Autumn Arrives

Advice for an English paper?

Sat, 19 Sep 2009 00:55:57 GMT

HELP!

Okay, so I need some advice. I have a paper due soon and it's over The Wind in the Willows by Kenneth Grahame. If anyone has read that, then I would be greatly appreciative if you can help me out with this.

Basically we were talking in class about class distinctions and the like in the book, which led to everyone naturally assuming that Toad was the upper-class of society. I was talking this over with Sean (who has never read the book, but is excellent for bouncing ideas off of) and I think I've established a tentative theory, but I'm not certain it holds water. So, if you're familiar with either class structure. in England during the Industrial Age or the book, read on:

1. Badger, Mole, and Rat are closer to Nature and therefore more content, while Toad is constantly attempting to break into the human world and getting into trouble because of it;

2. The animal society may be broken up into lower, middle, and upper class like human society, but the human society is an entirely different sphere;

3. When the two mix, not only does trouble arise, but even the lower-class of the human sphere is considered above the upper-class of the animal sphere (e.g., when the barge woman throws Toad off and proclaims him a filthy toad; no matter how rich he is, he is still a filthy creature);

4. Toad inherited his wealth from his father, who presumably worked to earn it, and so assumes he is on par with the aristocracy/nobility because he was born with wealth, HOWEVER he was not born with a title, which is more important in the long run;

5. ERGO Grahame is using Toad to represent the nouveau riche of the industrial age in England. Mole & co. are content with their place in life and closer to Nature, and represent gentlemen, but they are still not Lord or Baron etc. Toad, however, is trying to go against his nature as well as Nature, breaking into a sphere of society where he does not belong. No matter how wealthy, he is still a Toad by birth, not a titled gentry.

I've been mulling it over and think it makes sense, but my knowledge of late 19th-early 20th British history is curiously lacking. I also feel as if Grahame is incredibly hard to analyze. It seemed every time I had put my finger on something I felt was important, he would have another character who directly contradicted that notion. I still feel as if there's something that completely destroys my argument in one line that I somehow completely missed.

Anyway, thoughts? My first draft is due on Tuesday.

The Endless Perpetuation of Sheep

Mon, 31 Aug 2009 17:28:25 GMT

Highlights from Morgan's class today:

"The word 'Italia' originally referred to 'the land of heifers'. Whether they meant the cattle or the women, I don't know."

"I have nothing against sheep--except that they're stupid and dirty. And I have nothing against shepherds, except they perpetuate sheep."

"The Greeks were very 'Why are we here?' and talked about it for 2000 years. The Romans said, 'Because! Right, that's settled, let's get on with it.' "

"No one knows where the Etruscans came from and who cares, anyway? They're constantly theorizing and such. A giant spaceship could have landed and brought them all. Very Stargate, with Ra coming and saying, 'Right, you're all Etruscans!' I mean, it's like high school. Who cares what high school was like? You're an undergrad! Why does it matter what you were before? You're all Etruscans now!"

Happy Birthday!

Sat, 15 Aug 2009 05:08:58 GMT

Happy 21st, Court!

(I feel so behind...November will come... someday...)

afkjslajf I'd post a long sappy thing but I've got two finals I need to finish studying/writing tonight. In short, love you, gorgeous!

Weather Report

Wed, 05 Aug 2009 12:50:45 GMT

High today: 104
High tomorrow: 105
High Friday: 102

My air conditioner broke. FML.

With Sparkles on Top

Sun, 02 Aug 2009 06:07:23 GMT

Big shiny happy birthday to handhold!

Happy 21st! You're now an official person.

Rewind. Start Over.

Fri, 31 Jul 2009 21:20:40 GMT

This day was a complete and total bust. A bust that a raven would be ashamed to sit upon above a chamber door. A bust that Jayne Mansfield would slink away from in embarrassment. A bust that narcotics cops would point and jeer at.

When you're putting "The friendly Smurfs" as one of the Hellenistic kingdoms, there is something terribly, tragically wrong.

But I did draw two pretty pictures, so there's that. They're views from Waggener, so if you ever were curious where I spent 96% of my life--and I know you all are--you'll still be curious, because I don't have a scanner.

And now to drown my sorrows (by which I mean pizza) in ranch dressing and diet Coke.

Once Upon a Time...

Sun, 19 Jul 2009 08:50:02 GMT

I’m a writer at heart, which is what people say when they mean they can’t find a job doing what they love and so end up doing something they hate. “Oh, I’m an accountant, but I’m a singer at heart.” “I work as a waitress, but really, I’m an actress."

