My notebook boasts the phrase, "I cry into two cups, just to make sure I am serious."

I have no recollection of scribbling that, but it is in my gangly thin writing style. I remember thinking it was terribly silly at the time, but now it just seems somewhat gothic. Nonetheless, absurdity remains.

So, I finally quit Reporter. It's about damn time anyways. After a couple of weeks working two terrible jobs at once (Managing Editor plus Copy Editor equals "Executive Editor," a nice addition to the resume), I hit my limit over what amounts to a sloppy misunderstanding. Everything about the magazine has me so irate that I'm screeching at the cheeks like an owlbear.



It had been almost two years. A full school year of being Managing Editor, during which I sacrificed my schoolwork to orchestrate a banned magazine, among other things. I'd say that's worth it.

I don't understand how anyone can be an editor that long, in retrospect--at least, not at this school. Kids can't write. They stumble through AP Lit and believe they've a gift with the pen, when really they just provide a dependable weekly lobotomy. In my two years at the magazine, I've met two new writers who were worth a stay. I tried to encourage them to write for us more, but discovered they had lives. Jinkies.

At this point in time, I'm not sure whether I hate this place or Reporter. It's probably Reporter. Because of the magazine, I've had no chance to be creative. I used to write in my LiveJournal everyday (go team commitment!), draw at least once a week, sew, take strange photos, etc. I was very interesting. Now I'm a cantankerous curmudgeon, at least with my eyes.

I've been considering transferring from RIT, which is a shame because it is a nice school where I've learned quite a bit. For the bantam town and null reputability for biological science, however, it's far from the right fit. I'm not intrigued by much and I need a change.

I'm terribly jealous of my father. Last I heard, he was in Korea. Now he's in either England, Denmark, or Sweden. I occasionally see the picture of a nude door handle or massive statues of Swedish men on Facebook, and it makes me so envious. It's been so long since I've traveled. Excluding piddly trips to Florida (which I avoid), I've only visited Massachusetts and Rhode Island in the past year. Toronto was two years ago for the Virgin Music Fest.

Also, I need new music. My entire hard drive shat the bed not too long ago and I've been fumbling to pick up the pieces ever since. Bowie, although an extravagant dancer man, is not going to cut it for much longer. I need new stuff before my ears believe themselves into frogs.

Today, I saw these neat Takydromus (or "long-tailed lizards") at PetSmart, of all terrible places:
One day, lizard, you will be my Edgar.

I should stop comparing where I'd like to live in Seattle to where I once lived in Melbourne, AUS on WalkScore.com. They have the same score, a whopping 97 out of 100, which is highly walkable.

And, fuck, I miss Australia. I miss Melbourne more than I probably should. I want to get out of this Podunk town. Just for comparison's sake, my old apartment in Gainesville scored a 63, while the place in which I'm living now scored a degenerate 29.

I love our house -- don't get me wrong -- I just wish house transplants were more feasible.

At least I can walk to the deli for a nice hit of salmonella and bathe in the polluted Genesee River nearby.

One more year, I suppose.

Forgive me, everyone, but I only occasionally think I'm cool:

Today I kicked ass. Completely. We had our advisory board meeting and I was eloquently tearing apart the logic of various people's decisions. I think I made some of them afraid to speak. I was so composed and eloquent! Why can't this happen more often?

At the end of the meeting, Laura exclaimed, "Way to be!"

I'm proud of Distorter, and I'm proud of my assholicism when it comes to defending it.
Pending approval from President Destler, Distorter will be returning to stands tomorrow night. Victory!

I'm currently on a hyperactive adrenaline rush that I just can't quite control. Recently, as many of you have probably heard (either through the grapevine or some other dainty plant), I was in charge of the "brainstorming committee" and most content for Reporter's annual April Fools' Day issue.

My brain storms tumult.

The result was one of the most raunchy, terribly inappropriate humorous issues of all time that has so far been sought after and praised by most of the student body. It's also been banned from the stands of campus, and our website no longer showcases the issue.

