For The Purposes of Whatever

For The Purposes of Whatever

Beth "High Octane" Prouty

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I'm really starting to like this guy.	[Feb. 3rd, 2005\|01:50 pm]
In reality there is perhaps no one of our natural Passions so hard to subdue as Pride. Disguise it, struggle with it, beat it down, stifle it, mortify it as much as one pleases, it is still alive and will now and then peep out and show itself. You will see it perhaps often in this History. For even if I could conceive that I had completely overcome it, I should probably be proud of my Humility. --Benjamin Franklin, 1784
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	[Jan. 31st, 2005\|02:25 pm]
Hey, I had a WEEKEND, finally, and except for being sick and reading a lot, it was all a weekend could be. First of all, Ian and I got roped into cleaning his uncle's apartment with the rest of the family, because this uncle, Greg, used to be on a LOT of drugs and still can't take care of himself. I'm telling you man, when I say family, I mean FAMILY. Ian, his mom, dad, aunt, other uncle, cousin, brother, and girlfriend. And we could really barely make a dent. You've seen Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, this felt like being a maid who had to clean up after that mess. I mean, GROSS. The bathroom sink had inch-thick grime in it, made up of solidified shaving cream and toothpaste, and it was all over the mirror too, and there were receipts and old business cards and boxes of cords and empty foil pill wrappers and loose change and an electric toothbrush I didn't want to touch with my socked and shoed foot, let alone my mouth. I didn't see the toilet, but Ian tells me that's a really good thing, as the loose pennies buried under piles of hair and nail clippings alone made me want to barf. We even took pictures of the bathroom to eventually give my dad so he wouldn't feel so bad about his own bathroom. I mean, I don't like to use the bathroom in that apartment, but it's a goddamn five star hotel compared to this guy's place. OH MAN IT WAS SO DISGUSTING. On a less disgusting note, I had many people in my room on Saturday night, which doesn't not happen very often. Ian was there, because he's usually there, Miranda was there because she wasn't making flash cards, Marmor was there because her buddies were using Berkeley's library for their research (BOOYAH, Berkeley is awesome, students from other colleges come to us), Miriam was there because I guess she didn't have anything else to do, and Rachel was there because Miriam was there. It was overwhelming, considering most evenings consist of reading and watching Law & Order these days. On Sunday, Ian and I watched The Bourne Supremacy, and I love those movies because I can totally ignore the plot if I want, and it still just keeps on moving and there's lots of fighting and car crashes and stuff. That sound shallow but whatever, I can't watch Dogville everyday of my life. I played so much of Dr. Robotnick's Mean Bean Machine on Sunday that I was seeing those little blobs all day today. Therefore, I shall not play for quite a while. Right now, I have to walk down the street to check out this Patient's Care Collective. I have much reading to do today, and also emails to write. One of the articles I read, quickly, before I go, was about the way American (and often Western in general) culture approaches the concepts of lines, squares, circles, and such. Like, the language is everywhere: draw a line in the sand, bylines, headlines, bloodlines, lay it on the line, don't cross the line, shorelines, outlines, necklines, property lines, baselines, picket lines, telephone lines, pickup lines, party lines, What's My Line?, lining one's pockets, etc. Also, the opposite: giving someone the runaround, bending the law, beat around the bush, circular reasoning. Also, lines are straight and they lead to squares, and so forth. If this interests you, I will totally transcribe the article, because it's a quick read and pretty damn interesting, just email me. Okay, I'm hitting the road.
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	[Jan. 29th, 2005\|10:32 am]
Ian and his mother just had the most interesting argument about whether or not it's dangerous to leave things plugged in while you're not using them (things such as: the toaster, the television, the electric can opener). Factors discussed: surge protectors, frequency of usage, and lack of documentation. Anyone ever have a fire start because of something they WEREN'T using, but was still plugged in? Or have a parent/friend/sibling/lover/acquaintance who unplugs everything when they're done?
