Now that I’ve gotten the 2048 tile — not once, but twice — maybe it’s time to uninstall it from my phone so I actually do real things.
Birds that make us earthbound beings jealous:
Hawks, falcons, eagles
Birds that fly impressively but have questionable personalities:
Birds that look stupid when they fly:
No, seriously. Have you ever watched a duck fly? Super awkward.
I’m having those dreams again where I fix everything that’s gone wrong in the past couple weeks. I wake up feeling better, but in reality nothing’s changed.
“Yesterday I was rocking out really hard to Rage Against the Machine while reading a NYT article about how kids need to be hugged when they’re little.” -Lucas
Also, tangentially related only because of what Lucas and I were talking about at the time, my gchat status: somewhere in the acknowledgements for this novel will be an insufficiently epic thank you to Russ Chimes for Expressway Mix, Parts 1, 2, and 3. (AND OMG THERE’S A PART 4).
Sometimes I see mountains and wonder what it is I’m hoping to accomplish in my life.
What do I do with the shirts that have sentimental value but are kind of embarrassingly worn out or no longer fit?
Like is it okay to donate my Saratoga High School Music Department polo tee? What about old Red Zone tshirts?
What about my Admit Weekend shirt that’s ripped from the time it got caught in the figure 8 knot at the climbing wall? WHAT DO YOU MEAN, THROW IT AWAY!?
No but really. What am I supposed to do with these shirts?
Occasionally I notice something that ruins a perfectly decent song. Well okay, “ruins” is a strong word. It’s just something you don’t notice until you do, then you can’t help but notice.
The most recent case of this: “Nothing” by The Script. There are two parts in the chorus where the singer/narrator uses “you/your” instead of the “she/her” he uses through the rest of the song.
And my mates are all there trying to calm me down
‘Cause I’m shouting your name all over town
I’m swearing if I go there now
I can change your mind, turn it all around
And I know that I’m drunk but I’ll say the words
And she‘ll listen this time even though they’re slurred
So I’ll dial her number and confess to her
I’m still in love
But all I heard was nothing
She said nothing
Oh, I wanted words but all I heard was nothing
Goddamn it. And it could’ve easily been “shouting her name” and “change her mind” but no.
This is one of a multitude of reasons that listening to the radio is an unfortunate experience.
There’s something about sitting in the Stanford EMS office with the door open so I can listen to the rain that’s improving my inexplicably despondent mood.
Work, work, work, it never ends.
Most of my friends (especially the Asian ones), have seen this article in the Wall Street Journal: http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424052748704111504576059713528698754.html?mod=WSJ_newsreel_lifeStyle
There are a hundred things I want to say about this, but I will pay someone $20 if I find the time between now and Thursday.
So stay tuned. I’ll tell you what I think about Amy Chua…