Title: Geohashing

( With apologies to Randall Munroe )

Woot-woot!

Believe it or not, I've actually finished the introduction for my first novel, Memior.

( Read more... )

Mine is a life of tedium, I fear. Or medium, as I am lead to believe by my typing skillz.

I have bandages on the last two fingers of my left hand. Mishap with knife.

See, you're supposed to cut on cutting boards, not your bare hands. A lesson I shalt remember unto the ending of my blah blah blah.

I love working a library. Srsly, I just checked out two books for this guy in my PHI class under my name, 'cause he owes like a bazillion dollars in late fees. But he's cool. I don't remember his name, but he's my Periodical Room Buddy.

He's always in the far back of the Periodical Room when I'm working. Pervs.

Also, not quite certain of my obsession with "srsly." Maybe because it's so close to how I actually say the word.

Hmm. Things to ponder. Am drinking SoBe's Essential Energy (in Berry Pomegranate). Vry good. Also, addicted to Urban Dead. It is this zombie aficionado's dream site. I am operating three different characters on said site. 'Tis the roxxors.

I'm trying to write a couple of short stories (original for once!) in anticipation of the clusterfuck that is NaNoWriMo. Haven't decided whether I'll work on my Zombie!Berlin idea, or Memoir. I just keep focusing on the hope that I'll be published by the end of spring semester.

Uh-oh. Bandaid coming off pinky.

Abyssinia!

I’ll write you a sonnet, one day,
because you’re beautiful
and you’ll never read it.

Shakespeare is fuel for an oil drum,
(to you)
or an extended match
with which to light the bongs of revolution.

We’ll call it—
the Cheeto Revolution.

Our color will not be red,
but a faint powdery orange that rubs off
on your fingers (and stays
there for weeks, an outward marking
for when you’ll be sober again.)

You don’t count the ways of love,
because love is a capitalistic construct,
a new form of currency,
which you won’t buy into
(although your father has a few stocks
and a mutual fund, which pays for your tutition.)

I’ll write you a punk-rock love song,
because you’re amazing,
and you’ll never hear it.

Punk died with Sid and Nancy,
(you say)
and it’s all just bubblegum rock,
no matter what they have to say.

You are above all that.
You sit around with your friends
and riff on some old Bob Dylan songs.
It totally sucks that he works
for Victoria’s secret, now.

I’ll try a love letter next,
because you’re emancipated,
and you never check the mail.

The universe is contained in your camera phone,
and snail mail is just that:
slow,
and it uses too many trees
to maintain your green cred.

I guess I’ll never tell you
“I love you”
in a way you’ll pay attention to,
because you’re awful and vain,
and I can’t love someone like that.

You and your faux-sophisticated subculture,
you live vicariously through people
who wasted lifetimes
on living vicariously through people
who had the real lives.

The good books, good
poems have not all
been written.

We have stories, too,
and when the Revolution comes,
we’ll be waiting in black and red and white and gray,
(and I’ll give my sonnets and love songs and letters
to someone who lives the life
you have without
trying or being
so damn snooty.)

One hour, forty-five minutes to go...

I wonder how many times I can watch Season 2 of Project Runway before I've memorized every line.

The Garden Party episode is on now.

I wish they would've designed for fat chicks.

"Things that will die beautifully." I wish we could all do that.

I think I'm going to write a letter to Kurt Vonnegut. I'm well aware that he's dead, but I think it's best to bare your soul to someone who can't really make an intelligible reply.

BTW, I think I'm in love with Tim Gunn. I wish he would come here and give me advice on my style. Mostly because I don't want to throw out my clothes.

It's been a summer of unbareably boredom. I've always maintained that I'm better off alone, better off cut away from society, but I suffered from the worst creative constipation ever, to the point where I'd sit at the computer for hours and nothing would come out.

I think I'm cured, though. I've started a new series of shorts, called "Picaresque" (I dare you to find a more beautiful word.) It's set in Madison (surprise, surprise) and I think it'll be nice for me to work out some of my issues in my stories.

I've decided to do the memoir in November, though, for NaNoWriMo. It's going okay, but I only pick it up occasionally.

