Hello, my lovelies.

This evening I was watching Dateline and 20/20 (apparently Gray Goose vodka is way overrated) with my parents (Mm hmm, it’s a Friday night and I’m with the old folks at home, sad, I know). Well, the local news came on after. Personally, I hate local news. It’s rarely informing, mostly just an obits parade. First whatever crappy footage of the crash, shooting or wreck Skychopper Somethingorother managed to catch and then sound bites of relative, friends, or neighbors who always thought the victim had a shifty look to them. I swear to god, all the stations have the exact same footage- they must share it.  So there’s never actually any real news in local news- just a chance to oogle at how tragic other people’s lives are. That’s my main reason for avoiding it, that and the news casters unfailingly atrocious hair and loudly colored blazers.

But on thins particular night the remote was just out of arm’s reach and I was too lazy to move. Wish I had bothered, ignorance is, as they say, bliss.

The Rev Fred Phelps’s name caught my attention. Phelps is an asshole- this is a matter of fact, not my opinion. When a young gay man was brutally, brutally murdered in Wyoming, Ol’ Freddy and his supporters were at the funeral with “God HATE fags!” and “Faggots burn in hell!” 

 I snapped out of my black olive and pepperoni pizza induced stupor, bracing myself for whatever new act of assholery Phelps and his flunkies were up to.  The camera focused in on a funeral where a ragtag group of protesters were carrying signs and wearing t-shirts and nasty expressions.

Oh, god, not another funeral, I thought. Has he no shame or sense of decency? So much for ‘don’t speak ill of the dead’.

But who’s funeral, you ask. A feminist maybe? Perhaps a godless atheist or some heathen pagans.

Nope. Not even close.

A young soldier who’d died in combat. Fighting for his country. Protecting the free world and The American Way and whatnot.

…..Say wha’…..?    I, too, was taken a little aback. Normally the Christian Right bleeds red, white, and blue (not in the French way).

The logic was this: America has abandoned god (I kinda thought we always had separation of church and state going on…but whatevs), Spc. Edward Myers (who was buried with full honors) fought for a godless country. Therefore he’s burning in hell.

Charming, isn’t it? Maybe his young wife and two children will learn from the error of his ways.

The gory details.

Guess the local news can be informational. Tonight the lesson was there is no limit to human callousness and stupidity.

I finished The Pack. Let the dancing in the street commence. Actually at this point, I’m not all that ecstatic. I’m glad that it’s finally finished, but right now all I can see are the flaws. Such is life. Well, my life at any rate.

Onwards and upwards.

Meh. I remembered formatting today. Stupid formatting...

Geez. It’s been awhile…like months…since I updated. Not that people have been waiting with baited breath for my next post (rather the contrary, I fear), but I still feel some chagrin. This blog is more or less representative of ALL my endeavors that aren’t graded by a third party and put on my permanent record, that is to say- given up. I can’t seem to finish anything I start. Like, my 'novel' (I call it that because ‘novel’ sounds ever so much better than ‘that shitty, self-indulgent piece of escapism drivel’, plus ‘novel’ is shorter), I’ve written it….except for that pesky last chapter. Even that’s mostly written too, but I can’t seem to get it right. I actually sent the first draft to my beta. She sent it back telling me it was shit (rightfully so). Well, actually she didn’t use the word ‘shit’ per se, it was more like “um, Em, this, well, you might want to work on it a teensy bit more, I just am not quite sure it’s reaching its full potential.” Okay, she didn’t say that either, but she was nice about it. But it was the first time she’d ever told me my stuff wasn’t up to snuff (not that snuff is a particularly hard this to be up to). So that just says loads. And really, I knew it wasn’t that good when I sent it off, I just wanted to be done with the damn thing.

*sigh*

Anyway, the point of the above story was to illustrate two points: 1) I never finish what I start and 2) yes, I am working on The Pack…it will be finished!!!! *shakes fist at sky and calls on Heaven to witness her vow.*

Ahem.

*Aemilia cannot be held responsible for the repercussions you suffer following said rules.

