I vanished for a while; surely I've been up to something interesting.
...hmm, surely I can think of something... Let me just fish around in my memory a bit.....
....
What day is it?
GIF found on reactiongifs.us
In all seriousness, though, what have I been doing? And why did I disappear yet again?
Well, in short, I ran out of things to talk about.
Actually, I ran out of things to talk about, then when I did have something to talk about I ran out of time. An observant reader might point to NaNoWriMo as the source of my busyness. However, my novel remains gloriously unwritten in lieu of a screenplay and college essays. Speaking of these essays, I'm quite pleased with how one turned out and shall probably post it shortly. (Hint: it involves my sojourn in Kansas.)
As I have several deadlines ominously wielding machetes in the distance, I must cut this short. Good luck to my fellow senior citizens. I mean, we're seniors in high school, at least, though I suppose our lack of a career negates any retirement money we could try to claim, barring time travel, of course. Or something like that.
Millions of people experienced that day in different ways, sometimes crossing paths with others in the infinte spiderweb of socialization.
However, that day, the day before yesterday was a Thursday, which is somewhat more comforting than the existential crisis inspired by the previous sentence.
Ordinarily this information, this Thursdayness would slip by largely unnoticed, except perhaps by those who draw hope from the day's nearness to the weekend. However, the Thursday in particular rises from the mediocre deeps in that it was The First Day of Fall. Or Autumn, I suppose; contrary to popular belief, some Americans do in fact refer to the season by the latter name, instead of the more common (and more literal) first.
Speaking of fall (and of taking things literally, I suppose), do you know how hard it was to resist beginning with a Sherlock GIF? Ah, the perks of attempting to stay family-friendly.... Surely my characters are rising up to denounce my hypocrisy of not taking the opportunity to make a violent pun. I sense pitchforks in my immediate future. Sometimes I'm afraid the figments of my own imagination, but I doubt a incorporeal being could skewer me with aforementioned farming implement. Besides, if something is fictional it can't exactly weep over the death of Sherlock Holmes. My characters have enough problems of their own to cry about, like the death of [censored for spoilers]. But I guess sometimes they do wish to tell their dead friends....
Image found on Tumblr. Sherlock is BBC property; I, an American,
claim none of it
Great, now half the readership is hopelessly confused and the other half is crying on the floor. Spectacular job, Elizabeth.
Let's switch from falls of the Reichenbach nature to the falls of the pumpkin spice latte nature. Which reminds me... why is that particular sort of coffee both venerated and ridiculed above all other ridiculously overpriced beverages? Sure, I would probably fight someone over pumpkin pie, but over a $5 drink saturated with 1,000,000 kilograms of sugar... I'm confused.
Disclaimer: the author has never tried a pumpkin spice latte, despite the fact that she has a Starbucks less than 5 minutes from her house. She realizes she may have offended the entirety of the internet and fears...nothing. And yes, she used the metric system even though she's a hopelessly pale American. Fight her.
I think I'm having an existential crisis about coffee now. Perhaps later I'll pen a pseudo-philosophical rant about the cliches tied into Starbucks.
For now, though, I'll add it to the list of things I intend to do but probably will forget about five minutes later. Whatever doesn't guilt-trip you into doing it gets put off until you forget about it. But at least this time I'm procrastinating by doing something somewhat useful, which is... probably good? Surprisingly, though, I'm not procrastinating writing an essay; actually, I've been assigned no essay this semester (yet at least). So, I decided to fill that gap in my schedule by sharing tips on how to do something I haven't properly done in... years?
After sitting down at one's computer (an essential first step, though I shan't judge you if you choose to exercise your Right to American Freedom and Stand Tall and Proud. Or Short and Proud, depending on the circumstances), there are many ways to go about writing a paper, which I have organized into a List. I'm most certainly being productive if I'm making lists.
1. Bang one's head against the keyboard repeatedly. Let spellcheck lend some feeble sense of order to the garbled mess. Format it properly. Turn the atrocity in. Cry.
2. Copy and paste the whole thing from Wikipedia. Pray the professor hasn't heard of said website and takes you at your word. Or Word. Microsoft Word. If you dislike puns or hate Microsoft even more than you hate actually writing essays, you've probably murdered me by now.
