It's been real, and it's been fun, but it hasn't been real fun :p

I enjoy this blog and everything, but I'm a true Tumblr girl at heart.

Bye-bye!

Tonight

• Make a gargantuan amount of coffee
• Drink said coffee
• Finish British Lit final (that's only three more papers)
• Don't fall asleep 
• Stop crying over The Office 
• Maybe do laundry 
• Not get distracted from writing my paper
• Seriously stop crying, it's just a television show

My jealousy will be the death of me.

It consumes my thoughts and my heart, turning me into a monster.

It's easy to take off your clothes and have sex.

 People do it all the time. 

But opening up your soul to someone,

 letting them into your psirit, thoughts, fears, future, hopes, dreams...

that's being naked.

Last week of classes

I'm actually kinda sad about that.
I don't want this semester to end.

Okay

my memoir is done.
It pretty much kicks ass.

Even though I had to make up the ending.

Fall 2011 Class Schedule

MWF:
9:30-10:20 Spanish II
1:30-2:20 British Lit since 1900

TTh:
10:00-11:15 Survey of American Lit I
1:00-2:15 Intro to Psychology

Thursday Only:
6:15-9:00 Advanced Writing for English Majors

Fun classes, crappy times. I hate having breaks between classes.

Reading Harry Potter in my British Literature Class : D

My final in my lit class is to write my own memoir.

I'm quickly realizing that my life has been painstakingly uneventful.

It's sick and twisted, but I love having a sunburn. 

This one lasted about a month.
Beautiful

Going home for the weekend

I'm very excited to see my kitten : D

It's beautiful and sunny outside,

but I'm going to stay inside The Batcave, blast Death Cab, and stress over finals which are only three weeks away.
Should be a productive day.

Sitting here calculating how poorly I can do on my exam tomorrow, while still getting a respectable grade for the class. Productive, I know.

Steve decorated my door with Post-Its.
"I love my Meggie Poo!" 

: D

When there is nothing left to burn you have to set yourself on fire.

This scar is a fleck on my porcelain skin
Tried to reach deep but you couldn't get in
Now you're outside me
You see all the beauty
Repent all your sin

It's nothing but time and a face that you lose
I chose to feel it and you couldn't choose
I'll write you a postcard
I'll send you the news
From a house down the road from real love...

We made Kugel for the first time in years!
It's probably my favorite dish ever (I'm not really sure if it is considered desert, a snack or meal, but we eat it for all of the above)!  

It's pasta, cottage cheese, sour cream, tons of butter, a dash of lemon juice and Frosted Flakes.
Sounds absolutely disgusting, but it is the most marvelous thing I have ever had. 

  

I had an amazing time with my best friend. For a while things have felt weird between us, we're growing up and realizing that all the plans we made might not happen. We will never go to the same college and live in the dorms together, we probably will never have an apartment together, and she probably won't be moving back to Pennsylvania in the foreseeable future. I think it was hard for both of us to come to terms with things, but now that we have we can go back to being our wonderful, silly selves.

Skipping Friday classes

and going to visit my best friend.
Normally skipping classes is a mortal sin in my book, but the semester is almost over and I have yet to miss any Friday classes. Plus I might not get a chance to see her again this year.
So yay!

It's like you're homesick for a place that doesn't even exist.

Your lack of compassion astounds me.

You swore you would never do it again, but even then I didn't believe you.

I'm in love with both dresses. I guess I'm going to have to wear one for the ceremony and one for the reception.

I just want to dive into a pool of fruit.

I dream

because there is no other way I can see it.

I wish I could chop all my hair off and still be happy with the way I look.
I wish I could stop wearing make up and still feel beautiful.

Damn you, society for making me feel this way.

I may never be happy,

but tonight I am content.

My best friend,

And the love of my life. 

Her Morning Elegance

And She fights for her life

As she puts on her coat

And she fights for her life on the train

She looks at the rain

As it pours

And she fights for her life

As she goes in a store

With a thought she has caught

By a thread

She pays for the bread

And She goes...

Nobody knows

In an incomprehensible way (at least to me) I can't wait to be pregnant. Creating a child with someone is so intimate, in a way completely different and opposite from intercourse. Two people are coming together and making a whole new person. I can't imagine how blissful that must be.
I can't wait for my belly to swell as the child grows inside me; I will gladly move aside so that my child can grow comfortably. I want to hold my baby for the first time, look into that tiny angelic face and know that I will always have someone to love, and I'll never be alone.

