Behold my new wheels:

La Gueramobile. It's a power tilt chair, which means it's essentially a rolling La-Z-Boy. It won't be delivered for a few weeks because we have to bow and scrape before Medicare, but the ball is rolling. Soon, I'll be bouncing along in a comfortable tank. Assuming, of course, that we find a pickup truck and build a new set of ramps for the thresholds at the front and back door.

In other news, the university has withheld my grade from last semester because it claims I owe it sixty-five bucks in assorted fees. So I can't drop the class for which I was registered this semester. Plus, I have to cough up five bucks to keep my ID active so they don't close my bank account before I can transfer the funds to another. Why is it that moving is such a tedious, drawn-out process? Why can't you just pick up and go? I've been here five weeks and still haven't tied up loose ends. Feh.

Still, at least I'll never have to go to class again. Thank God for small favors.
As of yesterday, I am free for the summer. I turned in my final paper and retrieved my first. I got a B because he was nettled that I didn't incorporate the Blackboard sources into the paper. I'm not surprised. Truth be told, I flat forgot about those sources until I saw his remarks. Just shows how often I utilize the university's online resources.

I'm all for being more environmentally conscious, but I really think "going paperless" can go too far. Online syllabi? Great. But restricting all communications from the university to the school-issued email addresses? Awful. At least when I got a letter in the mail, I knew it was legitimate because it was stamped with the university seal. Now, I'm never sure if the email is from the registrar or some con man in Lithuania. Plus, if I forget to check my school email for a few weeks days, there is a chance I could miss a time-sensitive communique. The snail mail gets checked almost daily. Hence, there's little chance of missing a "SURPRISE! Your trustee failed to pay your tuition, so you're not really enrolled! You did all that work for nothing." letter. But no. We've got to save the money trees.

Anyway, I'm done now. Grades will be posted next Wednesday. I was hoping for an A, of course, but unless my final paper was an A+, I'm looking at a B+.

Roomie has gone to the grocery store for victuals and a spoke wrench. Thanks to the uneven terrain and the glories of public transit, many of my spokes are loose. Normally, I'd just call the wheelchair tinkerer, but as I've mentioned before, he suddenly requires a prescription from a doctor before he will render his services(because we wily cripples are either bilking the government by making frivolous Medicare requests or simply too stupid to determine for ourselves if the chair we spend eighteen hours a day in is functioning properly), and I'm not taking a three-hour roundtrip bus ride, sitting in a crowded health department waiting room with thirty people oozing snot and pus from various orifices, and paying ninety dollars so that I can then pay the tinkerer seventy-five dollars for a housecall and twenty dollars for the actual effort of using the spoke key. Not when I can buy one at Wal-mart for five bucks. If Roomie is too daunted by the task, I'll just hie myself unto the bicycle shop, where it will still be cheaper. Hell, I could even make a day of it and amble down to the nearby sports bar for some hot wings afterwards.

When he comes back with the grub, I'm going to spend the afternoon stuffing my face with chocolate-covered raisins and watching cheesy horror movies on DVD. I've got My Bloody Valentine, Doom, and Friday the 13th 2009 waiting for me. Mancandy and uplifting morality tales, mmm.
As of yesterday, I am free for the summer. I turned in my final paper and retrieved my first. I got a B because he was nettled that I didn't incorporate the Blackboard sources into the paper. I'm not surprised. Truth be told, I flat forgot about those sources until I saw his remarks. Just shows how often I utilize the university's online resources.

I'm all for being more environmentally conscious, but I really think "going paperless" can go too far. Online syllabi? Great. But restricting all communications from the university to the school-issued email addresses? Awful. At least when I got a letter in the mail, I knew it was legitimate because it was stamped with the university seal. Now, I'm never sure if the email is from the registrar or some con man in Lithuania. Plus, if I forget to check my school email for a few weeks days, there is a chance I could miss a time-sensitive communique. The snail mail gets checked almost daily. Hence, there's little chance of missing a "SURPRISE! Your trustee failed to pay your tuition, so you're not really enrolled! You did all that work for nothing." letter. But no. We've got to save the money trees.

Anyway, I'm done now. Grades will be posted next Wednesday. I was hoping for an A, of course, but unless my final paper was an A+, I'm looking at a B+.

