Captain America, More L’Owen, and Some LOST Stuff Hidden in a Dream

Because I was in a hurry yesterday, I left out some good stuff about the meeting.

I showed up, and immediately heard the voices of L’Owen and Captain America through the opened doorway.  I thought that this was perfect, because I would now have a chance to keep the day’s tally.

Captain America is the Nerd Who Would Be King—he feels that he is superior to everyone, even though he’s like, socially inept, nobody cares what he has to say, and he looks a lot like Weird Al.  He’s constantly interrupting in class with inane comments that nobody gives a damn about, and Corey and I have a tally—I guess I should call it The Tally—going, marking down all the times he speaks out.  When he begins to ramble, we give him an extra mark for every ten seconds.

Corey and I are fortunate (?) enough to have a class with him on M/W and on T/Th, so we can keep The Tally going every day M-Th.  This way we can say, “Yeah, he tends to be most talkative on Thursdays, in preparation for the weekend, likely, and on Mondays, when he’s gone all weekend without speaking out in a class and has to liberate us all again.”

Our history professor is really nice and polite and has to try and interrupt him in a nice and polite way, like by walking to the other end of the room, not looking at him anymore, interspersing random other little comments to other members of the class, and finally saying, “Mm-hmm…uh-huh…well, about that…” and launching into her thing again.

L’Owen is not so nice and flat-out says, “No.  You’re wrong.  You’re an idiot.  STFU.”  (Okay, so maybe a bit nicer than that, but he doesn’t let him ramble.)

There was one time in history when Corey was going to have to leave early, and our history prof suggested he sit by the door (we sit on the far side, whereas Captain America and his friend, Gune, sit next to the door), and Corey looked warily over there and said, “Sit…by the door…?” which really tickled the prof (and me).  She said, “Well, if you just can’t bring yourself to do that, Corey, then you may just get up and walk behind my desk if necessary, walk out with as little distraction as possible,” and looked over at me and started laughing.

Another day in history, Captain America ranted, then stopped, and Gune picked up right where he left off, and Corey, staring in bewilderment across the room, suddenly snapped out of it, turned to the Tally Sheet, and, adding another mark, said, “They share the same brain.”

There was another time in L’Owen’s class when The Tally actually hit infinity—an arrow to the edge of the page.  We were like, “He’ll never beat that,” but I’d say it’s possible to hit infinity twice.  The reason for it that particular day was that L’Owen had asked us to watch for things that would make interesting story or poem material, and Captain America told us the story about when he was sharpening his daggers, dropped one, and nearly impaled his foot.  (He often gets more marks depending on Annoyance or Stupidity factors.)

Anyway, so Captain America was talking to L’Owen when I showed up, and he was saying something about how…well, I’ll just put in quotes as close to what I can remember as possible:

“See, what I find today is that people just don’t care about ancient races, and they don’t know anything about them.  I know a lot about them, because I’ve researched them, based on various games.”

I thought, Games?  Huhh?

L’Owen’s just going, “Uh-huh…uh-huh….”  Then I heard him stand up and head to the door, and he said, “Just a second, Mark,” and leaned out, and I smiled sympathetically at him, and I swear his eyes twinkled, hahahaha, and then he went back in and said, “Well, Mark, we’re going to have to end this here because Ginny is sitting out there and she was supposed to be in here five minutes ago.”

Captain America got a B.  And several Tally marks, exact number to be deliberated with Corey.

At one point, L’Owen said to me, all serious, “I don’t know if you’re planning to do anything with this [creative writing] later….”

I said, “Oh, this is going to be my life.”

And he said he could really see me going somewhere with it.  He said I’ve “got it”.  I thought I should remind myself of that because of how frequently I have self-esteem freak-outs and think I can’t do anything.

Something else of interest he said….  Well, he asked if I thought the story I had just given him was perfect, and I immediately said, “Oh, no,” and kind of laughed, and he said, still quite serious and sincere, “By the end of this semester, Ginny, I want you to do something that you will be really proud of.”

The first thing that went through my head as he was saying that was that it was almost exactly word-for-word something I’d said to Milo in The Letter.  It was almost unnerving.  And I realized what a nice thing it was to say, and was pleased that I had thought to tell Milo that.  Wonder if he ever read that far; it was toward the end.

