Meep. Poor Fa is currently writing college essays in the dead of night (which, for me, is the only good time to be awake). After finishing a decent, if slightly long-winded mini-essay on my perceptions of culture, I returned to my main essay. Which, because I enjoy amusing myself even if no one else cares to read my unappreciated nonsense, begins as follows:

I keep relatively few secrets. For example – that horrible stench in the school hallway, so very long ago, that everyone mistook for vomit? (Spoiled milk in my locker, which I later disposed of in a trash can to the chagrin of nose-pinching students.) However, there is one that still endures to this day… unwritten, unspoken, and badly suppressed. One that continues to haunt me during the bleary-eyed wee hours. And in the idiocy and desperation fueled by the lack of more suitable essay topics, I will now divulge it to the discretion of your honored admissions staff.

The term meep, by the way, is defined as follows:

meep | mēp |
exclamation
an expression of agreement, indifference, resignation, suppressed rage, or a natural utterance resulting from acute bodily pain or a pause in conversation.
ORIGIN the variegated lunacy of a certain Jenny-fa, who first adapted the term to her own use after glimpsing the word emblazoned across a creatively-spelled Chinese T-shirt.

And no, I am not submitting that anywhere. Funny though… I probe my mind for something serious and meaningful, and I draw a million blanks. Poke fun at someone or risk disrepute, and my fingers fly across the keyboard.

And secret? What secret?

I doubt any one of you would be man enough to take it.

Anyway. Black Friday shopping in two hours. Whoop-ee. And now my obligatory meeeeep.

The college application front is looking a bit tense. Unfortunately, I think I'll have to miss today's all new episode of Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles. The loss is going to be unbearable.

I hate essays.

What else… perhaps a commentary on President-elect Obama?

Ha ha… no.

You know what? Even chocolate and cheesecake become loathsome after a while. And you know, you don't hate food because you feel fat or something. Oh, no. You hate food because there freakin' isn't anything for you to eat when you're a vegetarian in this part of the country. And then you feel freakin' depressed and angry when you hate everything you eat.

And it's probably because your mental health has never been perfect, either.

See? Even that tofu smells terrible.

Like the title says, I'm feeling surprisingly mellow today. Amazing what three hours of sleep will do for you (as opposed to my usual 1.5 to 2 hours)… except that my AP European History teacher (yes, even in mellowness, I refuse to lower myself to the level of lazy abbreviations, like "AP Euro") must be at his wit's end with me, owing to the fact that I've been AWOL from half of his classes so far… on account of his class being first period, the most likely to be missed should I oversleep…

Anyway, if I did attend AP European History today like a good, Abu Ghraib-sleep-deprived-esque child, those lovely white tiaras that I constructed from pipe cleaners during biology class would not exist.

And you know what else conjures up mental images of mellowness? Mr. W's lovely rat. I was running late for class one day (AP European History, ironically), and Mr. W was standing before his door, holding that sweet, white and cream-colored rodent for public display. Even though I risked a tardy, I immediately skidded to a halt to pet it. "Isn't she a mellow rat?" said Mr. W. And that word has stuck with me ever since, evoking warm-and-fuzzy memories of beady eyes, limpid whiskers, and that precious, hamster-like affability…

Awwww, she's so sweet…

———————

In other news (namely, the Realm of Serialized Television), there's a new episode of House today! I can't wait; that private investigator was the best thing to happen to the show since Amber. I think he's making another appearance tonight. Updates later. What a genius.

Well, why don't I? Even though I detest the thought.

Wednesdays shall be given to indolence, as they rightfully should.

^* AKA "Quarter."

The title was going to be "No no no no, no no el bistec," but it was too lengthy… and arcane.

I visited RIT last weekend. Oh, yes, funny story. After a sleepless night with an incredibly inconsiderate roommate who spent the entire night texting her friends (rapid-fire, nonstop) all the way into the wee hours (I couldn't sleep on account of the loud clacking of the keys), I stumbled out of bed, went to the dining hall for breakfast, and bit into this innocuous-looking biscuit. Well, I did think the texture was unusual, but it took me several minutes and three mouthfuls before I realized that THERE WERE TINY PIECES OF MEAT IN THE FUCKING BISCUIT!!!!

The next few minutes saw a mortified vegetarian spitting out masticated bits of biscuit and frantically cleansing her tongue with a napkin.

In other news, I finally figured out who Summer Glau is (many thanks to late night talk shows).