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Friday, July 22nd, 2005
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3:21 pm
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Last night, while watching Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Bucky leans over to me and says "Johnny Depp looks just like you in that shot." For those of you who have seen the movie--which is terrible, and i certainly don't suggest you go--it's the scene where he's in the dentist's chair. I'm not sure whether or not to be offended. But people seem to tell my i look like famous men just as often as they tell me i look like famous women. Either this is a throwback from the metrosexual craze, or I need to re-evaluate my appearence. Thanks Bucky.
That said, I successfully obtained my visa, meaning France will welcome me into the country with open arms, or a curt greeting--either will do just fine. If any of you are French speakers, I need practice. Call me?
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(11 little bats |twinkle. twinkle.)
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| Friday, July 15th, 2005
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5:13 pm
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When it rains, it pours. Filling out forms, collating the anxieties lying beneathe the name, surname, destination--blanks. I like traveling in the rain, taking the bus to the other side of where you started from, and not really caring about anytihng but the friction of gravel and rubber hissing insults mediated by slippery roads. That, my friend, is why I hate flying--
It's silly how the Atlantic Ocean keeps getting in my way.
The hours pile in upon eachother, elbowing through to make themselves known. Yes, yes--I see you, now let me go back to sleep. He took me to friendly's because that's what you do when your baby sister calls with a pout. Rigidly adhereing to a navigation by a star--lights that are really quite gone from their origin, dishonest in their dealings, and comforting when they shine through the haze. You, my dear, are entirely too inflexible. Even your daydreams must first apply. name, surname, destination.
You worry too much.
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(twinkle. twinkle.)
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| Thursday, July 14th, 2005
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5:48 pm
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returning like a wayward puppy, dragging tail and all. coughing up a dream of a dream (and so on and so forth), spitting out the quarters he ate because he wouldn't do it himself. I keep lists. This is important in determining what kind of person I am. (add emphasis to that, though I don't care on which syllables or words.) Sixteen hours later, the puple ink, indelible--left before me as I try to move on into that other sphere, the one where you drink and laugh and wear a pushup bra because--goddammit--it's bastille day, and surely that counts for something. Keep taking late night phone calls, wondering about who's got the better hand. The queen of hearts never thought to cut off the hands--she's not so bloody brilliant by any account. If only she realized what a good hand can do.
Technology, spitting into my eyes daily, and propagating the same old, same old--paranoia of an age-old crush, losing its own glimmer in the passing of time and distance, and the realization that I rather like that broken-hearted feeling. I could keep a journal and record things. It would be a sacred act of ritual, and in the end I would stop forgetting whether it's sunday or thursday. I've forgotten--but what? I want a proclamation, blunt and stuttering, clumsy, startled, lost in a moment of pure decisiveness. Plainly, this will never happen. They are always just too damn smart to slip up and be revealed.
Standard protocal, phone calls, invitations, tolerably sweet, and yet there is a moment in the back of your mind where the panic drops the plank from under somebody's feet--bigger than mine--and you wonder if the ocean might be made of styrofoam--or something equally non-biodegradable. What the evironmentalists don't realize is that holding onto the trees won't last, it just won't last.
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(2 little bats |twinkle. twinkle.)
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| Saturday, April 23rd, 2005
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5:26 am
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Dismal situation that, watching the child forsake eloquence. She briefly touches her tongue to the cold, ice-cream cold. Lick, flicker. We are gone back darkly into the moist places. (I once read on some dubious website that men generally cannot bear that word: moist.) I cannot hold hands anymore and keep my fingers from wanting more. If I find I lack desire, I move on. She comes toward you with sticky hands, and you know full well that what she really wants is to wipe them on your back and have done with it. "Give me a hug," she says. And you do. I've found myself all curled up again in the crawlspaces. The dusty nowhere worlds that distract the senses with their nothingness. I am casting judgement out against a tired blank wall. It's spent too many years holding up the joint. I'd like to see a wall hold something up with a handgun and an unmarked bag. All curled up, I play at being Atlas too. I'll just keep it all together for awhile, and you come feed me ice cream at ten and two. I want to taste ice cream again and have it mean something. Now it just leaves a stickly sick feeling in my throat and further down.
(I just deleted a fair portion of text considering the futility of virtue, because, on second thought, I decided to spare you)
The cynic is in. The cynic will see you now.
I'll write a story instead: I don't want to knock anyone unconscious with my concetrated views.