Fuck it.

What I really am? A twenty-something college graduate who found out that novelists are made, not born. So when I say I’m a writer at heart—well, I’m a regional manager in real life.

All my life, though, I have searched for that great story. Everyone has stories and most of them they tell ad nauseam during dinner parties, when someone asks how their vacation was and they pull out the old gem about going to Hawaii and finding out that their hotel reservations got mixed up and everyone laughs, like it’s funny or something. Yeah, bestseller material there, “How I Had 30 Seconds of My Life Plan Screwed Over” with a neat little subtitle saying, “And Then It Was Fixed So I Didn’t Have to Panic.”

I can see that one making the New York Times right now, number one, with critics praising at how “real” it is. Like that’s what fiction’s about, you know? I don’t read because I want real life, I read because I want to escape it. That’s what “at heart” really means. I read about people who wanted to be writers and then do, not that they woke up one morning and found out they worked a loser job and hated their lives.

I want to read about people who aren’t me, I guess.

Which leads me to this story: how I lost my virginity. Everyone says you remember your first (though experience has taught me that you remember your second, third, fourth, and fifth just as clearly), so I wanted something to remember. When everyone else talked about how their prom date fondled them in the back of his dad’s car and they said yes because that’s what you’re supposed to—I wanted a story, for when I lost mine. An adventure. Something good books and good lives are made of.

3:04 in the morning, I’m out walking because I need to get rid of some stress, bad dreams, and my sweet ass would be on the curb if my landlord caught me smoking inside. I hear a motorcycle—that low growl and grating of the tires against moonlit asphalt—and turn, because this is no yuppie wannabe sportster with a Yamaha. No, this sounds like a real one.

So I turn and he goes by, black bike, black helmet, green shirt over smooth abs. He turned around to look at me, but kept on going. Something told me to wait. Call it fate, call it destiny, call it fucking George for all I care—I lit another cigarette and waited. Exhaled some smoke, felt that sweet burn in my lungs, and waited. Sure enough, here he comes again, going by like a black knight.

He stopped and asked if I wanted a ride.

Like I was waiting for anything else.

I ended up on the back of his bike, hair tangling in the wind. You can put that Geena Davis crap out of your mind, too, because this wasn’t Thelma and Louise, my hair didn’t curl perfectly to frame my petite little face and snub nose; it was tangled, greasy, and grit from the road stuck in it for days, even after I washed it.

Still, it was almost perfect.

We stopped at a motel and I got my first good look at the bike under sickly pale orange lights.

“Nice,” I said, letting one finger stroke the finish. “What is it?”

“Norton 750 Commando,” he replied, fiddling with his helmet like he wasn’t sure what to do with it. You can tell a lot by what a guy drives, and not just the size of his dick either. A Corvette screams he makes a lot of money but isn’t happy with his life. A Mustang says that he wants to be cool but doesn’t have the money except to fake it. A Norton—well, that says something that I kind of liked. “It’s not like a Harley or anything. Actually, its design is based off of—“

“WWII messenger bikes, yeah, I know,” I cut him off. I hate it when people babble, call it a character flaw. “You want to go inside?”

The place was decked out in hotel bland: beige walls with a beige carpet and, inexplicably, a riotous shout of pale pink color on the bedspread.

“Have you ever done this before?” he asked, stripping off his shirt. Mine joined his on the pile on the floor.

“Picked up by a stranger or had sex?” I said wryly.

He shrugged and I could tell he was stunned by my frankness.

“Either,” he settled on finally.

“I’m the easiest virgin you’ll ever meet. I like your ride,” I added in explanation. Maybe it was rude, maybe I should have said something caring like how I thought he was special or something. They say chicks like that kind of stuff, but in my experience, a man’s ego is twice as fragile as any girl’s.

“Your mother ever teach you manners?” he shot back.

“Didn’t stick,” I said, pulling off the itchy comforter and shoving the sheets down. “She also taught me not to accept rides from strangers.”

We made use of the bed.

This is the part where I turn this into a bestseller and say something about how afterward, we stared lovingly into each other’s eyes and exchanged cooing declarations of passion in a motel whose main draw was "color tv". This is the part where I say we fell madly from lust into love, sin into sincerity, and married to raise happy children.

Except none of that happened. I hooked my bra and pulled my shirt over my head, walking out of the motel room and waiting by his bike until he walked out, still struggling to pull up his pants.

