you are a jelly donut!
Dec. 5th, 2004 10:06 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
theladyroseJust finished talking to Sophia and Fluffykins, and it is all very, very froody. I'm actually kind of hyper and won't shut up right now if you give me a chance. For some reason whenever I'm talking to Fluffy she's usually really screwed on homework, and she only becomes more screwed when talking to me except she refuses to let me hang up for at least fifteen minutes after she tells me that she has to go finish some English paper or whatever. We actually had a reasonably coherent, non-depressing, non-awkward (well, it wasn't that sensible, but I could figure out what was going on almost the entire time) conversation. I'll be visiting her at the T&C after school on Friday, if anyone else is interested. She was very amused about my driver's test, but I've yet to find anyone else who hasn't. Even Blair laughed at me, but he was still nice enough to take over two TA sessions (Sara was sick and asked me to cover for her, which I wasn't able to because of more hardcore bell choir practices).
Eeep! I have created a nifty new icon thingy for me to use since the winter holiday season (shut up; I know I'm being patheticaly PC here) is coming up. It's a promo shot of Diana Rigg as Emma Peel from the "Avengers" episode, "Too Many Christmas Trees."
Haha-I just discovered one of Fluffykins's articles online at the Paly newspaper website. Here's one of them that's very classically Fluffy:
Writing is a lot like running (except that running is much harder.)
Truthfully, running a tough course produces quite the euphoric aftermath that is not without its charm. After all, who wouldn't feel like a titan (er, Viking) after debunking such frivolous personal limitations as "This is completely ridiculous..." and learning that yes, it is possible to sprint the dickens out of the last 400m or so over a less-than-gentle incline in a dead heat when you were under the impression that you were very much out of figurative gas half a mile ago on a nearly three-mile course.
Such is the enduring joy of a sport seen by some as pointless and/or senseless and by many as essentially masochistic--the ability to simply say that yes, I have conquered the beast and I live yet. This is similar to voluntarily staying up till the wee hours of the morn to guarantee reaching one’s quarterly journalism word count.
Tangentially speaking, it isn’t easy being on the cross-country team, but that’s true for…well, most sports I can think of. “Pshaw! It’s just jogging around,” you say? Believe it or not, it’s all that and a bag’o’chips. “Just jogging around” is not only a misrepresentation of our sport, nay, it devalues our artful expression of the skill required to achieve physical feats past the capacity of most others. Besides, we don’t “jog.” We run. Seriously. And it hurts.
What’s that you say? You’ve read enough articles over the years about journalist-athletes griping about 6 A.M. morning practices while trying to meet word quotas? Admittedly, I have the opportunity to complain to other, more sympathetic people of the same ilk at practice. Yet the mere fact that I hold the power of the press in my wily dancing fingertips is enough that I can express whatever opinion (within obvious limits) I desire while still getting credit for career/vocational education studies. I’m also allowed to go rambling on off about completely irrelevant subjects, assuming the reader has not noticed by this time.
And it’s a beautiful thing, man, because I am making a difference.
Plenty of readers must have realized by now that the sway of the media is omnipotent, as expressed by Western society’s fascination with the ninth season of Survivor (don’t even get me started about that.) Furthermore, according to certain fashion magazines that shall remain nameless, a normal girl should aspire to be a buxom blond stick figure. Hollywood claims to be working on negating that, but I speak for a good-sized (hardy-har har) part of the population when I say, “where’s the beef?”
Here’s that power trip I mentioned earlier. If somebody other than my editors ends up reading this, they may develop a strong enough opinion to some thing or another I’ve been spouting off to send feedback. That’s right, my pretties, you’re just playing into our hands, because we’re making you think! Now your unique visitor status enables us to prove to the world that high school scholars really do have opinions, that we are not uniformly ill informed A&F mavens bent on worldwide liposuction and mandatory plastic surgery for the less genetically endowed. And the moral of the story is that I have made it all possible. Me, me, me.
Join a student publication. Even better, if you think you’re cool enough, maybe you can even get on Voice and save the trees, you web savvy devil.
Eeep! I have created a nifty new icon thingy for me to use since the winter holiday season (shut up; I know I'm being patheticaly PC here) is coming up. It's a promo shot of Diana Rigg as Emma Peel from the "Avengers" episode, "Too Many Christmas Trees."
Haha-I just discovered one of Fluffykins's articles online at the Paly newspaper website. Here's one of them that's very classically Fluffy:
Writing is a lot like running (except that running is much harder.)
Truthfully, running a tough course produces quite the euphoric aftermath that is not without its charm. After all, who wouldn't feel like a titan (er, Viking) after debunking such frivolous personal limitations as "This is completely ridiculous..." and learning that yes, it is possible to sprint the dickens out of the last 400m or so over a less-than-gentle incline in a dead heat when you were under the impression that you were very much out of figurative gas half a mile ago on a nearly three-mile course.
Such is the enduring joy of a sport seen by some as pointless and/or senseless and by many as essentially masochistic--the ability to simply say that yes, I have conquered the beast and I live yet. This is similar to voluntarily staying up till the wee hours of the morn to guarantee reaching one’s quarterly journalism word count.
Tangentially speaking, it isn’t easy being on the cross-country team, but that’s true for…well, most sports I can think of. “Pshaw! It’s just jogging around,” you say? Believe it or not, it’s all that and a bag’o’chips. “Just jogging around” is not only a misrepresentation of our sport, nay, it devalues our artful expression of the skill required to achieve physical feats past the capacity of most others. Besides, we don’t “jog.” We run. Seriously. And it hurts.
What’s that you say? You’ve read enough articles over the years about journalist-athletes griping about 6 A.M. morning practices while trying to meet word quotas? Admittedly, I have the opportunity to complain to other, more sympathetic people of the same ilk at practice. Yet the mere fact that I hold the power of the press in my wily dancing fingertips is enough that I can express whatever opinion (within obvious limits) I desire while still getting credit for career/vocational education studies. I’m also allowed to go rambling on off about completely irrelevant subjects, assuming the reader has not noticed by this time.
And it’s a beautiful thing, man, because I am making a difference.
Plenty of readers must have realized by now that the sway of the media is omnipotent, as expressed by Western society’s fascination with the ninth season of Survivor (don’t even get me started about that.) Furthermore, according to certain fashion magazines that shall remain nameless, a normal girl should aspire to be a buxom blond stick figure. Hollywood claims to be working on negating that, but I speak for a good-sized (hardy-har har) part of the population when I say, “where’s the beef?”
Here’s that power trip I mentioned earlier. If somebody other than my editors ends up reading this, they may develop a strong enough opinion to some thing or another I’ve been spouting off to send feedback. That’s right, my pretties, you’re just playing into our hands, because we’re making you think! Now your unique visitor status enables us to prove to the world that high school scholars really do have opinions, that we are not uniformly ill informed A&F mavens bent on worldwide liposuction and mandatory plastic surgery for the less genetically endowed. And the moral of the story is that I have made it all possible. Me, me, me.
Join a student publication. Even better, if you think you’re cool enough, maybe you can even get on Voice and save the trees, you web savvy devil.