We actually created an interesting issue this April Fools', and I'm happy to say that 80% of it turned out as I had originally hoped: Not for the prudes. Unfortunately, there are a load of prudes in upstate New York. Less than the older population of Gainesville, sure, but I had so wished that the northern US offered a promise of the prude-free variety. I must keep moving, I suppose. ( self-revelation blahblah )

The RIT administration, on the other hand, was not as praise-filled for my dear baby of a magazine. They pulled every issue off the stands and now I have to go to some bullshit "emergency advisory board meeting" this Monday.

I'm insidiously excited. I go from blathering out "What an outrage!" when, really, this is the most perfectly planned publicity stunt we could have ever hoped for. Jews? We insulted them. Vatican rape? We went there. Abortion? Coathangers included. I suppose it's worth note that I'm also hideously proud.

The issue's now become an underground movement of sorts, since only a few people have copies. Most of ours were confiscated by the administration.

But really, who cares? Only me. It's probably all in my head, but, judging by the feedback, it has made an impact. Wish me luck with that advisory board meeting. Yet again, I'll have to play politics. I'm still deciding who I should be, but it would likely be wiser for me to be a flake and sit back while lazily wiping bread crumbs from my tum and shoving french fries down my throat. So much thought, so little action.

( Other mandatory blahblah )

I'm getting in big trouble with the RIT administration!

That is all.

I know I haven't posted in a while, but I've been busy ( looking at frogs. )

In other news, I am officially a fishsitter. I'm taking care of Sarah's four zebrafish over the break, and the whole day I couldn't walk in to the living room because I felt so terrible about their barren aquarium.

Obviously, they were jealous of my fish and were judging me. They desired fish toys. So, despite an absolutely empty wallet, I went out and bought them gravel, plants, and an interesting structure to swim around in.

Guilted by the fishes. Who else could this possibly happen to?

I'm currently sitting across from a lot of judgmental nagging girls, who are pointing people out behind me: Analyzing goatees, picking apart shoes, and gabbing about the sketchiness of smoking in the RIT woods. It's making me feel intensely awkward. I wish they would leave. All I wanted to do was go to the library with my multicolored striped socks, bejeweled shoes, and egg face purse while finishing up Philip K. Dick's Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? Someone always has to flock in and ruin my extravagant break from reality.

I've been obsessed with spinach as of late, and have decided that it is the most exquisite of all plants. Night after night, Owen and I have been cooking these über excellent meals. While blasting loopy music, we dance around the kitchen and occasionally use a slop bucket as our kitchen sink is completely bust. Romantic.

I've also been collecting animals like crazy, and am now the proud owner of two African dwarf frogs with funny triangular faces, nine zebrafish (for research purposes), yet another chinchilla (putting our total chinchilla count at a whopping five), and two cats. I've also been growing plants, particularly herbs, but damn if I don't start growing spinach, as well.

I should be getting all "A"s this quarter, which is ridiculous as, by tradition, I'm a terrible student. I had assumed that I wouldn't be taking the same German teacher next quarter, but scheduling didn't work out and now I have to. Terrible. I've pretty much forced her into hating me. One thing I learned while living in Florida was to never tell people you're an atheist, but I have so far done precisely the opposite. I said "atheist porn" in class once and had a terrible embarrassing moment that was completely preventable, but not by my hand.

Then there were other events leading to her dislike of me: I'm klutzy and continually knock papers off of her desk because I overthink walking; I don't pay attention in class because I don't like her teaching style, yet I've never made under a 96 on any exam; I continue to say things aloud which are not socially acceptable. Anyways, I'm awkward. But I didn't mind as I thought I would be taking the authentically German German teacher next quarter.

Maybe I won't get all "A"s, after all.

Once again, it appears that I am mind-numbingly bored at work. The homework is sitting next to me, but I'm rather ignorant of its presence.

