Things I Do Not Like

People who willfully cause pain to others.

Computer software with a trial period.

Ubuntu partitions that don't function.

Cellphones with diminished battery capacity.

Poorly written books.

Poorly written fan fiction.

Poorly written scientific papers.

My lab partners.

My scientific paper.

My inability to properly work a scanner.

The lack of image editing software on my computer.

My innate stinginess.

The fact that I still haven't practiced piano.

How loud my leg-twitching habit is.

Undercooked cookies.

My ex-not-boyfriend.

Mean people.

Whoever invented menstrual cramps.

Evolution deniers.

Feminist haters.

Feminist haters who argue incompetently.

People who talk faster than I can think.

College applications.

The fact that I am still obsessed with MIT (even Yale couldn't break me).

Headaches.

Menstrual cramps.

Menstrual cramps.

Menstrual cramps.

There Was No School Today

So I went shopping, and I bought this amazingly fuzzy sweatshirt, and these t-shirts. Then I went to the Y and swam, and I ran into Richard's mother, who apparently knows who I am, and it was rather awkward. Then I had a piano lesson, then I came home and read some more of American Gods and wrote back to Andy and ate dinner and read some more and used the computer and wrote a blog post.

Well, since that's rather boring, let's do another English event.

Feminine Irony is the title of this paper, and it exemplifies my ability to make all essays about feminism, religion, or both.

During the Elizabethan era, England had a female queen. However, this is ironic because, incongruously, women had no other power, and the queen kept her power frequently by repressing her own femininity. Isn't that fun?

For one thing, if Elizabeth got married, she couldn't be queen, which pretty much sucks. Also, I used the line about denying her femininity here, not in the first paragraph. Oops.

Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet demonstrates that those gosh-darned Elizabethan females were weak, powerless, and repressed. Juliet doesn't get to choose her own husband. Then she offs herself. That is not fun. It is not fun at all. It is, really quite tragic. When I saw the show with Nyx, I cried for a good half hour afterwards, and then we went home and talked about how sexy the guy playing Romeo looked shirtless. He really did look good. Probably about as good as Norman, this guy from California who's going to RSI next year who's using a picture of his entire swim team in swimsuits as his profile picture, and they all look rather, uh, nice. What was I talking about again? Oh, yeah, Lord Capulet is a dickwad, right.

Oh, also, I need historical research in this paper. So, check it out, women were property of their husbands, and I'm going to back it up with laws and literature. Is that some great consonance or what? Anyways, I'm not going to bother with that sort of thing. I'm well above it.

Queen Elizabeth's situation was unique. Life sucked for everyone else.

The funny thing about staying the same size is that nothing ever goes away

I stumble to the closet feeling as if I should be putting my pajamas back on rather than getting dressed. I smash my hand against the wall until I found the light switch and, squinting, I survey the overflowing buckets of clothing I started using a few years ago in order to keep my closet neat and tidy.

I take off what I’d slept in, a baggy tee from a middle school choir trip that had been worn to bed so many times that the conditioner from my hair had left a large white patch about the neckline. I don’t dwell on where the shirt had come from, don’t bother to send my mind back to getting whiplash on a rollercoaster and drinking myself sick with soda. It is far to early for reminiscing.

I reach into the drawer I keep my bras in, a drawer that is so full of underwear, underwire, and swimsuits that it no longer closes. I dig through it, searching for the practical skin-tone I bought last week. I skip past a bright blue bra, the first one I went to a store and bought, that, miraculously, still fits, despite its somewhat wretched appearance. I run a finger along its limp strap and considere walking into the store with my mother, blushing over the half-naked mannequins and trying to reason out why nearly every item in the store was emblazoned with the word “pink.”

I find the bra I’ve been looking for and put in on. I reach up for the t-shirt bin. I fumble through the softened cotton of the pink v-neck that I'd bought specifically to match the long lavender skirt I spent all of sixth grade dreaming of, the fuzzed print on the shirt that my sister and I both have, that we would wear together while bumping hips and laughing, and the thicker, double-printed fabric of the pink shirt I bought before freshman year, the shirt I was wearing on the day that I lay out on the grass in the sunlight, seeing words and hearing music, and noticed that, surprisingly, I was actually happy.

