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Lego, Lego, Lego.
Two boxes this year - just little ones, but I am satisfied.

For now...

Booyeah.
So now I make more Lego stories with the wonderfully decent family digital camera... joy!

And I do mean that.
Joy and all.
It's just hard getting started, is all. My first one I did in almost no time at all. It's great - about a poor Pimp who just wanted to enjoy the morning sunshine with his "girls."

http://priestessshina.i8.com/lego.html
For all its Lego-y goodness.

My next masterpiece will revolve around an explorer named Dr.McGillicuddy, a gruff boatman named Rufus, and a bunch of Indians (and possiby pirates as well).
It will be a lot of fun.

After that.. maybe I'll do the bank heist...

Who knows...

Emo-ment:

I’m lying on my back, the gray sky shines cold through the mini-blinds. It’s her bed. It was before we met, before we were married and she keeps it on the floor even though we just got a bed frame. We’ve been so strapped for cash that neither of us have been buying new music (she always pronounces it “ny-ther”). This Christmas we weren’t even going to buy each other presents but, of course, we both do.

We both buy each other a CD among other things. How cute.

I’m listening to Dashboard Confessional and lying on my back on our bed with the cold, gray sky and everything feeling so Seattle. So Cameron Crowe. So Emo.

She spoons me and her hair is splayed out on the bed like it was arranged by a professional photographer. I’m facing the ceiling but with my hands behind my head I can look out the window and see the hills shrouded in fog in the distance. Telephone poles and power lines crisscross in front of the few roofs that come up this high. They slash the scene in such a metropolitan, beatnik poetry kind of way and the music fits. It’s so cliché. So music video. So Emo.

I’m lying here and noticing all this. How everything fits into some ostentatious caricature of what Virgin Records and MTV projected for the year 2003. I picture a boardroom, a thousand floors up, with a graying chairman tenting his fingers, his elbows resting on a polished mahogany table that reflects his torso perfectly giving him the look of the King of Diamonds. He calmly describes the lifestyle and mindset of America’s youth, ages 20-30 and I slid stoically into his Excel Spreadsheet marketing slot. I’m listening to his Top 10 album and probably wearing the pants from his preconceived Fall Line and I’m bothered at my own willing submission.

She stirs and some of her hair tickles my elbows. The rain crescendos and a few treetops bend against the cold, gray sky and I don’t care that I’m half-asleep, lounging in this prefabricated stereotype. The next song comes on and it’s about a couple lying in bed as the weather blows by gray outside. It’s so obvious. So TRL. So Emo.

I smile and close my eyes as she settles into a fitful sigh. I allow myself to become a commercial that no one will see. I cross my legs in their faded, slightly torn jeans and inwardly laugh at how predictable that was but she doesn’t know or care. To her, we’re just a couple listening to the CD she bought and she couldn’t be happier to be inside instead of out. She’s so Chick Flick. So Steel Magnolias. So unconcerned at how close we are to being posers.

How close we are to being Emo.

I've been sick. I've been sick since Thursday night, and it's been kinda awful. I haven't been able to keep food down that great, I was totally unsuccessful Thursday night, and Friday morning; and Friday I was able to keep down a bowl of spaghetti noodles. But I'm sure you didn’t want to hear that per se. Certainly won't get people to read this daylog, certainly won't get it upvoted. So, I can comment about the stuff I got at Target for moving into the dorms. I got:

  • a trashcan
  • A tote for my bathroom supplies
  • A tiny broom and dust pan
  • A white board
  • A little metal thing for Post Cards, I can't live without them!
  • Zip ties
  • A lamp
  • Two Reams of printer paper; that's 21 pounds of paper!
  • A notebook in case I have to take notes
  • A monthly planner, in case I have to do homework
  • a surge protector and extension cord
  • A box of kleenex
  • Tape
  • Detergent
  • Fabric Softener, and corresponding ball

Also, you can listen to me complain about getting paperwork done for the school. See, first off, I need records of my immunization as a child against things like Measles, Mumps, Rubella, Diphtheria, and so on and so forth. As a child, my parents moved me, therefore changing my pediatrician; well the second guy was/is a real quack! Right after I stopped going to the man, he moved his office down the street, and went from a private practice to working with the Cleveland Clinic. But what does this have to do with anything? Well, as I said, the school wants a copy of my immunization records, and this quack job… simply doesn’t have them anymore. When the lady on the phone told me this, I almost burst out into tears. This is the kind of thing that doctors are supposed to KEEP!! I guess my records got stuck in storage when he moved, since I wasn’t a current patient, and since I haven't seen him in over ten years, they assumed I'd never come back for the records, so they are in some filing cabinet in Timbuktu. Not only will it take forever to get them, but it might cost me an arm and a leg to get a hold of them, even though it's his fault. But! All hope is not lost. I might be able to get a record from my elementary school. I sure hope they keep that kind of thing, I get to call them on Monday to find out. THEN! Once that is straightened out, I need to reregister myself as a patient of the quack doctor so that he can fill out my paperwork. AND so that he can administer the meningitis vaccination to me, since my general practitioner doesn’t have it on hand, and it will take FOREVER to get it from her. *sighs* the joys of college life are just beginning.

Please pray that it all works out, so far it has been, so something must be going right

I'M COMIN' TO ENGLAND!

That's right, happy noders of the English Persuasion - my girlfriend, under the influence of an ill-advised (ie, expensive) bout of Christmas Cheer(tm) is taking me to England in January. We'll be flying into Heathrow on January 14th, tooling around London for a bit, heading to Exeter for a few days, coming BACK to London and winging our way back to New York Fuckin' City on the 22nd.

Yes, that's hazy. It's late and she's asleep or I'd have more info for you, like actual travel plans and stuff. That's her department. I'm just supposed to take pictures and drink a lot. I think I can handle that.

The point being, if anybody would like to meet up and let me take pictures of things and drink a lot, lemme know. I'll be more than happy to oblige.

UPDATE: She's up. We will be in Exeter January 19th and 20th. Everything else is up for grabs. "The 20th you'll" (me) "need to be entertained," she says. So if any of you are closer to Exeter, we could make a day of that as well.

I propose a Drunk-Rating on appliances similar to the way most foods in the US have nutritional information right on the label. I say this because I received a bread machine for Christmas and ignored it until two days ago, when I attempted to learn how to use and operate it under the influence of 6 hard ciders.

I have to give the bread machine credit. It tried hard to resist, but I managed to throw all the ingredients together and hit the right buttons and, when I stumbled into the kitchen the next morning for coffee, there was a loaf of perfectly edible bread. It gets a Drunk-Rating of 6 beers, whereas something like an electric hair-clipper gets maybe a 2, because come on. Do you really want a drunk cutting your hair?

Weird day not doing much. I'm a virgin as far as these daylogs are concerned, so forgive me in advance.

I went on to the Internet and signed on to AIM today. On my buddy list are the names of random people whose names I've collected from other people's profiles, blogs, whatever. No, I'm not a stalker or a flamer, or anything like that. I don't talk to these people, I read their profiles, I see their interests, their passions, their friends. I'm a loser. My only comfort is the fact that perhaps J.D. Salinger is doing the same thing, but I find that doubtful. It's not very Buddhist.

I like it here. I want to stay. I no longer wish to defect.

New York City is so nice on Sunday mornings because nobody is on the streets. Literally, nobody. No person. It gives me a look into what it would be like if there were some nuclear holocaust and I was the only survivor. Why not take the Starbucks as well?

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