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(4 little bats |twinkle. twinkle.)
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| Thursday, April 14th, 2005
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2:34 am
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I've never done that before.
It's like cutting of your fingers to spite your hands.
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(twinkle. twinkle.)
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| Tuesday, April 12th, 2005
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12:17 am
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I've been feeling oh so terribly confessional these days. We're falling all over ourselves to question our resolve. Yes! Go on, boy. Catch me the Devil and his Mischief (Mistress?): I have a few questions to pose myself. The peanut butter sort stick to the roof of your mouth, but they have a friendly way of marching out eventually--marked by days, weeks, years and a series of new batteries for my pocket watch later. Kiss me quick and close the distance. If you (plural) have questions, make a list and order them as follows: alphabetically, in order of importance, and chronologically. Resolve the kinks, and I'll write you back a letter like you've never quite seen. I want to write you letters. I want to fill them with momentos to remind you how amorphous my firmest of intentions can be.
What in the world, you ask, is she doing? She's got a french paper due come morning--a paper on mourning and loss.
She cuts off quickly and skitters along the perforations of a spiral notebook. She eats her words and bellyaches about it.
What she really needs is a deus ex machina to set everything rightside up again or a little bit of proof about human relations.
current mood:  busy
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(1 little bat |twinkle. twinkle.)
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| Saturday, April 9th, 2005
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5:52 pm
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I remeber once we imagined getting old together, tired and brittle with all signs pointing to decay, and we laughed just a little too strongly against the concrete ceilings; we couldn't see. I looked again and you were aging rapidly, you told me things about your body, and I knew. In the spring her knees cracked and there was something to be found mottled up in my brother's laughter. According to the scientists my body will spend one more year growing new cells. Just a little too much retrospect, thank you. It's written up on the walls in that way you used to do. I tell better stories since i learned to take a drink at all the significant pauses, and my dreams cloud over to disperse the better part of yesterday into its own haze. Did I conjure up that conversation by my lonesome? I woke up thinking that I had brought him tiger lilies from far away. Maybe someday.
In the morning I found my body where i left it. Donnie Darko was still showing, and I guess I had spent the earliest hours fighting back against the apocalypse. What did i dream again? I want to run off and translate french now, I want to say no to saturday nights--throw all my blankets back into the dryer and swaddle down preverbal-like. Oh no you don't, Megan Finn. We don't like this new trend of yours. You're quite fun with a drink in either hand and constant flow of babble baabble baaa.. I know, I know. There has been a cry of outrage at the very idea of my hermitage. If Tommy Lebeau had just kept his mouth shut, I never would have known reading at the dinner table might be taken as a personal affront. They tell me to throw down l'arret de mort, or whatever else might capture me back into my blankets. They tell me to go get drunk or offended.
I'm off to go get drunk or offended, I'm sure.
And truth be told, I am rather at peace with that. This week has been better than I have words to describe and prospects are blooming up like the buds along the walkway. Murmurings of Iceland settle down into my ears, and mischievously I wonder how exactly to define words i don't say. A late night of swinging on the playground with my favorite linguist collected my thoughts. Yes, it was the night that did it. If only spring would make these threats softly and subtly throughout the year. I want to hold on to everything that happened this week and kiss it because I think I remember where to find the things I lost before the snow.
current mood:  peaceful
current music: hello teacher, tell me what's my lesson?
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(1 little bat |twinkle. twinkle.)
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| Wednesday, March 9th, 2005
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1:22 am - Another shameless solicitation--
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Alright, you guys. I need not remind you that my birthday is fast approaching. If you'll kindly refer to my entry dated December 8, 2004, I think I will have made it clear (under no uncertain circumstances) what I would like. Alternatively: If twenty of my closest friends should choose to buy one volume each, the same goal could be achieved in a timely and efficient manner. (Talk to Vijaya, as she seems to be an expert on the matter.)
In other news, I don't really expect the OED for my birthday, and I think I'd be too shy and/or smitten to receive such an extravagant gift. Bits of string are equally delightful and less taxing to my delicate sensibilities. And they can be neatly inserted into envelopes and delivered by the friendly folks at the UNITED STATES POSTAL SERVICE.
in other other news... a "happy birthday" delivered with the punctuation of your choice will also do just well.
and just for the record books: it's spring break, it's snowing, and I have a ferocious head cold. On the bright side, I have Nadja, Mythologies, and the Blue/White/Red movies to entertain and delight me. We'll call it even and curl up for bed now. Goodnight.
current mood:  congested.
