"Severine is nothing like you. She isn't really very cool: she blends into crowds, she hangs out on the fringes at parties, and wearing shades after dark makes her run into things. She may have sometimes thought that she was special, or destined for greater things, but probably dismissed the idea as a fantasy. She's come in for her share of hurt, but gotten off with minor damage. And she's gotten no slack from you.
In general, you care deeply about Severine, but you're smart enough to let her stand on her own, without burdening her with your personal fantasies or propping her up with idealization and over-dramatization. Severine is a healthy character with a promising career ahead of her.
Score Breakdown
Do I Know This Guy? 3
You Mean Plaid Is Out? 9
I'm Destined For What? 3
Can't Complain 4
Momma HATES Her! 0
Total: 19"
-Katfeete.net
So instead of me writing something, you get this Mary Sue test for my character Severine.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Monday, March 28, 2011
Tough Love
Here I am, prepared to go to sleep - it's midnight and I'm done with my essay preparations...
I go up to my room. I realize I've left my rabbits' cage open (so they could run around earlier today).
Not a problem, I think. I'm sure they've probably peed on something important and eaten all the edible things readily available and chewed on every paper they could reach, but as long as I don't know about it, it can't hurt me, so I'm not going looking for it. Well, at least until tomorrow.
I find my Californian and replace her in her cage. (She looks so sad, peering up at me with those sweet, cunning pink eyes, as she puts her paws together on the cage wall, begging... well, sorry, sweetie, but no, I'm not letting you out again.)
Where's my black rabbit, I wonder? She's a tiny cross-breed with a single white glove.I look around. I dig through my closet, behind my bed, in my sunflower plants and in my bookshelves...
Somehow she wormed her way under my dresser.
An hour and a half later, here I am - in bed. And there she is - in bed as well. I always win, sweetheart. <3
Even if I am deprived yet another hour of sleep.
I go up to my room. I realize I've left my rabbits' cage open (so they could run around earlier today).
Not a problem, I think. I'm sure they've probably peed on something important and eaten all the edible things readily available and chewed on every paper they could reach, but as long as I don't know about it, it can't hurt me, so I'm not going looking for it. Well, at least until tomorrow.
I find my Californian and replace her in her cage. (She looks so sad, peering up at me with those sweet, cunning pink eyes, as she puts her paws together on the cage wall, begging... well, sorry, sweetie, but no, I'm not letting you out again.)
Where's my black rabbit, I wonder? She's a tiny cross-breed with a single white glove.I look around. I dig through my closet, behind my bed, in my sunflower plants and in my bookshelves...
Somehow she wormed her way under my dresser.
An hour and a half later, here I am - in bed. And there she is - in bed as well. I always win, sweetheart. <3
Even if I am deprived yet another hour of sleep.
Unloved Artists
There are awesome, lovely artsy people out there with bills to pay. And they're offering commissions (selling art requests) for way cheaper than their skill should allow. Two euros, to be exact.
If ever I am rich and I become one of those people who has money to spare, or put into charity - screw the puppies being euthanized, the people on the streets, and hyperactive organizations who'll only go overboard with my money (cough, cough, PETA). I am pouring all of my money into artists I love - relatively unpopular artists, artists who aren't commercial or world famous, especially artists who have to use their skill to get by. I think it's terrible that they have to do this. All that artists do (should I say "we artists," or would that sound conceited?) is create and create and create and put new, imaginative, original, gorgeous material out into the world, and you'd think we'd be rich for all of the inspiration and joy we bring to our societies, revered, even, for our minds and our skills...? (Well, maybe not my skills in particular, but I'd like to think that my mind is worth something. Give me a few years.)
But we're not. So commission this guy.
When I'm theoretically rich, I'll find people like this, people who need money fast. I'll commission them - I'll say, okay, draw me this and this. One or two commissions. And then I'll surprise them by leaving five or ten times that amount on their bank account or PayPal or whatever.
Wouldn't that feel absolutely great?
