The past few days have been OK. But I can foresee some sort of a crash coming, because I've noticed that I've been formulating a lot of passionate arguments in my head about various subjects to imaginary people. I do this a lot and get all revved up and then I suddenly get very depressed.

I'm not sure I want this to become the paint-splattered canvas of the art of my neuroses (or the practice space for the cacaphony of my bad metaphors). But I guess there is no better place. I'm not really sure what to do with this weblog. So far, I've just sat down and written stream-of-consciousness semi-nonsense. Maybe next time I'll come prepared; I give myself permission.

Oh, and just to clarify: I'm not a man-hater. A guy told me that orgasm joke, which I thought was rather amusingly appalling, although I'm not sure under what circumstances such a joke would be un-appalling. It is not reflective of personal experience in any way. And I mean that in the most pathetic way possible.

Stupid things I do (besides the previously-mentioned brown rice incident, and besides my grade-school claims of witnessing Santa Claus in the living room. Speaking of the brown-rice incident, the burn has darkened into a pleasant shade of mahogany. I had this fleeting fantasy this morning that if I were to come across a freemason-like society in which the members needed a certain birthmark to enter, I could say, "I HAVE THE BIRTHMARK!!" and then get inducted into the society and do an expose on it, and be this famous investigative journalist. That'd be cool.) :

On Friday afternoon, I bought a dozen eggs at the grocery store and planned on eating four for breakfast each morning until a care package arrived from my parents. It was all the protein I had in the world. I was really proud of myself for being the epitome of a stingy college student. I mean, eggs for breakfast, cooked the microwave. I rule. So, on Saturday I got up, went to the refrigerator, and looked for the eggs. They were nowhere to be found. "Oh no!" I realized. "I never put the eggs in the refrigerator!!"

I looked left. I looked right. Then I ate the eggs anyway. I mean, I was COOKING them. Five minutes in the microwave kills any evil bacteria, right?

I felt a little nauseated that night, and I thought, "it must be the eggs." I tossed and turned a bit but didn't actually get sick. So, the next morning I ate them again. And this morning I ate more. I'm not sick. I'm fine. I feel grreakljlnsl;................









Just kidding. I'm fine. I have yet to receive my comeuppance for such an atrocious, unsanitary act. But if there are no posts on this thing for several days, I've probably gone into shock. In such an event, please, someone, phone my emergency contact.

Good Morning!

A wake-up joke:

Why do women fake orgasm?
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.
.
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.
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BECAUSE THEY THINK MEN CARE!!!!


You: Oh, Danielle, you've renewed my faith in the male gender!
Me: I try. Now, go out, be fruitful, and multiply.

Saturday Night Nonsense: It is Saturday evening, and my mind's a bit mushy, so forgive me if this post reflects that. My posts can't always be humor, poignancy, and intellectually-stimulating tidbits all wrapped up in love, you know. I am a mere mortal. I consistently fail to satisfy expectations, high and low. I am saying this more to myself than to you, the reader. OK, self-pity aside, here's the DL:

I have a welt on my tummy. It's big and red and in the shape of a Rorschach inkblot. I made brown rice, and as I was dumping the boiling water into the sink I thought it would be a great idea to angle the bowl towards my torso, and that it would be an even better idea to jerk it upward quickly as I did so. Sadly, I was mistaken. So, I spent part of the evening curled up in bed with a washcloth on my stomach. It feels better now. I realized something obvious. When you burn your tummy, it feels exactly the same as when you burn your tongue, except one's on the tummy and the other's on the tongue. For some reason, I had quietly assumed they felt differently. Good to know that all this pain was not for naught; indeed, it resulted in an important physiological discovery. At least for me. I feel a sense of vindication, which probably isn't the right word, but I've never been good at figuring out the right word, so...um...I don't know how to end this paragraph, so....I'll just end it here.

