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I am such a ninkapoop. I've been worrying on a parinoia scale these last few days on a subject I don't know ANYTHING about. I know abolsutely nothing about it, and then I add my own theories untop of something I don't know anything about. Why has it taken me days to realize that?
I hope I don't get to replay this part of my life anytime soon, because damnit, I'm hungry from not being able to let myself eat.

*ish t3h moron*

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Just posting the same thing I'm going to post on Myspace page...whenever it stops crapping out!

I'm going to fucking kill myspace for losing the first draft of this. I had all these good ideas and just pressed the button to post it and *POOF* myspace craps out and loses the whole thing. So I'm going to dictate this on WordPad and just post it back in myspace when it comes back up. (Grrrrr) And then edit the whole post again because I find more typos on the first post than I do after reading the first draft.

I am now going to attempt to rewrite what I remember...

7 hours later, I have finished the book, have eaten a burger worse than McDonald's, and have come close to committing suicide in the Bush Library. Unfortunately, trying to impale myself on a Gulf War Soldier's fake knife not only doesn't work, it tends to make the secret service agents grumpy. Next time I'm going to have to ask one of you guys to drive the 15 hours down here to put me out of my misery. Ya'll would do that wouldn't you?

I finished the rest of Lolita and I think I understand less of it at the end then I did at the beginning. It was a great book and I was happy to be able to walk away from Humbert Humbert's fucked up head with more idea's than I had before, but Nabokov got me uncomfortable at more than a few places. He, once, got me rooting for H.H. to keep his Lolita. I quickly stopped thinking that and felt like bashing my head against the wall. I don't know how Nabokov did it but I became just as sick as H.H. for a few seconds. Nabokov makes Humbert so friggin' charming at points that you forget for a second he's a horrible bastard and rapist. (PJ the next book you lend me better be about a Saint or Gandhi.) It was at this point did I realize that the movie Lolita and the book Lolita were vastly different. I've seen a few parts of movie Lolita and for sure she's portrayed as the little seductress working her magic on a weak willed English scholar, but in the book she makes it damn apparent she doesn't want to be with him. There was only a few times, in the beginning, when she came onto Humbert (in which he should of said, "Hell no, ain't touching no Jail-bait!"), but after the first encounters Humbert noted that every time he had his way with his sweet 12 year old nymphet she would cry after wards. ...I have never wanted to resurrect a fictional character, via Frankenstein method, so much t'ill that moment only to send a bullet through his groin and head.

Going from ugly to beautiful Nabokov has a great way of describing things. He has a knack for implying a situation from beginning to end without actually saying anything directly about it. That, and, I found some words I didn't know existed like, (flips to a random page) matitudinal or natatoriums. He even got me hooked on this new word, didactic. I'm going to try and use it in my next conversation and murder the pronunciation. Brutally.

Nabokov got me walking around in a brilliantly crazy and sick sick SICK guy. I loved every second of it, every second that I understood of it. Which may have been about a minute. Oh god, speaking of not understanding some parts. This author has this strange idea that middle class americans speak a lot of french. There was more french in this book ,from the american characters, than there are French Fries. It was odd and I think it was where I really noticed Nabokov's Russian/European roots. A good chunk of the book had sentences completely in french, meaning I lost whatever meaning he was trying to get across, and a few american characters speaking in conversational french. This is the only thing I rolled my eyes at. I'm sure it was important to the story, but I need him to point out the casual french speaking middle american because I'm missing them.

To my friends who probably wanted to hear me rant about life or talk about juicy romantic trysts. I'm glad to disappoint. I hope y'all have good constitutions against boredom because reading these books and wanting to discuss them with people is what interests me at the moment. I'm looking for a debate but I certainly won't pull anyone into that doesn't want to. (No PJ you are not allowed to debate with me. You have to keep making the sexist jokes because it's forbiddingly fun to run after you and kick your ass for 'em. Keep being my sexist communist pleeeeease :D!)

Oh, and a note to anyone who reads Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov read the foreword. I didn't read it until I hit Nabokov's end notes and it was only then did I realize that the foreword wasn't some asinine publicity attempt by an unknown author but it was apart of the story. Just remember to read it, it'll make the story make a little more sense or at the very least, give a sense of finality to the characters.

I also found the best quote(s) today from Rebecca West (Famous Irish writer and feminist....)