So Dean, or Dean the Mormon, as he is now to be called (he’s not really a Mormon, but his parents are) went in after me, and as I was sitting out there, Dr. Steinfield, my English teacher, came out of his office, saw me, and said, “Are you waiting for me?”

I pointed behind me at L’Owen’s office (I was waiting for Dean the Mormon to reemerge) and he said with interest, “Oh, you’re taking him?  What for?  Film as Lit.?”

I told him it was for Creative Writing, and he looked impressed.  “How are you doing in there?”

“Not bad, I think…I’ve got an A,” I said.

“Wow, an A,” said Dr. Steinfield, in his casually funny sort of way, “well, there’s certainly room for improvement there.  You can do better than that.”

“Yeah, I know,” I said, sounding regretful.

I then became aware that Dean and L’Owen had stopped talking.  And L’Owen called out, “Ginny?  Don’t listen to anything that Charles Steinfield says.  Don’t believe a word of it!”

Dr. Steinfield was walking away laughing (it would have been an evil laugh, were this a movie and they comic book rivals instead of just rival English teachers, but instead it was pure humor), as I responded, “Oh, I know!  Don’t worry; I know.”

I had a dream last night.  It seemed a lot like Shannon from Lost, the story I watched last night with her Wicked Stepmother.  Man, I’d never liked Shannon as much as I did in that episode.  I had gone to her to ask for money for my wedding to some poorer guy (who looked like Boone) and she said no, she refused to help, even though the money was my father’s, and I was all alone in the world and whatever…and I was with a bunch of strangers, looking at wedding dresses, except that they were all wearing Superman costumes, like really good ones, not baggy pajama pants ones like Jerry wore one Halloween as a kid, and they were making fun of me because I was wearing this cheap Mr. Incredible costume.

And then suddenly I was no longer trying on wedding dresses over a Mr. Incredible costume with snobby strangers—I was trying on prom dresses with Sammie at the mall, and her mom was there, and she kept taking pictures of us in all these dresses, and some guy started following us around, discussing with Sammie’s mom which dresses he liked better than others, and offering to take the pictures for us, and then he finally informed Sammie’s mom that he was a talent agent scouting for models, and he was interested in Sammie and me.  So we’re just trying on all these dresses, and I go back into the dressing room and somehow, like, step into another dimension, where it looks all comic-book-y (probably as a result of my having been reading naught but Alan Moore’s Promethea series in my spare time over the past five days).

So yeah, I’ve entered the Next Dimension of the Changing Room, and there’s this demon thing in there, and I can’t tell you what it looked like because I don’t really remember, but it was separated from me by a thick glass thing that went up just far enough so I could reach over the top of it, but not easily, and the demon had a Challenge for me.  There was a desk on its side of the glass divider, as well as a sword and a gun (and he was holding his own sword).

The Challenge was something like this—there was this pole thing, and it had to tie my wrists to the pole, right over the top of the glass thing, and then use the single bullet from the gun (must have come from Lost) to…what, shoot the ropes off?  Does that really work?  Well, in the dream it did.  And then I had to somehow grab the sword from the other side and slay the demon before it slayed me.  If I won, I’d be rewarded somehow, I guess, or just go back to my dimension like normal, but if he won, he would take me over, like possess me, I guess, and go back and live life as me.

Naturally, I wasn’t going to refuse a Challenge, no matter how ridiculous.  So the thing tied my wrists up there, shot through the ropes with a single bullet, and then grabbed its sword and started swiping at me as I tried to get the other one through the glass.  I finally did somehow get it in my hand, and just as I was pulling it over the edge…it drew the sword across my throat, and I fell down on this table that was suddenly laying there…and did I mention that I was totally seeing this in little squares and various other shapes, exactly like in a comic book?  And like it was illustrated?  It really looked like one.  There was this image of me lying there on this table, in this long red formal gown, quite pretty, and just…dead.  And the demon is looking down at me….

And then there’s me, back in photograph quality, walking out of the store with Sammie and her mom, only…it wasn’t me.  I could tell somehow; I knew it was the other thing.  That’s…creepy.


Ginny the Great

I gotta say it:  Guess who currently has the highest grade in her creative writing class.  I’ve got a 95 (on the scale of 90-100 = an A).

I just returned from my one-on-one interview with L’Owen.  When I walked in, he was smiling that smile of undisguised glee, and again, I was uncertain whether he really enjoyed what he read, or if he just enjoyed marking it all up. (L’Owen has this unbridled evil side to him which is really entertaining, even when you’re on the wrong end of it.)  And then he said, “Ginny, Ginny, Ginny….”

