...for it's another sunny day here in the south bay, and I've skipped one whole day during the week of posting. To be fair, I didn't really skip, because the cable at home was out. I'm feeling rather ambivalent, for people in my life are unhappy.
It seems a theme of late that one thing will go not so good, and another part of my life will be cool as hell. Today I learned how to import cd's into iTunes and beef up my blues library. In fact I'm listening to Etta James while waiting interminably for changes. I'll just bring in my entire music library and never interact with anyone ever again. I'll just tell people if they need something to e-mail me. I'm feeling just that antisocial right now. And then I feel like I want to go all over and talk to everyone. Can anyone say "insane"? I knew you could!
anyhow, my taste in music has run to the frenetic and heavy alternative lately. And Blues, of course. The woman who is tired of blues or Shakespeare is spiritualy dead, in my albeit subjective as hell opinion.
Feh, good and bad, yin and yang. I hear a tattoo calling my name...
Thursday, March 31, 2005
Tuesday, March 29, 2005
if only...
I could write like this chick. Click the header to see who I'm talking about, but only for like the next two days. I think she writes on thursdays, and mostly about food. I think I probably have too many interests to write about only one thing, at least well.
So, the DIET. I've actually been on't for four solid weeks, in the middle of the fifth, and I've been extraordinarily disciplined. Except for minor slips here and there, like snickers and cheetos, and one very embarrassing day on Easter (I downed a whole bag of See's small chocolate eggs, and had two giant scoops of mashed taters, with RANCH), I've been sticking to the no-carb, limited carb lifestyle. That doesn't mean that it doesn't suck, mind you. It simply means that my blood chemistry (the doc's word, not mine) is actually changing.
For example: yesterday the coke machine wouldn't take the dollar bill, and I couldn't get my new almost fave - Diet Coke with Lime. So I settled for Regular Pepsi. Now, I usually can't stand Pepsi, not only because it's too sweet, but also for maudlin' reasons, which one person who reads this blog knows about. Suffice it to say, I drink coke. I think Pepsi probably has four times the sugar content of any other drink. In fact, about 4p.m., right when I should be alert, thanks to this shifted chemistry thing, I get a raging headache. Yep, pancreas went into overdrive to deal with the sucrose, and my blood sugar went down, and I get this metaphorical vise clamped on my head.
It would seem that my silly metabolism has been boosted somewhat, being that I don't have the major energy downturn at 3 any more, and I'm actualy losing weight, despite the fact that I'm actually eating. I also ended up broken out from all the chocolate, since that was the only really bad thing I ate.
And why the hell, thanks very much, has my metabolism taken on hints of karmic intervention? I swear, every time I do one little thing mean or not exactly pc or moral, I get slammed. and apparently, if I have one little slip on soda or candy, the body goes haywire... It figures I'd be oversensitive there too...
FEH
So, the DIET. I've actually been on't for four solid weeks, in the middle of the fifth, and I've been extraordinarily disciplined. Except for minor slips here and there, like snickers and cheetos, and one very embarrassing day on Easter (I downed a whole bag of See's small chocolate eggs, and had two giant scoops of mashed taters, with RANCH), I've been sticking to the no-carb, limited carb lifestyle. That doesn't mean that it doesn't suck, mind you. It simply means that my blood chemistry (the doc's word, not mine) is actually changing.
For example: yesterday the coke machine wouldn't take the dollar bill, and I couldn't get my new almost fave - Diet Coke with Lime. So I settled for Regular Pepsi. Now, I usually can't stand Pepsi, not only because it's too sweet, but also for maudlin' reasons, which one person who reads this blog knows about. Suffice it to say, I drink coke. I think Pepsi probably has four times the sugar content of any other drink. In fact, about 4p.m., right when I should be alert, thanks to this shifted chemistry thing, I get a raging headache. Yep, pancreas went into overdrive to deal with the sucrose, and my blood sugar went down, and I get this metaphorical vise clamped on my head.
It would seem that my silly metabolism has been boosted somewhat, being that I don't have the major energy downturn at 3 any more, and I'm actualy losing weight, despite the fact that I'm actually eating. I also ended up broken out from all the chocolate, since that was the only really bad thing I ate.
And why the hell, thanks very much, has my metabolism taken on hints of karmic intervention? I swear, every time I do one little thing mean or not exactly pc or moral, I get slammed. and apparently, if I have one little slip on soda or candy, the body goes haywire... It figures I'd be oversensitive there too...
FEH
Monday, March 28, 2005
too, well, too...
...thought out, contrived, composed. That's been my blog state of late, especially when typing at different times of day. I really must take a tiny break right now. What I should do is get out of my chair and actually walk around, since my eyelids are heavy and all the caffeine has worn off. But instead Im looking at a different section of my monitor. No I'm not a tech geek or anything.
Ultimate joy is the feeling of unfulfillable longing. This according to one of history's geatest minds, C. S. Lewis. all I know if Narnia and the Turkish Delight Debacle. That doesn't seem so joyous to me.
Ultimate joy is the feeling of unfulfillable longing. This according to one of history's geatest minds, C. S. Lewis. all I know if Narnia and the Turkish Delight Debacle. That doesn't seem so joyous to me.
Sunday, March 27, 2005
no, I'm not smiling...
Actually, that's a grimace I'm hiding, along with my unmakeupped face. Do you love the black fingernails? I was watching Repo Man, on the advice of a co-worker, who was into the punk thing back in the 70's and early 80's, and who highly recommended it. I promised, and it was weird. Harry Dean Stanton is the antithesis of sexy, in my opinion. Anyway, to re-connect with my own personal brand of reality, I painted my fingernails black.
So, I'm having impure thoughts about the gorgeous man with the long curly hair. Oh, okay, not really impure. But I went shopping this saturday and got shorter skirts than usual (which actually look kind of okay on me), because of him. I know I know I know, don't be stupid. I do need to feel attractive though, and what better way than to kind of dress up for someone who doesn't know you're alive?
And, to add insult to injury, I'll never ever do anything about it. Like heavens forbid that I'd actually ask someone out. I'm such a ^%$#* princess.
Diva, Drama Queen, you name it... But as I'm officially absolutely single, and free as a bird, with none but unattainable crushing on my agenda, I can be whatever I damn well want...
So, I'm having impure thoughts about the gorgeous man with the long curly hair. Oh, okay, not really impure. But I went shopping this saturday and got shorter skirts than usual (which actually look kind of okay on me), because of him. I know I know I know, don't be stupid. I do need to feel attractive though, and what better way than to kind of dress up for someone who doesn't know you're alive?
