Introducing, a fragmented post: So I got an A in Statistics. One of 6 people in a class of 30. Oh god, actually, that's really old news. Shame, I'm usually on top of everything (not. What the hell am I talking about). This class was supposed to punch me in the face 64.1 times. I guess that plan got put on hold.

What does Grace think about going back to school for more academic ass-kicking?



I go back this Friday. My mother, incidentally, has recently told me to drop out of college and go pursue wood chopping in Alaska. She says this would give me more life-lessons. Bonus? Sometimes I really think I agree with her. (Serving beer in a Belgian pub was another one of her favorites).

And eventually my body was going to pull a stunt, this I knew. It's as if all the stress and physical torment I've collected through the months start to accumulate and unleash itself as one big horrifying monster during one particular focused time (usually a time when I should be feeling my best and the most relaxed). Slews of headaches, muscle pain, general exhaustion, among others - hello. Also? A strange obsession with cherries. Yes, that happened too.

What's the deal with everyone moving away? Technically, out of New Jersey? Maybe I started a trend when I up and flew down to the Churchbelt.

I spent time with lily22 on her birthday on August 8th which was so impossibly rad. And a slew of other lovely people I haven't seen in a full year or so. I gave her an egg (that is everything but edible. Oh, and it tells time. And glows. Sort of like a Tardis, only round and pocket-sized). I was sort of late (by like, an hour and thirty minutes, which for my record, counts as pretty darn oh-kay) because my father and I were apparently too engaged in our conversation about aerophysics to realize we were just sitting in the car and it wasn't actually moving anywhere.

The prices of college textbooks really kill me. Sharing is caring, kids, so why can't more people just let me borrow their things for 6 measly months at a time? I'd return it eventually. Utterly incomprehensible.

Also, why the fuck am I still pre-law. I'm so masochistic. I tell people I'm just a down-to-earth Liberal Arts, Political Science major but in reality I actually want to work in law, I always have, one way or another (despite the lousy pay and everything that comes along with lousy pay, for instance, "death by starvation" among other such cute things).

If I keep playing the NDS at the rate that I have I'm going to fail next semester. I mean, I've always been kind of obsessed with video games (particularly ones in the "MOST FANTASTICALLY UNREALISTIC COLLECTION OF SCENARIOS" category) but this summer? Ridiculous.

So Statistics isn't all that bad. Mind you, it's generally devastating but every now and then things clear up and some poor student's (read: me) day becomes so much better.

My first Statistics exam wrought me a 104. I was so shocked I almost tripped over myself. I'm generally still a bit suspicious about the grade so I constantly go back and look at it just to make sure I read the digits right and it is indeed a one-oh-four and not a, I don't know, forty-one. Or fourteen if the universe wants to have a sense of humor and get fresh with me.

And here is something that makes me squirm: after all this time I still have no idea what kind of person I am. I don't know if I'm ambitious or just obsessive, if I'm actually funny or really just snide and pretentious. Am I cynical or just straightforward? Am I shy or just honestly polite? Or maybe I'm all of those; maybe I'm none of those and the real me is nothing like the me I think I want or should be. I guess there's some fun in never really finding out and/or realizing that you as a person and as a plethora of definitions just sort of constantly shift and change hues depending on the weather or the person you last talked to. But at the same time, no anchor means no anchor, nothing solid to establish yourself on, nothing hard and certain to retreat back to when times get too confusing and things get too mean.

Here is something I don't like: I don't like it when people think they can tell me what my responsibilities are. I know what they are. I don't need you to try and use them to patronize me. I know my priorities - you don't; I know how my priorities are ordered - you don't and you will never understand why the sequence is how it is because frankly, you are not me. So don't pretend to be and don't pretend you know.

But here is something I do like: I like the fact that many things are very short lived and compact. I don't like the feeling of prolonged obligations. I don't like the twisted feeling in your gut when you discover that suddenly you're stuck in something or some place and you don't know for sure when you'll be able to get out (or even if you should - the fear that maybe this is the best thing or place for you - and god, doesn't that suck?).

