Hot and Sour Words

[OOC: This post is ICly friends-locked to the following people: Dash, Dot, Jules, Omar, Wade]

For people immediately worried: I'm unhurt. Pissed off to no end, but unhurt. I'm still too livid to go into huge details, but here's the short form of what happened:

* After setting up cameras, I used the ouija board on my own. Results were...interesting, to put it mildly. I'd like people to view it unprejudiced by preconceived expectations or my version of what happened, but both Omar and I have copies at this point.

* After verifying recording worked, I burned the video captured from all three of my webcams to DVD-R. I then made a backup for myself of the video recorded on the camera Dot, Jules and I borrowed from Omar.

* After locking the board back up in my desk drawer, I left Astor, crossed campus to Bartos, and delivered the DVDs and Omar's camera back to him. He already had copies of the earlier footage, when the board first went on 'walkabout' in the room, so that he could do some analysis of the whole week of footage for anything out of the ordinary.

* I returned immediately to Astor, and needed something else out of the drawer.

This is when I discovered that some son of a bitch had stolen the board. It's gone. Poof. No sign of break-in, no sign of tampering with locks on either door or my desk, nothing else out of place that I noticed, though I want Dot's confirmation on her side of things.

I...am looking for advice. And blood, but mostly advice from you folks. Do we think someone on the Hysteria Squad decided the Official Skeptic had had the thing too long and boosted it? Do we concede to spiritual activity and blame ghosts...in which case, why did they go moving it? And for any who haven't, I suggest reading Wade's post about the conversation we had. I...I don't know. I want people to watch the video before saying anything else.

But I'm pissed off, and tired of someone fucking with us, be they alive or dead. And I think it's time we did something.

bastard, n. you know who you fucking are, you cowardly, contemptuous spawn of syphilitic cum rags. Yes, you.

Do you know what I'm going to do when I get my hands on you, you pieces of filth? Whatever sick fucking game you think you're playing, whether this is some piece of rancid shit that I go to school with perpetuating this tired joke, or if Wade is right and there's some twisted fuck out there...I don't care what I believe, but if you believe the thing to do is to play 'we looked in the trap' with a whole college, mentally twist the lot of us for your own amusement, your own needs, and those needs involve snorting the souls of those most creative to get your jollies off, devouring them so the world grows greyer and greyer...I don't care. Either way, whoever the fuck it was who just broke into our dorm room? You're dead. They're not going to find the pieces when I'm finished with you.

Go soak your head, idiot girl, and then learn to bite your tongue. Maybe you won't make as big an idiot out of yourself next time.

crow, n. 1) A bird of ill omen, come calling when the world shifts disasterously beneath you. 2) A dish best savored on rare occasions, often served with a side of that sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach.

I clearly need to invest some time in a foreign language course or two, just to expand the idioms I can swear in. I feel like I could compose an ode to the curse, a symphony of blasphemy to wilt the innocent and confirm my unlady-like status for all the world to see. My masterpiece, my epic, my legacy, writ in profanity.

Need to talk to Wade for level-headed advice -- which scares me all on its own. Whatever explanation comes to light, I refuse to behave like a pack of panicked mice. There are still too many logical, non-paranormal avenues to explore for me to give up the ghost yet (ha, funny when no one can see it but me), but...fuck. Lillian Hellman? Where the hell did that come from. Fuck. Note to self: check room for bugs.

But if even a fraction of it is true...what then? And what's going on around here, and why? I just...maybe I'm simple, maybe (ha) I'm a stubborn bitch, but the implications disturb, distress, and depress me if I concede on certain points. I'm not even going to start writing down the questions that come to mind, for fear of giving them power to latch hold in my head, influence decisions and observations.