I was smiling, too, because it was unavoidable.  “Sir?” I said.

He kept grinning for a second, and then said, “You’re great.”

Fortunately, I had not yet sat back in the chair, so this provided me with the perfect opportunity to do so, whilst folding my hands, grinning cockily, and saying, “I know.”

Ohh!” he said, unable to contain the joy.  “I’m going to be extra harsh for that!”

‘Twas an enjoyable sort of meeting.  He informed me that he thinks I am brilliant and have a great control over language and an excellent sense of humor.  Those are the sorts of things you always want your Creative Writing teacher to tell you.  I thanked him genuinely.

“Ginny, you’re somewhat of a film buff, I think?  I’ve sort of…gathered that.”  I agreed.  I think he wanted to compare Lorelai, Candace, and Lydia to the Witches of Eastwick, because he started off on that tack, but I told him I’d never seen the movie before so it wouldn’t really help.  And then he went about describing these three witches as these truly genius, sexy, beautiful ladies (he reiterated that more than once) and I was like, hell yeah.  No, actually one of his main critiques was that I didn’t go into enough detail about the characters, so that’s one of the things I’ve got to work on.  He gave me some good pointers, and when he gives it all back, I’ll take his comments and get back to work on it.

This does mean that I’m going to have to come up with something really inspired for my next story and make it brilliant, too.  I hope I can.  I’m a bit worried.  I haven’t really decided on anything yet.  Maybe the stalker stuff.

Three Dreams and a Cafe Anecdote

I left something out of the last entry:  Del told me about Friday, when he was sick, he was talking to Scot on the phone (Del is one of our chefs; Scot’s a boss) about bringing in his new Star Wars to loan Scot’s kids.

“I don’t think he was really listening, though,” Del said.  Because when Del said, “Now, just as a warning, they do kill kids in this movie,” Scot responded with, “Oh, good, they’ll love that….”

Maybe Scot wasn’t paying attention.  Maybe he was kidding.  Maybe he was serious.  Any way you look at it, that’s a pretty funny answer.

Anyway, to the dreams.

The first was not last night, but the night before.  I dreamed I was Harry Potter, on a bus to God knows where.  Ron and Hermione were there, too.

We were sitting on the right side, towards the front, and Lucius was there, too, sitting on the left and several rows back.  (I think Draco was there, too, but I don’t remember.)  I kept turning around in my seat, and Lucius and I kept glaring at each other, and at one point he gave me a Lucius smile, and I gave him a Harry smile right back to show him that maybe he could be mischievous and cruel, but I certainly knew the meaning of the word “mischief” and he’d better look out.  And somehow from his face, I could just tell that he knew I was a worthy enemy, like it or not.

But then he gave another evil Lucius grin, and suddenly there was a Dementor sitting right next to me.  I freaked out!  I never found Dementors as scary as I did at that moment, with me actually as Harry, and one sitting right next to me.  It was kind of terrifying.

I could hear it breathing, and then…it turned to look at me…and it was still breathing…and it stared and stared…and then just as slowly, it turned back and stared forward, and Ron and Hermione kept muttering things like, “It’s okay, Harry, it’s just minding its own business,” and “Don’t bother it and it won’t bother you,” and I kept watching it out of the corner of my eye….  I also heard Dumbledore’s voice in my head saying that there is nothing to fear but fear itself, which, in turn, got the Boingo song “Nothing to Fear” in my head, because of course, those lyrics are in it repetitively.

And then, very, very slowly, it took off its hood….

And I noticed that it had human hands….

And then I looked up, and it turned and looked at me, again very deliberately….

And it had a human face.  But not just any human face.

It was this totally random guy who comes through my line at work every day.  I’ve never spoken to the guy, don’t know anything about him, never really thought about him before, and then all of a sudden, there he was, cast as an extra in one of my dreams.

Well now, of course, I see him and am like, “Who is this guy!?!?”  Like he crept into my dream on purpose.  I don’t know, because that’s really weird.  I keep staring at him and wondering if he knows I’m staring at him and knows perfectly well that he was there in my dream in such a creepy manner, and knowing at the same time that this is completely ludicrous.

At any rate, I woke up about the moment he turned and looked at me, thinking, “WTF—Dementors aren’t supposed to be hot!”