I have come to really despise German class. I love the language, don't get me wrong, and I would adore having some future with Germany (if only it would so take me), but I'm sick of my German teacher who I am still convinced is not German, as well as the douchebag guy that sits by me (no matter where I sit!) and professes his own greatness at least five times every two minutes, despite the fact that he is not terribly skilled with the language, smells of cheese, and is a nimrod seat-stealer. Not that I have a grudge or anything.

I've taken to correcting him at every possible chance. There are many possible chances. I'm never mean about it, because I find more joy in watching him fumble before the damsel he is trying to impress (me). I suppose that is mean in and of itself, but he really is annoying me. I called him a punk for stealing my seat yesterday and people looked at me as if I had just said some terrible "no no" word. It was very surreal. Then I tried to sit elsewhere and he followed me. Fuck.

I greatly dislike the structure of the course, too. I don't learn anything by talking with kids who aren't German. It's as if the whole activity is pulling me back. Just give me the recordings, book, and access to LiveMocha, and I'll be set, thank you. I don't want to interact unless I can learn something from someone who knows how to speak German correctly. Don't send me speaking to fellow bumblers. 

Ah, Florida, you are still humid. For the past couple of nights, we've been sleeping on a thin sleeper sofa in my smelly old room turned junk palace. There's an accordion on a shelf that Owen wants to nick and my feet keeping running into a television in the middle of the night. My dad has been reading a book in the bathtub for the past three hours, which is bad news for humidity-caked, shower-needing chits such as myself.

Our first plane ride over, from Providence to Atlanta, was delayed, so we had to hang around the airport and witness all of the strange, frantic people with sunken eyes. We eventually managed to get a standby flight, and I was seated next to a very nice quiet seven-year-old, who occasionally asked me Would you like to color? and then started sleeping on my arm. That was sort of awkward, but I shortly got over it. The only problem was his sister, a baby, who would often caterwaul a cudgel into my eardrums and have me considering using the toilet as my new coach seat.

Somehow we arrived, anyways, and I have since fit into the familiar groove quite well. I become very quiet around my family, and I haven't the faintest clue why. I suppose it's that I was always very taciturn growing up, and it just seems natural to be that way around these people. It's terribly annoying. I can blather on about nothing with anyone else, but I have a very stiff lip around my family. It's the strangest damn thing.

My dad is still fucking insane. He taught Owen how to ride a motorcycle, and we went on a crazy cross-country journey (you know, after Owen had been riding only 10 minutes or so). There were many steep hills, much sand, much underbrush, and many a petrifying moment. Surprisingly, Owen held his own the entire time and did not fall off. Must be all those video games.

My mom keeps trying to make plans for us by asking What would you like to do today? Would you like to go to the beach? How about the garden? and so on, and so on. It's stressing me out. Why can't we just sit around and have a holiday? I do not need to be constantly entertained; that's what computers are for.

Speaking of which, I've now got to pin myself to the computer to write an article about bearded ladies (my choice). It was going to be about mimes, but I didn't think I could get much out of them for an interview.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/americas/7784197.stm

"Oh, Barney the White House dog! There's so much work to do around here, but there's always enough time to make videos of you and my demented, dog-carting wife!"

Just had a flavor tripping party with the Reporter crew, and vinegar still tastes disgusting. However, hot salsa tasted like honey and lime juice like pure sugar. I also ate two lemons and one grapefruit, both of which were pristine in their sweet deliciousness. My favorite drink in the world, orange juice, tasted like flavored child piss and I couldn't even finish off a small dixie cup's worth.

Maybe Reporter isn't all that bad, after all.

I really love my new major. I know it's elementary, but tomorrow I get to swab my face and grow bacterial colonies in a petri dish (hurrah, freshman biology!). Plus, I get to pour alcohol on a metal stick and light it on fire.

Yesterday I was talking to my boss about how upset I was that I didn't have a German (as in, from Germany) teacher for my German class. I had planned my schedule appropriately: I chose a Russian teacher for chemistry (whose accent causes many a complaint from kids who just haven't watched enough mad scientist and/or Cold War movies) and was hoping that Wilma Wierenga would be a legitimately German teacher.

