"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.

-----------------------

ZOMG SPIDER!!

So I just totally had a coronary over a huge fucking spider that was racing across my bedroom wall. My mom came to the rescue with the vacuum cleaner... apparently I make the most entertaining noises when I'm petrified with spider-induced terror. What I thought was funny, though, was that my mom was talking to my grandpa on the phone the entire time: "NO dad I am NOT going to buy her a damn shotgun.... ...I'm too tired to deal with this crazy bullshit, good night dad... yes I am hanging up on you... what? ...no, it's not dead yet...."
Suffice to say I would have been laughing, if I wasn't wheezing, squealing and frantically rubbing at little ghostly itches on my skin (phantom spiders, I'm sure), in pure horror.

Yes, I am aware that it is now hypocritical for me to tease my sister about her fear of spiders. But I really do think it was funnier to find her screaming bloody murder, butt nekkid, and standing on the bathroom counter, shrieking about a huge spider on the floor... MY spider was about, oh, five times as big. And hairy. With little brown, hairy mantibles that were scissoring rapidly as it came towards me...

I think, out of the three of us (me, the spider, and the cat, being the innocent bystander), my cat was the most frightened. She went and hid in the closet.

Pussy?!

Today was typical, at least for the first day back from spring break. The only thing of interest was that street-side shops selling jewelry and such had been set up on little tables. Yes yes, I splurged on the inexpensive Indian jewelry, but not too much. Right.

Anyways, my favorite booth was next to a (ridiculously overpriced) jewelry booth, and there I bought 20 sticks of incense for, oh, one dollar. The inner pagan in me was positively having convulsions of joy over the Frankincense, Patchouli, Myrrh, Sandalwood, Wisteria, Black Lover and Spiritual Love that I failed to notice the funniest thing that I have seen in at least a month.

As I was perusing through the (huge) stacks of incense, I found the greatest incense scent ever. Really, this is a sure thing; Sex on the Beach doesn't even hold a candle to the large, caps sign labeling some pink, musky scented sticks as "PUSSY".

Of course I had to smell it. I mean... does it really smell like, well, pussy? No, not really. Unless your vagina smells like a damned rose, I sincerely doubt it. And if it does, well, ew?

I really think that I would have been insulted if I had discovered "PUSSY" incense years ago. But you know what? After hearing Mr. Asakawa's deliberately pronounced way of pausing before saying the word vagina, well, it's just too funny.

But you know what (or rather, who) I thought of immediately? Yes, Matt L., you. Only you. Oh, how you used to yell "VAGINA!!!" in the corridors of Jr. High as I passed by... or was that High School?
Another thing, just for you, Matt: this incident was better than the dream I had about shagging some guy who had a spoon for a penis, and oh yes I remember being Harry Potter during said shagging.... and also, not as good as the dream about my mom watching over congress arguing over ass wax. What the devil is ass wax?

But seriously, guys. Pussy?! You should smell it. I bought some. :D

I am a bit odd, aren't I?

If they told you I'm mad, then they lied. I'm odd, but it isn't compulsive. I'm the triolet, bursting with pride; If they told you I'm mad, then they lied. No, it isn't obsessive. Now hide All the spoons or I might get convulsive. If they told you I'm mad then they lied. I'm odd, but it isn't compulsive. http://quiz.ravenblack.net/poeticform.pl">What Poetry Form Are You?

OR

I, as a clerihew, Tend to be merry; too Merry, it might, perhaps, by some, be claimed; But I'm sure that these people are wrong, and need to be grievously maimed. http://quiz.ravenblack.net/poeticform.pl">What Poetry Form Are You?

YES, I LOVE IT. :d

No More Coffee?

I have been advised by my doctor to cut my caffeine intake by at least half. She says that being addicted to coffee causes fatigue when you don't have any in your system... This makes me very sad. I know, you're going to say "just have decaf", but Decaf, as everyone should know, is for pansies. I am not a shy violet when it comes to my coffee. I drink a strong, dark roast, and at least three cups a day, dammit!
But, alas, not anymore. What my doctors say to do, my mother will enforce. She, of course, is a hypocrite, because she drinks almost as much coffee as I do.

In other news, I now wear glasses. I am nearsighted, apparently. It probably comes from staring at a computer screen for hours. Is this a bad thing?
My glasses make my face look fat. Thus, I will start working out, and, hopefully, I will lose my babyfat.

Exoticism

Exoticism (n) :

1. tendency to adopt what is exotic.
2. exotic quality or character.
3. anything exotic, as a foreign word or idiom.

Dictionary.com Unabridged (v 1.1)Based on the Random House Unabridged Dictionary, © Random House, Inc. 2006.