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We see by our outfits that we are both cowboys -- If you get an outfit, you can be a cowboy, too!	[Jan. 28th, 2005\|12:15 pm]
I'd forgotten how much I hate discussion sections. I hate them so so much. And especially for English classes. Everyone wants to try and say the same basic things in as many different words as possible, and no one goes out on a limb or tries anything new. And everyone looks at the text in the same way, possibly typified best by the word "text" itself. TEXT. It's so heartless and cold, so objective and boring. But these aren't just TEXTS to me, they are poems, they are novels, and whether or not they are being taught in a classroom, they are still literature and they still came from a human being and they are still about human beings, and human existence is about as far from the feeling of TEXT as you can get. I hate when people use section to test out their possible thesis statements, instead of gaining a better understanding (and not just a mental understanding, an emotional pyschological one) of the works and the people who created them. I hate being reminded that some interpretations of literature are rejected because they "aren't as interesting, not as complicated." Even writers of the past could be boring or trite, even they could say things without meaning, and yet, and yet, and yet. I guess literature snobs just shouldn't try to study English. Sigh. What's that word for people who hate other people? Hatred of humanity? What is that word? And is it inextricable from elitism? And is elitism such a bad thing? In my cognitive science discussion section, there is another girl named Elizabeth. And I HATE HER. OH MY GOD, I HATE HER. Of course, there's only been one section meeting, but I've seen her in lecture and sometimes people just rub you the wrong way, you know what I'm sayin? I don't dig her vibe, especially because she takes her vibe and throws it all over the place -- a personality that must be deficient, as its holder couldn't resist the urge to try and fill the room with it, making everyone her audience so that she can see herself as she hopes others do and not as she does -- just vibe-shakin' all section long. I totally wouldn't hate her as much if she didn't have the same name I do. That just makes it worse, like I have to look at how I would end up if things went horribly horribly wrong. And then there are the people in section who are also friends outside of section and just WON'T SHUT UP, making jokes loud enough for everyone to hear, but just funny to one or two other people in the class. I mean, cmon, inside jokes are for middle-school notes passed in class, lj-friends filters, and AOL member profiles. God, I'm growing so bitter. I need my friends back or else this will only get worse.
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	[Jan. 27th, 2005\|10:02 am]
Last night I had a dream that I got a nose job. Like, with fishing wire. I was freaked out, in the dream. That is all.
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Adventures in Babysitting -- er, I mean, Bridgeport	[Jan. 24th, 2005\|08:56 am]
Well, that was fun. Right after section on Friday morning, it was off to Bridgeport with Ian, Pete, and Pete's friend Mary. There was the everpresent joy of cramming into the back of some vehicle and holding on for dear life. We actually arrived at Bridgeport before the sun went down, which is rare, so we were able to get up to the house and inside before things got really really cold. Pete taught us all to play Tile Rummy, which was pretty fun once I won a game. The hot tub was under soooo much snow. Everything was under soooo much snow. In order to shoot, we had to dig one of the benches out and shove it into a snow bank which was most likely directly above the other bench. Good times. We also went sledding -- WOOO! I hadn't been sledding in a long time, which was obvious if you took note of my many wipe-outs (sometimes more than one during a single run). I did have one wipe-out that was nuts. Pete snowmobiled me up to the very top of the run and I just went for it. Of course, steering those things is kind of a joke, so when I saw the collection of trees (or rather, tops of trees, as everything was covered in snow) coming up and couldn't steer away, I just bailed out and did a sort of face-plant into the snow cartwheel type thing. I was suddenly covered in snow and instinctually starting tearing off my clothes. Goddamn snow. I couldn't feel my toes for the rest of the day. And I got to drive a snowmobile. I also got to flip said snowmobile