3. Write it all at 4 a.m. the night before it's due, fueled by coffee, Redbull, and deep-seated hatred for the American education system. Is passing the class really worth it?
4. Behave like the responsible human being everyone believes you to be and start the assignment as soon as you receive it. Budget your time well. End up actually sleeping instead of crying the night away.
Why is it that nobody, nobody chooses the last option? Are we lazy? Are we perfectionists? Are we hopeless procrastinators doomed to flunk out of college and spend our lives flipping "burgers" and protesting minimum wage laws with hopelessly misspelled signs?
As I lack a satisfactory answer, I shall blame everything on Habits. They say it takes a month to form a habit; I wonder how many essays one could write in a month, given that Alexander Hamilton wrote...
Wait, no; if I'm to reference the $10 founding father I must do it properly.
*deep breath* HAMILTON. WROTE. THE OTHER FIFTY ONE.
I'm not remotely sorry. However, if you're here for Hamilton puns, I'm afraid you're just going to have to Wait for It.
*historical chortling*
Besides essays and expensive coffee, fall has quite a variety of occurances to warrant the mass rejoicing over the death of summer--and, by extension, the death of mosquitoes. Warm drinks, sweaters, Halloween (a.k.a. Reformation Day, depending on which way you look at it--I wonder how hard it would be to carve the 95 Theses into a Jack-o-lantern), Thanksgiving, the Beginning of the Christmas Season, and...
Nanowrimo.
Time to decide which character(s) will proverbially get it.
*devious cackling* *sudden realization and existential crisis about joking about destroying characters* *because characters carry shards of one's soul* *and to kill them off sometimes says something deep about you* *but it makes readers cry* *and sometimes makes a point* *and so we do it* *and now I need to stop before I rant for another paragraph, entirely in asterisks* *and so* *goodnight*
A month without having the luxury of being able to type out my thoughts with ten fingers.
A month with wifi being oh so maddeningly close, yet tantalizingly unavaible.
A month without a fully function laptop.
A month where anything resembling writing did nothing but accumulate proverbial dust.
A.
Month.
Do you want to see the math for exactly how long I was deprived? I figured out how many hamburgers Canada could produce using all its 13+ million cows; figuring out how many seconds are in a month should be a piece of cake--Beef cake. (Is that a thing? Would anyone eat a baked good constructed from the tasty remains of cattle?) But my calculator is on the other side of the room, and I don't feel like going to get it, especially since "Burn" from Hamilton is playing. Poor Eliza... ALEXANDER WHY DID YOU CHEAT ON YOUR WIFE. WHY.
Note to self: giving up on graphic design and using comic sans is always an option.
Or, of course, you could use shorter titles.
...nah.
*ahem* Anyway, why was I without a computer for so long? Well... Essentially, my laptop emulated Taylor Swift and decided to never ever get back together with my wifi. Well, at least for the agonizingly long time of, roughly, a month. But that month has passed, and, just like celebrity relationships, the mysterious problem has vanished. The magic of the reunion is credited wholly to the efforts of my long-suffering grandfather, who is fluent the language of the computers. Meanwhile, I can occasionally garble a few phrases with the help of the quasi-omniscient Google. However, lack of reliable internet changes the search engine from quasi-omniscient to quite out of reach. Staring at the Google Chrome icon, needing answers but unable to obtain them is like wandering through the desert, the ever-present empty promise of the mirage looming so close, so close... Except when one's computer has a maddeningly mysterious problem, instead of dying of dehydration, one merely screams and defenestrates the stubborn device. I was sorely tempted to chuck my laptop in pool, but that would have merely ruined my computer, giving me only a Dell rolling in the deep (end).
I know. I'm not sure whether I should be proud or Very, Very Ashamed.
Anyway...one might wonder what did I do in my long sojourn without a laptop. Sit and stare at the ceiling in the grip of one of the longest existential crises I've ever experienced?
I mean yeah, I did, but that's not all I did. Just most of it.
Organized people tend to make lists of things they've done or plan to do. I am not an organized person, but shall act the part. Imitation is said to be the sincerest form of flattery; perhaps if I flatter the organized people enough they'll teach me their ways.