My English professor (for English 205 "critical thinking") is very interesting; the book he assigned us for the class is Roland Barthes's Mythologies. It's not about mythologies, however; it is about semiotics ("the study of signs and symbols as elements of communicative behavior; the analysis of systems of communication, as language, gestures, or clothing") and the mystification of world cultures.
This next essay he is assigning us is quite fascinating to me; Roland Barthes wrote an essay on exoticism called 'The Lost Continent', after an Italian film about the Malay Archipelago. We are to compare this with films like Monsoon Wedding and Passage to India, and how Hollywood packages the idea of India into a stereotype that is not only inaccurate, but degrading and insulting. Now, the professor chose Indian culture for an example, since he is Indian himself and knows what is accurate and what is ridiculously embellished.

My point is, I find this to be a fascinating topic. I am an aspiring artist, and many people's ideas of art are that art is to depict things as they are, or, more importantly, to embellish them and to make them aesthetically pleasing. I want, more than anything else out of this life (besides a never ending pot of perfectly made coffee), to have my art mean and say more than just what is, or the mystification of such. I want it to say what is real, what is poignant, what has depth and is beautiful in its reality.
I find the idea of semiotics and the mystification and exoticism of cultures to be fascinating because it points towards a way that I can say more with my art. First idea: a coloring-book style picturesque in it's lines and lies a representation of a certain culture, and painted over it a realistically porportioned, lifelike and un-colorful, verson of the same. That is what I mean when I say that these ideas of social problems are an inspiration in and of themselves.

Fine, fine, I'll stop gushing. I just think the idea is infinitely interesting... I'm actually looking forward to writing the essay, which is odd, I know.

The Crossing

"...We go from day to day, one day much like the next, and then on a certain day all unnanounced we come upon a man or we see this man who is perhaps already known to us and is a man like all men but who makes a certain guesture of himself that is like the piling of one's goods upon an alter and in this guesture we recognize that which is buried in our hearts and is never truly lost to us nor ever can by and it is this moment, you see. This same moment. It is this which we long for and are afraid to seek and which alone can save us."
-Cormac McCarthy

My sophmore High School teacher had absolutely no business assigning The Crossing to us for reading; it was so over our 15/16-year-old heads that it was ridiculous. I think if I tried reading this book again I would love it, but honestly, Mr. Boyd. Pick something that isn't so intensely existentialist next time; most teenagers can't even handle it, let alone appreciate it.

It's like trying to get middle-school kids to comprehend Virginia Woolf. I think at the time I was only partially able to understand Cormac McCarthy's brilliance; enough that I copied down quotes, at least. There were parts of it that, after getting over the teenage rebelliousness that comes with being forced to read four hundred pages of run-on sentences, I had to say, "shit, man, that was intense".

This post is kind of random, but I have the feeling that my computer's going to die soon, so I'm copying everything of importance onto storage disks. I came across this in my (surprise) quotes section. You'd be amazed at the stuff I have in here. I save everything.

[not-so-title here]

My week was mildly stressful. My friend canceled twice on me; once for lunch and once for coffee, all at the last minute. I did make a friend in my english class, though; the Prof. didn't show up and we ended up talking in the cafeteria until I had to go to my next class. It was really odd to discover how much we have in common.

I'm supposed to be doing my excel homework for my online class, but I'm in the worst mood possible for doing any actual work. I call this mood, whenever it comes upon me in the middle of drawing/painting a piece, the "scribble-syndrome". In other words, my frustration levels are through the roof and my patience for fuck-ups is nil. I can't even read correctly in this mindset; I end up chucking the book/monitor across the room.

Thus, I am determined to hang out with friends. I need to go somewhere, desperately. None of them are answering their phones....... and the cat is cowering in fear under my mother's blankets.

Did I tell you how amusing yesterday was? I was on myspace for about four hours and was hit on a total of five times. Not too astonishing, but I'm left wondering: who the hell are these people?? Do I look particularly approachable? ...I, for one, dont think so. Fortunately for them, though, I'm too nice to outright slam them for no reason.

I had a fun time talking to MK-kun. He's always fun... And very chill. Did I mention how awesome you are, Matto Keri-kun? (I've given you the moniker of MK because I already know a Matto-kun and a Keri-kun. Just as well; it sounds cooler.)

I ought to get dressed sometime today.

Well, hello, there.

This is supposed to be an introduction post, but I've found that I really don't care. Who reads this shit, anyways? --Unless, of course, it has an amusement factor, and I'm not kidding when I say I'm bad at amusing others. However, I amuse myself very much indeed, which is all that counts.

What, the title? An Exercise in Oscillation is my attempt at a prosaic way of saying A Woman's Life: On the Rag and Off. In other words, my mood swings wildly at the best of times, which is not much better than the worst of times. That said...

"Life isn't fair. It's just fairer than death, that's all."
--William Goldman, The Princess Bride