Roomie has gone to the grocery store for victuals and a spoke wrench. Thanks to the uneven terrain and the glories of public transit, many of my spokes are loose. Normally, I'd just call the wheelchair tinkerer, but as I've mentioned before, he suddenly requires a prescription from a doctor before he will render his services(because we wily cripples are either bilking the government by making frivolous Medicare requests or simply too stupid to determine for ourselves if the chair we spend eighteen hours a day in is functioning properly), and I'm not taking a three-hour roundtrip bus ride, sitting in a crowded health department waiting room with thirty people oozing snot and pus from various orifices, and paying ninety dollars so that I can then pay the tinkerer seventy-five dollars for a housecall and twenty dollars for the actual effort of using the spoke key. Not when I can buy one at Wal-mart for five bucks. If Roomie is too daunted by the task, I'll just hie myself unto the bicycle shop, where it will still be cheaper. Hell, I could even make a day of it and amble down to the nearby sports bar for some hot wings afterwards.

When he comes back with the grub, I'm going to spend the afternoon stuffing my face with chocolate-covered raisins and watching cheesy horror movies on DVD. I've got My Bloody Valentine, Doom, and Friday the 13th 2009 waiting for me. Mancandy and uplifting morality tales, mmm.
The paper, it is finished, allelu, and to celebrate, I've been t00bing the Internet, reading Rammstein fanboards. It seems their management company, Pilgrim, hasn't been idle during my self-imposed hiatus. Indeed, the hijinks have not only continued, but escalated, as some fans who had previously ordered tickets to the German shows are now being told that the server "lost" their reservations, and that, despite their email confirmations, their reservations will not be honored, LOL, so sorry. The solution, according to the Pilgrim braintrust, is to try to place your order again and hope for the best.

Yes, because that worked so well the first time around.

Words can't describe how frothingly angry I would be if I got my reservation confirmation only to be told, "Whoopsie! Our server ate your order, and despite your confirmation email, we're not going to honor your order, LOL, so sorry. Please to be prostrating yourself before us again."

Why did they decide to issue tickets for the German shows(or is it all the European dates?)through the Rammstein website only? Was it a shameless money grab by Pilgrim, i.e, an attempt to avoid ticket broker fees, or were they trying to prevent scalping? Whatever the motive, it appears to be an unmitigated disaster, and their feeble attempts at PR come across as smug, callous arrogance, or at least indifference.

Why, oh, why does Rammstein continue to use them as their management when they have clearly bungled so much?


As I said, the paper is finished, though its completion wasn't without drama. The first time I booted my ancient computer, Windows failed to load properly. Cue imminent nervous breakdown, as the paper was due tomorrow and I lack the stamina to rewrite nine pages in a day. I turned it off at the power strip, waited, and tried again. Success, thank God. Once the paper was printed and stapled, I remembered how to breathe and celebrated with a bare-ass naked victory cha-cha around the apartment. As soon as I finished my victory dance, I ran a defrag. Hopefully, that will prevent a repeat of this morning, because I hate Roomie's OS and don't have the money to replace my desktop. Plus, I'm attached to this creaking relic. The old girl has seen me through numberless term papers and millions of words of fanfiction. I know it's an impossible hope, but I want her to last forever. ~pets her~

Speaking of fanfic, I'll get back to Dean Winchester and the make-believe grindstone by Friday. I need a few days to decompress.
The paper, it is finished, allelu, and to celebrate, I've been t00bing the Internet, reading Rammstein fanboards. It seems their management company, Pilgrim, hasn't been idle during my self-imposed hiatus. Indeed, the hijinks have not only continued, but escalated, as some fans who had previously ordered tickets to the German shows are now being told that the server "lost" their reservations, and that, despite their email confirmations, their reservations will not be honored, LOL, so sorry. The solution, according to the Pilgrim braintrust, is to try to place your order again and hope for the best.

Yes, because that worked so well the first time around.

Words can't describe how frothingly angry I would be if I got my reservation confirmation only to be told, "Whoopsie! Our server ate your order, and despite your confirmation email, we're not going to honor your order, LOL, so sorry. Please to be prostrating yourself before us again."

Why did they decide to issue tickets for the German shows(or is it all the European dates?)through the Rammstein website only? Was it a shameless money grab by Pilgrim, i.e, an attempt to avoid ticket broker fees, or were they trying to prevent scalping? Whatever the motive, it appears to be an unmitigated disaster, and their feeble attempts at PR come across as smug, callous arrogance, or at least indifference.

Why, oh, why does Rammstein continue to use them as their management when they have clearly bungled so much?


