I’ve changed the layout. (Actually, the changed layout isn’t that drastic.) This is Version 1.2; the above pic is of an astrolabe.

I feel like an ignoramous whenever I fall asleep in a lecture class. Sometimes the lecturer is boring, but more often than not, the room is dark because the prof is using a slide projector. I guess I conk out because my brain is thinking “night time”. Or maybe it’s because I’ve stayed up the previous night working.

I was amused when I ran across this particular personality test. Which Greek Goddess are you? I got Athena. I actually know somebody who’s named Athena–although she doesn’t look like one. What I found funny is that my name is actually Greek for “goddess”–specifically one of the Titans in mythology–so I’ve always known which one I was.

Here are some news links I didn’t get to put up yesterday:

Texas woman gets life sentence for confining malnourished 8-year-old in closet. I’m never surprised by horror stories anymore. Maybe I’ve become desensitized through reading, whatever little television that I do watch, and the movies. But that dosen’t mean that I don’t think this is wrong. I know that the definition for normalcy is a fuzzy line, but for some things, it is obvious. In this case, I see no justification for these people’s actions. Because they’ve abused another human being, they have no right to call themselves human beings, let alone “parents”. Unfortunately, there are plenty of other similar cases out there I can do nothing about them.

Buttocks Implants for the Small-Seated. Oh, so now women want to enlarge their butts? I don’t understand why people have to change themselves to fit current whims on beauty. Why do people place so much importance on outward appearance? I find it empty. Some of the beautiful/handsome people I’ve met were complete jerks–perhaps because they could get anything they wanted with their looks. Personally, I don’t find myself agonizing on whether I’m attractive or not–maybe because I’ve built up a thick skin from all the insults (direct or subtle) I’ve gotten–I don’t care what others think.

On a similar note: What Men Really Love About Women’s Bodies. Normally I would ignore these “self-help” articles, but this one reminded me of a comment that bubblehead girl once remarked, “All the guys [at Tech] don’t like girls with bigger bones or curves. They all like skinny girls. Or Asian girls.” This is a rather hypocritical comment considering that she is currently engaged to an ex-Techer (he graduated two years ago) and has guys hitting on her all the time. I’ve also been “trolling” around to see what male bloggers think of this article. Basically all I see is, “Women, pay attention to this! We men do like females who are confident about themselves!” Maybe I’m just paranoid, but I think most of them are lying. Perhaps they’re just being politically correct in saying that they like women for who they are and not how they look. Or maybe this article written by a hack of a psychologist is trying to give unrealistic confidence to women in the first place.

But then of course, I could be over-analyzing everything. Grr. Damn messed up human sociology.

We are stuck in the computer lab attempting to finish our senior page for the yearbook. I hate photoshop, especially when on deadlines. However, there are some of our pictures on the web at Parakeet’s homepage. Feel free to make fun of us.

I’m so happy today. I found two (yes, two!) holes in the floor for my cello endpin to rest on.

I despise rambling. Especially for the sake of making noise because the rambler can’t stand a quiet room. Noise has its place elsewhere, like construction sites or presidential speeches. In other places, I would rather rest my ears than pollute them with senseless racket.

So I got the following e-mailed to me today:

Stephen King will bow out of writing for publication when five books, including a collection of short stories, are completed, he told an interviewer from the Los Angeles Times. Two of the volumes are scheduled for 2002. Vowing never to go back and rehash material from previous books, he will adhere to the old vaudeville adage of “Always leave them laughing when you say good-bye.”

I don’t understand. Why would a writer just give up writing? Writing, I think, is supposed to be a compulsive terminal disease. You can never get rid of it. If he still wants to write for publication, why doesn’t he just switch genres? He could start writing romance novels or children’s books. Maybe he could try non-fiction. Better yet, how about cook books? I’d bet he would make great competition–Martha Stewart would start quaking in her boots instead of trying to decorate them.

After a really good downpour, everything looks clearer as if I had been watching black and white my whole life and now suddenly my surroundings are in technicolor. The colors themselves are darker, not like the colors when it is twilight (because then the colors are muted and smudged like bad eyeliner) but like the brilliant hues in a painting. The colors are rich like the chocolate death logs the incompetent cafeteria staff pass off as dessert.

I look up and find the sky a burgundy ocher because there is cloud cover. Occasionally it breaks and there’s a dark gash like a ravine. I don’t see stars though. The air is too thick with moisture to see such distant things clearly. I can notice the smell too, very earthy and woodsy. For a few scant moments, I am transported away from the daily drudgery that is called reality.

The grass is so green and cold. But that green is naturally muted. It’s nothing like the grass on commencement day–because that grass is spray-painted to perfection.

Last night it rained. There’s something oppressive about water falling from the sky. Is it a sense of drowning that causes a psychological handicap for the rest of the day? Something must be happening; there must be a correlation between pounding headaches and being forced to stay inside to breathe stale uncirculated air. And I wonder, why can’t I have more time?

I dreamed of schools and school buses and people backing out of parking lots. And it was night.

Time wasting links:
Names
Googlewacking
What font are you? Wowie! You are Redensek! You are techy yet cute, and pretty much all around cool. Everyone loves you! You’re fun, popular, and can mold yourself to fit right in to any situation.

I am seriously thinking of redesigning this site. I mean, a complete overhaul. Yet I don’t have any ideas.

Which Care Bear are you? Grumpy Bear

This is really scary. Or maybe I’m just naive.

Unfortunately, there’s no way to have people to not “judge a book by its cover” or more importantly distinguish what is reality and what is not. It’s like my view on cross-dressing. I personally don’t care how people dress. Yeah, it may be strange and unconventional, but that doesn’t affect who that person is. It’s not harming anyone. Writing fiction is the same way. Certain genres or subjects may not sit well with the entrenched beliefs of the reader but that’s not hurting anyone. True, it might be stretching your mind a bit, but what’s the harm in that?

I’m just sorely disappointed that some people can’t look further than the icing on the cake–or even worse, find the icing the sole thing that is of importance.

I discovered one of those bargain basement discount bookstores while walking along Lake Avenue. It’s called Crowne Books. In fact, it’s right next to Borders. I went in, not really expecting anything of interest–for some reason, commercial bookstores have begun to bore me. Everything is predictable and everything is a bestseller. Everything is trash disguised in glossy attractive packaging. So I was very surprised when I found a copy of The Forgetting Room sitting among a pile of discarded hardback fiction. This book is by Nick Bantock, a graphic artist/author who is best known for his Griffin and Sabine trilogy. Now don’t go away thinking that this is a children’s picture book because it isn’t. It’s more like a puzzle book for grown-ups. Oh, and did I mention that I got this for five bucks?