( And here are some fragments of what I am now, today. Some facts, among other things. )

The other night my mother commended my virtues - my mother just admitted that I had virtues. She called me courageous.

This is the first time in years she's been proud of me.

So did you know that they actually make canned bread? As in bread-in-a-can. Japan's Evangelion merchandising franchise also caught on, kicking it up a notch to having not just ordinary bread, but artificially flavored bread (strawberry for the NERV brand and chocolate cream for the SEELE brand).

Then again, they also make things like this, just in case you were wondering. Just a note if "delicious creepiness" is right up your alley because it certainly is right up Tokyo's.

Here's a little something for you: many statistics problems enjoy working with color and various inanimate objects in daily living. One such object is the sock. Many statistics problems also stress the usage of "common sense". Knowing these two commonalities, please take into consideration this question worded thus:

"A drawer contains 11 identical red socks and 8 identical black socks. Suppose that you choose 2 socks at random in the dark. What is the probability that you get a pair of red socks? What is the probability that you get a pair of black socks? What is the probability that you get 2 unmatched socks? Where did the other red sock go?"

Please observe the first level of bolded text: Now there comes a time when I do find myself admitting that yes, my mother had the misfortune of birthing a child who is empirically as dumb as soup but honestly, this? Even I can't fathom why such a situation could possibly be legitimate in any way. What could possibly spur you to attempt this action as described? What does one get out of it (besides a very cheesy attempt at the element of surprise)? What possible sense does this entire scenario present if any? If this is the sort of "common sense" the field of statistics expects from its suitors then no wonder everybody kicks the metaphorical grade-bucket. Movie directors making the fatal mistake of putting sound in space, (as much as this irritates me) makes more sense at the moment.

I mean sure, maybe you just woke up in the early dawn when all is still dark and decided you needed to put on socks - but are you really saving yourself more time by deciding not to go and flick on the switch for the lights before rummaging most randomly through your drawers to little avail? Unless of course the length of your room is the height of Trump Tower and your light switch just so happens to be at polar opposite ends from your bed - in which case: why are you bothering to look for your own clothes anyway? You probably have people who have people to do that for you.

Observe the second line of bolded text: I must now tell you that all 29 students in the class, including myself, could not answer this question. After the first 30 minutes Lynn goes: "Probably Narnia".

After 3 hours we were still not quite sure just what the numerical answer would be - when of course, we suddenly realized that there was none. No, this question is actually completely irrelevant to the galaxy's interests. It has nothing to do with numbers. It has nothing to do with probability.

The back of the book, interestingly enough, did happen to provide an answer which was this: "Who knows? Maybe it got lost in the wash!" The exclamation point was present as well.

Oh and PS. I am still failing in a most epic fashion. At least I bought myself a new travel mug in the meanwhile.

I've become a master at packing for long distance trips, having been rushed to and fro on a plane or a 10 hour car/train ride more times than a starlet shooting a new billion dollar movie press release. Interestingly enough, this usually means my luggage gets heavier, not lighter. The things I bring are considerably less useless of course, but nonetheless, baggage is baggage. It weighs you down.

My father and I drove to Georgia. That's really about it. Nothing else happened. That's usually how it goes with him.

You know there's something seriously lacking in your perception of your self-image when you're near to a drug induced high thinking: "Oh my god, oh my god, I think I might just get a C+! Yessssssssss!"

I've been back at University for a week now, struggling (to put it as lightly as possible) through summer school. I only have one class, as most of you know - statistics - but needless to say, I haven't been this stressed and psychologically destroyed since yogurt decided it could sell itself in a drinkable form. (Bear with me. I need some humor fuel to keep me from flinging myself out the window of the astronomy building and finally contributing some extra red to the ever popular pop culture of street art). Hell, it's even called elementary statistics. Which is really just another way of saying "An hour and twenty minutes of mind rape" to the point that you leave numb and tingly and five IQ points dumber. Statistics students certainly make the best psychological case studies, I swear.