As I said, the paper is finished, though its completion wasn't without drama. The first time I booted my ancient computer, Windows failed to load properly. Cue imminent nervous breakdown, as the paper was due tomorrow and I lack the stamina to rewrite nine pages in a day. I turned it off at the power strip, waited, and tried again. Success, thank God. Once the paper was printed and stapled, I remembered how to breathe and celebrated with a bare-ass naked victory cha-cha around the apartment. As soon as I finished my victory dance, I ran a defrag. Hopefully, that will prevent a repeat of this morning, because I hate Roomie's OS and don't have the money to replace my desktop. Plus, I'm attached to this creaking relic. The old girl has seen me through numberless term papers and millions of words of fanfiction. I know it's an impossible hope, but I want her to last forever. ~pets her~

Speaking of fanfic, I'll get back to Dean Winchester and the make-believe grindstone by Friday. I need a few days to decompress.
For a brief time last night, Brett Austin surpassed Debbie Lee on my Food Network Star Douchemeter. Not just surpass her, but blow by her like Wile E. Coyote chasing the Roadrunner across the Bonneville Salt Flats. What cretinous, amoral, pathetic boob is so insecure in his manhood--not to mention his culinary skills--that he offers to help a contestant plate and then uses that offer and the acceptance thereof as proof that the contestant he helped lacks the skills to compete with the rest of them?

"I think me and Teddy's help saved the dish."

You spooned the scrambled eggs into a rammikin.. That's it. You didn't have a jot to do with the cooking of the dish. You extended the offer of help to her. She didn't ask for any help and only accepted because she didn't want to be perceived as a snotty, ungrateful ass. If you thought that your "help" with the oh-so-daunting task of spooning eggs onto a plate would give her an unfair advantage, then, why, prithee, did you offer to help her at all? Let her flounder if your sense of fair play is so grievously wounded by the thought of having compassion. Let her flounder, step on her head, and gloat when she fails. Don't pretend to care about her and then attempt to save your own ass by throwing her under the bus when Bobby Flay points out you have the poise and panache of an anal wart. Be an honest tool, at least.

His ploy failed, by the by. He was sent packing. I can only assume that the judges were as put off by his whining and finger-pointing as I was and decided to nip his histrionics in the bud rather than endure any more. His food, according to them, was among the best of the night, but since they're looking for a personality to sell the network as well as the food, he wasn't up to snuff.

With him gone, Debbie can safely resume her place as Queen of the Cuntwaffles, which she promises to do with elan next week if the promos are even half-true.


Roomie is a big damn hero today because he unclogged the shower drain with a little help from the Internet and a wire hanger. After a few minutes of fruitless fiddling, he pulled a wad of soap-scummed hair the size of a small gerbil from the drain, and the water receded with a triumphant glug. I can finally shower, and thank God, too, because I have class tomorrow, and there was no way I could've gotten by with a sponge bath, not with four days of biological sludge to wash from the various cracks and crevices and temperatures in the 100s. He's my hero, and he knows it, too, because he spent the rest of the morning with a swagger in his step.

His hero status was further cemented by the smiting of a bug that shot from beneath the laundry pile and made a beeline for the living room. He was summarily squashed beneath a paper and banished to the garbage can. Shortly thereafter, Roomie rewarded his labors with lunch, while I reluctantly went to mine by starting my final paper for Central Asian History.

I hate it. Loathe it. Despise it. I would rather gnaw off my own nipple than write one more word of a comparative essay about the administration of Central Asian government under Tsarist and Soviet rule. I would rather lock myself in a broom closet with a cadre of dyspeptic German tourist who've just come from the rotkohl and sauerkraut buffet, but I will finish this evil, rank bastard of a paper, because when I do, I'm done until August and can spend my summer writing and eating ice cream and squeeing over Rammstein.

Seventy-two hours to freedom. I can do this. I can.
For a brief time last night, Brett Austin surpassed Debbie Lee on my Food Network Star Douchemeter. Not just surpass her, but blow by her like Wile E. Coyote chasing the Roadrunner across the Bonneville Salt Flats. What cretinous, amoral, pathetic boob is so insecure in his manhood--not to mention his culinary skills--that he offers to help a contestant plate and then uses that offer and the acceptance thereof as proof that the contestant he helped lacks the skills to compete with the rest of them?

"I think me and Teddy's help saved the dish."

You spooned the scrambled eggs into a rammikin.. That's it. You didn't have a jot to do with the cooking of the dish. You extended the offer of help to her. She didn't ask for any help and only accepted because she didn't want to be perceived as a snotty, ungrateful ass. If you thought that your "help" with the oh-so-daunting task of spooning eggs onto a plate would give her an unfair advantage, then, why, prithee, did you offer to help her at all? Let her flounder if your sense of fair play is so grievously wounded by the thought of having compassion. Let her flounder, step on her head, and gloat when she fails. Don't pretend to care about her and then attempt to save your own ass by throwing her under the bus when Bobby Flay points out you have the poise and panache of an anal wart. Be an honest tool, at least.