Let's be honest: for fear of the nightmares. They're bad enough as it is.

holiday, n. 1) Occasions of importance, either secular or spiritual, to a region, political body, religion, or other broad-ranging group, which are celebrated on an annual basis. Such celebrations are often accompanied by gatherings of families, marking these dates as those which remind us most keenly why we've moved away from home. 2) That blessed event where one gets away from the confines of the everyday rut and sets out in seek of greener pastures, warmer waters, and gorgeous flesh to gaze upon. Unfortunately, such quests often lead to lost luggage, terrible food, and thieving cabbies, but it is the nature of the quest to be hard to obtain, and thus all the more precious.

Despite rumors to the contrary, or in some cases out there hopes, I am in fact not dead! It's just been a while since I had the time to sit down and chat on this thing. Okay, not entirely true -- it's less time and more inclination. If I get tired of seeing my own bullshit day in and day out, I'm sure the greater audience out there has much less of a tolerance built up; after all, I've had to put up with me for the last eighteen years. But be that as it may, sometimes you've just got to at least scribble on the wall and remind the rest of the world that you're there. So, with no further ado, I shall catch up in list format.

1. Didn't kill anyone between Thanksgiving and the end of the term.

2. Passed all my classes. Which is good, because I think not passing them may have short-circuited my holiday plans, given parental intervention.

3. Christmas was, to coin a phrase, awesome. (Okay, hardly original, sue me). Seriously? The best holiday I can remember having in a long, long time. And I can pay most of the thanks for that to my hetero life mate Dot. You know it's Meant to Be when you spend a semester cooped up in a tiny room, then decide to spend weeks of vacation where? Cooped up in a tiny room (namely, my bedroom at home) or in a car together. Okay, deciding to do so isn't all that surprising, but when you come out of it neither bloodied or needing an alibi for the shovel and the lye? Sometimes, ladies and gentlemen, it's just fate.

4. I have reaffirmed my love for seafood on Fisherman's Wharf (with a side of tall, dark, and handsome unexpected company), dim sum on Geary, and the karaoke list at The Mint. I also suggest that for a good time, you drag Dash or Louie out to sing while plying them with alcohol. You won't be disappointed -- even if they both may kill me now.

5. Family is, as I've always suspected, something best sampled in small doses. Too bad Dot had to put up with more than a dozen of us at once. I'm surprised I'm not short at least a sibling or two.

6. The best cure for winter blues is, I'm convinced, some combination of the following: a great friend, a great car, warm sand, warm water, and maybe a stiff drink. If you get all five, well, that explains why my vacation was so awesome.

7. I have pictures of Dot on the beach in San Diego and you don't. And no, you don't have a big enough bribe.

8. Once again, I have confirmed my belief that the emergency pinata is an investment that always pays off.

And remember, boys and girls: a vote for Dot is a vote for fun!

idiot, n. See nearest mirror.

Knew it was the right idea not to come out for Thanksgiving. This is what I get for trying, too -- I poke my nose in and try to save someone I don't even know very well, I make things worse for them, and I get treated like gutter trash in the meantime. I swear I should have shoved my tongue down that bitch's throat, just to see her freak out. Or with my luck, she would have kissed me back, the closeted twat. Of course, given the way Shirley's dad was practically groping her, it might have been the first action she's gotten since her daughter was born. Sick fuck.

I should have done a lot of things differently. Instead, I'm ignoring the siren call of Mark's orphan turkey and staying the hell in my room. Dot's gone, so no one can complain about me lighting a candle for Alex, turning up the most depressing music I can find, and seeing if I can drink my liver into submission. Wallowing in my self-pity and sorrow, here I come.

To: gvergiels@meridian.edu
From: abierce@meridian.edu
Subject: Ping?

Uh...just checking, 'cause it's been a bit: I screw up the email address?

Or if not, you just full up on models? Which I'd understand, just flat silence drives me batty when I don't expect it.

-A

siblings, n. Not the family you choose, but the family that indulges in blackmail, knowing all your dirty secrets. Cain and Abel are not so much a meditation on sacrifice and humility as a foretelling of most sibling relationships that would follow them.

