What happens when two substances collide?

Stuff I Hate (In No Particular Order)

2007-09-30T22:18:06Z

1. Guys who chew with their mouth open on dates
2. Footless tights
3. People who don't say "thank you" when I hold the door open for them
4. People who disrespect George Gershwin
5. Lost iPods
6. Shows that start midseason
7. Mothers of the children I babysit, who call 4 or 5 times after I turn them down, asking for me to help them find another babysitter
8. Friends' mothers' boyfriends, who are like "But took Mulder and Scully YEARS to fully bond. Reyes and Dogett were friends IMMEDIATELY, thus they are better"
9. Sucking at French/History/Psychology
10. Feminists who are planning to vote for Hillary Clinton solely because Hillary is a woman
11. Ms. Cecelia's "Yellow Post-It Note" poem

How to Not Write a Book Review: An Assignment in the Life of Me

2007-09-21T09:01:56Z

September 9, 2007; 10:22 AM- Book Review for Barbara Tuchman's The Guns of August assigned.

September 20, 2007; 7:06 PM- write heading and title.
9:30PM- finish first can of Pepsi.

September 21, 2007; 12:15 AM- realize that I have no idea what Tuchman's thesis is.
12:17 AM- bathroom break.
12:24 AM- text Becca to see if she's still awake.
12:25 AM- browse around the amazon.com page of Guns for reviews
12:30 AM- Becca is still awake.
12:31 AM- ask Becca what Tuchman's thesis is.
12:48 AM- bathroom break.
12:51 AM- Becca affirms that Tuchman's thesis is: The fate of WWI was determined by the events that occurred in August of 1914.
12: 58 AM- finish first sentence.
1:05 AM- state Tuchman's thesis.
1:09 AM- wonder if turning on music will wake my parents.
1:15 AM- become aware of the onset of a headache.
1:25 AM- use first primary source quotation.
1:37 AM- become fascinated/disgusted with excema on toe.
1:38 AM- wonder if I have any hydrocortizone.
1:42 AM- realize that I have given pretty much a 'General Analysis of the Book' in about a half a page.
1:45 AM- The Afterword becomes my new best friend.
1:49 AM- hear what sounds like my brother's alarm clock.
1:50 AM- realize that I am just hearing things.
1:51 AM- forget how to spell "disastrous".
1:58 AM- bathroom break.
2:01 AM- mother yells at me to go to sleep.
2:03 AM- wonder if "stalemate" and "deadlock" mean the same thing.
2:04 AM- remember that the French packet is due tomorrow. Hope that I can doing during 13/14.
2:08 AM- look up "World War I" on Wikipedia.
2:11 AM- realize that I have used the word "failure" too many times (mostly while talking about the Germans).
2:12 AM- fail to think up synonym for "failure". laugh at irony.
2:14 AM- confronted by mother. beg her to let me finish assignment. she graciously contends.
2:18 AM- get annoyed with spellcheck, which keeps telling me that "Schlieffen" and "Tuchman" are spelled wrong.
2:23 AM- think that "succeeded" has too many double letters.
2:33 AM- end first paragraph. end General Analysis of the Book.
2:36 AM- finish first page. 3-5 more to go.
2:48 AM- worry that my review will not be long enough.
2:52 AM- realize that I do not know what kind of historian Tuchman is. is she revisionist? neo-revisionist? are there other kinds of historians than revisionist and neo-revisionist?
2:53 AM- do what all other lost students do. use wikipedia.
3:00 AM- wikipedia fails me.
3:03 AM-assume that she is neo-revisionist, since everyone we study is.
3:04 AM- remember that she is a non-fiction writer, not a historian.
3:12 AM- finish second paragraph and "Value[s] of Book to Historians, This Course"
3:13 AM- bathroom break.
3:16 AM- hope Mrs. Chothani is in a better mood today than she was in yesterday.
3:18 AM- wonder if 'The Guns if August' should be underlined or italicized.
3:34 AM- get annoyed with Tuchman's maps.
3:39 AM- realize there are a lot more limitations than values to Tuchman.
3:40 AM- wish the sound of my brother's alarm clock would go away.
3:45 AM- tired.
3:54 AM- wonder why I always get headaches in the same part of my head.
3:56 AM- finish second page. 2-4 more to go.
3:56 AM- end paragraph. end Value/Limitations [sic] of Book to Historians, This Course.
4:00 AM- wonder if my new story got any reviews.
4:02 AM- there's a spider on my wall.
4:03 AM- he seems to be confused. I name him Willhelm II.
4:07 AM- open a new can of Pepsi. Ahhh.
4:10 AM- wonder if "readability" refers to how easily I read the book or how easily normal people read the book.
4:12 AM- choose the latter.
4:30 AM- become conscious of how much I am sweating and how gross it is.
4:31 AM- Willhelm II seems to be just hanging off his thread, moving his legs around. Oh W II, how you amuse.
4:35 AM- bathroom break.
4:42 AM- cat decides to visit.
4:43 AM- cat licks my flannel-covered knee (??)
4:48 AM- cat finally moves off keyboard.
4:56 AM- finish third page. 1-3 more to go.
5:02 AM- done!