“Do you want breakfast—“

I held up a hand to stop him. “I’m not really a wine and roses kind of girl, believe it or not. Let’s go.”

I never knew his name, though I remember every inch of that bike. His eyes may have been blue or may have been brown, I don’t really recall.

All my friends were horrified of course—what if he had been a psycho killer?—but I got what I wanted out of it, and not just the sex, either. I got my story. I got something else, too. I’m not just a writer at heart anymore.

Shamelessly stolen from aquitaneq

Thu, 16 Jul 2009 04:37:54 GMT

The BBC says the average person will have only have read 6 of the 100 books below.
Put an X next to the ones you have read. Total each section as you go along...

Normally I would interject that an English major has an advantage in this, except most of these books I read on my own outside of class. The BBC comes up with startling depressing numbers when it comes to literacy, apparently.

1 Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen X
2 The Lord of the Rings - JRR Tolkien X
3 Jane Eyre - Charlotte Bronte X
4 Harry Potter series - JK Rowling X
5 To Kill a Mockingbird - Harper Lee X
6 The Bible X
7 Wuthering Heights - Emily Bronte X
8 Nineteen Eighty Four - George Orwell X
9 His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman X
10 Great Expectations - Charles Dickens X May it rot.

Total so far: 10

11 Little Women - Louisa M Alcott
12 Tess of the D’Urbervilles - Thomas Hardy X
13 Catch 22 - Joseph Heller X
14 Complete Works of Shakespeare X Though I may have skimmed some of the sonnets.
15 Rebecca - Daphne Du Maurier
16 The Hobbit - JRR Tolkien X
17 Birdsong - Sebastian Faulk
18 Catcher in the Rye - JD Salinger X
19 The Time Traveler’s Wife - Audrey Niffenegger X
20 Middlemarch - George Eliot

Total so far: 16

21 Gone With The Wind - Margaret Mitchell X Clark Gable improved this immensely.
22 The Great Gatsby - F Scott Fitzgerald X
23 Bleak House - Charles Dickens
24 War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy One day, when I can afford a notebook entirely dedicated to keeping track of all the characters...
25 The Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy - Douglas Adams X
26 Brideshead Revisited - Evelyn Waugh
27 Crime and Punishment - Fyodor Dostoyevsky X
28 Grapes of Wrath - John Steinbeck X
29 Alice in Wonderland - Lewis Carroll X
30 The Wind in the Willows - Kenneth Grahame X I would have chosen Peter Pan to include, but there you go.

Total so far: 23

31 Anna Karenina - Leo Tolstoy X His short stories are vastly underrated, by the way.
32 David Copperfield - Charles Dickens X Not actually about the magician.
33 Chronicles of Narnia - CS Lewis X
34 Emma - Jane Austen X
35 Persuasion - Jane Austen
36 The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe X Isn't this redundant?
37 The Kite Runner - Khaled Hossein
38 Captain Corelli’s Mandolin - Louis De Bernieres
39 Memoirs of a Geisha - Arthur Golden
40 Winnie the Pooh - AA Milne X

Total so far: 29

41 Animal Farm - George Orwell X
42 The Da Vinci Code - Dan Brown X And I regret it terribly.
43 One Hundred Years of Solitude - Gabriel Garcia Marquez
44 A Prayer for Owen Meaney - John Irving
45 The Woman in White - Wilkie Collins
46 Anne of Green Gables - LM Montgomery X
47 Far From The Madding Crowd - Thomas Hardy
48 The Handmaid’s Tale - Margaret Atwood X
49 Lord of the Flies - William Golding X
50 Atonement - Ian McEwan

Total so far: 34

51 Life of Pi - Yann Martel X
52 Dune - Frank Herbert X
53 Cold Comfort Farm - Stella Gibbons
54 Sense and Sensibility - Jane Austen X
55 A Suitable Boy - Vikram Seth
56 The Shadow of the Wind - Carlos Ruiz Zafon
57 A Tale Of Two Cities - Charles Dickens X
58 Brave New World - Aldous Huxley
59 The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night - Mark Haddon
60 Love In The Time Of Cholera - Gabriel Garcia Marquez

Total so far: 38

61 Of Mice and Men - John Steinbeck X
62 Lolita - Vladimir Nabokov X
63 The Secret History - Donna Tartt
64 The Lovely Bones - Alice Sebold X
65 Count of Monte Cristo - Alexandre Dumas X
66 On The Road - Jack Kerouac XOXOXOXO
67 Jude the Obscure - Thomas Hardy X
68 Bridget Jones’s Diary - Helen Fielding X
69 Midnight’s Children - Salman Rushdie
70 Moby Dick - Herman Melville X

