Hic Sepultus -"Here is buried..." - Truth, Meaning, and a Very Dead Sense of Humor

Thank you to all the people who replied.

What I would like now : Stay Posted. Everything (well, a lot of things) will be made clear to you in the next e-mail. THE WEBSITE, THE BLOG PROVIDER, etc.

Editors at the Present : Winnie, Easter (If you think this is presumptuous, kindly recall you haven't volunteered)

Add reports/projects to the list of possible entries.

The Way Things Look Now : It would probably be best if Writeway snatched a blog service, had moderators, members - a Team Service, according to blogger.com (Lo and behold, this idea has been confirmed by a second voice! Thanks Jay)

It would behoove you to become a member of the blog/club, because otherwise there would be a middleman between you and publication - me.

The membership will be free (most of you probably know more about blogging and its services than I do), but if you don't want the trouble of signing up or just feel like being in frequent contact with me (that would be quite odd), then by all means e-mail me your work.

~~~~~~~
I say "Writeway" and some people jump back like I said "Macbeth" during the production of the play. I won't speculate on the reasons.

Think of Wikipedia. It's an enormous growing mass of information, sometimes a little seedy, but useful nonetheless. Many different people contribute to it, and no one person shoulders the

whole burden of being Ken Jennings--did I say Ken Jennings? I meant, knowing everything. Where the topic is not available, it simply waits to be filled. No one is pressured into additional researching.

It all depends on what you want, what you know, and what you want to know.
Occasionally I read MSN's Slate Magazine. It's helpful to read commentary on the issues of the day. There are people called "Frequent Contributors" who aren't actual writers for the magazine (this may be of some interest to some of you who are wary of becoming members of Writeway) but write on a much less frequent, more informal basis.

The last time I played a computer game was years ago. :) But from my creaky memory I remember that there were levels: Easy, Intermediate, and Difficult. I usually chose the Easy level, hoarded all the supplies, squished all the bad guys, and won the game.

One day, feeling frisky, I tried Intermediate. I died within five minutes.

The point being this: I played the game. It can be easy, it can be intermediate, it can be difficult.
I've said this before. You can choose whatever level of involvement you want. You're still in the club--I mean, game. If you want a more active role, then talk to me.

That was a gaffe on my part. ^_-. Membership remains a subject of debate. As of now I see no reason to be afraid of being a member. It's just something YOU CAN PUT ON YOUR COLLEGE APPLICATION.

But I'm sure you all aren't concerned about things like that.

If you're confused (this not shameless plugging, I just can't think of examples right now) check out my blog at http://hicsepultus.blogspot.com.

I'm not a day-to-day person. The great thing about this project is that your work doesn't have to be relevant or recent. It just is.

TO DO: I would submit my "Random Essays" series. If I could develop an intelligent review for "Troy" and "Alexander" I could send that.

DO NOT DO:Don't send in parts of your chat (I should scold myself) or your very personal life. Keep that on your own blog. The rating should probably be PG-13, but so far it can be negotiated. :)

~Winnie

Posted by ceterumcenseo at 9:52 PM | Permalink | Comments

There is no one Mr. Krone-Schmidt reminds me so much of as James Caviezel. Perhaps Caviezel is more attractive, a better actor, and a generally worthier object of idolatry, but the resemblance is there.

In my humble opinion, Caviezel usually delivers a solid, moving performance that contributes to the overall quality of the movie. I never notice him, even as the main character, but that fortunately does not change the excellence of his acting.

Krone-Schmidt serves as an effective foil for the smoldering sexuality Not quite the image I was striving for of Hayden Schneider’s Hal Carter. The physical disparities in themselves were successful in conveying the reasons for Madge’s infatuation with Hal and not Alan, but Krone-Schmidt carried the reality further with more subtle indications. His disintegration, from the educated son of the richest man in town who knows he’s the perfect to-be son-in-law to a disillusioned young man who realizes all that he is and has accomplished means nothing to the woman he loves, who prefers a husky ne'er-do-well to him, is riveting to watch.

When Krone-Schmidt first walks into Picnic, swaggering in his quieter way, he has everything in the world. He speaks with filial affection to Annie Fernandez’s Flo Owens, and brotherly fondness to Jennifer Kang’s Millie Owens. But his “eyes lit up,” so to speak, when he saw Chasta Nechvatal’s Madge Owens. The politeness gave way to love and pride, love because that is what he feels for Madge, and pride because she is so beautiful, and completely his. Well, that’s about to change.

As played by Krone-Schmidt, Alan appears to be the most human, the most realistic character. It’s difficult to pinpoint exactly how he expresses these qualities to the audience, but he does. The way Krone-Schmidt comported himself with these three women clearly demonstrated his thoughts on each. A straightening of posture and careful attention for Fernandez, bending lower and smiling indulgently for Kang, and a transformation of being for Nechvatal.

If there is such a thing as responsible passion, then Krone-Schmidt has it bad there has to be a better way to say this for Nechvatal. When Schneider interrupts a ... ahem … private moment, the expression of mixed annoyance at Schneider and yearning to continue what he has with Nechvatal is perfect.

When he was first reunited with Schneider, the man-to-man talk was utterly hilarious. He, the sensible, reliable college man, giggling with a shirtless guy about Schneider’s unfortunate robbery by girls, was, I thought, extremely well done. Underneath that suit might be a great bod—I mean—a mischievous boy, adding another facet to Alan’s character other than that of the stable, I-will-probably-be-dumped-even-though-I’m-blond boyfriend.

I wrung my hands in sympathy and my nose in irritation as an abject Krone-Schmidt somberly entered and asked to speak with Nechvatal. His subdued strength as the wronged boyfriend came across superbly. As Kang confesses her illicit passion (actually just a girlish crush) for him in what could have been a silly and awkward scene, Krone-Schmidt takes the news quietly, maintaining the tension and adding to it another component. He was probably thinking, “At least somebody likes me.” I liked him!—his performance, of course. Keep my personal opinions to myself, please.

The audience can experience the conflicting emotions in him: loyal, frustrated love for Nechvatal, and a newfound hatred and jealousy for Schneider—that lasted for five seconds, the duration of the time he first looked at his once-friend after Revelations. Afterwards, it was the good guy who is a great good but not a good bad. That’s not good. Neither are these snapshot sentences.

The weakest part of Krone-Schmidt’s performance came, I felt, when Schneider confronted him about his lying to the police. Again, I’ll protest that I was not in a desirable position as regards to my seating, so I did not receive the maximum benefits of seeing him 3D. I can only surmise that his anger must have been wholly on his face, because the rest of his body did not demonstrate the range of emotion I had become accustomed to. Until he began accusing Schneider of pretty much ruining his life and dreams of happy matrimony with Nechvatal, I couldn’t see or feel that he was angry. This was probably a cheap complaint.

For the first time, the greatest strength of his performance, the natural fluidity of his movements, faltered and even looked faintly contrived as he pushed and shoved at the rock-solid wall that was Schneider. He huffed, and he puffed, and he fell down.

If I sound sarcastic concerning Krone-Schmidt’s considerable dramatic gifts or qualities, I apologize because in truth his performance rent my susceptible heart. The look on his face when Schneider beat him to a grease spot on the floor was painful, especially from my disadvantageous view of the back of his head. (Darn the people in the middle seats and their unhindered sight of the stage!) But what I mean is that his body language, the way he slowly got to his feet, unable to look at Nechvatal after being soundly trounced in front of her, said it all.

Despite the merriment of Keri Werlinch’s Rosemary impromptu marriage to Alex Choi’s Howard Bevans and the resulting titters of the audience, the mirth of the play is tempered by Nechvatal leaving her home to be with Schneider. The Pulitzer-prizewinning play Picnic captured our hopes of what we want, what we never had, and what we never will. I sound like the voice on a movie trailer.

On a lighter note, I’m unsure of who is the bigger loser, Krone-Schmidt’s character of Choi’s, one who lost the girl (such a girl!), the other who got her (what a woman!).

Choi looks lost, in a funny stupefied way, when next to Werlinich, who overwhelms his settled middle-aged state in matrimony. He looks lost when he sees Chasta Nechvatal as beautiful Madge and ruefully accepts that he’s no great catch. And finally, he looks so lost—behind his makeup. What a lot of blush! The effect is sidesplitting.

Keri … must not … mention … Keri …

Werlinich simply glinted with frantic brilliance. The projected image of stuffy schoolteacher quickly surrendered to the reality of an aging woman who is desperate to find meaning in her life and seeks it in marriage. It was nearly impossible to imagine the glowing, lovely Werlinich as such a character, but with her acting I managed, just barely. It was very hard.

It is soon made clear that her high-nosed disapproval of the vigorous Schneider only masks a fear of her own youth slipping away. Unlike Krone-Schmidt, who floors me with a lift of his blond eyebrow, Werlinich favors the dramatic—expansive movements and a voice that runs the gamut from low and despairing to frenzied and high-pitched.

Martin Victorio, who played Bomber the dynamite-throwing newspaper boy, was such a loud, cowardly cartoon that he had me in hysterical tears.