1. Milligan Fine Arts camp.
Ah yes; I went back. The déjà vu was real. At least this time I had some clue of what I was doing and didn't freak out about actually socializing with other humans. Well, not as much, at any rate. The introvert corner was mostly unoccupied, though I did accidentally hide in my dorm room a few times. Here, have a few of the 1,000+ pictures I took.
This year I probably successfully confused the heck out of my teachers by registering with my first name and then going by my middle name. Also, I experienced firsthand why it's hard to convince photographers to interview people, and realized that my camera doesn't automatically turn off when I accidentally leave it on all day. The death of the battery was more tragic and unexpected than many of my characters' untimely ends. SPEAKING OF WHICH:
2. My story suddenly and dramatically switched genres.
No, not Sylv's story; the other one I've already written twice. You know, the horrendously cliche high fantasy that I'm tempted to delete just to put it out of its misery. You know the stereotypical teenaged protagonist? The one that had unique and original and glittery healing powers? Well... she's kind of a gangster now. A smol, cheerful gangster who really likes pastel colors. How did this happen? What switch flicked in my brain to encourage switching from high fantasy to modern...um....
Hmm.
What genre even is it now?
On which shelves would the zombie-like creatures of the library's night shift place this theoretical novel?
Surely...
Surely it wouldn't fall under romance.
None of my characters have or ever will fall in love during the course of my stories. Ever.
...well...
I mean... I do have an entire Pinterest board devoted to a, um...a pair of...two young...
....
Nah. Surely it doesn't count.
....
No. I'm still keeping my theoretical promise to myself. They definitely do not fall in love. No romance to be seen in this novel, thank you very much.
Besides, it's completely one sided. The guy needs the pain of rejection in order to grow... needs it more than he needs to get the girl.
....
...wait.
....
*horrified screaming* 3. My brother started a blog.
Yes. Look. It's shiny and new and he has a better color scheme going than I do. Encourage him. http://thefledgelingphoenix.blogspot.com/ 4. I missed the Sherlock season 4 trailer.
Do I need to elaborate?
It feels surreal...there can't be new Sherlock in the not-impossibly-distant future. It's impossible. The hiatus has consumed the BBC...there can't....I can't....
I can't. The entire internet can't. Send help and a decent psychiatrist.
I take no financial responsibility for any psychiatric bills or overindulgence in Ben and Jerry's. Perhaps a pun would lighten the mood? Prevent things from coming to that?
*ahem* Well, Moriarty is ReichenBACK, my friends. Surely you didn't FALL for that.
...why is everybody suddenly crying?
....
Well. Okay. Oops.
Anyway. Back to quasi-seriousness.
I don't remember what else I did (besides making fanart for my own story), so thus the list dies a proverbial death. I have been at least somewhat productive since re-obtaining the internet; the Wandering Typewriter is shiny and new and updated. Plus there's more space to organize things. Space. Heh. That was bad--hopefully not bad enough to warrant a chair being flung in my direction. Wait... Please put it down; I have characters to make suffer.
*a dodge occurs that would put ninjas to shame. No, really--look at them cringing. Wait...you can't look...they're ninjas. Oops*
ANYWAY, at least now I have my computer back so I can procrastinate that much more easily. The stars have truly aligned. Speaking of stars, LOOK AT MY NEW BACKGROUND I'M SO HAPPYYY :D!!!!!!
*the excess of exclamation points fades into the nearly ever-present void of indifference that is both the internet and my facial expression, and the monologue ends, as every sentence does, in a split second of silence*
Last post ended with a vague picture, promising future elaboration. I do very well intend on elaborating, because the vague picture was taken from the inside of a metal tube of death an airplane taking me towards a life-changing week (in Kansas). That's all I shall say at the moment, because I'd have to get emotional in my descriptions, and, though that's been getting easier lately, I have business to take care of. Actual, serious business, in the form of three announcements.