Total so far: 46

71 Oliver Twist - Charles Dickens X
72 Dracula - Bram Stoker X
73 The Secret Garden - Frances Hodgson Burnett X
74 Notes From A Small Island - Bill Bryson
75 Ulysses - James Joyce X Though I couldn't tell you a thing about it. That book lends new meaning to the word 'incomprehensible'.
76 The Inferno – Dante X
77 Swallows and Amazons - Arthur Ransome
78 Germinal - Emile Zola
79 Vanity Fair - William Makepeace Thackery

Total so far: 51

80 Possession - AS Byatt
81 A Christmas Carol - Charles Dickens X
82 Cloud Atlas - David Mitchell
83 The Color Purple - Alice Walker X
84 The Remains of the Day - Kazuo Ishiguro
85 Madame Bovary - Gustave Flaubert X
86 A Fine Balance - Rohinton Mistry
87 Charlotte’s Web - EB White X
88 The Five People You Meet In Heaven - Mitch Albom
89 Adventures of Sherlock Holmes - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle X
90 The Faraway Tree Collection - Enid Blyton

Total so far: 56

91 Heart of Darkness - Joseph Conrad X
92 The Little Prince - Antoine De Saint-Exupery X In French, actually.
93 The Wasp Factory - Iain Banks
94 Watership Down - Richard Adams X
95 A Confederacy of Dunces - John Kennedy Toole X Not as good as I'd hoped, alas.
96 A Town Like Alice - Nevil Shute
97 The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas X
98 Hamlet - William Shakespeare X
99 Charlie and the Chocolate Factory - Roald Dahl X BFG was better.
100 Les Miserables - Victor Hugo X

Total: 64/100

Clearly I've been remiss in my reading--though tellingly, most of the ones I have not read are modern. I imagine after studying for my GRE in Literature, I'll have all of these (and many more) covered thoroughly. The question is not 'have you read' some of these novels, but in many cases, why would you want to?

I'd also like to add that after tonight, there will be fifty people out there wrongly despising Anton Chekhov and this displeases me greatly. We're reading "The Lady with a Dog", AKA "There are much better short stories by him out there, but we refuse to acknowledge them because some tasteless snob decided that this was his best and we're much too lazy to dig up the others and show them as proof that Chekhov actually was, in fact, funny."

And that is all.

Art is an Extension of Human Nature, Which Needs No Justification

Tue, 14 Jul 2009 19:37:34 GMT

I'm in love with my professor.

I'm signed up for two classes this term--alas, fair TA Michael, I knew him well--and was missing chances to tramp about the woods and play park ranger/botanist* but all good things must end. And then begin again, because back to the professor love.

My first class I thought would be the more interesting one, Introduction to Ancient Rome, but it's mostly things I already knew and the textbook I really wanted to use (am I this nerdy? Yes, yes I am) is apparently only 'recommended'. It's got tons of primary sources and divulges tidbits from everyone from Apicius to Zeus (though he's not quoted; clearly, the temple priests were remiss). The professor, a graduate student, is sweet and personifies nerdiness. She was talking about patronage and slipped in a quote from The Godfather and then laughed at herself, so she's pretty adorable.

But she's not the one I love.

No, I am in love with my 20th Century Short Story professor. He of the Hemingway white suit, with a slow Southern drawl like lemonade in the sun that nearly disguises the fact he slips in expressions like 'ass-tear out of here' and other such amusements. He of the voice so powerfully emotive that I felt chills up my spine when he read Poe, the way it should be.

I'll confess, English had grown almost prosaic for me. I've got so many things that I read out of necessity, not for pleasure, and forgot the way you can drown in a novel and soak up short stories. I recently rediscovered some of the passion I had lost thanks to Harold Bloom, who scolds English majors for being apologetic about their field. There is a kind of embarrassment in admitting to being an English major, an inferiority complex of the sort that demands justification, which we find in relating it to other fields: sociology, anthropology, history, to name a few. Of course, an English major--or even the amateur** of literature--must be proficient in all these fields and more, but we've supplanted English with our own resentful sulkiness, like petulant children. Bloom aptly refers to this as "The School of Resentment", wherein we thrust our own prejudices upon literature and feel the need to proclaim a reason for literature***. I scoff, rightfully so. Do you go to the Louvre and demand that there be a reason for the statue of Nike? Do you look at it and think, "Yes, quite pretty, but what's the point?" No. It's for aesthetic pleasure, the greatest pleasure a human being can have.