Then I woke up even more and realized I knew who that guy was, and that I still had the Boingo song stuck in my head.

And onto last night.  I had two last night.

The first, Katy (The Bimbo that I work with) and I were, apparently, recent partners-in-crime who held up stores (or maybe just Super Walmarts) by casually walking in with guns, flirting with the male employees, and informing them that we wanted so-much-money before we left.

All action in the store would cease, as they gave us however much we asked for—we never emptied the cash registers, though—and we wished everyone well, and walked out, smiling charmingly.  Once outside, we would start running, because we’d know that the grace period they would always give us ended two minutes after we exited.

So last night, we robbed a Super Walmart, and I’m holding the gun on this one guy in a blue vest, and everything has stopped, and there’s a sort of air like, “Oh, great, we’re being held up again” but at the same time it’s, “Hey, isn’t it fun being held up by these two?”  And all the customers are even amused to see it taking place.  I don’t know.  Really strange, of course, as dreams always are.

I have no idea what Katy was doing (how the hell did she creep into my dream, anyway?  And in what dimension would she ever be my partner?)—she was just playing around somewhere as I conducted business, and I was going to get $2000, but then she called out, “No, make it 3,” so I said, “$3000, then” and the clerk obliged, and then we were off.

Katy informed me that she knew this great place we could escape, and that I should follow her.  Well, for some reason I did, and we ended up inside this huge indoor obstacle course that apparently was known to take an average of two hours to get through.

Let me describe this place, because it’s quite fascinating, really.  It was set up as sort of like a YMCA, where you could go just to get some good exercise in two hours’ time.  It was really dark inside, and instead of having actual floors (it went underground in places and way up in others), it had, like, rope bridges, rope ladders, swinging things that you step in one at a time to get across a gorge-type-thing (with a net below, I think)…it was a lot of good aerobic activities.  Kind of felt like a playground, or like an Indiana Jones video game.  It was all twisty and turn-y and maze-y, and I think there were probably several routes to get to the end, and at some points there were dark rooms that looked like really creepy rooms in haunted houses where you could stop and rest, and we stopped in one room that looked like a bedroom and hid under the bed and in the closet because somebody else was coming.

The rooms to rest in were so creepy, let me tell you—not as dark as the passages, but still dark, and only lit by…black lights, I guess they were.

Anyway, so we heard a voice, and we hid in this room, and the voices were gone, and by now, as we continue on our way, I’m bitching at Katy:  “How could you lead us in here!?  They’re going to figure out where we went, and they’re going to be waiting for us on the other end, you dolt!  Haven’t you ever heard the phrase ‘you can run, but you can’t hide’?”

She said, “That’s what we’re doing; we’re running!”

I said, “No, this equates to hiding, because we are in essentially one location and will be for the next hour and a half!  You’ve completely screwed us over; we’re going to be caught this time, do you realize that?  This is it for us!  Thanks a lot!”

“They won’t know we’re in here,” she said.

“Of course they’ll know.  There’ll be eyewitnesses, or it’ll just be obvious because there isn’t anywhere else we could be in this amount of time.  Someone is going to figure it out by the time we’ve gotten to the end.  We’re screwed.”

We kept going, and passed a few more people, whom I believed were all staring at us like they knew, but of course none of them were; although I was positive I was right about them waiting for us on the other end, and then these people would all be staring….

I never found out though, because that dream, I think, just sort of drifted into another one…an even creepier one….

I was at…Aunt Christine’s house, I think?…and I had a lot of relatives who never existed before this dream…some little blonde chubby girl…well, maybe she was the only one.  There was this cool girl who was my friend who I kept trying to hook up with Grant (my real cousin).

My aunt had this haunted painting.  It was really creepy.  I’m not particularly sure what it did.  But it was up to all of us cousins (the only ones who really believed it was haunted—the adults just laughed at that) to camp out in front of it and stay awake in shifts at all times and make sure it didn’t…do anything.

It was really dark in there, too.  No matter what time of day it was.  Several days must have passed, for the amount of shifts we had.  I alternated talking to Grant, and that girl, and my little fake cousin, and sleeping.  The whole thing was eerie.  I can’t remember much more, though.