Sunday Morning by Wallace Stevens

1 Complacencies of the peignoir, and late Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair, And the green freedom of a cockatoo Upon a rug mingle to dissipate The holy hush of ancient sacrifice. She dreams a little, and she feels the dark Encroachment of that old catastrophe, As a calm darkens among water-lights. The pungent oranges and bright, green wings Seem things in some procession of the dead, Winding across wide water, without sound. The day is like wide water, without sound, Stilled for the passing of her dreaming feet Over the seas, to silent Palestine, Dominion of the blood and sepulchre. 2 Why should she give her bounty to the dead? What is divinity if it can come Only in silent shadows and in dreams? Shall she not find in comforts of the sun, In pungent fruit and bright green wings, or else In any balm or beauty of the earth, Things to be cherished like the thought of heaven? Divinity must live within herself: Passions of rain, or moods in falling snow; Grievings in loneliness, or unsubdued Elations when the forest blooms; gusty Emotions on wet roads on autumn nights; All pleasures and all pains, remembering The bough of summer and the winter branch. These are the measure destined for her soul. 3 Jove in the clouds had his inhuman birth. No mother suckled him, no sweet land gave Large-mannered motions to his mythy mind. He moved among us, as a muttering king, Magnificent, would move among his hinds, Until our blood, commingling, virginal, With heaven, brought such requital to desire The very hinds discerned it, in a star. Shall our blood fail? Or shall it come to be The blood of paradise? And shall the earth Seem all of paradise that we shall know? The sky will be much friendlier then than now, A part of labor and a part of pain, And next in glory to enduring love, Not this dividing and indifferent blue. 4 She says, 'I am content when wakened birds, Before they fly, test the reality Of misty fields, by their sweet questionings; But when the birds are gone, and their warm fields Return no more, where, then, is paradise?' There is not any haunt of prophecy, Nor any old chimera of the grave, Neither the golden underground, nor isle Melodious, where spirits gat them home, Nor visionary south, nor cloudy palm Remote on heaven's hill, that has endured As April's green endures; or will endure Like her remembrance of awakened birds, Or her desire for June and evening, tipped By the consummation of the swallow's wings. 5 She says, 'But in contentment I still feel The need of some imperishable bliss.' Death is the mother of beauty; hence from her, Alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams And our desires. Although she strews the leaves Of sure obliteration on our paths, The path sick sorrow took, the many paths Where triumph rang its brassy phrase, or love Whispered a little out of tenderness, She makes the willow shiver in the sun For maidens who were wont to sit and gaze Upon the grass, relinquished to their feet. She causes boys to pile new plums and pears On disregarded plate. The maidens taste And stray impassioned in the littering leaves. 6 Is there no change of death in paradise? Does ripe fruit never fall? Or do the boughs Hang always heavy in that perfect sky, Unchanging, yet so like our perishing earth, With rivers like our own that seek for seas They never find, the same receding shores That never touch with inarticulate pang? Why set pear upon those river-banks Or spice the shores with odors of the plum? Alas, that they should wear our colors there, The silken weavings of our afternoons, And pick the strings of our insipid lutes! Death is the mother of beauty, mystical, Within whose burning bosom we devise Our earthly mothers waiting, sleeplessly. 7 Supple and turbulent, a ring of men Shall chant in orgy on a summer morn Their boisterous devotion to the sun, Not as a god, but as a god might be, Naked among them, like a savage source. Their chant shall be a chant of paradise, Out of their blood, returning to the sky; And in their chant shall enter, voice by voice, The windy lake wherein their lord delights, The trees, like serafin, and echoing hills, That choir among themselves long afterward. They shall know well the heavenly fellowship Of men that perish and of summer morn. And whence they came and whither they shall go The dew upon their feet shall manifest. 8 She hears, upon that water without sound, A voice that cries, 'The tomb in Palestine Is not the porch of spirits lingering. It is the grave of Jesus, where he lay.' We live in an old chaos of the sun, Or old dependency of day and night, Or island solitude, unsponsored, free, Of that wide water, inescapable. Deer walk upon our mountains, and the quail Whistle about us their spontaneous cries; Sweet berries ripen in the wilderness; And, in the isolation of the sky, At evening, casual flocks of pigeons make Ambiguous undulations as they sink, Downward to darkness, on extended wings.

I'm reading this for my Lesbian and Gay Literature class, and I'm falling in love with it.
She mentions so many books throughout this graphic novel and I'm putting them all on my summer reading list.

Emma is probably my least favorite Austen heroine, but I still adore this novel. 

I'm going to shop in the mens department more often.

They have marvelously soft sweatpants.

I should not be trusted with sharp objects.

I somehow managed to slice off half my thumb nail while shaving my legs last night.

Mein kitten, Moxie

I want

to take a bubble bath.
I'd make a cup of tea.
Turn off the lights and light some candles.
Read Dostoevsky, getting lost in his twisted, yet genius mind. 
Fill the tub with water so hot my skin will steam; dump an abundance of sudsy soaps in the water.

However, taking a bath in a dorm doesn't sound very sanitary, it looks questionable to me. 

I miss summer quite terribly.

"Keep your face always toward the sunshine - and shadows will fall behind you."

-- Walt Whitman

I need you so much closer.

Sometimes

I forget just how much I don’t fit in. Ever.

And then Baaaaahhh goes the black sheep.