silentstep: the text "Team Hilarity" on a blue background, with sparkles (Default)
(Or, as it's looking more and more like, to my unhappiness, a new computer) you know what the first thing I am going to do is?

Well, make sure I have everything back. (Oh god distracting myself from that stress so hard) And find the CD-ROM of WordPerfect, and install that, and re-download Norton, and VCL media player, and iTunes, and see if I can get my old version of IE, and if I can't, see about really familiarizing myself with Chrome for real, and putting up my Korra desktop, and downloading AIM, and RealPlayer, and setting all my preferences for what the energy-saving settings are and what closing the lid means as opposed to pressing the power button and making sure my headphones work and, hey, seeing if I can track down my old CD-ROM of Logical Journey of the Zoombinis, and Word, of course, and I'll need Excel for work, but I have to customize all my toolbars all over again and

Okay so I'm gonna stop thinking about all that now because it's just making me more unhappy and it's not my point.

My point is that once I've got everything up and running the way I want it, the first thing I am going to do once I have my word processor and my comfortable chair and can actually think straight,

I am going to write happy!Loki fic.

'Cause I've been writing tons of angsty!Loki fic, which are almost all canon-compliant except for one AU that ends up following canon events anyway and Loki is very not okay in all of them.

But I am going to write happy!Loki fic.

In which he makes lots of friends and listens to lots of awesome music and eats delicious food and discovers the company of other intellectuals and also they teach him about feminism and rejecting the gender binary and how devaluation of "feminine" traits stems from devaluation of the feminine in general, and how there's no right way to be a woman or a man or something else entirely, and maybe they can even start tackling the massive massive issues of Loki-being-an-adopted-secret-frost-giant-raised-to-hate-frost-giants-what-the-hell-Odin. But mostly it's about a bunch of kidnapped scientists being like "Shit, first contact with an alien, OK we're introducing him to Chicago-style pizza" "No we're introducing him to New York-style pizza" "What the hell is wrong with all of you we are introducing him to falafel" "No no no all of those are utterly tasteless here you will like curry much better." And Loki is standing there like "...I gave you all orders to build the portal generator, what is this" and they're like "Yeah yeah that's nice here this is Beethoven's Fifth Symphony, put these headphones on and sit your ass down for half an hour alright."

And it's going to go massively AU and there will be rainbows and kittens. Probably literally, given, you know, Bifrost and Loki being pretty canonically a cat person. Or at least having a bag of cats for a brain.

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So there were other people in the laundry facilities tonight, which, what, it's two in the morning. And I hate hate hate the way I babble when I'm nervous and want people to like me. This time I tried really hard not to lie without thinking, which I do around strangers, which basically meant that I instead did what Paul once called "Approaching the Truth with Leora," and sounds something like this:

--blah blah blah about weather, this is a nice time to do laundry because the machines are free, nighttime is nice in general, etc.--

Leora: I'm a biologist.
Person: Do you usually like to study at night?
Leora: What? Oh. No. I'm not a student.
Leora: I'm not actually a biologist. I shouldn't have said I was a biologist.
Leora: I was planning to be a biologist. I guess I still say that reflexively.
Leora: I'm not anything, really.
Leora: I mean, I work in the evenings.
Leora: Like, on the phone. So, only sort of. Anyway it means I'm awake in the evenings.
Leora: *remembers that it's normal for people to be awake in the evenings* What I mean is, I like being awake at night. I have weird sleep things going on anyway. I mean--
Leora: *flees. Flees like a coward.*

The sad part is, that was edited for clarity. I actually sounded far more stuttering and incoherent.


silentstep: the text "Team Hilarity" on a blue background, with sparkles (Default)
"And what can I get for you?"
"Hi, um, I'll have two hamburgers-"
"-Good choice-"
"-uh, thanks, one'll be a Fun Guy Burger and also a Bruchetta Burger? And Scholar's Fries for the side. And I don't need a side for the other one."
"Well, it comes with a side. You can have chips."
"Nah, I don't want any. Thanks though."


*goes to get ketchup*

*comes back, tries to pick up the 22 on a wire stand* "This one's for me, right?"
"Oh, no, we don't give numbers for to-go orders."
"Yours was to go, right?"

*realizes that perhaps it is not normal for a girl to order two hamburgers and sit down alone to eat them both*

"...yeah, yeah it was. Thanks."

Eh, I have milk at home and it is nicer here anyway.

Today I put my gel-gem snowflakes on my kitchen window. They are kind of... past their prime, but they are still sparkly, so I don't hold it too much against them. When I am done with this food coma (the burgers were delicious) I will perhaps find the motivation to go outside and clean the windows. Services aren't until 7:30, so I have time.

Shana tova, everyone.

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So I found a slip in my mailbox yesterday that claimed I had recieved a parcel but hadn't been around to claim it, and so they had huffed back to the post office and there it lies, if it be worth stooping for. I was, needless to say, perplexed; who would be sending me packages? Then I went ACK HAMLET, HAMLET, I am so sorry my dear dear Hamlet I knew I should not have entrusted the Post Office with you, they looked shady and possibly regifratricidal to me.

So in a wild panic I posted a BRB on my door, leapt aboard Sophie, and braved the perilous waters of Abbott Road. Shut up, y'all, there was massive construction and I couldn't tell in which direction I was travelling and there were massive trucks and and and and okay one of the truck drivers was youthful and cute and he winked at me. BUT IT WAS STILL TERRIFYING.

And I parked on that dreadful incline of a one-way parking lot and stood at the counter for like twenty minutes, fretting myself into a fine frenzy while the possibly regifratricidal postal worker apparently reorganized their entire back cabinet. "Leave wringing of your hands," she said upon her return, and I thanked her, took the entirely unfamiliar package and got the hell out of dodge for fear that she bought into Olivier's bullshit.

It was an envelope, the big kind with the inside lined with bubble wrap. Well, then. Not my Hamlet. Not from Fringelore. Not from Amazon Marketplace. Not from E-bay. From a relative, perhaps? Some sort of wedding thing? Had we even told my relatives that I was getting married? Hm, should do that at some point.

Then I finally glanced at the return address.

Sam Starbuck.

WHOOO SAM STARBUCK. You should have seen my face. I very nearly did John's little skippy thing. I may have, in fact.

Driving back was even harder. I got myself entirely lost and had to meander through neighborhoods until I found myself back at Grand River but HEY GUYS




no one other than me is allowed to so much as eyeball it, let alone touch it, LET ALONE, OH, ENTIRELY LET ALONE OPEN IT AND READ IT. If anyone wants to borrow it they will have to be patient until I order a not-signed copy, or if you have access to the internet by any chance because, oh, you don't live in Jackson, you may download it free.

Guys- hey guys- did I mention it was signed? SIGNED. TO ME.

It says:

"To SilentStep, one of the 2500! scribble scribble."