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(4 little bats |twinkle. twinkle.)
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| Friday, February 25th, 2005
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12:32 pm - Ten things I've done that you probably haven't:
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Uh-oh. She succumbs to yet another meme. If you've accomplished one or more of these things, I'll take you out for a drink because I want to hear your stories. If you want to hear my stories, you owe me a drink. (Preferably between the dates of March 4 and March 15 when I will be on Spring Break and looking for mischief.)
1) Got deported from england.
2) Traveled cross-country by train.
3) Got impaled by a bit of tree when I was five.
4) Wrote an ode to my french grammar book.
5) Handcrafted a nettle carrier.
6) Spent this past halloween drunk on roller skates.
7) Gone on "Living History Reenactment" camping trips as a small child
8) Shared a one-bedroom apartment with two lesbians and a schizotypal dog.
9) Been hospitalized on account of gummi bears.
10) Sold three months of my life (and probably my soul) to the DNC and Terry "I'm in it to win it!" McAuliffe.
current mood:  Up to no good.
current music: ...they let Lisa go blind...
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(11 little bats |twinkle. twinkle.)
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| Tuesday, February 22nd, 2005
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3:01 am - "How I became a Socialist" by Megan Elizabeth Finn
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after a brief hiatus, je retourne!
sleepy sleepy, quelle horreur-- la troisième acte de l'école des femmes m'attend. Can't seem to keep my feet on the ground this way, I make notes about chatouiller, "to tickle"; my fancy well-tickled forgets that words stand in reference to phrases and phrases to stories. tell me a story, it's been too long. Friday night, 4:30 am, wide-awake and twistyturned all sideways-like in my too dark bed, I sat et je me suis demandée what would that story be? the one so cleverly untold, the one all softly founded in my thoughts on proudhan but never would you know...
I want to tell a story (all embellished-like) about graffitti nights, softly hissing breaking molecules through small holes, casting self-conscious tell-alls all along the walls of places people do not go to anymore, what did I want them to know if I knew they would not see? It is a story long-submerged, all drowned and sputtering in coca-cola... I remember pictographically the words: "private property is stolen land". I could intellectualize it and make it mine if only to keep one foot upon the common ground, commonly ungrounded though we both were. sleepy. I drink black coffee from a malfunctioning machine-- well past midnight-snacking, I'll call it 'breakfast the first". I've been thinking since that night at dinner when Caroline sat down all ruffled and miffed, all cranky about Marcel Duchamp, all cranky about ready-mades, and finally I've wrapped my brain around the "always-already". Read the notes, my dear. Kinetic energy, like that diagram of the swing-set. It always comes back to a childhood of sorts.
foie and foi.
faith and liver.
strike that reverse it. i laughed out loud.
Why is everyone talking about their liver?
The hour is closing (shutting up like a telescope) and I know that there is always more to go on about.
Stay tuned for the next installment...
current mood:  geeky
current music: buzzings and trappings of an abandon coffee house
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(1 little bat |twinkle. twinkle.)
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| Thursday, January 27th, 2005
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5:09 pm
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It took some moments to recuperate.
...and so i corrected the grammar. I've been reading on demand, a sort of automaton with a short skirt and glasses. Very studiously, I button my buttons, and cover up my omphalos. I knew I was doing something right all those years by contemplating my navel.
...maybe this is why your oranges are all about sex...
I always mark it down to remember, but short-term memory is plagued with remembering to catch a second wind. Where in this mode does one process? I sit myself down to absorb. I sit myself down to produce.
I sit myself down to circumlocute and regurgitate, to automate knowlegde. (Megan, the automated telling machine)--oh, but don't I feel the need to tell!
There are words here:
"we go home pleasantly tired and sleep easily, for we know that we hold somewhere within our hearts a possibility of inexhaustible happiness" ~Richard Wright
how had i missed it? How had i been so preoccupied that I might miss an account of "inexhaustible happiness". After that class i shuffle my feet, buy some trail mix, make it on time to (yet another) meeting, and all the while pretend to have forgotten the phrase. In every text, a young man finds religion. "Le serpent est le genie de notre famille"..."take it and read. take it and read." If only I had more sins to confess, God might have caught me on the radar. All the while Julien Sorel is hiding out in seminaries, and artemis fucks around with the living. (she was always my favorite)
I am an archer in the next go 'round, hiding in orange trees and laughing, laughing.
current mood:  inexhaustibly happy
current music: oh so quiet.