The Cafe, Poetry, and Python Virgins

The drains at the café keep getting clogged—four times in six days now, apparently—and so the entire cafeteria smells like sewage.  I kept insisting this was a health hazard and we should be closed, but this accomplished nothing, and it didn’t stop hundreds of kids from still coming in and eating in shit.  We’re all going to get the bloody Plague, or malaria at least.

In better café news, Creepy didn’t come in yesterday or today, and I hadn’t thought he’d called, which, as I explained to Sandra, hopefully meant he either quit or would be fired as a result of not calling—although I was probably just setting myself up for disappointment.

Apparently, however, he did call, but he’s taking two weeks off—after, you know, like three weeks on the job.  So yeah, he’s probably gone.  I’d blow on one of those little party favor things that squeaks and unrolls if I had one.  As it is, I’ll just have to content myself with the party in my head.

When I walked into Creative Writing today, L’Owen said, broad grin in place, “Oh, Ginny…thank you so much for those fifty pages you gave me.  I appreciate that.”

I grinned back and said, “Why, you’re so very welcome.”

“No, I mean it—thanks,” he said.  I’m afraid.  Hahaha.  Very afraid.  On Wednesday I’ll
find out exactly what he thinks of it.

Last class, he assigned each group a poem to analyze.  Ours happened to be my number-one favorite that we’d read out loud that day.  It’s called “Self Help”, and I don’t have the
author’s name, but I’ll have to find that some other time.  (I’m too lazy to do it right now.)

Then today, each group had to present their findings to the rest of the class.  He was walking around, listening to our little group discussions beforehand, and when he approached our group, he said, “Did you guys like this poem?”

“I did,” I said.

“Why did you like it, Ginny?”

“It was funny.”

“Why was it funny?”

“I liked the guy’s attitude.”

“What did you like about it?”

“I like how he was all against those snooty, uppity rich people who think they’re better than everybody else.”

He quoted a bit of the poem and said, “Those people?” and I said yes, and he said, “You don’t consider yourself one of those people?” and I assured him I was not, and he said, “That’s funny, because after having read your short story, I would have thought otherwise.”

…Huh?  Is he calling me snooty!?  I’ve really got to see what the hell his comments are on this short story.  I find out Wednesday at 1:00.

Anyway, so we’re presenting these poems, and all the other groups are going into all this technical stuff like trochees and line breaks and what they mean and why they’re there, and our group is looking at each other like, “We are so screwed.”

We were last to go, and Josh, our spokesman, so nominated because he was not paying attention when we voted, stood up and announced, with a completely straight face as I instructed, “We discovered that this poem has four stanzas.”

The entire class burst into laughter, including L’Owen, and he said, “Really, Josh!?  How on Earth did you arrive at this stunning conclusion?”

Still managing to keep his face straight, Josh said, “Well, there are three page breaks.”

L’Owen, still feigning amazement, looked at the poem and said, “There are—well, would you look at that—there really are three page breaks!  How could we have missed

It was great.  All class long, when he was going on and on about how great poetry is and how accomplished you will feel if you write a truly great poem, possibly even more accomplished than you would having finished a short story, I was just trying really desperately not to laugh.  At one point I just did, right out loud.  And Corey, whose group is across the room, and I were just making faces at each other all that time.

Corey is really hilarious because, whether he feels he is being funny or not, he always wears the same expression on his face—one of complete passiveness.  (Occasionally, he’ll burst into a fit of despair, but this is rare.  Humorous, though, when it happens.)

Corey detests poetry.  It hurts his head.  He doesn’t get it.

And he totally doesn’t get e. e. cummings.  He was very vocal about
this in class the first time we read poetry together.  And L’Owen, himself very amused by
Corey’s reaction, promised to give that poem to Corey’s group to analyze.

Corey exploded today, when they were going through their poem out loud.  It made going to class and receiving our assignments quite worthwhile.

Friday I had a Python night with Dennis, Adrianna, and Michelle.  They were all Python virgins, which was a truly wonderful experience.  If all of your friends love Python, as they should, then go out and look for some new people who have never heard of them before and make introductions.  They will laugh at Holy Grail and dead parrots and self-defense classes and Silly Walks as though these things were brand new.  It will be
fascinating, and it will make you feel like these things really are brand new.

Even Steven

As it turns out, The Creepy Guy at work who likes me isn’t like 38 like I thought—he’s 21.  Weird.  He’s still creepy.

Our assignment over the weekend is to make a list of five things that happen to us that we could write a poem or short story about.  I’m like, this is our assignment?  This is great—it’s what I do, anyway!