P.S. I need to borrow a digital camera from someone. I swear on all I hold sacred that I will be careful with it.
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So Aba brought some new pens into the office. Alas my red pen remains the only red pen in the world and when it gives up the ghost I don't know what I'll do for a father for a husband AW MAN, ROSSSSS. But there are very fine-point black pens that write sharp as you please, and these lovely blue pens that write softly and I love them dearly already. OM NOM NOM INK.

Had one swing dancing lesson. Have another tomorrow, and then cannot have another until I have saved up some money. Sad face, I am broke like a broken thing. Aww yeah, livin' on rice. Still have plenty of rice. And eggs! Rice and eggs. And dish soap. Actually I'm running out of dish soap.

Have started practicing for thrice-cursed auditions. *tfu tfu tfu* Am making Paul help. One or both of us is sure to go mad. I'm betting it's me, because he claims to find the different orchestrations structurally interesting. Whatever, everyone just hates on the violins and gives them weird ledger lines, that is how that works.

So I asked my mother if perhaps I could have the ring that Aba gave her for their anniversary one year, the gold band with the millgrained edges, because to my recollection she's never even worn it, and it would be kind of cool to have an heirloom wedding ring. And she stared at me in utter confusion and assured me with perfect confidence that no such ring had ever existed. And just when I was starting to doubt my entire reality, Aba said that yes, I had gone with him to pick out such a ring, but then he had not actually bought it. Which is too bad, because it was quite pretty and would have nicely taken care of my something old.

Checked out the wedding planning section of the Okemos library. Only found two useful books: one about interfaith ceremonies, and one explaining wedding planning to the groom. It was entertaining and informative, as opposed to the one I checked out for the bride, which turned out to be condescending and useless. *shrugs*

Sent my beloved copy of Hamlet to Mical and Tamar to read before they see it on Saturday. US POSTAL SYSTEM, PLEASE BE TRUE.

I dunno guys, my life is pleasant but uneventful. Paul and I started watching the BBC miniseries of P&P and it was very true to the book but Paul says it lacks the charm, and I don't know how charming I found the book but it is true that I did not much feel like watching five more hours of it.

Love for Boromir Sean Bean continues epic. There's a photograph I saw somewhere of him playing Macbeth, which I would have liked to see. I DON'T KNOW IF ANY VERSION WILL EVER LIVE UP TO THIS ONE THOUGH. OMG OMG OMG COLM FEORE IN POSTCOLONIAL AFRICA, GUYS. IIIIIII KNOW.

Part of me is madly looking forward to ORCHESTRA again, and the other part of me is clinging madly to FREEEEEE TIIIIIIIIME while I have it, although to be honest most of the time I manage to find something to fill up every jot of free time I have. I am going to be so busy for the next year, it's going to be ridiculous. Not, like, y'know, Laura-busy, but busy.

Ok Paul is here bye.

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So I got very very lost in strange places in Lansing and Paul says it was Grand Ledge but I say it was probably Jackson or Mason or West Lansing or... or... Clare, I dunno, and it was a little bit massively terrifying and I drove in many circles before I found myself somehow at the Lansing Blood Donor Center. By now it was already 2:00 PM, so I tried to just go in and donate blood instead, but they were closed because it was... uh, two o'clock on a Friday, so I called Paul and he was very patient with me while I drove in circles as he attempted to direct me to NCG. I had to take the HIGHWAY, guys. I had to go 60 MILES PER HOUR. It was traumatic. TRAUMA I SAY. Driving is high speeds and danger wrapped in loud classical music and sunlight! Hssssssss, sunlight. In conclusion, shibis and gentlemen, CARS GO FASTER THAN MAN WAS MEANT TO GO, and I can't be having with this sort of thing.

But I made it- alive- mostly thanks to Pavel, who was v. v. patient and said things like "go straight" and then "why did you turn left? ...okay, loop around again, and this time, go straight..." and didn't just hang up on me, not even a little bit. And it was, like, 2:25, so I ran in and asked the (rather cute) ticket attendant for one student tkt to Star Trek: Movie of Awesome. "What, the 2:10 one?" he asked, and I grimaced and nodded, and then took my ticket and fairly sprinted for the theater.



♥ ♥ ♥


(lj just ate part of my post. I'm srsly bitter here, guys. I cannot reproduce spontaneous stream-of-consciousness squee. I HATE when lj eats my posts. My memory is good but it is not eidetic! Saad faaace.)
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So I hadn't been to Symphony rehearsals for over a week, due to... well, individual reasons, y'know. Each M/W/F I would have woken up just a little too late, or moved too slowly here or there, and then it became just too daunting a prospect to walk in late when I hadn't walked in at all the past five times, and I would resolve (again) to show up on time to the next rehearsal. One time, actually, I slunk guiltily off to the Union rather than pick my way around stands and chairs with all eyes on me, and I saw Evan! And Robbie! And their friend Linda. So we played frisbee until I thought I would faint of hunger, and I inhaled a sandwich from McAllister's without even tasting it, leavened bread or not. I maintain that it was okay, because one may break such a law to save a life, and I honestly believe I would have blacked out had I not eaten, and there was nothing kosher to hand.

(Speaking of kosher for Passover, Caitlin introduced me to tuna-salsa-cheese quesadillas. They make my life infinitely lovely.)

And then it was Friday the day before the final Symphony concert, and I showed up at the Wharton really only because I'd told my parents because I couldn't think of any plausible lies to stop them showing up to the concert on Saturday, so Aba drove me to rehearsal and said that he'd wait to see if Gregorian let me stay. I was early, even, and I crossed to the other side of backstage to find him setting up clear plastic sound-shields or something behind the wind section. I stood silently for what felt like minutes, just waiting for him to notice my presence, too terrified to make some sort of noise. I hadn't thought of anything to say; I had no excuses and no believeable lies, because I'd been attending Philharmonic regularly. Finally he turned around and saw me, at which point I concentrated on not visibly trembling.

But he was really nice- I stuttered something that made no sense about having dropped off the face of the earth for a while (really, why didn't I just go ahead and say that I'd been travelling by TARDIS? it would have sounded about as reasonable) but he just asked if I thought I would be comfortable enough with the music to play in the concert. Since I'd been expecting him to tell me that there was no way I was allowed to come within ten miles of the Wharton on Saturday, I just kind of looked bug-eyed and willed my feet not to run away just yet. "Why don't you try it today and see how it goes," he suggested kindly, and I thanked him profusely as I could manage while my feet were already running away. I'm sure I cut a rather cartoonish figure- feet blurring like wheels while my torso stretches behind to get in a last few words, before snapping forward to catch up. In any case, my feet had the right idea, because as soon as I was behind the shell I found myself damn near hyperventilating. My breath came in shuddery sobs all the way back to my case to call Aba and say that he could go, I would be allowed to stay.