I myself have never been able to find out precisely what feminism is: I only know that people call me a feminist whenever I express sentiments that differentiate me from a doormat.

If the whole human race lay in one grave, the epitaph on its headstone might well be: "It seemed a good idea at the time."

And my favorite one...

The main difference between men and women is that men are lunatics and women are idiots.
I proudly proclaim idiocy. In fact I may change my middle name to Idjit. My initials would be SIW.

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Just...wow. Every time I read something from Toni Morrison I feel like I'm stuck in the middle of a great big gray wind vortex. All this wisdom swirling about me but I can't make out Robin from a Red dress. Just finishing her book, "Sula" it makes me wonder where someone can find that spot of themselves to create such a piece. My head is still twirling-though that could be from the lack of food at the moment-I feel like I can write a greater truth just like she did. Driving home I felt more important, an hidden skill settled deep in me waiting for the chance to get out, something that makes me unique from others.

This is all selfish thinking, a reason to make myself feel validated. To separate myself in my mind, because my body separates me in a wholly different way. I have not done any hard work to earn the label of Greater Truth writer. I think, often, that I am smarter than those who surround me-emotionally not intellectually a lot of people have a step up on the intellect level and I have to bring myself down I have to smack that egotistical side. Being proud of yourself is one things, yes, but overall superiority is another. I have something to learn from everyone. Honestly, I could be the dumbest thing on this earth and I'm just missing the signs. So I need to keep my ears, eyes, nose, mouth, hands open to the possibilities of being wrong even though that sometimes while looking for the faults I may miss the rights.

I fell into a comfort that I usually reserve for myself only when I am alone in my room I laughed at a woman today, outright. Well, a book covered my face while I did it but I couldn't help but laugh. I wrote what happened down in Sula because I wanted to remember the moment.

A tall man, coffee in hand, dirty baseball cap settled on his head was trying to head out the door when he stopped. Two women trying to open the door-halted by the two young children of one who had one walking and one in her arms, and their conversation to each other. The man and his coffee waited for the slow moving women to open the door and walk on through, there wasn't enough room for all five of them to fit. The door opened but no one moved, then women seemingly oblivious to the man and his steaming cup of coffee kept talking in the stoop of the door. If it had been me I would have wanted to say something outright and brash but in reality I would have waited quietly so I could have stewed in my injustice later. The man didn't think the way I did.
"You wanna come through or what?"

The women looked up at him if it was the first time they had heard anyones voice than their own. They shuffled past the door, he went through, and I pushed the open and flat against my face. Laughing into Sula and Ajax.

The woman saw me, and I don't know if she was offended or amused but all she said to her son was, "We sure do make a scene, huh?"

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"What they got, it is obvious, was something that their own sex was unable to supply; and it would not be rash, perhaps, to define it further...some renewal of creative power which is in the gift only of the opposite sex to bestow."

This made me stop for a second tonight, between my writings for class tomorrow and the paper that I must get done tonight for the same class, it made me question my want for someone in my life. I do feel, sometimes, mostly in the time between the shutting of my eyes and the shutting down of my brain, that I want someone to hold me. I quickly quell this thought with the reminder of these urges disappear when I open my eyes 6 to 8 hours later. When I wake up I am asserting myself for the day ahead, not sitting in my thoughts, stewing in my self comparison. When I am thinking of myself I am on important matters of the homework I did do (or didn't). If this need, if it really is an innate need not a media indoctrinated response, were so important then why isn't it on my mind all the time. Because from my past history of lack of activity in that area, I should be on red alert.

So, to come back to the point to what these men writers needed, because they could not supply it for themselves and how this all seems to strike a cord in my life. I seem to be able to supply all that I need for myself. Well, not everything, people are social animals and I am a social animal. I do not need a partner to fulfill some universal empty void. I am scared by the thought sometimes, that I could be alone for a good majority of my life, and if I had been born with a more generous supply of genetics I would not of come to this opinion, but I take a deep breath and remind myself I am happy to be with me. Those late night thoughts draw me down into the wish of finding a person who is secure with himself/herself.

But why would I want that?

To satisfy some physical need and leave it at that? That would be so...shallow and insignificant of an existence or purpose to put someone through. If I am to find someone I 'adore' want to be 'lovey dovey' with, let it be with someone who is not afraid of themselves, or am I still looking for myself to be?