There is a dusty, dusty saying that decries the inability to simultaneously exist with and entirely avoid the subject of our desires. Personally, I'd like to take this opportunity to reuse it for other matters. Namely, the following:

"Siblings -- can't live with them, can't find enough lye to properly dispose of all the bodies."

That said, I'm sharing the following as proof that someone related to me should be spending a little less time playing around in the computer lab, and a little more time working on that dissertation. Unfortunately, even if I were to attempt to leverage said evidence by presenting it to our shared parentage, I suspect I'd get less sympathy than I may hope. So I'll have to simply put this up where it reminds me that revenge is sweet, sweet, sweet:



(Entirely as an aside, if someone's skilled enough in knitting to whip one of these together, or someone knows where I could buy one? I will pay for your time. Contact me here.)

spiritualism, n. The belief that the dead communicate with the living, as through a medium. As of this writing, the only mediums confirmed to be effective are paper and ink, film, and video of various sorts, often summoned by one of the most devious subspecies of lawyer: the estate attorney. More often than not, these communications from beyond the grave are found less than welcome save by the personage who received the greatest share of the loot.

It's that time again, boys and girls. Actually, it's probably a first for most of the boys and girls reading this, but trust me: get used to it, it'll be a recurring theme. What time is that, you may ask? Simple! It's time for everybody's favorite: Amber pisses you off!

I'm starting to get confused: is this a college campus, or is this an episode of Scooby Doo? I know the rampant pot use are about equal between the two, but seriously folks, there SHOULD be a difference. If you don't know what I'm talking about, then you haven't been listening to the latest round of whispered conversations, or reading between the lines on various public journal entries. If we're to take things stated as fact, then I think Egon needs to come and explain about the twinkie because we must be on ground zero for a supernatural event of profound magnitude.

Or maybe, just maybe, some of you people are smoking crack. Ghosts? You seriously want us to buy ghosts as the easy answer for strange things going on? Okay, I've got another: it's called "someone slipped the lot of you a truly spectacular mickey." A little LSD can apparently go a long way, even now. Hell, be glad you weren't all roofied, though honestly I'm not sure there's a huge difference. Either way, I'm starting to get the impression that a whole batch of you were bent over and fucked without lube. It's just a question of whether it was a mindfuck, or a simple "wham, bam, thank you ma'am" situation. Pranked, punk'd, screwed with...take your pick. But if anyone calls Ghost Chasers, I'm done.

Speaking of group hysteria and the collective mindfuck, I have to ask: people who are posting their midterm grades...you do realize what it is you're doing, yes? You're either attempting to drum up support for your personal pity parties if your grades aren't up to snuff, or you're whipping your dicks out and comparing sizes if you're doing well. Seriously, I've seen less cock-on-cock fighting in the Castro. And for the sake of the divine being of your choice, midterm grades? Really? You mean milestones that won't mean squat all as soon as the semester ends? Next thing you know, I'm going to expect to see everyone piling on the bandwagon of posting the grades for every test they pass, and pointing and laughing at anyone who didn't meet the median.

Look, folks: I'm happy you're doing well, or sorry to see that you're struggling so far, as the specific case may be. Mind, in some specific cases, I may not give a flying fuck, but I'm talking about the generic here. Mentioning that you're doing great, or that you need to buckle down? Fine and dandy, perfectly understandable, and hey, it's your personal space, go for it. But please, put your dicks back in your pants and keep the specifics to yourselves. If we care, we'll ask. Otherwise, you're just flaunting it in public, and always remember: spandex, it's not a right, it's a privilege.

To: gvergiels@meridian.edu
From: abierce@meridian.edu
Subject: Photoshoot

Hi! So, first off, don't feel bad about losing my contact info; like I said, I had enough to drink by the end of the night that I wasn't sure If I'd actually had that conversation or not, and I certainly wasn't certain how serious you were.

In any case: now that the election is over, and we're past midterms, my schedule is relatively free. So, let me know when you'd like to have me...come in? Or meet you someplace? I'm not sure exactly just what you have in mind for a photoshoot, having never done one. Basically, if you tell me where to be and what I need to bring, I'll do my best to be there.

