It's just a step to the right.

Alors, mes belles.

Je ne suis pas la plus dévouée des auteurs, mais si vous venez ici à lire, à s'amuser, ne quittez pas! Au lieu, allez maintentant à http://rumcreeters.wordpress.com/ ...

... à bientôt.

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So.

I haven't been the most dedicated of bloggers, it's true. But if you've come this far, either to witness my lack of blogging motivation or simply by accident, don't go just yet. Move over to http://rumcreeters.wordpress.com/ instead...

...and we'll talk again soon.

Mio amore, presto sarò con voi...

1 near-death experience
+ 1 adopted family
+ 1 broken family
+ 1 move back into my family
+ 5 exams
+ 5 more days...
----------------------------
= I think I need to get away.

Overt head movements and persuasion: a self-validation analysis

Validation is defined as something decided upon, confirmed, accepted and then given to one party by another. Why is it that the one entirely affected by the validation is the only one removed from the process of distributing it?

« Self-validation » seems to be a concept reserved for the behavioural psychologists, the dissociated and multifarious on their emotional roller coaster ride, or the software analysts.

But what about the rest of us? (Well, the rest of you: I count myself among the dissociated & multifarious.) Is self-validation really as extremist as Google seems to indicate?

There is no other person who will ever know me or my life or be affected by what happens to me to the same extent as I will be. So why should anyone besides me decide when and for what I am acceptable, true or just?

In a life where the powers of independence are exalted but independence itself is only accepted behind a ring; where liberalistic opinions are firmly proclaimed from the loveseat before the husband arrives home from our career; where life is all about the journey and not the destination, as long as we’re settled and decided by the time we’re 24; where butterflies are traded for dogged determination and controversy dropped in face of conflict…

In a life like this, I can’t wait for someone else to decide when I should be satisfied. I can’t wait for someone else to decide what I deserve. Let’s stop waiting for others to treat us to happiness. Validate yourself when you feel that it is earned. And while you’re at it, treat yourself to a specialty coffee as well.

Helen Keller has assured me that life is either a daring adventure or nothing.

Someone once warned me that all sparks burn out in the end.

That may be true.

But I'm willing to risk that the fireworks are sure as hell worth it while they last.

For a moment of peace, I would consider.

On peut parler d'une renaissance, on peut parler de la liberté, on peut parler des arc en ciels et des tirets et des jumeaux et tous les autres choses qu'on voulait. Mais lorsque on arrête pour deux secondes et lorsque on est à contrecœur, on réalise qu'on veut pas la liberté, on veut pas la reconnaissance de soi, on veut, apparemment, n'importe quoi d'autre que le prison ridicule de l'amour.

Mais on veut un prison de passion, un prison où la musique est pleine de quelque choses plus que les pensées contradictoires. On veut quelque choses folle et hors-contrôle et loin du ciel. On veut que ces frustrations, ces pensées aléatoires et hypercritiques, ces cerfs volants de trahison, s'échappent et partent loin d'ici.

On veut la liberté. On veut la renaissance. On veut des arc en ciels.

Mais pas comme ça. Pas ici. Loin d'ici. Pas maintenant.

Ecclesiastical flirtations for tomorrow's night

I'll admit it. The only reason I am choosing to post this uselessness at 56 minutes past when I should be asleep is because I am in love with the click of my rapid typing on this laptop keyboard. It's addictive, compelling, and vaguely sexy, in an illicit-office-romance kind of way.

Apparently I will go to great lengths to justify aforementioned uselessness.

There comes a point sometime between midnight and four when sleep seems too far gone to be of any benefit; in fact, the effort of preparing for and attempting sleep seems to far outweigh the minimal value scraped from its skin. In junior high, my oblong hardcover journal and a whispering radio pulled me through restless, heavily still spring nights. And now, on the eve of spring, I stubbornly (narcissistically? masochistically?) deny sleep again.

Or perhaps, am denied by.