His ploy failed, by the by. He was sent packing. I can only assume that the judges were as put off by his whining and finger-pointing as I was and decided to nip his histrionics in the bud rather than endure any more. His food, according to them, was among the best of the night, but since they're looking for a personality to sell the network as well as the food, he wasn't up to snuff.

With him gone, Debbie can safely resume her place as Queen of the Cuntwaffles, which she promises to do with elan next week if the promos are even half-true.


Roomie is a big damn hero today because he unclogged the shower drain with a little help from the Internet and a wire hanger. After a few minutes of fruitless fiddling, he pulled a wad of soap-scummed hair the size of a small gerbil from the drain, and the water receded with a triumphant glug. I can finally shower, and thank God, too, because I have class tomorrow, and there was no way I could've gotten by with a sponge bath, not with four days of biological sludge to wash from the various cracks and crevices and temperatures in the 100s. He's my hero, and he knows it, too, because he spent the rest of the morning with a swagger in his step.

His hero status was further cemented by the smiting of a bug that shot from beneath the laundry pile and made a beeline for the living room. He was summarily squashed beneath a paper and banished to the garbage can. Shortly thereafter, Roomie rewarded his labors with lunch, while I reluctantly went to mine by starting my final paper for Central Asian History.

I hate it. Loathe it. Despise it. I would rather gnaw off my own nipple than write one more word of a comparative essay about the administration of Central Asian government under Tsarist and Soviet rule. I would rather lock myself in a broom closet with a cadre of dyspeptic German tourist who've just come from the rotkohl and sauerkraut buffet, but I will finish this evil, rank bastard of a paper, because when I do, I'm done until August and can spend my summer writing and eating ice cream and squeeing over Rammstein.

Seventy-two hours to freedom. I can do this. I can.
I turned in the vicious, cock-rotting paper today. One down, one to go. Too bad CRP's little brother will be just as unpleasant, a breech-birth travesty I'll long to club to death with my keyboard the instant the misshapen feet begin to emerge. Two more weeks, and I'll be done for the summer.

If you were thinking of checking out Drag Me to Hell because you had foud memories of the corny fun and slapstick carnage of Sam Raimi's Evil Dead Trilogy, don't. It's not funny or scary or even gleefully gross. Aside from one sickly hilarious fight involving false teeth and a stapler between Our Heroine and the Evil Gypsy Hag, it's just flat-out repulsive, with none of Bruce Campbell's hammy charm to offset the horrifying tides of unspeakable effluvium.

Cut for SPOILERS and Because It's Just NASTY )

At least if I had wiped my ass with that nine-fifty, it would been put to good use. Save your money and go see an intellectually and artistically superior film like Land of the Lost. Better yet, fatten Pixar's deserving coffers by seeing the wonderful Up!, which is the best that movies have to offer.

It's too bad, because there was a germ of a good story there and the opening narrative was deliciously creepy, but it drowned in rivers of vomit and...vomit.

F
I turned in the vicious, cock-rotting paper today. One down, one to go. Too bad CRP's little brother will be just as unpleasant, a breech-birth travesty I'll long to club to death with my keyboard the instant the misshapen feet begin to emerge. Two more weeks, and I'll be done for the summer.

If you were thinking of checking out Drag Me to Hell because you had fond memories of the corny fun and slapstick carnage of Sam Raimi's Evil Dead Trilogy, don't. It's not funny or scary or even gleefully gross. Aside from one sickly hilarious fight involving false teeth and a stapler between Our Heroine and the Evil Gypsy Hag, it's just flat-out repulsive, with none of Bruce Campbell's hammy charm to offset the horrifying tides of unspeakable effluvium.

Cut for SPOILERS and Because It's Just NASTY )

At least if I had wiped my ass with that nine-fifty, it would been put to good use. Save your money and go see an intellectually and artistically superior film like Land of the Lost. Better yet, fatten Pixar's deserving coffers by seeing the wonderful Up!, which is the best that movies have to offer.

It's too bad, because there was a germ of a good story there and the opening narrative was deliciously creepy, but it drowned in rivers of vomit and...vomit.

F
Ha! Haha! I finished the vicious, cock-rotting paper ahead of schedule, and now I have a day or two to loll about the Internet, blogging and drooling over Rammstein pics and pointing and laughing at the Jensen/Jared tinhats in SPN fandom. I can go to the mall or movies tomorrow without fretting that I'm shirking my academic duty. Liberation, she is sweet.