I've also tried restarting Confluence, but I'm afraid it's so fucked that I should really just start rewriting it. Srsly, y'all, it's awful. It's the absolute worst thing I've ever written. I keep thinking about this review I got on the very first chapter (years ago, by now,) how the reader felt like it was just a rewritten version of "Gaza." She/He spun it to the positive, but that comment preyed on my fear that my writing is shit--that I steal pieces of other peoples' words and phrases and descriptions, and refashion them as my own. I even use someone else's phrase to describe that--I'm a "patchwork of other people," someone who has no personality and must absorb the quirks of others.

That's why I took Public Speaking. I need to find my own voice.

Well, less than an hour and a half. I really hope someone's there to train me.

First in what might be a series of little reflections on my trip to D.C. Written for a constructed response at school (barf), it's the best original work I've done.

( Arlington )

I know now that my topic was never about "Yay, Gay People!" and that it cannot be the meat of our argument. The free-love angle can be skewed--has been, in fact--to be a worse corruption of love (a golden statue we spend our lives seeking.)

Love is not the issue here. It's abstract and interchangeable, like passing laws against wind. The argument should not be the validity or strength of one particular love--if it was really so easy, there wouldn't be anymore love songs.

What we're really talking about is the value of love and how much more my love is worth than yours. It shouldn't be about the competition, but the truth is that if my gay marriage affects your straight marriage, the damage was done long before I came.

The measure of my love cannot be held to yours. Two weeks or fifty years--what's the difference if I feel? Don't base my experience off yours--understand we exist in separate planes, separates states of being (you might be a figment, after all.)

We are so afraid of losing love that we try to regulate it.

So tell me the answer--what is the distinction between our love and theirs? Is my love for my father the same as my love for my wife? Most will say 'no'--fatherly love is not sexual, it transcends to an appreciation for the soul.

But my love of my wife is also transcendental--the purest peace is found in nature--am I to reject my nature because it makes you squeamish?

Love is written in paradox--we have no other words. Love is cruel and unkind, and we can pass laws to help with that, but what determines the limit of cruel love? What is healthy? What is unhealthy?

If my obesity offends, pass laws against the foods I consume. But what right have you?

If I wish to kill myself, even with love, who are you to intrude?

And here we are again: When does altruism become tyranny? Are you truly concerned for my safety, my present well-being, or are you worried for your own immortal soul?

We shall meet again, friend, as cockroaches or doves, but in the meantime, fuck off.

I did not ask for your morality or for your Fathers'. What did they want? Well, they stated it clearly.

"Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness."

I ask anyone to prove to me that love is not the pursuit of happiness.

But there again, we must find measure for happiness. A man's love for a boy can be harmful--boys (and girls) are a leaf beneath rippling water--they know less of what they want than what they are. We are honor-bounds to protect our young. But what of our old?

We are two consenting adults. What are you doing here? Is not my bedroom my own anymore?

I think sometimes sex should be made an Olympic sport. I would prevent us from being such prudes.

What is its harm? If my gay sex affects your straight sex, then the damage was there long before I came.

Is it a fear that we do not measure up?

Would you have stayed fifty years without that contract holding you back during the hard times? Could we have made it, if our feet were not cemented to our living room floor?

If our love is not as strong, then no one should be stronger. Even our romance is capitalistic.

Still, there are our children to think of.

Mothers, fathers--all equally important, but this isn't the Cleavers (and June never really looked happy). Isn't it enough that society will help? Gender roles were made to be bent (pregnancy is binary, but everywhere else is gray.)

Perhaps they only do better in biological families because it is what we demand.

You are not my family. Do not tell me he is not my father. Either of them will do.

Can a person embody both genders? What is a well-rounded child?

I thought we discouraged obesity here.

If my gay children affect your straight children, then the damage was done long before I came.

My babies are happy. Is that enough? Do we want a generation of thoughtless drones? The bad ones are inevitable--you don't raise your babies alone anymore.

Men still have nipples; at one time, they were nurturers.

See, friend, this is where our roads diverge. I don't believe I belong in a kitchen, barefoot and pregnant (even if it's what I might want sometimes,) anymore than you should be strapped into a suit and tie, lethal injection administered by stock price.

Let each other alone. Maybe that is the price.

Teach your children what you will, and allow me to teach mine. They will mix; it is inevitable; it is the cyclical nature of human society. Their views will mix, fog up a window in winter, and we can only watch and hope and wish.

This is not a problem to be solved in 250 words. One word can contain it, but a million could never hope to explicate it.

I will go to my home, and you to yours. Can we not live in peace a moment more?

I have listened to you, friend. Let me speak for awhile. I will not change you, but that does not stop my attempt.