Firstly, the Wandering Typewriter has stooped to the clicheity of actually getting a Facebook page. *dodges the various semirotten vegetables hurled towards the aforementioned social website* I know, I know; but my friends on Facebook probably don't appreciate being spammed with blogging stuff (like I update often enough to actually overwhelm people with content), and a Facebook page contributes to some degree of Officialness. Plus it's forcing me to learn some marketing skills , which I'll need if I ever actually publish a book. And so, wade amidst the slight travesty that is Facebook, and like the page. If you will. If not, I will resign myself to a life bereft of all readers, and force my cats to listen to whatever sort of thing crawls out of my mind at 2 am (which is usually a death scene, or something my twisted self deems comedy. Sometimes the two intertwine with very satisfying results.)
Secondly, though she has kindly linked to my blog as a source of inspiration (something I'm still shocked about), I never linked back to hers. And so, behold.
Thirdly, I have the beginnings of an idea. Well, not the beginnings of the idea itself; more like the beginnings of the motivation I'll need to actually follow through with it. I'm considering posting some of my "actual writing", meaning writing that isn't sarcastic commentary on small life events. A...journal, of sorts, detailing the life of a certain archer. (No, not Hawkeye. Still haven't seen a Marvel film; I can't exactly write fanfiction.) Would I get an entire new variety of rotten vegetables thrown at me if I did this? Would it be anticipated with much curiosity? Would it fade into the depths of mediocrity that is the fate of much online fiction? Who knows. I care, though--and am curious as to the opinion of the multitudes.
Aaaaaaaaaand........
...really? I posted two days after the Fourth of July, the Most American of holidays, and only discussed strictly dry, dull orders of business without mentioning any events? Am I hoping to mesmerize people with my mediocrities?
No.
Instead of actually working on my novel (or the theoretical blog-story), I created commentary from the Main Character himself. Sylvester Glass. And yes, I'm ignoring the screams of horror and continuing on my merry way. (For some reason I've started accidentally alliterating lately--I'm not sure if I should apologize or relish it. Also, to any British person reading the following: I am so sorry for any accidentally horrendous caricature. Blame everything on Sylv, even though Sylv sounds suspiciously similar to me, sometimes.)
Fireworks. It was the Chinese who invented them, the history books reemphasize, along with the tale of inimitable virtue that is George Washington and his apple tree--or was it a pear tree? I want to guess orange, but despite the heat that metaphorically slaps me in the face whenever I visit that esteemed state of America, I don't think citrus fruits can successfully bear....fruit. Eh; whatever particular variety, the wood decayed centuries ago. I'm British; I have an excuse not to care. Perhaps I should pour myself a cup of tea, in solemn remembrance of the tea you lot DUMPED IN THE BLOODY HARBOR. I think I understand the sentiment behind it, but think of all the poor souls deprived of such a life-giving commodity. What did the tea ever do to you? To be fair, the tax would incite resentment, but to take out your anger on innocent crates of the priceless leaves... Hundreds of years have passed and it still shocks and pains me to my very core. I would say soul, but Anastasia has commented on my lack of such many times. Speaking of which, in the fear of beginning to sound like my dear colleague Ms. Forsyth (or is it Mrs. Washington now? Eh... I suppose she's both, if you look at the time-space continuum in its unbroken wholeness), I shall return to my original topic: pyrotechnics. The Fourth of July. It captures the essence of the American caricature: an excess of processed food mixed with sheer, mindless destruction. Well, that might be a harsh description... perhaps I'm just jealous. And to be fair, fireworks aren't intended to be destructive (their original uses aside). Alas, intentions fade to the pain of reality, which can be both figurative and literal in this case, as thousands are injured each year due to the (albeit sometimes unintentional) misuses of fireworks. May the poor souls of the limbs untimely explod'd away rest in peace--or perhaps I should say in pieces? Well, despite the excessive but expected injuries, the Fourth of July is a marvelous excuse to blow things up for the sheer joy of destruction. Well.... that probably isn't the reason for the traditional pyrotechnics... Why does one shoot fireworks on holidays? Did someone think, "Hmm..... let's celebrate these happy events by risking our lives and potential future hearing abilities! Better yet, let's spend frightful amounts for that very purpose, and hopefully disturb everyone within three kilometers while we're at it!" I suppose that very few indulge in this thought process when they go out to purchase the paper-wrapped gunpowder death sticks. For many, fireworks