I live every waking moment terrified. Of what, I don't even know any more. Too many things piling together and crushing my already calcium deficient shoulders. Too many things I suddenly realize I don't have the power or will in me to handle.

You know the point in your life when you realize that the utter, inevitable failure of whatever endeavor you're currently engaged in suddenly becomes so, so real and unavoidable? I'm there. It's the feeling you get when the windows are starting to crack, when your engine is on fire and you're suspended 40 parsecs away from planet earth in all that unforgiving, vast, nothingness and you know: it's only a matter of time.

Oh and happy fourth of July. Yesterday. That happened too, I remember.

Yesterday's post was really not supposed to be a 100% geek-out but my appreciation for Ron Moore's character development ability overrode all other functioning aspects of my mind. Though if anyone managed to catch entertainment news this morning, Virtuality's ratings tanked horrifically (which is really not surprising) despite the fact that the people who did watch it all the way through had nothing but good things to say about it (like me). Reasons? Micheal Jackson and Friends dying and all. That and besides in reality, the show was originally a short story that probably just didn't really survive the media transition. I still stand by my positive opinion of its really mind-blowing concepts and thorough character development (given the time constraint) despite plot pitfalls (again, time constraint) and choppy execution.

Actually, yesterday I didn't get back home until around dinner time as my parents and I decided to make a road trip to Pennsylvania. There's a giant outlet mall there on the highway that sells a lot of designer products that are tagged with huge discounts. My mother, who was clearly some sort of billionaire's pampered little princess in a past life, decided it was a completely smart idea to go ahead and binge on buying 6 COACH bags. I mean, I'm not complaining, considering I got one (as well as a wallet) but I merely now await the day she will buckle under and realize we never had that kind of money to begin with and decide to save it on daily living supplies, like foodstuffs.

I like to ask really odd questions sometimes that usually would only seem remotely interesting to someone who's had 10 gallons of hard alcohol. This is why something like "What if the Hoover Dam Broke?" is so utterly fascinating to me.

We'll be driving down to Georgia, tomorrow morning and arrive there late at night. Some of you seem to think that because I'm going back down there, I will be completely inaccessable. This is obviously ridiculous. Nothing's going to change besides 1. Me possibly failing out of college 2. Me not being in my home state.

Oh and by the way, this movie looks amazing. Good thing I'll be back near a theater when it airs.

At 8:00 pm tonight, FOX decided to air the two hour "pilot" of Ronald Moore's Virtuality. As with most of Moore's work (for example, the ever prestigious Battlestar Galactica reboot series), the first few minutes (read: 30 minutes) were choppy and more or less headache inducing but once you pass that "Go/No Go" segment and agree to have yourself catapulted towards the rest of the hour and a half of the show, you will find yourself completely blown out of your mind.



I am very rarely impressed. Especially when it comes to books, movies, shows, etc. I'm extremely persnickety. This is the first time a show this year has impressed me so much. This is a big deal.

Virtuality. Let me tell you about it: This show is about space. It's about politics, it's about the divide between reality and fantasy, it's about psychology, humanity, spirituality and belief. This is the kind of show that is not for casual viewers and has no room for immaturity. Most people won't understand it enough to appreciate it. There are no 20 minutes action scenes and nothing explodes. Those two hours change you. By the end of those two hours, you feel like you're a part of the crew, stuck in a dense, cold sweat that you don't want to admit to. And you're also not quite sure if this is a good thing or not.

( Some extra information on the show's development specifics and whether or not it will evolve into a full series )

Anyway, for those who missed the first two hours, I'm sure you can catch it online in a few days (and if you're someone who would like to know that intelligent, masterful, screenwriting and character development has not died yet in television, you really don't want to miss this).

Aside from this geek-out, here's another real-life update (but what's happening in my real-life is so very interesting to you all): I'll be leaving for Georgia (not the country, the state. Remember, I go to school there?) on Sunday. My summer Statistics class starts on Tuesday and for the next 30+ days I will be trying my best not to cut myself to pass this course and keep sane. It'll be a war zone from here on out. I'm so not ready.