The concert actually went well enough. I still really can't take The Silver Sword at all seriously (tra la trinkle, merrily winkle? what the hell?), Dona Nobis Pacem was not too terribly interesting, but I wasn't bored, and I think I faked well enough on the Wagner to pass muster. I often think learning to fake convincingly is one of the most useful things I have ever learned in seventeen years of violin.

Now the PHILHARMONIC concert- ohhhh, that was just pure joy. Carlos told us that his family had come up from Kansas just to see him conduct, and of course I would have done my best anyway but it was nice to think that his family got to see a really good performance for that. And of course Dmitri Vladimir just carried the Rococco Variations, so yay, and then there was Dvorak 8th Symphony. And New World, oh, I love you dearly, I do, and you will always hold a special place in my heart for being my first kind of official date, but DVORAK EIGHTH SYMPHONY. It's like two different Doctors. And I love the ninth symphony I do I do but EEEEEIIIIIGHT.

It went awesome, and my solo went awesome, and at the end when Jimenez took my hand and I stood up he kissed my hand. Kissed my hand, like a knight would do to a lady.

I think the word I am looking for here is SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.

I mean, if I've talked to you for like five minutes ever then you know I have such MAD FANGIRL HERO-WORSHIPFUL LOVE for Maestro Jimenez, who is forever my conductor and my king, and then he kissed my hand and Eema told me later that I looked as though I would just burst from happiness, because Dvorak and it went awesome and my solo and RAPHAEL JIMENEZ KISSED MY HAND, and I very nearly did. Burst from happiness, I mean.

So... yay. Yay, and yay, and even just thinking of it now like a fortnight later I am still going SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE inside my head.

Also I hugged Carlos Botero as I was leaving the stage, which is to say that I kind of glomped him, but can you blame me, it is Carlos Botero and he is awesome and I was so totally high on Good Concert.

Mmmmm, awesome.

Anyway. So after all my concerts I went to Yale to visit Paul, who was still coughing like he was dying of some terrible wasting lung disease, and spent my last days in New Haven. We actually managed to find a pretty walk, a nice tree-lined street with colorful, architecturally interesting houses. (I say like I know jack about architecture, but they were pretty and cool-looking and some of them had turrets and roofs that looked like you could climb on them.) And then at the top of the hill there was a lovely little park with a bench and to one side was the whole of Connecticut, and to the other side was the sunset, and it was just peaceful and the weather was cool and pleasant and it was just about as nice a send-off as one could hope to get, at least someone like me who visited for long weekends every few months for the past four years. Paul showed me some of season one Chuck, and an episode of Dollhouse, and I showed him the first two episodes of Merlin, and we watched about halfway through S2 of Buffy.

My love for any character played by Anthony Stewart Head continues epic. Perhaps I should worry about all these silver foxes I seem to be collecting in my Big Book o'Fictional Crushes, but I think as long as I do not go chasing them in anything resembling Real Life, I will be okay.

I spoke to many strangers over the weekend, like the CT limo driver on the way there, who was so very nice and friendly and I liked him, and people on planes and such who wanted to know just what was so hilarious about Post Captain by Patrick C. O'Brian. Yes, it's book two of the Aubrey/Maturin series. But I love them! Stephen is oh, such a cellist and Jack is just such a violinist- and oh, it is perfectly wonderful. sigh. Also I bought these cool solar-powered blinky keychains with names on, and because they didn't have "Leora" I bought Nicholas, Sam, Jack, and Christopher. And a second one of Nicholas, just because. If I want to destroy the mystery, then I could tell you that ) But I think it's more fun to let you all believe that I selected the names entirely at random, in a fit of pique at having my name left off once again. (The truth is that I just like to say "in a fit of pique." Okay, so I just like the word "pique." There's a Q in it. Words with a Q are cool. Don't judge me.)

You know, I am well aware that it is Not Going To Happen, Like, For Srs, but I think that this

really should be the new British flag. Aw, yeah. Sorry. Random tangent is random.

( I was just taking a reservation for someone in Ypsilanti and after I finished telling him everything there was kind of this long pause, so I said "do you have any other questions?" and he said "are you single?"

...ahahahahahaha really? Uh, really? uh. Well. Sure. I can take a compliment.)

I have received packages! many many packages, of lovely presents, presents that I paid for online but who is counting because they came in the mail, to me, all nicely wrapped, which makes them presents. There is a Mind The Gap doormat for my front porch doorway, an umbrella featuring the London skyline in sort of gray, dreary colors because it's England and it is always raining there, 'cause it's an island, a pair of dangly pearl earrings, and this really, really awesome pair of steampunky earrings made of watch parts and gears. THEY'RE STEAMPUNKY, YOU GUYS. YEAH. I keep wanting to write thank-you notes to the maker of my new steampunk earrings for the lovely gift, because she wrapped them up all pretty, but then I remember that I actually bought them, with money, and it is probably Not Done to be all grateful for the opportunity to pay money for shiny things.

Wanna know what actually was a shiny present, though?

Okay okay! EEEHEEHEEHEE. So I come back straight to the office from Connecticut, and of course I've been travelling all night long and had to shell out an extra hundred bucks for a taxi and lost the thirty dollars for my CT limo because I misread the time and missed it, stupid me, but I was okay and I got to work and I was working and Eema had left me her car keys so I could get back to my flat, so when I was done working I traipsed up to the fifth floor and looked for her car and did not see it. So I pressed the Unlock button, and the lights flashed on a gorgeous, bright bright robin's-egg-blue Taurus with a note on the dash that read titchadshi.

I have named her Sophie, which is short for Blue Sophia, which is like Blue Peter only not really at all, and I admit I may have been slightly influenced by Jack Aubrey's pretty little sloop. But that is okay. Eema was insistent that she is not really my car, she is my parents' car that I am allowed to use, but that is okay too; Ophelia was Tamar's car that I was allowed to use and that did not make her any less mine for the months that I had her.

This is another thing that makes me all squeeful. A car! A pretty, pretty little ship car! All for me! *massive grin*

Let me see. Other things that are good. Well, I watched the first season (only eight episodes in a season. Honestly, Britain, you and me, we gotta talk about this) of a show called Hotel Babylon, which I have decided that I like. I tried to watch several other British comedies, but I really cannot stand having a laugh track. It's just so... insulting. I do not need to be told when you have made a joke. If it is funny, I will laugh. But Hotel Babylon is just... yeah, I like shows about high-strung, resourceful characters who are running complex operations. I like shows about what goes on backstage. Slings & Arrows, for example, or hey, how about the Muppet Show? (Though I *wish* they didn't have a laugh track.) Anyway, I like Hotel Babylon and the characters interest me, even the ones I thought I would dislike, so good. Also I ship the main pairing, which is always nice, and I like that the main character learns from his mistakes, and that even if he is slow in coming to a decision, once he decides on a course of action, he follows through. Also he has what I believe are known as "bedroom eyes," and an accent like the Ninth Doctor's, so. Yeah.