And, to add insult to injury, I'll never ever do anything about it. Like heavens forbid that I'd actually ask someone out. I'm such a ^%$#* princess.
Diva, Drama Queen, you name it... But as I'm officially absolutely single, and free as a bird, with none but unattainable crushing on my agenda, I can be whatever I damn well want...
Friday, March 25, 2005
flirting...I think.
I have to say right here and now I hate the whole idea of uncertainty. Especially when it comes to people flirting with me. I'm just never sure of people are just being nice or if something else is going on. And it's not like I can just say "Hey, are you flirting with me?" because if they aren't I have this long tailed stigma attached to me forever, like who does this girl think she is?
Of course, the particular interaction I'm referring to is actually sort of happening while I type. Ah the benefits of an open working environment. It's not like I'm going to DO anything about it, the person, while sexy as hell, is very married with child. But that isn't stopping said person from noticing whether I'm smiling or not, or telling me a particular song he's put over the loudspeaker is dedicated to me, or catching my eye at odd moments.
Nor does it help that he's 6'4", and GORGEOUS, a totally manly man, and intelligent and nice to boot.
FEH
Of course, the particular interaction I'm referring to is actually sort of happening while I type. Ah the benefits of an open working environment. It's not like I'm going to DO anything about it, the person, while sexy as hell, is very married with child. But that isn't stopping said person from noticing whether I'm smiling or not, or telling me a particular song he's put over the loudspeaker is dedicated to me, or catching my eye at odd moments.
Nor does it help that he's 6'4", and GORGEOUS, a totally manly man, and intelligent and nice to boot.
FEH
missing...
I'm sure everyone's had that weird feeling that something is missing. Either it's the fact that they've forgotten something as they're leaving the house, something they've always just picked up without paying attention to it, and somehow got distracted, and left it behind. I've done it a gazillion times. Like today, I walked out to my car and got half way to work and realized I hadn't put on any lipstick.
Fortunately, I have lipstick in my purse at all times, mainly for the after-lunch refresh of pouty perfection (or imperfection, as it were). I just wish I had something in my purse for the feeling of "missing" I've been having, in fits and starts, for about a week. Some pill or something that makes me get over it already. Not like I'm obsessing, heavens no. But I was sitting and watching my favorite show, Overhaulin', and the twinge comes back. It's weird.
It's like a little hiccup somewhere under my sternum. An icky feeling of missingness, like I imagine phantom limb syndrome might feel. Not quite depressing, but the feeling too that it needs to be replaced. Like I've somehow lost a few cds into the ether of moving, and I need to replace them, so thay I may have the pleasure of them again. Of course, this is nothing to losing a friend, of any stripe. And I keep running into things that remind me of the "missingness", like a favorite song (how trite!), certain kinds of music, an iPod commercial, an upcoming event I'm working on, a notation of an upcoming birthday that I stupidly wrote IN INK in my book. Even if I cross it out, I still know what's under there.
Even though I'll be insanely busy this summer with theatre, it won't take it away! How can I find something to help? It started to fade a little, due to exhaustion, but something always comes up to stick it up my nose again.
Apparently one of the most grievous side effects of all this self-improvement work I'm doing is the ability to actually feel the sense of loss instead of covering it up with emotional perfume or food or whatever. They say that as one grows older, it gets easier... nope, not easier, not at all. Harder. Like when the "missingness" hits me, it's really damn painful. I mean, really. I know what's missing isn't coming back. I also know that it can never be replaced. This reality can't be escaped, and oh, dear friends - it HURTS.
Fortunately, I have lipstick in my purse at all times, mainly for the after-lunch refresh of pouty perfection (or imperfection, as it were). I just wish I had something in my purse for the feeling of "missing" I've been having, in fits and starts, for about a week. Some pill or something that makes me get over it already. Not like I'm obsessing, heavens no. But I was sitting and watching my favorite show, Overhaulin', and the twinge comes back. It's weird.
It's like a little hiccup somewhere under my sternum. An icky feeling of missingness, like I imagine phantom limb syndrome might feel. Not quite depressing, but the feeling too that it needs to be replaced. Like I've somehow lost a few cds into the ether of moving, and I need to replace them, so thay I may have the pleasure of them again. Of course, this is nothing to losing a friend, of any stripe. And I keep running into things that remind me of the "missingness", like a favorite song (how trite!), certain kinds of music, an iPod commercial, an upcoming event I'm working on, a notation of an upcoming birthday that I stupidly wrote IN INK in my book. Even if I cross it out, I still know what's under there.
Even though I'll be insanely busy this summer with theatre, it won't take it away! How can I find something to help? It started to fade a little, due to exhaustion, but something always comes up to stick it up my nose again.
Apparently one of the most grievous side effects of all this self-improvement work I'm doing is the ability to actually feel the sense of loss instead of covering it up with emotional perfume or food or whatever. They say that as one grows older, it gets easier... nope, not easier, not at all. Harder. Like when the "missingness" hits me, it's really damn painful. I mean, really. I know what's missing isn't coming back. I also know that it can never be replaced. This reality can't be escaped, and oh, dear friends - it HURTS.
Thursday, March 24, 2005
the sun!
I was working on a post, which I figuratively tore up two times, about the extinction of really good men. I was thinking of the things I could say on the drive this morning, and realized that the sun has finally come out. I mean this in the literal sense. I think it's been raining or drizzling and otherwise gloomy and gray for most of a week. I was tootling along, listening to my morning show, laughing at the fact that some poor 19 year old has never kissed a girl, and I saw the glisteing green hills on 680.
This is why I love California in the winter and spring. When it does rain, all the cattle grazing goes this incredible green. It looks like velvet with play-trees stuck on. There was no haze, just blue sky and green hills. Usually I just zone out, but I actually noticed something outside myself this morning, and as made happier as a result. And I mostly avoid the sun, on account of death white skin... but today I may just go out and bask for five minutes.
somehow I don't much care about the extincion of real men. In fact, I had a meeting with the theatre group I worled with last summer, and they want me to paint two shows, and will work around my schedule. Amazing. Spring really is busting out everywhere.