Sincerely,
Amber

queer rage, n. As spoken so very eloquently, if in this case entirely sans-contextually, by Ewan McGregor: "It's a little bit funny, this feeling inside..."

procrastination, n. The primary net product of the factory that is the 21st century. By contrast, the 20th century produced industry: build it faster, build it higher, build it stronger. Push the borders back until we can peer down at every inch of the world from on high, can surmount any physical obstacle, can Make our Mark. But now that the Great Machine is finally built, it churns out method after method of putting off today what one can get to...some other time: more television channels than any one could ever hope to watch, machines that carry more music than one could practically listen to in a lifetime, toys and bells and whistles and the Greatest, Latest Thing that you Must Have. There will always be time tomorrow to stop and think about the consequences of today.

In other news, I may have too much time on my hands now. Certainly time enough to mull and stew and find fucking pretentious ways of excusing the fact that I've been putting off communication in general, especially on this thing in specific. You'd think that, maybe, I didn't want certain concerned sibling-esque parties hovering over my shoulder and watching my every move. Or maybe I'm just decided to change religions and become a lazy hippie.

Probably not that last one; I still shower. Though I will admit yogurt for breakfast is good.

It's been so long that I've been putting this one off, I don't think I'm going to try cramming everything in. I'll just hit the highlights, then jump to things recent enough that I don't have to blow too much dust off my memories. So let's hit the recap reel, shall we?

* Further bonding with the roommate. Who is pretty much awesome. Really, 'pretty much' doesn't cover it. I'm not sure what does that wouldn't cheapen things. Jesus, now I sound like I'm in love or something. Anyway.
* Busting my hump (my lovely lady lumps?) for the Man
* Halloween
* Midterms
* Won the Election
* Lost in California

Most of it's either obvious, all I'm going to say, or not worth expanding on. But let's hit Halloween. Halloween was chock full of heady goodness, just like a bag of ice from the Quick-E-Mart. First high point: my costume was definitely a success, in my not-even-close-to-humble opinion. Even people who don't know the show definitely thought I looked good, and Jules and I looked good together. So good, we cut a swath through the science buildings before heading to the party and left a pathetic trail of drooling fanboys behind us. Though not a one of them had the guts to try actually talking to Jules. Geeky boys of Meridian? I'm terribly, terribly disappointed in you. Show some cojones, for Gandalf's sake!

And yes, I really did cut my hair that short. Honestly, I really like it, even if I do curse the way my neck gets fucking -cold- now with the slightest breeze. That is, however, why man invented the scarf. As added bonus, I sent pictures home to mom. I didn't know you could faint via email. Look at college, teaching me something new every day!

The party, overall, was a hell of a lot of fun. Lots of people, lots of great conversation, just the right mix of idiots to watch and snicker over. I think I only really made an ass of myself once, asking a pretty girl out who definitely did not swing the same way; behold the power of rum and coke to screw up even the most finely tuned gaydar! And if I remember right -- and I think I do, since I came out of it with physical evidence -- I think someone asked me to play photo model. We'll see if that materializes as something real, though I think it would be rather fascinating if it did. Hell, even having to crash on the couch in the lounge when I got back to Astor didn't put a dent in the evening.

Let's see, other high points...oh! Met someone else from back home, we even bonded over missing the cuisine. Since I was busy arranging a care package anyway, I doubled the order somewhat, added a few other things, and I'm going to share once it finally shows up. Who says you can't buy love?

Really, I think the only part of the party that wasn't a 'high' was the tarot reading I had. Not to say it was terrible, but I don't put a whole lot of stock in destiny, higher powers, or the like (as if anyone reading this so far couldn't have guessed that.) At the time, it was highly...unsettling, however. I'm inclined to pick up and run with 'you apply your own symbology and meaning to the random symbols', like seeing a face in a cloud or a clump of rocks because the brain is built to pick out faces and fixate on them. But that just leaves me with unsettled looks at the inside of my own head, which I'm not certain is much better.