Also saw a movie called Cat Ballou, which is a western, or a parody of westerns, but that does not matter because it is great, and involved Nat King Cole and Jane Fonda. I think this may be the first time I have actually had an ot5, but it is just something about outlaw bandits, I swear, that simply cannot be limited to monogamous pairings. It is at least ot3s, or nothing. Don't ask me. I don't make the rules.

Now may I talk about Star Trek?


spoilers and squeeage to follow. )

And now I cannot wipe the grin off my face. Ahhh, it is good to be a geek.

(Ooo hey, who's looking forward to the movie with Evil!Nine?)

Anyway. Must be getting home, making food. Sleeping. All that stuff.

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So today I managed to pull myself out of bed (away from lovely, lovely dreams of Ianto, and Tosh, and Jack, and theatre- you have no idea how hard that was) at about 2:20 PM, which is possibly a new record for me, and I was totally out of the flat and on the road by 2:40, with my umbrella and my purse and the bag of pyjamas that I had to give back to Eema. And then I was nearly to the Burcham intersection when I realized that my violin was still in my flat. (my lack of social life is telling: I keep wanting to slip words in Hebrew into this post- my umbrella and my tik, my kinor was still in my flat. I need to talk to people out loud more often; I'm forgetting English.) Anyway, so I panicked and pulled into the Elementary School driveway, intending to turn around, when I realized that it was one-way, no left turns, and there was a long line of cars blocking me from getting out. Someone kindly let me in and I turned frantically onto Burcham, then realized I had no idea how to get back. There was much of the getting lost and ending up in strange neighborhoods before I found myself back on Saginaw, where I went tearing along back to Haslett, to Hagadorn, and to Hull. Ran upstairs, snatched my violin and drove hell-bent for leather- by which I mean, thirty miles per hour, because speed limits. Arrived in the Music Building just as the Symphony orchestra was tuning, and stopped to get my folder from the bin but the bin WAS GONE. By now I was already late, so I did not run, but I hurried to the Music Library and it was totally closed and dark and locked and empty, despite the sign on the door saying OPEN and 1PM to 4PM and it being only 3:00 PM. And so I knocked and looked desperate and pitiful, and considered just running away, but someone would have seen me approach the orchestra room earlier and I'd passed Beau in the hallway and someone would have reported to Gregorian that I had been there, and disappeared of my own free will. So I gathered up my courage and went in late, ARGH, and then we played Prokofiev's Love of Three Oranges and Beethoven's Eroica. And it had been sprinkling when I'd awoken, and all the way to orchestra, and as rehearsal wore on the rain got heavier and heavier until it was just pouring straight down, and I was really annoyed with myself for leaving my umbrella in my car, because I'd have to walk to work without it. But then an hour and some time in, during the Beethoven, the rain stopped and though the sky was dark and grey somehow the sun was shining magnificently off of the trees with their fall-colors and it was just about the most lovely sight I'd ever seen, and I spent all our measures of rest (like, all three of them) staring over my shoulder out the window, which is bad and unprofessional but COME ON, Beethoven would have understood, LOOK AT THAT SIGHT. Gorgeous. And then the gray just faded away from the top down like God adjusting the brightness of his monitor, and it was just so cool, also, Beethoven is crazy hard and I kind of wish I were first violin because I learned these excerpts for auditions and it throws me the heck off when I hear the cues and start automatically playing along with the firsts because the second part is impossible to sight read anyway and I know that part, I know that's what I'm supposed to be playing, and I can't not play it. But I'll learn, I will. Afterwards I went and had a cup of coffee, which- oh- explains why I have barely paused for breath this entire entry, and then I sang Blue Skies and came to work, after stopping in Barnes and Noble to pine after Doctor Who, which is like a hundred dollars, whut, on Amazon it's only like 53 + shipping. and, granted, shipping is expensive, but not that expensive, guys. Last night I talked to Mical and I suggested that she be a bat for Halloween, which come to think of it is a really good idea, and something I've never been, so maybe I will be too, because Mical is in Boulder and it's not exactly like we move in the same circles. And also Eema dropped off a bag of clothes for me to try on, a black concert shirt and black cordoruoy pants and two pairs of pyjamot, and she said that whichever pair I didn't pick she would take. There was a pink pair with black-and-tan flowers all over that I didn't fancy at all, and a really cute plaid flannel pair that I adored and it was no decision at all. I wonder how influenced I was by the fact that Eema has a pair of plaid flannel pyjamas, and so does Caitlin. *shrugs* Anyway they were quite comfortable and I wore them while making noodles with olive oil and basil and parmesan cheese, which is delicious and I purposely made enough so that I could take the leftovers to work today and not be hungry, but then of course I ran out the house without time and did not take it, so I will have to content myself with the appetite-suppression of caffeine, which is most of the reason that I drank the coffee, was so that I wouldn't die of hunger before I went home tonight. Also I did all my dishes, go me. I was about to complain to Paul that a downside of living alone was that I had to do all my own dishes, but then I realized, no, if I had a roommate or something, I would still have to do my own dishes, and also be yelled for not doing them by someone else's standard of fast enough. So, it is actually a perk of living alone, and I love it, if I do things in my own time I do not have to feel guilty, or be yelled at. I love that, I really, really do. It is something that will take me a long time to get over, and I'm just revelling in it. Basically I revel in my flat. A lot. Look at my window! Covered in sparkly snowflakes, and a snowman suncatcher, and golden stars, and Caitlin's beaded star ornament! Look at my bookshelf, and how it matches my door! Look at my bright lamp, my night-table, my silver clock and my religious icon, my dishcloth hanging on a sticky-hook, my sink! My dishwasher! My coffemaker! My kitchen appliances, my knife rack! My basketchair, my shower curtain, my soap dish, my medicine cabinet! My rugs! My kitchen table, my chairs, my beautiful white kitchen table and brown chairs! My sofas covered in cat hairs! My friggin' WATERBED, my luxurious, luxurious sheets and comforter! My walk-in closet, all full of hangers, my laundry basket! Look at my new balcony, the lovely blonde wood, and my windchime with the golden sound! My clock-radio and my new headphones, my TV stand with television AND a DVD player...! My shoe rack, my white coat with the parva! My very own cat-food closet, with my very own vaccuum cleaners, both large and small! My fuzzy blue blanket and my DVDs and my books, my books and my purple butterfly bookends, my knitted potholders and green placemats and brass candlesticks! My candles! Matches! My green flower dishes! My beautiful, decorated bowls of all shapes and sizes! My art nouveau vase, full of beautifully dead flowers! My carpeted floor! NYAAAAA! *runs around in circles, flailing* LOOK AT ALL MY STUFF. I don't think there is any way to convey how unbelieveably rich I feel. All this stuff! And it's all mine! I feel like Ariel, except without the pining or the pouting! ALL THIS STUFF. IT IS MINE. I HAS IT. You are going to have to pry me out of this flat with a crowbar. I totally, totally get how all the ship captains feel now. MY PLACE. MINEMINEMINE.