Happiness is nice, but, after handling the bra, I don’t want pink. I switch to the next bin. I reach past the stiff, ribbed fabric of the long sleeved white shirt I had on when I was sent home from school for being a danger to myself and others, a shirt that I defiantly wore regularly for two years before the memory had receded so far that the defiance was no longer needed, and I saw the shirt was so ugly I didn’t want to wear it in the first place. I discover, then, the thin yet fluffy fabric of the shirt I wore the first day of my freshman year, a shirt that my mother bought me for my thirteenth birthday simply because I said I liked it, a shirt that, every time I look in the mirror while wearing it, I still see my fourteen-year-old self reflected in the mirror in my grandparent’s bathroom, wearing the swirling blue shirt, trying to determine why it was that my grandfather, when looking at me, seemed only able to see that I was everything his favorite was not, with all of the intelligence that could get me to the places my grandfather dreamed of for him, but that he would never be able to reach. I resign myself to his ignorance and take the shirt out.

I reach up for a short black skirt that always brings me back to my first day of sophomore year, sitting in Music Theory, the backs of my thighs frozen against the too-cold seat, wishing that I’d had the foresight to wear pants, or leggings, or anything that could have kept the creeping cold from stretching all the way to my bones.

I remember this and open up a second drawer, this one with two pairs of tights. The first pair is flamingly red and so thin that I avoid touching them for fear of creating runs and destroying a gift from my grandmother. The second pair is gray; I got this pair for Christmas last year, and fell so madly in love that I spent the rest of my holiday vacation running about the house in them. Holding them, I can feel myself sinking back into the comfortable chair in front of the fire, watching the flames as Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer danced from the radio.

I sniff both pairs, testing for cleanliness. The grays have the same scent of laundry detergent the rest of my wardrobe does. Then I bring the reds to my face, and I am suddenly back in my grandmother’s house, standing in her closet, trying on the crazy old clothes, all my size, and dancing before the mirror. Then I am younger, every inch covered by her scarves, scarves that smell of the same closet and home and woman that the tights do, and I am twirling with my sisters to the music produced by a spinning record, and my grandmother is laughing and moving and twice my size, with her eyes whole and her hair long and her heart open to my own.

I slide my left foot into the tights and began to roll them up before I realize that, if I wear them and wash them and sweat in them and fill them with memories of my own, they will no longer be my grandmother’s tights. I remove my foot, roll the tights up, and return them to the back of the drawer.

I put on the gray tights, the short black skirt, and the tee-shirt that I loved freshman year. I put on the crumbling black sweatshirt that still bears the snags of adventure camp, that is still the only item I own that lets me feel fully protected from the little tiny pinpricks of mosquito legs that I still feel crawling beneath my skin in every dawn and dusk and wood. I slip into my piano flats, a pair that I wore for each performance of Beauty and the Beast, that I wore for every recital until I discovered that I could, in fact, pedal while wearing heels.

I pull the tights out one more time, inhaling the overwhelming sense of home, before leaving the closet behind.

No Matter Where You Go You Stay Where You Are

As some of my older readers know, when I am not in the mood to generate a current post, I reach into the past. For today, I'll go back to an old English mindbender, written on September 11th, 2008.

The Mindbender is: No matter how far you go, you stay where you are.

A Summary:

People are boring, and constant, and never ever change, and I think that whole concept is obnoxious. My introduction is only two sentences long because I am lazy. Also, I'm using the first person, because I'm cool like that.

The Palace Thief is a book. It involves a big Roman history competition and togas, but all anybody cares about is that Patrick Dempsey is in the movie. I suppose that I can let Cammie keep her weird George Clooney thing if I can have Dempsey. Anyways, the cheating boy in the competition grows up to be a cheating, good for nothing grown up. He stays where he is. Isn't that a great example?