This is why I love California in the winter and spring. When it does rain, all the cattle grazing goes this incredible green. It looks like velvet with play-trees stuck on. There was no haze, just blue sky and green hills. Usually I just zone out, but I actually noticed something outside myself this morning, and as made happier as a result. And I mostly avoid the sun, on account of death white skin... but today I may just go out and bask for five minutes.
somehow I don't much care about the extincion of real men. In fact, I had a meeting with the theatre group I worled with last summer, and they want me to paint two shows, and will work around my schedule. Amazing. Spring really is busting out everywhere.
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
ridiculous update #2
Well, other than my car making a really weird noise this morning on the 680, causing my heart to pound and me to go into a semi panic, nothing really happened. At least that I know of. A friend of mine called last night, surprise surprise. I called him in a fit of nostalgia on friday after IT happened, and he was remarkably nice to me, considering. My horoscope says today:
Approach romantic matters with healthy caution now. Things and people aren't necessarily what or who they seem, and only time will show their true colors. You don't have to disengage, but don't give your all.
Romantic? Does romance even exist anymore? I think it definitely rates up there with the Coelocanth (sp? does anyone know how to spell that) and the tasmanian devil and the dodo. Existed at one time, can be found in the fossil record, and now completely extinct, along with all known ancestors and descendants. Perhaps it can't survive in our hostile environment.
And in other news, I completely broke down and started blubbering on the highway this am. Perhaps I'm still mourning? Or maybe the weird noise emitted some harmonic thing in my brain. What a total waste of eyeliner.
Approach romantic matters with healthy caution now. Things and people aren't necessarily what or who they seem, and only time will show their true colors. You don't have to disengage, but don't give your all.
Romantic? Does romance even exist anymore? I think it definitely rates up there with the Coelocanth (sp? does anyone know how to spell that) and the tasmanian devil and the dodo. Existed at one time, can be found in the fossil record, and now completely extinct, along with all known ancestors and descendants. Perhaps it can't survive in our hostile environment.
And in other news, I completely broke down and started blubbering on the highway this am. Perhaps I'm still mourning? Or maybe the weird noise emitted some harmonic thing in my brain. What a total waste of eyeliner.
Monday, March 21, 2005
I can't believe...
The number of truly hideous patterns out there for short evening dresses. This one-->
is literally the best one I could find for my no-waisted self. The one in the middle with all the ruffles on the bum. See, those of us with flat derrieres can carry off stuff on the caboose, unlike the more heavy hipped lasses.
But I digress. All I could find on the premiere site for sewing patterns (that would be sewingpatterns.com, in case anyone is interested in viewing the hideousness) is a bunch of patterns for bridal party separates. All in those insipid spring pastels and gorge raising florals. Save me from Laura Ashley!
I couldn't even find anything in the Vogue pattern section, and they usually have at least some amusing stuff, at the very least. Obviously, I need to pattern shop in fall or winter, or even around Hallowe'en to get the good stuff. FEH, I say!
is literally the best one I could find for my no-waisted self. The one in the middle with all the ruffles on the bum. See, those of us with flat derrieres can carry off stuff on the caboose, unlike the more heavy hipped lasses.
But I digress. All I could find on the premiere site for sewing patterns (that would be sewingpatterns.com, in case anyone is interested in viewing the hideousness) is a bunch of patterns for bridal party separates. All in those insipid spring pastels and gorge raising florals. Save me from Laura Ashley!
I couldn't even find anything in the Vogue pattern section, and they usually have at least some amusing stuff, at the very least. Obviously, I need to pattern shop in fall or winter, or even around Hallowe'en to get the good stuff. FEH, I say!
the ridiculous addendum
hmmm, just got out of a meeting, in which was a very cute guy with long curly hair, who may or may not have been flirting with me. I'm existing in such a state of shock over this whole last weekend I can't tell anymore. Punch drunk and stunned, I should just turn off the antennae, but I can't!
In other news, can't decide whether I want to audition or not. I should just start driving up there and see if I make it in time. Besides, I on the Board...
FEH
In other news, can't decide whether I want to audition or not. I should just start driving up there and see if I make it in time. Besides, I on the Board...
FEH
ridiculous...or psychic?
That would be me today! I've been having weird fluttery feelings in my belly since about 11 am today. Either I'm suffering from some weird nervous disorder or something's going to happen. Perhaps I should call all my friends and see if they're driving anywhere in the rain today? Hey, are you guys being safe out there?
Not only do I despise not knowing how I stand with people, I become very impatient with myself when I get this weird stage fright, prom feeling. That's right, the first time I felt it was right before my date showed up for Junior Prom. It may well have been the fact that I was wearing a hideous pink dress (and I do keep that picture for sentimental reasons), or a nervous sort of mothra-in-the-belly thing.
I mean, I'm all excited and half nervous, and I have no clue why. My hypertension drugs don't do this, they're supposed to SLOW my heart rate, not cause weirdness like this. I haven't taken too much Allegra... it could be the guy who sits behind me, but I'm fairly certain everyone who works here is married. What the F$#@!
So, nothing's happening to me or with the rest of my evening that I know of...hmmm, let's check the horoscope...nope, not a thing. Like those things are really accurate. Every time I read it, I think, vague! and then something happens which could be made to fit that vagueness, which just perpetuates my irrational belief that "Hey, it could be true." But this is the woman that still believes in faeries and princes charming, too. Not real grounded in reality are we?
But darn it, I'm actually really practical. I don't get feeings like this unless I'm meeting someone for the first time, or I'm about to go on stage. I don't even get this feeling for interviews.
So watch this space for happenings, of any sort.
Not only do I despise not knowing how I stand with people, I become very impatient with myself when I get this weird stage fright, prom feeling. That's right, the first time I felt it was right before my date showed up for Junior Prom. It may well have been the fact that I was wearing a hideous pink dress (and I do keep that picture for sentimental reasons), or a nervous sort of mothra-in-the-belly thing.
I mean, I'm all excited and half nervous, and I have no clue why. My hypertension drugs don't do this, they're supposed to SLOW my heart rate, not cause weirdness like this. I haven't taken too much Allegra... it could be the guy who sits behind me, but I'm fairly certain everyone who works here is married. What the F$#@!
So, nothing's happening to me or with the rest of my evening that I know of...hmmm, let's check the horoscope...nope, not a thing. Like those things are really accurate. Every time I read it, I think, vague! and then something happens which could be made to fit that vagueness, which just perpetuates my irrational belief that "Hey, it could be true." But this is the woman that still believes in faeries and princes charming, too. Not real grounded in reality are we?
But darn it, I'm actually really practical. I don't get feeings like this unless I'm meeting someone for the first time, or I'm about to go on stage. I don't even get this feeling for interviews.
