do you believe in planets?

for the happies are needed for the crazies

The date of my qualifying exam has drawn near enough for inclusion in the weather forecast.  Mercy me! 

This is how I cope:

I too predict amorous storms and cyclones.

do you believe in pants?!?!?

I think I'll finally move forward with the blog re-naming.  Any last minute pitches?  Remember, your entry/nominee must keep with the DYBIP in my url.  "Did You Bust it, Prissypants?"  is leading the pack right now.  I dig "Do Your Bitching in Private" for the irony.  I also like "Damn!  Yo' Bitch is Pregnant!" for sheer rudeness.  "Drag Your Business Into Public" is great, but awkwardly crammed into the acronym.

Feelin' Elastic was blogging about the narcissism inherent to blogging.  It's unavoidable. Even if you're not blogging about yourself, there you are, blogging, as yourself.  And while I think I've almost killed off the very last of my urges to purge on the internet through the clusterf@#$ that is Facebook (which in part accounts for the piss-poor activity here at DYBIP), I have no desire to pull down the blog.  None.  Despite how good ol' Mr. Blog is reduced to a herky-jerky procession of tricks and gags, specially designed to shut down interchange and real "reaching out," hammering my dwindling readership with relentless irony, hard-to-swallow-in-comparison earnestness, self-deprecation, shameless bragging, even more shameless exhibitionism in tandem with extreme caginess, etc. That and tennis.  And the occasional "DO WANT!" fashion blog. Despite all that.  Here my blog remains.  Staring out into them internets with unblinking eyes.

No one noticed that I didn't blog the Aussie Open.  I did follow it, though. And then came the tears.  OH, the tears. 

Anyway.

::crickets chirping::

Here's a picture:

Yeah, there's always that.

item:

I bought a big, beautiful new hanging plant for the balcony. It's lovely. Unfortunately, I do not know whether I need to feed it and how much to water it, because SOMEONE, after so kindly installing a hook thing for the plant to dangle from, threw away the info tag thing.

Whatever, this is what I get for not knowing anything about anything. I think it might be a fuchsia. I'm gonna water the shit out of it. And watch it drown, probably. And then cry.

OH BITCHES WHO PRAY HELP ME OUT

So, on the suggestion of my most reliable mentor, I fired off an email to [institution I'm currently waitlisted at] inquiring about my approximate position on the waitlist. According to aforementioned mentor, this technique is your best bet to get a final "yes" or "no" at these later stages in the game--and achieve the end of torment, so to speak.

A short one-act:

Wind: Blow, blow, blow.

Ebeff: Twist, twist, twist.

THE END.

Prayer and I aren't on such good terms. Send one up for me.

thanks, em oh lei!

Em done found me a magic dee-cision-making dee-vice!

Here goes!

Well, dag-nabbit!

:::checks email:::

:::tinkers with photos for flickr:::

:::turns on HGTV, and it's one of those dumb "we'll come over and rearrange your furniture!" shows:::

All right, here we go agin:

That's exactly what *I* thought! So, tell me:

Woooo dawgie! Now, one last thing, and it's very, VERY important:

AUGH! Crap! Maybe it's because I spelled "actually" wrong.

OR MAYBE IT'S BECAUSE I SHOULD GIVE UP AND RETREAT TO A TINFOIL CAVE WHERE I WILL WAIT OUT MY LIFE BEGGING THE MOTHERSHIP TO COME BACK FOR ME.

update; prancy little deer

Dear Sirs and Madames:

Among other things, this post will demonstrate how a college freshman writes immediately after he/she has "discovered" that magical piece of punctuation known as the semicolon; this post should irritate the living shit out of you if you have any sensibilities whatsoever.

So I hoped that by this weekend I would have some official news for y'all concerning the results of a certain interview with a certain institution of higher education; however, I have not yet received "the email," and I leave tomorrow noon for a wifi-free weekend on the coast. That's right, the west coast; that's right, the west coast of the United States.

Reese's birfday = this past week, Tara's = next week, => they are renting a beach house and having a joint birfday party with about twelve total attendees; one night of drunken karaoke in Portland wasn't enough birfday for Reese, apparently. The ordeal could provide precisely the brand of relaxation I so crave--campfires, irish coffees, and foggy mornings on the beach; it could, on the other hand, entail a great deal of alcohol and the necessarily ensuing hijinks. With at least a little luck, no one will drown; with a tad more luck, I might actually get to sleep in a bed.

NOTICE: I've uncovered in my Aperture archives a whole shitton of photos from San Francisco that I had deemed lost; make YourLizabeff happy and go look at them. I still need to post the ones of Cafe Vesuvio and that whole neighborhood; that will have to wait until after my minibreak.

Love,
Ebeff

P.S. God help me; that deer photo cracks me the fuck up.