"Mom, dad... I'm Gaelic."

I am here to tote my newest obsession: Irish Lesbians.

Yes, Irish lesbians, my friend. How cool is that? Yeah, so it's a bit random. I had a dream about it, actually... I can't remember the details (hush, you), but I woke up, groggy as all hell, got my coffee, and then thought, did I just have a dream about Irish lesbians? Yes, I think I did. Now I kind of want to write a manga about it. As you may know (or not, depending on what your cup of tea is), there is far too little yuri/femmeslash/shoujo-ai on the internet, and next to no Irish lesbians. Such a tragedy, I know! I shall make it my mission to correct this atrocious state of affairs.

But first, research: which means, my friends, I need to go to Ireland. I've always wanted to go, but now I have a, if somewhat convoluted and odd, excuse to visit! ...But what to say to my grandad to get the money for it? "Uh, yeah, I'd like to go to Ireland so I can do research.. yeah, research for my Irish Lesbian Manga." I think he'd kind of twitch for a second as he processed that information, and say with a vacant smile, "Why sure, dear," thinking that he must have misheard me. I'm almost tempted to try it.

I've told my mother already that it's a moral imperative that I get to Ireland sometime soon, but I don't think she knows why. Her reaction would, probably, be slightly different from my grandad's. Like, half-a-coronary-different.

Anyways, back to my basking in my new obsession. I really really want to get a tee-shirt for this... there are a few good ones at cafepress.com. I think my favorite one is the "I just can't quit you" slogan featuring a pint of whiskey. Nice.

I blame John Ko for this obsession, ultimately. He's the one who made me lesbians in The Sims, which started my amused fondness concerning all lesbians. (This includes you, Katie.) But man, how awesome are Irish Lesbians? I think I've already said that.

Anonymous

Today I logged into my gmail and saw the daily quote:

For most of history, Anonymous was a woman.
- Virginia Woolf

At the moment I am reading Moments of Being, by (guess who?) Virginia Woolf. Favorite author, much?

My favorite English teacher ever introduced me to her work, telling me, "you and Woolf are a perfect match!" It's very true; somehow her writing speaks to me in a way that is completely unique. It's like reading something you said in another life and coming back to find a kindred spirit in the past.

I am reminded how much I love you, V. Woolf.

And off to school go I, to speak of ancient art history and laugh at Stacey's "notes". Hey, she's gotten better lately... this last time it was ne page of writing with three pages of drawings, instead of simply an outpouring of sketches. But man, is she good!
I have my own style, but sometimes, yeah.

The worst tan EVER.

After Art History class about... a week ago, Stacey, Justin and I were standing and talking outside the classroom. Halfway through the hour-and-a-half-long conversation, Justin says, "why the hell are we standing in the sun?" So we move.

That evening, I'm about to take a shower, and I get a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I look my normal, slightly dumpy self, right? Wrong. I have HALF of a Fucking Farmer's Tan. Apparently I was standing in the sun at the most optimum level to get the most ugly tan the sun has ever graced upon man.

Besides getting a penis tanned on your back because your friend decided to play with some sunscreen, but yeah.

And you all know me-- I sit in front of my computer, go to class, sit in front of my computer, get some food, sit in front of my computer, maybe call some friends, sit in front of my computer, and sleep three feet away! How long am I going to have Half A Fucking Farmer's Tan? All winter? For the next decade?

No, my friends, I will prevail, and go to the beach, for once in, oh, two years. Now THAT'S a plan. Let me just pat myself on the back here...

Oh, Mother....

My mother says the funniest things, sometimes. Or rather, she means to say something else, and says another, which comes out in such a way that I am falling out of my chair with laughter.

For instance: Mom is watching TV, and the heroine is getting a verbal ass-whooping from the she-villain, who has, I admit, pretty interesting eyebrows. As I pass by, I comment, "Poor girl." Mom says blithely, "Oh, don't worry, nobody with eyebrows like that ever gets their way in the end." What does this mean?
Another instance: Mom is (again) watching TV, and Pamela Anderson is jiggling her breasts at the screen while a hapless swimmer is screaming as a shark devours him. "How horrifying!" I say. "Well, it's entertainment," Mom says. I run off, completely terrified by the idea that my mother is a closet sadist.

