good to know

gregory peck was on the rowing team at berkeley. a fact that I find comforting. this, in a time when I need some comfort.

mar·gue·rite

I can't remember if I told him, but yes, daisies are my favorite flower.

galen

when is the future coming?

didn't they promise us that by now, we'd be living in houses that thought for themselves, zipping around in jetfuel-powered flying cars, sending out holograms of ourselves to visit friends, and getting all of our food in pill form? I'm tired of chewing, already.

*Disclaimer*

The Deacs has just informed me that my habit of saving posts as drafts and then publishing them with the timestamps backdated, sometimes by over a month (hey, sometimes there's research to be undertaken) is highly annoying.

To the Deacs, I say, poo to you. Just start from the beginning and read through. You're not missing much.

could it be that I'm actually more fucked up than I think I am?

piaculum

him: so, what should I give up for lent? I want it to be a real sacrifice.

her: chastity

let them sing it for you

there's this website, developed by the swedish, of course, that sings back the words you type in.

it's not hours of fun, but a few minutes, at least. really, what else have you got going on?

anxious, anyone?

sometimes when I'm nervous, I get this uncontrollable craving for bad sugar. the gritty kind that coats your tongue and leaves your mouth all filmy with corn syrup. I just ate NINE mini almond joys, 3 mini hershey bars, 3 full sized reese's peanut butter cups, 7 or 8 mini reese's cups, a bag of m&ms, and a take5 bar. I'm not even going to count the cadbury bar, since that's practically high quality. o, but let's also throw in 2 bags of famous amos chocolate chip cookies and a handful or two of starbursts. and the swedish fish.

there's the entire rest of the night ahead. I'm just getting started.

*sigh*

it's been raining and grey this whole time, and as much as I'd like to think it's not, I can't help but feel like it's a sign.

la dolce vita

is there any designer, or man for that matter, who understood so well what it means to be the ultimate feminine as Valentino Garavani? the first time I ever saw a Valentino dress was the spring collection of 1988. he sent down a dress made of chiffon and crepe that was fitted so close to the body that it made the model look as if she had a cloud wrapped tightly around her.


instantly, I wanted to be that--lean and lithe and fierce. a floating mist of wispy chiffon draped around a core of steel. living in a world of acid-washed denim and silver chains, I had a glimpse of what I could make myself out to be: coolly luxuriant, nonchalant, sublimely elegant; a woman.


I'm still aiming for that, even if right now it's mainly a core of flab encased in polyblend wool and microfiber. one dares to dream.


I'm sad to know he's retiring, sadder to imagine the summer shows without his ribbons and twirls, and saddest to think I will never walk by the Valentino window and gasp at the sight of seeing something like this ever again:

pherein

the boy sitting across from me in the library smells like something I want to lean over and sniff.

do you think he'll notice?

jims

there's a huddle of concerned students gathering, as they've just witnessed a body flying through the air and skid to a stop nearly 10 feet away from where the bike it was riding a moment ago has fallen.

"are you okay?"

"god, there's blood!"

"hey, it's going to be okay..."

"maybe we should get him to a hospital. hey, we should get you to a hospital. sew that up."

but he stares down, in disbelief. shock holding his eyes to the large rent in his sleeve, disclosing an even larger one in his arm. "o, my god. o my god. o my god" he whispers.

the crowd sighs with relief. he can speak. "no man, it'll be okay. they'll fix you up at the hospital."

he's confused by this. hospital?? he holds up his sleeve, "how are they going to fix this at the hospital?? it's cashmere!"

"dude. forget your sweater. you're arm's got a hole in it!"

his head whips up, frustration and disdain tightening the lines on his face as he holds up his arm and hisses, "skin grows back. cashmere doesn't!"



this is by far my favorite story about my friend jims, who taught me it was okay to place the important things high up on the list, even if everyone else says you shouldn't.

jims, I miss you.

a sure bet

$20 to the first person who can make me laugh.

any takers? anyone? anyone?