I think the cheating boy is a dickwad. I'm going to try to pretend that he's an isolated dickwad.

Oh, darn, Sarah Bareilles says that people don't change either. Since it's set to music, she must be right. Wait- Sarah's actually talking about moving around in the literal sense. But it's a song, so we'll pretend that it's figurative.

People are always trying to change, so the mindbender is wrong. I know that it's actually right, but I am going to be an optimistic for as long as I possibly can.

The End

Interestingly, even though the mindbender was written on September 11th, I make no mention of September 11th, despite the fact that it is a somewhat important date. To see if I even thought about the historical significance (twin towers! ahhh!), I went through my old journals to find something. Below is my September 11th entry:

Still Crampy. Still bleeding profusely from my vagina. It is muy disgusto.

Mom's going to the hospital tomorrow to have her uterus scraped out. She has to be anesthesized and shit. It's kinda annoying, but standard procedure. Intellectually, I'm sure she'll be fine, but I can't shake this odd foreboding feeling.

Though that could be more related to my audition tomorrow. Turns out there'll probably be only one piano, so that guaranteed spot- basically unattainable. Not that I won't try, but I'm somewhat lacking, confidence wise.

But it's alright. Worst case, I'll apologize to the set painters for my illness and join up. I'll go once or twice a week and paint out my sorrows, then try not to cry when everyone walks out and they're having fun and Ryan is being sexy and wahhhh!!!!

Well, that did not help.

I need to go to sleep I'll try to dream of D (I think?) from music theory, and hope that Mario turns out to be wonderful (and takes the train).

See, better already.

As I'm sure you noticed, this, too, contains no mention of terrorists. My aversion to discussion of world disasters seems to have been present for at least a year.

Interestingly, the mindbender is saved as 5.doc, but is titled mindbender 4.

How very peculiar.

Fire

The general rule of thumb for youth group at my Unitarian Universalist church is that everything is better when you can light it on fire.

Today, we wrote what we are thankful for on index cards. My list went something like this.

• I am thankful that I am literate
• I am thankful that my classes at school are challenging, even though I'd prefer it if I had a little bit less homework.
• I am thankful that I can go to school.
• I am thankful that I didn't have school today.
• I am thankful for my awesome little sister.
• I am thankful for my other awesome little sister.
• I am thankful that I can read whatever books I want.
• I am thankful for math team.
• I am thankful for my friends, of course.
• I am thankful that both of my dogs are alive.
• I am thankful that I have a really nice piano.
• I am thankful that I have more things to be thankful for than fit on this index card.

Everyone else just wrote one or two things, like "friends" or "family." After we wrote them, we went outside and stood in a circle. Zuri, who had planned the worship, went inside to get matches. Those of use left outside tried to figure out why we were burning the things we were thankful for. I mean, I get it when it's things you're angry about, but I don't want the things I'm thankful for to go away. When Zuri came back out, she explained that it was because burning things is fun, and also so that we can let the gratitude wash over us with the smoke.

Unfortunately, index cards don't make a lot of smoke, but they do smell rather nice once charred.

Sweet Revenge

I woke up at 2 am to the beeping refrain of Mozart's Piano Sonata N. 16. Someone was calling me. I moaned and pulled myself out of bed, groping blindly for the phone, which seemed to be located somewhere on my keyboard. The phone stopped ringing, but I, being me, had to see who it was from.

"1 New Text- Kathrya," it said, but the "Happy Thanksgiving" text had been sent at 7 pm, and even if it was central time, it still shouldn't be that much later. It also said "1 missed call," and I thought that was also talking about Kathrya.

"Stupid not sleeping bitch," I grumbled. I turned off my phone and crawled back into bed.

At around 8:30 the next morning, I turned my phone back on and called the number that had woken me up.

They picked up on the first ring. "Hello?" the woman on the other end groaned, sounding hungover.