I don't think I've ever had less money to my name. I'm subsisting off of rice and pasta and calculating every day whether I can afford to buy a cup of hot chocolate on my way to work (answer is: I really shouldn't, I should just buy a thermos so that I can make my own and bring it with me). I'm not managing to save anything; between keeping myself in internet and violin lessons I must be careful to let my third-of-a-tank of gas last me the next two weeks at least. I've never really not had spending-money before; even when I was little, if I wanted something, I could ask for it. I might have received "no" for an answer, or else had to wait for a holiday, but still. (It's so easy to see how someone can get stuck like this, and have to choose between an eye exam and a bow rehair, and I'm so very, very fortunate that my parents can help me with things like that.)

I've never felt richer in my life, ever. I cannot get over how lucky I am, and as in Israel, every nerve in my body is screaming at me to make the most of now, because I am well aware, so very very aware, of the limited duration of this state of affairs. I am in the prime of youth, the cusp of adulthood, if you will; I have what is (for me) a perfect balance of independence and a firm support structure, a place of my own- a place of my own that feels like home- a cat that keeps me from ever being actually lonely, a cat whose character just takes up all the space in the room, like a cat trained in musical theater. Two orchestras and a part-time job arranged to fit my personal sleep schedule, no responsibilities that I cannot handle for the first time in, like, EVER, no one to please but myself, and plenty of time and resources with which to do as I please. Do not get me wrong, having other people in my life will be great too, but I value this time so much, and, as in Israel, I do not look up in surprise and wonder where the last few months have gone: I am conscious of every day that passes, I can feel the time flying, the way people say you can't. That is me; I may not have a sense of time- of past, of future, but I am so aware of the now. Always conscious of the present. ...'M not sure what I'm trying to say, here, anymore. But the last section of the first paragraph sort of reminded me of Jack talking to Nicholas in Polari (Nicholas! I would give anything for Nicholas to be canon. I'm so madly in love with Nicholas). Tosheroon worth of savvy to spare and dull ogles and dolly eeks.

I should actually work on the roster now, you know. *shrugs* It will get done. So it goes.

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Who would have thought? All you have to do is replace Horatio Hornblower's penis with a six-legged telepathic cat, and he becomes awesome. I certainly never saw that coming.

Also I apparently showed a boy God's work, or miracles, or something. That was what he was exclaiming in utter disbelief to his friend, anyway. So, bow before me, all, for I am She Who Talks to Squirrels.

Leora: Philip Glass, my mother. Eema, Philip Glass.
Eema: Are you sure your record doesn't just have a crack in it somewhere?

Bob Christiansen: This is 90.5 WKAR fm East Lansing, npr and classical music...
Eema: Hey Leora, your boyfriend's on the radio.

Beau: So, this is like an out of body experience. Imagine that you're in a fog. Or at a party, only nobody can see you or hear you. Like, you're not participating, but you're there. And disembodied. And misty, and mysterious.
Wind Player: So... do you want it louder or softer...?

A fuzzy-haired violinist walks into a bar the Music Practice Building, and hears someone practicing the Shostakovich. "Ah! It is Anton!" Thinks the fuzzy violinist. "We must be playing the Shostakovich today!" Then the fuzzy violinist remembered that some people actually practice, and not just on the very day that you have to play for an audience. But that is surely nonsense, and to prove it, we played the Shostakovich today.

Anton: *plays apassionatosisisisisimo*
Anton's Bow: WHEEEEEE!
Violin Sections: *totally lost, because they're all watching the bow fly across the room*
Anton's Bow: *BOOM TRACH CLATTER, somewhere behind the firsts*
Verdehr: You're supposed to catch it, guys.

Leora: *refresh*
All Twelve Members of the R&G Fandom: ...


Clock: 11:00 PM
Eema: Let's pretend we don't hear it.
Leora: Hear what?
Eema: The phone.
Leora: What phone?
Eema: The phone that's ringing.
Leora: I don't hear anything.
Eema: The phone is ringing. But I'm pretending I don't hear it.
Leora: Hear what?
Eema: The phone.
Leora: Eema. Eema. Hear what?
Eema: Ohhh! Hahahaha!
Leora: Yes. Let's go home.

Leora: *strides awesomely out the front door in a gray, light T-shirt, long jeans, black boots, and her Israeli Army Coat*
Eema: Oh, no, Leora, you look so nice in your clothes, why are you wearing that coat?
Leora: Because the coat is AWESOME. *strides to the car*
Eema: It doesn't match. Go put on your blue sweater.
Leora: No! You're just jealous you don't have one like it!
Eema: I'd have to find someone to wear it to war before it looked like that. Honestly, are there bullet holes in it?
Leora: I don't think so. But Eli has a coat from Chicago that does.
Eema: Eli has a coat like that?
Leora: Well, the one from Chicago is different. But yes. He has one like this too.
Eema: Ahhhhh! It all makes sense now. It's because you want to be coatfriends with Eeeeliiiii.
Leora: ...if you start singing that we are in a tree I will jump out of this moving car right now.

Leora: Okay. Do you by any chance have access to the internet?
Girl: YEAH.
Leora: Well, you can make reservations online, actually.
Leora: *gives up on being able to save some time* Yes. *takes information, goes to billing* Do you need an e-mail confirmation?
Leora: *grits teeth, because that takes ten times as long* Of course. etc etc etc And your billing address?
Leora: And your e-mail?
Leora: You're all set, thank you. *hangs up* *stares in dismay at the pile of reservations to process*
Eema: Did she make you take it over the phone?
Leora: Yes.
Eema: Did she want confirmation?
Leora: Yes.
Eema: Was she a little old lady without a computer?
Leora: She's a UNC student.
Eema: Eize idiotit.
Leora: Yes.
Eema: And a mefageret.
Leora: YES.
Eema: Steal her money.
Leora: Nah, I'll just send Sara to take out her Laurel!rage on her.

I like the Women's Lounge in the Union. Paul says it's sexist and is against it on principle, and I have to admit he's probably right, but I still like it. It feels like a place where you can let your guard down, and the atmosphere is friendly and relaxed but hushed and private. Girls take nooks and tables and sofas, and they read and study and work and nap. There's always a surpising number of couches occupied by napping girls, and I'm often among them. I sat on the windowmost of the horseshoe of sofas in the near corner, and across from me there was an Asian girl asleep. Her rainboots were sitting in a neat pair, and they looked like the rainboots we all had as kids, right down to the umbrellas printed on them. She had her plaid jacket draped over herself as a blanket, and she slept in her stocking feet. I drank my hot chocolate and read my book for about half an hour, and at some point I thought to myself that me sitting there thinking how adorable she looked was probably what the Women's Lounge was built to avoid. Oops.

