One-sentence commencement speeches
by V.E. on May 17th, 2009
filed under beauty
[...courtesy of PostSecret. Or: Wear Sunscreen for our generation.]
In the real world, you must wear shoes.
You can do anything. But not everything.
Illegitimus non carborundum — don’t let the bastards grind you down.
Sometimes it’s more than okay to be terrified.
Wonder.
Understand the difference between being an adult and growing up…
Always remember to bring your towel.
Everything in life is only for now. Life may be scary, but it’s only temporary. This too shall pass.
Pain is inevitable, but suffering is optional.
If you’ll regret it in the morning, sleep ’til noon.
Your GPA doesn’t matter.
You’ll regret the things you didn’t do, more than the things you did.
leap……and the net will appear
A theory can never be proven right so all you can do is keep proving it wrong.
Sometimes the hardest thing and the right thing are the same.
Take the chance—even if you are scared—you might hate it—it may not work—it may work—you might love it—but don’t live to regret not taking it.
“to do is to be” —nietzsche
“to be is to do” —kant
“do be do be do” —sinatra
only your song matters in the end
Amor vincit omnia—Love conquers all things.
Stop looking at the shell and see the pearl.
He who works with his hands is a laborer. He who works with his hands and his head is a craftsman. He who works with his hands and his head and his heart is an artist.
The true test of your character will be in how you treat those you DO NOT have to be nice to.
The darkest hours are the hours in which we discover ourselves.
Contrary to popular belief, these are not the best years of your life, just the least complicated.
if you do nothing else, fight a bear. that way, no matter what you face, you can always know you’ve seen worse.
There is always time for a dance break. Turn the music up, and keep on until you’re laughing.
Don’t be afraid of death… be afraid of the unlived life.
Sing in the car.
Don’t ever let anyone tell you any experience is not “a real world experience.”
when you get the choice to sit it out or dance…. I HOPE YOU DANCE.
Every once in awhile allow your ambition to border on cutthroat, it will scare the hell out of people who might otherwise take advantage of your kindness.
Speak your mind, even if your voice shakes.
Everything worthwhile leaves bruises.
A Portrait of the Artist as a Frantic Woman
by V.E. on May 16th, 2009
filed under recap/review, school, writing
EDIT 23:31 EDT, 21 May 2009 I’m deleting the links to these reports because I’m angry at… someone. No, it’s not you, Zekor.
Yeah, I’m getting completely idiotic with titles in my semester’s old age. As promised, here’s A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. (Earlier TPS reports are here.) I actually cited some outside sources for this one, and I used hella footnotes just to prove a point: that footnotes are evil—necessary, perhaps, but still evil. (Endnotes are even worse. I’m telling you: they’re from the Devil. Portrait of the Artist has *fifty pages* of endnotes; I kid you not.)
Six down; four to go. Yosh!
Next up is The Sun Also Rises.
Half way done…
by V.E. on May 16th, 2009
filed under recap/review, school, writing
EDIT 23:33 EDT, 21 May 2009 I’m deleting the links to these reports because I’m angry at… someone. No, it’s not you, Zekor.
…with one-third of my work. Hahahahahahaha. If I don’t laugh, I’m going to cry, so just don’t say anything. This TPS report, unlike the others so far, is easily the most disjointed one I’ve done. Or, I guess it could be like them. I don’t know. I’m not going to reread any of them until I’m done with all of them.
Catch-22
As with the others, I’m not putting this here for anyone to read it—especially with this one; I didn’t proofread or anything before just being done—I’m just putting it here as a marker.
Five down, five to go.
Next up is A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.
Two more TPS reports
by V.E. on May 15th, 2009
filed under recap/review, school, writing
EDIT 23:34 EDT, 21 May 2009 I’m deleting the links to these reports because I’m angry at… someone. No, it’s not you, Zekor.
HUZZAH. omg omg omg HUUUUZZZZZZAAAAAAH.
You have NO IDEA how good it feels to be DONE with the two recommendations my professor gave me for this semester; one was The Good Soldier, the other is below. I also managed to write about my favorite book of all time (no joke). I’ll let you figure out which is which. Though, of course, I in no way recommend reading these reports. They’ll do no one but me any good, and me only until I can write the damned final paper (which is by itself one-third of my semester’s work).
The Remains of the Day
Stranger in a Strange Land
If I can finish another one tomorrow (and by that I mean Friday), I’ll be half done with one-third of my semester’s work. Uh… yeah.
Four down; six to go.
Next up is Catch-22.
Fugitive Recovery Agent
by V.E. on May 12th, 2009
filed under personal, writing, wtf
I swear to God, truth is stranger than fiction.
On my way back to New York City from Lancaster yesterday, I wasn’t in the mood to play, but apparently, the world was in the mood to play with me.