Ugh, my hyper-hygienic suitemate has installed one of those toilet bowl things- you know, the ones that hang over the rim. I’ve never been to clear on what exactly they do- clean or improve smell or at least make people think they do. I wouldn’t be too bothered by it except for the way it smells. It smells...I don’t know how to describe the way it smells. It’s like those cleaners they use in public restrooms- thick and nauseatingly sweet and extremely strong. It’s worse than any human-created scent. I think the fact that I equate it to public restrooms is what bothers me most. That and how strong it is. Even keeping the door closed at all times, it manages to pervade my room.

I live in a public restroom.

I have to wonder what people who visit think....

I really don’t have terribly good excuses for my updates being so late. But I humbly present:

time- school is taking a hefty chunk out of my creative writing time (as I suppose it should- this is my future livelihood we're talking about here)

inclination- when I do get time, I’m too tired or mind-numbed to write anything of any value

pressure- I put off writing because I’m rapidly approaching the end of The Pack and I don’t think I’m doing it Justus, erm, I mean justice.

But the next update will be faster. I promise. Really.

Disclaimer: I’m not actually suicidal. Quite the opposite, I’m doing better emotionally/mentally now than I have since the sixth grade. But I was musing today on the childish threats I’d issue years ago: "If I died, you’d be sorry!" (To which my mother would invariably reply, "But you’d be sorrier.") I spent a lot of time composing suicide notes- more for the dramatic effect than any death wish. In keeping with my morbid habits, I also planned my funeral the same way some girls plan their wedding. And it is with that in mind....

Dear Everybody,

This note is not to reassure those who love me, but to point fingers at those I feel had a hand in my tragic and untimely death. My Statistics class is first and foremost in my mind as I go gently into that good night. It was an unendurable trial, one that I could not bear. Why such unimaginable suffering should be meted to my already sorry lot, I do not know. I have done nothing to deserve such misery. O wretched, wretched me! And to those that required it of me, I shake my fist at you and call you muderous, you perniciosus so-called educators. Fie! That you would make a gentle artist and scholar subject themselves to the brutality of outliers and coordinate coefficients. Have you no pity? No speck of human kindness? You must have sucked bile from you mother’s breast to be so utterly calculatingly cruel.

To all others who were unkind to me, who didn’t do as I wished, who did coddle me and give me whatever I wanted.....this is your fault.

I’ve been catching myself saying ‘like’ rather a lot lately. I use it when relating a previously given reaction or speech: "I was like if you’re going to assign a speech on a historic logographer you should at least give us a few criteria as to what you expect."

I like to think of myself as a rather articulate and well-spoken person (perhaps without reason, but that’s a debate for another time) and it galls me to use such a pop culture phrase.

But what should I use in lieu of ‘like’? "I expressed..."? "I reacted..."? "I stated...."?

But I’m doing more than just saying. I’m trying to relate both my words, attitude and body language. As far as I know there isn’t a word in English to relay all those things at once....

I’m like whatever.

Sheesh. Statistics is evil. So are statisticians. Sweeping generalizations? What sweeping generalizations? No, but seriously. I’m a person who can reliably count to twenty. As long as I’m wearing flip flops that is. I’m joking, kind of. Trig just about killed me last semester (which was galling as it’s a two hour class and extremely elementary) and I don’t know how I’ll make it through this class.

I just got done with (gave up on more like) my Stats homework. It wasn’t difficult per se, just unbelievably time consuming. Six problems, four pages and two hours. And that wasn’t even the whole assignment. It’s enough to drive a girl nutty. And my sanity is precarious enough as it is.

I actually like my Stats professor. He’s English- which is like 50 bonus points right there. And he’s lax about late homework though it ‘really bugs him when we miss exams.’ How could you not like that attitude? Of course my homework is never late. In the past three semesters I have missed one class. And the teacher told us we could skip because it was review. And she was looking at me when she said it.

Yes, I’m one of those obsessive freaks. Always five minutes early and fifteen if it’s something remotely important. I actually have to work at being late, just so I don’t show up crazy early.

I don’t like being OCD, but it can’t be helped. Well, I guess it can be helped with meds and stuff. But I’m not actually OCD. Really. I’m just quirky.

Writing news: Things aren’t looking good, kiddos. I’ve got so much to do and so little time. I really really (let’s stress really here) don’t want to disappoint everyone. It’s very intimidating trying to live up to expectations. Damn- why ya’ll gotta go and do that? Have expectations, I mean. Not that they can be all that high, not if you’ve read all the chapters so far- you can’t possibly be expecting too much. But anyway, enough about me.