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(4 little bats |twinkle. twinkle.)
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| Tuesday, January 25th, 2005
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9:33 pm - spitting nails.
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It must be something about tuesdays.
I'm almost convinced.
The day begins with the sun coaxing up my eyelids, telling me that there will be a spring again. (and I said, "What's a flower?") The quiet early morning feeling of one who was tucked in by no less than four friends the night before--imagine the bedtime stories--brings a comprehension to this mode we call the fairy tale. I always wondered, where are the fairies? I'd like to tell myself that there is something living beneath the gray, but I am a classic study in seasonal affective disorder. I am called from blankets to stare out at the sun. the siren. I've been making lists of places with warm climates, reading the weather section of the paper, and realizing--quite taken aback-- that when Honolulu reads 80 degrees fahrenheit, I wonder who might have pointed a finger at whom in the name game. Bryn Mawr is pretty in the spring when the trees make arches and the greens are green. When it gets warm again, I tell myself. When my hands aren't cold anymore.
It's nearing 10:00 and I had once told myself there would be work done. There would be flawless ambition looming around the peripheral. So pretty are the things that move in the hours before settling in. So settled are my themes of getting out. It's been an evening of miscommunication, budgeting disasters, failed office hours, and general discomfort. I wonder what stranger is fondling my computer, and I give myself up to Guild with its WakeUp florescent lighting and its chatty walls. yes, oh yes--they talk. Insecure friends leaving themselves logged in to shared spaces-- I consider assuming the role of a prankster,fleetingly. But I am forgetful here of the whosits and whatsits. I'm wondering how $300 will sustain, and I'm courting a daydream about molasses. Don't you dare remind me that it's only January. The winter drags its feet.
I meant to be cheerful, when all of a sudden the past asks, "no seriously, are you okay?" I tell him mostly the things he hears and then as always i leave the rest to the subtext in the far corners, brooding and unread. I'm trying so hard to push myself into a momentum... a whirlwind that will carry my into June, but I feel all caught up in the snow drifts. all blanketed, hush-little-babied, and subdued. leave it to me to talk myself into a ravine. leave it to me. all i can say is that once--a long time ago--someone gave blues an awfully bad rap. All I can say is that there is a impish little phoenix waiting for the daffodils.
current mood:  cynical
current music: i shaved every place where you been, boy.
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(twinkle. twinkle.)
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| Saturday, January 22nd, 2005
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12:09 pm
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Shhh. It's snowing.
Sustaining the silence of a librarian, I'm watching, and listening of course, lest the snowflakes choose to conspire. Just remember, there are more of them than there are of us. My roommate crosses her fingers for a Monday wretched in snow drifts and forgetful of it's mondayness. I can't help but disagree. Of late I feel dull and lackluster. My mind was full of white noise and interruption during a late night phone call, and i hesitate to speak. I like to believe it is the cold, the displacement of a daydreamer settling in for winter-- I want to hibernate and blanket myself accordingly against this season and all it's thoughtlessness. Or maybe, just maybe, I want to run out against it, challenge the silence and resume my place among the chatter.
Maybe I'll slip out through the wardrobe and battle winter allegorically. Anything to keep myself occupied against the white. (..."enough bright white to come crashing through my eyes and erase my brain")
The afternoon stretches out and yawns. It bundles me up, and asks me to look both ways before starting my homework. There might be mischief hiding in the corners, you know. It won't just doff its hat to you and invite you to come out walking; rather it will steal your left shoe, crash your hard drive, and giggle with the dust mites under your bed. Coax it out slowly by remembering how to whistle. I've been concocting sneaky plans and clever tricks. I've been drawling and massaging my roommates stories into taller tales.
"I first learned to like coffeecake when i was eleven," she says at breakfast today.
"Oh no, you mean when you were a showgirl for the service men in world war II."
"Yes, that's exactly how it went."
"Go on, please. I'm intrigued."
I used to seek out compulsive liars because storytelling seems to have gone out of fashion.
Now I just reinvent the wheel on Sundays, and cast Miss Holly into whichever outfit I choose.