over when I couldn't figure out which way to lean, and Ian hurt his foot because he wasn't able to jump clear while also hanging onto me. Also, we played games and watched The Warriors and I got to use a chainsaw (wooo!) and despite all the snow and such, Ian and I got back to Berkeley in time for The Simpsons. I also managed to spend time in Bridgport without getting my period, which evens the score, since until this trip I was 2 out of 3 for menstruating while up there, and sometimes without plumbing. It's weird to go away like that. Now, I'm back at school again, but the Bridgeport state of mind sticks. If anything, it's nice to be somewhere, if only for a day or two, where NO ONE is gonna bug you. Phones don't work, no computers, no "drop-ins" as Seinfeld would say. All day today, walking to and from my classes, I will be thinking about sitting on the porch in Bridgeport, so warmed by the sun that my face turns red, looking out at the expanse of snow over hills and trees -- the way certain hilltops looked like the cinnamon-sprinkled whipped cream topping of a coffee, with dead bushes poking up out of the snow, the way the edges of snow on the roadside looked almost like marble cake, water dripping off of the rooftop, the way snow's smell stings the inside of your nostrils first thing in the morning, eating greasy food off of paper plates, burning the plates, wearing three pairs of socks, huddling together for warmth when someone decides they need to step outside for a smoke, knitting by the fire, watching the landscape change out of the side window on the drive back. Sigh. I have to go read some stuff, and unpack enough to repack my bag for school, and wash my face (as if Bridgeport would EVER let that happen in the winter). And Dipstick's starting to chew all sorts of things and walk all over the keyboard, which is making it really hard to end this entry. BYE!
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it must be a joke	[Jan. 20th, 2005\|04:01 pm]
Some things affect us in such horrible ways that the fall-back we find for ourselves is, "God has a mean sense of humor," or "this must be someone's idea of a joke." Such a story is what you are about to read it, if you read it. I wanted to review the reading I had done for Anthropology before the lecture. When I went to look for the reader, it was nowhere to be found. NOWHERE! I was tearing my room apart, flinging clothes and sheets all over the place, swearing and yelling and most likely turning bright red (although I'm not sure about that part, since I don't feel inclined to look at myself in the mirror when I'm angry -- I'm sure I look terrible, and looking cute would be even more infuriating), totally losing my mind over this goddamn reader and syllabus and how could I do this on the second day of class, and I wasn't meant to be in school again and all sorts of terrible self-hating things. I go to the last places I know I had the reader: a classroom in Evans and one in LeConte. LeConte didn't have a class at the time, so I checked out the room and it wasn't there. The room in Evans was still being used, so I went down to Lost & Found (on a wing and a prayer), where they told me that "something like that" would "probably" be returned to "the department it came from." What that means, I don't know, but I do know that it would have been fruitless to go all the way to Kroeber, just to be more sad. So, the class is out and I return to Evans to check for the reader. It ain't there. Which means it is in the goddamn trash. I can't just go buy a new reader. I am poor, so very very poor, and I've been calling my mom every single day to get her to transfer money to me for books. It seemed to annoy her enough that I certainly didn't want to call her and tell her that I LOST a reader and need another forty-five dollars. I complain to Ian about it, who says he will pay for me to have a new reader without even blinking, since he is working and no longer opening veins to the textbook industry. My mother wouldn't have to know, which is good, because I feel like she's just starting to see me as an adult and admitting that I lost something expensive and need her help would throw her perception of me back into "the forks go on THIS side, sweetie" mode, which I had to deal with for 18 years and am really fucking glad doesn't exist anymore, even at the price of a stroke. Fine. Now the only annoyances are that I've already highlighted in the reader, and that buying a new one requires waiting in that bitch-ass-long line clogged by freshman who don't have enough sense to memorize the name of their class or get their credit cards