That's why I'd like to be rich. Not for the delicious computer stuff I could snag or the travel or whatever, just for glitterbombs like that.
(Before anyone asks: a glitterbomb is a pleasant surprise that you leave for someone you don't necessarily know - like hanging streamers over someone's front yard in their favorite colors on their birthday and taking them down that night, or leaving notes in library books, or flipping all of the books/disks/CDs on a stranger's shelf upside-down when they aren't looking. Anything that inspires a sense of wonder.)
If ever I am rich and I become one of those people who has money to spare, or put into charity - screw the puppies being euthanized, the people on the streets, and hyperactive organizations who'll only go overboard with my money (cough, cough, PETA). I am pouring all of my money into artists I love - relatively unpopular artists, artists who aren't commercial or world famous, especially artists who have to use their skill to get by. I think it's terrible that they have to do this. All that artists do (should I say "we artists," or would that sound conceited?) is create and create and create and put new, imaginative, original, gorgeous material out into the world, and you'd think we'd be rich for all of the inspiration and joy we bring to our societies, revered, even, for our minds and our skills...? (Well, maybe not my skills in particular, but I'd like to think that my mind is worth something. Give me a few years.)
But we're not. So commission this guy.
When I'm theoretically rich, I'll find people like this, people who need money fast. I'll commission them - I'll say, okay, draw me this and this. One or two commissions. And then I'll surprise them by leaving five or ten times that amount on their bank account or PayPal or whatever.
Wouldn't that feel absolutely great?
That's why I'd like to be rich. Not for the delicious computer stuff I could snag or the travel or whatever, just for glitterbombs like that.
(Before anyone asks: a glitterbomb is a pleasant surprise that you leave for someone you don't necessarily know - like hanging streamers over someone's front yard in their favorite colors on their birthday and taking them down that night, or leaving notes in library books, or flipping all of the books/disks/CDs on a stranger's shelf upside-down when they aren't looking. Anything that inspires a sense of wonder.)
Personal Symbolism
Today I was really, really stressed due to a variety of things, but those causes are unimportant to my thoughts at the moment.
This morning, I was starting to get to the point where I was afraid of having a panic attack in the middle of the classroom - but I know how to fix it. I got out a piece of paper and I forced myself to make calming squiggles and movements with the pen until I found something that just looked reassuring when you saw it. Imagine you're writing a cursive J, capitalized; right where the loop rejoins with the beginning of the line, it swirls back up, makes a heart shape, then loops back down into two lines, like a flag, and another one crossing those two. It looks like a distorted crane. Or, rather, a low-necked crane if it were to sit like a human.
I've done this before. Sometimes, forcing yourself to think calmly, and then coming up with a symbol to remind you of that willpower, can honestly be all you need, if you are strong enough. I drew it on my hand in ink, and I folded the original paper up into a triangle-shaped charm, which I wrote the final symbol on and stuck in my pocket, and I wrote the charm on all of my notes all through the day to keep my mind on happy thoughts. That's just how powerful the mind is. Maybe it's a tad hypocritical of me, considering my own mental health as it is, but if you literally demand that your brain whip itself into shape, you can conquer it, at least temporarily.
On that note, the charm is still in my pocket. On looking at it, it also has a sun symbol on it... it looks like a nonsymmetrical God's Eye, and a simplified "personal calm" marking that you can make in one line. But this pattern, I largely suspect (well, probably, know), was mostly just to keep my mind busy so that it couldn't stress itself out more.
...isn't that really just as good, though?
This morning, I was starting to get to the point where I was afraid of having a panic attack in the middle of the classroom - but I know how to fix it. I got out a piece of paper and I forced myself to make calming squiggles and movements with the pen until I found something that just looked reassuring when you saw it. Imagine you're writing a cursive J, capitalized; right where the loop rejoins with the beginning of the line, it swirls back up, makes a heart shape, then loops back down into two lines, like a flag, and another one crossing those two. It looks like a distorted crane. Or, rather, a low-necked crane if it were to sit like a human.