At the moment when the lights dimmed and Nechvatal paused on the steps as she heard the train, I nearly bellowed, “Freeze, for the love of something that’ll freeze!” I sneezed instead, and people around me stared, but my focus was on the exquisite young woman with the face of Kristin Kreuk who wanted more than the town life. What a gorgeous, poignant picture.

In ending, I must extend my most sincere compliments to the talented cast and its superb director, Mrs. Krell-Oishi. Picnic was wonderfully performed, and I have only the greatest respect and admiration for those who had a part in its production. Did I overdo the plum sauce?

Posted by ceterumcenseo at 6:21 PM | Permalink | Comments

For an essay contest I didn't win. I didn't even get a thank-you note for applying. ^_-

Why does everything sound so stiff and stilted? I really needed to loosen up.

Lacking proper management, today's youth may create a poor tomorrow. By means of human contact a young man is nudged in conflicting ways, and if those light touches become shoves of a bad sort, the youth can be likened to a bud that has been shredded before it has blossomed. It is imperative that at the crucial time of youth, he is shown his limits in detrimental areas and loosely but surely led to the constructive aspects of life. This sympathetic supervision can be offered in a positive teacher-student relationship occurring in a school setting. "...occurring in a school setting." Who says that? The teacher allows the student to fulfill his potential by providing ample space for the growing of his faculties, and in return the student gives to the teacher the respect and deference due to his advanced experience.

A teacher has a tremendous impact on the educational experience of a student, possibly determining whether it be rewarding or a trial. A good teacher is supple in his methods and inflexible in his goals, accommodating the student in such a way as will elicit the most mental profit specifically for the one to whom he is imparting knowledge. He will encourage the student not to deflect information back but to absorb, process, and make it his own by drawing his own conclusions. Truly interested in the progress of the student, the teacher is unaffected and refrains from condescension, realizing that the learning path is equally significant to the final destination–that of wisdom. By his character and actions the teacher exudes a sense of direction, a purpose to what he does, and communicates that motivation to the student.

\When a student is acknowledged to be a capable, albeit not fully mature, individual, to keep the good opinion of an esteemed mentor he will strive to become the image a brighter future promises him he will be. The student sees in the teacher qualities he himself would like to possess, such as patience, kindness, tolerance if not support, fairness, and a confident buoyancy that permits him to survive any hardship; even more importantly, to him the teacher is a human being whose aim is not to make him suffer but to guide him to look beyond recognized horizons. At encounters the student will bring a receptive mind and an optimistic attitude to complement the teacher's enthusiasm and love for his subject. Through this interaction the student will gradually find his values apart from that of the teacher and continue to grow independently of formal aid. A very boring person this student would turn out to be.

The compassion of a teacher for the human frailties of his student far surpasses the support a poster on the wall could provide, or any other unreachable model the student may have chosen. Depending on the class, a teacher is in a position to know the workings of the youthful mind by its physical productions and with that familiarity decide how best to assist him in development. To the student, a teacher is a responsible adult, separate from the intimacies of relation and yet near enough to understand the difficulties of emerging into maturity. With the teacher as a listening counselor, the student's needs are being appropriately expressed before they metamorphous into monstrous, unsolvable barriers obstructing a healthy and full life.

It would be unkind, if not cruel, to consent to dilatory and reckless behavior on the part of the youth. Better to discipline the delinquent now than later, when the employer will not be so forgiving as a restrained teacher. The role of the teacher is not merely to educate academically but also, in addition to the parents, act to build character and move such tendencies as speaking when others have already begun, to a more suitable vocation, as in a free debate. That's a lot of responsibility. Thus the student is fully armed to confront life with all it complexities, able to intelligently deal with problematic situations and, owing to his mental refinement, overcome them. This powerful arsenal will open Blast open, really numerous doors to him, and because of his teacher the former student will have attained, not the teacher's standards, but his own and become a productive member of society. And this is the ultimate goal...why?

Posted by ceterumcenseo at 6:15 PM | Permalink | Comments

Favorite Essay – “Incident in a Rose Garden”

I wrote this essay at home. It is my favorite largely because of its subject, Death. I have a morbid interest in the Grim Reaper and I thought the twist at the end was clever. Additionally, I thought about it, to such an extent, weaving it with what I knew of Death beforehand in my head, that I believe it safe to say it helped me to gain a clearer perspective of Death as it will affect me in my life. Needless to say, the cogitating I did was pitifully represented on paper. To speak of Death, I felt I somehow had to tie to it every aspect of life, and I fruitlessly attempted that impossible task, then, panicking because I knew it meandered, began scrubbing away the excesses until the result was terribly unclear. Speaking of unclear, this sentence definitely is. However much I may dislike the destination, the journey I enjoyed a great deal. I'm giving clichés a bad name. If I look at this essay in the future, I will remember that I used to think this way, and be able to pinpoint when my views began to change. That, to me, is the ultimate in the learning process, a triumphant moment in the work of progress that is my life. My thesis was fairly simple, and I had hoped a general statement would allow me to deviate a bit, but I strayed much, so that was of little help. The idea that humans for the most part have no say in when they leave this world has intrigued me ever since I realized my own existence. That's very melodramatic. I think I wrote the summary in the introduction a bit better than before. Unfortunately for myself, my standards seem to slide past those of the school, never quite coinciding. Some things never change. The mental challenges, due to other concerns in my life at the time of writing this essay, that I had to, if not overcome, then face, make this essay a personal pet and overwhelm, in my mind, the obvious flaws. This is an awful plea for mercy.

Most Challenging Essay – “The Odyssey”

I wrote this essay during class. Regretfully, I did not overcome the challenges that confronted me in this essay. I have loved this story for years and became so caught up in the story, the narrative, that I indeed began to write short summaries rather than paragraphs. I so far forgot myself that I neglected to write proper topic sentences. Embarrassingly enough, I began to ramble. I do this regardless of liking the subject or not. Moreover, it was as if all the interesting bits were so firmly entrenched in the story itself that I could not pry them free for my essay. The Odyssey essay that I wrote is tedious and were I to look back on it, I would not cringe, nor wail, only throw it away. There is no merit in it, nothing to save it from deserving obscurity. I scrambled over the story, poring line by line to incorporate quotes, so if I rewrote this essay I would rather refocus my attention to supporting my thesis with appropriate concrete detail and commentary. Since I have not had this difficulty before, I am surprised that only now does it develop, and I think that it is the main reason I did so poorly. A hideous piece of work, this essay was.

“Writing Progress” Essay – “Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde”

I wrote this essay during class. I improved my organization and limited my commentary, generally, to what was pertinent. While I see how this essay is technically superior to previous ones, it has no heart in it for me to like. I literally was writing whatever came to mind, and it was an orderly mass of nothingness. Notice I have nothing to say.

This is all very sappy and self-pitying.

Posted by ceterumcenseo at 6:01 PM | Permalink | Comments

First, I would like to apologize for all the people who innocently search for "hic sepultus" and find this blog.

This was a careless error on my part which I will soon remedy, after I eat breakfast, pass my IB and AP exams, and thereby rule the world.

Thank you for understanding.

The Rundown on what passes for entertainment :)

Minute Impressions.

WARNING: These are neither full nor qualified reviews, only what struck me the most about them.

Troy
Watching Brad Pitt play Achilles play Brad Pitt was not the most elevating experience. On the shallowest level, as in mud-puddle-ankles-submerged, he doesn't look like Achilles. Yes, they sprayed a liberal amount of bronze on his posters, but I have always imagined him to be a young boy in a young man's body, imbued with the knowledge of his own golden invincibility, and rendered imperishable more by his utter childishness and pettiness than his god-like powers (disregard that it was all thanks to Mommy). Nothing really came across, really, except the staggering waste of lives over a rather personal affair, like the incredible amount of money poured into this movie and spent in sprinkling its millions of starry dust over bedazzled people.

Why call the movie Troy? That's like the reverse of Stone Soup, because here there's really nothing else, only the stone. And the stone was Brad Pitt, and he is not a very pretty or interesting piece of rock.

Orlando Bloom and Diane Kruger did not perform so much as act as pretty scenery. On the stills they look fabulous. In terms of moving or speaking or simply being more than a cardboard figure like the ones I see in Barnes and Nobles, there was very little.