To wit: "The idea that you benefit the insulted and injured by reading someone of their own origins rather than reading Shakespeare is one of the oddest illusions ever promoted by or in our schools."

How does this relate? When I signed up for 20th Century Short Story, I no longer thought of the excitement and ardor of my deep love for literature, but simply that it fulfilled an Area III requirement. School degree plans will be the death of intellectual curiosity.

But my professor breathes life back into the stories, fills them with human nature and psychological questioning and symbolism and motifs and never once diverges from the writing to espouse his own ideas. He never strays far from the story itself. He never once asked what the Marxist would think of Young Goodman Brown or what the psychologist would recommend for Montresor, but asked what the story itself said. Remarkable!

We're not confined to the boundaries of the English language, either, but have Gogol and Chekhov on our reading list. Scanning the syllabus, I felt an excitement previously lost well up within me at such breadth: Hawthorne, Poe, Melville, Kafka, Gilman, Chopin, Barthelme, and so many more of my old favorites, lovingly compiled into one small summer course.

Sheer bliss, my friends.

* I received an A in that class, for the record.
** Meant in the original sense of the word, from the Latin "amare", to love.
*** I wish I had been familiar with this critic before taking "Literature and Social Justice." Literature does not need a reason or justification, it simply is.

It Is Truly Sad When You Want a Digital Camera to Take a Picture of Your Dinner

Mon, 22 Jun 2009 02:14:02 GMT

But it was sooo good.

Tofu BBQ Sandwich

1/2 box of hard tofu
3 tbsp. vegetable oil
5 tbsp. barbecue sauce (I used Sweet Ray's Honey Chipotle)
2 tbsp. minced garlic
1/2 onion diced; 1/2 sliced
1 tomato, sliced
Hamburger buns

1. Drain tofu and press between two thick layers of paper towels for an hour, until all water has been pressed out.
2. Cut into 1/4 in. slices and place on a plate in the freezer for an hour.
3. Heat the vegetable oil over high heat. When it's popping, place the tofu slices in and fry until crispy on both sides.
4. Add diced onion, garlic, and barbecue sauce, making sure it coats the tofu well.
5. Place directly on bun and garnish with onion and tomato slices plus whatever else you like on your hamburgers.

Excellent with roast corn and strawberry shortcake for dessert, by the way.

And you thought tofu couldn't be good.

Important Stuff... and Other

Wed, 03 Jun 2009 04:44:53 GMT

(1) I have discovered the secret to world peace: it is, predictably, in the form of creamy, sugary deliciousness called Bluebell's "Delta Blues" ice cream.

(2) Oh, right, also I have a new neice (Heather; 7 lbs; born this morning) and my brother Chris is married.

(3) But yeah, the ice cream--oh my sweet Aunt Martha, 'tis good!

Some One-Liners; And Two-Liners; And Three!

Fri, 29 May 2009 20:04:14 GMT

* Like information, I prefer to get my smoke inhalation first-hand.

* Boys are like puppies: they're cute and furry, but you end up spending most of your time smacking them on the nose and telling them no.

* ME: The website says, and I quote, "Financial aid will come in on or around the first day of classes." Epic fail, UT.

BIANC: Do they know the second word of that is "aid"?

ME: They keep using that word. I do not think it means what they think it means.

Peanut Butter Banana Yogurt Smoothie

Sat, 16 May 2009 13:28:52 GMT

Super Special Smoothie

Makes 2 servings.

1 c. plain non-fat Greek yogurt
1 tbsp. peanut butter
1 small banana, sliced
1 tsp. honey
Optional: 1/2 c. almond or regular milk

(1) Combine all ingredients and blend in a blender or food processor.
(2) Chill in fridge overnight or add ice chips.
(3) Enjoy the most amazing smoothie you will have ever made in your entire life.

Unlike my Ghetto Spaghetti of yore, this is actually astounding in a good way. I'm kind of addicted to Greek yogurt anyway (hey, it's good for you!) but this. Oh my gosh. A-mazing.

I Doubt You'd See This in College Station

Tue, 12 May 2009 01:45:17 GMT

I love Austin.