Curious Book Shop's Shakespeare section seems to have vanished. They do have, however, a section of Nautical Fiction, which meant that I spent a long period of time standing on a stool. (I actually went there to see if they had a cheap copy of His Majesty's Dragon, but the only one they have is Empire of Ivory.) Also Roger Lancellyn Green wrote about Arthur, and for two dollars I'm likely to buy it, because I don't actually know the original Arthurian legends.

I've been trying to think of ways to introduce Mr. Midshipman Hornblower, and one of the ones I came up with went something like this: And you won't even meet Bush until the next book, which is too bad, because he's lovely, and if Hornblower weren't so damn introverted and repressed and depressed and if they weren't both such silly britons, there would simply be lots of buggery, and none of this nonsense about Maria, or Barbara for that matter.

I was also really bitter that Honor's Pavel is evil, but then she steals his former XO who is a Paul, so I suppose I'll forgive her.

The USS Defiant remains my favorite ship of all time though.

Eema's going to kill me if I don't go try on sixteen pairs of stupidpants RIGHT NOW, so rar.

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Audition tomorrow at 10:30 AM.

The sad part is, I would be absolutely in love with this symphony if I didn't have to play it well by tomorrow. I want so badly to stay in this orchestra. Aaaaa. Aaaaa. *dies* eheu.

Am listening to it on Rhapsody right now: It's so ******* beautiful. Dr. Mr. Professor Maestro Gregorian-sama is going to feel really bad about kicking me out and I don't want to do that to him, I don't want to put him in that position.

How I wish I were good.

Today, in addition to three and a half hours of orchestra, I had an hour lesson and I practiced. Lots of hours, though I didn't really count. Four. Five. Six. Who even knows. I sat in the jacuzzi for a while for the soreness in my neck/back/shoulders. My fingertips are still black, and a little tender.

(Copland's Billy the Kid makes me think of Caitlin. I'm not sure why.)

(We also sight-read a marimba concerto that made Zach think of drugs, Jessica think of sex, and me think of Daniel Purisch.)

The clarinetist who plays the solo at the beginning of the second mvt is the same one who played the Mozart Clarinet concerto with us (the phil) last cycle. Also the second chair second violin is TIGRIN. Heart Tigrin. The other Friday when we had sectional, the first chair was gone and he was sitting first and he called me up to sit by him. Seriously. I have no idea why. It was one of the most terrifying and thrilling and awesome experiences ever. After the rehearsal I was so stoked I ran and danced and twirled and sprinted all the way to Michigan Flyer, and ran around telling everyone. There may have been squeeing. (Tigrin is so cool, and nice and friendly, also HE COUNTS MEASURES IN RUSSIAN. When I told Eema she tried to count in Russian, or at least in Polish, but it came out in German. Go figure.)

Today I asked Tigrin if the E naturals were a misprint, and he started to explain to me the rule about how if there is an E natural earlier in the measure than it is still and E natural, which I obviously know and so I said no, I mean that there is written in a flat; why? And he asked Gregorian-sama and it turned out to be a misprint and Tigrin thanked me for asking. In retrospect I probably should have let him explain, because then I could have listened to him talk with his accent, but I did not want him thinking that I do not know that rule. He shared a stand with me for two hours; his opinion of my playing is definitely low enough.

(This is my favorite part in the piece, partially because I sit right in front of the piano and can hear all the cool things it is doing. You can't really hear it as well on the recording, which is too bad.)

During the sectional the inner circle and actually a good many people discussed things in Russian and I sat there and said "skripka" to myself, but nobody heard me. Which is probably good, because I'm probably mispronouncing it so that is sounds like a Russian swearword or something.

(My Russian vocabulary goes like this: Skripka. Kuoshka. Utka. Da. Nyet. Ya ustala. Privyet. Speciba. Kakdela? U visyo v'puryadkye. Zdrastvichya... Pachiyutka.)

I am hungry, and terrified of tomorrow. I hate auditions, I hate them. There is an entire page that I cannot even touch. And those awful four measures that he really likes. And I just know he's going to make me play both of those spots, and they are the ones I cannot play. Why can't he make me play the Oberon? Overture zur Oper Oberon? I rock at the Oberon! I totally do! I totally learned it in a terrible panic during the sectional while sitting next to Tigrin because I could not let him find out just how bad I really am. (I didn't think he was serious at first about asking me to sit there, I was just like "augh what" and he said "don't worry, I haven't had time to practice this yet, and so we can play wrong notes together," or something to that effect, but ahem, Tigrin's "not practicing" and my "not practicing" are kind of worlds apart, people.

(Frustrating thing kind of is, if I practiced properly I would be really good. But I suppose that is true of anyone and anything.) I really am glad, though, that I am second violin. If I were first I would have committed seppuku ages ago.

Bought BSG seasons 1, 2.0, and 2.5 tonight. Paul must come home so that I can stop fretting about Adama. Only everything's going to get worse. Darn it.

Have started watching Ambroise Thomas's Hamlet opera, and it is enjoyable. They change things. Like, this rather pretty guy with long hair comes onstage and Hamlet sings "greetings, oh my brother- for any brother to Ophelia is a brother to me," and I go "HELLO LAERTES" and then the guy sings that he is being sent to Norway in service of his country, and I go ".../VOLTIMAND. /CORNELIUS." And then he sings about how he is entrusting Hamlet with Ophelia's welfare and happiness. And I go, right. Liar. Also Hamlet's madness just after the play-within-a-play manifests itself in his climbing onto the table and pouring wine on his head.

The thing is though, Gertrude. Gertrude's makeup includes a prosthetic that extends her forehead to the top of her head. That's what I mean. It moves her hairline back to a straight line from one ear to the other. It looks very strange and is just so darn distracting; and I simply cannot figure out for the life of me why they would do that. Seriously. I do not understand.

Ophelia's dress has more buttons than most seamstresses will see in a lifetime. Also everyone in Denmark wears these giant hoopskirts. Klingon!Gertrude's is so big that nobody can approach her. We are talking about a good six foot radius here.

The piece is over, and I must go to bed. Wish me luck, or, barring that, a swift and relatively painless death.

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"So um," was my confident beginning. "About the, um." I didn't want to bring this up, but this little movie kept playing in my head, of Eema going "And why didn't you ask him while you were there?" and me going "I dunno," and not really being able to think of an excuse that sounded more plausible than "He's big and thunderous and scary and if I bring to his attention the fact that I'm in his orchestra he'll change his mind because he obviously couldn't have been thinking when he put me in it and argh argh argh choke die." No, I told myself sternly. Stop that. Gregorian is a good and kind man who is, even as we speak, doing you a favor. "About my audition... do you want me to prepare a solo, or just the um, orchestral stuff...?"