Gah. Just got home from work, and am covered in all manner of ButterBurger germs.

Seriously. I'm greasy and gross.

Trained a new girl (new closers—only two, but it's about fuckin' time), and she was very sweet. Her name was Haley, and I think I might've scared her by joking about my craziness. But we're all so close there that it's just another night in hilarity, and I think she'll fit in. I love my job so much right now.

My Winters vector/drawing looks frickin' awesome. I'll upload a copy tomorrow night or something, after work.

I really wish that the Heroes episode was already uploaded onto NBC.com.

Well, that is all.

In expanding my indie street cred, I stumbled upon the best way to find good music:

Go to blogdigger, search one song you know to be very good, and you'll no doubt find a music meme someone's uploaded that's full of even more awesome songs. I am now a permanent cyberstalker of at least 2 LJ members (unnamed to preserve my stalkery ways), if only for their awesome taste in music.

Also, make sure that at least 50% of your music library is composed of bands starting with "The."

I've finally applied to college, and the placement tests are in a couple weeks. I'm just worried that I'll end up testing out of some of the departments. Not that I won't mind the free credits, but I'd actually like to attend college for awhile in my freshman year, y'know?

I've been off my meds for about a week now (so so so not a good idea), but I think I just need to switch dosages/medications. Zoloft is not the friend of emotionally unstable adolescents.

Meanwhile, back in Communist Russia, I've actually made some serious progress on my stories. I think part of it is the massive downloading fever I've recently contracted, and the pimptastic MP3s I've found/discovered/been sent. I am now a permanent fan of The Appleseed Cast and Say Anything.

I've decided to actually start blogging, if for nothing else than to preserve some of my random-ass story ideas, which usually get lost in translation by the time I manage to straggle home. With the cancellation of Veronica Mars and Studio 60 (shudder), I'm worried I might start to lose interest in my WW and VM stories.

So, I made a deal with myself. If I want to get to D.C. next spring ($3000 be damned), I will have completed Confluence. If it's unfinished, then I don't go.

That gives me fall semester, winterim (stupid name, btw), and most of the spring semester before break to finish what's looking like a 20+ chapter story. Woohoo, doods.

I'm also-sorta batting back-and-forth the idea of starting a webcomicz. My sister's been naggin' about it lately, but I feel pretty skilled with Adobe Illustrator, and I'd love to have something to hone my talents. Plus, it'd be nice to have a chance to do regular creative-writin' again.

Major fuels: Wikipedia. Seriously, just go look up your birth date. It's kinda cool to find out who you killed. Like, I found out Josef Mengele and James Madison where born on my birth date. Yike to the first, kinda frickin' awesome to the second.

One thing that sucks about indie bands--their websites always look like they were written by 6-year-olds on crack. Srsly, they're barely navigable. Navigable is a good word, if it's even a word.

So, I've got six minutes left. This has been one rambly-ass post.

Awesome Indie Songs You Should MostDef Find on Blogdigger

The Gloria Record - "The Arctic Cat"
Airiel - "Cinnamon"
The Appleseed Cast - "Rooms and Gardens"
The Appleseed Cast - "Fight Song"
Say Anything - "Alive with the Glory of Love"
The Legends - "Right On"
Ellis the Vacuumchild - "Decapitation Spree"
El Perro del Mar - "God Knows (You Gotta Give to Get)"
Wolf Parade - "Dear Sons and Daughters of Hungry Ghosts"
As Friends Rust - "Won't Be the First Time"
Old 97's - "Question"
The Most Serene Republic - "You're a Loose Cannon McArthur...But You Get the Job Done"
Loveninjas - "Meet Me Here"

Well, it's gotten better here.

Not so bad, anyway.

Too much drama for me. Thinking more and more about liberal arts college-boys.

Graduation comes soon.

I guess I'm just still really tired after Seminar. I feel like I need to sleep for a long time, but opportunities for said nap have not yet presented themselves.

Writing West Wing stuff again. That's a definite up.

So a whole new element of fun has entered into me writing. The copy of MSWord I use on my desktop comp is borked.

I open files and get nothing but fun Cyrillic characters. Luckily, I've still got temp files that show up as normal text in an IE browser, but as I make the big move from my desktop to the laptop, I've got no fuckin' time to write.


You know what? I'll probably just end up posting stuff on here as I transfer it. I'm finding tons and tonnes of old stuff that I wrote, but never bothered to polish. I'll give it a quick once-over, and then there'll probably be a series of shitty one-shots from various fandoms going up on this journal.