A Walmart Werewolf: A Tale of Romance... and Shotguns

Sat, 09 May 2009 19:03:10 GMT

Bet you'd forgotten all about

“I want four 12 gauge Mossberg 500 shotguns, two Colt .45’s, and throw in twenty boxes of shells.”

Those were the first words he ever heard her say. If he had known how appropriate they were, he probably would have turned tail and run right then, but as it was, he stuck around, lurking by the $5 movie bin and trying not to look like he was eavesdropping.

“Uh,” he could almost hear the cashier blink, “You do know there’s a waiting period.”

She snorted contemptuously and waved. “Thanks, genius, I’ve been living under a rock all these years and hadn’t heard about that. Damn hippies.”

Ah, he thought wisely, one of those. It was funny, because he didn’t peg her for a redneck when she walked in. She had on a pair of bootcut jeans and leather biker boots, a loose shirt, and several tattoos peeking out from under her sleeves. None of them said “Mother”, but they weren’t the cutesy flowers and dolphins he usually saw on giggling girls who got a little too drunk one night and woke up with a hangover and new ink. A biker, maybe, he thought, but even that felt wrong.

“Hey, you thinking about painting a picture or something?”

He blinked, focusing on her face suddenly standing right in front of him.

“What?” he asked intelligently.

“A painting.” She made that little contemptuous wave again. “I figured that was the only reason you were staring so long.”

“It’s not every day that someone comes in and orders an arsenal,” he shot back, then quickly bit the inside of his cheek. As a rule, he was not the sort of person to snap sarcastically at anyone, but of course talking to a female biker/redneck/way-too-armed would be the day to break that rule.

Instead of giving him a new reason to buy ice, though, she grinned at him in a way that was, quite honestly, terrifying. “You just haven’t been hanging around the right people,” she said with a wink.

He wasn’t sure if that meant she liked him or was waiting until she found a good spot to hide the body.

He did not have time to contemplate it any more than that because an ungodly crash came from women’s shoes and distracted them both. Boxes of silver stilettos and ugly off-brand Crocs went flying into the aisle.

“Looks like someone couldn’t find their size,” he quipped, but she was shaking her head.

“Fuck,” she swore. “I hoped it hadn’t followed me here.”

“‘It’?” he repeated.

“Make yourself useful, if you can,” she said, grabbing him by his arm and propelling him towards the gun counter. The man behind it, alarmed, reached for the phone.

“I wouldn’t,” she said casually, jumping the counter and patting him down for the key.

“Why—“

That’s when the women’s shoe aisle began to howl. At least, that’s all he could think as he stared in horrified shock as the largest, ugliest wolf he had ever seen came loping around a corner and stopped, snarling at the woman he had just met. She seemed preoccupied with asking the frozen cashier where the key was, before giving up and slamming the end of a baseball bat from sports gear into the glass.

“Here!” She threw him a shotgun, clearly relying on him to know more about them than what he had seen in movies.

“Sorry to disappoint,” he called back, noting nervously that his voice had jumped about three octaves above a soprano, “but—“

“JUST SHOOT!”

He noticed that she had bent down, using the counter as a kind of sandbag against the rampaging wolf—seriously, what the hell was wrong with it?—and firing at it with deadly aim. It kept coming.

“Yours has the fucking silver bullets, so put on your man panties and FUCKING SHOOT ALREADY!”

He wanted to tell her that screaming was not helping matters, except it clearly was because he watched his hands move up in front of his face, pumping the shotgun once and pulling the trigger. Or maybe it was the terror making that happen.

Either way, the beast stumbled backwards and let out a low moan before collapsing beside children’s toys. A lone Barbie fell from a shelf onto the floor beside it.

“What—“ He breathed heavily. “Why—“

The woman came up behind him, slapped him on the back once and gingerly removed the gun from his shaking hands. “Congratulations, you just killed your first werewolf in a backwoods Wal-Mart. May I suggest we get the hell out of Dodge before the local Andy Griffith and Barney Fife get here?”

He let her lead him into the mostly empty parking lot, where a gleaming classic muscle car stood by itself in the corner.

“Hi, baby, ya miss me?” she cooed, sliding in and gesturing for him to do the same. Obeying, he wondered vaguely if she was planning on killing him anymore. Probably. Then again, he had just saved her life.

Clinging onto this thought, he turned to her, not caring that his skin was so pale he probably looked like a vampire. A vampire, he repeated to himself, right! She would probably know!

“Was that—I mean, silver bullets—a wolf—I mean, werewolf?”