It's been a blur since then, for the most part. Our dorm room was a virtual whirlwind of activity the last couple of days, and I crammed in as many volunteer hours on the phone as I could around hangovers, class, and a few minutes of cat napping. Soon as that was done, it was straight into the midterm grind. Thankfully, my reputation emerged unblemished -- passed everything with flying colors. Not that I was taking anything insanely challenging this semester; given I came in knowing how much time campaigning was going to take up, I wasn't stupid or anything, but still.

Though, that reminds me: speaking of campaigning, consider this a shout out to all you cardboard cut-out Sorority tramps: Dot Rothschild is coming for you and your crown, and she's taking that damn thing back. Just back down now, or we're gonna make Carrie look like a kindergarden playground romp. Winter Ball, people: right a wrong, take back the night, don't let them win again.

Cohabitation, n. The act or state of dwelling together, often in an intimate relationship without legal or religious sanction. The wickedness of such state is demonstrated in the most direct faction every fall on college campuses across the globe; if there were such thing as a compassionate God who had say in such matters, all freshmen would be given the blessing of single rooms. The reality of these living arrangements is considered by some a convincing argument for Atheism.

Here I am, finally established in my foxhole, dug into the muddy trenches behind enemy lines, having planted my flag in the name of Spain on this match of the world three thousand miles away from anything I might call home...yes, I'm at school, in my dorm, and I've even unpacked before midterms. Those of you from my old life currently doubting that this is genuinely written by me because of that fact, or perhaps casting aspersions on the veracity of my statements? As the working man says: fuck off and die.

Truth be told, I think I've come out exceptionally lucky on the cohabitation question. If I believed in Powers That Be or Luck outside of random chance, I might knock on wood or throw salt over my shoulder or something equally quaint. I'm certainly not going to go trumpeting that I've got a new BFF; for one thing, the pod person worries might be real if I suddenly did that, and for a second I think it would belittle my new roommate, shoving her into a category rather than considering her a real person. That said, we've got just enough in common to get along, just enough different to keep things interesting, and our room is looking like the semi-official headquarters for getting The Man elected. We'll see how things go post-November, but the watchword is Hope, after all. If we're really lucky, maybe we can be headquarters for the bloody revolution just in time for Christmas.

Of course, now that forward base camp is established, I really should be getting out and scouting the local territory. Not to say that I haven't at all -- I've certainly not turned into a hermit, nor is it cold enough even for a wimp like me that I've decided to do my groundhog/hibernating rodent impression. Hell, Dot and I even ended up at girl's night over at Minnie's the other day -- she and Dot are in a poetry class together, if I'm remembering right? We brought refreshments, which were appreciated, and frank discussion of certain college-based phenomena that may not have been entirely appreciated by everyone. Though it's hard to tell how appreciative someone's being when wide-eyed shock has set in.

Note to self: try to be a little kind to the Midwest girls. Inducing an aneurysm isn't really the end goal -- unless they're the judgmental bitchy type who're soaking up this pledge week nonsense. They're still fair game.

That reminds me, actually, why I needed to remind myself not to play hermit: it's rush week for all the sororities and fraternities on campus. When I get over the twitching, and take the deep breath necessarily to get across campus for my next class without succumbing to the urge to vomit, I try to remember why in the hell I decided to go to a school still allowing the damn things to leech off student life like the cancerous boils they are. If someone's got an answer for that one, actually, please let me know, because I keep not coming up with it. Really, I'm just glad that Jane managed to shake loose her vapid pair of roommates for replacements that she, at least, is happy with. The one I've met is the one I accidentally tried to burst a vessel in, but she seems a better fit for Jane. Maybe I'll get a chance to get to know her better when not breaking her head, and the other, sooner than later.

In the meantime, decisions must be made: just how slinky a dress do I want to hunt for? Inquiring minds want to know.