Of course, my printer decided to give me a coronary by having a bizarre timeout error on page five, because what I needed after several days and ten hours was to be unable to print my handiwork. It's a newfangled calisthenics program for sedentary, out-of-shape nerds. "Need to improve your cardio but lack the stamina for a traditional workout regimen? Then the LPT1 Error System is for you. In just ten seconds, you can increase your heartrate to one hundred and ninety beats per minute. You don't even have to leave your desk."

"All you have to do is place a few sheets of paper into your printer bay, click on an important document, and you're ready to go. With just one click, you, too, can experience the thrill of watching your grade or paycheck go up in smoke. The instant adrenaline rush of failure and crushing disappointment gets your heart pumping. With multiple reps and day, you can burn that fat and strengthen your heart in just one week."

WARNING: Side effects may include nausea, incontinence, stroke, heart attack, brain aneurysm, hair loss, obnoxious flatulence, temporary aphasia, tremors, suicidal thoughts or behaviors, uncontrolled rage, or hives.

DO NOT begin this exercise regimen if you have a history of high blood pressure, are pregnant, or plan to become pregnant.

The sponsors of this regimen are NOT responsible for failing grades, job loss, injuries to self or others, or damaged printers or other computer hardware that may result from the use of this product or service. Consult your physician before beginning any diet or exercise program. Use at your own risk.

I should be its spokesperson. I'm sure my hollow eyes and thinning hair and the lingering haze of chili fart that shrouds me like a gentle mist will rake in the clients.

Eat your heart out, Billy Mays.
Ha! Haha! I finished the vicious, cock-rotting paper ahead of schedule, and now I have a day or two to loll about the Internet, blogging and drooling over Rammstein pics and pointing and laughing at the Jensen/Jared tinhats in SPN fandom. I can go to the mall or movies tomorrow without fretting that I'm shirking my academic duty. Liberation, she is sweet.

Of course, my printer decided to give me a coronary by having a bizarre timeout error on page five, because what I needed after several days and ten hours was to be unable to print my handiwork. It's a newfangled calisthenics program for sedentary, out-of-shape nerds. "Need to improve your cardio but lack the stamina for a traditional workout regimen? Then the LPT1 Error System is for you. In just ten seconds, you can increase your heartrate to one hundred and ninety beats per minute. You don't even have to leave your desk."

"All you have to do is place a few sheets of paper into your printer bay, click on an important document, and you're ready to go. With just one click, you, too, can experience the thrill of watching your grade or paycheck go up in smoke. The instant adrenaline rush of failure and crushing disappointment gets your heart pumping. With multiple reps a day, you can burn that fat and strengthen your heart in just one week."

WARNING: Side effects may include nausea, incontinence, stroke, heart attack, brain aneurysm, hair loss, obnoxious flatulence, temporary aphasia, tremors, suicidal thoughts or behaviors, uncontrolled rage, or hives.

DO NOT begin this exercise regimen if you have a history of high blood pressure, are pregnant, or plan to become pregnant.

The sponsors of this regimen are NOT responsible for failing grades, job loss, injuries to self or others, or damaged printers or other computer hardware that may result from the use of this product or service. Consult your physician before beginning any diet or exercise program. Use at your own risk.

I should be its spokesperson. I'm sure my hollow eyes and thinning hair and the lingering haze of chili fart that shrouds me like a gentle mist will rake in the clients.

Eat your heart out, Billy Mays.
I'm still slogging away on my paper, and like an over-tired five-year-old who desperately needs a nap, I don't wanna. I loathe wasting perfectly good leisure time on such excruciatingly dull tasks as writing term papers, especially since I'm secretly convinced that most teachers don't even read the fruits of your labor. Because they've read every permutation of your "ground-breaking" thesis three hundred times over the course of their careers, they simply unscrew the cap on the bottle of bourbon stashed inside their desk drawer in order to ease the hell of grading papers, skim each paper to make sure neither your dog nor your chimpanzee nor the functionally illiterate bottle collector who sleeps under the overpass wrote your paper in your stead, and count the pages. If you met the page requirement and don't sound like your dentist mistakenly injected the Novocain directly into your brain stem, then you get a B. If you exceeded the page count and possess a vocabulary that includes words longer than two syllables, you're obviously a nerdy masochist who will never get laid, and so receive an A as comfort to warm you on the cold, lonely nights to come.

But I've gathered my notes and am determined to make the final push tonight.

I joined another Rammstein forum a few days ago. It's much friendlier than the Herzeleid forum, which discourages fangirling of any kind and gets its jollies by psychoanalyzing the lyrics to every song and preening about their perceived intellectual superiority of the horny fangirls.