weighing in

2007-09-17T05:58:49Z

I am 5 feet tall, almost 5'1", so people will always describe me as "tiny". Until the middle of tenth grade I weighed just about 105 pounds, and worried constantly about dropping that extra 5. When I was taken off Adderall and the side effects of Risperdal and Lithium began to kick in, I gained 10 pounds. Since then, I fluctuate at about 117 pounds.

I'm not fat, but I'm not so skinny, either. I could proabably be healthier and get in shape, but I love my body. I feel... whole, the extra pounds feel luxuriant. When I was skinnier I was critical of how I looked. I never felt so much like a queen as I do now.

Maladies

2007-09-14T05:29:57Z

Sometimes I think my body's out to get me: Bipolar I in the head, Congenital Adrenal Hyperplasia in the adrenal glands, Hyperthyroidism in the thyroid, excema in the skin and a cold that's enough to make me miserable but not enough to miss school.

Then I think of cancer survivors and burn victims, and I remember how lucky I am.

Loneliness of a River Running Still

2007-09-12T05:41:01Z

Title: Loneliness of a River Running Still
Author: cheaplip_n_lit
Rating: PG13
Pairing: Doyle/Nadia
Warnings: kissing, mentions of nudity, Day 6 spoilers
Summary: The hardest transition in Mike Doyle's life was a shift from activity to inactivity.
Disclaimer: I don't own 24.

    Every morning at 5:30 Nadia Yassir comes to his apartment. She lets herself in as to not disturb him, but Doyle is always already awake. When he gets out of the shower she has breakfast ready for him; eggs and sausage and a glass of orange juice. Sometimes she munches on some cereal while he eats, but usually she leaves for work without saying goodbye.

    He spends the next few hours on the couch, efficiently navigating the remote control. But he never enjoyed watching television in the past, even less so now that the experience is limited to laugh tracks and empty dialogues. It is now that he usually moves to sit by the window, bandaged forhead resting against the panes. He listens to the cars that rush by on the street below, to the drivers and the busy people who traverse with undamaged eyes.

    When he is especially pensive, he takes out his gun, which he keeps in a desk drawer for easy access (just in case, he tells himself). The metal is smooth and cold and dangerous in his hands, a fossil from a previous life. In the evening, when he hears the clatter of keys at his door, he returns the weapon to its hiding place. He doesn't want her to worry.

   Nadia cooks them both dinner, They eat together, silently, at opposite ends of the table. He does not ask what she did at work today (he doesn't want to know) and she does not ask what he did while she was gone (she already knows). When they are finished she clears the plates and he sits on the couch.

    He does not see the fresh bandages and medical tape nestled in her lap but when she sits down next to him he knows that they are there. She begins to peel his old bandages off one by one. He knows he should be grateful for her soft, caring touch and for the light scent of her perfume as an assurance that he is not alone, but all Doyle can focus on is his growing desire to release the restlessness mounting inside him.

    When she removes the last bandage he blinks his eyes open to see her blurry, collected face. The agitation in his gut erupts. In one fluid motion, he hooks one hand around her neck and pulls his mouth to his in a bruising kiss. His blindness-heightened senses relish her taste, the softness of her hair, the warmth of her body. But then she pulls away and he can see the slope of her back heave as she catches her breath.