Helen : Wow! Pretty boy!
Paris : Wow! Pretty girl!
The forces of the not-appearing Aphrodite pull them together.
Helen and Paris : Whoa! Gorgeous couple.

Eric Bana filled in his role like he did his armor--very handsomely. He played the character of the noble older brother to the hilt. It was a conventional role, and again not quite what I pictured Hector to be, but it was fine.

Night. Bed. Man. Woman. Knife. Why does the combination always pop up? Yes, I'm sure the danger and the provocative position makes it all very sexy, but that happens so often that it's like a perpetual state of arousal--bound to get tedious, not to mention painful, probably soon to be deadly.

I can't deal with this right now. I'm feeling emotionally fragile after seeing thousands of computer-code figures hack each other to bloody computer-code pieces. It was all very touching.

Alexander (Tellingly, they leave out the Great)
These "epic" movies are quite presumptuous in their one-word titles. Reminds me of the episode titles of Smallville (The last time I saw it, Smallville was a growing trash heap. Clark Kent as played by Tom Welling is a hunk--of meat, a raw slab that I usually behold in the butchery section of the market. Flies buzz abundantly near this meat, bearing an eerie resemblance to those who squeak incessantly about the sexiness or lack thereof of the characters. Case study: dawnine,helena12/28/2004 17:17what if they had a baby? clark couldnt be with lana cues theyd b related and that could get weird if you know wut i mean), which were like globules of spit gum shot at hapless people. I've gone overboard, I realize, in my sea of bitterness.

Which is not to say this was a horrible movie. I closed my eyes periodically, and there was some pretty horrific miscasting, but I didn't hate Alexander. Just...felt sorry for it. The ever-present Night. Bed. Man. Woman. Knife. scene. The Man and Woman are naked this time. I threw up my hands to save my sight, but not before I saw a...uh...detailed outline, like the European maps of the great maritime exploration and colonization age. But there was nothing inside. Well, physically there is, a lot, but...point-wise...gratuitous sex on screen? To prove that Alexander's sword is strong in more arenas than the battlefield?

I get it. I don't think so.

Hephaistion : Alex...um...sorry to interrupt, but--I'm dying over here.
Alexander : Hold on a second. Let me finish. Where was I?
Hephaistion : *Gurgle in the background, where he usually is anyway*
Alexander : ...then we'll conquer all the earth! We'll grow old together, and--Hephaistion? Hephaistion? Nononononono!!!!

Alexander : Roxane! This is all your fault somehow!
He tries to strangle her, calling up disturbing memories of his father and mother.
Roxane : My hubby! Don't do this! I'm going to have your baby! Did I mention it's a son? Alexander lets go, stares, and runs, with some unintelligble dialogue inbetween.
Roxane : Is this bad timing?

Beneath the smudged mascara and the greasy aura, Jared Leto is a good-looking man. Why the fairy godmother, influenced by Marilyn Manson and Steven Tyler, decided to visit her twisted magic on a man rather than Cinderella, I have no idea and suggest she stick to the fairer sex.

Colin Farrell has the pitiable misfortune of being human. He played Alexander on an ordinary plane. Why should the audience believe in Alexander's dreams, when Farrell's Alexander doesn't? He's mouthing words, and they're filled with fire that have no light. That's very melodramatic...not to mention cliché.

Alexander + Hephaistion = one of history's most fascinating pairs. Colin Farrell + Jared Leto = squirming awkwardness.

Farrell's Alexander practically salivates, at least initially, for Rosario Dawson's Roxane. There is some serious heat being generated between the two. Alexander lunges for Roxane like an animal.

Which reminds me: Farrell's Alexander looks like Scooby Doo when he's dirty, upset, or wet, which happens quite often in the movie.

Then Alexander is with Hephaistion, his best friend, his confidant. You can almost see Farrell psyching himself to throw his arms around the man. They hug a lot.

Um...

Alexander marries Roxane, and Hephaistion sneaks into his bedroom like a guilty mistress and presents him with his own ring. So they're sort of married too. I think. Roxane comes in, catches them together, and feels a little...suspicious.

This is a pretty funny scene, comparable to the time Alexander gets a hissy fit after killing Cleitus and both Bagoas and Hephaistion comfort him, one on each side. Anyway, Roxane stares at Alexander and Hephaistion, and Hephaistion just sorts of...melts away. I couldn't believe it. What was that?

These is no plausible reason why men would follow Alexander on his mad conquests; the man must have been more than the way he was portrayed.The scene with Alexander on his horse and the enemy on the elephant was meant to be a great kodak moment, but it made him look like a moron. Alexander may have been nuttier than a bag of pistaschios, but what was that? I don't know how they managed to underplay the man's accomplishments.

Every time Alexander is upset, Farrell has the exact same reaction. The same expression when Philip dies, when he kills Cleitus, when Hephaistion dies, etc, etc. Am I reading too much into this? This bothers me a lot.

The accent. Oh. My. Gosh. I think the director may have wanted a mishmash of accents in order to display the melting pot of ethnicities, but why Irish? I wasn't watching scenes of the ancient past.

I was watching a highly publicized movie with a lot of well-known stars who don't convince me of their authentic antiquity.

As much as I admire Anthony Hopkins, as Ptolemy he brought little to the movie. All he does is talk, I concede, but...those scenes dragged...on...and...on... Angelina Jolie is a gorgeous, sexy creature. I sound like a lustful Pan, which is disturbing considering that I'm...welll...female. That being said, I can go on to say other things, like how she was ever so slightly REALLY overdoing the character. She was fascinating to watch, but it was such a theatrical performance that Olympias...

That was what happened to her.

This is an unfair complaint, but sometimes her accent made what she said sound like measured clicks.

It added to the drama of what she said, maybe...maybe. It's a good thing she looks great having insane hysterics, because she does it all the time. When Cleitus died, I mourned for the loss of the only honest man in the movie (especially after grinding my teeth with impatience at the poorly executed ballet of Alexander-Hephaistion-Bagoas-Roxane dilemma) and the only truly sexy equivalent of Olympias as played by Angelina Jolie.

"Conquer your fear, and I promise you: you will conquer death." Or something like that. Conquer your skeptical intellect, and I promise you: you will get over this movie.

It's very pretty, with some sweeping scenes like those of New Zealand in the Lord of the Rings movies.


I sound very nit-picky and critical, not to mention squinty-eyed and cynical. I write this in a fit of disillusion, but keep in mind I naturally navigate to these type of movies, the blockbusters who never live up to the millions spent in advertising.

The better forms of entertainment are too good for me to touch with my unworthy--right now, rather sticky with some unidentified substance delicately and collectively called the product of a sneeze--hand. :)

I have no intellectual basis for these complaints. I only whine.

I think I might start posting links to sites I like. Yes, that's what I'll do. (The world cringes)

Very interesting bit of information here:
Pop star Britney Spears and actress and hotel fortune heiress Paris Hilton were the two most popular queries in 2004, according to Google's Zeitgeist which was released Thursday. The term "zeitgeist" is German in origin, and means "the general intellectual, moral, and cultural climate of an era" according to Webster's Dictionary.

I sense an irony.

Posted by ceterumcenseo at 11:13 AM | Permalink | Comments

trait snapshot:
introverted, irritable, feels invisible, observer, depressed, does not enjoy leadership, reveals little about self, dislikes large parties, feels undesirable, does not like to stand out, submissive, suspicious, emotionally sensitive, not a thrill seeker, solitude loving, likes silence, fragile, second guesses self, negative, unadventurous, fearful, weird, focuses on people's hidden motives, paranoid, phobic, dependent, cautious, avoidant, semi intellectual

I feel very sad. This is not the person I want to be. :(

Well, on with my life. Thank God, I have still have one.

Well, if you really want to know... :)
I bloated up like a balloon on the outside. By the time the allergy attack subsided, I looked like a roasted lobster.

Over 3 hour period:

1) I started feeling a slight swelling and itchiness in my throat and mouth. Wisely, I stopped eating the waffle.

2) Stomach cramps begin. I didn't know it then, but it was probably my body trying to tell me something, which I disregarded.

3) My face became hot and felt stretched. Lips, nose, and eyes swelled. Burnt marshallow at this point.

4) I couldn't breathe. The medicine was making my heart thump like an automatic drum set to 2-second intervals. My insides felt fried, swollen, and generally inflamed.

5) I took the Epi-pen, curled into a fetal position looking like a sausage link, and prepared to die.

6) My mom called 911. A few men came in my bedroom (no, this wasn't a fantasy) and escorted me downstairs. By the time they arrived I was already feeling much better.

7) Snatches of conversation sprinkled the freezing air around me. The men said something about how my case was a "carbon copy of the previous patient." Flashbacks of F451, no?

8) After the ride was half-over, I was able to open my eyes and look around. There was a graph to the right of me, telling me I was still alive. Reassured, I settled down more comfortably. I hoped the paramedics didn't expect me to be a brilliant conversationalist with a nebulizer tube in my mouth.

9) The stretcher was lowered to the ground, and I had enough presence of mind to remark that I felt like a load on groceries on a shopping cart. The man laughed, and I was in the hospital, probably the healthiest patient they had seen in a long time.

