do you ever feel as if your life is just one big movie?

be careful. you never know who might be watching.

okay, for all those to whom i extolled the wonderful nostalgia of that-candy-whose-name-i-cant-remember-but-has-that-cool-necco-wafer-texture-esque-stick-which-you-insert-into-bags-of-color-crystal-dust-and-lick-off-with-sugarcoated-bliss, this is proof that i am not having some freudian slip-pily misappropriated memory. oh, to only be able to savor again that handheld wand of pink delight...

as for this... wanna play?

christine + yumi + dan =
[Sehr lebhaft] [Mit innigem Ausdruck] [In massiger Bewegung] [Nicht zu rasch]

add wet ingredients to dry ingredients, stirring slowly with a whisk. sweeten to taste. serve hot.

i feel peculiar today.

when you feel completely content to lie still and watch the shadows fade and shiver on the wall, perturbed gently by night. the mind floats one second in front of the body, an imperceptible detachment; breathing in slow motion. a dream-like sea, my pulse the tide. i cannot tell if i am awake. to walk nude in darkness, silently, with disappearing grace... circles, circles, again she goes. how long may i lie, supine between the lost stars?

velveteen, i open the window.

emerging into the sunlight. we criss-cross paths, he in his flop, me in my flip, she with the bag that goes thumpthump against a hip. faster, into the grass, everyone a member of the club; the white sheets of paper are unmistakable. they duck behind a corner, and i watch wistfully, my tongue searching for fainter tolls. five o'clock, the hour of judgment. eye-to-eye [ we know ] -

the walls are bending.

this will be the best shower and nap in the whole entire expanse of my existence.

pink petals. and she dreams...

kazoos, hydrogen balloons, tschaikovsky. allow me to ring the bells.

one order of spicy turkey chili; six spoons, please.

cross-disciplinary modes of operation.

nuance is something that separates the cocktail from the mixed drink; the lindy from the jitterbug.

a dress was procured after inquiring a large audience of christian women.

dark chocolate decadence, let me feed you, i can only handle a little at a time, lick.

ballroom dancing makes one incredibly sexy, confident.

seven eight, five eight, four four, six eight, three four, eleven eight.

round and thin are given, while the square and thick are expected. shape dictates taste.

my little toe thinks you're cute, too.

scanyourscanfacescanlaughscanexpression
lesssorryi'mthinkingaboutotherthings

wanting lemon, to linger from a porous container, refreshing, voluptuous, tap.

you spin your wheels; seconds equal shredded, line-smeared origami.

the sand dissolves in your mouth, within sweetness and sin coalesce -- form melts beyond.

there is no (white plastic) spoon. gifts.

today is saturday, may third. junior year classes (lectures, sections, tireless reading, creative procrastination) are officially over. i find the penultimateness of it all remarkably surreal. the artifact below heralds the much anticipated final assembly meeting of moral reasoning, in fine misono manner, seeking amusement through the nuances of cellphone photography and intermittent moments of glee consummately unrelated to anything whatsoever:



last weekend i hosted two (plus one absentee) pre-froshies, who lived like true harvardian princesses in an immaculately clean room, each on a mattress, with treats on their pillows to welcome them, and a hostess willing to answer questions around the clock. these lovely desserts from finale (hazelnut torte and mini cheesecake, as they hint to my tantalized senses) were a thoughtful gift to both kate (roomie) and i from the mother of one of the girls (i love mommies!!!!). i hope to see both amy and erin here next year, although erin was often seen suspiciously toting a yale nalgene (lenal? yagen? alen? lealg?) bottle. only time will tell... with sincere harvard pride beating ferociously in my breast, i hope to be seen on the manicured greens of the yard this summer leading admissions tours to bespectably inquisitive parents, smug burberried legacies, diehard prospectives with a dog-eared copy of emerson tucked neatly within the band of their iron-pressed khakis, and the uncategorizables. what a glorious job.