I've done this before. Sometimes, forcing yourself to think calmly, and then coming up with a symbol to remind you of that willpower, can honestly be all you need, if you are strong enough. I drew it on my hand in ink, and I folded the original paper up into a triangle-shaped charm, which I wrote the final symbol on and stuck in my pocket, and I wrote the charm on all of my notes all through the day to keep my mind on happy thoughts. That's just how powerful the mind is. Maybe it's a tad hypocritical of me, considering my own mental health as it is, but if you literally demand that your brain whip itself into shape, you can conquer it, at least temporarily.
On that note, the charm is still in my pocket. On looking at it, it also has a sun symbol on it... it looks like a nonsymmetrical God's Eye, and a simplified "personal calm" marking that you can make in one line. But this pattern, I largely suspect (well, probably, know), was mostly just to keep my mind busy so that it couldn't stress itself out more.
...isn't that really just as good, though?
To Write an Essay
Here I am, sitting at the dining room table, compiling note cards which were due earlier today, and which I will use to write a lengthy essay on my chosen topic - Santeria, a syncretistic religion combining tenets of the African religion of Ifa and Roman Catholicism. I find it both fascinating and tiresome, as this has taken more than six hours thus far. Now, I allow myself a break.
Essays are terribly difficult things to write. Humanity speaks in its own mind in abstract concepts that often refuse to be verbalized, and so, when we come to a conclusion, especially a religious one as I have come to multiple times during this religious essay, it is so very hard to explain it away in a single sentence... even a paragraph... even a whole essay of its own. Religion is so complex, so diverse, that the only way to explain it, at times, is to make similes with other religions. And then, what of your varied audience? Say you preserve your audience with multiple examples from different faiths. How do you prevent the audience from jumping to conclusions? For instance, by likening the orishas (gods) Olofi, Nzame, and Baba Nkwa to the Christian Holy Trinity, I suspect I am making Christian readers - a large portion of the audience I know I will have - jump to conclusions about the positions and personalities of these gods.
It perplexes me: the many different nuances of communicating a single concept. We often make things seem more complicated than they are, which is, I suspect, the reason for missionaries. What good could a holy book or pamphlet or guide do where a living person could explain it in feeling, with liveliness and seriousness and yet a sense of humor? No text can compare to that. And therefore, this essay is futile. In reality, I am writing it only for myself.
Essays are terribly difficult things to write. Humanity speaks in its own mind in abstract concepts that often refuse to be verbalized, and so, when we come to a conclusion, especially a religious one as I have come to multiple times during this religious essay, it is so very hard to explain it away in a single sentence... even a paragraph... even a whole essay of its own. Religion is so complex, so diverse, that the only way to explain it, at times, is to make similes with other religions. And then, what of your varied audience? Say you preserve your audience with multiple examples from different faiths. How do you prevent the audience from jumping to conclusions? For instance, by likening the orishas (gods) Olofi, Nzame, and Baba Nkwa to the Christian Holy Trinity, I suspect I am making Christian readers - a large portion of the audience I know I will have - jump to conclusions about the positions and personalities of these gods.
It perplexes me: the many different nuances of communicating a single concept. We often make things seem more complicated than they are, which is, I suspect, the reason for missionaries. What good could a holy book or pamphlet or guide do where a living person could explain it in feeling, with liveliness and seriousness and yet a sense of humor? No text can compare to that. And therefore, this essay is futile. In reality, I am writing it only for myself.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Skinny Jeans
What is it about skinny jeans?
Seriously, the very concept of skinny jeans has been nagging at me for years. For starters, I can't fit in them. I have... curves. I'm not fat, I'm just not a skinny, sticklike bitch of a tiny girl, and so I have hips, and boobs, and whatever else comes with that. But it's definitely not encouraging when I see everyone and their mother(s) wearing them. And then when you hear, "Skinny jeans are not for fat people. (laugh)" or "God, she was just too wide for skinnies! (rolls eyes)" on a daily basis. And then when you're the only person who can't pull them off.