are a display of joy and thanksgiving, or a way to take out their destructive impulses without harming anything (except perhaps the silence around them). When it comes to small children, though, gunpowder might not be the best option to sate their craving for stimulation--which is why many reasonably concerned parents don't let them touch anything beyond a flaming stick that spits thousands of sparks. Oh well; sparklers are pretty--the proverb says that we can always find beauty in pain, hmm? Besides, the mysteriously semi-omnipresent coolers provide conveniently cold water for any non-traumatic burns. But I digress. The Fourth isn't about gunpowder and the inevitable burns, nor is it about the surpluses of greasy but delicious, violently American food. It's about remembering how America discovered she's a strong, independent country who don't need no king. Or queen. Or DARK PRINCE. Which is why I don't live in America--I, the DARK PRINCE, know when I'm not wanted. Knowledge and action are two different concepts, however. Perhaps that's why I visit so often... more often than anyone thinks, suspects, or dreams. For there are dreams that cannot be, and storms we cannot--wait, wrong country, wrong century, wrong language. Though I suppose the flag is red, white, and blue... Oh well... I shan't waste anymore of anyone's time; time to dispose of all the leftover fireworks in a gloriously violent way. Wait, that's illegal, you say? Well, so was destroying a cargo of tea and signing such an earth-shaking breakup letter; see what that disregard of laws and loyalties let to. Tragically, my bendings of the rules seem only to lead in pain, usually because someone gets overly annoyed and stabs me. Which is quite rude. Farewell until our next beautifully unexpected meeting, Sylvester Glass Dark Prince of Generic'lee Fantasia
There I realized that the only real point of hanging around one's friends is being able to follow them around, shoot them (with a camera), and therefore end up with extraordinarily dramatic photos which are rather perfect for blog pictures. Without further ado, then, allow me to relate the awkward and mildly terrifying experience of constantly being around 130+ people for over a week.
Reminiscing is a bit difficult when the week passed in a blur of caffeine and lectures. I suppose it was sort of like college? Or at least the internet's portrayal of college, which I sincerely hope is exaggerated. *glances at next semester with equal parts curiosity and deep foreboding* We didn't lose that much sleep, I suppose. But the campus at which the conference was held is quite the quintessential Tennessee landscape.
...which means the hills waged a continual war against one's leg muscles.
(The would normally be a pictorial example here, but I neglected to take many pictures besides the one with text slapped on it.)
As I am a writer as well as a homeschooler, I don't tend to...go outside much. And even if I did, it would be rather difficult to tell, as for some reason my skin remains at a cadaver-like paleness even after prolonged exposure to the death rays we call sunlight.
Top hats. I'm supposed to talk about top hats.
Top hats are beautiful things. They make one look quite sophisticated (or intentionally ridiculous) with minimal effort. They are large enough to hide small objects or animals in, but not large enough to cause difficulty in crowds or doorways. (See sombreros for a theoretical example.)
The also can make one look quite villainous. Perhaps I'm biased due to Sylvester's (who has been taking over my thought processes lately--story for another blog post) corrupting influence, but something about the black silhouette, paired with a suit... Instant sophistication. And so many villains attempt to be sophisticated that it's almost a trope of its own.
Why do villains try to look sophisticated? Why is it that the man in the suit and tie and dark sunglasses (seen in every action or disaster movie) is almost universally recognized instantly as the bad guy? Is it a critique on capitalism? Is it an attempt by the villain or the story teller to disguise or contrast the ugliness of the villain's actions with the perfection of their attire?
Meh. I think it's just to screw with people's heads. Because enough people are confused by the odd headgear to make it quite easy to carry out one's "evil" plans.
Top hats do have their disadvantages, though. They attract notice, but sometimes that notice is slightly unwelcome. For instance, when I had to read my novel excerpt aloud and my critique group leader noticed my top hat and thought I should be the very first to go, because...
Well.
I can't give away everything at once, can I?
Perhaps I shan't write about the context of the above headgear predicament, and leave all you citizens of the interwebs in manageable suspense that shan't keep you awake at night.
Nah... I actually have emotions about said event. I'll probably write about them.
I also probably shouldn't be so vague, but being dark and mysterious is something I strive for, even though the aforementioned event isn't anything spectacular to the outside onlooker. One hint, though....