C'mon, I know you missed me.

Remembered to take my pill this morning.

Probably should be talking about this depressionistic phase with someone. Like a counsellor.

I have to refill my prescription soon.

Somebody snap me out of this rut!

Elisha and I are back to not talking. I don't care.

That was part of the week I forgot. We fought; I aplogized; I was right and she was wrong and I can't stand to look at her anymore.

I forgot that she was such a bitch.

Oh well.

I'm pretty tired lately. Not sure why. I've been getting the required 7 hours or whatever, but I'm always really exhausted. Doesn't help that half my teachers keep their lights off. Hopefully I won't fall asleep in Novel Studies.

Books I reccommend in no particular order: The Kite Runner, God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater, Cat's Cradle, Middlesex

I love having a chance to just sit and read.

I should probably get back to my make-up work.

Because it's been so long, and so much has happened, this update goes backwards, under cuts, so you can skip to whatever part you really care about.

( Seminar )

( What Happened to Me )

( Previews/Tantalizing Lies )

I'm such a loser. I joined Facebook. Meh.

So, I haven't updated anything in a really long time, and I'm sorry. I wish I had something to post for you guys now, but I'm in the middle of tons of stuff. I'll have something by the middle of March, promise.

My reasons for not posting are many and deeply personal, and I'll post a lot more later.

Blurghflamrstpska...


School is boring, as usual. We're sitting in the office and talking about pregnant people. Blurg.

Got little more of Confluence done. Not much. Having issues with Josh & Donna scnes, mostly.

I'm not applying to Harvard anymore. I guess it's just too much work, and I...I don't have time. I'm not even done with my personal statement for the UW applications, but, meh.

I'm really excited to go to D.C. Definitely gonna buy a bunch of ice cream cakes for our trip down to Chicago in March. Can't wait to be eighteen.

Seriously. It says that. Fucking Macintosh.

Confluence is getting closer and closer to having a new chapter (and a clear narrative drive to the end). I'm cautiously optimistic at this point. Cannot tempt the wrath of the whatever from high atop the thing.


I've narrowed my list of colleges for which to I am applying. Harvard, Northwestern, Stephen's College, Indiana state, Missouri state, UW-Madison, and Marquette. I'm terrified.

I seem to have regained my muse (from where and what I am uncertain), but as always, I remain entirely positive. Y'know. 'Cause happiness is the root of all evil (or was that money?) and you can't get jack unless you give a little.

Whatever that means.

It's taking for-mother-flipping-ever, but I finally hammered out the last of the next Confluence chap. Only three months late, right?

I know, I know. My story sucks, and I suck.

I think with everything that's happened this summer, I've been experiencing some kind of creative constipation. And it cramps like a mother-fracker.

How many made-up maternal expletives do you think I can use in one post?

Stuff I'm working on in no particular order:
Make This Go On Forever--Epic-ish X-Men fic, AU set after X2, in which we reaffirm Puddin's obsession with pregnancy.
Fire & Ice--Battlestar Galactica one-shot set in an AU LDYB, from Lee's POV. Also a Kara piece that will be its companion, but I'm trying to work on F&I first.
See My Friends--third in VM series, after Silence & Point/Counterpoint
Smoke--M*A*S*H story set in late 70s, where Hawkeye's blind and pissed at the world and everyone falls apart.

And, as always, Confluence

I've also noticed that my spacebar is squeaking. Which, yeah. Definitely annoying.

I'm planning another WW fic out, Will-centric, in a vein I haven't seen explored too often in fiction, though it was oft speculated upon. Shall discuss later.


Am sleepy. Must go to bed now. And rediscover pronouns in morning.

G'night.

So the weirdest thing happened to me today.

Went to Miss Jenks's grad party today, my first of the summer. I don't do parties. Mostly because I'm terrified of social situations. And crowds. And small children. And puppets.

Everything was going...well, it was a party. Y'know, awkward silence, everyone sitting on the edges of the area in a big Awkward Silence Circle, beer bottles and Pepsi cans swimming in over-stuffed coolers, a roomful of eyes jumping to the sky, half praying for rain, half cursing the clouds. Little kids screaming, playing, running, creepy little girl from a block away inching toward the party like a little freak, loud introductions to People You Don't Really Want to Know, stilted conversations with People You Wish You'd Never Met, stiff banter with People You're Acquainted with in a Friend-of-a-Friend Way, and brats. There were hot dogs and brats.