I'll be the first to admit that horny fangirls are annoying when you don't share their squee. If I have to hear about how cute DL is one more time, I'm going to join Club Van Gogh. But everyone has someone or something that reduces them to a squeeing fangirl, and for me, that's Rammstein. I need to squee over Till and Richard and Christoph and Olli and dribble over their bodies while I groove to the music. It's part of the enjoyment I draw from Rammstein as a fan. I'd still be a fan of their music if they were morbidly obese Bavarian sweat hogs whose pulchritudinous asses threatened to explode from their stage attire like Claymore mines, but my fannish experience wouldn't be the same. So they can have their intellectual enclave, but give me my damn drool bucket, please.

Being on that board has made me feel like Methuselah, however. Another poster wanted to friend me, and when I checked their profile, I realized they were fifteen. The board is brimming with fans just entering into, or well in the throes of, puberty. My old, let me show you it. I feel guilty leching over Richard in there, lest I warp their fragile minds with my filthy imagination.

That hasn't stopped me from leching, however.

All right, to the salt mines with me.
I'm still slogging away on my paper, and like an over-tired five-year-old who desperately needs a nap, I don't wanna. I loathe wasting perfectly good leisure time on such excruciatingly dull tasks as writing term papers, especially since I'm secretly convinced that most teachers don't even read the fruits of your labor. Because they've read every permutation of your "ground-breaking" thesis three hundred times over the course of their careers, they simply unscrew the cap on the bottle of bourbon stashed inside their desk drawer in order to ease the hell of grading papers, skim each paper to make sure neither your dog nor your chimpanzee nor the functionally illiterate bottle collector who sleeps under the overpass wrote your paper in your stead, and count the pages. If you met the page requirement and don't sound like your dentist mistakenly injected the Novocain directly into your brain stem, then you get a B. If you exceeded the page count and possess a vocabulary that includes words longer than two syllables, you're obviously a nerdy masochist who will never get laid, and so receive an A as comfort to warm you on the cold, lonely nights to come.

But I've gathered my notes and am determined to make the final push tonight.

I joined another Rammstein forum a few days ago. It's much friendlier than the Herzeleid forum, which discourages fangirling of any kind and gets its jollies by psychoanalyzing the lyrics to every song and preening about their perceived intellectual superiority over the horny fangirls.

I'll be the first to admit that horny fangirls are annoying when you don't share their squee. If I have to hear about how cute DL is one more time, I'm going to join Club Van Gogh. But everyone has someone or something that reduces them to a squeeing fangirl, and for me, that's Rammstein. I need to squee over Till and Richard and Christoph and Olli and dribble over their bodies while I groove to the music. It's part of the enjoyment I draw from Rammstein as a fan. I'd still be a fan of their music if they were morbidly obese Bavarian sweat hogs whose pulchritudinous asses threatened to explode from their stage attire like Claymore mines, but my fannish experience wouldn't be the same. So they can have their intellectual enclave, but give me my damn drool bucket, please.

Being on that board has made me feel like Methuselah, however. Another poster wanted to friend me, and when I checked their profile, I realized they were fifteen. The board is brimming with fans just entering into, or well in the throes of, puberty. My old, let me show you it. I feel guilty leching over Richard in there, lest I warp their fragile minds with my filthy imagination.

That hasn't stopped me from leching, however.

All right, to the salt mines with me.
-Yes, I'm working on my first paper, and I can tell it's going to be another whopping manifesto, because I'm still laying the groundwork for my first point. On page three. Why can I never be concise or succinct?

-Harper's Island, Week VII )
-Yes, I'm working on my first paper, and I can tell it's going to be another whopping manifesto, because I'm still laying the groundwork for my first point. On page three. Why can I never be concise or succinct?

-Harper's Island, Week VII )
I might not be around much until June 18th, the last day of my summer session. The workload is minimal, but the weather is characteristically abysmal for this time of year, and so what little time the weather permits me to use the computer must needs be spent grinding out two papers. They're supposed to clock in at a maximum of seven pages each, but I have a nasty and lamentable habit of exceeding(and sometimes doubling and trebling)the maximum, and I want to give myself ample time to wield my finely-honed and well-worn academic bullshit shovel. I don't relish the prospect of cramming twenty to thirty pages of analysis into a two-hour window the night before the paper is due. In my youth, such a prospect was a heady adrenaline buzz. Now it makes me reach for the Aleve and pine for a fifth shot of Jaegr.