I want story that contains a society in which having wings is normal, and, being normal, are reduced to the normality of other appendages. For example, one could tap someone on the shoulder with the tip of one's wing to get their attention, since wings are usually longer than arms are and make excellent instruments of poking. Or one could work out to get stronger wings to fly longer distances. Because it takes an incredible amount of muscle power to even fly a short distance and only the fit people could likely fly very far.
Perhaps one would have wings that match one's personality; like the nerdy professor has owl like wings. Or contradict; the macho weightlifter has sparkly pink wings.
Just...
Wings.
(And no, I did not steal this from a popular Tumblr post. I'm just overly excited.)
After abandoning the draft of this post for several weeks, I started thinking about how I apply this weird enthusiasm to a story. Thus, the obvious came to mind: fairies.
When I was little I loved fairies. I had multiple fairy dolls, costumes, and some tiny figurines I had to use extra care with because they were just so fragile. Much like the fairies themselves. And humans, too, but we don't often realize how fragile we are, possibly because we, unlike fairy figurines, don't have breakable plastic wings.
I firmly believed in them until I was four or five, I think. Though I stopped believing in them, I don't think I ever really stopped liking them (a short, induced tomboy stage aside). Liking my perception of them, I mean. True, I shifted interests to more "grown up" fantasy creatures and concepts--Tolkien's elves, for example. (I won an argument with my teacher once, concerning whether or not Gandalf was a Maia, bringing in the Silmarillion to back me up. But that's bragging, and a rather boring story on my end of things.)
But why are the fairy stories always included or written towards the juvenile side of things? (Well, unless you count the side of people who actually believe in them and in magic....and produce books that reflect such things....I am not one of those people. Just a disclaimer.) The fairy legends are so dark; I don't understand why the creatures are included in children's stories as the sparkling embodiments of hope and caffeine. If one were to meet an actual fairy portrayed in many of the legends, it wouldn't be a dream come true. One would grab one's iron implement of choice or hold in shaking hands one of the plants said to repel fairies, or take the wiser route and run away screaming. (It's rather useless to bargain with or beg for mercy from the demonic embodiment of mischief.) Why are they relegated to the juvenile side of American media? (I'm looking at you, '90s-early 2000s Barbie fairy movies. WHY DO YOU EXIST, and why did eight year old me like you so much. If I watched you now it would be to mock you, unless it was the one in which Tom Hiddleston voice acts the villain. In that case I'd watch it to hear Tom Hiddleston sing. And no, that's not an endorsement. I merely wish everyone to be made aware of the fact that TOM HIDDLESTON AKA ONE OF THE MOST COMPLICATED MARVEL VILLAINS AND AN ACCLAIMED SHAKESPEAREAN ACTOR IS A VOICE ACTOR IN A FAIRY MOVIE.) Is it because our young nation lacks the centuries-in-the-brewing superstitious lore that Europe is steeped in? Have we all been brainwashed by the American media to expect pastel hyperness? Is the Illuminati hiding some key secret to the human psyche that could unravel the very fabric of the universe if it was discovered and exploited??
Also, why is there so little variety in fairy stories (at least in America). why are there no fairy dystopias? And few modern fairy stories? (Forgive the homeschoolism if I'm missing a wildly popular book or series that includes fairies in a modern setting. Perhaps Artemis Fowl is an obvious example, but I know next to nothing about it besides the fact it exists.) Why does a human always have to save the fairy world? Why do fairies always tend to speak in high pitched voices? Why are they so darn cheerful all the time? Where are their personalities outside of cliche niches and terrible song lyrics? Why do humans have to save extraordinarily powerful magical beings from the Dark Powers? If the fairies can't handle it then why could a human, usually an angsty human teenager, possibly expect to be taken seriously? Why is everything saved through the Power of Friendship, which is the True Magic All Fairies Seem to Forget About? Why do people forget about the changelings? Why do people romanticize changelings? Why aren't there any emo fairies??
(Wait, wait; I remembered an exception to some of the cliches: N. D. Wilson's 100 Cupboards books. Go read them. The first one's slow but the foreshadowing is beautiful. And no, I'm not getting paid to endorse it. And yet I still endorse it.)