We're in Wisconsin. Work with me here.

And then there was this guy. Miss Jenks and Sam informed me that he was akin to the black sheep of the family, the evil, jerky (step-)cousin of Miss Jenks who hit on her once a long while ago. He smokes; he drinks; he's twenty-one and claims to have spent a few nights in jail. For a speeding ticket.

Somehow, in the area of me filling up water balloons for the Big Water Balloon Fight in the Rain, we started talking. About everything. Movies, religion, Bush, comics, the Lord of the Rings--everything. We ended up sitting in front of the house (the party was in the back), and we apparently talked for hours. He was really sweet, and we totally hit it off.

We talked and talked and talked and I don't even remember what it was about, but he called me beautiful.

Wow. That sounds so lame when I write it, but that's what he said. He was attracted to me, wants to "go out" with me, see movies, make out, blah blah datingcakes.

Oh yeah. He kissed me.

A Brief History of Pudding's Love Life: Sean. In fourth, fifth, and parts of sixth grade. The end.

I've never been on a date. I've never had a high school boyfriend. I've never even kissed anyone. Ever. Ever ever.

Until today, when this guy (we will call him This Guy) kissed me. It was completely random and surprising, and I still really don't know what happened. I don't think I enjoyed it much, mostly because of the tongue.

'Cause that? Just...ew. I don't get the kissing thing. At all. Do you know how many germs are in the human mouth?

I'm gonna go gargle with bleach.

But it was...it was the first time anyone's ever kissed me. Or told me I was attractive. And that was...that was nice.

I don't think I'm attractive. I hate the way I look. I think I'm too heavy, my breasts are too big, my face is sorta lopsided (it is--birth thing, don't ask), and I just...

I am so confused right now.

I live this life, right now, of waking up at ten o'clock, cleaning the kitchen, coming upstairs to churn out another hundred or so words in one of many story files, watching movies, playing Sudoku. That's me. That's what I do. I'm seventeen. I'm getting letters from private Wisconsin colleges inviting me to join; I daydream about scenes in a new X-Men fic I'm working on; I carry on random conversations between characters (out loud, when I'm alone); I stare at my guitar and feel guilty for not practicing; I freak out over the idea of next year being my senior year; I think about friends that I have that I don't really like; I download mashups and emo music and Dashboard and Postal Service and freak over my GPA.

I dwell on the latest fight I had with my sister, the random thing I said to Matt last week, the thing I said to the person during the thing that happened so long ago that everyone else has forgotten about it. I'm seventeen. I don't want a boyfriend.

That's what This Guy called himself. My boyfriend.

I've known him for a grand total of four hours. This is just too fucking weird.

Is this how it happens? Random conversations, swapping phone numbers, promising to call and making out on street corners?

Even when we were standing there, kissing, I wanted to leave. Now, I just want to crawl into a hole and hide. Is this how I'm supposed to feel about the first guy I've been genuinely interested in since middle school?

I'm Emo Girl, to the core. I get all Valley Girl (like tonight, when I called Elisha) if I'm excited or worried or nervous about something social. I'm Dry as a Motherfucking Martini Sarcasm Girl, that irritating cynic that sat behind you in Socio and made fun of your friend's lame-ass optimism. I'm the Painfully Shy Wallflower Geek, hiding in the corner of halls, fields, parties, classrooms, terrified that the next thing I say will be declared the Stupidest Thing Ever Said. I'm Smarter Than You Bitch, who got a 34 on my ACT, 38 of 409 (Top 9.3%, baby!), sent her essay to the Ayn Rand contest, declared by classmates and teachers as the Next Great American Writer. I'm Small and Almost Unnoticed Fanfic Writer, clinging to some of the more ridiculous 'ships, hiding behind stories and couples and relationships and situations that are everything I want and more.

I don't want to date This Guy. I really want to talk to an over-18 male whose had relationships and might be able to assess This Guy's intentions.

I can still smell him on me. Excuse me, I need to take a shower.

Couple of things.

First of all, yay! Got a 34 on my ACT (for those of you wondering, I scored in the top 1% of test takers this year). Go ME!

Second, new Confluence. Check FF.net, since I'm too lazy to post it here.

Third, new VM -- Silence. May post it here later, if I feel like it.


Don't count on it, though.