"Oh, no, no solo, just the orchestra pieces," he answered immediately, barely looking up from the letter. I gave an inward sigh of relie- "I think I know how you play."

"AUGH PANIC," said my brain. "OUR BLUFF HAS BEEN CALLED. WE HAVE BEEN FOUND OUT. HE KNOWS HOW MUCH WE SUCK." I looked around wildly, pupils dilating, adrenalin rushing through my veins.

"In her record, right?"


"In her record. That's what you want, right?"

"Oh yes," I answered absently, scoping out the window for leaping-through potential.


"Student," muttered He Of The Thunderous Voice. "Ess Tee You."


"Do you know how to do this?" The Maestro Whose Indoor Voice Causes Earthquakes asked, frowning at his computer. I cringed; doom must surely follow.

"I'm actually not very familiar with Macs," I murmured, eyeing the pen stand. Maybe it could work. It looked pretty hefty.

"Then what good are you?" he roared, causing the sky to tremble. "Ha ha ha ha!"

"Ha ha," I echoed faintly. "I am fairly useless."

(Audition in two weeks. Shibis and gentlemen, here's to getting kicked out of orchestras.)

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So, I'm sitting on the living room couch daydreaming, home alone, when the doorbell rings. I go to look over the balcony and see a middle-aged woman whom I do not know. I assume that it's a solicitor or a Jehovah's Witness or whatever and anyway, I'm still in my pajamas, so I start to go away when I see her bending over the funny new lock-thing on our doorknob. Oh, she must be leaving a note in the door, or perhaps a pamphlet on why my family should convert. I might as well get dressed anyway, it's three-thirty in the afternoon. But as I'm on my way to my room, I hear the door open, and she calls "Hello!"
"Hello!" I call back, not really thinking. Then I get to my room and, as I'm getting dressed, it strikes me. That door had been locked! She'd broken in, and now she knew that there was someone in the house! I began to panic. She must be a burglar! I lock my bedroom door, knowing that the lock could be picked by a three-year-old, and ran to my window. Maybe I could escape by taking the screen off, running along the balcony, and calling the police from my neighbor's phone. I looked at the narrow balcony and wondered if it would still hold my weight, after all these years. I could hear the burglar moving around downstairs. I should run to Eema's room- there was a phone there, a lock that worked, and I could escape out the back door from her bathroom if necessary. Proud of myself for thinking straight under pressure, I dashed to my door and tried to open it quietly, my heart pounding as it got stuck. I finally tugged it open and dashed across the hall, my hands slippery with sweat as I locked the door and scurried to the phone. What if she wasn't a burglar, but a kidnapper? Memories of Elizabeth Smart's kidnapping were running through my brain. Maybe even a murderer! She'd kill me and bury me in the woods, who knew her motivations, and I'd never get the chance to play the violin again. The frisbee players in the park would never know why I didn't show up. I might even get blood on the carpet, and Eema and Aba would have even more flooring troubles to deal with. My throat was dry as I called the office, momentarily forgetting the number as my brain explored every single morbid possibility.
"Okemos Travel, Michelle speaking!" Came the perky, cheerful voice. I tried to speak as low as I could.
"Hi Michelle, this is Leora. Is my mom there?" One must be polite, even in a crisis.
"Yeah, sure, Leora, wait one second." Surely the maddened serial killer prowling around downstairs had heard my hoarse whisper! Eema, come quickly, why is it taking you so long? Don't you know that your daughter is in mortal peril here?
"Hi Leora!"
"Oh, no, your voice is gone!"
"Eema, is today cleaning day?"
"No, did you make a mess or something?"
"Eema, someone's here, and I don't know her, it's a blue car with a red triangle on the hood, and she came in and-"
"Leora, it's fine, she's here to work on the floors downstairs- oh, I should have told you, I'm sorry, you must have been scared!"
"No. No, it's okay, I was just wondering. I'm fine. I'm good. Bye, Eema. See you later."

*hits head on wall*

Oh well.

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You know what I realized? I haven't actually posted anything in a really long time. It's all been quizzes and pictures and junk. Well, blah.

So here I am, listening to West Side Story that I still haven't returned to Merry and feeling pretty blue. And desperately trying to think of anything significant that's happened to me to write about.

I "wrote" two essays for Verzwyvelt. One was complete BS, very stupid, that I didn't say a thing in. I hated it. That's this one:
Eema dropped me off in front of the tree. I barely gave it a glance, however- when I see a school building, I sprint toward it, whether or not I am actually late- I'm a creature of habit. I wonder if the door will be locked, or if someone had put a small rock in it. I always had. There was no rock, but fortunately Mrs. Gregorian, my old violin teacher, was just leaving. Miss Kesler and Mr. Spurbeck were talking just past the indoor-outdoor room. I waved to Mr. Spurbeck, and Miss Kesler asked me where the rest of the quartet was.
"No idea."
"Weren't you supposed to start fifteen minutes ago?" Argh. Cue panic.
"Were we?" A miniature Leora in my head started running in frantic circles, mumbling slightly hysterically. The rising pitch of her voice was getting hard to ignore. "I didn't think so... six-thirty is what Mrs. Smith said." I was going to be deafened in a minute. I hastily set up a mental brick wall just behind the miniature Leora. Since she was going in circles, physics took its toll. I hurried to the sewing lab, where Mrs. Smith was waiting. Leora picked herself up and looked relieved.
"Where're the rest of you guys?"
"They're coming. Well, Paul's not sure where the sewing lab is, but I think he'll be okay." I set my violin down on the small table under the calendar. Almost every time I had ever rehearsed here, I had put my violin on the same table. I unpacked and read the calendar. It was as if I'd never left. Melody walked in with the same familiarity and unpacked. She had gone to Chippewa, but almost everything Suzuki had taken place in Kinawa. We had both been wandering around the building for our whole lives. Mrs. Smith was setting up the chairs and stands when Leah walked in, closely followed by Paul. I took the opportunity to look around some more.
"What's their theme this year?" I asked, reading the posters. "Teamwork, Respect, Diversity... I don't see a new one." Melody shrugged. I sat down in the second violinist's place and stared at the board before me. It really was as if I'd never left. The exact same posters that I had read a hundred times almost every single Friday since fourth grade. I stared back at the eye and wondered once again about the reasoning behind which words were placed in emphasis. There was only once change in the room- the quilt on the wall behind me had been replaced by papers. The desks by the corner still had sewing machines in them. We got in trouble because of those once. An acquaintance had come in and accidentally uncovered one. "Look, a sewing machine!," they had cried. Mrs. Lawrence, thinking that one of those treacherous, untrustworthy musicians had touched her precious equipment, quickly pounced upon the opportunity to first make our delinquency and our inevitable felonious futures clear to us and then proceed to banish all quartets from using her room forever. Rehearsals were briefly held in the copy room until she forgot about our unthinkable infractions. I stared blankly at the sewing machine, slightly surprised that I still remembered it with such clarity, right down to sitting on the grey benches afterward while Sarah and Melody and I ranted and complained about her to everyone who would listen, and, when we ran out of those, to anyone who wouldn't, and finally just to each other. But then, any event in which I felt that I was unjustly punished tends to stick out in my memory, sharp and clear. I was snapped out of my reverie as rehearsal began.
Afterwards, when I walked outside, I was at more leisure to study my surroundings, namely the tree. The spring leaves had not grown back yet. I stepped closer, into the grassless circle a few feet from the trunk. I never knew what had made it, and I doubted I would ever find out. I eyed the almost-healed stump of a branch. I had swung on it, when I was very young, but one day it had been cut. I reached up and grasped the fork in the trunk just above head height, my feet finding their familiar footholds. I started to pull myself up. The shoes were unsuitable, but I could still climb. I wanted to see if the branches were still twisted around to make me a comfortable seat, and if locks of my hair still waved triumphantly from various branches like curly banners. Every day after practicing, or lessons, or quartet, or play-in, or orchestra, I would wait in the exact same spot for my mother. I liked it up there- watching people come and go, flinging the little berries at them when they were in season, calling out when the leaves were thick and enjoying their confusion as they looked around them in vain, savoring the wind and sun and height. Reading, sometimes, but mostly just fiddling with twigs and daydreaming. My dad drove up before I had the chance to hoist myself up, and I had to leave...
I'll go back sometime, and see if my hair is still there, or the rock that I buried at the root and pretended was the source of my magical powers, or the scar that I accidentally carved with a sharp stick when I wasn't paying attention. If I sit up there in the spring, when the leaves and the pink and white flowers are at their thickest, will they still conceal me?