Gunning the engine, she backed out of the parking lot in a move he had only seen in reruns of Dukes of Hazzard. “Ding, ding! Give that man a prize!”

The adrenaline was wearing off, taking the shakiness with it and leaving a seething kind of frustration. “You could be a little nicer, seeing as how I just saved your life,” he shot at her, crossing his arms and heedless of the fact he looked like a stubborn toddler.

“Saved my life?” She laughed at that, an honest laugh that did nothing to soothe his temper. “If you weren’t there, I could have had that thing long before it destroyed poor Barbie’s dream home.”

“Excuse me, how is that?”

She slammed a hand on the steering wheel. “I threw you the wrong gun,” she gritted out. “I meant to give you the regular one to distract it, but you got the one with the bullets that actually work.”

His jaw dropped. “You were just going to—I mean, wouldn’t I have been pretty much defenseless?”

She blinked. “Well, yeah. What’s your point?”

Maybe he had ample opportunity—and reason—to turn tail and run. But by then, he figured, maybe he was also kind of stuck with her.

In her first full-length (kinda) adventure.

The Broke College Student's Cookbook

Wed, 29 Apr 2009 17:52:52 GMT

Ghetto Spaghetti

Ingredients:
1 small tomato
1/3 package of spaghetti noodles
1 tbsp. balsalmic vinegar
1/4 c. sliced mushrooms
3 oz. tofu
3 tbsp. olive oil
1/2 c. V8

To make:

1. Bring water to a rapid boil in a pot. Add spaghetti and bring to a boil again. Stir frequently.

2. Pour olive oil and balsalmic vinegar into pan. Find out that you have no tomato sauce. Improvise, using V8 and one small tomato cut into chunks. That counts, right?

3. Heat on high, adding tofu (mashed) and mushrooms when hot.

4. Drain the noodles and pour the "sauce" over them.

Enjoy! (Or not...)

Also, Get Yourself a Cool Author Name Like Kitticus

Tue, 31 Mar 2009 17:50:52 GMT

Step one:

Establish the two main characters. Naturally, they must both be breathtakingly gorgeous. Actual specific details to establish the veracity of claims for their beauty are optional; mainly endless repetition by any other person/slave/deity/nearby rock will suffice.

Remember, "Beauty's only skin deep" is just something ugly people say to make themselves feel better.

Step two:

Arrange for the two characters to meet. Festivals are handy for this, although worshipping at a temple will do as well. Subtlety is to be ignored at all costs: Venus always has a temple nearby.

After seeing each other, the two fall hopelessly in love and grow deathly ill until only the sight of the other can make them well again. Have the parents wringing their hands and wondering what to do. For an additional twist, have them consult an oracle: Apollo always has a temple nearby.

If the oracle says something ominous, have the parents and lovebirds cheerfully ignore the threat. Instead, throw the two together and hint that they will live happily ever after.

Step three:

Shatter those last expectations you established. What kind of story is that?

The two lovebirds are swept away onto a ship, where they cry and pray to various gods. Have the crew threaten to sell the two into slavery. More crying ensues. They swear a pact and are separated.

Step four:

Whenever the plot starts to stagnate, have some person/slave/deity/nearby rock fall in love with one of the two (sexual orientation optional) and take them to safety.

Step five:

There will always, always be pirates.

Step six:

Whenever the plot starts to stagnate, feel free to use your imagination. Perhaps an agressive female wants to have sex with your main character--have someone fall in love with him and rescue him! Maybe some barbarians need the girl for a virgin sacrifice--have someone fall in love with her and rescue her! A lion escapes from a nearby gladiator practice and wants to eat Guy/Girl--someone falls in love with him/her and leaps to the rescue!

The possibilities are endless.

Step seven:

For fun, have a bad guy turn into a good guy halfway through. This is easily done by having the main character recap the entire story up until this point, whereupon the Guy Formerly Known as Bad admits to a homosexual love affair he had with a gorgeous youth a long time ago.

Pick an ending for the youth: he (a) drowns, (b) is captured by pirates, (c) falls off his horse and dies, (d) is eaten by sharks, or (e) all of the above.

The possibilities are endless.

Step eight:

If you start to write yourself into a corner and run out of handy bandits, have no fear. Simply have one of the characters fake their own death (note: the other must hear about their untimely demise; ignore the fact they haven't received any information about the other up until this point). This plot device might seem a little contrived, but years later, a British playwright will be shamelessly stealing it to write a play that will bring misery and boredom to thousands of high school freshmen.

