Things are weird. But they're weird in that sort-of happy way that comes right before the holidays, and when you've only just found a group of people who are MADE OF AWESOME and are trying to find ways to make more hours in the day, so you can spend more time with them and still manage to pass finals.
I joined my school's kung fu club not too long ago--it was a bit of a fluke that let me find it, and I am thankful for that fluke. I don't think my body's been this happy in years, considering kung fu was the only way I ever could get it into shape and not have it complain at me for its state of affairs. And the people... well, let's just say, I'd be doing kung fu even if half the guys in the club weren't completely ripped, but it makes it that much more enjoyable. Plus, I have gone camping again, something I missed heartily, and that made my soul happy.
So, yeah. Finals. Gots to study, but really don't want to. I'll do it, and survive intact, I'm sure. But right now, I'm looking forward to the French oral exam I have to take in a few hours being over, actually falling asleep, and getting up in time to go to kung fu.
My health and sanity is sort of relying on that eventuality.

I tried. I really, really did. I talked to the teacher, got the book, and even started a non-genre story to turn in.
Then I started the reading.
I think I might have made it past drop/add if the first story we were assigned to read hadn't begun with the words "I am not Jackson Pollock. I am not the great painter Jackson Pollock," and had proceeded to extrapolate on this point in excruciating detail. Nothing happened. The author later revealed he'd been lying in those opening lines, and then reminisced on a dream that was not only incredibly dull, but included nothing vaguely dreamlike about it. He switched perspectives. He wrote about wanting to screw a girl and being too scared to ask her. This last might have been okay if it hadn't been the point of the whole story and led to some, to put it mildly, misogynistic statements on the part of the narrator (who was still confused about his identity at this point.)
Frankly, I'd suggest it as a substitute for Eye of Argon if I didn't think anyone who read it would suffer from chronic brain death afterwards.
Perhaps this is too harsh of me. After all, I have firmly planted myself in the realm of genre fiction and am therefore a little wary of literary fiction. But I tried, and I just don't think it was a good story. I've read good literary fiction, (just as I've read bad f/sf) and this was not good. That my teacher thought it was scared me more than a little.
So I dropped the class.
It's the only short fiction class on campus.
Guess I'll have to go back to Alpha next year, huh?

Addendum:
I am obviously alone in my thoughts about this story. After looking it up online, I found a barrage of praise and good reviews for the author.
I'm not sure whether I feel ill or sad. Maybe a bit of both.

Welcome to Creative Writing. In this class you will not be allowed to write any of the following:
fantasy
sci-fi
mystery
horror
romance (not too upset about this one, I must say)
suspense
Yes, friends, I've got a semester of writing non-genre fiction. While not what I was hoping for, the class will probably help me with those aspects of my stories that I need some more work on--plot, character development, etc. The teacher seems nice, and we are allowed to write mildly speculative fiction and magical realism ('cause y'all know how realistic those fortune tellers and strange men with one eye are). No world-building, though, and definitely no fairies who enjoy flaying people alive. Also, I may not be able to get away with nearly as much murder and mayhem. I wonder what will come of this--maybe my main character will survive the whole way through.
I just want to find a way to make things happen without sounding like I've got a stick up my butt. Usually, the only way I can do this is with the assistance of a few witches and a pixie.
Guess I'll have to get creative. Maybe that's where the name comes from.

For all you peoples on facebook, I'm there now as well. I'll try to find you all when I get a chance.