This is a great story, and I told Nicole I would include it, so here it is.  Monday as I was leaving class, I had my keys out, when I heard a piece of plastic hit the pavement.  I knew immediately what it was—the cover from my key chain.  It’s been coming loose for some time now.  So of course, I looked down, and the picture was gone.  This was devastating, because it’s the only copy of this picture I had—me and Nicole and Cortney and TiNY and Cortney’s friend Sarah on the Mummy ride at Universal.

I looked all around in the near vicinity—no picture.  I was in a hurry, though, and didn’t know if there was any chance of finding it, so I trudged the rest of the way to my car, upset at having lost it.

So I’m getting in, and I see this guy from my class, and we’re talking, and I’m feeling crappy ‘cause I lost the picture, and not certain if I wanted to mention it or not, but finally I decided I needed someone to empathize, so I held it up and said, “I lost my picture.”

He said, “Really!?”

“Yes,” I said (sniffed).

“Because I just found a picture,” he said, holding it up.

My mouth literally dropped open.

He continued, “I just found it on the ground and thought, ‘Hey, a picture!’  I hate to let pictures go to waste, so I picked it up and was just going to keep it.”

I’m kinda staring at him as he’s saying this, thinking at the same time that this is rather strange, and that I just couldn’t believe it was found, right there in front of me, and how this all reminded me of this one episode of Seinfeld….

Finally I said, “Sooo…can I have it back?”  I wasn’t sure if he wanted to give it back.  It was a little weird.

He handed it to me, and I said, “That’s too weird that you found it, and didn’t even know it was mine.”  I was thinking if I hadn’t mentioned it on that whim, looking for sympathy, you know, I never would have known he’d had it.  I would have always considered it lost, and meanwhile it would have always been in the possession of this guy I once had a class with.

The episode of Seinfeld I was remembering was the one where Jerry realized he was somewhat of an Even Steven:  Everything in his life always balanced itself out.  He was telling Elaine this and citing examples, and she got this crazed look on her face and said, “Give me twenty bucks,” and he said, “Why?” and she said, “Just give it to me,” and, still with the demented expression, threw it out the window, and turned and grinned widely at him.

He stared at her in that great look he has of almost amused shocked confusion, and finally said, “…What the hell was that?”

“Let’s see if you get the twenty bucks back,” she said.

“You know, you could have thrown a pencil out of the window to see if I got that back.”

Just then, George walked in, very excited, and said, “Hey, I just found twenty bucks on the sidewalk!”

A conversation takes place, in which more things are very even for Jerry, and as they’re leaving, he puts on this jacket he hasn’t worn in ages, sticks his hand in the pocket, gets this amazed expression on his face, and pulls out a twenty.  “Elaine!” he says, and she stares at it in shock.

At this point, I always think for a moment how if Elaine hadn’t thrown the twenty out the window, he would now have forty bucks.  But then I assume that if she hadn’t, there probably wouldn’t have been the twenty in the jacket.

I don’t really know what I’m talking about anymore.  I think it’s time for bed.

Psychobrat and Connecticut Yankees

I’ve been reading Connecticut Yankee very slowly, even though I’m totally loving it—I think I’m savoring it because I don’t want it to end.  Yes, I read it many years ago and loved it then, but I’m appreciating it way more now.  I’m catching a lot more of the humor—and the other day I realized that part of the reason it’s so funny is that Hank Morgan, the Connecticut Yankee, totally has Jerry’s sense of humor.  I’ll show you the lines that first made me realize that:

Hank is riding with Alisande (he calls her “Sandy”) on a quest to liberate a bunch of princesses from an ogre.  Sandy never shuts up, and she tells stories in such a Le Morte d’Arthur style.  (I suspect some of her stories might be taken right out of that book, or one like it.)  And he keeps griping about how you can interrupt her, and he does, he interrupts her many times with comments that of course she doesn’t get but which are very funny to us, and that she will pick the story straight back up as though nothing had happened, occasionally even starting completely over.  It’s all very entertaining.  Anyway.  The quote.

“…And so they ran together that the knight brake his spear on Marhaus, and Sir Marhaus smote him so hard that he brake his neck and the horse’s back—”

“Well, that is just the trouble about this state of things, it ruins so many horses.”

