his nonverbal rhetoric is still screaming, "Your grave plot will be issued soon."
Day 4: A total of 42 hours on campus is recorded to date, not to mention 3 papers, 157 pages of reading, and 2 speeches completed. We're still expected to have a 5 minute story memorized and ready to perform by tomorrow, as well as our corresponding Korean immigration presentation. Our group stayed later to practice, only for our superior to note, "It's my personal opinion you guys stay a bit longer, you need a lot of work obviously." Obviously you would be good at running a concentration camp.
Day 5: We're the last group to present. Right when we are about to begin, campus-wide black out. The professor says he has two options for us: 1, do the exhibition by the illumination of fellow students flash lights. I waited for option 2, but it never came.
Needless to say, there were (believe it or not) a couple positive things that arose from this experience. Besides being 3 units closer to graduation in May, I finally finished off the huge Costco-sized box of FiberOne bars. Thumbs up. Also, I feel that I've reached my quota for the coming semester of work exertion. I now have a week of mindlessness ahead of me before my last bit of collegiate studies begin. There's no time like the present to practice staying in bed all day, at least for the next few turns of the sun.
CourtReplies
* Not a real word, as pointed out by the squiggly** red line.
** Apparently squiggly is a real word?
What? That's an actual class? Go figure, but apparently in order to be an effective and dynamically cogent major, one must practice their art of reciting fairy tales and producing proper audience utterances of "oohs" and "aahs." Because that's what Comm 352 is, right? Or as a fellow individual noted of intersession courses, PS2 would occupy most educational time.
News flash: Storytelling is the ideology that fueled the creation of acronym FML.
I'm pretty sure I've never worked this hard in a class. Ever. I'm also pretty sure my mind was complete mush by day 3. Coffee, if it had any effect before, was consumed like water. The baristas/baristos at Starbucks were incredibly sympathetic with their offering of free refills every day - maybe because the $.05 change I dropped each time into the tip jar really started adding up. Who knows. However expressive I can be, just know, this class violated all prior expectations.
Day 1: It's never a good feeling walking into a room, sitting down, and the first utterances from the professor is, "This week is going to be hell, say goodbye to your life for the next 5 days. Seriously." After that remark, the class tally dropped from 28 - 20 students.
Day 2: My snacks for the day run out by 11AM. It can only get worse. Oh, that's right, my boyfriend leaves for Mexico.
Day 3: The professor tries to encourage us with some doughnuts, but his nonverbal rhetoric is still screaming, "Your grave plot will be issued soon."
Day 4: A total of 42 hours on campus is recorded to date, not to mention 3 papers, 157 pages of reading, and 2 speeches completed. We're still expected to have a 5 minute story memorized and ready to perform by tomorrow, as well as our corresponding Korean immigration presentation. Our group stayed later to practice, only for our superior to note, "It's my personal opinion you guys stay a bit longer, you need a lot of work obviously." Obviously you would be good at running a concentration camp.
Day 5: We're the last group to present. Right when we are about to begin, campus-wide black out. The professor says he has two options for us: 1, do the exhibition by the illumination of fellow students flash lights. I waited for option 2, but it never came.
Needless to say, there were (believe it or not) a couple positive things that arose from this experience. Besides being 3 units closer to graduation in May, I finally finished off the huge Costco-sized box of FiberOne bars. Thumbs up. Also, I feel that I've reached my quota for the coming semester of work exertion. I now have a week of mindlessness ahead of me before my last bit of collegiate studies begin. There's no time like the present to practice staying in bed all day, at least for the next few turns of the sun.
CourtReplies
* Not a real word, as pointed out by the squiggly** red line.
** Apparently squiggly is a real word?
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