During the brain drain of Alpha, I didn't remember having any dreams at night. I'm usually a very vivid dreamer, so I guess my subconscious was saving it all up for the daytime. But over the last two weeks, I've found myself making up for lost time. There was only one night last week that I didn't remember any of my dreams, and several nights when I remembered at least two. Being dreams, they're obviously incredibly convoluted, but I've found some pretty awesome story fodder in a couple of them. I also learned how to interpret dreams a few years ago, but sometimes I find mine to be a little bit off the beaten path when it comes to symbolism, and some of my more recent ones are starting to scare me.
( Things that go bump in the night )

Last Saturday, in an effort to reintegrate myself in normal society, I drove two and a half hours to Kansas City to spend one hour wandering around in the heat with some of ex-neighbors (who live in the same town as us). In hindsight, perhaps this would have gone more smoothly if we'd scheduled it for a day when the sidewalk wasn't melting, but I enjoyed myself anyway. They have a young daughter named Sophie, who's got the biggest blue eyes ever. She's a bundle of energy who insisted I hold her hand while we were walking around. We got so far behind the rest of the group, I think some of the passersby may have mistaken her for my daughter.
After cooling off in an ice cream shop, we went our separate ways and my dad, his girlfriend, and I headed back to her hometown (which is only a half-hour away from KC) to drop her off.
The highlight of the evening was a stop at the Borders there, which was big enough to make me fall to my knees in thanks. It was also air-conditioned.
Now, to continue you this story, I have to tell you another one. About two months ago, just before I graduated, I got a lovely card from my dad. I can't remember what it said, but it contained a hundred-dollar Borders gift card. I see the logic in this. At the time, I was still in Florida, with a Borders close at hand. Unfortunately, I was also busy getting ready for graduation and my first semester at college, and I managed to stop by Waldenbooks in the mall once.
After graduation, I flew directly to Maryland for a small family-reunion-type endeavor in Ocean City, which contains approximately one bookstore. This is not Borders.
I was then whisked (well, driven for 18 hours) back to Columbia, Missouri. There are several bookstores in town. None of them are Borders.
A week later, I flew into Pittsburgh for the most amazing two weeks of my short, pathetic life, and got to go to not one, but two bookstore readings. These did not take place at a Borders.
Which brings us to last Saturday, when I was finally able to enter one such a place. I headed directly for the F/SF section and began scanning the shelves. It was a happy time. I'm guessing I'm not the only one who has walked into a bookstore recently, scanned the shelves, and felt a slap of awe when I realized that I actually Know Some of the Authors upon said shelves. It left me giddy and a little slap-happy, and I was actually pretty glad that I'd had to wait so long to get ahold of all these books.
I left the store with my arms sore from holding them all up and $4 left on the gift card.
Veni, Vidi, Vicci.

If you haven't yet heard, an epic occasion of epicness has been put into motion in the comic book world. Neil Gaiman, in all his majesty, is working on a Batman comic.
Yes, you can now all gape in dread dread and awe.
And this isn't just any Batman comic--it's called Whatever Happened to the Caped Crusader. Alan Moore fanatics will now be having seizures of glee, because it is, in fact, a reference to his '86 comic Whatever Happened to the Man of Tomorrow.
So we have a convergence of awesomeness, all coming out in January of next year.
Let me hear an 'Amen!' brothers and sisters!

It came, and said pretty much the same thing as Courtney's, only with the title of my story there instead of hers.
Is it possible to be this happy about a rejection? I'm downright giddy... although, that could also be the copious amounts of chocolate that I've already managed to consume today.
Tee hee.

It would be a competition--snipers, assasains, murderers, and hitmen from around the world would come together to systematically exterminate the participants and producers of all past reality TV shows. The prize? Whoever racks up the highest body count gets to keep the collected winnings from all the murdered.
I'd film it in high def, so people can enjoy the subtle nuances of fear in the faces of those who've pissed so many off.
Boxed sets come with complimentary piece of peroxide blonde hair--from real victims!