So watch this space for happenings, of any sort.
Sunday, March 20, 2005
shoes...
I think that more retail therapy is definitely indicated for the healing process to progress. I've just been glancing through the Zappo's website and have fallen in love with Irregular Choice. I discovered this fabulous brand of shoe during Scapino!, when I was looking for rounded toe pin-up shoes, and I must have them! If I can't have the Louis Vuitton Satin pump, this'll be the next best thing. And I need some boots, so as to totally flout the whole spring thing.
Have I mentioned yet that I cannot stand the whole pastel thing? I suppose anyone could have guessed that by now. I find pastel colors insipid, and they wash me out anyway.
In other news, I'm auditioning for Thunderbabe. One of my friends said I'd be a perfect villainess. Ah, they know me so well! Of course, I have no time for this, but as I'm free as a bird again, I'll just MAKE the time...
Have I mentioned yet that I cannot stand the whole pastel thing? I suppose anyone could have guessed that by now. I find pastel colors insipid, and they wash me out anyway.
In other news, I'm auditioning for Thunderbabe. One of my friends said I'd be a perfect villainess. Ah, they know me so well! Of course, I have no time for this, but as I'm free as a bird again, I'll just MAKE the time...
Saturday, March 19, 2005
rapture...and heartsickness
...is going out on a blustery saturday morning and having some pampering retail therapy. Got the talons clipped (so as to cut down on the number of misspellings and other typos), got the hair chopped (it hasn't been this short since 1998), and then came home and ate my head off.
Heartsickness is the icky pain in the middle of my chest. I do feel as if someone's reached in there behind my sternum and removed little pits of heart tissue, and then flung them about with utter abandon. And then, when they've left marks on the walls and the polished tops of the coffee table, and even fallen in the scented candles, then they are fished out, and stomped on.
But let's get back to rapture, shall we? The photo somewhat resembles Debbie Harry, doesn't it? Ot perhaps I'm delusional. Actually I know I'm delusional, because I'm actually feeling rather optimistic. Not about the stomping heart thing, but about my ability to recover, having learned that too little of a good thing can make you just as miserable as too much.
I know, ya'll have learned this way before now, but I need sense applied with a sledgehammer. But this is MY revelation dammit, and I'm going to expound.
So yes, too little affection leaves one doubting one's sanity, since one (and this would be me, for the dull of wit who may stumble across this post) has ranted and railed against too much attention and cheesily desperate attempts to keep one in thrall and paralysed, and one would think that it should be all or nothing. Nope.
I require just enough petting and praise to feel loved, but not so much as it takes on no value or meaning. I don't know that my wants are all that ridiculous. After all, I know they're out there; these elusive men who are truly wonderful (I've even met one or two) and who are actually up to the challenge of a real love affair.
And the next lesson? Don't date. Of course, this could change if I meet a completely hunky, talented, direct, commanding, affectionate, intelligent person. However, as I move in either the high tech world (geek central, plus it just doesn't DO to date one's co-workers) or theatre (I'll not date another actor any time soon, one drama queen is enough, thanks!), it doesn't look likely that I'll meet someone who meets all these criteria.
I don't have a thing against geeks, except their usual lack of socialization... but that's another post...
my heart hurts.
Heartsickness is the icky pain in the middle of my chest. I do feel as if someone's reached in there behind my sternum and removed little pits of heart tissue, and then flung them about with utter abandon. And then, when they've left marks on the walls and the polished tops of the coffee table, and even fallen in the scented candles, then they are fished out, and stomped on.
But let's get back to rapture, shall we? The photo somewhat resembles Debbie Harry, doesn't it? Ot perhaps I'm delusional. Actually I know I'm delusional, because I'm actually feeling rather optimistic. Not about the stomping heart thing, but about my ability to recover, having learned that too little of a good thing can make you just as miserable as too much.
I know, ya'll have learned this way before now, but I need sense applied with a sledgehammer. But this is MY revelation dammit, and I'm going to expound.
So yes, too little affection leaves one doubting one's sanity, since one (and this would be me, for the dull of wit who may stumble across this post) has ranted and railed against too much attention and cheesily desperate attempts to keep one in thrall and paralysed, and one would think that it should be all or nothing. Nope.
I require just enough petting and praise to feel loved, but not so much as it takes on no value or meaning. I don't know that my wants are all that ridiculous. After all, I know they're out there; these elusive men who are truly wonderful (I've even met one or two) and who are actually up to the challenge of a real love affair.
And the next lesson? Don't date. Of course, this could change if I meet a completely hunky, talented, direct, commanding, affectionate, intelligent person. However, as I move in either the high tech world (geek central, plus it just doesn't DO to date one's co-workers) or theatre (I'll not date another actor any time soon, one drama queen is enough, thanks!), it doesn't look likely that I'll meet someone who meets all these criteria.
I don't have a thing against geeks, except their usual lack of socialization... but that's another post...
my heart hurts.
readership...
has just decreased by 33 and 1/3%. This is distressing, because I've lost a very good friend. And my bestest friend is too far to cry on. I wish I was in Portland! And through no fault of my own, I am bereft and deserted. This is why the stolen photo from some funerary monument. Apparently I am not fantastic enough to try for. Perhaps there will be more tomorrow, but for now, I am mopey girl, and wallowing will be my new pastime.
Thursday, March 17, 2005
the word for the evening is...
Mortified. Yep, that's it. Once again, go here www.m-w.com to look up one of YOUR most appropriate words.
I quote my most favorite poem by W.H. Auden:
leaning out
over the dreadful precipice
one contemptuous tree
I have a lovely picture in my head: A thousand foot granite cliff, sheer all the way down to the jagged rock strewn base. Not one hand or toe hold. Awesome to behold. A speck at the very top, now green, now grayish brown. It's almost too far away to make out, but it's a tree, and the tree has new spring leaves just starting. In the manner of dreams, one gets closer, and sees that, unbelievably, this vibrant living tree grows straight out of the unforgiving and hardest rock imaginable, clinging there, despite the ravening wind. I could argue, of course, the tree has no eyes, and no brain to appreciate this loveliest of images. But I do, and I'll remember...