    When she finally speaks, her words are small and soft. "No, Mike," She says, "I'm sorry, but no."   She turns back to him and tries not to meet his eyes as she unrolls a fresh bandage. But his blue eyes are solemn and she hurries to cover them with a strip of gauze to avoid his gaze.

    He knows why she is here today and everyday for the past couple weeks- they were her orders that compromised his safety.  There was a time that Doyle placed the blame for his eyesight (or lack thereof), but not anymore. Not when he realized that she was no more at peace than he was over that day.

   She finishes and stands,placing a hand on his shoulder. Failing to find the courage to tell him goodnight, she pats him ackwardly and turns to go. But his hand catches her wrist and she casts him a puzzled look that he cannot see. "Please, stay tonight," he asks gruffly. Nadia considers, licking her lips in thought. Finally, she squeezes his hand to say yes.

    He gives her one of his t-shirts and a clean pair of boxers, grinning when she steps into the bathroom to change (despite his inability to see her nakedness). When she re-enters his bedroom Doyle can imagine the smooth expanse of her legs under her borrowed clothing and itches to runs his hands along her tawny skin but says nothing when she slips into bed across from him. He expects her to shy away when their hands accidently brush together, but she suprises him by planting soft kisses on the pads of his fingers, the palms of his hands, his knuckles, and the callouses rubbed into place from long years of holding a gun. Her touch is warm and by the time she presses his palm to her cheek, he is sleeping, calmed for the first time since the explosion.

Still

2007-09-11T03:38:44Z

Fandom: X-Files
Pairings: Mulder/Scully
Rating: PG
Summary: "That's what he protected, moments like these in the still of the night"

Fox Mulder has nightmares often- flashes of memories, of a young girl with an innocent smile brown curly hair, of her helpless shrieks and the ensuing guilty darkness.   He awakes with the same regularity of the dream: panting between twisted sheets, heart racing.   Conscious now, he can still remember his sister's pleading and his own inability to to make her fears go away.

He sits for a minute, holding in his sorrow.   The door to the ajoining room gapes open invitingly, so he pads barefoot though the threshold, to his partner.

An orange glow from an outside bulb cuts a strip of light across the smooth white sheets.   Carefully he slides into bed, spooning alongside her sleeping form.   She stirs a little when he wraps his arms around her waist.

"Hm?" Her voice is slow, like her words are sleepy too, "Mulder?"

He pulls her a little closer to his chest and murmurs, "please, just let me hold you."

Wordlessly she settles into him.   He tucks his nose behind her ear and knows: that's what he protected, moments like these in the still of the night.

A Letter to Paul Newman

2007-09-11T03:03:04Z

Dear Paul,
I really liked you in "Hud", the way you almost raped Patricia Neal was very convincing. By the way, can I have $40,000 to attend Kenyon College?...

Dear Mr. Newman,
Congratulations on another birthday! Honestly, you don't look a day over 81...

Dear Sir:
Please allow me to express what I tremendous fan I am of your work. "The Sting" is a cult classic in my family and among my friends, and your preformance in "Hud" should have won you that Oscar. (Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid was a bit of a disappointment, though...

Dear Paul Newman,
It is such an honor to write to you. Since I was twelve years old I admired both your talent and your dynamic. "The Sting" is a cult classic in my family and among my friends (you shot Robert Redford! He shot you! But wait, it was all part of the scheme!). I enjoyed every minute of "Hud", in which the severity of your character moved me to raise my standards of men. That moment when you beg Patricia Neal at the bus station not to leave you brought tears to my eyes- the emotion you conveyed, coupled with the stark black and white of the picture, was breath taking. You are an iconic actor, and you make a mean salad dressing.

I am writing to you to ask for financial aid concerning my post-high school education. Just as I imagine the way you were when you were 17, I am not content to go to just any school, which is why I've set my heart on Kenyon, your alma mater. At Kenyon, I know that I will receive the highest quality training and the greatest nurturing for my passsions- the same you received, sir. Please help me make the fluidity of your hands be mirrored in the fluidity of my words, let the refinement of your character be the refinement of my thesis, allow the passion in your voice echo in the passion in my style. Please help me be the best writer/literature major I can be by giving me $40,000 for tuition. I promise to live up to the standards set by Kenyon's alumn.

Your fan, Maddie Ellis
(Incidentely, wasn't Patricia Neal supposed to be black in that movie?)

