SoP, AcK!
Here is a (really, really rough) draft of my statement of purpose. I'm posting it here mainly to make sure the formatting works, but if you want to read it and offer advice, great!
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anxious
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sam...rose...
can you come get me? I'm at the library.
can you come get me? I'm at the library.
(no subject)
Rose, dearest...
How are you, phone-less wombat? We miss you. Are you arting efficiently? Minaloush--the feline, not the online identity--is adjusting well, though cleaning seems to freak her out. She also ate some of a tuna sandwich Smurry left unattended. She's a cat after our own hearts.
We wondered if it was possible for us to use the black Tivo in our room. We are setting up our nest, and were curious if it would be possible to record Food Network in there, freeing most of the living-room DVR disk-space from such culinary purgatory.
Love,
Us
How are you, phone-less wombat? We miss you. Are you arting efficiently? Minaloush--the feline, not the online identity--is adjusting well, though cleaning seems to freak her out. She also ate some of a tuna sandwich Smurry left unattended. She's a cat after our own hearts.
We wondered if it was possible for us to use the black Tivo in our room. We are setting up our nest, and were curious if it would be possible to record Food Network in there, freeing most of the living-room DVR disk-space from such culinary purgatory.
Love,
Us
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content
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Southern Comfort
So, I'm in Tennessee. Nashville, to be exact, and I have seen very few people wearing cowboy hats, other than, of course, those wondrously cultured souls frequenting the tourist-trap part of town. Horse-drawn carriages are a common novelty--oxymoron, I know, but also accurate--there, and I almost witnessed a rather dreadful collision between a horse head and that of a woman clearly still infatuated with Aqua hairspray. Pity. Sam took us to Old Spaghetti Factory, where the crappy service we received climaxed in the waiter's insistence on shouting that I had indeed ordered the "hearty" portion of spaghetti. Yes, waiter-person with fake Southern accent, I am indeed a moo-cow. Now fill the trough and skedaddle!
On the trip back home, we were pulled over by a Tennessee state trooper who questioned why the license plates were not up-to-date. He pointed to the new (updated) license plate pimpin' it in the back window and asked us why we had not adhered it to the car.
"We couldn't find a screwdriver," Sam brilliantly replied.
"You couldn't find a screwdriver for three months?," the incredulous cop replied (clearly, rhetorically).
"Well, we are staying with people...and it's not our car...and we couldn't find a screwdriver...and the plate was gotten yesterday."
("And, really, we don't even know the people who own this car, we just found it and thought it was a good idea to drive it around," Rose's dad interjected through snorts of laughter upon hearing this story.)
"You know," in that characteristically argumentative tone of police officers, resulting from their very tiny penises given badges and firearms,"you can buy one for just $1.20 at the store."
"Um, yeah."
("Oh my god, we're going to jail and I haven't even eaten my cheesecake yet."--me, discreetly reaching down into the cheesecake bag for a fork)
In other news, I'm reading the canon (stuck in the sixteenth century--god, I hate Shakespeare. Really like The Faerie Queene, though. Go figure. And thinking about my Honors thesis. And grad school. And jobs. And my paper-writing empire if the last two don't turn out (but they will, positive thinking, positive thinking).
I hate you, T.S. Eliot.
On the trip back home, we were pulled over by a Tennessee state trooper who questioned why the license plates were not up-to-date. He pointed to the new (updated) license plate pimpin' it in the back window and asked us why we had not adhered it to the car.
"We couldn't find a screwdriver," Sam brilliantly replied.
"You couldn't find a screwdriver for three months?," the incredulous cop replied (clearly, rhetorically).
"Well, we are staying with people...and it's not our car...and we couldn't find a screwdriver...and the plate was gotten yesterday."
("And, really, we don't even know the people who own this car, we just found it and thought it was a good idea to drive it around," Rose's dad interjected through snorts of laughter upon hearing this story.)
"You know," in that characteristically argumentative tone of police officers, resulting from their very tiny penises given badges and firearms,"you can buy one for just $1.20 at the store."
"Um, yeah."