But that's the only series I can think of at the moment that takes an not commonly taken spin on fairies. All that's coming to mind are the memories of childhood movies and stereotypes and cliches. (Though cliches can be useful, which is a rant for another time.) I've heard these things are better in Britain--yet another reason why I should Forget About the Silly Notion of Education and Move to Scotland. Anyway, despite the fact that Sylvester's story has a deadline attached to it now, and Tinumali's story is simmering in the proverbial back of my mind, begging to be written....
Do you ever have a moment where your brains feel like it's about to ooze out your ears for no apparent reason?
Perhaps you're Roland, a once-living and slightly legendary example of why it's a bad idea to play brass. (I'm fully aware that probably only 2% of the readership shall laugh. Please comment if you did indeed laugh, or used any of the various ways of expressing amusement, including exhaling slightly louder than one normally would, so we can be weird minorities together.)
Or perhaps the brain-ooze is caused by reflecting on life, planning for the future, having an existential crisis about the color of one's eyes and the concept of favorite colors...
Well...perhaps the latter brain-melting thought is special to my mind alone. But when I began this post, I was musing on missed opportunities. And...treachery? Yes. The INTP's mind works in mysterious ways. The real trouble is figuring out how to make those mysterious ways actually applicable to reality.
Missed opportunities themselves are not usually insignificant. They generally speak a lot about who you are as a person, and what sort of decisions you make. Sometimes, they're completely accidental, and you're left to fume in mediocrity.
Other times, they're ridiculous enough to make you question all your minor life choices.
Recently, I had to give a speech on whether or not treachery should be a capital crime. (I shan't elaborate, but it mainly consisted of me wearing a bow tie and arguing with myself throughout most of the speech. Ah well; the class seemed to enjoy it ((meaning they stayed awake)) despite lack of preparation on my part.) But as I was finishing writing the said speech, I realized I committed a horrible oversight: I didn't reference a Star Wars meme even though I had the perfect opportunity to. Oh the unforgivable sin... I suppose you could say I'm a...
...traitor B). And yes, you may laugh at my use of the cool sunglasses emoji. I'm not ashamed in the least. Perhaps I've been in Sylv's head for too long...
Well, missing an opportunity to reference Star Wars is quite the tragedy. But closer to home is the fact that I completely forgot to celebrate the birthday of this esteemed Wandering Typewriter.
*single tear falls off the pale face of our narrator and finds its rest on a dusty "V" key*
Anyway, happy birthday to this blog. *throws confetti and assorted weapons*I may not be terribly consistent, but at least I'm not like the writers of Sherlock; the esteemed readers get a post more than one every two years. Though I probably shouldn't say that, in case the next hiatus stretches extra long.
I'm supposed to be studying. I even have a hot, sweet, comforting cup of tea nearby to give me strength. However, I made the mistake of choosing a Star Wars mug, and as I stare at the faces of the characters, my textbook metaphorically screaming at me in the background, the thought(s) attack my mind and refuse to leave:
Did Kylo Ren throw temper tantrums over chemistry homework? And what sort of chemistry did they teach a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away??
The answers are yes, and I'm not certain. And yet the questions still scamper about the ol' cranium, wreaking havoc on intellectual productivity.
Words. I'm supposed to excel in finding the right ones and putting them in the right order. I'm a writer; it's what I do when I'm not researching what sort of weapon causes what sort of wound and when the refrigerator was invented.
I'm also not supposed to have emotions. I'm an INTP; it's what I do. Well, what I do when I'm not acting like this:
Image probably found on Pinterest.
If you don't know which comic I'm referencing, you shall be thrown out the window in a most undignified manner.
Lately I've been reminded that words are actually quite hard to find, and emotions are something I posses. (Wow, look at the passive voice in that sentence; my judgmental Shakespeare finger puppet is glaring at me in utmost disapproval.) That to say, I don't really have much to say this Thursday. Perhaps I'll give an update on what things I'm doing.
...
I'm taking the ACT soon.
...
I've been listening to a lot of Twenty One Pilots lately?
Alright, I'll admit. My life is currently horrifically boring to blog about. Well, actually some of it isn't, but that portion is the portion I'd rather not paste all over the Internet.