Not to lack a segue or anything, but I read a lot when I was a kid. Part of me wants to curl up with a pile of all my favorite books from childhood and disappear into my own little bubble of nostalgia. Except the word "nostalgia" doesn't really cover it. I could say, "I long for childhood, when things were simple," but that sounds so trite. Things weren't simple to me then. But then, when I read a book, and I connected with its underlying theme--when it *really* resonated with me--I would automatically regard it as true. Just so true. For example, the Madeleine L'Engle books that I think are now called The Time Quartet, starting with A Wrinkle in Time. I LOVED those books, especially the first one. After I read them, I felt wonderful--connected. What she was insinuating, I felt like I already knew, somehow, and she was just extracting it from me. So, I automatically considered them to be pointing towards some eternal truth. This resonance is part of why I was such a strong theist. Theism--the way it was conveyed in stories--felt so right to me.

But so did Santa Claus, I guess. I don't want to turn this into another angst-ridden-agnosticism rant. But one of the saddest parts about breaking away from childhood is looking at those old stories, those old feelings of connection, and asking myself if they felt good because they were *true*, or because, wouldn't it be nice if it were true?

It's hard. But I'm still leaning towards the former. Atheists claim they have more fun--no rigid moral boundaries, no delusions, no denial. But there's something about the theistic world that tempts me. Something in me that longs for it. Something that tells me that the theists really do have more fun. I long for the unconditional love and beauty. Perhaps that's akin to my grade-school insistence that there REALLY WAS A SANTA CLAUS, once going so far as to claim to those jerkoff skeptics that I'd SEEN him wrapping presents in the living room, just to strengthen the hold of my own denial. Fine, maybe I'm in denial. But the cynics aren't that much fun, anyway, and there's magic in *something* out there. So, yeah, basically I'm admitting that there COULD be no meaning other than that to which an existential and/or humanist philosophy of the world lends itself, but I'm gonna go with what makes me feel the best. For today, at least.

Uhh, I'm gonna go put a cold washcloth on my welt and post this before I seriously delete the whole thing.

I've given in--masochistically, some may say. I put a sitemeter on this site. So now I'll know. Oh truth, I must squint my eyes and bear your brilliance...

It tried to think of something to write. I couldn't. So I'll just say this. Today, I was sitting on a bench in the quads when I heard quacking from the roof of a nearby building. I looked up. Nothing. I got up and inspected the apparent origin of the quacking. Nothing. I hypothesized that it was either a manic baby bird, or a duck. But ducks in a Chicago January? Manic baby birds in a Chicago January? Now, listless baby birds I could believe. If it's between the two polars, I'd be more inclined to expect depressive. Not manic. So, I was perplexed.

It haunted me.

Finally, I looked up, and saw a squirrel emerging from a little hole under the scaffolding. "OH NO!" I thought. "He's going to eat the baby birds!" Then I saw its mouth move. The squirrel was quacking.

Moral: Sometimes something nonsensical actually makes things make sense.


That would be a lot cooler if it was a pun on something Aesop said.

A funny thing I've noticed: sometimes, when you're innocently staring off into space during class, people in the near periphery of your gaze will think you're staring at them. They'll look at you, sort of do a double take, and then return to what they were doing with this funny expression on their face like they're concentrating extra-hard. It's amusing because they think you're staring at them and they get all uncomfortable. But what if they also get all flattered and think you like them? That's kind of embarrassing.

I am DYING to know if anyone reads my page. Loreal (look how slick I am, swiftly inserting that link into the message with nary a warning) has a sitemeter thing that lists how many visits there have been and a bunch of stats. I totally don't understand what they mean. But I WANT one.

So why don't you get one, you ask? Well, because I'm frightened. Sitemeters and such are kind of funny. Most of my pals who are web-enterpreneurs put one up and then reload their page a bunch of times because it's really embarrassing when someone you want to impress happens upon your website and the number on the counter is "0007." I don't want to be put in such an awkward position. Why do I want you all to know that after 5 days there have been only 12 visits to my site, 10 of them my own?