I quote my most favorite poem by W.H. Auden:
leaning out
over the dreadful precipice
one contemptuous tree
I have a lovely picture in my head: A thousand foot granite cliff, sheer all the way down to the jagged rock strewn base. Not one hand or toe hold. Awesome to behold. A speck at the very top, now green, now grayish brown. It's almost too far away to make out, but it's a tree, and the tree has new spring leaves just starting. In the manner of dreams, one gets closer, and sees that, unbelievably, this vibrant living tree grows straight out of the unforgiving and hardest rock imaginable, clinging there, despite the ravening wind. I could argue, of course, the tree has no eyes, and no brain to appreciate this loveliest of images. But I do, and I'll remember...
ravenous...
For some odd reason, I'm famished this morning. It didn't actually hit me until about 5 minutes ago. But then I got some more hot caffeine liberally laced with powdered artery clogger and fake sugar, and another avalanche of things to do before noon, so for minute long stetches, I can get my mind off cheetos. Writing about it isn't helping either. Stupid diet. Click the header if you want to go through the same or uniquely different pain...
In other news, I finally decided on a new project to embark upon. I have yet to own a "little black dress" (horrors, a costume designer who doesn't own this key of all wardrobe components! what is the world coming to?) and so I will make one.
I am now off to eat my taco chicken salad (I know, I know, but one can't be brilliant at everything)...
In other news, I finally decided on a new project to embark upon. I have yet to own a "little black dress" (horrors, a costume designer who doesn't own this key of all wardrobe components! what is the world coming to?) and so I will make one.
I am now off to eat my taco chicken salad (I know, I know, but one can't be brilliant at everything)...
Wednesday, March 16, 2005
orchid
isn't she a darling? I just love my living dead rag doll - click "exume" to the right for more dolls, and the stories of decay...
Tuesday, March 15, 2005
the ides of...
March, actually. Which, of course, could explain the peevishness. It's not as if I'm playing Beethoven, now is it? (Warning, obscure literary reference) Historically the ides of March have been associated with hares and Lewis Carroll, which also explains my fascination with tea parties, deep dark rabbit warrens, and madness. I still want to give up.
acapella...
I was transported. I was surfing my radio dial, because my cd player in my car refuses to work (I think my cast recording of "Once Upon a Mattress" was finally too much for it), and I came across the best radio station. Click the title of this post to navigate to KKUP Cupertino. The novelty of actually being a productive member of society again, and the commute that comes with it, is wearing a bit thin, but, it was made considerably less interminable by the lovely sounds I was hearing. As the title may suggest, it was a selection of recordings of signed and not signed acapella groups doing original and covers of things like The Beatles "Yesterday", and "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band" complete with voices that sounded like electric guitars. I realize Bobby McFerrin made this a craze a gazillion years ago, but I don't gives a rat's fuzzy behind.
Anyhow, being a performer since the tender age of 5 has made me a tad bit jaded and cynical, and I was delighted by the new things I could hear on a tiny indie radio station. The show was called Human Voices (or something like that) and it ran until 10am. I'm by no means the best performer, but I've always been a solo or melody girl, and to hear such loving detail in every harmonic was a thrill. It makes me less resentful of the fact that nearly every musical director I've had makes me sing mezzo or alto, just because I can hear the music. At least I know now that being a melodramatic soprano hasn't completely ruined me.
I think I'm going searching for some of those recordings, one in particular was a cover of "I Feel Good" by Groove, and did they ever!
So click on the title, and listen on Tuesday morning from 7-10, and see for yourself!
Anyhow, being a performer since the tender age of 5 has made me a tad bit jaded and cynical, and I was delighted by the new things I could hear on a tiny indie radio station. The show was called Human Voices (or something like that) and it ran until 10am. I'm by no means the best performer, but I've always been a solo or melody girl, and to hear such loving detail in every harmonic was a thrill. It makes me less resentful of the fact that nearly every musical director I've had makes me sing mezzo or alto, just because I can hear the music. At least I know now that being a melodramatic soprano hasn't completely ruined me.
I think I'm going searching for some of those recordings, one in particular was a cover of "I Feel Good" by Groove, and did they ever!
So click on the title, and listen on Tuesday morning from 7-10, and see for yourself!
Monday, March 14, 2005
it's waaay past 5 p.m.
I am so good. I figured out, by hook and crook and lots of luck, not to mention a heaping dollop of trial and error, just how to connect my mac at home with this stupid cable connection. All without an airport card, and absolutley no networking experience. I know the glow will wear off soon, but AppleTalk rules.
And, in other news, my stepmother won't stop freakin' harping on me. I want to tell her in the rudest terms possible that I am indeed 34 years old, not 16, and I will live my life exactly how I choose to, without recourse to her martyrdom or pessimism. But I won't, in the interest of living in strained harmony and fictional peace. I refuse to let it sully my exultation at the fact that I figured out the network monster, speared it with my fabulous problem solving ability, and blead it out on the harpoon of success.
My, aren't I bloody minded this evening? I also ate an apple to celebrate. This south beach thing is certainly corrupting my priorities. In the not-so-distant past, I would have had a heaping plateful of fries with gooey melty cheese and ranch dressing to celebrate. I would have rung the town bells, and shouted huzzah for double whoppers. But no, its the glory of an apple.
AND, I haven't talked to HIM in two days. I did get a nice apology, and I know he's busy being re-programmed with techniques and things, but I feel like I'll never see him again, and it's making me irritable. It doesn't help that what he said led me to believe I shouldn't call him, that he would call me "if he could". You'd think a body would make a small tiny effort, even if said person couldn't really talk. Yeah. You'd think.
Every feel like giving up and becoming the good little drone? NO. I still want to throw paint on the walls... good gory red paint.
And, in other news, my stepmother won't stop freakin' harping on me. I want to tell her in the rudest terms possible that I am indeed 34 years old, not 16, and I will live my life exactly how I choose to, without recourse to her martyrdom or pessimism. But I won't, in the interest of living in strained harmony and fictional peace. I refuse to let it sully my exultation at the fact that I figured out the network monster, speared it with my fabulous problem solving ability, and blead it out on the harpoon of success.
My, aren't I bloody minded this evening? I also ate an apple to celebrate. This south beach thing is certainly corrupting my priorities. In the not-so-distant past, I would have had a heaping plateful of fries with gooey melty cheese and ranch dressing to celebrate. I would have rung the town bells, and shouted huzzah for double whoppers. But no, its the glory of an apple.
AND, I haven't talked to HIM in two days. I did get a nice apology, and I know he's busy being re-programmed with techniques and things, but I feel like I'll never see him again, and it's making me irritable. It doesn't help that what he said led me to believe I shouldn't call him, that he would call me "if he could". You'd think a body would make a small tiny effort, even if said person couldn't really talk. Yeah. You'd think.