Step 1: Acquire pineapple: Depending on how proficient you are, you may go about this step in several ways. The easiest of these is to beg a ride off an obliging family member and go to the store (ostensibly to purchase other "useful" and/or "edible" merchandise) sometime during daylight hours. Or you could just search the recesses of your fridge and find something that looks suspiciously like your boyfriend's last hairdo, only more attractive.
Step 2: Cut pineapple: For those who've never seen one, the pineapple is an elusive creature that prefers not to be eaten. It defends itself by imitating a porcupine (hence the name) and sitting quietly amongst similarly-colored foliage until hunted down and shipped to your friendly neighborhood Spider... I mean supermarket. Said supermarket rarely bothers to remove the dangerous outer layer, and so it is up to you to wield your sharpest knife in self-defense. Slice off both the bottom and the top before moving on to the rest of the beast. This affords you balance and a misplaced sense of accomplishment for completing the easiest part of the task. Once properly placed on the cutting board, the pineapple should remain inert. If it has any last vestiges of liveliness, turn on the stove in warning. The heat will calm it down. Slice from top to bottom, then crossways, and don't worry about removing every little trace of skin. The outer flesh won't kill you unless you swallow the pineapple whole, in which case you should have yourself examined anyway to see where the rest of your jaw has disappeared to.
Now that you've determined that you are, in fact, human, you can proceed to...
Step 3: Pineapple placement: If you only produced slices in the last step, plates are ideal. Chunks tend to fit in bowls better. Then again, you may want to carry the entire cutting board to your place of repast, but that's generally easier when you have an absorbent towel to rely on as well. Besides, chunks are best for consumption, so I recommend sticking with the bowl.
Step 4: Fend off the dog: I'd like to think that this is pretty self-explanatory, but you never know. Ignore your canine companion's pleas for more food as you make your way out of the kitchen. You can pet him, though. Dogs tend to like that.
Step 5: Sit your ass down.
Step 6: Eat the pineapple: Depending on how thoroughly you thought this out, you may or may not have remembered to bring utensils. Spoons, forks, and chopsticks are all viable options. If you brought a butterknife, please step forward for your Village Idiot certification. If you brought a steakknife, perhaps you should get a piece of meat out of the fridge as well (instructions for just such a venture will be posted at a later date). If you brought a chainsaw, please leave and don't come back. I filled my quota for serial killers about two years ago.
But the best, I think, is the simplest. Stick with your fingers, even if they end up covered in a mildly unidentifiable substance afterwards. You can always lick that off and hope to become a superhero.
Step 7: Pass out in a contented stupor on the couch. This works best if you've managed to avoid removing any vital digits during the process, but passing out from shock works just as well. Just make sure there's someone who won't be unconscious to transport you to the hospital.
Good luck, friends, and good night.

Addendum: When going about Step 2, you should also take Cassie's advice into consideration. It is rather sound, I should think.

This is simply because I love zombies, not because I have writer's block (in fact, that last has not been a problem for a while now).
I am pretty well prepared for a zombie outbreak--my mom and I were going through the piles of army gear that my dad had left behind when he shipped out, and determined that not only were we prepared to turn our house into a fortress in the event of a zombie outbreak, we could probably also arm half the neighborhood. You know, the half that wasn't moaning and reaching in futility for our brains.

Today, I was lacking teh internets until about ten minutes ago. I saw the Dark Knight in all his glory, laughed at the poster of the Marble Adonis at the theater, and came home to a dinner of Triscuits and gouda before getting on the computer.
Imagine my uber-happiness to find 32 messages in my inbox, 15/16 of which were from beloved Alphans. I miss you all like a fiend (or are you the fiends?), but I'm buzzy as hell and have about five new LJ peoples. it's been commanded by the van gods that I should get a facebook page, which I will do when teh internets are on my laptop and not my dad's home computer. I think I've commandeered it a bit much for him to handle.
For those of you who haven't yet--go see Batman. Give him a kiss on the cheek from me, and tell him I'll be back in a few days, hopefully on a bigger screen. Plus, the Watchmen trailer is even better when it's 20 times your size.
I'll put up some quotes in the Alpha forum in a little bit.
Until then, adieu.
I love you people.

So I got off the plane in St. Louis today, dressed in the same clothes I was wearing when I left nearly two weeks ago. Except they weren't they same at all. I was wearing multicolored epic socks and bright orange underwear and a slower, more confident walk. I was listening to music given to me by friends. I was wrapped in their hugs and kisses. I was wearing the dried salt of tears on my cheeks. I was wearing exhaustion and exhilaration and dread dread and awe.
I'm at my house now.
I want to go home.