Sadly, he omits the pirates.

Step nine:

Cover your eyes and point to one of Steps 2-9. Repeat. Feel free to do this as often as needed.

Step ten:

When you find yourself growing bored with the story, wrap it all up nicely by miraculously having the two characters end up in the same place at the same time. The key here is that geography is something that happens to other people; never mind that they've been two miles away from each other previously and couldn't locate each other, when they're 20,000 miles apart they will still both end up in a temple at the same time.

Have them meet and recap the story again, for those readers who weren't paying attention the first time around. Killing off the parents is optional, but provides that critical drama to an otherwise happy ending.

A note: Years later, scholars will find your story and think that just because it's written in Greek, it's fine literature. Shamelessly abuse this preconception.

Have fun writing!

On an actual note, I want to replace some of my icons to establish a theme. I like this one, my barefoot one, and the footsie one, but the others, not so much.

:(((

Sun, 22 Mar 2009 15:15:56 GMT

My Mantra Changes Depending on the Semester

Wed, 18 Feb 2009 16:50:54 GMT

Three more weeks until Spring Break... three more weeks until Spring Break... three more weeks until Spring Break...

Because, y'know, life isn't stressful enough

Sun, 18 Jan 2009 21:39:43 GMT

So Audrey, Court, and I were talking about graduation when I jokingly said, "Yeah, I'm nearly done with both my degrees so I have this horrific vision of me getting bored and adding another one."

"And here I am ... with my one degree," Audrey laughed.

I really was joking, but later I thought, "I wonder how many more classes another degree would take?"

One.

One extra class to get a third degree in Latin.

Life Hard

Fri, 16 Jan 2009 23:38:32 GMT

Books this semester cost me almost as much as my rent for a month.

I hate putting things into perspective.

Keep Those Cookies, Honey

Wed, 31 Dec 2008 06:19:20 GMT

An Ode to Keebler, the Elf:

I love your buns, cookie,
Your sweetness, honey,
The fresh-baked warmness of your heart,
But most of all (and this is true),
I love the fact that no one gets this
But You.

Happy birthday, sugar!

I grew bored with zombie girl....

Wed, 10 Dec 2008 02:52:37 GMT

His lanky body leaned over, nose sniffing the corpse's clothes.

"Aha! Just as I suspected--almonds! This man has been poisoned with cyanide," he paused for dramatic effect. There was a general murmuring in the direction of the servants, no doubt as the villain thought to himself, 'Curses, I've been foiled again!'

A petite woman with her hair neatly pulled back in a bun and looking vaguely like someone known familiarly to children as Grandmum stepped forward. Though all expectations and manuals stated quite emphatically that the butler, no matter how old and decrepit, was always the culprit, they also said to exclude no one from the investigations. Even if they did look like they had a small, cozy cottage in the corner of a field filled with hand-towels with cows embroidered on them.

"So it was you," he said grimly, pushing aside the small voice in the back of his mind telling him to mind his manners with elders.

"Yes, sir," the woman said, shifting. "I made almond tarts this afternoon. Mr. Pumpernin loved them with a cup of tea."

"Oh." He deflated somewhat, then brightened as a thought occurred to him. "But perhaps there was poison in the almond tarts?"

"That would be right clever, wouldn't it now, sir!" the woman beamed. "I'da never thought of that meself. Generally just stick to some almond extract and a pinch of vanilla."

"Really?" His lanky spine straightened and lean hands tugged on the bottom of his suit jacket. "Well. I shall have to examine these almond tarts. Possibly all of the kitchen. Including some hot cocoa."

"Mr. Pumpernin never drank hot cocoa, sir," the woman said doubtfully.

"No, the last was for me. I adore it with almonds."

As they strode towards the general direction of the kitchen, their voices could be heard, faintly discussing whether the title The Devillishly Fiendish Case of the Cyanide Poisoner or The Somewhat Puzzling but Delicious Case of the Almond Tarts That May Have Contained Cyanide and Are Excellent With Hot Cocoa would be more appropriate for his future novel.

Clearly, I'm Amazing

Thu, 06 Nov 2008 20:34:39 GMT

I've written 37 pages in the past two days.

This is a record.

PUMPKINS ARE MY LOVE

Fri, 31 Oct 2008 13:33:41 GMT

It's Halloween!

Have a great All Hallow's Eve, everybody! (And post pictures of your costumes if you wear one!)