It seems interesting to examine now, but when I was actually experiencing it, I was pretty messed up.

Just think, Joy, I might have gone bye-bye and no one would post random things on their blogs anymore. :)

Posted by ceterumcenseo at 9:03 PM | Permalink | Comments

I didn't feel like posting my near-death experience involving a waffle, a nebulizer, and an Epi-pen with a very long needle. :) Use your imagination.

This is the most recent essay for English, which I'm sure has given the teacher some major headache and annoyance because I forgot almost every rule she ever taught.

I deserve to fail. The vengeful spirit of sleeplessness haunted me without mercy.
:(But first, I would like some comments. ^_- before I go.

Chains never change, only those who wear them; the chain of command, from the President to the illegal immigrant, from the World Controller to the Epilson, clanks heavily, pealing clanging louder than the bell of freedom. - Was thinking about this during the essay. Don't feel like explicating now. Not important to essay.

Marks from Winnie at a later date. Please feel free to comment further on improvements. This essay (I use the term loosely) needs a lot of work on structure and form.

Existence in Aldous Huxley's Brave New World eerily echoes the life in the United States today, redolent as it is of selfishness, misguided deification, a mad scramble for artificial happiness, and a futile search for escape from it all, as shown in the attitudes toward pleasure, sex, consumerism, and drugs. This is a very long sentence. There must be a better, more concise way to say this.

First, the World State demands that everyone should empty their pockets for the frivolous and unnecessary, and the McDonaldized and Walmarted United States concurs in this objective as it loyally supports its companies, even opening "Windows" for them to the rest of the world. Convinced as they are by clever advertisers that luxuries are in fact necessities, for the duped consumers, the buying never ends. The sole purpose of commercials is to make the viewers unhappy with their current situation, and to convince them that, in order to return to their happy state or even leap to the next orbital, they must purchase the product. No transition No one should be able to do anything for himself; machines will do everything for him. People, of course, will not mind the less work as they are wholly occupied with the exhausting pursuit of indulgence. In the competitive arena of the market today, the compelling evidence of music artist Shakira swigging strange verb a bottle of Pepsi convinces us that we too should swallow the drink. That this makes no sense, that there exists no plausible connection between Shakira and Pepsi means no difference, because the point is to feel, not think-appreciation of her beauty for men, and jealousy of it for women. Build more on this idea Whatever the evoked sensation, people will buy because they are stimulated. Hypnopædia eliminates the need for advertisement as the desired result of people endlessly buying for no reason has already been attained to brilliant perfection. The manufacturers of acetate mean for it not to last; utterly impractical, it bears an uncanny resemble in sheer purposeful uselessness to the creations of famous designers who drape their fabrics on Hollywood's willing victims. Make more obvious that these are examples The bike has become an obsolete mode of transportation for the growing child and has "scooted" over for a certain motorized mini-vehicle. Whenever one visits the Hewlett Packard or Dell computer site, an upgrade link lingers invitingly in the corner. More space, more memory, better graphics and sound-the limit yawns far away. Tie back to more buying While the World State frowns on improvement and focuses on the maintenance of the present condition, its relentless clamoring for the consuming of clothes and transport ends on the same note of "a thriving economy." All this constant taking and grabbing has an unremarkable aim, mainly one's personal happiness, or the temporary and counterfeit achievement of it. Why does the government want this, or does it?


Next, even as citizens of the World State use casual sex as an immediate satiation of their desires, people in the U.S. are increasingly fixated on sex-casual or based on ignorant idolatry. Images of celebrities and models in "sexy" poses are plastered on shiny plastic poster reminders of sex, as obvious a sign as a condom but more alluring. Too flippant? The World State ordains that relationships must be temporary and based only on physical lust; hence, human beings are treated as meat to be devoured and not sentient creatures to be cherished. Life is a great feast, and people of the World State gulp it down rapidly and shallowly so as not to savor the bites. Americans concentrate on the outward beauty, the quick excitement of sexual arousal rather than the slower-to-build, longer-to-endure This was a very long description appreciation of intellect and mutual companionship, and the intrinsic value of being human vanishes How is this important? Tie back. People of the World State are mere objects, important while they are considered useful and even artificially altered so that they always contribute to the needs of Society, as decided by the State government for the duration of their shortened lives. Correspondingly, even as we shower monetary reverence on those people armed with never-meant-to-released "personal" home videos (Paris Hilton), talented public relations men, and even a modicum of sexual appeal, we essentially treat them as things to talk over and talk about. The pedestal on which we have placed them, by our own magic of false worship, shoots up into the sky like Jack's beanstalk, far beyond our reach. The highly stratified World State needs no publicity for the virtues of the higher castes, and they with all of the intellectually limited Society, pant the question, "What was sex with the Savage like?" The "hotness" of today's youths is not a matter of life and death-it is far more serious than that. The eagerly awaited, if dubiously created, lists of "The World's Most Beautiful People" and polls on the sexiness of men and women, disregarding character, actions, and personal acquaintance, indicate U.S. society's obsession with appearances and the importance of the exterior-the significance being namely sex. More in-depth on what we depend on to make us act the way we do

Finally, people of the U.S. today use drugs to relieve their stresses and troubles, and those of the World State take soma for the same, albeit muted reasons. From the innocuous Tylenol to the pain-relieving marijuana, drugs provide an outlet from reality and its aches. It may be surprising that, based on the hedonistic life the World State citizens lead, they might have problems, enough so they must leave the unpleasant world for soma holidays. It will be an earth-shattering shock that we, the fruit of a thriving democracy, the gleaming citadel on the hill, the deserving rulers of the earth in an ironically egalitarian society, could possibly manage to be unhappy enough to destroy our lungs-not to mention our breath-with smoking and our liver with alcohol. Drugs alter our moods, manipulate our feelings, and perhaps eventually, corrode our character. The people of the World State experience no physical pains; soma guarantees their mentally oblivious compliance with the wishes of Authority. America definitely doesn't use drugs for this purpose. In addition to using drugs for medicinal purposes, people of today also take them to escape a terrible world, often of their own making. That's very judgmental What we and the World State's people want are the profits bereft of penalties. When in the frenzied, euphoric madness of sex, violence, and drugs, we break our lives into slivers and fragments. Often we run and let others be cut as they "pick up the pieces" in our stead. This avoidance of responsibility creates the need for the gateway to flight, and many times, yet more drugs become that door, ever-open and ever-widening, tempting people to enter a place without sacrifices or mortal agony. The stresses of today's fast-paced life grind people's faces into the granite floor of failure, and they would rather fly away on drugged carpets, their cotton shields held up defensively to soak up blood. Way too much imagery/conflicting metaphor. Stick to one idea or it makes no sense. Numbed with the mindless pleasures of soma, World State chooses to forgo joy and the worship of God so that it might not experience devastation or Hell on earth. Some kind of literary/historical reference might help here Similarly, passion for worldly material so consumes us that, like ants, we cannot see much higher than the ground; we have lost sight of the loftier planes and the greater heavens. The Brave New World does not acknowledge death with respect, or life with veneration for the precious quality it is. In essence, humanity has been pummeled to unconsciousness by a void to make way for nothing. Clarify the conclusion sentence so ties back better

A Tower of Babel stands today and in Brave New World as a symbol of defiance against God; the steps ascend to mediocre, "imbecilic happiness." Tower of Babel also stands for individuality. The ladders of faith are burnt to ash; the only prospect for most is to "get high," be it from pleasure, consumerism, sex, or drugs, and float like a released balloon, up, up, up, to the very turrets of Babel but no further; heaven eludes us. Need better reason for citing Tower of Babel In our wooing of the World, we find ourselves irrevocably wedded to it. Elaborate more on this idea The World State can be likened to a time-tarnished reflection of an age that Americans, in the Sonic Boom of self-absorbed irresponsibility, are fast approaching. Uh oh. I'm going to fail this essay.

Posted by ceterumcenseo at 8:28 PM | Permalink | Comments

Round 2 of The Thing That Wouldn't Shut Up - Winnie Khaw for Writeway

I'll be back from vacation (that's what you call a trip during which you spend horrifying amounts of money and feel nauseatingly sick in the car) probably early next week.

It would be really nice, a great belated Christmas gift actually, if, in the case that you're interested you would reply.

Moan Yes, Screech No, either answer is acceptable. But I would like to get the basic foundation established before break is over. (Joy, Sheena, we must talk)

Lecture over. :)
~~~~~~~~~~~