I received the grades for my in-class essay test today. A+ for the first question and A- for the second for an overall grade of A. The second question was, if you'll recall, the one I rushed in order to beat the clock. I could rewrite it in a bid to bump the overall grade to an A+, but that would mean writing an additional seven-page paper that would magically mushroom to fifteen, and I'm not sure I have either the time or the mental stamina to accept that challenge. Plus, I'm not sure such effort would be worth it to bump the grade from an A- to an A+ and gain half a letter grade. I'll probably wait until I've completed the two papers and see if I've either the need or the ability to revisit the topic. If there's no gas left in the tank, then screw it. I'm not busting my balls for an extra point two-five.

All this scholarly claptrap and academic grandstanding has left precious little time for fannish productivity, alas, and so ficcing is at a standstill while my brain is occupied by Mongols and Kazakhs, and Moghuls and Oirats and Uzbekhs and Uighurs and Kalmyks and Bashkirs. Part III of "Detail Man" is ten to fifteen pages from seeing daylight, and it looks like it might remain in the dark until the end of June. I'm so sorry, [personal profile] innie_darling; I know you've been patiently waiting since Ocfuckingtober for this story. I am a bad exchange writer and deserve to be pimp-slapped by a sloppy-drunk Azazel in Hell's Cantina and Satanico Pandemonium Gentleman's Club. At this rate, you might get the completed story by this Halloween. ~is ashamed~
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I might not be around much until June 18th, the last day of my summer session. The workload is minimal, but the weather is characteristically abysmal for this time of year, and so what little time the weather permits me to use the computer must needs be spent grinding out two papers. They're supposed to clock in at a maximum of seven pages each, but I have a nasty and lamentable habit of exceeding(and sometimes doubling and trebling)the maximum, and I want to give myself ample time to wield my finely-honed and well-worn academic bullshit shovel. I don't relish the prospect of cramming twenty to thirty pages of analysis into a two-hour window the night before the paper is due. In my youth, such a prospect was a heady adrenaline buzz. Now it makes me reach for the Aleve and pine for a fifth shot of Jaegr.

I received the grades for my in-class essay test today. A+ for the first question and A- for the second for an overall grade of A. The second question was, if you'll recall, the one I rushed in order to beat the clock. I could rewrite it in a bid to bump the overall grade to an A+, but that would mean writing an additional seven-page paper that would magically mushroom to fifteen, and I'm not sure I have either the time or the mental stamina to accept that challenge. Plus, I'm not sure such effort would be worth it to bump the grade from an A- to an A+ and gain half a letter grade. I'll probably wait until I've completed the two papers and see if I've either the need or the ability to revisit the topic. If there's no gas left in the tank, then screw it. I'm not busting my balls for an extra point two-five.

All this scholarly claptrap and academic grandstanding has left precious little time for fannish productivity, alas, and so ficcing is at a standstill while my brain is occupied by Mongols and Kazakhs, and Moghuls and Oirats and Uzbekhs and Uighurs and Kalmyks and Bashkirs. Part III of "Detail Man" is ten to fifteen pages from seeing daylight, and it looks like it might remain in the dark until the end of June. I'm so sorry, [livejournal.com profile] innie_darling; I know you've been patiently waiting since Ocfuckingtober for this story. I am a bad exchange writer and deserve to be pimp-slapped by a sloppy-drunk Azazel in Hell's Cantina and Satanico Pandemonium Gentleman's Club. At this rate, you might get the completed story by this Halloween. ~is ashamed~
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I am dead-dog tired. Because enrollment in class is a requisite for university housing, I'm taking a six-week course in Central Asian History, and today was the in-class essay. We had three hours to answer two questions of our choosing. I used two blue books and two hours and fifty-seven minutes and still didn't answer the second question as thoroughly as I would've liked. No, I'm not Hermione Granger. I'm just constantly haunted by the fear of paucity, that bane of professorial existence wherein lazy students scribble vague, unsubstantiated generalities onto the page in a bid to camouflage their gross unpreparedness. Perhaps nine pages for one response was overkill when you consider that he classified five paragraphs as a thorough answer, but I would rather overperform than underwhelm.

I only managed three pages for the second question, but by then, I was running out of time, and my hand was cramping, and so I left him a note at the bottom of the page crying surrender and promising to be more specific on the rewrite if necessary. And I meant it. But just between me and you, I hope it isn't because I've no desire to tread that particular patch of historical ground again.

I'm proud of my effort but anxious about the results, and the combination had rendered me groggy and slack-jawed and a trifle headachy from three hours of rigorous participation in the esteemed and oft-held Nerd Olympiad, and so I doubt I'll be fannishly productive tonight, much as I'd like to fic and squee about the season finale of Criminal Minds. Like as not, I'll stare at the TV in a vacant stupor until I collapse from exhaustion at a ridiculously early hour.