out before they're at the counter. Okay, so that aside, fine. I smoke some Shaman's to calm down, I go to class. Class was really good, good teacher, even though these two girls behind me would NOT shut up. This is why I am old -- I want them to die. I am there to learn, the professor is not there for your goddamn entertainment, just learn, damn you, learn! Class is over. Wonderful. I run over to Copy Central, the line ain't that long (I got there just in time) and I'm starting to think things aren't so bad. However, when I get the front of the line, I am told that my reader is sold out. Amazing. So I can't have it today. (The immediacy of my need will be explained shortly.) I can go back and get my new reader at any time after noon tomorrow. Let me tell you what I'm doing tomorrow: I am going to English section, and then immediately going to Bridgeport. Sections shouldn't even be held on the first week, and I'd consider skipping it if it wasn't for such a high-demand class that my skipping-out would lead to me being kicked out of class and my spot taken by a wait-listed kid who is more dedicated. So, already I am delaying a number of people leaving for Bridgeport and feel like a jerk. On the way home, I am upset, thinking how this makes it even worse, and how if I don't get the reader tomorrow, I'd have to read like 300 pages on Monday night alone. I am thinking about this to the point where I stop wanting to go to Bridgeport and actually start thinking about what I am going to say to Ian about not wanting to go, because I know he is really excited so I would be soooo making him sad. Thinking about this, thinking thinking thinking, until I get to my room. By the time I reach my room, I am in "FUCK IT" mode. Fuck the reader, fuck school, fuck Bridgeport, fuck me. I envision myself walking through the door, swigging alcohol (so not good for me) and hitting the bong until I can't think anymore. My one consolation being that I would be back JUST in time for Law & Order. When I do arrive at my room, I am so pissed at everything and myself, that I kick my mattress (it sits on the floor) and swear. In the few seconds the mattress was shifted, I saw my reader. Under the mattress. Okay, let me say that again: UNDER THE MATTRESS! So, I waited in line, went all over campus, got upset, put myself down, broke into tears, tore my room apart, borrowed money from Ian in advance that is now going to be totally wasted, and committed myself to a night of no-thinking (as opposed to my immediate plan of reading reading reading so I could go to Bridgeport and still be caught up; beginning of the semester is the worst time to fall behind, I think). Great. So I find the reader and my own stupidity, as well as waste of time money emotional energy, and what I'm greeted with is hardly a consolation. Here, Beth, said God, you CAN spend your whole night reading. I bet you have the energy for that, right? Just kill me. Just kill me. This has to be a joke. Not to mention, I bought the reader with my own money, figuring Ian would pay me back tomorrow. This leaves me about $3 dollars for dinner. So, thanks to myself, I am eating baked beans and canned pineapple for dinner (whoopee) while I read a reader that I paid for twice. And in case you're wondering, readers are non-refundable, which also applies to the reorder I paid for today. I would have felt better flushing my own dollar bills down the toilet, but that would be a pleasure too satisying for God to allow me to experience. And I was going to go to the Inauguration Protest in SF today, but now the last thing I want to do is go outside for anything. So, my own stupidity costs me time money emotions and the energy to release some stress by actually DOING something that corresponds with my beliefs (something not that typical of Beth, when "doing something" refers to more than just adjusting my character in some way). And of course, I was completely unable to sit down and enjoy my Law & Order because my head was now ready to explode. So, Ian doesn't answer his phone, no one answers their goddamn phone, Patty & Corrine are on the other side of the ocean and Dipstick doesn't understand words, and it leads me to this final refuge -- livejournal. And writing in livejournal has now left me at a time in the Law & Order episode where I don't know WHAT THE FUCK'S going on. At least it's 420. Fuck this shit.
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	[Jan. 19th, 2005\|09:20 pm]