Every feel like giving up and becoming the good little drone? NO. I still want to throw paint on the walls... good gory red paint.
it's past 5p.m...
Do you know where your motivation went? In fact, do you know where my motivation went? Merrily to hell, that's where. I start with the best of intentions, but due to lack of sleep or avoidance issues, or insufficient part skim mozarella cheese sticks, I want to go home, curl up, and do absolutely NOTHING. But the kicker is: I've done pretty much nothing all day, hence the fact that I can sit here and type in three rather lengthy blog posts. All I can think is, cramps suck, and so does moving. In fact, things happened today which inhibit my motivation past the lack of cheese. Yet another crinkle in my recent bid to becoming a productive human. FEH. I don't want to think about it.
I don't want to go back to THAT PLACE and pack anything else. I want to torch the whole lot of it. Obviously, if I don't need it now, I don't need it at all. except for my art supplies, and my customizable sewing form, and my books. Dash it all, I do need it. I say again: FEH.
I don't want to go back to THAT PLACE and pack anything else. I want to torch the whole lot of it. Obviously, if I don't need it now, I don't need it at all. except for my art supplies, and my customizable sewing form, and my books. Dash it all, I do need it. I say again: FEH.
faster! fries!
So I've screwed myself with my quickness. I've done things way too fast for the poor little process. I suppose there's virtue in being quick at what I do, and since I've been doing it for 15 years, there's little to learn in actual technical terms. This means, of course, that I've become completely Capricorn-ed-ly focused, and now I have nothing to do. I remain in peril of finding the actual end of the internet. Horrifying.
Perhaps I'll find some Living Dead Dolls to collect...
So the diet continues, and the scale reflects minute incremental change. I'm now on Phase 1.5. This means I'm still half on the wagon, and manage to leap off at full tilt when the danger time of 8 pm comes up. I'd give my left eye for some french fries right now. With Denny's ranch, on Madonna Road in San Luis Obispo. Ah, such fond memories of 4 a.m., studying for an art history exam, gaining that junior 20 and not caring.
So, my three readers: what should my next project be?
a) finish the scarf?
b) build a complete 1888 bustle gown? (with corset and underthings)
c) make some pants that actually fit me?
d) or streak my hair with orange and red?
Perhaps I'll find some Living Dead Dolls to collect...
So the diet continues, and the scale reflects minute incremental change. I'm now on Phase 1.5. This means I'm still half on the wagon, and manage to leap off at full tilt when the danger time of 8 pm comes up. I'd give my left eye for some french fries right now. With Denny's ranch, on Madonna Road in San Luis Obispo. Ah, such fond memories of 4 a.m., studying for an art history exam, gaining that junior 20 and not caring.
So, my three readers: what should my next project be?
a) finish the scarf?
b) build a complete 1888 bustle gown? (with corset and underthings)
c) make some pants that actually fit me?
d) or streak my hair with orange and red?
cramps...and the silent tormented
I know no-one really cares, but I'm experiencing second-day-celebrating-my-womanhood abdominal ickyness. In fact, I don't really care if anyone cares, because this is MY blog, dammit. At least I know now why I was so weirdly sensitive and weepy two days ago. I think I should warn people, given that the monthy thing has apparently settled down to a semi predictable routine, sort of.
I've also been ruminating (what a weird word for thinking, it's not like cows actually think, despite what the commercials indicate) on the phenomenon of "the silent treatment". This is a thing I used to get from my parents when I was being punished. It was normally, or abnormally dysfunctional in this case, accompanied by the reinforced feeling of absolute lack of self worth. Like the fact that I broke a dish was grounds for complete negation of me as a person. I used to come home on weekends and experience that weird feeling of everyone home, but no-one home. And as I've grown older (I won't say up), I've spent a significant portion of my life avoiding situations where I'll get the silent thing. However, it's become increasingly prevalent, regardless of agreements to the contrary. The really weird thing is that when I get upset myself, I go all quiet. In that case I'm just thinking of a diplomatic and courteous way to say how I'm feeling.
Sometimes I swear I'm dumber than the average bear, because when in the middle of confusing or upsetting situations or conflict, I can't articulate anything. You'd think since I'm at least average in the whole facility with words thing, I could actually defend myself, but nooo.
And another thing...sometimes I really wish other people would treat me with the same courtesy that I treat them. I'm certainly not going to get up on the cross and be a martyr, so I demand that people be nice to me. I try, at least, even in the middle of monthly PMS, to curb my sharp tongue, and it srprises and dismays me when other people snap...
I hate gowing up.
I've also been ruminating (what a weird word for thinking, it's not like cows actually think, despite what the commercials indicate) on the phenomenon of "the silent treatment". This is a thing I used to get from my parents when I was being punished. It was normally, or abnormally dysfunctional in this case, accompanied by the reinforced feeling of absolute lack of self worth. Like the fact that I broke a dish was grounds for complete negation of me as a person. I used to come home on weekends and experience that weird feeling of everyone home, but no-one home. And as I've grown older (I won't say up), I've spent a significant portion of my life avoiding situations where I'll get the silent thing. However, it's become increasingly prevalent, regardless of agreements to the contrary. The really weird thing is that when I get upset myself, I go all quiet. In that case I'm just thinking of a diplomatic and courteous way to say how I'm feeling.
Sometimes I swear I'm dumber than the average bear, because when in the middle of confusing or upsetting situations or conflict, I can't articulate anything. You'd think since I'm at least average in the whole facility with words thing, I could actually defend myself, but nooo.
And another thing...sometimes I really wish other people would treat me with the same courtesy that I treat them. I'm certainly not going to get up on the cross and be a martyr, so I demand that people be nice to me. I try, at least, even in the middle of monthly PMS, to curb my sharp tongue, and it srprises and dismays me when other people snap...
I hate gowing up.
Friday, March 11, 2005
The hall of mirrors...
Actually, it's the hall of doors that don't open, in Alice in Wonderland. But Hall of Mirrors sounds beter as a title, sort of like Den of Iniquity. So it's friday and my other computer sucks, which is why I have like four posts for today alone. (don't hold me to that number, since I'm a dancer and obviously can't count. I certainly hope this weekend goes better than this past week. At least I won't be crashingly bored...
wallowing...