You May Not Know Me, But I Know You.

Or at least, I know your e-mail addresses, which, with the power of the Mighty Internet, is the equivalent of buying your soul.

~~
I need to clarify and condense.

Benefits: I'm putting this at the very top.

This will be an exercise in writing, to stretch out kinks and tight literary muscles. You might not see immediate benefits, but the gradual changes will come.

You will have to write essays for probably the rest of your academic career. For some of us, that ends as soon as we set foot on campus. For others, this is an area treaded upon with trepidation.
Imagine this as a camera taking snapshots of the way you think and are right now. When staring at your college applications, you'll be able to look back at your past work and instantly recall YOURSELF.

It's all about you.

Vision:

1. Community of blogs - personal blogs by Sunny Hills students already extant

2. Collaboration (Writing) Blog - loose "staff" of writers (mainly there to guarantee quality and to continue the flow of ideas)

This is of more general interest (hopefully obvious) than the personal blog.
Nonfiction (essays on literature), fiction (stories, plays, poems, etc.)—here is the workshop, where we see revision

a) Book/Movie Reviews
b) Analysis of Literature/Times/Periods
c) Interviewsd) Work-In-Progress, Rough Drafts
e) Forum
f) Feature Artist/Artwork
g) E-mailed magazine (monthly?)h) Writer’s journal, tips, tools (computer programs)
i) Jokes/Quotes (I have hundreds of pages. What a nerd.)
j) Random facts/trivia k) Archives of Past Work (see below)
l) Extensive Revision Process - revisions shown step-by-step
m) Feature Author/Work
n) Book/Movie Parodies/Mockerieso) Plays/Skits
p) Poetryq) Amateur Fiction Review/Recommendation (Fan fiction?)
r) Interesting Anecdotes

If this all seems overwhelming, please take a deep breath and sit down. If you haven't had an asthma attack before, small chance you're having one now.

These are simply ideas thrown to lay out the possibilities, which are endless. Now stop breathing and just think about this.

(5 seconds later) Exhale.

Any work done in the past is entirely acceptable. There is absolutely no reason to feel pressured to constantly be churning out masterpieces.

3. E-zine/Archives

Perhaps an e-mailed monthly/bimonthly issue of the best/featured/in some way interesting work received.

Editors might never have to see each other. With few exceptions, no one is really "qualified." But sometimes just having another opinion is helpful.

