At least this week's article received a grade.

But that's all I have to say about that.

My taking up smoking by the end of this semester should come as a shock to no one. Let my own utter lack of surprise be your cue. I'm downright schizophrenic about this class. Does it say something that I get caught up with the cadence of the words, that I want to vary the he/she said structure of attribution because the repetition grates on my soul? What purpose does it serve to drag people down through years of straight news and reporting stories when what they're striving to get is a post as a magazine feature writer, but by the time they do the drudgery of how they got there has usurped their very will to write so much as one measly little adjective?

Okay, done now. Will attempt to get over melodramatic self, as it's been made abundantly clear that it serves no purpose to anyone.

While I'm a writer at least partially because I don't like math, the numbers game is sometimes fun.

Or you know. A good, objective way to see just how crazy you are!

Number of official LJ-supported mood icon slots: 134
Number of official personally-assigned mood icon slots: 43
Number of as-yet un-iconed extra moods: 71

Possible total number of mood icons in this theme: 248

Number of mood icons actually finished: 123


Probably a safe bet that it won't get quite that out of hand but whoo, doggie. We all had some fun last night. *goes back to work*

My own little tribute drabble.

I left my home country a little over thirteen years ago (!) to come here with my mother and brother. My parents divorced soon thereafter and my mom remarried, a decision I've never resented despite the myriad hardships of making a completely new life here.

Apparently, it was my arguing with my stepfather, in my most indignant non-twelve-inch voice while waiting in downtown Miami's INS office, that exempted us from the interview we were there for. Unbeknownst to me, this meeting was supposed to determine that my mother didn't marry him for a green card. As teenage girls, however rational their points, do not get into heated debates over instituting internet access within the household with someone they were supposed to be trying their damnedest to appease, nor someone liable to not take kindly to being talked at by a teenage girl, my display was sufficient to conclude that we were an honest-to-goodness family, grant us green cards and become permanent residents. I believe we had internet within the house in a month's time. *g*

And we're still here. My mother and brother by consequence are already naturalized - my application had to be filed separately, as I turned 18 before her papers were finalized. Glitches and Issues aside, this spring will hopefully see my full indoctrination into the citizen ranks of the United States, which I've called myself a national of for years now.

I treasure the virtually absolute freedom afforded me not just inside my bedroom but out on the street, even on the steps of my Capitol should I so choose. I'm grateful that I can believe in any God or none at all and have no persecution to fear from the government. I do not fail to appreciate that I'm not only being educated at an illustrious, liberal post-secondary institution, but that my merits and the state of Florida, in recognizing them, allow me to do it for free.

I will exercise my right to vote.

I love this, (almost) my country. I believe in the ideals on which it was founded, the hard work on which it was built, and strive to make the most of the endless possibilities afforded to me as a resident of it (even if at times all that that entails is writing slash, wearing a short skirt or listening to disco.) Even if its occasionally lamentably inept bureaucrats want to fingerprint me for the same database for the third time in my thirteen years here. Because these things change, y'know.

At least some don't.


Cause there ain't no doubt I love this land

Justin Month, Day Eleven

I wonder if baby blue was even one of his school's colors. *g* it's such a sweet picture and an utterly fantastic little moment. On stage! With his boys! *hugs them all close*

can't believe my way back when by kel.

You'll be sure. You'll be so sure that you'll lean in and kiss away whatever he'd been going to say and he'll mutter protests against your tongue. But you'll push because you'll be sure that you can show him this way, you'll be all out of words but if you could just make him see how your hands'll fit together --

Oh, Justin. There's an assurance to him cultivated by years of people doing things just because he said they should be done. It's the people who know him though, and especially Chris, who can tell when he's talking out of his ass. Though to be fair to Justin, there are things that can only happen after you're sure enough to will them into being, and he's got an almost uncanny ability to do that all on his own.