“That saw the other knight of the turret, and dressed him toward Marhaus, and they went so eagerly together, that the knight of the turret was soon smitten down, horse and man, stark dead—”

Another horse gone; I tell you it is a custom that ought to be broken up.  I don’t see how people with any feeling can applaud and support it.”

I read that twice, thinking, This reminds me of someone….  When I finally realized who it was, I just started laughing harder, and now as I’m going through, I just hear Jerry’s voice every time the Yankee speaks, because his sense of humor is consistent.  It’s 19th-century Seinfeld in the 6th century.  Interesting.

Last night, Mom went to the grocery store.  Psychobrat, apparently, needed to make something for her soccer team; she wanted to make brownies, so Mom brought home some mix that had been on sale.

There were nuts in the mix.  Psychobrat pitched this royal-ass fit about how this other girl was already bringing brownies and had already bitched at her for bringing the same thing as her, and how there was not one person on the entire team who liked nuts or would eat the brownies were there nuts in them—she knew.

Mom suggested she sift them out, but Psychobrat couldn’t do that:  The mix was too lumpy and it would take her all night.  Her voice steadily rose in volume and whininess.  Mom kept suggesting she just sift it, it wouldn’t take that long, but finally Dad blew up at her, too.  “She says nobody on her team will like it!  Why can’t we just get her some more!?” or something to that effect, and offered to drive the bitch to the store and get her some more damn brownie mix.

As soon as they had stepped outside, Mom went to sift the brownie mix.  She had gotten out both the lumps and the nuts in less than five minutes.  She called them to tell them so, but they didn’t care; Psychobrat wanted her expensive, nutless brownie mix, so they bought it anyway.  And now there’s just a bowl of brownie mix with saran wrap over it sitting on the kitchen table.

At least Psychobrat got her way and Armageddon was set back another night.

The other night, probably because I’m reading Connecticut Yankee, I dreamed I was jousting.  I’d say it felt really realistic, but I’ve never jousted before, so I guess I wouldn’t really know.  But the other jerk was cheating.  I’m not sure how; I just remember everybody complaining the whole time that he was cheating.  He also took the good helmet and left me with the really tight, claustrophobic one which had slits so big they didn’t do any good anyway.  The lance could go right through it.

The Most Important Thing

There’s this guy at work named Ben, but I call him Luke, because something about him reminds me of Luke from Gilmore Girls.  Not that he really looks like Luke, but he has the Luke look, if you get what I mean.  Maybe the personality, too, although I don’t know him well enough.  He definitely has potential to have the personality.  He makes jokes without batting an eyelid, at least.  I don’t know.  We’ll see.

Anyway, so of course when it hit me that he reminded me of Luke, I had to tell him right away, and after my trying to explain what it was, he said, “Is this another way of saying you think I’m hot?”  I said that yes, I supposed it was, and he was like, “Aww, you think I’m hot” and I’m just, “Aww” in a teasing sort of way and walked off, haha.

So tonight as I was leaving, I passed him and waved and said good-bye, and then Michelle and I went to wash our hands in the restroom and came out and there he was, so I said good-bye again, and he kinda squinted his eyes and said, “You’re stalking me….”  I just smiled.  And he said, “I like it!”  He has no idea….

On one of the episodes of Lois & Clark I watched tonight, Clark finally told Lois he was in love with her, and, God…that felt familiar.  I was right there with him as he told her.  I mean, I knew what her reaction was going to be, but I still wanted him to do it….

I wanted to do it for so long, and then I finally did, and now I know that it doesn’t make things better, it just makes things…over.  Where is there to go from that point onward?  Well, I don’t know.  I still talk to him.  And Lois and Clark were able to move on, even though obviously Lois finally realized she was in love with him, too.  The whole situation felt so very familiar.  I felt what he was feeling, and I read her mind from her body language.

I’m not sorry I did it.  I had to.  It’s just…it’s sort of anticlimactic when it finally happens.

I’m starting to think that love doesn’t matter so much anymore.  Well, for me, at least.  It’s fine for other people.  But I don’t need it.  That’s why I suddenly realized so recently that it doesn’t matter whether or not I’m ever with the love of my life.  I don’t need it to be happy.  And I think I can eventually be content in a relationship without being in love.  Maybe I’ll fall in love again; maybe not.  But I feel like it doesn’t matter if I ever do.

Friendship and the kind of love you get from that—that’s the most important thing to me.