The archives will probably need a website of some kind.

~~~~

There are countless websites out there fostering the growth of writing. Fictionpress, fanfiction--to state the obvious. This should be tighter, with more control over the content, relevant to SH students, with a high quality standard.

Please visit http://hicsepultus.blogspot.com/ to view some recent work if you're interested a.k.a. morbidly curious.

Reply to this message as soon as you get it, as in before you leave the room, before you brush your teeth, before you inhale.

If you know anyone who would be interested, please inform either myself, Sheena (svasani@sbcglobal.net), or Joy the little hyperactive elf – I need to distinguish her from the Other Joy in my life, who is always so calm and serene that she reminds me of a Buddha on Slim Fast (jeye2345@adelphia.net) and “pay it forward.” Just ... don’t die at the end.

If you’d like, I can also e-mail past essays and stories. But I doubt your inbox would appreciate that.

Posted by ceterumcenseo at 1:50 PM | Permalink | Comments

I step out of the bushes in the quad.

Oh, Joy, only you would fit in the bushes.

Later, as I sit at my desk frantically scribbling love poems…

Don’t forget the explicit drawings as well. They are quite descriptive of your feelings…and fantasies. J

…and programming my calculator to somehow get him out of my system.

Is that why you program your calculator? And here I thought it was just a hobby for a little genius to pass time. But now I see you have a darker motive. Some people bite their nails, chew on their lips, and generally make slavering idiots out of themselves—and you program calculators. Charming.

I have to study twice as hard for history now because my mind is cluttered with little useless facts about him, like the heights of his sibling and his Social Security number.

He might be content if you know the music he prefers, what he likes to do his spare time, things like that. ^_^

Don’t worry, I don’t use this information for evil.

But I’m sure that in your more desperate moments, you have thought about it. You could threaten him with your knowledge of his doings and whereabouts, and he’d be so frightened he’d cave in and love you hopelessly—and probably embarrassingly.

In my spare time I read books and research things that, through secret sources…

“Secret sources” as in his friends? There is a visible conspiracy here. Your love should be afraid…very afraid. Everyone’s out to get him. Oops, wrong phrasing. Not get him as in people want him…(and your hit list expands by the billions)

…I have found that he likes, hoping to wow him the next time I talk to him, which could be months from now because it takes me days even to gather up the courage to speak to him.

Even if you were the Encarta Encyclopedia, you'd find it hard to wow him. He's too wowed by himself.

No. I don’t have a life.

You do. It just centers on him and the important things he does, like blowing his nose.

Why can’t I spend my time like a normal person and not spend every waking moment adding a new girl to my hit list for talking to him?

It’s a good thing he’s not quite the prize you value him to be. J Woe to the world if he was a gorgeous, brilliant young man with a great future and the girls were crawling—or wanting to—all over him. Thankfully, he’s not, and accordingly, they’re not. J

Every day I resolve anew to hate him or at least not spend hours wondering if he knows I exist, but I can’t help it.

Oh…he knows you exist. Even if he doesn’t act on his knowledge (whether from fear, insecurity, or simple boorishness) he knows. J

I still think about him all the time, even though it pains me when he forgets my name or doesn’t notice me.

The world comes to a crashing halt when he blinks. Yes, we know. :)

And yet, I don’t mind the pain.

For some reason, I have a sick pleasure in peeling scabs. Is this the same sensation?

It is something for me to do on those rainy days indoors.

Most people twiddle their thumbs.

I can take out my scrapbook and look through my collection of photos taken from the back, locks of hair and pencils that he’s touched.

I’m sure that if you could, you’d probably take apart whole rooms that he’s been in. :) I can see you cutting out slabs of concrete he’s stepped on, hoisting chairs he has sat in, pressing reverential kisses to the tables on which he has written. Or something like that.

“Falling in love seems to have a similar effect on the brain as using cocaine,” according to a bbc.co.uk article on first love. “It’s so pleasurable it’s almost like an addiction.”

I read somewhere that pornography is as addictive as heroin. But that has nothing to do with anything, and it’s not like I’m interested in the “subject.” Obviously…
You are in love with love, darling.

Stopping is not as easy as waking up one day and deciding ot hate him, and condition yourself to stop thinking about him by punching yourself every time he pops up in yoru mind is not going to help either (Trust me, I’ve tried.)

Is that the real reason your glasses were broken? Aaaahhh…it all becomes clear. Try washing your eyes out with salt water. You’ll stop thinking about your love object…very fast.

Eventually, though, you will find that there are other people out there.

Yes…about 6 billion others, in fact. I take it you haven’t yet entered this phase?

No...must...leave... (computer is forcibly wrenched from my grasp) Not quite done here.

Actually, I really did mean "elfish", though now I come to think of it, "selfish" sounds a lot better...:)

I am calmly ignoring the first part for the blatant lie it is and accept the second with my usual dignity.
I don’t feel very elfish after a huge buffet. I certainly look more like a Santa Claus. I can imagine squeezing myself down the chimney (after much huffing and impressive squelching), and you and Sheena screaming in terror and running to stuff me back up. Oh (groan in mortal intestinal agony) stuffing…turkey…argh…

Still not back from a Christmas season in hell :) (surrounded by ice at Lake Tahoe)

Skiers and snowboards look like ants going down a sugar mountain. This was a random observation.

I miss home and everything related to it. :(

Merry Christmas!

Posted by ceterumcenseo at 11:22 AM | Permalink | Comments

I don't feel original today, so here are some people who are. If you're a person of sanity and logic and didn't understand what I said, this means this is a sporadic collection of a few quotes I thought were interesting.

By the way, please don't sue me. I'm not worth it.

There is also an inspiring music teacher (John Corbett), who wants to find the best in her, and doesn't have to look very deep.

Sizing up Terri's wardrobe and her smile, she tells her: "You're like some kind of retro Brady Buncher." I hate it when a movie contains its own review.

Never argue with an idiot. They drag you down to their level, then beat you with experience.

The problem with this story is that the movie pays too much attention to it, as if we really cared.

Ginny took the bundle and opened it. Inside was what looked like a pile of fabric - swath after swath of glowing blue-green cloth. She held it up. It was a dress, with an ornate bodice of green and gold embroidery. "You want me to wear this?"
"No, I want you to bake it in a pie." Hermione shook her head irritably. "Yes, I want you to wear it. I need you to go to talk to Tom for me. The prettier you look, the more likely you'll melt his little black heart and he'll give you what you want."

"You want me to ask him to call off the ceremony," Ginny said. "He'll never do it, Hermione."
"That doesn't matter." Hermione shook her head slowly. "I don't want you to ask him to call it off. I want you to make absolutely sure it happens."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "That's what he says. The truth is, he practically slavers when he looks at you. Its' sick, it's disgusting - and we're going to use it to our advantage." She held out the bundle she was carrying to Ginny. "Put this on."

"Can you describe the individual?"
"He was about medium height and had a beard."
"Was this a male, or a female?"

"I told my psychiatrist that everyone hates me. He said I was being ridiculous - everyone hasn't met me yet."

Q: What does a lawyer and a sperm have in common?
A: Both have about a one in 3 million chance of becoming a human being.

"What's an oral contraceptive?"
"No."

"A humorist is a fellow who realizes, first, that he is no better than anybody else, and second, that nobody else is either."

"It is not true that life is one damn thing after another; it is one damn thing over and over."

"Infancy: n. The period of our lives when, according to Wordsworth, 'Heaven lies about us.' The world begins lying about us pretty soon afterward."

"Laughter, n. An interior convulsion, producing a distortion of the features and accompanied by inarticulate noises. It is infectious and, though intermittent, incurable."

"Learning, n: The kind of ignorance distinguishing the studious."

"Liberty, n: One of imagination's most precious possessions."

Men come to London full of bright prospects. I have seen them leave complete wreaks through their habit of answering letters.

The duration of his stay was governed by his ability to survive without a cigarette.

"Come for a talk on Sunday evening. I have so little time left now-I really must drown myself in a week or two-life is quite too much for me."

"To say 'mither' instead of 'mother' seems to many the acme of romance. There are others who are not quite so ready to believe in the pathos of provincialisms."

"Can you imagine spending life after life in Naples?"
"Oh, no. The food is too bad."

"Am I not the ugliest woman in Paris, Mr. Wilde?"
"In the world, Madame."

"I can't use sex to get what I want. I'm a teenager. Sex is what I want."

"My friends would have sex with anything that moved, but I saw no reason to limit myself."

Posted by ceterumcenseo at 5:18 PM | Permalink | Comments

There are times I feel stupid, and there are times I feel like the person responsible for the early printing of The Washington Post during the Dewey vs. Truman elections. But I repeat myself-I really do. I’ve said this already sometime back. (based on Mark Twain)

Quiz in Class

The teacher smiled. ‘This one is easy. What is the name of a famous instrument from Scotland?”

Silence. I gnawed on my lip. My knuckles drummed on the desk. My eyes crossed. And my mind…in a warm room involving Jude Law, piles of pink scarves but otherwise devoid of bothersome apparel, and a boa constrictor thrown in for kinky measure. But it was gone…with my mental clothes.

Frowning, she cast the bait to new fish.

“Bagpipes!” came an anguished shriek from my general direction.

Not only did I miss that point, one was deducted for speaking out of turn.

I slumped in my seat. I couldn’t sleep for the rest of the day, even in math class.


Optimism: A swan gliding across dark waters. Or is that Hope?

O brave new world, with such people in it.

You all get this, right? Thought so.

I loved the book. I will love the movie.


Tact is an undersupplied product whose value is additionally lowered because the consumer, in favor of shouting, screaming, and otherwise getting one’s way in a loud and preferably obscene manner, holds it in low esteem. (Based on something…not sure what it is, but it was very clever)

Posted by ceterumcenseo at 1:07 PM | Permalink | Comments

Oh...dear...

I've died.