Allrighty then. I've now been wallowing in self induced misery for almost 24 hours, and I'm done. Actually, I'm not done, because enforced inactivity and a total lack of ability to be patient while waiting for SOMETHING to happen actually sharpens my mind and makes me think of too damn much. I don't even care if that last sentence is coherent. Being bored and waiting have adverse effects on my demeanor and energy level. For example: last night I was exausted and didn't want to do a damn thing, because I had been mentally active all day, busy in my own head keeping myself from going completely insane with impatience.
Neurotic much? If I were able to keep my brain busy, I wouldn't be wallowing and thinking of myself as attention bereft. In the busy environment which I find myself (bad grammar! go stand in the corner...), my sphere is quiescent. I find it hard to fathom paying someone to sit and keep a chair occupied. And I don't have a session with my darling body guru until NEXT tuesday. I'm going not-so quietly crazy.
I keep thinking about what exactly I want, like from everything. First and foremost, I want to be listened to, without feeling like I should censor myself. I want to be petted and cuddled and praised. I want to be a zillionaire and never have to work again, I still want to throw pint everywhere...Drama Queen, heal thyself...
Enough. I'm not going to get what I want, because even if I ask, take that risk and hope not to be rejected, it still depends on who I'm asking... feh. Circular logic, they warned me about that in critical thinking class... time for icky cheese...
Neurotic much? If I were able to keep my brain busy, I wouldn't be wallowing and thinking of myself as attention bereft. In the busy environment which I find myself (bad grammar! go stand in the corner...), my sphere is quiescent. I find it hard to fathom paying someone to sit and keep a chair occupied. And I don't have a session with my darling body guru until NEXT tuesday. I'm going not-so quietly crazy.
I keep thinking about what exactly I want, like from everything. First and foremost, I want to be listened to, without feeling like I should censor myself. I want to be petted and cuddled and praised. I want to be a zillionaire and never have to work again, I still want to throw pint everywhere...Drama Queen, heal thyself...
Enough. I'm not going to get what I want, because even if I ask, take that risk and hope not to be rejected, it still depends on who I'm asking... feh. Circular logic, they warned me about that in critical thinking class... time for icky cheese...
what's on my desk today?
Not work related, how boring would that be? It's more like an unorganized person's wonderment tht her desk at work isn't already covered in incomprehensible piles of random cellulose product. Of course, I can't be expected to have an overpopulated desk quite this early in my work assignment, and it's certainly not like I'm an actual employee, but I digress.
This is what's on my desk:
1) my tiny little day planner, because I can't take iCal along in my head or my purse. At least until they insert chips into our frontal lobes as a matter of course. And I'm enough of a semi-luddite that I want to actually write things down instead of try to figure out that weird Palm language
2) a neat pile of printed status reports - which are boring and I can't talk about anyway
3) my cell phone, which in two weeks has rung maybe a grand total of four times, making me seem less important in my own head than all the production managers who have the things surgically implanted, like the agent in Hedwig
4) my favorite ball-point pen. I'm constantly fighting my own handwriting, and I absolutely require a rather thick line pen to disguise my total lack of penmanship
5) a 1/4 full tin of Ginger Altoids, to which I'm addicted, and so far have only been able to find at cost Plus, my second favorite place of delight and wonderment
6) a travel mug of highly artificially sweetened and fake creamed coffee, which is making me really hyper and unable to spell a damn thing this morning
7) a totally amazing computer system which goes real fast and lets me make pretty things
8) a reminder in the form of a 1/10 full bottle of water, that I'm not drinking enough for his stinking diet
9) a phone, which doesn't ring either....
on my metaphorical desk:
1) the need to talk about something wih someone, about which I have no enthusiasm
2) a performance tonight, at which I don't have to stay and take a bow, which gets me outta there alot earlier than I thought, about which I'm frustrated, because it could be a possible talking time, but I feel as if I can't have, because I'll get my head bitten off again...
3) the disturbing feeling that even if I do express what I want or any worry at all, somehow everything I say is wrong headed and ill-timed, and ultimately of no value to anyone
3) a prop list through which I need to sift and come up with random crap that actors can use and lose and break, even when unbreakable.
This is what's on my desk:
1) my tiny little day planner, because I can't take iCal along in my head or my purse. At least until they insert chips into our frontal lobes as a matter of course. And I'm enough of a semi-luddite that I want to actually write things down instead of try to figure out that weird Palm language
2) a neat pile of printed status reports - which are boring and I can't talk about anyway
3) my cell phone, which in two weeks has rung maybe a grand total of four times, making me seem less important in my own head than all the production managers who have the things surgically implanted, like the agent in Hedwig
4) my favorite ball-point pen. I'm constantly fighting my own handwriting, and I absolutely require a rather thick line pen to disguise my total lack of penmanship
5) a 1/4 full tin of Ginger Altoids, to which I'm addicted, and so far have only been able to find at cost Plus, my second favorite place of delight and wonderment
6) a travel mug of highly artificially sweetened and fake creamed coffee, which is making me really hyper and unable to spell a damn thing this morning
7) a totally amazing computer system which goes real fast and lets me make pretty things
8) a reminder in the form of a 1/10 full bottle of water, that I'm not drinking enough for his stinking diet
9) a phone, which doesn't ring either....
on my metaphorical desk:
1) the need to talk about something wih someone, about which I have no enthusiasm
2) a performance tonight, at which I don't have to stay and take a bow, which gets me outta there alot earlier than I thought, about which I'm frustrated, because it could be a possible talking time, but I feel as if I can't have, because I'll get my head bitten off again...
3) the disturbing feeling that even if I do express what I want or any worry at all, somehow everything I say is wrong headed and ill-timed, and ultimately of no value to anyone
3) a prop list through which I need to sift and come up with random crap that actors can use and lose and break, even when unbreakable.
I'm starving...
... for all kinds of metaphoric and literal foods. My mind is rebelling against the forced dearth of my normal overprocessed white sugar and flour laced previous diet. My cravings now number among: french fries with tons of real high calorie equal amount of fat mayonnaise, snickers bars (it really satisfies), anything having to do with garlic and BREAD BREAD BREAD, potato chips, bacon grease, spam of all things, reese's peanut butter cups, a whole gallon of cream filled coffee with REAL SUGAR, melty cheese, mac and cheese, guiness, silver oak cabernet 1998, godiva chocolate truffles, eclairs, cream puffs. I may as well just make an entire diet of deep fried lard patties, screw the health thing, screw the asthma, screw the high blood pressure.