That knows what important things are, things that are not necessarily important to me, but they know or have an idea about life. Who strive to know more, but are not arrogant about what they already know. Every person does this, and I do too without wanting or meaning too. It is a reaction people build up to protect themselves, a general rule of thumb, when reacting to others questions, stupidity, or challenges. I re-read what I have written, and even in describing what I would be happy to see in another I turn it around to connect with myself. I either must think very highly of myself, or I am unhanding myself, undercutting.

The work on this person is taking longer than the freeway projects in Ohio.

Let me find...
the right words
to build
blind with truth
to endure
Ones that won't reduce
make lesser of
create an effigy
or mold boundaries
everlasting words

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I promised myself that everyday I would try to write something down here, and here it is!
Writing something down.Writing something down.Writing something down.Writing something down.Writing something down.Writing something down.Writing something down.Writing something down.Writing something down.Writing something down.Writing something down.Writing something down.Writing something down.Writing something down.Writing something down.Writing something down.Writing something down.Writing something down.

Writing something down.

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I think Women should be drafted into the army.
I think it is irresponsible to be a feminist asking for equality and such without understanding with higher pay, better opportunities, equal rights that (oh shit!) we'll have to take on the 'down sides' of being a guy. Getting drafted, fighting for your country (or the politicians wars), dying for it. Men have done it, women can too. Women and men who are trained well and correctly should both be able to go to the front lines. I know the day is going to come, but of course it's not right now. The same with gay Marriage.
I don't want to get drafted, I don't. I doubt any regular citizen would like to get drafted, but that's the trade off for living in this country and being it's citizen. So if ever a bill was trying to get through congress to allow women to be drafted I would give my full support, knowing full well that I could (and probably looking at the current american trend of warfare) be drafted into the U.S. Army with all of it's blinding faults and overshadowed accomplishments.
It's absolutely absurd that a woman (feminist) would hold the opinion that it is her god given right to be equal but to conveniently forget the draft.
What's making me think about all of this today is the book I'm reading, A room of One's Own by Virginia Woolf.
All I have to say about this book is that she just nailed everything on the head. At some points I think she glosses over some prejudices acted against women with a numbed air. I can only make the assumption that by this point she must be numbed to it, it have being done too many times to her to always create a new wound (though she gets denied to a library because she is a woman, that pissed her off) but on the other hand I can taste her irony. Maybe she is writing the whole book in an Ironic Tone and I just have trouble distinguishing serious from it.
I know one part of the book, where she quotes a man who is commenting on how he feels about women composing music, page 54..."Of Mlle. Germaine Tailleferre one can only repeat Dr. Johnson's dictum concerning a woman preacher, transposed into terms of music. 'Sir, a woman's composing is like a dog's walking on his hind legs. It is not done well, but you are surprised to find it done at all."(1928)



Because I contain a vagina, estrogen, and breasts somehow makes me deficient to write music?
I am now hard pressed to jote down a ballad about men concerning how well they've been doing with the whole-'We're Ruini-Running the World, Lookie!'
I know this issue is 80 years old, which really isn't all that old, and that man is more than likely dead but...ah, I'll get over it. I take it as a personal attack, why wouldn't I?
I now understand Virginia's detachment.

Word of Advice I just learned: Hesitate to ask anyones opinion before you have done it/ worn it/ seen it for yourself. Just...trust me on that.
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I'm thinking about why a lot of the middle east really dislikes the western cultures I can only figure (with all of my research and hours of thought, hyuk) that it is a conflist of cultural values. I think a lot of the middle east dislikes us, contrary to what the U.S. Press would want us to believe. I doubt those reports, I really think a whole lotta people over there would like to see most of our throats slit. I hope it isn't true because I like where my throat is and would hate to see it allwoed see the sun of day whenever.
Grrrrr's I say. The Qu-ran, and Bible to me are not the word of God. (What God would allow Slavery?) My personal opinion and such. I think the Bible and Qu-ran was written by ancient wise men who were doing the best they could with what they were handed. So their prejudices and such were reflected in their writtings.
Man creates fictional rules to appease a god. Men figure this shit out and start turning the common maddness to the unique and woefully minority sense.
Men kill. Or blow themselves up over some back ink on paper. Weee :D! Let's here it for the fanatics, or people who piss me off by throwing their lives away >_< It shoudln't bother me but it does. GAH.
/end rant
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