I'm also sort of in denial. I am publishing my thoughts, and thereby making myself vulnerable to complete strangers who notice, "Hmm, a blog with a cliched, vague title was updated at 2:37 PM. I feel like subjecting myself to the mishmashy platitudes that are invariably spawned by an authoress who thinks up something so lame" and who read them and not only disagree, but scorn me. C'mon, guys. Don't be so harsh. Isn't it obvious that I'm kind of insecure and skittish? If I don't know explicitly how many people are reading this, I can pretend that no one is. For me that equals more of an artistic sense of security.

Also, I could (shudder) put my email address up, but I won't do that either, even though I will put up my real name, odd as that seems. Still, YOU DON'T KNOW WHO I AM (unless I gave you the link because you do know me--if so, hi.). HAHA! I could be one of a million college-age Danielle Hubbards with a sister named Kirsten and friends named Loreal and Andrew and an RH named Andrea Scott and a box of Crayolas.

It's not that I don't *want* people to read my website or know who I am. The thought just alarms me. Weblogs are sort of half-assed self-publishing, and I don't want to be one of those people who considers her thoughts so brilliant that she figures she's doing the world a favor by putting them on the web. On that note, the idea of advertising one's weblog is kind of creepy to me. I don't do this for an intended audience. I don't do this to make myself famous. I don't do this for self-glorification. I do it, well, because Loreal did.

By the way, everyone reading this should go to Andrew's blog, Scott Free, and Loreal's blog, Loreal's Lair, even though "everyone reading this" actually only includes Andrew and Loreal. Oh, wait, now my sister reads it, too. Kirsten, go to Scott Free and Loreal's Lair.

What's really sad is that I edited that last post six times to make it sound good.

My Resident Head's name is Andrea Scott. My best friend's boyfriend's name is Andrew Scott. Today Andrea sent me two emails, and in between, Andrew sent me one. Their names showed up in the "from" heading right on top of each other. Like:

Sender: Andrea Scott Subj: Some house stuff
Sender: Andrew Scott Subj: blogs
Sender: Andrea Scott Subj: Other house stuff

It was kind of confusing, but in a cool way.




I just felt like writing something else.

Words that make you sound smart but that I've never bothered to learn to use correctly:

paradigm
pedagogical
de facto (Today I heard a guy use this TWICE in FIVE MINUTES!!!)
antithetical

more to come...

There's a saying old says that love is blind
Still we're often told, "Seek and ye shall find"
So I'm going to seek a certain lad I've had in mind
Looking everywhere, haven't found Him yet

He's the big affair I cannot forget
Only man I ever think of with regret
I'd like to add His initial to my monogram
Tell me, where is the shepherd for this lost lamb?

There's a somebody I'm longing to see
I hope that He turns out to be
Someone who'll watch over me

I'm a little lamb who's lost in the wood
I know I could always be good
To One who'll watch over me

Although He may not be the man some
girls think of as handsome
To my heart He carries the key
Won't you tell Him please to put on some speed
Follow my lead, oh, how I need
Someone to watch over me

I'm really shy. The experience of shyness is that your insides are wrung out with an iron clamp. You're very uncomfortable, because, after all, iron is really strong and heavy, especially when it's got you grabbed and is squeezing. You can't take your mind off of it, and besides, all other thoughts have been wrung out of you and have disappeared down the drain. You'd look for them but you can't move, there being an iron clamp around you and all. I think the important thing to note from this description is that, yes, shy people are aware of the iron clamp. It's quite noticeable. Trust us. We'd get rid of it if we could.

On a marginally related note, when you pass someone on the sidewalk that you hardly know, do a) you smile at them? Or do you b) pretend you're suddenly fascinated by some thought, causing you to study the ground in (imagine!) the opposite direction from which the person is coming? Or do you c) take another route entirely, so as to avoid the whole awkwardness until you're at a level of friendship with the person in which you can assume it's safe to smile at them? I often do c) when I'm feeling particularly neurotic. I'd do a) a lot more if people would do b) a lot less. I've done b) a couple of times but I think it's really, really hard to pull it off convincingly.

