"Oh, Goliath!"

I have a very busy week, with finals and projects and camping and packing and getting ready for Mr. H's visit.  But instead of doing work I'm watching "Davey and Goliath."

I know how you feel, Davey.  It's that sort of week for me, too.


Clothes Woes

Who are all these women that fit into the clothes that are sold now?  They have super-long torsos and perfectly-shaped, mile-long legs, and they somehow manage to never have need for a white shirt that doesn't show their unmentionables.  And they are all in their third trimester of pregnancy.

No wonder everyone is shopping vintage.


Romance Comics

You want to know another reason why I'm nerdy?  I read comic books from time to time.

Me, reading Infinite Crisis.  Although in real life, I do have a neck.
And I like 'em!  (See how engaged I am here?  My face is only two inches from the page, approximately.)

Mr. H got me started reading them when we first began dating, but he only lent me Spider-Man and X-Men and other comics that involved lots of action.  He didn't even know about Romance Comics (which also contain lots of action, but of a different nature).  Even though they were written mostly by men, their gripping realism and raw emotion really make them stand out in a world of superheroes and busty women. 

And they aren't just for women!  Men can glean valuable information about females from these literary gems, like What Women Really Need to Feel Complete* and Who Knows Best** and also Which Group of Homo Sapiens is Superior.***  Not to mention the new understanding they'll gain about women's emotions.  

Basically, I'm trying to figure out why these aren't more popular and I'm drawing a blank.  Huh.

Romance Comics: Reminding me every day why I'm a feminist.

*Answer: A man.
**A man.
***Also, surprisingly, men.  Go figger.

[Side note: Jeph Loeb's Spider-Man: Blue is actually my favorite comic of all time, which Mr. H did lend me.  It's the tale of Peter Parker's tragic romance with Gwen Stacy, the Girl-Before-Mary-Jane.  The story is sweet and sad and the artwork is gorgeous.]



I am not really a writer.

I know, I know, my profile says that I AM a writer.  But that is a lie.*  And I am ashamed of it.  I've never been published.  If you Google "Tracy Thunderbolt" you will see no lengthy list of critically-acclaimed short stories, novels, and prestigious literary awards.  You might see a picture of a female wrestler in a killer costume, but that's not me, either.**

However, I like to think that optimism is more powerful than we give it credit for.  If I call myself a writer, then maybe I'll convince myself that I really am one, and brilliant writing will follow.  Plus, a writer is one who writes. THEREFORE, WE ARE ALL WRITERS. COME, LET US WRITE.

But when optimism just isn't enough, books on writing also help.  In less than a month I have to start work on my senior thesis. This will most likely consist of me burrowing in my room, staring wide-eyed at the wall and clutching the seat of my chair in a perpetual cold sweat as the months pass and I come no closer to finishing the novel I have to turn in at the end of March.  Around mid-February, I will suddenly snap to life and write non-stop for weeks on end--scribbling on toilet paper and carving paragraphs into the dining hall tables with a fork.

It's going to be great!

"For my next feat," I sometimes shout in my head when I think about the daunting year ahead of me, "I shall write a novel--entirely in English--in seven months!  With my eyes closed! And one hand behind my back! While I eat an apple! And pet this kitten!"  If I add enough to the list, it reminds me of something else I have to do, and voila!  I've avoided working on an outline all summer this way.

But now it's time to get down to business.  I've been reading a lot of books on how to rite rull good, which makes me feel like I'm being productive even though I still have no characters, setting, or...plot.***  How Not to Write a Novel is the very best that I've read so far:

Or, Fluffy Must Die: One Brave Feline's Tale of Crime and Redemption

The book is supa-funny, giving two hundred examples of awful writing.  Like this: 

"Suddenly! she spotted Jack, and her heart melted--like a heart that had been frozen, but then was subjected to heat." 

It makes me laugh the whole time I read it, but then I look back at my own writing and my laughter turns to great, wracking sobs of self-doubt.  After a couple minutes of that, I usually just make a sandwich and remind myself that if I cleaned up a little I could always be a trophy wife.  It helps.

*But only the writing part! I'm still a great pogo-sticker and whatnot! I'm not a total phony!!
**Dear God, I have done nothing with my life!
***What do I have?  A new coffeemaker and a jaunty beret that makes me look like a real author.  Do you think a turtleneck would be overkill?



Today I had a terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad day.

Alright, it actually wasn't all that bad.  Considering I had food to eat and shoes to wear and all my limbs and stuff.  You know.  But aside from that, it pretty much SUCKED.

For instance:

I only did my hair half-way before leaving for class and didn't realize it until I was in the car with no bobby pins and a crease in my hair.  Quelle tragedy, no?


I forgot my cell phone at home, had a sore throat, slammed my head on my drafting table twice in a span of ten seconds while picking up my fallen eraser, spilled coffee on myself, and couldn't recognize the lady in the library who said hi to me as if we'd known each other since birth.  And then I told her I was going to the bathroom.  Was that un-lady-like of me to say?

After that, I went to the store to grab an energy drink*and as I walked out of the store, the wind picked up my eighteen dollars of change and whisked them away.  I cursed, even though an elderly lady was walking right in front of me, and scrambled all around, dodging cars to gather up all my moneys and my dignity.  I straightened up and tried to compose myself, but a lady honked her horn at me.

"I'M SORRY!" I shouted defensively and perhaps a little more loudly than necessary.

But she just pointed to my two dollars that were blowing away, like a nice human being.  Sheepishly, I retrieved them and gave her a quick wave.  The elderly lady in front of me laughed as she finished loading up her car, and I muttered something about being embarrassed, which just made her laugh more.


Anne of Green Gables** would call this a Jonah day.  I don't really know what that means.  The kind of day where you take a bath and end up in the belly of a whale?

*Please don't tell me how bad these are for me. I KNOW but I just can't help myself, especially on whale-belly days like this.
**I read this book when I was eight and from then on she was my main example in all matters of the heart, literature, and charm.  And I think it started my obsession with red hair.