c'est la vie.

The Senior Scramble is a very real phenomenon; and refers to a much broader context than getting hooked-up, engaged and married by May. The SS refers to scrambling for some tangible survival plan for post-college life. Which is why I sit here, staring at my computer screen, writing a resume--and wondering, "Hmmm...what have I done that is worthwhile during the past four years?" Considering I don't have a major, worthwhile things are difficult to prove. Marketing myself as a jack-of-all trade (conveniantly omitting the "master of none" clause) will simply have to suffice. One day--perhaps--it will be nice to have life semi-figured out, to cease nomadic tendencies, to settle, and to have complete direction for my life. Likely, I'll be hallucinating on LSD on a street corner if I ever actually think I've gotten to this point.

Konstantine [Live]

so i know ann and no one else in this blog. lol. but i'm sure they're cool if they're at all like my ann renee! anyways, i like music and songs -- specifically lyrics -- and now i will post a very, very long song. it's 10 min 30 sec long, in fact. and sad. but beautiful.

I can't imagine all the people that you know
and the places that you go
when the lights are turned down low
and I don't understand all the things you've seen
but I'm slipping in between
you and your big dreams
it's always you in my big dreams

did you know I miss you?
God I miss you

and then you bring me home
and we go to sleep
but this time not alone
no
and you kiss me in your living room
oh
and you see
no
what I've been missing in my living room
’cause it's all you
yeah
this is what I've missed
what I miss

we don't have much room
I said does anybody really need that room?
because we all need a little bit of room
to live

my Konstantine

-- Something Corporate

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new post

why is it that i can post on this site?

1984

The 80s: ruffles, poofs, velvet and big hair. Happily those days are over, and we have 'improved' our fashion sense to include short shirts, tight tank tops and miniature mini skirts--the more minimal the clothing, the better. To demonstrate the hideousness of the '80s, Kara and I scrounged around for monstrous makeup and gold shoes, discovering how we would have looked had we been 21 years of age 21 years ago. The picture indicates our discovery...

fairytale world.

Directionally dysfunctional,
She stumbles down a twisted path,
Wandering up to a gingerbread house.
Different than the one she remembers from fairytales,
It's made of strawberry cigars and apple-flavoured Smirnoff bottles,
But it will do.

Flopping down against the house,
She plucks a cigar from roof
And pulls a bottle from the siding.
The once perfect house
Has cracks now
And starts crumbling.

Just like her.


ps. Arcade Fire CD cover...see http://www.arcadefire.com/yope.html to hear their music.

a mild mistake.

An example of what happens late at night behind the doors of Southview 404: While Amanda waxed her legs, one room mate (who will remain unnamed) in an attempt to procrastinate from Astronomy, decided to borrow some wax for her eyebrows. The directions, read afterwards, state, “Do not use on eyebrows.” This particular room mate learned why this is so, as she is currently partially missing an eyebrow.

jellybeans.

This jellybean jar sits on our kitchen counter. This jar is my Stress Gage. Note how the jellybeans are nearing the bottom of the jar. Stress=sugar=jellybeans. Red and yellow, pink and green—the enticing colours allure me, as if eating them will somehow allow me to see life in rainbow colours, instead of the grey cloud of confusion called Life. Oh dear. I am becoming philosophical about jellybeans. I have officially hit an all-time low. Time for more jellybeans...

regarding the military and knitting.

[sigh]. Getting kicked out of a coffee shop that didn’t know how to make a properly foamed cappuccino could have left Rachel and me frost-bitten and hunched beside a garbage dumpster down a dark alley (a thought honestly contemplated) in Sioux City. Fortunately for Rachel’s idolatrous lust for wool and knitting needles, we stumbled upon a little shop decorated with $4 000 worth of IKEA merchandise and a motherly manager, who invited us in from the cold to read the “Stitch and Bitch” knitting book. Her husband came along and tried to recruit me into the military. This proposition, although kind of him, was hindered by two problems: I am not American and I am staunchly NOT Republican. Even so, they directed us to Rebo, a relaxed, properly ambienced restaurant, which was wonderfully conducive to a Heineken, a taco and a good conversation.
[aside: And speaking of Heineken, I realized tonight that I can only order beer in French or in British English, neither of which helped to clear up confusion between the waitress and myself when I asked for a pint. I learned, however, and can now order beer properly in 3 countries.]

Dead.

I walked past a dead body last term. Sometimes, I can't get him out of my mind. There he was: propped up against a store door. Just him. No one around but an ambulance guy. No blood. No life. Just a sunken, half-smashed face; skin paler than a regular Brit--and vacant eyes. A little lopsided, like a rag-doll flung and forgotten. To me he is nameless. We share no history. I can walk on by, my life unaffected.

Yup. He's dead. Just like the billions before him. "So what?" I think callously. But I want to vomit.

He represents the universal human. Billions have died before him. But seeing his eyes wide open, watching me--this lone corpse--I stared at Death. In one human, I saw all humans.

His mutually souless and soulful stare--I want to forget it. But I hope I always remember. In that stare he accussed me of the crime of robbing life. Were I the corpse and not the passerby, to what would my life have amounted? A pile a books. A pile of hours in a library. A pile of brains, splattered, not shared.

Adam became a living Nephesh. Death reigned from the time of Adam. We weren't created to die. If we weren't created to die, what were we created to do?

Love.

Love God. Love His creation. Love every person you walk past. Love. Is love life? Is life love? Who ever lives in Love, lives in God. To live is Christ. To die is gain. I no longer live. Christi lives in me. Love.

Death puts Life into perspective.