...here, have a horribly timed picture of Watson yawning.
We tend to have wacky weather in Tennessee. By wacky I mean it can be comfortably in the 60s one week, and snowing the next. Sometimes the aforementioned variation takes place in the span of a few days, rather than weeks. One would think, with all our wacky weather, snow wouldn't phase us in the least. We'd merely attach makeshift snowplows to our cars, rev up the engine, and go about our business as usual.
Unfortunately, we don't live in a perfect world, or even a hypothetical world. (Or do we? Would we know if our world was hypothetical?) More unfortunately, snow days don't apply to homeschoolers.
Ah yes. Snow days. Such a magical blessing of the weather provides the setting for many classic movies; at least, that's what I've been told. Being a homeschooler, I wouldn't know from experience.
...are two homeschooler jokes too much for one blog post? Perhaps. 'Tis a question that could inspire a whole unit study, or, at the very least, an essay. I blame my education for my tendency for accidentally write the said essays.
*ahem* Anyway. Even though I experience the blessing of being able to do schoolwork in my pajamas (though the fact that I can doesn't mean I do it), I don't think I'm too badly set in the ways of awkwardness that seem to follow homeschoolers around like an evil snow cloud. I have friends...I think. I think I quote BBC Sherlock far too much for this to seem like a reasonable assumption.
GIF found on Tumblr
I also like to think I'm somewhat of a rebel. I drank tea on national coffee day, I didn't go sledding when it snowed (instead, I took ominous pictures in black and white), and I still haven't seen the new Star Wars (though hopefully that shall be corrected tomorrow). Also, I forgot to build a snowman, possibly because an animated Disney princess didn't ask me to via song. Pity....especially if in doing so, I could have fashioned minions like these:
...Doctor Who creates nightmare fuel like nothing else does. It also does a decent job of tearing one's heart to pieces and stealing one's sanity, though Sherlock is better at both.
Speaking of BBC Sherlock....
...no. This post has too many tangents already. Besides, even though we've had a new Sherlock episode for nearly a month now, I doubt I could express my opinions on it in any way other than punching the keyboard randomly and uncontrollably. Like so: aslkjkljlkjJASLDKFJASLJK;L. Quite expressive, hmm? Impossible to pronounce and beyond the feeblest clutches of logic, but expressive nonetheless.
Well... this was supposed to be about snow. Instead, it became a long ramble about nothing in particular, without even the title of "novel" to paint a thin excuse of sanity on the nonsense. It might be about homeschooling. It might also, more subtlely, be a study in the mind of a cabin fever-ridden INTP. Or merely.....lack of tea and warmth.
Well. I hope everyone had a lovely Christmas. I know I did. The holiday itself was rather quiet, which was nice, especially after all the pandemonium in the weeks (and months) leading up to it. It felt a bit odd, though, for it to be over so quickly. Months of anticipation, weeks of preparation (or procrastinating on preparing), days and days and days of listening to Christmas music... and it's over in two days. Then one is left to wander around in shock, searching for one's life (and the meaning to it), until New Year's, when things finally begin to settle back to hectic normality. Anticlimatic much?
Obviously, Christmas comes and goes every year. I've had sixteen long years to come to terms with this fact of life, and usually I don't pay much heed to it. But this year it hit me a bit harder than most. Perhaps it was due to the fact that I was immersed in the physical manifestation of the metaphorical Christmas spirit (aka, being forced to hear and/or sing the same few Christmas songs over and over) since the beginning of November. Late October, if one counts auditions. Or maybe it was due to the 70°F weather we had. In either case, I was rather busy, and missed a beautiful opportunity to use yet another Sherlock Christmas gif on this blog:
GIF found on Pinterest
But, at last, I think I've regained the scattered pieces of my soul, dusted them off, and proceeded on with my life in a completely disorganized relatively orderly fashion.
....oh. There was supposed to be a point to this post, wasn't there? Twould be a pity to leave my painstakingly crafted graphic design to lie forgotten in an abandoned folder... I'm not an Ebenezer Scrooge, am I?
I've forgotten where I found this image. But it is intended to be humorous in that
I insist on using it as a profile picture throughout the year. Don't judge me.
