And ye shall know your gothness by the color of your dryer lint

Note to self:
If you're going to be up all night, please do your homework before you start analyzing Hugo just for fun. Because it is indeed fun, but by the time 5am hits you will NOT have enough brain left for W.E.B. DuBois, which is what you're actually supposed to be analyzing, y'know, for class. You'll just sit there, reading the assigned chapters over and over, thinking "Oooh. Pretty prose. Good command of language. Now, back to all those parallel plot lines in Les Mis--"

BAD. *fap*

Aside from braindeath, staying-up-all-night was remarkably productive in terms of menial chores that I really didn't want to do but that had to be done. Such as removing the icky piercing, which I finally accomplished on my own through means you probably don't want to hear about. Suffice to say it involved the use of tweezers in a way that tweezers were NEVER meant to be used. Also laundry. Three loads of it. Would've been two but I had a pain-in-the-ass tiny load of whites that I wanted to bleach into submission. Laundry facilities = teh suck. There are 12 little townhouse-thingies that have three or four people in each of them, and for all these people we have two washers and two dryers. Bad. Should've broken into the freshman dorms and used their gigantic laundry room. Also coming to terms with characters I really didn't like that much before I realized--NO. BAD. NO MORE LES MIS BRAINDEATH. *shuts ears in oven door a la Dobby*

I think there shall be a fandom ramble this afternoon.

ETA: *wail* How on earth is it so much sadder in French?

And ye shall know your gothness by the color of your dryer lint

Note to self:
If you're going to be up all night, please do your homework before you start analyzing Hugo just for fun. Because it is indeed fun, but by the time 5am hits you will NOT have enough brain left for W.E.B. DuBois, which is what you're actually supposed to be analyzing, y'know, for class. You'll just sit there, reading the assigned chapters over and over, thinking "Oooh. Pretty prose. Good command of language. Now, back to all those parallel plot lines in Les Mis--"

BAD. *fap*

Aside from braindeath, staying-up-all-night was remarkably productive in terms of menial chores that I really didn't want to do but that had to be done. Such as removing the icky piercing, which I finally accomplished on my own through means you probably don't want to hear about. Suffice to say it involved the use of tweezers in a way that tweezers were NEVER meant to be used. Also laundry. Three loads of it. Would've been two but I had a pain-in-the-ass tiny load of whites that I wanted to bleach into submission. Laundry facilities = teh suck. There are 12 little townhouse-thingies that have three or four people in each of them, and for all these people we have two washers and two dryers. Bad. Should've broken into the freshman dorms and used their gigantic laundry room. Also coming to terms with characters I really didn't like that much before I realized--NO. BAD. NO MORE LES MIS BRAINDEATH. *shuts ears in oven door a la Dobby*

I think there shall be a fandom ramble this afternoon.

ETA: *wail* How on earth is it so much sadder in French?

I promised a ramble, here's a ramble.

( In defense of Eponine )

I promised a ramble, here's a ramble.

( In defense of Eponine )

(no subject)

I've figured out one of the things about this place that depresses me: nothing smells like anything. The dining hall smells like fried food, my house smells like mildew, and that's it. It's utterly bizarre and somehow really depressing to be wandering around a beautiful October landscape crunching dried-up leaves beneath your feet and smell... nothing. No autumn smell of crushed leaves and smoke, no water smell from the pond, nothing from the woods, no freshly-mown grass, just... nothing. I know it's not my nose; something about this campus is just deadened and empty even when the whole place isn't blanketed in snow. It's pretty but it has this air of unreality to it because one of my senses is just completely disconnected from what it should be sensing. There are wrecking crews here demolishing a few older buildings to make way for the new student union facility and for some reason when they came the air smelt of gunpowder... and I just sat there outside after class, taking in lungful after lungful because, well, the smell of gunpowder is nice, but mostly it was so something after all that nothing that I couldn't walk away. Is that so odd--to stay there drinking in the smell of explosives like Charlie with his face pressed to the gates of the chocolate factory?

I think I want to go home. Rake leaves, go walking by the river, sit outside after it rains when the air is so thick it presses on you. You can smell it at home. Not here.

Enough. This entry is close enough to an angst attack all by itself.

New icon. mhari is love.

(no subject)

I've figured out one of the things about this place that depresses me: nothing smells like anything. The dining hall smells like fried food, my house smells like mildew, and that's it. It's utterly bizarre and somehow really depressing to be wandering around a beautiful October landscape crunching dried-up leaves beneath your feet and smell... nothing. No autumn smell of crushed leaves and smoke, no water smell from the pond, nothing from the woods, no freshly-mown grass, just... nothing. I know it's not my nose; something about this campus is just deadened and empty even when the whole place isn't blanketed in snow. It's pretty but it has this air of unreality to it because one of my senses is just completely disconnected from what it should be sensing. There are wrecking crews here demolishing a few older buildings to make way for the new student union facility and for some reason when they came the air smelt of gunpowder... and I just sat there outside after class, taking in lungful after lungful because, well, the smell of gunpowder is nice, but mostly it was so something after all that nothing that I couldn't walk away. Is that so odd--to stay there drinking in the smell of explosives like Charlie with his face pressed to the gates of the chocolate factory?

I think I want to go home. Rake leaves, go walking by the river, sit outside after it rains when the air is so thick it presses on you. You can smell it at home. Not here.

Enough. This entry is close enough to an angst attack all by itself.

New icon. mhari is love.