My great-aunt Helen was a great woman. Read this, because it's about her, and it has the name Prouty throughout. Also, some stuff about UC Berkeley, because she studied and taught her at the University. I saw this woman during her last days, and rather than describe the impact -that- had on me, I'd like for at least one or two of you to read her obit and remember her in some other, less sad and sickly, way. http://www.signonsandiego.com/news/obituaries/20050117-9999-1m17prouty.html
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	[Jan. 19th, 2005\|02:39 pm]
$345 for books and readers. And as if that weren't invasive enough, I have to go to a pelvic exam now. There will be an entry of substance soon.
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finally cow-towing to UCB	[Jan. 18th, 2005\|04:04 pm]
Ahem, school. Tuesday and Thursday mornings, I am shown the workings of the mind in Cognitive Science C1, taught by this lady: On Tuesday and Thursday afternoons, I consider the workings of culture in Anthropology 3, taught by this guy: On Monday and Wednesday mornings, I expect an interactive dive into literature, led by this dude who won some special teaching award: On Monday and Wednesday afternoons, the mysterious workings of H20 on this planet will be explored with this guy, who is in the Alps, apparently: School is happening, it is soon to take over my life. For once, I shall let it.
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	[Jan. 18th, 2005\|09:22 am]
Dipstick is getting more and more confident with walking on my keyboard, which is sad because that means I am trusting her less and less to be out of her cage when I'm writing. OH MAN, she's clicking the mouse! Damn learning animals! I should find a way to teach her bare skin=do not crawl on. Cog Sci class starts in t-minue 90 minutes. I should get dressed.
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	[Jan. 17th, 2005\|12:14 pm]
School starts tomorrow and I am SO READY! Having a working computer and printer/scanner/copier in my room is amazing and really makes me want to be productive. All of my schoolbooks look really interesting, so I can hardly wait to learn! Two nights ago, I had a dream about trying to get Del Taco, so I told Ian, because we always share our dreams (or I share mine, as there is usually little to report on his side). He got out of bed while I stayed in bed, complaining how I didn't want to get out of bed. I thought he was looking up cars or email or something online, but NO! In fact, he was discovering the Del Taco in San Francisco. So, I had the amazing experience of tasting Del Taco within my Berkeley dorm room. I never thought it would happen. Dipstick is climbing all over my lap as I write this, trying to burrow her way into my pajama pants. I am really glad that she is failing. I don't have much to say in this entry, but I feel obligated to update since my previous desires to do so (with actual thoughts and whatnot) were thwarted by livejournal's power failure or whatever it was. It's time for food.
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	[Jan. 13th, 2005\|12:15 pm]
Today, unlike the last few days, I resolve to do as little as possible. I'm tired, thinky, and lazy. I'm not even going to open the curtains today. . . . Actually, that's a lie, I really should open them, because without light we'd all go nuts. Okay, so then, yesterday at this time I was in a flurry of calling people and making appointments and going to doctors and everything, but now I am just sitting here in pajamas wondering how I dragged myself out of bed in the first place. The last few days my out-and-aboutness led to endorphins, which led not only to not killing my husband, but also to a strong desire to small-talk everyone. EVERYONE. As much as I detest small-talk at a party with good friends (you know, who wants to talk to their kindred spirits about the price of sweaters at Macy's? not me), it can really make errands and waiting in line sooo much nicer. Dipstick is watching me type, hoping that I will let her out, but seeing as she found her way out of the cage last night and spent her time trying to chew up my various possessions, I feel as though it is my duty to not. I should clean her cage, however, but that's more of a tomorrow thing. Well, I don't plan to run around erranding today, so if you're in Berkeley and want company, give me a call or respond to this or email me or something. I will leave my room for you, and only you. Peace.
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	[Jan. 12th, 2005\|01:34 pm]