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Ambrosia, n. The food of the gods, thought to confer immortality in Greek and Roman Mythology. Also proof that divinity takes its culinary leanings from south of the Mason-Dixon Line, and thus everything they do should be considered equally circumspect.

My fellow man (and I use the term in the classical sense, as I've never been "graced" with the proper external genitalia to qualify as such in the genetic sense, and I refuse to abuse the English language to such a degree that my lack of penis means I start sticking the letter y in places it really doesn't belong), especially my fellow American in this over-commercialized teetering edge of the Twenty First Century, mistakenly equates quantity and quality. It's not how well you know someone, or how much of an expert you are — it's how many friends do you have on your MySpace page, how many little meaningless initials can you tack on the end of your name, how many shows can you claim to be a talking head on. He who has the Biggest SUV doesn't just win, he runs you over on the way to the finish line to the sigh of the baby harp seals dying in the midst of an oil spill in Alaska.

All of which is perhaps a long-winded way of apologizing for offering yet another introduction to the morass. Many of you won't give a damn who I am, and I can assure you that I'll return the same courtesy, sometimes even after I've met you in person. But as I'm being given what my parents deem a "fresh start" with this transition from compulsory education to my college years, I felt it should be as clear-cut a break across the board. Which means the beginning of a new journal to mark the transition, and as this one is somewhat public, I felt it needed at least a nod toward civility.

I'm afraid to say, however, that I'm feeling unfairly disposed toward civility. So while I waste the last two hours here outside the gate in San Francisco International, I present a list for your perusal, in no particular order.

1. To the staff of the institution I'm being shipped to for my "fresh start": please note that my parents have marked a noted tendency toward hyperbole. I did not go "run off into the middle of nowhere." Unless the Middle of Nowhere is now located in Janet's apartment in downtown Berkeley. When it's reachable by mass transit, I think perhaps that lifts it out of Terra Incognito, even when it involves my absence from the educational institution to which I was bound for a day.

2. I object most strongly once again to Mrs. Amanda Lowenstein, A.P. English Teacher, and her assertion that I was being "unladylike" in the girl's washroom after school in May of this year. I wasn't going to let Samantha get anywhere close to second base until the movie that night.

3. Whatever the legal documents or class rosters say? It's Amber. A pleasure.

4. Yes, I promise you, girls in Northern California do know how to shave their legs when they choose. The presence of redwood forests does not mean that the genetic stock of the North American Sasquatch has become intermingled with ours. That's only the hippies living near Santa Cruz.

5. Just because I know how to shave my legs doesn't mean I'm going to necessarily bother for you. If you need to ask if you're on the list for whom I will bother? You're not.

6. If Mrs. Lowenstein has anything further to discuss about what she may or may not have seen, and implications about whether or not I should have been allowed to properly graduate, then I will have to consider whether or not her husband would like to see those photographs from April 22nd. Really, Amanda: don't you have better taste than the vice principal? It's a weave, I promise you.

7. No, we are not all godless heathens out in San Francisco. Only the people worth knowing.

8. No, not everyone on the West Coast is innately certain of the superiority of living where the sun goes down over the water over living where the sun comes up over the water. Some of us are quite certain that the entire country is going to pot, and as long as you're not landlocked in the middle someplace where potluck is looked upon fondly, you could be doing worse.

9. On the other hand, I hear that water freezes while falling from the sky with distressing regularity on the northern end of the Atlantic seaboard. Such a thing should really be confined to the mountains, where you can exile your braindead surfing population with boards not just strapped to their ankles, but actually locked on. The simple statistical odds mean that we have to lose a few throwbacks a season this way. Clearly, you should be considering similar eugenics programs under the guise of "extreme sports."

10. Even and 'round' numbers are entirely overrated, and — like foolish consistency — another hobgoblin of little minds.

I do believe that's enough, for now. As they do say, a lady should keep a certain air of feminine mystique about her. Otherwise, she has to go straight to offering blow jobs to get what she wants.