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Finished.
I'm printing it off right now, whilst threatening my infernal printer with a rather large bat.
If it doesn't print correctly, I am quite prepared to bash it into bits of inky pieces. Then, I will freely dance around the wreckage as I'm apt to do.
Here's a brief excerpt from what turned my brain into wholesome, oatmealish mush:
However, as the reader continues and delves deeper into the flaws and virtues of these complex roles, the true fascinating integrity and inner struggles become apparent. These characters are not one-dimensional stereotypes, but rather, flagrant illustrations of humanity portrayed through verbosity; brave archetypes of the private struggles of society.
Yep. Thats right. I have no idea what I'm talking about either. But somehow, inconceivably, I went on from there. And is demurity a word? Cos I was sort of making them up by the end. I don't think ungrievously is a word either. But if I were talking on tha 'net liek i m now, that wouldn't matter 2 u, rite? Thought so. Go Internet! Promote blatant illiteracy! Woo!!
piece of flirking shite brain. Goddamn.
I'm currently a complete creative vaccuum. I have no idea on what I'm writing on Gatsby.
I do know that I'd like to write about how the purpose of me, specifically, exclusively me, writing a second 10 paragraph essay is especially ludicrous despite the fact that this time would otherwise be spent on my ass watching television or surfing the internet; once again on my ass -- thats besides the point.
Gatsby is currently an enigma to me. As are all the other characters. And I'm pretty sure an essay constructed like the following would be academically unacceptable:
Gatsby was a man. A very tall man; who enjoyed wearing pink suits. And had a car. A very dangerous, reckless car. That he kept in his garage. Jay Gatsby liked to swim. And throw parties. And stalk women. Do you think Daisy was his only fixation? Hell, no. He probably obsessed over Eleanor Roosevelt and had a picture collection of Mary Pickford positioned under his bed. And that whole Nick Carraway thing? Uh, yeah. Gatsby had some sexual exploration issues he seriously had to deal with.
Although, I suppose it would be a somewhat substantial look at the novel from the perspective of a brain dead teenager. I don't think I could do any better even if I inhaled an entire can of Lysol.
babysitting. very tired.
Someone *actually* sent me an essay.
Uhm, his cheque is in the mail.
Yes. That'll do.
*cough*.
I've been babysitting since about 12:00 -- Max is having a nap right now. I think I may have overstimulated him with a trip to the park and a pound of candy. There's nothing like kids hyped up on sugar exhibiting sudden symptoms of Attention Deficit Disorder. Its an exciting time for all. Except for me, who's on the couch trying to convince him to sit down and watch a nice, relaxing movie so that I can catch a breather. I shouldn't have gone to bed at 5:00 a.m. Oh no. Much too tired now.
I think I'm just going to go lie down and exult in my sudden freedom.
And maybe steal some candy.
Selected quotations from the email I just send my dad:
I'm bored. How can you tell? Oh right. I'm making pointless posts every two hours. And wearing a cone-shaped princess hat. What a sad, sad, delusional world I live in.
::::::
"...i hate using new email addresses. it always fills me with trepidation that the recipient is not who i intended. (eg, I send it, and instead of you I get some 70+ pervert who precedes to stalk me for the remainder of the year and send me butchered mice in the mail. It could happen.)"
"...I drove the car yesterday. Rather illegally. But I'm a good driver who was going 30 km per hour. And it was somewhat of an emergency. But mom probably already told you. And you guys are both probably preparing to boot Brad out of the house. But don't. Rehab centers are better."
"...I'm getting me some gerbils. Or .. uhm, not gerbils. I'd get a hamster, maybe. And I'd name him Captain Peanut. And on Halloween I'd make him wear a cape. And mini-goggles. Ensuring, of course, that when I'm asleep, he gets out of his cage and nibbles me to death in hatred. Those suckers *do* bite hard."
"...Send a top secret agent in to check on Merlin. Make sure they haven't eaten him or mummified him and placed him on the mantel or anything."
"...Alrite. Tell the Bishop you're the christian shiznit and deserve a job here. Or, if he's really that ignorant, make damn sure you find out about all those shady business dealings and witch burnings and document the evidence and blackmail him."
"...And I *do* hope you left flaming bags of pooh on the doorsteps of *certain* schreiber/terracebayians this Halloween. Perhaps with a ribbon and scented oil, as is Martha Stewart's style."
The End. I'm going to bed, now. So that I can make more similarly interesting posts tomorrow. Yay...
Things I've contemplated whilst procrastinating:
1) Howard Stern should be taken out; shot; dipped in a vat of tar; feathered; and forced to hand out pamphlets outside of Kentucky Fried Chicken.
Someone send me an essay. I will give you a million dollars. And you get to have the pleasure of cashing a cheque that will immediately bounce. A new experience any way you slice it.
What I've done since my last post:
-Perused the internet a little.
"Aunt Jemima says:
You make sense of it.
-Got on my computer. Listened to some music. Stared at a blank Wordperfect screen. Thought: Fuck this.
No where in there does it say anything of my homework. In basic terms: Come Monday; I'm screwed. Hooraaaaaaaaay.
working, working, working...
I currently have the house to myself, which is good I suppose because I've managed to get a lot -- or uhm, at least one thing (heh heh.. ) done. I wrote my short story for Creative Writing English -- which is a little ridiculous and non-organizational of me, as its not due until the unseen distant future. But, I guess its done.
This is one of the passages from it -- I'm entirely too proud of it right now. In ten minutes I'm sure I'll be dismissing it as a work of utter crap.
"She sighed. "Hello, grandmother. I've brought you some tea." And with these hard-earned words she forced her eyes to look upon the quiet figure, and for one cruel moment felt morbid relief. But the supposed stillness of ribs and bones and breathing was a vicious deceit, for with a laboured breath Grandmother commenced her pathetic living. Ignoring this all, she walked over to the bedside, her spurious smile still plastered on her lying face. "How are you?" " --from 'In the Roots of Dying Trees' by me.
I haven't done spellcheck yet, so there are probably some errors in that paragraph -- but, meh. I still have to get my primary source notes together for 'Animal Farm', write a 10 paragraph essay, a thesis statement, and redo my Art Proposal. Besides that, I'm also supposed to look after my cousin Max tomorrow. So, I guess I have to get everything done tonight. Or not done tonight. Perhaps, frantically started at 2:00 a.m. Monday morning. But whichever.
(Also, I'm going to try and redesign this sucker. As of right now though, I'm a creative abyss.)
Free live toiletcam???
Just perused the search engine referrals for my extreme tracking.
Free. Live. Toiletcam.
I am both disturbed and ... well, frankly I'm just disturbed.
Plus I'm slapping out blasted mental images like crazy. Yuck.
_____________________________
I'm not sure I really like this version of Solardragon -- so, if I get time tonight, I'll most likely be taking it down even if I have to put up the old version -- blah.
If you guys are having a lot of trouble loading this site, too, by the way, just bash my server over the head continually until it submits.
I have an absolute ton of homework. My essay which my english teacher is making me redo (how fun.), and I was hoping to get some work done on my art projects and creative writing short story. Soooo, what that means is, I have a lot of homework but will procrastinate until 3:00 a.m. tomorrow morning.
Also, I got the link from here, but apparently, what people call me behind my back at work, is 'Whore'. Of course, this would be more helpful and useful if I had a job. Which I don't. ...
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oh, the insanity:
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To reiterate; shizzel my nizzel. |