I'm returning now to selling myself for grant money and a year in France. Last night I began wondering if it would be possible to conduct research while traipsing around European countrysides. I wondered in I'd have trouble in England, and just what sort of hassle that little blue "x" on my passport might cause me. No matter, they said I was welcome back any time. Oh, the British! They are nothing but courteous as they push you out the door. Once again, I'm entertaining weekends that I probably can't afford, but I like nothing better than to offend reason.
current mood: busy
current music: take a ride...
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(3 little bats |twinkle. twinkle.)
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| Monday, January 17th, 2005
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5:11 pm
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Please disregard most of anything. My utmost apologies to: my roommate. She is the best, and I am meager in comparison, indeed. I love her and her ability to put up with what amounted to the exact same temper tantrum I had this time last semester. Holly, you are a gem.
In light of recent events, I have decided that all successful semesters must begin poorly. Believing that a crashed hardrive, and bajillion lost documents of personal importance, annnnd the inevitability of staying in one place for the next three months constitutes a poor beginning, everything should go swimmingly from here on in. Today so far I have spent 235 guiltless dollars on books and loved every second of it. Two classes down, and three to go.
Now, because I have been so quiet on the nature of my vacation, I would just like to endlessly insist that cross-country train rides are added to everyone's to-do list, furthermore, make note that LA is far more fun in French with a smattering of penguins and hamsters, and finally, the only way to arrive at a layover is with a kidnapper waiting in the wings. Next time, hubert cumperdale, next time.
I am off to fill my belly with food and my evening with cranky russians.
current music: nothing here to fear...
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(5 little bats |twinkle. twinkle.)
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| Sunday, January 16th, 2005
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1:59 am - a body in motion--
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that sticky sinking feeling has returned to my stomach, and I'll be eating regret for breakfast again, in hopes there will be no traces of it come the afternoon. I am a firm believer in a great many things. The places in between are something I have great faith in, and coming home feels not unlike an alarmingly ornate suffocation. I've been reading everyone else's words on my roommate's computer (as mine kindly decided to break on me before I had time to save my lovely applications, biographies, and proposals that I worked on all through winter break) and I'm wondering what exactly it is that you all see here. Where is the magic in staying in one place? I guess I never really find any niches, but dig holes hoping to stumble upon a treasure chest. I think I remember deciding to like it here, if only to get by, but every time I leave I feel as though I'm clinging to doorways just to keep out for good this time.
Crista and I took our hearty misadventures on a tour of the countryside, but every night, as the train pulled hours closer to Bryn Mawr, the dreams began to introduce themselves to me. They whispered in my ears about the things I wouldn't mention, and then I rolled over to deny the situation. With my eyes opening and closing against Kansas stars, I told myself it wouldn't be that way. So I responsibly came home and am making plans for the next three months or so. I wish I felt any excitement about this place. I wish I had made some sort of deep connection with the human beings who inhabit these spaces, but since the day I arrived I've been running away. 97% of me wishes I knew to transfer this time last year because the ball has been set too swiftly in motion and now I belong. For those of you who know me well enough to be offended by what I say, perhaps I ought to introduce you to the people who know me even better and have gotten beyond that point.
I'm tired of constantly reaffirming this brand of physical existence. I'm tired that each word and deed is monitered and analyzed, scanned and processed in the hopes of a "clue". I want to go back to being impishly mean-spirited, to being a too-skinny girl, a hide-in-the-woods-until-you-find-me girl, a girl who can look you in the eyes and tell you what she's thinking. I was better before I came here. Now I'm just more educated. Happily enough, I can tell you that this winter break was the best I've ever had, and I do believe I can say the same for this summer past. Within three weeks' time perhaps I'll have forgotten my apprehensions, or rather, I'll have settled the dissonence. Wish me luck please, and show me the way to new pranksters, please.
current mood:  apprehensive
current music: I am the daughter of a great romance...
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(6 little bats |twinkle. twinkle.)
