Sustained Criticism

Today has been quite lovely. Got ut at around 9, after approximately an hour of reading Dickens in bed - page 243, and counting. Proceeded, post-breakfast, with making notes on the American electoral system, the parties, interest organisations, Presidential elections and a few lines on checks and balances (fondly christened "checks and fucking, or bloody, balances" by yours truly). Due to previous frustrations I now feel particularly accomplished on account of my most recent feat: I understood American Presidential Elections, by reading the woebegone explanation "Tapestry" offers on the subject. Applause, darlings?

And so, feeling all intelligent and confident, I went to school to sit through psychology. Most fruitless endavour of today, seeing how my teacher complained of a terrible headache - she was quite confident she would be going blind if she had to teach us - and informed us that she simply couldn't stand us today. Spent an entire 45 minutes there, and got home after an hour and a half's worth of break from the work.
Ended up skimming through the catalyst of my current situation - the "Module 2" project, my "On Outsiders" - yesterday, and I am vehemently annoyed at school in general, and Vigdis in particular. I wrote beautifully! And now it seems I'll never write that way again. God, I miss it! I miss my creativity; I wish I had Nabokovian promise and ability. I want to write again! I want to publish something, entirely void of point, and to stir people. And I want to write an afterword so irresistibly charming in its arrogance that no one dares analyse a word. (I sound like a spoiled brat, don't I? For, however little it may seem that way, I am horrendously grateful for the opportunity the school, and particularly my teachers, are offering me; I just wish it wouldn't be at the expense of my creative abilities.) I have a few wonderful paragraphs in there, the parenthesis - almost Nabokovian -, the wonderful flow of it all. - I feel like a Romantic, writing about his affection for children's innocence and how "we murder to dissect", orbed to the present and blended with a few cups of "emo".


I think Dickens is bad for me, he makes me long to write magical fiction. He makes me dream of writing like Nabokov did; of writing a Lolita of my own. Yes, Dickens is decidedly bad for me. Nabokov is worse, but they are both so gorgeous. Dickens admittedly a little tedious, and none too great with characters in shades of grey - he prefers them black, white or dis-coloured. And now I'm getting entirely off-track, I set out to write a short post, ending with a "bottom-lined" version of American Politics behind a gracfeul cut, to keep any poor readers from a very boring death, but it didn't quite turn out that way. Now I want to go see Beauty of the Beast or some other Disney movie. Anastacia, perhaps?

My French inabilities annoy me. I need to learn French. 5 years of lessons, and I can hardly compose a text. Much less a sentence without a dictionary. Learn French, or create the theatrical RPG I've been toying with lately?

PS: I can't believe I was compared to this woman on Saturday. If that is even close to how I come off when dressed up, I'll be utterly delighted. But then again, red lips tend to do peculiar things to people.

PPS: It's adorably windy outside tonight. Wind is generally great fun if it's not winter, and I'm not freezing several semi-vital body parts off.

This post has turned ridiculously and pointlessly long. And it is high time I end it. Perhaps I might one day rival Woolf on stream-of-consciousness?

I tend to believe all people have "Frankensteins" - monsters that, when sparked by a certain amount of elecetricity, come to indefatiguable life - and my Frankie went on a jealous rampage last night. My vanity does not need encouragement, in any way. Although I won't confess to minding being compared to Dita von Teese, being revered for my sense of style, and gawked at from across the room. On that note, I rater like drunken-stupours, they tend to bring me compliments. And I paraphrase Idi Amin "all rational people change their opinions every once in a while"; take delight in my inconsequence, for drinking to get drunk is still a rather silly thing.

No school tomorrow, except an hour and a half of psyhcology, and that's just fun. I love "studiedager" (translation abscent not for the lack of hilarity, but for the lack of creativity on the author's part).

Went to play with Sandra yesterday, for her "sweet 18". "Melodic Violence" (look them up at myspace, there's sure to be a ton of pictures) played, whether she payed or threatened them into coming, I have no idea. Friends turning 18 is weird. We're growing up, and it's a profoundly peculiar experience. However bad the singer was, the music wasn't too bad. Met a few people, got gawked at by several, and invited to various places by others - Hønefoss, South-Hampton, Moss and Camden, to be a sport and name a few. And I've never seen such a gathering of intensely emo emos. Hadn't Nina, Tina and I arrived to save the day, flanked by Aida and her friend called, we thought, M-something, they would've lapsed into collective SI the moment the band started playing; I'm sure they brought ostehøvler and råkostjern (no, I can't be bothered to look up the names of various kitchen utensils) for the purpose of ridding themselves of all the skin on their arms, legs or other bodyparts respectively.

New layout, credit of the lovely Gawariel Design. It's bent not to work with my Safari, so I have to use Firefox for LJ, but it's worth it. Aesthetics takes presedence over pracicality, comme d'habitude.

Oh, and I had what never quite evolved into a tea-party with Mari on Thursday. 'Twas great fun, seeing her again. And I got to deliver the gift. Turned out we bought not Mortiis, as I thought, but some obscure Norwegian band singing about suicide. Smashing gift.

And I really should read some American Politics. I've a substantially lakcing grasp of the Presidential Election.


Addendum: I think I've figured out how I want to celebrate my 18th. I'll threaten some people into having dinner with me, force dad into buying wine (Asti of course, for a starter/welcome-thingy, a fitting red for dinner, and something sweet and white for dessert) and just sit around, talking and sipping lovely wine into the evening, accompanied, of course by great music and intriguing discussions. Sophisticaion <3.