What I Learned Today

2007-09-10T19:53:22Z

AP English: My classmates are illiterate
Free Mods: the librarians can be freaking annoying
IB Psych: I have experienced three of the six modern psychological perspectives
IB History: Everyone else knows more about WWI than me. Discuss!
Lunch: scholastic ineptitude robs me of my appetite
Chorus: 90% of my classmates are fuckwads
Dance: I suck at dance
French: I suck at French

Bonus!
Yearbook: I am in way over my head. Also, freshman must die.

I'll get over it.

2007-09-10T07:39:02Z

Okay, I changed my layout. I love my vintage whore/mary magdalene one, but this one shows my lj cuts.

Hm

2007-09-10T07:25:28Z

For some reason, my lj cuts aren't showing up on my journal.

Hello little boys, little toys
We're the dreams you're believing
Crawling up the walls
Running down your face
Razor sharp, razor clean
Feel the weapon's sensation
On your back with loaded guns

Now hold on to me, pretty baby
If you wanna fly
I'm gonna melt the fever, sugar
Rolling back your eyes

We're gonna ride the race cars
We're gonna dance on fire
We're the girls Le Disko
Supersonic overdrive

So what's it gonna take, Silver Shadow believer?
Spock rocker with your dirty eyes
It's a chance
Gonna move, gonna fuck up your ego
Silly boy, gonna make you cry

Ew

2007-09-10T07:17:03Z

So I just cleaned up the cat poo in my room when said cat decides to come in and vomit. Twice. Then he expects to cuddle.

The House That Jack Built

2007-09-08T20:01:35Z

Fandom: 24
Pairings: None
Rating: PG
Summary: Post Season 1 ficlit. Short and angsty

This is the house that Jack built.

This is the bed where where husband and wife lay apart inside the house that Jack built.

This is the wife who answers the phone, drives her daughter to school, and cleans the house that Jack built.

This is the daughter who wipes away her father's kisses, ignores her mother and runs away from the house that Jack built.

This is Jack, who cries and remembers them, alone in the house that Jack built.

when is therepy like fellatio?

2007-09-04T00:49:36Z

Oh, ECT. Ken Kesey did for you what Monica Lewinsky did for blowjobs.

Poor Doyle

2007-09-04T00:10:20Z

I just noticed that Doyle doesn't have a profile. So what gives, Fox? Whiney/bitchy/generally annoying Sandra Palmer, who was in about 8 episodes, gets a profile, but Doyle doesn't? Poor guy could be blind for all we know.

ETA: Milo looks seriously fugly in his picture. Eric Bal-whatever had a major case of "cockateal hair".

cheaplip_n_lit @ 2007-09-03T19:54:00

2007-09-04T00:03:41Z

So I was trolling around the Fox website, specifically the 24 page (only 4 more months until the new season! ha ha ha! *hysterical laughter*), when I noticed something about the chracter profile- Jack got a degree in English literature? Now I know there's no such thing as a "Master's in Torturing", but come on. Jack? Reading Howl? You expect us to believe that?

On the other hand, when my mom asks what I want to do with my English Literature degree, I can say "Become an agent for CTU!"

?

2007-09-03T20:02:19Z

So I figured out how to get a layout (yay!) but now I'm kind of annoyed with the advertisements. I feel like I'm selling out, letting the Man rape my thoughts and words so he can make a buck.

Also, what happen to my first post? The one about musical theater being the devil, where I squirm and sigh over Christopher Plummer? Did the Man eat it, or take it up as some sort of offering? Not cool, Man. Not cool at all.

I suck at coding

2007-09-03T19:52:24Z

So now that I have an lj I feel the urge to pimp it, because staring at the default templates make me twitch. Back in the olden days, I had a friend named Madeline-chan who used to make layouts for me. I'd give her manga scans or prints of Waterhouse paintings and some song lyrics and within a few days she'd have a lovely piece of art for me. She'd even help me install it (or whatever it's called). And Helene made me this kick-ass layout once with images of Mary Magdalene and the words "Jesus is my pimp".

But I hid these away on the old desktop, and can no longer find them. And even if I found them, I have no idea how to get them on my lj again. I'm even clueless about the mediocre layouts they have on createblog. So I guess I'm stuck twitching, for now.