"Why the hell did you call me at 2 am?"

"What?"

"Why the hell did you call me at 2 am?"

"Who is this?"

"Tea."

"Who?"

"Tea."

"Who?"

"Wrong number," I said, and hung up.

A Payson Develops a Sense of Loss

The show is finally over. Guys and Dolls is kaput. All the free time on my hands may send me into shock. I played the guitar for the first time in two months today. Of course, I could only play for about two minutes, cause my calluses had disappeared and my fingers were tired and it just plain hurt. I also played piano for about an hour, but not Guys and Dolls stuff. Just Debussey sight-reading. It was glorious.

The final show went fabulously. The only snag was that one of the sax's light went out, but it was between numbers, and I passed him a bulb to replace it, because the bulbs are under the grand, but the fixture was too hot, so I just passed him an entirely new light set-up, and he managed to get the whole thing up and running by the time Havana started. Which is good, because the band teacher plays cowbells instead of her sax during that song, so he's doing double duty. He actually used to play maracas, but the band teacher took them away because she thought he was being overenthusiastic. This is coming from the woman who badly bangs the cowbells for the entire song while her facial expression resembles that of a child who has just discovered Christmas. Or Hanukka, if you want to roll that way.

When we got to the pit party, and it was just the two random saxes and Joanne and Cammie and I, we overcame the general awkwardness by dissolving into hysterics over the cowbells. When Ida showed up to the party at her house, she was incredibly confused by how much we were laughing.

We spent a good amount of time gossiping. (Why is Harry so grumpy? Nobody knows, but Morgan thinks his looks would be much improved if we attacked his hair with a weed-wacker. Why the hell is Emily still all over Spencer? He's out and proud, but they still hook up, even though she has a boyfriend. What fabulous flutist has a bit of a thing for a different fabulous flutist? The world may never know.) Anita and Richard tickled each other extensively. Cammie and I interrupted each other constantly. I begin to understand why Vicky thinks she talks a lot.

Also, there are photocopies of Eccentrius's face on the floor of the band room. I, for one, am simply thankful that he didn't go the traditional route and photocopy his ass. Or arse, as Joanne and her mum would say.

A final conversation with Harry:

Tea: I put your music with your bag.

Harry: Huh?

Tea: You left it in the pit.

Harry: Yeah

Tea: By the way good job on the second act

Harry: Yeah

Grumpy Bastard

Harry sits in the band room, glaring angrily at absolutely nothing, as the pit orchestra returns from playing the second act.

Tea sits down and looks at him, concerned. "Did you move that entire time?"

"Yeah. I played for a while." He nods towards the old upright with no high C and a permanently out of tune low F.

"Oh." Tea pauses, giving him a chance to continue, which Harry, being Harry, doesn't take. "It's just, it seems like every time I see you you're staring moodily into the distance."

"Yeah." He pauses. "I do that a lot."

Another pause.

"A hobby," says Tea.

"What?"

"It's like a hobby."

"Yeah."

Late Nights

I just got home, and I've barely even started my homework. So much for knocking out 5.1 during rehearsal.

That was, I think, the longest rehearsal of my life. Havana is my new worst enemy. And the entire thing just felt futile, since Harry and I are really only the backup pianos anyways. I won't even have to stay for the second act tomorrow.

Speaking of Harry, for some reason, he looks really, really cute in the light of those little music-reader thingies we use. I think it's because it highlights bone structure while rendering his greasy hair virtually invisible.

At least I've been getting on well with the clarinets behind me, Eccentrius and whats-his-name. Unfortunately, I probably won't get to sit with them again. Instead, the electric is front, center, right near the drum set, and not really good for conversation. Damn.

Late Nights

I haven't posted for the past two days because I didn't get home until after midnight, at which point I figured there really wasn't much point, since it was actually tomorrow.