Then, the first day of class, I was a tad upset. She was American. I told my boss about my "master scheme" to gain all foreign teachers, and he asked, Are you talking about Wilma Wierenga? She's not American — she has an extremely thick accent.

Then, it hit me. Just as I can't recognize my own German mom's accent (yet seemingly everyone else can), I couldn't recognize that of Wilma Wierenga. I just don't understand it. I can recognize the accents of my former German teacher, my British dad, and my Russian chemistry instructor, but my mother and German teacher don't sound any different to me.

It's alright, though. My Russian teacher says "Oekey, my vriends" and spells five like "fife." She's a smashing lady; I really like her. German is going well, too, although I feel like I'm the only one who understands spoken German, and I'm too shy to speak up every single time. All that eavesdropping on my mother's telephone conversations seems to have paid off.

In other news, I will soon be feeding zebrafish embryos as part of my first research internship and may even be partaking in otter research. As a whole, school is going well. I occasionally wind up having to interact with some dumb bimbo, but then I purposely sit elsewhere the next day and have now found an interesting, intelligent group of people in each class. Today some girl (a dumb bimbo) said, Why would anyone do Electrical Engineering? We don't even use it anymore. One more face to add to the checklist of those I should avoid.

Instructors that come into my workplace often ask what my major is, and when they find out it's Biology, some of them ask about money. Will that make you much money? Even though, what's the point? I don't really need to talk at all. They always look concerned, as they have me pegged as someone who is doomed to failure and will probably live the rest of her life working in a copy shop. It's so bizarre. So then I babble something about Ph.D. plans, bioremediation, and the basics of breaking up pollution with bacteria and they usually say, Oh! Then you'll definitely be making money! I hear that saving the world is in nowadays, kids.

Alas, people are so easy. I don't think I need to talk anymore. I would be entirely content with walking around, saying things that are either entirely irrelevant and nonsensical or incredibly sarcastic. No conversations, just My turtle eats oatmeal with a walk in the opposite direction. Today I had an interesting encounter with my former chemistry TA. I think the last time I saw him I told him that my name was Rumpelstiltskin and then walked out the door. I had totally forgotten that I had done that until he asked my real name. I suppose it has always been a hobby.

It's break and work is busy-- instructors are actually asking me for help and bogging up the office. I suppose I shouldn't have brought my needlepoint canvas in today.

The lunch break seems to have warded some of them off, though, so I'm watching really neat cephalopod videos (like this mimic octopus, the promontory of oceanic cool) and doodling fabric pattern designs that I will soon draw on the computer with Owen's fancy new Wacom tablet (and then enter in Spoonflower.com's design contest).

Tomorrow, we head to Bristol again, where Owen's parents will likely stuff us with tourtiere and yellowtail. I'll bumble around, needlepointing on couches and whatnot, occasionally letting out a tipsy nonsensical ramble or two. It'll be a good time. I managed to avoid feeling the "terrible daughter guilt" and will be going down to Florida after Christmas. Kelli will be on a cruise, meaning I won't get to see Falcor the rabbit. Sad!

But! When I get back, I'll start on my first research internship. Somehow I managed to land that during my first year in Biology, probably by saying "I used to pick my mom's bacterial colonies for fun!" and "Ethidium bromide probably fucked up my DNA!"

I'll be working with zebrafish embryos (check out this very scholarly and esteemed news source), sometimes at the wee early hours of the morn, at a lab on the RIT campus. I just found out about an amphibian and reptile-related internship for which I am qualified, too. It would take place next year, though, so I applied with much hope in my heart. There's a reason I used to wear anolis earrings. They just don't quit the clamp.

I only recently discovered that one can wear rain boots in the snow (do not mock me), so this has opened up a world of colorful-booted possibilities. My only problem is that I haven't yet found adequate dinosaur boots. Where are you, dinosaurs?