When you're walking towards people you know and you both see each other, at what point is it okay to smile at them? There are few things more awkward than meeting eyes with someone you sort of know from, say, 100 feet back. Do you smile at them anyway? Do you just keep a dumb, frozen smile on your face until you're close enough to say hello normally? Or do you yell, "Hey!" and start a yelling conversation that slowly decreases in volume as you get closer together, sort of the like inverse of the Doppler Effect? Or do you pretend you're suddenly fascinated by a thought that causes you to (twice in one day?! zounds!) study the ground in precisely the opposite direction from which they are coming, until you're, oh, 10-15 feet away and you suddenly look up and, egads! there you are, right in front of me! Hello, how are you? Except this doesn't really work because your eyes have already met, you both know that the other is there, there, and getting closer, and you basically just look dumb--but not quite dumb enough to talk about it with someone later, as a catharsis. So you just carry the dumbness around, and it grows.

Periwinkle and navy blue: the gay couple of the Crayola community.

While we're on the subject, I'd like to ponder the "internet community." I've read the insights of many, many brilliant people since I first heard the soft-but-suspicious growl of the connecting modem at the age of twelve. I don't contribute much. You need an insight on life that I don't have. I don't *get it*. I'm not smart, educated, or sharp enough. I'm not trying to invoke self-pity. But my opinions on life are continuously smashed to smithereens so eloquently by different members of the internet community, completely unbeknownst to them. Lowly college students uncertain about their opinions crave verification that they suck, and I have been reminded again and again that I indeed do.

I think I'm too much of a starry-eyed idealist for the internet. Something about the screen, all the rectangles, the sharp corners, seems to standardize, quantify opinions. The monitor is so cold. Literally--I have rested my head against it on several occasions. It's a rare, safe opportunity to get vicious. On the internet I've found it's much, much easier to argue in favor of cynicism, realism, pragmatists than their opposites. Christians are pitted against atheists, and the atheists always win. Always. The best arguments are there for the taking, and they all seem to point to one thing: cold, hard reality. Life is what matters. We are cells, elaborate patterns of the different elements. The images I see on my screen, the colors, the shapes, are the result of chains of black-and-white commands.

Yet instead of living, we choose to sit in here and chat about it. There is safety in rectangles, photoshopped photographs, arguments you know you can win. Or perhaps arguments you know you will lose, as in my case. I don't think I have ever had an intense debate about anything that I have not lost. By "lost," I mean, every one of my counterarguments has further been countered, and WELL. Therefore, I am wrong. My starry-eyed idealism is wrong. Because if you lose an argument, if you cannot back up your beliefs with well-thought-out reasoning, cold, simple logic, then you are wrong. Look to the text: (life).

Humans created the internet. Unlike their own lives, humans can be certain that they had complete autonomy in forming the strings of commands and the shapes and the colors that appear on your screen. Humans make it; breathe life into it; populate it, make it thrive. Humans are drawn to it. Me included--almost insatiably. Almost addictively. Yet why do I feel like the more time I spend among these shapes, these rectangles, these exquisitely eloquent arguments that I continually lose unbeknownst to the author, the more my soul is becoming like them?

But wasn't it already like them?

Perhaps I should spend more time outside. If I hate it, I should leave, right? Simple...but my fingers continue to type, and my eyes continue to gaze, to blink.

I can't start a weblog. It would mean

a) That I've acquiesced to the overwhelming allure of the internet community. God, I want to be part of their juicy, forbidden world of backslashes, brackets, and cynically poignantly sharp observations on life, but I must continue to resist;
b) I'd feel all pressured and shit to be, you know, cynically poignantly sharp, and I'm not;
and c) I'd actually have to write in it, because otherwise I'll feel really guilty for the next few days while my conscience digs its fingernails into my sense of duty, trying to keep it from fleeing, before it succeeds in escaping (it always does. it's wily.). The very fact that I'm connecting the words "sense of duty" and "weblog" makes me a little bit queasy.

But look what I'm doing. So here I go...I'll see where it takes me.