As far as Friday goes, Harry and I had a lovely conversation about celeste cues during rehearsal. I think he's finally gotten the hang of standard speech. Now, I just have to work up enough guts to have a serious discussion about his excessive pedaling, which I really probably shouldn't, it's just that it doesn't sound good! The Fugue for Tin Horns is supposed to be bouncy! After all, it's a fugue, not a dirge.

Dirge was, by the way, an SAT word that I learned over the summer that was actually on the PSAT. It made me extremely happy.

Then, yesterday was Halloween. I went to Nyx's house and participated in delightful activities like "Soda Pong," which is, really, quite quaint. Then we went trick-or-treating, because, really, you can never be too old for that. At one point, Kathrya and Cammie were singing "He Had It Coming," or whatever it's called, from Caberet, as we approached a group of skankily dressed teens. Then, right when they finished, Chelsea and Selena attacked them with silly string and the entire group bolted.

Ginny, Lysander and I had been lagging, but we did our best to keep up. I went sprinting after Samurai Nyx, who was in front of me. The group we'd attacked made a good chase.

"Who are you? Wanna fight?" they called.

"Sure," I yelled over my shoulder. "We have one sword. What've you got."

They were silent for a moment before someone yelled, "Nothing. Nice pants, though!"

"Thanks!"

Could use some volt right about now

I'm so busy practicing for Guys and Dolls at the moment that I really don't have time to write a coherent post. So, I'll leave you with a paragraph I wrote freshman year about just how loverly piano playing is.

There is also power in the music I create myself. I play the piano constantly. I am currently learning Rachmaninoff’s Prelude in C# minor. It starts with three low fff triple octaves, then changes to ppp chords, each one with six notes, played by two hands with overlapping thumbs. The song stays quiet, switching between overlaps and octaves. It then shifts into a stream of triplets, twelve per measure. It is extraordinarily difficult, but even with my limited ability, I can still feel the melancholy tone as I play. Sharps, double sharps, and minor chords create a sadness that is reversed with a measure in D major before descending back into minor notes. No matter how jumpy I feel at its start, the song calms me as it plods along. I like the way the piece sounds, but I mostly enjoy the feeling it inspires within me.

That's the prelude I stopped playing last year after Harry got into orchestra for playing it. After that, I just felt inferior every time I practiced, and it was causing issues, so I moved onto brighter pastures, like Beethoven.

Day in Twenty Small Steps

1) Woke up

2) Got dressed, remembering to close door in case visitors were awake

3) Had cereal for breakfast, just like I do every other day of the year

4) Drove to high school for PSAT/NMSQTs

5) Parked a mile away from the building because I was afraid that staff parking still gets ticketed on Saturdays

6) Went to testing room with Nyx, Kathrya, Gretchen, Julie, and others, and spent an hour filling out the identification form

7) Freaked out about not having a non-mechanical pencil

8) Took test using mechanical pencil anyways

9) Finished twenty minutes early, got proctor's attention, and told him that he was planning on giving us 35 minutes for a 25 minute section

10) Watched the people in speedier classrooms leave through window in doorway

11) Lunch with Nyx

12) Watched first TV show in two weeks, the episode of America's Next Top Model from the week before last

13) Piano lesson

14) Babysat neighbors

15) Called mother and asked her to bring me fuzzy socks because mine got wet and my feet were cold

16) Was mildly disappointed that the hot older brother of said neighbors didn't call again

17) Did math packets until I was too cold and tired to continue

18) Watched Legally Blonde to distract myself from the cold

19) Convinced father of neighbors to only walk me to the end of his driveway, thus ending the awkward conversations during the walk to my house

20) Wrote blog post

Ohmygawd

I am far too sleepy after the college presentation thing (UVA, Johns Hopkins, and Northwestern) to post much of anything. Also, Dad was talking to me in the car on the way back about how I really should play piano for more things once the show's over, but that I'm really fine, and I shouldn't be freaking out over everything. Well, Dad, I only freak out when you tell me I need to join more clubs and play piano more and do anything other than continue to take life one day at a time. Honestly, talking about boys on the way over was far more fun then talking about schools on the way back. Next time, I'm totally bringing Mom.

