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Oh these halcyon college days that are anything but; I find myself enraptured by them, sucked sideways and backward into academia's sweet nexus, and lulled into oblivion by the matronly arms of Mother Education. Oh, to inhabit at last an ivory tower!
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Does anyone here know what a lipogram is? It's a piece of literature in which the author uses no E's at all. Not even one E. I had to write a 1 page one for my fiction seminar, so here goes . . .
"It's not that I can't quit, Mary, it's that I just don't want to."
My lips pull back into an impish grin as I light a virgin Marlboro - my fifth this morning.
"Anyway, I'm not doing anything wrong. I'm just choosing my own poison."
I drag hard, pulling tobacco hungrily into my lungs, and hold back a cough. Mary frowns.
"But your bronchitis, Sarah, I don't think you should . . ."
"Oh shut up. Stop playing mom. As if you know what's right for all your pals. I'm familiar with your drinking habits. What about cirrosis, huh? I don't call you on that."
"I'm just . . . I worry about you, that's all. Your lungs don't sound too good."
I turn away and puff again, muffling a bout of moist, hacking spasms with my hand. A familiar flavor - part iron, part microbial swill - blossoms in my throat. I spit slyly into a hanky. My god, I think. Look at that. Crimson. Last night, it was only light pink.
Mary, noticing my discomfort, puts a bony hand on my back.
"You must stop smoking, Sarah. I'm not kidding. I'm too damn fond of you to watch you cough up blood on a daily basis"
"Alright," I say, brushing Mary's hand off my body as if it was a scrap of rubbish torn from it's trashcan by a gust of wind. I shift right and flick my cig into a patch of ground ivy. "I'll cut back. Christ, I'll go so far as to quit. Happy now? Starting this instant, no Marlboros."
"What about Winstons?" says Mary, smiling wryly at my brand distinction. Damn. That girl truly knows my tactics.
"ok, how's this - no tobacco at all."
Mary nods, savoring victory, calls Jason, and abandons our chat in favor of romantic gratification. That's ok, I think, I don't mind. Waiting for isolation, I watch Mary stroll out of sight; as soon as I am on my own, I light my sixth Marlborlo.
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I hate everything today. I'm sick, tired, coughing up fluid in every color of the rainbow, and just HAPPENED to get my cell phone jacked last night. That phone is my life. Within its memory is stored an entire lifetime of phone numbers, which are now quite possibly lost to me forever.
I've tried calling it a few times, but no one ever picks it up. They've stolen it from me. They will abuse it. It's all over now.
Friends will call it, expecting to find me. They will resent my silence. I will cower in my room, waiting for someone to alieviate my alienation, but no one ever will . . .
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This little sepulcher cough, he
Claws my chst with a petulant wheeze;
I shudder
and struggle to breath,
Each crackling gasp
A mere tease that seeps
At a pace that makes my
Diaphragm seize
Feeble fists to my ribs
Hands and knees to
Floor to chair
To wall to bed
I ease into sheets
And despair
*hacks up bloody sputum*
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Random Thoughts
My Women's Studies class is load of crap. If I want to study a woman, all I have to do is peel off my clothes and stand in front of a mirror.
Anyone who tells me that the Washington Redskins should keep their name on grounds of tradition should be violently raped by a wildebeast. If their name was the Washington Darkies, there would have been a riot by now.
Ah darling, your love is like a puffs kleenex - with lotion and vitamin e - unto the red, chapped, and cracking nostril of my heart. Let me be metalic detail paint on your D&D miniatures.
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~College haikus~
Droning professor
His soporific discourse
Fosters apathy
The weekend hookup:
A perfect expression
Of imperfect virtue
Where are my parents?
Oh yes, I'm an adult now.
Bring on the beer bong!
3am paper
Born of panic, written at
Dawn; a sure C-
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Read this first: split brain experiments
Cognative psychology rocks. At last, everything makes sense. While researching split brain experiments, I recognized a similarity to one my own cognative anomalies - the "muse" that produces all of my creative ideas. You see, when come up with a good story, poem, etc, it pops into my head fully-born; I am compelled at that instict to write it down as fast as I can. (Seldom, if ever, do I sit down with the intention to write and produce anything of merit.) Funny thing is, when i look back over my good work, I don't recognize it. It's not something I would suspect myself capable of producing. Stranger yet, when I read it aloud to myself, I DO feel recognition and even an immense sense of satisfaction for having created it. How queer!
Theory: my right brain sits around all day coming up with witty little ditties and occasionally telegraphs them to my left brain (who posesses the lingual centers) in a frantic attempt to be heard and recognized. Yes I still have my corpus callosum, but it seems that each hemisphere is more independant than usual.
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I couldn't sleep last night, and, as fortune would have it, neither could my friend Rebecca. Together, we went on a 4am jaunt to the stone ledge which surrounds our dorm for an alfresco tete-a-tete. Alas, to our dismay, we realized upon attempting to reenter the dorm that both of us had neglected to bring a key card. Beaumont house is, without a doubt, the most impenetrable building ever built by a human hand. Every window wore a security lock which prevented it from opening beyond a meager hand-width. None of our friends could be roused by a hail of rocks and sticks thrown desperately at the thick glass of their bedroom windows. None of my credit cards could, by some fluke of technology, trip the door's magnetic sensor. At last, Rebecca and I, defeated, trudged to the campus police station and begged the officer on duty to let us in to our beds. My head struck the pillow at 5am.
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A friend of mine, after reading some of my more disparaging poetry, remarked that one must truly feel tortured by the human condition to be an artist. With a smile, I replied: "To capture sorrow, one must possess sorrow. To capture joy, one must possess sorrow."
No matter how doleful such a proclamation may appear, I did not intend to sound angstful or self-pitying. Artistic impetus, in my opinion, derives nourishment from a certain clarity of experience. A life without loss, without pain, without a single streak of utter desolation, lacks the dynamic contrast necessary to invoke one's muse.
It is by immersing oneself in darkness that one grows sensitive to light, and by forging a familiarity with darkness that one discovers how little light she actually requires to survive.
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Summer came, and summer went, and all too soon my days were spent. I left for St. Louis one dismal August morning at the crack of dawn, leaving behind friends, family, and a fuck-load of history. My father and I drove all the way there in my family's conversion van, piled high with a welter of useless crap which would soon be crammed into a single dorm the size of a cloakroom.
But it is my own private cloakroom, and I love it very very much. If I had a roomate, I would probably go insane. That said, my cloakroom frequently and unceremoniously becomes the center of social action. I've had as many as 10 people in here at a time, and the more the merrier! How I adore being surrounded by my new friends at all hours!
And friends I have, in abundance. Washinton University is full of fine, bright, varied individuals, many of which i find extremely pleasant. All is well.
My classes please me sufficiently. A few even elate me. My schedual consists of psychology, writing, women's studies, and cinema in varied proportions.
More later, i tire.
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*cough* Testing testing
YES, the biznitch is back on line!
Keep your eyes peeled for a special COLLEGE UPDATE!
until then, feast on this.
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