But I found them today. The perfect skinnies for me. Why did they fit? Were they just not truly skinnies at all, and they deceived me? Were they intended for me and me alone, and I hadn't found them soon enough, and that's how they made their way to the (otherwise lackluster) clearance rack?
I'd like to think that someone, somewhere, in a factory in China or wherever the most minimal minimum wage is nowadays - had a psychic epiphany about me. They saw a curvy brunette looking sad in the most unimportant city in America and typing up a rant or a story or a journal entry or playing Pokemon or watching Juno or whatever other random thing I was doing that made me look sad, and said, "My God, she looks miserable. She needs some skinny jeans right this moment," and stopped all the presses (or whatever) and made them make the single pair of skinny jeans - just the right size of pockets, just the right color, just the right size, comfortable and flexible and also at least vaguely attractive for once - and shipped them here and the three Fates wound me to that shop on a spool.
Thank you, otherwise-damned mainstream chain stores and their suppliers. This brightens my week considerably.
Seriously, the very concept of skinny jeans has been nagging at me for years. For starters, I can't fit in them. I have... curves. I'm not fat, I'm just not a skinny, sticklike bitch of a tiny girl, and so I have hips, and boobs, and whatever else comes with that. But it's definitely not encouraging when I see everyone and their mother(s) wearing them. And then when you hear, "Skinny jeans are not for fat people. (laugh)" or "God, she was just too wide for skinnies! (rolls eyes)" on a daily basis. And then when you're the only person who can't pull them off.
But I found them today. The perfect skinnies for me. Why did they fit? Were they just not truly skinnies at all, and they deceived me? Were they intended for me and me alone, and I hadn't found them soon enough, and that's how they made their way to the (otherwise lackluster) clearance rack?
I'd like to think that someone, somewhere, in a factory in China or wherever the most minimal minimum wage is nowadays - had a psychic epiphany about me. They saw a curvy brunette looking sad in the most unimportant city in America and typing up a rant or a story or a journal entry or playing Pokemon or watching Juno or whatever other random thing I was doing that made me look sad, and said, "My God, she looks miserable. She needs some skinny jeans right this moment," and stopped all the presses (or whatever) and made them make the single pair of skinny jeans - just the right size of pockets, just the right color, just the right size, comfortable and flexible and also at least vaguely attractive for once - and shipped them here and the three Fates wound me to that shop on a spool.
Thank you, otherwise-damned mainstream chain stores and their suppliers. This brightens my week considerably.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Validation
Why is it that everyone I know - and I'm not exempt - seems to pretty much completely base their actions on romance and sex? That wouldn't be quite so terrible if it weren't for the fact that we all have this image of the dream man in our heads: a very pretty (but not TOO pretty) boy who's nice but fun, strong but protective, humorous but emotional, the kind of person who brings out the best in us.
I know exactly what that image would manifest itself as in real life (not that it could) - it'd be some video game playing geek who offers to carry my things, probably with blond hair and blue eyes (I never thought I'd be the type to go for the blond-haired, blue-eyed men, but there you go). It'd be That Guy.
Why am I, and every other girl on the planet, obsessed with this false image? When we finally get our claws into some poor, unsuspecting boy who only wants to know us a little better, we're just going to compare him to the perfect person who never existed. We're going to expect too much from him until we burn that mental picture and let the ashes float away happily-ever-after on the wind.
But here's my little question for myself: can that even be done, or is that just wishful thinking?
I know exactly what that image would manifest itself as in real life (not that it could) - it'd be some video game playing geek who offers to carry my things, probably with blond hair and blue eyes (I never thought I'd be the type to go for the blond-haired, blue-eyed men, but there you go). It'd be That Guy.
Why am I, and every other girl on the planet, obsessed with this false image? When we finally get our claws into some poor, unsuspecting boy who only wants to know us a little better, we're just going to compare him to the perfect person who never existed. We're going to expect too much from him until we burn that mental picture and let the ashes float away happily-ever-after on the wind.
But here's my little question for myself: can that even be done, or is that just wishful thinking?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)