Ohmygawd, I am, like, so totally sorry that I couldn't post more, but, omygawd, my blackberry was taking forever to load- i mean, like ten seconds, ohmygawd- and i just like couldn't deal and I had to check Cosmo, and ohmygawd, ohmygawd, ohmygawd.

I Hate Titles

Nyx's over, and I don't want to bore her by making her watch me write, which is, if you think about it, almost as boring as watching me play piano, although not quite as boring as golf.

Still, I feel that, since I went all the way to New York and, in the process, formed a considerable volume of new experiences ripe for the sharing, I ought to say at least something.

Nyx has just reminded me that the above paragraph constitutes something.

Goodnight.

P.S. OMG JULIE YOU DIDN'T TELL ME YOU WERE GOING TO BE ON THE TV TRIVIA SHOW THING!!!!

Sighting

Now that OFM is over, I am going to have to continuously struggle to prevent myself from simply using this blog as a medium to record Mario sightings and the various short, pointless conversations that ensue.

In fabulous news, I made pit orchestra for Guys and Dolls! I'm so excited. I'm sharing the piano part with Harry (I'd apparently nicknamed him already. Who knew?). I'll have to talk with him to decide who gets to play what. Getting him to talk should be interesting to say the least. He isn't exactly gregarious. The whole "I'm now going to have to talk to this guy I don't know" situation reminds me of last year, when I first started taking the train with Mario and was regularly freaking out over how awkward it was.

Also, I've begun studying SAT words. My word for today is disparage, which means belittle. For instance, after hearing that Rachel was going to the dance with Mario, I made many disparaging comments about her, trying to make her seem less important.

My funny story is actually from a few days ago. Actually, I lied, it was only yesterday. I was walking with Avon and someone else (I think it was Red, but that doesn't really make sense, since she isn't in Spanish, so it may have actually been someone else, but I really think that it wasn't Julie or Gretchen, and I'm not sure who else I would have been walking with, since it was definitely a girl) after Spanish. We were headed towards the bridge. I had my weird Mario-is-nearby sensor go off a little bit, but I assumed it was a false positive (considering the fact that it hasn't been wrong yet, I should probably stop doing that). Then I realized that I had a physics test next period and was walking in the wrong direction. I did a 180 and headed back towards the stairs and lo and behold, Mario was actually behind me. We both said hi, I passed him, and then about a millisecond later, I ran head on into a senior girl who gave me a very dirty look.

Mi Casa No Es Su Casa

My house isn't your house, extended family members, and I would really like to have my space back.

Well, my cousins aren't that bad. Now that the one with Down's Syndrome who breaks/clogs/loses everything she touches (I love her, but DON'T TOUCH THAT COMPUTER!) is gone, things are a lot calmer. Also, I have my room to myself tonight, which is truly a blessing.

At least I'm home, and my shower actually works and my bed is comfortable and my piano is lovely (even if my fingers are so out of shape I can't play for more than a 20 minute block).

A prophecy written on July 17th, before fourth grade.

"The music holds and endless gift

Better together than divided

In wish to stop an endless plight

the 3 must be reunited.

Do you like it?

answer here:

"

The funny part is, I actually expected the journal to answer. The handful of entries are all written in magic marker, and are full of spelling errors.

Also, here is my idea of a more somber entry:

Dear Journal,

Last week was thaniversory of Sept. 11. The thin I don't get is why I didn't feel sad. I was more annoyed that people seemed to celebrate death. Oh, that reminds me, Dad got laser eye surgery, and now he doesn't wear glasses anymore. He doesn't look different to me though.

From,

Tea

I have absolutely no idea why Sept. 11 reminded me of laser eye surgery.

Dartmouth

Oh my goshness. You will not believe who I saw at Dartmouth. Actually, on second thought, you totally will. On my list of people who would be looking at colleges right now, he's one of the top ones. Anyways, I'll give the rundown of the tour first, and you can wonder about who he is until I reach him.