I'm feeling particularly like I just want to give up, eat anything I freakin' want, smoke two packs of cigarettes a day, drink as much guiness as I can hold without exploding, eat a whole box of chocolates. This whole moderation thing is depressing! I'm an artist, damn it. I don't DO things in moderation. I don't like bland food, soporific conversation, making myself meek so as not to offend someone. I want to throw paint on the walls of everywhere I go to make them more exciting and bold and INTENSE.
Not only am I starving for junkfood and all things bad for me, I'm starving for intensity and affection. Home life is stultifying. Everything according to routine, unpleasant things never spoken of, no real gut laughter. I'm starting to believe that affection is just something that I had once and is now fading into the murky darkness of half remembered dreams. Like grade school when I had fun playing dress up, but can't quite remember the color lipstick I smeared all over my face. I want to be cuddled, praised and petted, but not too much, or my head will swell up to four times its normal size.
I need to paint. slap some pigment on canvas, spray paint my car, make something really outrageous before I find myself sinking into a mire of apathy...
I'm feeling particularly like I just want to give up, eat anything I freakin' want, smoke two packs of cigarettes a day, drink as much guiness as I can hold without exploding, eat a whole box of chocolates. This whole moderation thing is depressing! I'm an artist, damn it. I don't DO things in moderation. I don't like bland food, soporific conversation, making myself meek so as not to offend someone. I want to throw paint on the walls of everywhere I go to make them more exciting and bold and INTENSE.
Not only am I starving for junkfood and all things bad for me, I'm starving for intensity and affection. Home life is stultifying. Everything according to routine, unpleasant things never spoken of, no real gut laughter. I'm starting to believe that affection is just something that I had once and is now fading into the murky darkness of half remembered dreams. Like grade school when I had fun playing dress up, but can't quite remember the color lipstick I smeared all over my face. I want to be cuddled, praised and petted, but not too much, or my head will swell up to four times its normal size.
I need to paint. slap some pigment on canvas, spray paint my car, make something really outrageous before I find myself sinking into a mire of apathy...
Wednesday, March 09, 2005
I hate Prokofiev
I don't even care if I spelled the wretched man's name wrong. I've conceived of a rabid dislike for Sergei Prokofiev, and specifically for his whole "Romeo & Juliet" suite. A more redolent self-aggrandizing pile of tripe I have not come across. Actually, that isn't true. Most of the Russians fall into his category in my admittedly limited experience. This isn't to say that Russians in general are bad, and I wouldn't make THAT sweeping generalization for the world, but do we really need all that heavy harmonic CRAP!?! All I wanted to do was take a small jaunt and smoke a couple of coffin nails, and I'm subjected to MTT's freakin' Grammy performance of this sick little piece. FEH.
At lease Charlie's horse had gone away... stupid animal.
At lease Charlie's horse had gone away... stupid animal.
Tuesday, March 08, 2005
paint paint paint
I redeemed myself in my own eyes yesterday by completing all of the major set painting I needed to do, and four days before opening night. I know this isn't exactly a theatrical record, but I finished the center logo in less than half an hour. It helps when the director loves you, and when no-one else wants to paint. Must remember to take digital camera and post images.
In other news, I woke up with the most hideous charlie horse (where does THAT term come from, I mean really: who the hell is Charlie and what he %#$# is his horse doing just below my left elbow on the outside of my arm??!) which of course is killing me with typing. I need a banana, which oh-so-elegantly segues into my next news item: I'm still on that godsforsaken diet. I've discovered chili powder, and had a major dollop with my morning eggs. I've found that his miracle powder, when combined with habanero sauce, really clears out the sinus cavity in a disturbingly cumulative way. Next item, I chopped my hair off to chin length yesterday morning, and in true idiot fashion, am embarking on my typical "I haven't the slightest clue how to make my 'do work" panic for two days. Tomorrow maybe I'll get up early and take an iron to it, or perhaps the clippers. Sinead is so 15 years ago, but I really have the urge to just start all over.
The Man is away or a week entire, and I'm worried about my darling. He was just sick and all this stress can't be good for his constitution. And the silly boy won't tell me when he isn't feeling well. FEH.
In other news, I woke up with the most hideous charlie horse (where does THAT term come from, I mean really: who the hell is Charlie and what he %#$# is his horse doing just below my left elbow on the outside of my arm??!) which of course is killing me with typing. I need a banana, which oh-so-elegantly segues into my next news item: I'm still on that godsforsaken diet. I've discovered chili powder, and had a major dollop with my morning eggs. I've found that his miracle powder, when combined with habanero sauce, really clears out the sinus cavity in a disturbingly cumulative way. Next item, I chopped my hair off to chin length yesterday morning, and in true idiot fashion, am embarking on my typical "I haven't the slightest clue how to make my 'do work" panic for two days. Tomorrow maybe I'll get up early and take an iron to it, or perhaps the clippers. Sinead is so 15 years ago, but I really have the urge to just start all over.
The Man is away or a week entire, and I'm worried about my darling. He was just sick and all this stress can't be good for his constitution. And the silly boy won't tell me when he isn't feeling well. FEH.
Friday, March 04, 2005
Goth metal and purple bedrooms...
Waiting, waiting, waiting. and I can't even smoke. It looks like out of necessity, I'm going to be quitting much sooner than I thought. FEH. I love waiting. I can do useful and productive things, like torturing The Man with horrifying decorating choices. He says we'll need a big house. Not big enough to get away from me!
See my inspiration:
http://www.darkart.net/house/house.htm
And now my deskmate has demonstrated the absolute wonder of dark finnish goth metal... The Man will be horrified anew.
There is nothing more satisfying than anthem metal versions of the main theme to Phantom, with weird harmony and operatic stylings. I'm going to Finland!!
And I'm waiting some more.
And in the diet news:
I slipped this morning, an had watery hot chocolate. I haven't kept to my schedule either. My tuna salad has no taste... stupid Fridays during lent. I figure I have some slipping room, considering I've been nothing but good for 9 whole days...
and I'm waiting...
See my inspiration:
http://www.darkart.net/house/house.htm
And now my deskmate has demonstrated the absolute wonder of dark finnish goth metal... The Man will be horrified anew.
There is nothing more satisfying than anthem metal versions of the main theme to Phantom, with weird harmony and operatic stylings. I'm going to Finland!!
And I'm waiting some more.
And in the diet news:
I slipped this morning, an had watery hot chocolate. I haven't kept to my schedule either. My tuna salad has no taste... stupid Fridays during lent. I figure I have some slipping room, considering I've been nothing but good for 9 whole days...
and I'm waiting...
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