Or more realistically, I seem to have misplaced the Accolade, as in I haven't actually lost it, it just can't be found. I know exactly where it is, just not right now. :(

I'll have to wait until my sister returns to give it a worthy examination.

I love how you just compliment Joy all the time and you always insult me. Am I not extraordinarily talented as well?

I want to tell you that you’re a shining paragon of virtue.

I admire you immensely for your open mind (must get a little drafty for your brain), your brilliant, perpetual smile (that’s when you actually join the ranks of the Living) and your inspirational passion for life (similar to the French knights who charged at the Flemish infantry and were speared like fish).

See, I think you’re a wonderful person. :) And you say I never compliment you. My goodness…

I can act dumber than the both of you combined!

And here I thought the two of us combined beaconed like the infamous twin Hollywood lights. Well, I've spluttered and gone out.

That's skill, Winnie, SKILL!!

Oh? I usually call it something else, but being a beautiful and nice Asian Lady Macbeth—I mean Mother Teresa, I’ll politely decline to mention it here.

And I'll never tell you my "big secret." If you go around telling people that I actually have one then...I'll kiss you right smack on the lips ;)

Oh dear. If that’s your fantasy, then quite clearly I need look no further for your “big secret” than myself. :) That’s…kind of creepy.

Actually...that's pretty gross. Never mind. (shudders in disgust at the thought of kissing it,I mean you)

(Patronizingly) Of course you do. Tactful Man suppresses Sensual Man; they get in a tussle, and ultimately Sensual Man wins through unmanly means. Take that for imagery!

Oh yeah, I have your Xmas gift still, even though you don't really celebrate Christmas because you're an ugly and elfish Asian Scrooge.

During the Christmas season, good spirits, general merriment, and an unwonted barrage of spelling errors abound.

I believe you meant “selfish” rather than the truer “elfish.” Well, I’ll thank you for the reality rather than the thought.

MMmeoowww…

~ Moi, of Asian extraction

P.S. As I seem to be losing my mind with checking your journals (funny that I use blogger, you use livejournal, and Joy uses xanga) I have decided to do a terrible thing.

I'm going to restrict the number of postings I do a day. ^_-. So whoever keeps adding to the Visitor Counter, stop! :)

All the above was a joke in bad taste. :) I want to have as many posts as possible to make up for lost time.

Posted by ceterumcenseo at 11:40 AM | Permalink | Comments

Hornball (do you like my nickname for you? I combined horny with ball, because that's what you are?)-You're such a strange man, Winnie. That's right...MAN!! HAHAHAHA...?

You're a very strange woman, my friend. I use "woman" with the greatest caution.

Oh gosh, I need a life.

Obviously.

I like this journal, but why did you send Joy and I the link to it NOW and not earlier!?

For the simple reason that I didn't have a journal earlier. :) The posts were all made in a space of two days. I've been cranking out everything I can get my hands on. That's why everything sounds so random...I'm still sorting.

Oh, and I have a blog too, but I won't paste the link here because Joy didn't post her's and because I just like to annoy you. :)

True. And I'm even more annoyed because you won't tell me your big secret. Oops, did I write that "out loud?" Shame on me. And yes, I would really like to know the link to your blog. Why does no one tell me these things?

Can't really think of anything else to say...(it's 10:30 a.m., I'm still dead).See ya Monday!!-sheena, your dim lighted and hornballish friend

Darling, those attributes reveal themselves without further comment.

oh, i forgot to say, your idea about a community blog sounds really fun! i mean, i prolly won't be very funny though... so i can read it when you guys make one, or i can try really hard to be creative on it and fail. but it does sound really neat! work out the details, and let's start it...--joy

Joy, I hate to tell you this, but...you're one of the funniest people I know. You're just going to have to deal with it.

Let's discuss it on Monday:). This is going to be so much fun!

Next post (Unless the world catches fire, I die, or Smallville gets voted most intellectual show of the year, in which case all of the above will happen)

A fun analysis of a fun column. (Sunday because I've been at the computer too long today ^_-)

Posted by ceterumcenseo at 3:15 PM | Permalink | Comments

In response to your kind comments,

"... so if you'd really like the address i'd be happy to give it to you, but i understand if you don't want to see it." [=

LOL, because this isn't self-deprecating at all.... ^_^

On the contrary, I am quite seriously in pursuit of compliments. :) When I write, I will say anything and everything that I normally wouldn't. I really give vent to the neurotic paranoid in my mind. I write about myself writing about myself. (It's all me, really) There are distance and walls and a computer screen separating the Me in Person and the Exaggerated Me in Writing. This is my Hyde. Me in Writing is a character of my imagination. I am the subject of my comedy, like Woody Allen. ^_-

This makes no sense. That's why I like it.

This is the real me: I'm very nervous about posting what I've written. I've read some blogs, but those are the famous, well-established ones. I'm ecstatic that you think mine is "entertaining" but I was really scared that I don't have anything worth saying. I had to ask close friends whose opinions I value highly to evaluate the mishmash content. I know you'll tell me the truth, and if it's a flop, you won't squish me like an ant in the sugar bowl.

If I am too self-deprecating to be real, unfortunately, I am. I wish I wasn’t persistently persecuted with the fear that I am a pygmy among giants. So many people are extraordinarily talented—you’re high on the list yourself J—and sometimes I just want to sneak into a dark corner and watch the show from the sidelines (not what I’m doing now, obviously J).

If I am too effusive in my compliments to be real, fortunately, I am. I am simply in awe of the people around me. Their strong, generous, and admirable characters leave me with unhinged jaw banging on the floor.

Also, I would prefer that it not be TOO obvious who I am (thank you for mentioning both our names), despite my recounts of personal experiences. I intend to write some rather damning and incriminating things, and if a teacher or someone similarly undesirable happens by a truly unfortunate stroke of luck to come across my scribbles, I am doomed.

If I write anything sounding remotely modest on the blog, I'm not being serious. Seriously. Oh, you have no idea of the long hours I spend rehearsing and writing the script of my life. LOL...

Lastly, I wouldn't have saved what I wrote or put it on the blog if I didn't think it was worth keeping for an idea or some aspect of it that I could look back on in the future and say, "That's...interesting, in a very weird and traumatizing sort of way."

Well, this has been a doleful Apologetic. :)

Posted by ceterumcenseo at 11:13 AM | Permalink | Comments

Pirate's Parrot: I feel ignored.

Pirate's Parrot: Overlooked.

Pirate's Parrot: Rejected.

Wise Woman: AAAARRRRRRRGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!

Wise Woman: I meant the teacher, not you Pirate's Parrot. We love you.

Wise Woman: Pirate's Parrot...Helium Flower and I are really sorry!

Pirate's Parrot: You should be. (Sulks) You don't appreciate me.

Wise Woman: WE APPRECIATE YOU FOR GOD'S SAKE! YOU MAKE MY DAY BRIGHTER, LIGHTER, HEIGHTER, MIGHTER, TRITER...and yeah!

Pirate's Parrot: Heighter? Triter? Okay, I see how it is.

Wise Woman: Look, I just ran out of adjectives!!!

Pirate's Parrot: That's your side of the story.


Pirate's Parrot: Everyone is doing puppets/dolls/mixed...we should join the party.

Pirate's Parrot: One little issue...more work!

Wise Woman: Yeah..I'll bring the chips and dip. *sighs*

Pirate's Parrot: I'll supply the naked Kens! I mean, Greek athlete Ken! But I repeat myself.

Wise Woman: Oh God. *covers face in hands*

Wise Woman: Pirate's Parrot, control yourself please...

Pirate's Parrot: If I make a mask...

Pirate's Parrot: ...You will run away in terror...

Pirate's Parrot: ...Expectant mothers will miscarry...

Wise Woman: Stop making me laugh!

Pirate's Parrot: ...and I will cry, "But I haven't put it on!"

Wise Woman: do you want me to spit cookies all over the darn screen??

Pirate's Parrot: So...Plague?


Pirate's Parrot: Done with the plauge.

Pirate's Parrot: placque.

Pirate's Parrot: plague.

Pirate's Parrot: Oh, my goodness.

Wise Woman: What?

Wise Woman: New problem?

Pirate's Parrot: Spelling errors...er...


Wise Woman: T comes in and lion scares me off

Wise Woman: Oh, but chorus sings before that, right?

Pirate's Parrot: And there is life after death, and heaven and hell, and a green meadow and a football game with me as their tights.

Pirate's Parrot: Chorus sings before everything.

Wise Woman: You as their tights?? How disturbing...OK.

Wise Woman: -__-' Desperation accounts for many strange actions.


Pirate's Parrot: Uh...Wise Woman...you're jotting this down, right?

Pirate's Parrot: Right.

Wise Woman: Right? Uh...*laughs nervously* Riiiiiiiiight....

Pirate's Parrot: I thought so.

Wise Woman: *Frantically grabs pen and paper*

Pirate's Parrot: Oh, good. I always said what a responsible, dependable...WHAT?

Wise Woman: Hee hee...runs off.


Pirate's Parrot: You are in front of R, and and next shot R is violently shaking you.

Wise Woman: I start to freak.

Pirate's Parrot: E tries to stop him.

Pirate's Parrot: You spill all.

Wise Woman: With maniacal glee.

Pirate's Parrot: Well, perhaps not quite glee per se.

Wise Woman: Fine.

Wise Woman: But there'll be glee inside my heart.

Pirate's Parrot: But hopefully no one will see it, because that would be frightening.

Wise Woman: Should we make the sword?

Pirate's Parrot: (Pokes around with a flashlight and sees GLEE hanging out on the heart couch and watching The Simple Life)

Wise Woman: The Simple life? Why The Simple Life, of all shows??

Wise Woman: Ahem, anyways...

Pirate's Parrot: I think I have those markers that attach to each other end-to-end. (Shrug) They're pretty girls? GLEE's a voyeur? Who knows?

Pirate's Parrot: We could use those as a sword.

Wise Woman: Excuse me??? GLEE's a lover of bloodshed!

Pirate's Parrot: And whose fault is that, mmmhmmmm? He wasn't always that way.

Wise Woman: Markers, eh?

Wise Woman: Interesting

Wise Woman: Think it'll work?

Pirate's Parrot: I was just trying it out in front of the mirror...

Wise Woman: Uhm...how nice...

Wise Woman: Does it look painful?

Pirate's Parrot: I am Superman! A blade cannot stand against the Man of Steel!

Wise Woman: Scratch blade, insert markers.

Pirate's Parrot: Not this nonexistent shining surface, you won't. Well, markers cower at my flabby fat and fall apart as soon as they touch me!

Wise Woman: Uh...thanks for the details...

Pirate's Parrot: Seriously though, when I tried to stab myself...the whole thing collapsed.

Wise Woman: we should make it out of carboard and wrap it in foil

Pirate's Parrot: ...and we get this cardboard from...

Wise Woman: God.

Wise Woman: No, kidding...

Pirate's Parrot: Oh, really?

Wise Woman: I have a box we can destroy.

Wise Woman: Do you have foil?

Pirate's Parrot: He sent manna, but not cardboard.

