Archive for the ‘Vanity’ Category
The Sacred Art
At the beginning of this week, Buttercup, who was already home for the summer (Bitch.) emailed me a copy of her English paper to turn in for her. I couldn’t help but read the first two pages, because as someone who enjoys writing, I’m interested in other people’s writing prowess.*
* I’m going to warn you that from here on out I start to appear pretty pompous, and it’ll seem like I’m looking down on people. While I suppose saying these two things wouldn’t be wrong, I promise this post is more in the vein of “let me talk about this very interesting subject based upon some recent observations” than “let me brag a lot and generally sound like an arrogant know-it-all.” Although I admit in the interest of fairness (and because I am generally a vain person), that there is some of the latter, too.
I feel a little bad saying this but, in my opinion at least (whatever it may count for), Buttercup isn’t a great writer. I don’t mean that her essay was a bad one content-wise, because I don’t know what entails a good English paper (I barely know what constitutes a good Political Science or History paper), and because I didn’t read the book it was on, and so it may have been brilliant. I also understand that when writing a paper (as opposed to a story, or some other creative work), it is generally better to write concisely, as opposed to stylistically. However, I feel one can definitely, definitely write concisely and brilliantly and in a way that is stylistically pleasing. Incidentally, this is something I myself struggle with, and a skill a I would love to possess.
I should also point out that my definition of “good writing” entails that which is pleasing to the ear when read aloud regardless of content, in the way that a piece of art may be pretty without being a good rendition of what is it supposed to represent. Words and sentences flow instead of stuttering into each other in staccato; there is what many people would call a “voice”—I can’t explain it beyond that. “Good writing” the way I see it does not mean that long, complex sentences or academic vocabulary words must be used, although when used adeptly they can certainly help. By which I mean—the writer doesn’t use complexity just to use it. It does entail using these words or sentence parts correctly, except when making a literal pun or something of the sort.
Writing well stylistically, if I may say this without seeming too arrogant, isn’t something that is easy to do. I’m a sort of stickler about this: if I pick up a book—and the one that comes to mind is Twilight (In my defense, it was lying right there on Jasmine’s desk)—and it has short, choppy sentences, I have to put it down again. (Although I think that the writing style wasn’t the only thing that make me put Twilight aside.) I’m not a so-called Grammar Nazi but a Good Writing Nazi. It isn’t something you can teach, at least not in the way that you can teach someone to add and subtract, or to tie a shoe. It’s a skill that probably can be developed through practice, say, if you forced yourself to write every day, but I feel that one has to have at least an ounce of natural talent (on which the skill can take root and also for inclination). You could impart the general how-to of writing in the way that you could tell a apprentice of comedy how to have chemistry with the audience, which kinds of jokes are funny, how to deliver, etc—but in both cases just explaining the methods to the person isn’t going to make him a good writer or comedian because the skills cannot simply be transferred from paper to practice. Something else, be it natural or developed talent, has to come from the artist himself. And these skills simply can’t be sown in everybody.
It is interesting to discover that from what little I’ve read of both of their works, Leone (a History major) is a significantly better writer than Buttercup, in my application of the term. His writing simply reads better, and I’m not just saying this because I want to talk up my boyfriend. It’s a little strange to think about, but I get what my GSI was meant when he said a few months back that he was unpleasantly surprised at the lack of skill with which many people in the class were writing. I hadn’t thought about it before, past “Oh, well everyone’s in college now, surely they’re all writing prettily.” Well, no. I think I was wrong about that. And obviously, it makes me feel better about and prouder of myself.
Of course, by my own definition of good writing, I am also a good writer. Common sense says if I already hold the opinion that I am good at something, I will ground my sense of what “good at” entails around my own skill (or lack thereof). I guess the question then arises of whether or not this definition isn’t just one of convenience and clever denial.
A Quickie for my Pride
I really dont want to write about The Chemist anymore, so even though I have things to say I’m not going to waste any more energy, except that today he told me I give the best blowjobs he’s ever had. And he’s been with a lot of girls.
That’s all.
First Day of Class
(Note: This post has absolutely nothing to do with the first day of class, other than the fact it happened to be today)
I guess I should have expected to have to deal with the roommate situation someday. After all, he’s got three, and even though they’re not like Rosemary, who’s in the room whenever she’s not in class, it’s not easy to find a good chunk of time roommate free. Thus I found myself sitting on the couch next to The Chemist, who prodded me and made “let’s go to my room” gestures the whole time, and who stroked my hip with his finger while his roommates watched TV and the two of us pretended to be watching too. Maybe it’s not a big deal for guys to have their friends know they’re in their room hooking up with a girl, and maybe I’m just being a sissy about it but I care! I care!