And now, I am reading Harry Potter "Luke, I am your father" knockoffs and amusing myself with skanky bathing apparel on Gaia. Oh, and drinking (decaf, to my dismay) coffee.

Yus.

The Pants of Duo Maxwell

It's been a while, hasn't it? Well, it's summer now, and I'm ridiculously bored with myself. I spend hours drawing and reading. And sleeping, too, though I've been doing a lot less of that lately. And do you have any idea how much coffee I've consumed this month? Lord.

Anyways, about the pants. For comic-con, I've decided to do a cosplay that has been begging to be done for forever. I mean, just look at me: heart shaped face, long brown hair, deep, butch-y voice... okay, so maybe it's not that deep. But what I'm trying to say is, I'm going to go as Duo Maxwell from Gundam W for comic-con. Purple contacts and everything. Really!

Stacey-- Nikki told me a little while ago that you had wanted to do this cosplay, too.. so now I feel bad. But you know, you could always go as 'Duo Maxwell's fag-hag! That's right, ladies and gentlemen, I'm dressing up as a GAY BOY. How fun!

So, I bought the pants for this costume the other day. I was trying on men's clothing and Kerry popped into my brain. (You remember, Kerry, when you, John and I went and tried on men's clothing together at Macy's? That was when John got his green lantern shirt.)
Anyways, I love these pants. They fit so much better than girls' pants do! Loose in the leg, and they actually fit on my hips--no joke!! Besides that, I feel empowered in these pants. I could pilot a Gundam in these pants. A Death Gundam, even! I could even take the mickey out of Heero Yuy and not piss my pants when he decides to string me up by the balls (figuratively, of course). Ahem.

In short (not) I have decided to try on men's clothing more often. Man, I love these pants.

I do declare!

As you may know, I am quite a fan of Jane Austen's works. I am currently working my way through Northanger Abbey, which happens to be, to my delight, absolutely hilarious.

One thing I have to say, though: why do people consider Austen's works to be romantic works, rather than comedies? If you've ever read Jane Austen, you'd know exactly what I'm talking about, unless of course, the not-so-subtle humor was lost on you. Even Pride and Prejudice, her earliest work, is chock-full of characters she seems to love to make fun of. Her comments on Fordyce's Sermons (thank you, Miss Mary Bennet), Miss Bingley's whims and inconsistencies, and Mr. Hurst says a grand total of five to ten words in the entirety of the novel (more like three), and yet he manages to be one of the funniest characters, all have me laughing more than sighing over the romanticisms of Mr. Darcy.

Jane Austen is a lot better at writing humor than writing romance, to say the least.

In any case... whenever a teacher or friend of mine says, "those silly romantic novels, by whats-her-face... Austen!" I long to tell them "they aren't silly romantic novels, they're works of social commentary and comedic genius, and you'd know if you had ever opened one of them to read".

At least, that's what I get out of them. I mean to say, if one is going to wish for a bodice ripper and read Jane Austen, they might as well try reading Finnegan's Wake and expect sensible advice on lawn-mowing.

On another note, as I was telling Jared (G.), bodice rippers are just as entertaining, especially when you picture a short, portly gay man as the author of said bodice rippers. Or perhaps, picture Johnny Depp as Jack Sparrow to be the heroine wearing the bodice... that ought to do.

I hate feeling emo.

A stream-of-consciousness poem by yours truly. I swear, I'm posting this then going to sleep, because, well, it's easier not to think that way.

I once wrote a poem about you, and
it was rather crap.
That's just as well, because
the way I treated you, too
was rather crap.

You once wrote a poem about me
and I never got to hear it.
Everything you say, to me
makes me the bumbling fool--
The gentleman falls for the shrew
Who was, incidentally, too
far gone to hear the wonder
that is you.

And every day I live I die alone;
That's just as well, because
I'm rather used to it now.
Until, of course, you look
at me and then
beyond, without a second glance.
But I do remember, now,
that I've earned this.

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