It's only 1:30 and I've already had a pretty full day. How do I do this? it's so against my style. Blood draw in the morning, you know how I love those; such fun to have three vials of blood removed from my body when I was only expected the usual ONE. After I got over the light-headedness, I spoke to the doctor, and I swear he is the best doctor ever. You know how on talk shows and whatnot, someone overcoming a physical tragedy always thanks their doctor? I would thank this doctor. I only see him once every six months, but he answers every question fully and honestly, and he talks to me like I'm an adult and not just a child who freakishly endured an adult problem. Anyway, so I got my Coumadin prescription and my brand new OCBC note (woohoo! cheap and effective weed, but at the price of going to downtown Oakland and not simply to Northside) that I didn't even ask for. I just told the doc I smoke, because you never hide anything from your doc, and he was practically offering to drive me to The Buyer's Club. Also, he laughed at my "dentristy in Nebraska in the 60s" joke, which made me happy. If you ever need a hematologist, Brad Lewis is the greatest. Dipstick is drinking water from that hanging water bottle all small caged animals drink out of, and it looks really funny. She's got one paw up on the metal spout and she's just licking that thing like there's no tomorrow. It's starting to make me giggle, so I'll move on: Then, there was the wonderful task of going to the Tang Center, god I hate that place, to make an appointment for a pelvic exam--you don't even want to know--which took much longer than it should have. After checking on the status of my book order, I stopped by Wet Seal, as it was on my way home and also having a serious sale. And since I have no aversion to last year's fashions and am, in fact, completely oblivious to the matters of fashion, I used their sale clothing to create a nice old-school Hollywood type outfit for the Oscars ceremony this year. I'm tired of trying to make my body seem more curvy than it actually is, so I just decided to go the old route, the flapper route almost, where it's just like: hey, yeah, I have little boobies and teeny hips, but my ass is still big enough for you to KISS IT. So there. Black dress, straight down with a few ruffles (I suppose you would call them, although they're really more like folds) at about mid-calf. Over that goes this long-sleeve sheer tan thing, with simple maroonish embroidery around the neck. The neck lines plunges like a button-down shirt without those couple top buttons, so that the dress can be seen. Put those together with a gold belt (oh yeah, baby, you KNOW it), it's a bunch of gold discs with yellowish-gold stones in them chained together, and it clasps with just a little latch, like a dog collar. So I figure I'll pick up some pearls or, shiny things, or something, get some gold shoes and some earrings and BOOM, the Oscars. Sorry to everyone who doesn't care, the Oscars is the only thing that makes me care about what I'm wearing (which is so against my character, but what can I say? even though I'm one of the biggest critics of the Oscars, I still like the feeling of walking down the red carpet, turning the corner and having all those people think, if only for a millisecond, that I'm someone "important"), and therefore I shall try to force you to care as well. Now, I must go pick up my book order, as it is completed, and then go obtain a fancy letter that this lady on the phone just informed me I need in order to be accepted by the OCBC. Nothing but lots of walking for Beth today. It's not even 2 yet! I shouldn't have this much to say. And yet there is practically a whole other day ahead of me, as I am BARTing into the city later this afternoon to meet Ian for a date. Wooooo! OH! And Corrine, CORRINE (put it in caps in case you're just scanning this entry) CORRINE -- I'm recording all episodes of 24 and it is for your benefit that I haven't talked about it at all in my livejournal. Also, Ian has a different schedule than I do and cannot commit to watching it every week, so I will have to round the two of you up and we'll just sit on our asses for a whole day and watch Jack fight terrorists by practically becoming one. Good old FOX network! Okay, bye now. I mean it this time.
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	[Jan. 11th, 2005\|04:13 pm]
Remember that movie BAPS from 1997? the one with Martin Landau and now sought after Halle Berry and Bernie Mac? the one that plays on the idea of Black American Princesses? Do ya? Well, if you do, I pose this question: will the world ever be able to handle JAPS: Jewish American Princesses, and under what circumstances (plausible or no)? Discuss amongst yourselves.
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It's raining - how will I ever get my sushi?!