In other news, I have not sewed in a long time and therefore I am a frightful wench.

An hour of slouching around on this cushy seat and trudging my way through homework would lead to this, wouldn't it?

I came back from Florida last Sunday, where I was (as expected) an incredibly awkward bridesmaid who made many a lesbian joke with Kelli and gained many religious enemies. I wound up having an argument of the political variety with someone the day of the wedding, so that only compounded the huge, wreaking pile of walking awkwardness. I keep forgetting that people are, by and large, very dumb. Also, American politics were made to breed sheep and I shouldn't start sentences with "also."

The ceremony was quick-- I was on stage no longer than three minutes, it seemed, and they were dutifully wed. The whole time I was on stage, I was thinking, "This is so fucked up." It's not that I'm not happy for my dear best friend, but really: It was and still is fucked up. In all of the pictures, I look really angry. I didn't mean to, but it really made me a bit dizzy.

Every time I return to Florida, I realize tenfold just how terrible it is. I really bloody hate it. The plus side, however, is that it was two degrees cooler there today than up here. Isn't that strange? When does that ever happen? It was probably still insanely humid.

I withdrew from one of my classes because I guess I'm a whomping pussybath who just can't stand the pressure. Taking a week off in the middle of midterm exams really fucked me over something righteous. In this case, Travelocity was the devil and I signed a contract; there was no real getting out of it. What a dim metaphor.

Of course, there is good news: This means I'll have more time to study (and enjoy) biology, plus I'll be able to actually write articles for Reporter, not just edit them. I really miss writing, save for the fact that I feel I can't mean anything right now.

Today, I discovered the real reason why they don't let you use cell phones on airplanes and it is a head-slapper.

• Did you know that a maverick is an unbranded cow?
• Can you really be overly religious?
• Why didn't my planes have vomit bags?

Pretentious Physics freshman: Oh, you're Biology? -scoffs-
Me: Actually, I'm a third year who just changed majors from Computer Science.
Pretentious Physics freshman: Oh... I know HTML.


It's okay, though. I found out I'm taking more advanced physics classes than him.

No, but really: I understand that freshmen are often pumped with an unnatural sense of arrogance, as if being in college means they are somehow superior to everyone, as if their story is more interesting than anyone's. Thankfully, most of us come around to the realization that we are all just smelly piles of worthless, walking, talking shit.

I must admit, I am quite happy being human poo.

What fascinating things my mailbox brings. We deliriously managed to slug our way up to the apartment late last Wednesday and all of these letters were waiting for me: checks for books, glorious penpal letters, and a letter from the doctor saying I may have cancer in my wiggly innards.

Classes start again tomorrow, and I'm very excited that my biology book has an octopus plastered across it. My professor is in a wheelchair and he will have us clicking these multiple-choice remotes for participation points, or so I hear. That, and to assure that both physical and mental coordination is up to speed at a sleepy 8 a.m.

Being a managing editor, as it turns out, is actually quite enjoyable. Last week, an email was sent that was basically along the lines of, So, hope you all had a good summer. It's time to make a magazine now, so GO GO DAMNIT MOVE. Terrifying. It's much more fun to be involved, though, even if I hadn't the fainted idea what the fuck I was doing. Blundering is my greatest skill.

I'm currently sewing pants with squiggly, string-dug lines in the fabric, and so far they're turning out well enough. We're also checking out houses to potentially move into. We found one that we're pretty glued to: it has a riverview of the Genesee River (you know, with the glorious trail full of groundhogs that connects with the Erie Canal) and is right down the street from RIT. Why, I could probably T.P. my school while having a barbecue in my backyard.

So, in pictorial form, here is everything else I forgot to mention.

( NYC, Cape Cod, Bristol )

I think Ubiquity for Firefox is actually pretty neat, although I'm testing it right now. Check it out:


Ubiquity for Firefox from Aza Raskin on Vimeo.