First thing this morning, the whole family piled into the car and we drove about forty minutes to the campus, then Mom took the car and parked and the rest of us went looking for the admissions center. We found it fairly easily, and I, of course, immediately went looking for the bathroom. As I went looking, three different people pointed me in the right direction without me even having to ask. It was so nice and friendly (dontcha know). Then we went up the stairs and went into a room for the orientation/talking part. A Chinese woman (and I say she was Chinese because she said that she majored in Chinese, not just using Chinese as a euphemism for Asian. I suppose, for all I know, she could have actually not been Chinese, and just studied it, but most likely...) who looked a bit like Bette gave this whole talk about how Dartmouth works, with the classes after Sophomore year taking place during the summer, and four ten-week terms during the year, of which each student takes three, and study abroad programs for credit, and internships for students, and faculty availability, and on and on and on about all of this awesome awesome stuff. Shelby was bored out of her mind, but I thought it was all fascinating.

Then we went outside and formed tour guide groups. Two girls and two guys introduced themselves. The first one was a neuroscience major, the next was also a neuroscience major, and he was on the ski team. The other guy was majoring in Geography, and then the last girl said she studied math and computer science and played piano in a chamber group. When they told us to break into groups, Mom poked me. "Where to?"

"Math major!" I said, walking over there. The geography major called after us, "where are you going? You don't want to join my tour?"

"I let her pick," said my Mom, and that was that.

The tour guide began by asking us to warn her before she walked into anything, which she often does, and I pretty much liked her from there. She talked more about the school, and the classes, and the good food, and the diverse political leanings of the student body, and that New Hampshire is a swing state, so political candidates come through, and there are GRAND PIANOS (OMG) in practice rooms for whoever wants them, pretty much, and the science facilities are great, and undergrads participate in research, and performances at the art center, and so much else. The one thing I don't like is that 55% of the population is involved in the Greek system, and she said that during fall of sophomore year, when that 55% is rushing, it sure can feel like a lot, but one you remember that there are plenty of other people who aren't involved, and that all Greek events are open to the public, it's really not that bad. Anyways, I know it's freezing all winter, and the social scene may not be perfect, but I love it. The whole school. Right now, I want to go there rather badly. I hope I don't fall in love with every school I visit, because I feel like that would be a bit of a problem.

Oh, anyways, after the tour, as I was leaving, I saw Boris. "Tea!" he said.

"Boris!" I responded.

"Tea was in my math and science research class last year," he said, slowly, as usual. Then our parents talked for a bit, (Boris was a rowing camp! And we just had to stop by!) his mom seemed nice, but he spent the entire time inching away towards the door. Maybe this means he'll stop trying to talk to me. After he was out of earshot, I said to Mom. "That's the guy who talks really slow."

"Oh!" said Genie, "I remember him."

"He seemed like he wanted to get away," said Mom.

"Yeah. Pretty much. It's funny, cause we're generally pretty friendly, I just don't like him very much."

"You don't?"

"He's irritating."

So anyways, I saw Boris, and I still find him irritating, and I saw Dartmouth, and I loved it.

Busy Me

I've been writing my butt off for the U.S. portfolio, so I don't really have a full post in me. Instead, you can have a few messed up quotes from last year's theater homework. First is my writing about Beauty and the Beast, which I only viewed from the pit orchestra, where I was playing. However, I was still required to write a lengthy analysis of the production.

The first question, required a summary. I wrote most of it, then added "At that point, the show segues into 40 pages of constant music. I was unable to see much else until right at the end, when Belle tells the beast she loves him, and the spell is broken, reverting him and the others to their natural forms."

• "In my corner, I could only really hear strings, the drum set, and the louder brass notes. However, I could tell that we improved greatly during the rehearsal process, and complemented the actors by the end of it. However, we could have been quieter." (this is a reference to the brass section in particular, who enjoyed blowing my eardrums when I sat over there)
  
• "The spotlights on the speaking characters on the wraparound that caused sun spots on my eyes if I happened to look up were undoubtably bright enough to draw the audiences attention."
  
