Hi there, internetalonians. I have things to say.
You know what's a funny concept? That which assumes that if you're a girl who doesn't want to spend effort putting thought into the gifts you give to other girls, beauty products are the readily acceptable standby.
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One thing I've noticed about myself: Though I'm slightly obsessive when it comes to grammar usage, my own takes on a stylized incorrectness in certain modes of writing. I enjoy run-on sentences and sentence fragments and over-hyphenation. In some cases, I like to write as if I were speaking. My mood affects my sentence structure.
Personally, however, I think I know to draw the line. I do nothing so despicable as to, say, overuse commas. To me that's one of the worst offenses in the textbook of badness.
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I read Neil Gaiman's newest children's book, Odd and the Frost Giants. Then I read the biography. This is what it said.
NEIL GAIMAN writes books. Some of them are for adults, like American Gods, and some of them are comics, like the Sandman series, and some of them have pictures, like Crazy Hair and Blueberry Girl. He was awarded the Newbery Medal for The Graveyard Book. (Hello.) Other awards he has won include the Hugo Award, the Nebula Award, the World Fantasy Award, and, hardest to spell, the Mythopoeic Award. (I bet you could win awards just for spelling Mythopoeic correctly.) His books Coraline and Stardust were made into films. (Does anyone read these biographies?) He is practically fifty years old and has three children. (Help, I am being held prisoner.) He wears lots of black clothes and probably needs a haircut. (They make us write these biographies of authors all day.) He wrote Odd and the Frost Giants for World Book Day in the UK, and thinks there are more stories about Odd he would like to tell. Visit him online at www.mousecircus.com.
His author biographies at the ends of his books are always goofy and entertaining. I enjoy reading them.
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"There's no one on Earth quite like her."
I am interested in this concept of uniqueness. Nobody is unique. People are not snowflakes. We would like to think we are special, and perhaps in our own spheres of world we are, but there are way too many people out there. Many others share our weirdest thoughts.
True, there are celebrities, who for one reason or another are different than the rest. But the fact that they are known for these differences is circumstantial. Ten other girls like Amanda Palmer were creative enough but not brave enough. Ten other girls were confident but talentless. Ten other girls were strong but not supported. Ten others found the wrong sound for there special-new-genre-of-music. Ten others could not find their drummers.
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I think the girliest thing about me is my strange little affinity for nail polish. It's been in and then out again for periods of time that have lasted years. I don't really get it. Last time I wore nail polish was probably at least three years ago, and suddenly I came to SVA and met my roommate and the second weekend here, she was painting her nails and I decided to join her. I hadn't brought any of my old things (which had mainly consisted of pen or marker doodles with a clear coat over anyways), but I found a color I liked in her collection, called 'Gunmetal' (I think I would not have liked it half as much with a tamer name), and suddenly I phased back in.
Colors are on my list of things I like. Somehow this makes sense.
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From twelve to two tonight, I read three one-act plays aloud to myself, for class tomorrow. Purgatory, by Yeats, The Man with the Flower in His Mouth, by Pirandello, and Hello Out There by Saroyan. I quite like them all, though they are very different.
There's something beautiful about plays, that I've always admired. They are required by nature to be more expressive than other written forms. In characters' monologues one often finds the urge to yell.
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Two thirty now. Time for bed.
Olivia
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