[Jan. 10th, 2005|06:04 pm]

[	mood	\|	eats keep nixing teethbrushing	]
[	music	\|	beans, beans, the musical fruit (wink)	]

Beth's style: Cram all errands possible into a single day, then sit on ass for entire week. I wonder what kind of life this habit will lead me to in, say, ten years.

I wish that you could pull your own soul out, through your mouth or your ear or your ass or something. The point is that I wish I could look at it and count its rings or carbon-date it or something to find out how old it is. Because sometimes you meet those old men who are still boys, and sometimes you meet these wise ten year-olds. I just want to know where I am on the spectrum. How old is my soul, y'all? because I don't want to do anything silly like simply declare that I have the heart of a young boy but the mind of an old man--it's impossible for me to truly say anyway, because the method at my disposal for determining the age of my soul is introspection, and if you read your Wittgenstein you'll know that introspection might seem fun, but it's actually impossible or at the very least counterproductive--so the only other standard I can think of is that of society, and since society is an abstract idea with undulating opinions that cannot be applied as strictly as the scientific method I am left to ask of you, my incredibly small, so very very miniscule spectrum of society, composed not solely of friends (although you could make a case that it does, in the livejournal sense), the question which I myself cannot answer: how old is my soul?

And yet again, how the fuck would you know? Hahaha, I amused myself with my own thoughts.

This is what happens when I spend all day alone. I practically turn into a writer, as all day long my thoughts are born and age and wither away and are thus denied that wonderful abortion that is endless chatter--so many words, whose weight is greatly diminished by long comparisons with silence, begin to seem as silly as purchasing a soundtrack to the soundtrack of a movie that you now barely remember--leaving you at the end of the day with the only thoughts surviving after the thinning of the herd, as it were, and those last thoughts prove to be old men just praying for death, begging me to kill them by forcing them into words. Words, the birth-manger and death-bed of all poetry. If you -have- read your Wittgenstein, you will note that I chose the term "poetry" over that of "ideas" in the previous sentence in order to maintain the the basest illusion of continuity.

And in closing, I would like to state, plainly, that Ian and I picked up some KILLER weed this weekend. Explains a lot about this entry, don't it?

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migrating to Berkeley for the spring

[Jan. 10th, 2005|07:45 am]

[	mood	\|	TCB, baby	]
[	music	\|	oh! I suppose I should put on some music.	]

This computer is so new that I want to spank it, if you understand that. It's quarter to 8 in the morning and I'm fully awake of my own accord, which is unusual. I plan to get many errands done today, so that I may spend the better part of it sitting on my ass playing video games and not feeling bad about it in the least. Of course, before I finish those video games, I am going to finish reading Orlando, and if the student store puts my book order together toot-sweet, then I shall do, at the very least, cursory reading of The Scarlett Letter and Great Expectations as well. Huzzah! I'm a student again; stroke victim no more!

Dipstick seems happier to be up in Berkeley, by which I mean animals have no concept of emotions, so I have projected my own happiness of being in Berkeley onto her. But there are a lot of cords now, because of the desktop computer, so I must find a way to rat-proof them, even though (for the time being, and in college terms you know that means FOREVER) they are running along the desk directly in front of her cage.

I should stop reading Virginia Woolf, it's making all my sentences longer and more clause-packed. That being said, here is another excellent excerpt from the book--and don't worry, this one isn't about the disease of writing, but rather the language of love, and it is much shorter: ( Orlando by Virginia Woolf, take two )

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soon the only pages will be comma web

[Jan. 8th, 2005|02:30 pm]

[	mood	\|	I gotta crap!	]
[	music	\|	enya, apparently	]

I'm reading this book right now and this is one of my (numerous) favorite parts, so I thought I would share. Of course, no one will actually read it, because it's literature and not just random sentences like my other livejournal entries, so I will lj-cut it and put in a more "Beth" entry some other time. Excuse the book-reading; school starts soon and then I will be unable to sit down and read something as complex as Virginia Woolf for pleasure.

( from Orlando by Virginia Woolf )

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"Aw, shit - that guy's my ride."	[Jan. 3rd, 2005\|11:57 am]
I'm glad I went, but I'm glad I'm back. First the desert, then the beach, and inbetween was a whole lotta something. I saw faces in mountains, I felt Manifest Destiny, I knit, and I felt pretty good. By the way, I refuse to put unnecessary pressure on this time of year, for myself or anyone. It's just pages of numbered squares often coupled with pictures of kittens and yarn. There are bigger things than that. Less ambiguously, I'm hungry. So hungry.
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	[Dec. 29th, 2004\|07:01 pm]
Jerry, I hear your voice on tv, but it's just not the same. :(
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