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confusedllama
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Name: Marie
Birthday: 5/2/1986
Gender: Female
Interests: I feel like I'm not very consistent, but my close friends tend to disagree.
I'm not really interested in stating my interests. (However, if you are absolutely mad with curiosity then you could ask, or read. I'm usually pretty friendly.)
Expertise: back massages, bare feet, collecting questionably useful certifications (small craft safety?), accidental humor.
Message: message me
AIM:  o0dragonsfire0o
MSN: iamalama@hotmail.com
Yahoo:  hollowedhands@yahoo.com
Member Since:
7/13/2004
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| Just heard this song yesterday, and I think I'm getting a little obsessed...
We wrote a prelude to our own fairy tale, And bought a parachute at a church rummage sale,
and with a mean sewing machine, and miles of thread, we sewed the day above L.A. in navy and red.
We wound a race track through your mom's kitchen chairs, and fought the shadows back down your dark basement stairs.
I lit a match, then let it catch, to light up the room, and then you yelled as we beheld an old maroon hot air balloon.
I'll be out of my mind, and you'll be out of ideas, pretty soon--so let's spend the afternoon in a cold hot air balloon. Leave your jacket behind, lean out and touch the treetops over town. I can't wait to kiss the ground wherever we touch back down.
We drank the Great Lakes like cold lemonade, and both got stomach aches, sprawled out in the shade.
So bored to death you held your breath, and I tried not to yawn. You made my frown turn upside down, and now my worries are gone.
I'll be out of my mind
And you'll be out of ideas
Pretty soon
So let's spend
The afternoon in a cold hot air balloon
Leave your jacket behind
Lean out and touch the treetops over town
I can't wait
To kiss the ground
Wherever we touch back down
"Hot Air Balloon," by Owl City
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| Everyone, by which I mean a handful of essayists whom I have read and or had the honor of being taught by, seems to enjoy pointing out to me that, in the essay, actual facts don't actually matter. As an English major, hypocritical and spotty perfectionist, and person interested in science, this assertion really irks me. Of course facts matter. They are facts. I don't see the disconnect here.
However, in the interest of exploration, magnanimousness, and self-entertainment, I have decided that I plan to write an essay with little to no regard for actual facts. I will misuse words, misquote my sources, and prod the universe into whatever jello mold my fancy demands.
Considering my record regarding the carrying out of my grand spur-of-the-moment plans, and the fact that even writing the above paragraph makes me wince, this essay may not happen.
But then again, it might. | | |
| I've been looking through a college classmate's 365 project, and I just got to a picture of her joyfully holding up her diploma. There's a comment from another girl I had classes with, saying something along the lines of, "there's no other feeling like that in the world."
And then I remembered that I still haven't ever even touched my diploma. I was one class short to graduate (I finished it at VCU less than a month after the graduation ceremony at Mary Wash), and I didn't walk. They mailed me my diploma, because I was living over an hour away and never seemed to be driving through Fredericksburg during office hours. It's in a cardboard tube in my room.
When I need to, I usually work really hard not to give in to depression, regret, and despair. There isn't a great reason why, but this is one of those moments that I'm having to fight. I wish I had passed that stupid class. I wish I had walked with my classmates. I wish I, shining with joy, had held up my diploma for a picture. But I didn't.
Even so, I loved the class I took at VCU, whereas the Mary Wash class I failed (Post-Colonial Lit) gave me hours of successive panic attacks, at the end. Turns out that I'm not an auditory learner, so lecture classes with nothing to turn in until the end of the semester are not a good idea for me. I got to take the VCU class (American Realism and Naturalism, I think) with my best friend, Sara. There's not much I love more than taking classes with her, and we hadn't been able to take one together since freshman year in high school. It was great, and I loved almost everything we read, which is a pretty rare occurrence. Things worked out okay.
Even so, maybe I should get that diploma framed. I think it would feel really good. | | |
| Well I'm updating opendiary again and even blogger, so I guess I should give xanga some attention.
David is awesome.
I never see Jack (and honestly, and sadly, feel like I hardly know him), but excepting that, my family is awesome also. (Jack is cool too. I just don't know him much, and it upsets me.)
I went thrift store shopping with my mom today, and she is a far better shopper than I am, and thanks to her I now have a whole lot of new clothes. And they don't suck! That's the amazing thing. Most of the clothes I pick for myself are terrible.
David: pretty great. I mean, I am frustrated by things--the sometimes-difficulties regarding phone conversations with him, the near-impossibility of pinning him down for events, his sometimes impenetrable sadness--but he is a wonderful, kind, loving, sweet, intelligent, strong, forgiving, giving, understanding guy. Life seems sunny when I am with him and he is happy.
I have also recently discovered Pandora radio. I mean I've known about it for years, but never used it because, as far as I can tell, I'm an idiot. luckily, though my "awesome thing" perceptors can be rather slow, it seems that things do percolate through eventually. Thank goodness.
Aight, I've got cramps and I am in need of a shower and an eight-hour nap, so peace out-out-out.
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| I will learn how to be happy.
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