... Unfortunately; Smart also has the A Level grades that get you into NUS Law, and nobody really wants to listen to your Stories unless you're Edwin Thumboo or Catherine Lim, or maybe Perez Hilton.

It's Tuesday.

I'm not quite sure what to feel about Time any more- because on one side, I reaaaally want it to be Friday; but on the other hand- I reaaaally DON'T want us to get any closer to Prelims; we're in an uncomfortable enough proximity as it is.

So I'm not going to say anything.

It's...just Tuesday.

I got to sleep at past 2AM yesterday. I'd like to say it was because I straggled in through the front door at 1:16, all messy hair and mascaraed eyes and streaming glitter from some psychedelic press-up of bodies.

Unfortunately...no. Was because I was curled in front of the computer in my dark-rimmed glasses and an oversized shirt, frowning at a particularly tricksy SEA essay question and wishing just a little bit that I was less great at writing rambly unpoetry and maybe a little better at writing straight. precise. meticulous A Level History essays instead.

Di's recital was lovely, though.

(...i'm narrating this in reverse. Is disorienting, esp on too little sleep and not enough coffee. I'll start from the beginning.)

Past 6PM: Met Erik @ Wheelock.

I got distracted by the lights on the ceiling, scrawling like spiders in their frame of silver metal going further further further back-- i started wheeling around slowly so i could make the stars spin. I'm sure I looked completely normal.

I also love it when Coincidence does a POP so we meet people who aren't quite kindred spirits, but are still pretty cool and have twinkling eyes. I sifted out the Goddess book I was searching for and arranged myself in a corner to see if my Primary Pathway followed that of Athena, Aphrodite, Persephone, or Artemis and I ended up making friends with this guy across of me who kept looking across and smiling and was reading the third installment of Eragon. I've always been more of a Tolkien girl (that one line in the movie Eragon just completely turned me off it: "...To the skies, to the skies! To fight or to die! *brandishy move*) but it's always great to meet a fellow g33k- which as it turned out- he was. Talked skimmedly about Steven Erikson and my marginally embarrassing 12-year-old fanfiction.

... Long live the misfits.

Di's recital @ the Arts House was lovely. Of course it was.

When she walked in, I did a little half yay-half whistle and called out "im meleth nin, Goddess!" and people turned a bit to look and it felt odd, the alien words ringing in the air- but they felt so natural. She and I speak to each other in a conglomeration of German and Elvish all of the time, and the words tripped off my tongue perfectly; and even "Goddess" was intonated with an odd lilt I never intended to happen.

I watched her face the entire time.

There are stories in my Di's eyes- there are the words of generations; there is lovelight.

Afterwards, we four (Cephas, Erik, Diana, Cara) lounged on the overstuffed blue sofas and laughed and talked about- oh, silly, deep things. Paradoxical, but the night grows hazy even now- I just remember warm faces and the texture of Diana's leopard print gown and me inclining my head to kiss Zeddicus and his pretty eyes of black onyx. Past lives: Erik was a traveling man (we all didn't see that one coming), Di was a holy woman who basically prayed till she died (Di: "...is probably why religion and I are so iffy now, nee?") and Cephas wanted Genghis Khan but got a Yorkshire dairy farmer primarily known for his wife's avid midwifing skills.

The rest of the night went by in an up and down, slightly intoxicated haze...

Rapid exchange by the water fountain. Steady the rhythm in the background of the falling water slapping against white tile-- metronome to the words we bulleted out of our mouths: half incoherent, half devastatingly profound.

"so this is how you begin: DEAR ERIK, THESE ARE ALL THE WORDS I NEVER SENT..."

I like free word association; especially when we're belting it out nonstop with hands shoving in faces and chins jutted out, faux angry, the air crackling. What comes out is by turn complete poppycock and the words of the prophets.

"it is a ship to the stars!"

"a ship to nowhere!"

"a ship to the plastic stars!"

"...and the spaces in between our toes are what we try to fill with bank accounts/ bills/ 1.5 wives/ and a 9 to 5 job for a land that does not love you"

...something about cartographers climbing in between your braces and planes flying into your pockets, i can't remember the rest.

And then arms and trust and bright lights and you tried to make me fly. I thought I'd fall. I didn't, of course- you're not a commando for nothing. The airplanes in the nightsky that Hayley apparently wants us to pretend are shooting stars ain't got much on us.

-

today was tired, under-caffeinated.

Perked up momentarily during Lit lecture.

Mr Whitby: "So the reality is: that the lie Jack has been telling all his life has actually been the truth!"

exciting epiphanies.

Me, leaning over to Josh: "Guess what."

Josh: "Mm?"

Me; low, vicious, thrilled: "... I'm the Queen of Sheba."