Flixster.com could tell you the whole story

Apparently if you haven't seen a movie but want to, that's the equivalent of 3½ stars.
Not a bad system, really.
It just makes me seem incredibly consistant.

And maybe I am.

Un cerf-volant de pensées volées

Je me demande des fois si c’est vraiment nécessaire. Quoi? Ça, je ne sais pas. Cette première phrase m’est venue à l’esprit, puis j’ai perdu l’élan.

C’est bizarre d’être ici à la bibliothèque, en traîne de taper en français, ce qui est normalement un garanti de l’intimité dans tous les autres sphères de ma vie. Mais ici, je réalise maintenant que le gars à côté de moi peut facilement jeter un coup d’œil subtile à l’écran et absorber rapidement ce que je suis en traîne d’écrire; mais si j'écriviais en anglais, je pourrai relater à haute voix tous ce qui j’écris, et il n’aurait aucun idée de quoi je parle.

C’est une notion intéressante, bizarre et profonde – l’idée de l’intimité dépendant de la langue (un petit jeu-paroles là). Des idées, des actions, des paroles et des pensées subissent une bourse de valeurs fluctuantes liée à la langue dans laquelle nous nous exprimons, et également (ou même primordialement), la langue du récipient. Alors, nous devons nous demander : est-ce que la valeur de nos idées se trouve vraiment dans le corps de l’idée, ou est-ce que c’est la forme et la manière d’exprimer l’idée qui la rend signifiante ou non? Et si cela est le cas (comme je le soupçonne), ne devrions-nous pas mettre une emphase incroyable sur les études sociologiques, psychologiques et culturelles aux lieux des autres études comme l’administration des affaires? Si nous ne pouvons pas communiquer, comment est-ce que nous ferons du progrès?

Voyons donc, ma phrase d’intro fait peut-être du sens après tout!

Btw, you technosexuals.

February Free Month has begun.

Time to get your free on...

Housesitting charms, lies and belies

Interrrrrressante.

Mmm, it's one of those stellar 21:28 o'clock moments with nothing profound in mind and a whole blank screen at your disposal. Dangerous!

I am comfortably uncomfortable in our office chair in my new house for this semester. House-sitting offers so many lovely fulfillments of unexpected anticipations, such as blank kitchen tables sitting on shiny hardwood, linen closets stocked with Swiffer refills, multiple bottles of Spray n' Wash, GalaxieMusic on Channel 900s, the silent scrape of a mailbox key, an entryway to be mopped, and a sliding closet door across an empty floor. It's the small freedoms that culminate in expansive, explosive gratitude.

Raucous praise for the wandering bond between retired couples and 20-something university students!

Foux Da Fa Fa

It doesn't get much better than this:

I do (and I really really don't)

Where is the line between « relationships » and friendships? When does friendly become flirtatious, and when does being playful equal being a tease? Was Harry right? Is it impossible for a guy and a girl to ever truly be friends?

It sometimes seems as though the minute one begins to contemplate the apparently fine line between friendship and that «something more,» the line immediately disintegrates, and one finds themselves in that messy, grey, dangerous area fraught with the emotional entanglements of the relationally-confused. However, as humans seem to be incapable of contemplating anything but that fine line, it seems as though the line has no chance of ever really surviving before it is contemplated right out of existence.

In an era where relationships are the fall-back topic of conversation, the subject that we jump to in order to fill even the briefest of conversational pauses, the line has been given an increasingly short shelf-life. In fact, we seem to be using the line as sour cream before it ever had a chance to experience life as milk. Do we create relationship issues with friends in order to avoid the banality of comfortable friendship? Or do others create relational conflict for us and our friends so that they can enjoy the angst without having to trouble with the emotional investment themselves? And inevitably, does this growing obsession with relationship dysfunction strip me of my freedom to be friends with a guy without having unreasonably romantic expectations piled on the relationship?

Heck, I’m terrified to even hug a guy now for fear it’ll be read as a come-hither gesture. What would they do if I pulled out some bisous?

This is just another reason why I love les Français!