Pirate's Parrot: Yes! Heavy duty and marked for demolition.

Wise Woman: Ah...got scissors?

Pirate's Parrot: So bring your demolished box.

Wise Woman: Uh, Pirate's Parrot?

Pirate's Parrot: Wise Woman, you must think I live in a cave.

Pirate's Parrot: Or a hole in the ground.

Posted by ceterumcenseo at 10:55 PM | Permalink | Comments

Moral of the Chat
Pirate's Parrot: The first shot we're trying to talk past the wall (R)...

Wise Woman: Yes...

Pirate's Parrot: For the second one either you or I could sort of climb on R and talk to each other that way.

Pirate's Parrot: Or won't that work?

Wise Woman: Explain "climb."

Pirate's Parrot: Well, R could bend down and with someone's hands on her shoulders we could create an image of someone talking OVER the wall and squashing it in the process.

Pirate's Parrot: R probably wouldn't appreciate that.

Pirate's Parrot: You definitely don't either.

Wise Woman: She'd complain that we're invading her personal space.

Wise Woman: And me too.

Wise Woman: We're all girls, remember?

Pirate's Parrot: We'll just be climbing on top of her (did this conjure the wrong picture?) . Or we could use a chair.

Wise Woman: I think it would have been best if we had a guy or two in our group.

Wise Woman: Chair, please.

Pirate's Parrot: It'd be easier if I showed you doubting Thomas(s).

Wise Woman: What is that?

Pirate's Parrot: Thomas the doubter?

Pirate's Parrot: He was an apostle who said he wouldn't believe Jesus was resurrected until he actually saw him, which he did.

Wise Woman: Ah...the frazzled connections in my brain are now working...

Wise Woman: I know now.

Pirate's Parrot: And then he was like, "Oh, God!" which was appropriate for the occasion.


Apologetics
Wise Woman: Someone also has to be the preacher, right?

Pirate's Parrot: The preacher puts the crown on R's head.

Wise Woman: Or priest, rabbi, mulah, depending on the religion...

Pirate's Parrot: And so on the day "general words" were invented, I said "dignitary."

Just You Wait
Nite Lite: Then I'll type it up tomorrow.

Pirate's Parrot: And when procrastination was being handed out, you were first in line.

Posted by ceterumcenseo at 10:28 PM | Permalink | Comments

Not A Word--Lots of Words

Pirate's Parrot: We could take the whole period!

Wise Woman: Pirate's Parrot...calm down.

Wise Woman: We can work out the whole thing multiple times tomorrow and see how it goes.

Pirate's Parrot: Do you think Hannibal was calm when he conquered Rome's armies at Cannae and stood nearly at her gates? Do you think Alexander was calm when he conquered most of Asia and found himself Persia's "legitimate" heir? Do you think Chamberlain was calm after the Munich conference when he though he had bought "peace for his time?" No, I didn't think so.

Wise Woman: Pirate's Parrot...

Wise Woman: That explanation was rather frightening.

Pirate's Parrot: Not that I'm like Chamberlain. It's not like I'm weak and indecisive and petty...stop looking at me that way.

The Nightmare Continues
Pirate's Parrot: Can we quickly review Chem?

Wise Woman: Em sure...bring it on.

Pirate's Parrot: Why does "p" not have a coefficient?

Wise Woman: Coefficient?

Wise Woman: Explain please.

Pirate's Parrot: The abbrev. config (why is abbreviated not brief?) does not have a coefficient for "p."

Wise Woman: Really?

Wise Woman: Oh crap.

Pirate's Parrot: Please don't tell me this is news.

Wise Woman: I can see that, but not why

Pirate's Parrot: That would crush me.

Wise Woman: You are now crushed.

Pirate's Parrot: Dented.

Pirate's Parrot: But not completely squashed.

Wise Woman: That too.

Pirate's Parrot: Next question.

Wise Woman: Yes...

- Wise Woman is not the product of my imagination. If this exchange is offensive to her in any way, it will be removed.

Posted by ceterumcenseo at 10:06 PM | Permalink | Comments

JSA Doesn't Follow Convention
I've always wondered what it's like to be beautiful, to know that for every second you smile someone is dropping dead in awe. In their passion, these people are beautiful, and while no one I noticed had the extreme reaction mentioned above, everyone was very impressed.

My Personal Contribution: During the Impromptu Speech Contest, I bravely volunteered the topic "Push-up bras should be banned as false advertising." Wow. My intelligence shines like a beam through that statement.

The Humor in Sorrow, the Bloomer I Borrowed
Life is depressing. But there are humorous bits to it, and there is nothing funnier than when a student has only to crook his little finger and the teacher will ecstatically shout, "Yes! That is exactly what I was looking for. Gosh, you're brilliant."

It gets even better when the student is repeating what the teacher said or did five minutes before. Life has its moments, but these aren't the best for the bitter, woefully unappreciated student to sit through.

As if I had qualities worth appreciating. Well, those, if they are extant, are certainly in dispute.

Yum…Chum…
I was staring at the hunk of meat sizzling in the pot while my mom applied various spices and herbs to it. A sprinkle of salt, and Voila!--it was cooking merrily.

I could only think that humans could probably be cooked this way.

Aaaahhh! It's so not scary that it's frightening!
Kristin Kreuk as the wicked witch Isabel (in the unforgivably forgettable Smallville) threw back her head in maniacal laughter, which was about as terrifying as the Easter bunny attacking the Big Bad Wolf.

Posted by ceterumcenseo at 9:42 PM | Permalink | Comments

Beauty Besieged
Oh Troy, with your shamelessly naked plot batting her starry eyes at the audience.

Quiet! I Can’t Hear Myself Not Think!
The sun rose, the birds sang, time goes on—but you’re still talking.

“Under Me” (C.S. Lewis’ Chronicles of Narnia) - Oh Bowels of the Earth, How I Love You
You and another girl are both interested in a guy. He chooses the other girl.

At the prom dance, he asks you to dance, just to be nice. The girl looks uneasy

This is my golden, blue-eyed, hot opportunity, you think to yourself.

You’re a terrible dancer, by the way. You flounder everywhere and grind your partner’s feet into the ground.

Finally, you return and the girl is smirking as her date, not yours, retakes her arm.

Embarrassed, you announce defiantly, “Well, I’ve stepped all over your territory.”

Verbal Artistry
What should an artist never say to his overweight model?

Thank you for giving me so much to work with.

Posted by ceterumcenseo at 6:10 PM | Permalink | Comments

"But I thought real beauty is on the inside." Liar. Liar. That's just something ugly people say. We of the unsymmetrical, blemish-skinned, blubber-crammed, and incurably graceless bodies try to comfort each other by sniggering that if we had a personal trainer, thought only about our appearance, and had an entourage of makeup artists and costume designers, we would be stunning and squash everyone and everything in our path like an oliphaunt on the rampage. And don't forget the air-brushing. Those faces on the magazines are velvet smooth. They have no unseemly protrusions. They don't even have pores.

Our eating habits would make medieval tortures painless, indeed, a relief, in comparison, what with our measuring and counting and the interminable watching of our weights. I can argue that belly flab serves to distinguish between the upper and lower portions of the body, but that defense wears thin, while I certainly don't. I don't have to watch for weight. It's right there in front of me, bulging in doughy rolls. Lovely.

And at the bottom of the ladder, we laugh, or make some kind of strangled noise as we are in danger of being kicked right off. Because all these excuses are only that--pathetic defenses of the ultimate untenable position: being unattractive. Very close to us are model-beautiful people, the kind that simply disappear when they turn sideways. Their clothes are deliberately casual, their poses artfully unaffected. When the word "unbearably annoying" was created, God was thinking of them.

A pretty girl is talking to a cute boy. They talk about everything and nothing and the nothing of everything, all the while checking each other's hotness rating for compatibility. The girl will lean back against a wall with her hands clasped behind her back, hips swishing side-to-side like a broom in operation WIPE OUT, the position unconsciously bringing her assets into better view. Not that the guy's looking. He's busy constructing his own attitude. He's chatting on his cell-phone, cologne radiating from him in eye-watering fumes. He leans to one side, to all the world without a care and certainly not a book, occasionally pulling up his pants every now and again. They look at each other. Very groomed/very messy hair? Check. Very tight/very loose clothes? Check. Star. Underline. A match made in Tween heaven, probably to be smooched about on earth.

I sound bitter. But actually I'm really sweet, like fudge. Just a little nutty sometimes.

Posted by ceterumcenseo at 5:51 PM | Permalink | Comments

We don’t plan our breakdowns the way we do our vacations. Fortunately (?), the two have decided to shake hands and get along for the holidays.

Someone's trying to kill me. I'm probably going to die.

*THE FOUR STAGES OF LIFE:
You believe in Santa Claus.
You don't believe in Santa Claus.
You are Santa Claus.
You look like Santa Claus.

* - From Somewhere Far, Far Away

Pirate's Parrot: Verify - so we should condense it?

Wise Woman: Ay-yay captain!

Pirate's Parrot: Don't start with the ship jokes...that lead to pirates...and Rrrsss..

Wise Woman: Ay yer matey!!!

Wise Woman: Sorry for that pirate-themed outburst. I shall control myself in the future.

Pirate's Parrot: In a really corny bad terrible horrendous PotC fan fic I read...

Wise Woman: Sorry just had two cookies laden with sugar

Pirate's Parrot: Oh yeah? I just ate a whole mooncake! Beat that for calorie-loaded sugars!

Wise Woman: Orlando...

Wise Woman: Johnny...

Wise Woman: *salivates*

Pirate's Parrot: You'll be spitting by the time I'm done.

Pirate's Parrot: Will asked something about Sparrow's yardarm...

Pirate's Parrot: Sparrow said he hung people there.

Pirate's Parrot: Will, referring to something else, said he hoped his yardarm wasn't too well hung.

Pirate's Parrot: Sparrow, ticked off, said his yardarm was very well hung, thank you very much.

Pirate's Parrot: And then it moved on to boarding ships and climbing their masts.

Pirate's Parrot: So please stop.

Wise Woman: Huh...

Wise Woman: Interesting...

Pirate's Parrot: Don't let me get started about the cannon balls being their specialty.

Wise Woman: LOL.

Pirate's Parrot: Wasn't that educational? Back to English.


Pirate's Parrot: Wise Woman, are you alive? Answer if me if you are! If you're not, reply anyway!

Wise Woman: Pirate's Parrot?

Pirate's Parrot: Yes, that's my name.

Pirate's Parrot: You have a pretty icon! I'm very random.

Posted by ceterumcenseo at 5:37 PM | Permalink | Comments

A few days ago I called myself, but I wasn’t in, so I left a message along with my work. Sometime later, a characteristically dilatory call informed me:

Dear Me,

I would like to impart to you our standards—namely, none.

Thank you for your cooperation in this matter.

Sincerely,
You Know Who at You Know When From You Know Where About You Know What (*)

I revised my work accordingly, and behold! the final version.

* - read this somewhere ^_-

Posted by ceterumcenseo at 5:13 PM | Permalink | Comments