Oh, all right. I'll say this about the CM finale. It made me do the Xandir P. Whifflebottom Panic Dance. "Oh, my God, oh, my God, oh, my God, oh, my God, oh, my God, oh, my God, oh, my God...!"

Criminal Minds Finale--MAJOR SPOILERS )

A+
I am dead-dog tired. Because enrollment in class is a requisite for university housing, I'm taking a six-week course in Central Asian History, and today was the in-class essay. We had three hours to answer two questions of our choosing. I used two blue books and two hours and fifty-seven minutes and still didn't answer the second question as thoroughly as I would've liked. No, I'm not Hermione Granger. I'm just constantly haunted by the fear of paucity, that bane of professorial existence wherein lazy students scribble vague, unsubstantiated generalities onto the page in a bid to camouflage their gross unpreparedness. Perhaps nine pages for one response was overkill when you consider that he classified five paragraphs as a thorough answer, but I would rather overperform than underwhelm.

I only managed three pages for the second question, but by then, I was running out of time, and my hand was cramping, and so I left him a note at the bottom of the page crying surrender and promising to be more specific on the rewrite if necessary. And I meant it. But just between me and you, I hope it isn't because I've no desire to tread that particular patch of historical ground again.

I'm proud of my effort but anxious about the results, and the combination had rendered me groggy and slack-jawed and a trifle headachy from three hours of rigorous participation in the esteemed and oft-held Nerd Olympiad, and so I doubt I'll be fannishly productive tonight, much as I'd like to fic and squee about the season finale of Criminal Minds. Like as not, I'll stare at the TV in a vacant stupor until I collapse from exhaustion at a ridiculously early hour.

Oh, all right. I'll say this about the CM finale. It made me do the Xandir P. Whifflebottom Panic Dance. "Oh, my God, oh, my God, oh, my God, oh, my God, oh, my God, oh, my God, oh, my God...!"

Criminal Minds Finale--MAJOR SPOILERS )

A+
My new Ancient Mythology "teacher" is a ravening imbecile, and I have decided to attend the class as seldom as possible in order to safeguard my sanity and lower my risk of a fatal stroke. I should have suspected the worst when she casually mentioned during her introduction that she was an archeology student with an "interest" in mythology. I should've run screaming to the nearest computer and dropped her in favor of one of the five other sections of the course. But I'm a creature of habit who'd already prepared myself for the leisure of a late afternoon course, and so I did nothing.

Oh, my God, how I will pay.

The defining moment for me came yesterday. She had included "allegory" as one of the terms with which we should familiarize ourselves. One of the students raised her hand and requested a definition of allegory. A simple request, I thought. After all, if the instructor has included it on a list of important terms, terms upon which we shall construct our analyses of assorted myths, then surely, she knows what it means.

Except she didn't. When pressed for a concise definition, she could not provide one except to offer that it was a form of "symbolism."

As George Carlin would say, "Well, that's a little vague, isn't it?"

Perhaps it would've behooved her to point out that allegory is a type of symbolism in which a character acts as an avatar for an idea or gestalt, a personified or corporeal symbol for abstract concepts undefined by an exact and concrete description. For example, "Young Goodman Brown" by Nathaniel Hawthorne is an example of allegorical fiction exploring the eponymous Young Goodman Brown's loss of faith.

How hard is that, especially for a student working towards a master's degree? I haven't studied allegory since my sophomore year in high school, when I was forced to read "Brown" and The Scarlet Letter. Yet she couldn't do it. Nor could she identify the Native American tribe in Maine who had told a myth about how corn and tobacco came to their tribe. It was the Micmac, for the record. You want to know how I know that? From Stephen King's Pet Semetary, of all places. If I can dredge that formerly useless tidbit from the murky depths of my fannish obsession with Stephen King, then she has no excuse for not doing the most basic of research via such esoteric and secretive technology as Google.

If this woman can't be assed to know whereof she speaks on even the most rudimentary level, then why should I be expected to care? That being said, I'm feebly tempted to put on my l33t intelligence boots and do my damndest to utterly outclass her in every possible respect. I'm not looking to humiliate her, mind, but I shouldn't be better able to explain the myth/legend of Heracles and the hydra after one class in mythology than the woman who holds my academic future in her fumbling hands.

Just reliving yesterday's carnival of incompetence has made me snappish and jittery, so I'm going to watch CSI:NY on Spike and fic before my brain blows a circuit and I spend my remaining years sucking Gerber through a straw in some derelict convalescent home. I can still do that much for my health.
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