Prop 8 the musical

The video doesn't fit onto this page, so I linked to it instead.

I love Neil Patrick Harris.

My roommate and I are in different colleges within our university DAY 8

Have shared with roommate fascination with lying and deception. Fear that I am becoming the villain of my own life accounts. Roommate expresses interest in acquiring weapons. Perhaps I am not the villainous one.

This week in pictures

I love and dread this time of year.

I love it because the weather is getting warmer, the air smells like spring, the sun has reappeared, and there's a general feeling of relief everywhere (at least I think so).

I dread it because I can't concentrate (for instance: I have a midterm paper due tomorrow and another on Friday and I haven't started either of them), and because it makes me think of what I was doing this time two years go. Jesus, it's been two years already and I still want to call her up and tell her about my day. I think, about this time, I was teching Merchant at First Pres., and I must have had a lot of work for school because I remember being really busy. I remember thinking that Monday, March 5th was going to be my "day-off." I get a little moody and sad around this time of year - I watch dumbo a lot and think about her for no reason. Everyday up to the week of her death and funeral was sunny and (weather-wise) pleasant. That week got cloudy and rainy, and I loved it. It would have really pissed me off if the weather was nice that week. Note to self: next time I have to help plan a funeral, make sure to plan for a day when it rains.

I'm doing this thing where I'm trying to forgive my mom for all of the stupid, petty, infuriating things she did. It's hard, because that seems to be all we can talk about at home. Not that I want to dismiss or forget those things, but what we're doing right now is just as inaccurate and unfair as canonizing her memory would be. I guess we always wanted to say those things to her face, but we were too scared, so now we just can't help ourselves. And I want to stop doing that. I don't want to wake up one morning and not remember why I loved my mother. That's why that scene in dumbo makes me cry - it reminds me of everything I loved and miss about her. Maybe we talk about what pissed us off about her because it's easier than having to accept the fact that someone we loved and who loved us is no more. I don't care if it's easier, I don't want to be mad at her anymore.

My roommate and I are in different colleges within our university DAY 2

Awoke this morning (later than usual) pleased to find that roommate had not killed me in the night. She said that people in the College of Arts and Sciences (hereafter: CoAS) cannot be trusted and made sound effect of dramatic music upon my entrance to the room. Cannot help but think that it is she who cannot be trusted.

My roommate and I are in different colleges within our university DAY 1

I transferred into the College of Arts and Sciences; she to the School of Informatics. She supposes that we will still be friends - I have my doubts.

I think this little dude is what is missing from my life. If I could get the animation to come with it, then surely I would want for nothing.

Mmm, sleep. I love sleep. It makes me very happy. And very grouchy when I don't get enough or when I am woken up unexpectedly. Imagine just how grouchy I was this morning at 3:45 when the fire alarm went off. Everyone in Forest B-Tower had to evacuate the building, into the snow, and stand around in the bitterly cold 11 degree weather. My roommate, my next-door neighbor, and I all made it out in leggings and our coats. Karys had boots; my neighbor and I had rather flimsy slip-ons. Some people had blankets wrapped around themselves, some people were fully dressed, and I swore I saw someone in a bathrobe and no shoes. I have never been so cold in my life. I was so cold that it actually hurt. We stood outside for about half an hour, waiting for the Bloomington fire department to check for any actual fire. Turns out, this wasn't a drill - someone on the eleventh floor smelled smoke. There wasn't really a fire, and we got to go back inside. I curled up under my blankets, and didn't feel warm again for what felt like an hour.

Moral of the story: Worst. Morning. Ever.