In the end I sucked it up, and if I were prone to blushing, my face would have been so red walking away to The Chemist’s room. And now I feel a little dirty, because they know, not that they wouldn’t have known anyway. But they know!
Frisbee in the Park
Today after dark JT, Jack Dawson, and I drove to a park that had a decent view of the city lights. We leaned against the gate/fence huddled in the cold and peered down and out over San Jose.
We had spent the day like kids, the three of us, playing Frisbee on the grass after we’d climbed all over the playground and swung in the swings, running like fools to catch the ice cream man and dropping our Popsicle sticks in the trash only to spy him coming around the corner again, and then we cheering and scurrying over to shell out more cash for dollar ice cream bars. We threw poppers and made a mess on the sidewalk and giggled like buffoons when a little boy popped one scootering over it. We went to Chuck-E-Cheese’s and made funny faces in the photo booth for a quarter a pop. We went to the Togos that had been one of our oldest haunts back when we were in high school; we had spent hours in that plaza eating burgers and sandwiches, slurping down cold coffee and smoothies, playing Apples To Apples in the back of an SUV.
Feel Like I’m Flying
(Another long post, guys. A long post and a lot to say.)
I was supposed to text the guy from yesterday, but before I got around to it my phone beeped. I was in the middle of texting JT, so I figured it was him, but when I looked at my phone, I saw the guy’s name next to the little envelope. “Do you want to get lunch?” it said.
Not Just That Girl
“[truste]”, Rosemary’s friend/acquaintance, who had come over to study with her, said as I tapped away at my laptop.
“Yes?” I said, not turning.
“You’re funny,” he said. He continued, “I know I don’t have to tell you, because you already know it, but you are.”
And for once I didn’t have words, not a one. Not a sassy remark, not a sharp, snarky, sarcastic one-liner. Nothing. I was speechless for a moment, then, with all more genuineness than I’d said anything today, I told him “thank you.”
Strutting My Stuff
I’m in Fuscia today, my new favorite color. I like solid color, form fitting long bodied, long sleeved shirts, and that’s what I’m wearing today. I have my (grey) white boots on and black skinny jeans. I’m walking out the door to go meet Classic Friends for dinner/hangout, whatever, and I make it ten steps down the street when a car honks and stops dead in the middle of the street. I look, and the guy inside finger shoots me: “looking good”. It’s probably a creepy middle aged guy with mold growing between his toes, and he probably will stop and honk at any remotely pretty girl he sees, horny bastard, but it feels good to know that someone appreciates what they see. I lift my head a little higher and swing my hips a little more.
The friends and I are walking when we pass a duo of asian guys–students. One of my friends go “dang, [truste],” and the other just giggles. When the guys get out of earshot, one of my friends go “that guy was totally checking you out.” Later as we’re walking to get food, she tells me that the big black man I thought was deep in contemplative thought was staring at my chest. I catch probably three more guys checking me out before we all part ways. One had a girlfriend. I guess I’m doing something right.
I get this a lot, random guys on the street checking me out, handing me compliments. It all goes toward blowing my ego up to the blimp-sized monstrosity it is. I like to pretend that I think they’re all jackasses, but I secretly enjoy it. On a tangent, I just wish a cute guy would do it once in a while. You know, there are about a bajillion cute guys on this campus, one of them has to be for me, right? Then again, there are about a bajillion cute girls here too, most likely. Not that I would really know. I’m straight.
Now, I know I just sound conceited now, but I’ve always known that I’m more than a little vain. Recently I’ve been not finding myself pretty. This shouldn’t be a big deal, but recently I realised that if I dont think that I’m above average, I feel like I’ve failed. I know there’s nothing wrong with being average; I just feel like I can’t be it. I know I’ll have a billion angry feminists furiously screaming at me that I’ve just undone centuries of hard reform work and threatening to feed me to, I dunno, giant tampons or something, but I’ve always felt like I need to be pretty. I need to be smart. I need to be more than just a B. I have no problem with being sexually objectified; it only tells me that men are men and that I look good. I’m probably sounding like a brat now, so I’ll stop. Goodnight.