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| Wednesday, January 5th, 2005
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6:27 am
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I'm sure I could very sensibly resolve, as we are wont to do in these most festive days following a night of drunken purity... debauchery seems so altmodish. Bryn Mawr is elusive and far far away, something cloudlike that I reserve only now for memories and then for taking up in stride. Changeability seems to be characteristic of girls who dream of watching eyes. Girls who act when alone more decorous, because it is then that pretending is worth all the while. Every angle is stealthy and every curve is gracing a shadow with light. I catch my own glances in forgotten mirrors lodged behind whichever system of electronic entertainment eats my hours. I write letters and statements of intent...
sell sell sell,
because prostitution is the only noble thing left to do.
and what about endings? There is something all important about knowing all the hows the whys, about setting the goal and working towards it. I'm tired of working capaciously against a resolution. Yes, I can everso sensibly resolve. This is the story of a very small girl who liked to wear sweatshirts because the creases were cartoonishly hyperbolic. She liked to write stories about letters twirling twirling twirling to the ground–- mostly because they are gigglesome, but somewhere else they remind her about centuries where the language was no scalpel. Dissection is all the rage, from what I've heard of the latest. We're breaking down our molecules.
Ultimately, it is a matter of faith. I believe that matter cannot be created or destroyed. All my religious values stem from a single tenent. It is not a matter of god or man or man's godlessness or even god's manlessness. It's about atoms. Each little atom is made mostly of space without substance and I remember sitting in chemistry and believing that if I looked hard enough or long enough, my atoms would go flying off in every direction, that the green and violet that I found in chocolate bars held under the sun would pierce the sky, and in a world of entropy the last thing to go would be sight, and not one's sense of smell nor their ability to hear the weeping. I believe in the atom.
current mood:  recumbent
current music: I've got a brand new pair of rollerskates.
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(twinkle. twinkle.)
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| Wednesday, December 29th, 2004
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5:14 am
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note to self: your body is not indestructible. do not feed it cheese fries, coffee, and merlot simultaneously.
further note to self: your french won't improve on its own.
and again: finn, you've got work to do, so make this short.
Of course, we're pulling up to the new year, and through the tinny speakers, we recall the past like sweethearts at a drive in movie. We're keeping our distance from it all with our hands groping blindly into this thing we call the present. Distract me, quick before the film rolls. I am quite convinced that a memory like mine is an evolutionary step backwards, and speaking of evolutionary steps backwards, so is my attraction to those skinny boys with elbows bigger than their forearms. Darwin's got it in for me. Last year there was a bubble bath and a volume of short stories that mister shern brought to my doorstep. This year, I'm dragging him off to be among some of my favorite mawrtyrs. Strange how talking to a girl who is family and stranger reminds me this is good. Apologies have been blossoming in the snow, as though my entire past joined a twelve step program while I was passing the time otherwise. I almost don't want to forgive a thing because it might validate that there was once an indiscretion that warranted forgiveness--but, I do.
I like it here now. I like falling asleep while my brother and I read on the couch. I like interjections about three-act structure and victorian fantasists. I like making tea for my mother and trying to convice her that "city of lost children" is really quite good. I'll be ready for momentum again in a day or two, but this has been like slipping through the perforations. For what may be the last time in a long while, all siblings were present and accounted for on Christmas morning. I'm quite convinced it's not really Christmas without my sister, so I'm not sure what you other people celebrate without her. I'm wide awake, the wine's gone to my head, and there's reading to do. It's strange to feel so at peace, especially in comparison. I'm all set and ready now for riling up the cities as I pass through them.
Crista: be prepared. We're riding tandem bikes and making mischief.
Tommy: be warned. I'm not sure who's planning to kidnap whom.
Vijaya: expect a mysterious phone call in the near future.
Gnat: surprise me. I think it's your turn to shatter a construct or two.
current mood:  mellow
current music: everything's gonna be sunshine...
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(2 little bats |twinkle. twinkle.)
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| Wednesday, December 15th, 2004
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11:14 am
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I'm on page 6 of 10. If I can write a page and a half about Barthes, a page and a half of gushing about Godard, and an unnoticably discursive conclusion... maybe (just maybe) It'll be long enough.
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(1 little bat |twinkle. twinkle.)
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| Monday, December 13th, 2004
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9:01 pm
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at some point, one has to stop researching and actually write the damn paper.
Megan, meet point. Megan believes points such as there are sharp (see also: pointy) and out to get her.
No, she is not paranoid. It is finals week, and she has lost momentum. Somehow spending two hours determining a pattern for a lace knit scarf was a very good idea this afternoon. (As were discussing the finer points of my life goals with gnat-a-matt, and making plans for a flying squirrel party with Shern.) No, no. I'm not being abstract. There will really be a flying squirrel in my life this winter. Even during finals week, there are things to be thankful for.
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(2 little bats |twinkle. twinkle.)
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| Thursday, December 9th, 2004
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3:49 pm
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vermisciousknid's journal