Er...

Um. I don't know how to begin this. But this really happened.

I drove to work today. I KNOW I shouldn't have but it was cold and I was feeling lazy. When I left just now at the end of the day, I got into the Conference Center lobby (the Conference Center is the building across the street from the library. I park under it. On the very rare occasions when I drive. Most other people park under it as well) at the same time as a girl I know who also works at the library, though in a different division. She was in conversation with a tall, slightly attractive man. She saw me and started trying to include me in the conversation because she's nice like that. Problem: it's nearly impossible to come up to speed on a convo that's already been going on for a while when your only involvement comes when someone turns to you and says "Isn't that right? Don't the teams always need us?" WHAT TEAMS?!

Anyways, I did my best to fake my involvement. We got on the elevator and somehow I ended up between these two, still carrying on their conversation. She was getting off on P2, he and I on P4. After she got off, I started making small talk because, as I mentioned, he was not unattractive, OK?!

We arrive at P4. We take a few steps out of the elevator, still chatting. All of a sudden, it hit me. I'M ON THE WRONG FLOOR. I parked three floors up, on P1. So what did I do? Excuse myself and jump back on the elevator like a normal person? Don't make me laugh. I KEPT WALKING.

Not wanting to embarrass myself, I carried on the conversation halfway through the garage. Now. Consider. The Conference Center takes up an ENTIRE city block. I made it halfway through before I came up with a plan and took my leave. Luckily, we arrived at his car just as I made my decision. What was The Plan, you ask? Obviously, I did the only thing I COULD do.

I walked past his car, even further into the garage abyss, and, knowing he would be passing by on his way out of the building soon, and not wanting him to see me turning around, I chose a random car and pretended to unlock it until he was out of sight. I did no more or less than any reasonable person would have done.

Obviously.

Don't laugh at me.

I don't watch scary movies very often. Until I watched "Devil" the other night, I think the last real horror movie I saw was "The Grudge". This is because, after an epidemic of boldness and stupidity my first year or two of college, I realized that after I watch horror movies, I CAN'T SLEEP AT NIGHT. I don't know what it is, haunted houses and things that are real like, oh say, people with guns, don't bother me too much, but show me a freaky movie and I will crawl up under five blankets on my bed (which I have probably moved to the center of the room by this point) with all the lights on, the tv on, and probably a book to read (the more distractions, the better). Don't tell me they're not real. I KNOW they're not real. I'm not an idiot. But maybe it's a symptom of my all too willing suspension of disbelief (which makes me generally a rather easy to please movie-goer), that once I watch something horrifying, I'm reminded of it in the most ridiculous places. So because of this...ahem...problem that I have, I have been studiously avoiding watching television commercials for the upcoming movie "Case 39"- some hooey about a foster child and the curse that plagues her- anyone who helps her DIES. Oh dear. Silly though it be, I can tell that it's scary and I don't want none of it. ANYWAYS, the point of this unnecessarily long explanation is that, with the tv on, but muted, in the background while trying to register for classes just now, I happened to look up right at a moment of scary-face-showing during that commercial. I deeply regret it. Guess how I'll be sleeping tonight?

Fail

So I'm confused by this. I was looking for a definition of ectomorph, and the Merriam-Webster site came up as one of the results. "Well, that's a well-known name in the field of dictionaries" I thought to myself, and clicked. But there is a problem. Could someone PLEASE tell me where the definition is on this page (and no, it wasn't in the scrolldown, i promise)?

I made this new background with this program that I lurrrrve (http://mugtug.com/sketchpad/) but it only allows you to create images in one size, so I had to enlarge it so that it would fit in my background, but the resolution is quite low, so now it's all blurry and I don't know what to doooo.

Waa.

Why do I have two blogs?! WHY?!?!?!

Ode to Stairs

7
10
20
17
10

11
15


The sequences of steps behind the RB.
Yes I have been running up them, late every day for much too long.

Sometimes two at a time,

Sometimes singly,

Sometimes not running at all but carefully,

wearily,

plodding my way to class.

But that only when I was on time.

Which was rarely.
Today we met for maybe the last time.

And I won.

Goodbye suffocating steps.
I will miss you.

Maybe.

Bored.

So I just started reading Brisingr, the third installment in Cristopher Paolini's cracked out "Inheritance Trilogy."

Yes, I have a penchant for silly fantasy books, and a weird compulsive aspect to my personality that demands that I finish every book I begin, no matter how terrible. In this case, that also extends to subsequent books in a series.

Anyways, my first complaint is that the book is much to large. I don't need 748 pages of Tolkien larceny. Mostly because it doesn't fit very well in my bag. It fits so poorly, in fact, that when I'm carrying it on my shoulder, the book stabs my shoulder blade. and no alternate arrangement of purse contents alleviates the pain.

Secondly, "grimstnzborith" is not a word, nor is it feasible as a word in any made up language. Ever. You are not Tolkien (who is still recognized as the pre-eminent linguist and philologist of his day) so stop trying to be.

And my last complaint- I've only made it through the first 5 pages so far...but there's something horribly Chronicles of Riddick about the opening pages (i.e. people who mutilate themselves as an act of worship...to some crazy, dark being). It's creepy. And still not even written well at all. I think one of the things that has kept me reading this series was the hope that as he aged, Paolini's writing would as well- become more mature, and much more subtle. Alas, it has not happened. I still feel as though I'm reading a fanfic by some 15 year old obsessed with Robert Jordan, Raymond E. Feist, and Tad Williams. And Tolkien. Ostensibly.