• "The pit orchestra was often unconcentrated" (we had too much pulp, apparently)
  
• In response to a question asking who I admired in the production. "As a member of the pit, I saw very little of the actors or the technicians. However, I did admire some my fellow pit people. The one I was able to see the most was Harry, the keyboard II, who sat directly in front of me. I admired how focused he was. He talked very little, instead concentrating on his music. When my keyboard was unplugged by an overzealous cellist, and I accidently flipped off his trying to turn it back on, he managed to continue playing and not get lost, unlike me, who missed the entirety of Be Our Guest trying to catch up."
  
• "My least favorite moment in the play was in the Gaston reprise. I had to play octave As with my right hand extremely quietly, while staying on tempo. Unfortunately, my amp was far about 6 feet away from me, and I couldn’t hear myself. This made it immensely difficult to stay on the same tempo as the bases, who were right next to me, and I ended up not playing the As at all."
  
• "The fog during the transformation smelled bad."
  

From Romeo and Juliet, which I wrote a second paper on, later in the year, I leave you with one quote

"Forming styrofoam bricks using a cheese grater is surprisingly time consuming."

SAT-IIs

I'm taking the Math II next weekend. I just did a practice test today, and it took me an hour and a half. Definitely not a good sign. I'm going to blame my current state of illness and the fact that the practice tests are harder than the real ones. Hopefully that's it.

In other news, I got to honk the horn today. Well, actually, Mom leaned over and honked it when we were in a parking lot and some idiot decided that he could back up through our car. Fortunately, he didn't succeed.

I also decoupaged a binder for presenting our U.S. story. Beautiful, no? The newsprint is a bit more wrinkled than I would have liked, but I haven't done a collage in a while, and I'd say that it's still passable.

Also, my piano teacher has decided that I have a composer's ear and should learn to write songs. My response was, "Ummmm.....uhhhhhh....maybe?" He's also decided that I should write a musical, and my assignment for this week was to develop a plot. The best that I've got so far is a high school senior who fakes her own kidnapping because she doesn't want to go to college, gets a job doing- well, something. I haven't quite decided yet. She falls for a guy who is following the exact path her parents want for her, but refuses to admit it, instead staying with an idiot stoner type. Then- um, well, I haven't thought through the rest. I'm pretty much just bouncing ideas around at the moment, hoping to hit something inspirational.

At best, it beats the one I thought up some time in eighth grade, in which a young man finds out that he's going to die in six months, and pretty much sets out to get laid. He succeeds relatively quickly, but when the romantic entanglements start, he panics and leaves, not wanting to saddle a girl he actually likes with his death. He decides to try to save himself, and, if he succeeds, he'll go back to her. A creepy doctor has something that will prevent cell death, so he uses some, then takes a number of them home to his ex-girlfriend's house, intent on getting back together. She, who has turned to drugs in his absence, takes a needle and shoots up, but she immediately starts writhing on the floor. She stops breathing, and the man decides to commit suicide to be with her. However, due to the injections, both become zombies, and the show culminates with the smash hit song "Zombies in Love"

Pure genius, let me tell you.

I'm still waiting.

Vacation

I don't have school this week, and while the respite has been utterly blissful, I have been somewhat neglecting of this blog. Instead, I've been reading a lot (Speaker for the Dead, Epic, Saga, Sovay, and a couple more that were so horrific I won't mention them here). I've also been practicing guitar a lot. I got this gorgeous slim-body acoustic electric for my birthday, so now I have to learn to play it a little better. So far, I've got my A, D, E, C, and G chords down, and I'm working on F, A minor, D minor, and an E dominant seventh. For piano, I've just begun the final page of Beethoven's Pastorale Sonata, and it is, of course, the hardest part of the piece. This is quite an accomplishment, considering the face that the piece is 25 minutes long when performed at tempo. It takes me FOREVER to practice, but I love it.