See, it's crappy. Here's the second, for your entertainment. I wrote it last year on my dad's laptop computer in a hotel. And by the way, I didn't end up actually writing the fairy tale- or even coming up with a plot- until days later at home, the night before it was due, in the wee hours of the morning. And it was bad. So here's my rant that I'm passing off as an essay about "a time where I felt compelled to do something even though I didn't want to."

Newsflash, Mr. Polston. I can't write fairy tales. Do I look like a Grimm brother? Well I'm not. I am no Hans Christian Anderson, either. So hah. I am a Leora Norkin who can't write unless inspired, and has a very difficult time- inspiration or not- writing in someone else's style. Morals, I can deal with. But this is just strange. A fairy tale isn't- oh- phooey. QWERTYUIOP. I say I can't write a fairy tale. Lessee now, I will randomly brainstorm stupid plots. A Muslim saves a Thingy-or-other and it saves him from the Inquisition. That a fable, not a fairy tale. One of Aesop's, just with different characters. And I bet you can guess which one, so I'm not going to give you a prize for knowing your famous fables. QWERTYUIOP and you know what else? I don't know enough about life in something-or-other century Spain to write a convincing historical fiction/fairy tale. That's another rant. Those two genres do not mix, nope, sorry. And, I'll tell you, like, another thing. I've, like, never liked your spinach puffs. Like, never! *Snorts* Oh good, the music has just gotten to the movement that I like. I think it's the Zigurweisen but I may be wrong. I have no idea how the violinist played this- left-hand pizzicato? Mwer! I just changed CDs, and now I'm listening to the Mozart concerto that I'm working on. I really like it. It's quite fun to play, it sounds like a frisky young filly, maybe an Arabian mare, proud mane fluttering and tail held high as a banner as she capers around her pasture. Awwww. Pwetty hawssie. I could be an English pirate named Ryan who captured a ship, and one young man on the ship said "Please, I need to live." I asked him what's so important. "True love," he said. Then he went on to describe a girl of surpassing beauty and faithfulness. Finally I came to a decision. "All right, Westley," I said. "I've never had a valet. You can try for one night. I'll most likely kill you in the morning." Three years I said that to him. "Good night, Westley. Good work. Sleep well. I'll most likely kill you in the morning." Westley and I eventually became friends. After three years I had grown so rich, I wanted to retire. So I took Westley to my cabin and told him my secret. "I am not the Dread Pirate Roberts," I said. "My name is Ryan. I inherited the ship from the previous Dread Pirate Roberts, just as you will inherit it from me. The man I inherited it from was not the real Dread Pirate Roberts either. His name was Cummerbund. (Or something like that) The real Dread Pirate Roberts has been retired fifteen years and is living like a king in Macedonia. I explained that the name was the important thing. Nobody would surrender to the Dread Pirate Westley. So we sailed ashore, took on an entirely new crew, and I stayed on board for a while as first mate, all the time calling him Roberts. When the crew believed, I left the ship and he has been Roberts ever since. (But now that he and Buttercup are together, he will retire and hand the name over to Inigo Montoya. Is everything clear to you?)

It's not an essay. And half of it's a quote. Hopefully she won't notice, or call it plagiarism if she does. Maybe I should add a disclaimer. Yeah, that'd pro'lly be a good idea.

*adds one*

So... um, I saw Spirited Away. I really liked it. Things I didn't like, since I'm in a negative mood: well, there wasn't too much excitement. But then, it's for younger kids. I think that Japanese ten-year-olds must be more mature than American ten-year-olds. All of the American ten-year-olds I know, having their parents turned into pigs and then set loose in a world of spirits, would first of all try to have fun and then expect people to come along and fix things for them when they get tired of that. Another reason: she fell in love. Dude. She's ten. Most American ten-year-olds would just be worried about cooties. When what's-her-name calls him her "dragon boyfriend?" Most American ten-year-olds I know- heck, most American twelve-year-olds I know- would be instantly offended and all defensive. And... yeah, whatever. It was still a really awesome movie. Go see it. I was very glad that I could see it in the original Japanese with subtitles. The previews were in English, and it was just... argh... evil. American ten-year-olds have much more annoying voices, too. Especially when they have to talk really fast to get all the English words in. And Haku sounded so much better in Japanese. He was cool. And I'm going to leave their age difference alone, because they were cute and if he has the mind and body of a ten or eleven year old then I don't really care. Awww. And I actually understood quite a bit of the Japanese without the subtitles. Go me. Of course, when I say "quite a bit," that's not much at all. But who cares?

It was really hard to get ahold of the movie, though. Every single video store in Okemos and half the ones in Lansing didn't have it. We finally found one in Haslett, and they only rented it for one day. One day! So I didn't even get to see any of the extras, darn it.

But I found it really funny that Jumanji or Kumaji or whatever (the spider guy) says "good luck" in English.

I have to go to sleep now. Perhaps I will write something meaningful tomorrow. Perhaps not.

Most likely... not.



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