("Oh my god, we're going to jail and I haven't even eaten my cheesecake yet."--me, discreetly reaching down into the cheesecake bag for a fork)
In other news, I'm reading the canon (stuck in the sixteenth century--god, I hate Shakespeare. Really like The Faerie Queene, though. Go figure. And thinking about my Honors thesis. And grad school. And jobs. And my paper-writing empire if the last two don't turn out (but they will, positive thinking, positive thinking).
I hate you, T.S. Eliot.
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dorky
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(no subject)
this is smurry posting on bodel's livejournal. i love bodel. so much.
aren't we disgusting?
aren't we disgusting?
Harry Potter and the Squirrels of Ninth Street
It has recently come to my attention that pugs do not---do not---make good attack dogs. As such, Pugita Noelle, #666, was officially removed from her previously occupied position as Head (and only member, but that's irrelevant) of Squirrel Management today. This decision pains me greatly, as Pugita has been a faithful employee for the three years that she has been alive, but what I witnessed out on the field today was just shameful. Most disturbing, however, was that in her failure to act rapidly and responsibly, she threatened the safety and happiness of numerous innocent lives---lives that are already targets of a cunningly sinister, and I fear unstoppable, enemy.
As it is summer, Pugita is assigned to 24/7 tomato guard. The young, naive plantlings had just been placed ever-so-gently into their sunny, moist havens, encouraged by large quantities of water and Miracle-Gro to embrace life. Pugita and I rejoiced. Bees hummed. Birds sang. God smiled. But a shadow was to fall upon our Eden...
Suddenly I heard ominous chattering directly behind me. Being a seasoned officer, I knew exactly what devil was among us. "Pugita!," I screamed, "Get those rat-bastards!" Sure enough, those thieving murderers, the Squirrels, had come to drink the premature V-8 of our vegetable children.
To make a long story short, Pugita disobeyed instinct and orders and merely sniffed (!) at the gang's leader, a dangerous fellow who rather resembles a grey, rotundly bushy tomato himself. (His striking resemblance to my mother's pseudo-boyfriend, Frank, makes me seriously consider the possibility of unholy breeding in humankind's line.) Sniffed! And if I didn't know better, I'd say it was a---gag! ack! gag!---friendly sniff. I am devastated.
(Yes, people, I have this kind of time on my hands.)
On a lighter note, I got my grades today. A- in Literary Theory: From Structuralism to Poststructuralism (muc' luv to ya, Lisa, my sista!), A- in Christianity in Modern Europe (Ed, my homey, love the hat! Thinkin' of get one of my own, you snappy trendsetter,you!), B in Understanding Religious Traditions in a Global Context (I'm down wit' you, Natalie girl, love me some Buddha!), and a garblegarblecoughsneeze in Theologizing Harry Potter.
Debra, you bitch.
As it is summer, Pugita is assigned to 24/7 tomato guard. The young, naive plantlings had just been placed ever-so-gently into their sunny, moist havens, encouraged by large quantities of water and Miracle-Gro to embrace life. Pugita and I rejoiced. Bees hummed. Birds sang. God smiled. But a shadow was to fall upon our Eden...
Suddenly I heard ominous chattering directly behind me. Being a seasoned officer, I knew exactly what devil was among us. "Pugita!," I screamed, "Get those rat-bastards!" Sure enough, those thieving murderers, the Squirrels, had come to drink the premature V-8 of our vegetable children.
To make a long story short, Pugita disobeyed instinct and orders and merely sniffed (!) at the gang's leader, a dangerous fellow who rather resembles a grey, rotundly bushy tomato himself. (His striking resemblance to my mother's pseudo-boyfriend, Frank, makes me seriously consider the possibility of unholy breeding in humankind's line.) Sniffed! And if I didn't know better, I'd say it was a---gag! ack! gag!---friendly sniff. I am devastated.
(Yes, people, I have this kind of time on my hands.)
On a lighter note, I got my grades today. A- in Literary Theory: From Structuralism to Poststructuralism (muc' luv to ya, Lisa, my sista!), A- in Christianity in Modern Europe (Ed, my homey, love the hat! Thinkin' of get one of my own, you snappy trendsetter,you!), B in Understanding Religious Traditions in a Global Context (I'm down wit' you, Natalie girl, love me some Buddha!), and a garblegarblecoughsneeze in Theologizing Harry Potter.
Debra, you bitch.