I got on the downtown A train at 34th St. at around 5:30 pm and switched to the D at West 4th. While I was waiting for the transfer, a guy tried to get my number by claiming to be a “fugitive recovery agent”…
At first, I ignored him. It wasn’t that hard, because I was wearing headphones, and presumably, he had to speak over the train sounds and Casting Crowns, which were, at that time, blaring in my ears. No such luck that he’d just catch a hint and go away, of course.
“Hey, beautiful,” he said over the sound of the F train arriving across the tracks at the uptown platform, “you got a number I can have?”
“What? No, I don’t. I don’t have a phone,” I said, taking the earbuds out of my ears. (That ended up being a mistake because he took it as a sign that I was willing to listen to him.)
“I hardly believe that, honey,” (I hate it when guys who don’t know me call me pet names. HATE it.) “I’m a Fugitive Recovery Agent. I should have your number so I can protect you.”
“A fugitive recov—you’re an effing bounty hunter?” I was apparently somewhat less impressed than he was expecting… and apparently, no woman has ever known what a “fugitive recovery agent” is before he told her, so he was out his next line.
He fumbled before saying, “Yeah, well, that’s the layman’s term for it.” He opened his wallet and pulled out a business card, “Here’s my card in case you’re ever in trouble, sweetheart.”
I took the card and tossed it on the track in front of us without looking at it. “I’m not interested, thanks.” There were enough people around that I wasn’t afraid of him, and if worse came to worse, I could push him onto the track and be done with it.
“Aww, don’t be like that, sugar,” he said. The guy just didn’t want to give up: “Gimme your number and we’ll call it even.”
“I don’t owe you anything, and I’m not giving you my number.”
“Ah! So you do have a phone, then,” he crowed as if he’d caught me in some huge lie. I rolled my eyes before I could stop myself.
“Look, mister, I’m not interested, all right? Just let it go.”
“No one says ‘no’ to me, honey. I’m a bounty hunter.”
I think he was trying to sound threatening, but he just came off as pathetic, and I nearly laughed right in his face. “That’s nice. Go find someone with a bounty on his head. That’s not me.”
“Aww, sweetcheeks,” he said, “don’t y’wanna be mine?” I did laugh in his face that time.
“Not hardly.” My hair was standing up on the back of my neck by this time—enough pet names from someone I don’t know will do that to me—and I was seriously thinking about just kneeing the guy in the balls. I couldn’t be the first to make a move or I’d be the one in custody, if it came to that. Which I hoped to gods it didn’t.
He reached for me and I stepped back. “Gotcha on the run, now, do I?” he asked gleefully, “I do love the chase…”
I was (still) not impressed. “Drop it, man. You’re barking up the wrong tree here.” If he even thought about calling me “baby” I was gonna—
“C’mon, baby, don’t be such a bitch.”
He grabbed my arm and pulled me in to do… to do something… but I never figured out what because I said, “Don’t you fucking touch me, you bastard” and kneed him right between the legs… and then the D train pulled up.
I left him in a crouch on the platform floor and stepped onto the train. The doors shut behind me and I was safe.
The guy next to me had apparently seen the whole thing. “Damn, you looked like you could’ve seriously taken him on back there. You weren’t playing around, were you?” He laughed.
“Well, I did kick him in the nuts, so…”
“Yeah, but I mean… remind me not to underestimate women.”
“Don’t underestimate women,” I said immediately. He laughed again. I settled back in the seat and put my earbuds back in.
Ridiculous
Ridiculousby V.E. on May 4th, 2009
The rose on my thigh
by V.E. on May 4th, 2009
I have officially decided that I like tattoos on women. I know that some people like the “pristine woman” thing, and that’s their thing, I guess, but it’s not me. Hells know I haven’t been “pristine” since… early high school, at least. To me, “pristine” = naïve. Tattoos. I like them. Colorful, beautiful; and on beautiful women, they enhance the attraction. I think it goes back to Patricia Paiwonski, a character in Stranger in a Strange Land. (Yeah, big surprise there, I know, for all of you who know me.) “Aunt Patty” is covered in tattoos from the neck down; I didn’t like them the first time I read the book (I was like 12; give me a break), but the idea was placed and since then it’s grown on me.
I understand that more and more women are having their tattoos removed, and—for the tattoos that are difficult to cover up—it’s about not being able to get a job or not being promoted. Or, at least, that’s the fear. I understand that some people just change their minds, and that’s fine. But removing something just so you’ll get a job? Do you know how fucked up that is? I don’t fault the women for this—a lot of times, guys can write it off and it doesn’t affect their prospects, but with women… well… we live in a Puritan culture, a culture that puts our (white, virgin) women on pedestals and: OMG nothing shall defile them heavens no! Someone who feels like she has to change her body to get a decent job is obviously feeling the “proper culture” white collar pressure.
I’ll be the first to admit I’m a classist, arrogant bitch who knows she’s better than someone else, but honestly… this is just stupid. Even I have to admit that high culture takes itself too seriously too often. What the hell, people? Someone, who would otherwise be qualified for the job, doesn’t get it because of what she looks like? Doesn’t that sound a little… I don’t know… racist?
I’m just sayin’.