You know there's something wrong with you when your entire top 20 most played songs on iTunes is about where best to off yourself and your comfort movie is found in the 1998 space disaster flick Armageddon.

I've decided I needed to watch some more emotionally positive television. This is what actually happened: I watched Dexter, Damages, Ginger Snaps, and Pan's Labyrinth.

If you want to say: "...I don't really see the emotionally uplifting part but I do see a lot of blood and sex and murder," you are correct and probably as disheartened by now as I am.

And so inevitably, I decided to turn to books yet again. I’m the sort of reader who snoops around the bookstore, gathering up a stockpile and worming into a corner to read the middle few pages, testing to see whether the specific literary work is up my alley. I’ve been hitting a lot of lucky streaks this time around because I’m honestly up to my eyebrows in books. I’m a very cautious book buyer but I love doing it – especially if my pockets are overflowing with coupons. If I can get a very well written book that I’m bound to read more than once, highlight, and cross-reference when I’m writing myself, I believe it’s worth the $9.00 to $10.00.

( A short summary of my stunning neurotics )

I have six short stories on my computer right now. I have never spewed out that many in such a short amount of time. Because this is obviously very important to everybody.

Staples and other stationary stores in general make me impossibly excited. I swear to god, the moment I see a colorful paper clip I feel a sudden rush of explosive glee. As if I don’t have enough trinkets to organize all my crap with (…and then bigger trinkets to organize the smaller trinkets that organize my crap. Can you imagine what it must be like to live with me? Make a note of it if you were planning on this sometime in the near future, pals).

Also? “Happy Birthday to you, you live in a shoe”? How the hell did that happen? I mean, how does that even make any remote sense?

Then last night I sat down and played some Brahms on our old Yamaha. It felt so good. It’s curious to me how just two years ago I wouldn’t be caught dead listening or appreciating classical music because of having such a deep rooted childhood in the art but now? Now I cannot fathom why I ever disliked it. I find so much comfort in art, in every medium.

Unrelated word to the wise: if you have a choice, don't let me drive with someone/any other living organism in the car. I have too great a love for speed, unpredictable turns, and recklessness. The sound of things blasting to pieces also has a tendency to make me giggle.

Sometimes people say things because that's exactly what they mean and there is very little behind it all because honestly, I doubt anyone has enough energy to make every single comma or word a double or triple meaning. If someone says they're driving a mini-cooper, they are probably driving a mini-cooper and not the NCC-1701 Enterprise behind your back. Not everybody is Dexter Morgan, I mean seriously. Most people on this planet are exactly what they appear to be: normal, occasionally quirky, and comfortably boring. If you go into a relationship - heck, even a conversation - with someone and expect to be divinely enlightened or some other thing you've seen on TV or at the movies, boy are you going to be disappointed. Not everyone is out to get everybody else - no body cares enough so chill out. Enjoy the weather or something.

Now that hopefully your most paranoid, over-analytical and cynical side has been successfully soothed, now you get to voyeur your way through a free math lesson rant. You should feel grateful; some people out there are paying $3000 a class to be taught this shit (ie. me).

( Minor personal history regarding my mathematical escapades )

So. You know when you're faced with a deceptively simple math problem that is really 10 pages long? And then when you've finally finished it and feel like it took a little bit of your soul with it too, you realize that in the very beginning, you accidentally divided one thing wrong which has not really changed anything drastically except for shift every number off by ".36"? It's the shame of being foiled by an utterly elementary, impossibly simple mathematical function or formula that you could probably program your toaster to do for you in less time than an Emory math major probably could (And those little fuckers are fierce. The math majors at Emory, I mean, not the toasters. Well, actually, maybe the toasters too). It's the feeling of "almost, but no cigar, baby" and 15 minutes you'll never get back.

Let me give you some context. Take for instance, the F-Test: an asymmetric distribution that has a minimum value of 0 but no maximum value with two degrees of freedom (dfN and dfD). In general, it is very simply one sample's variance over the other sample's variance and its purpose is to decide whether or not you need to slit your throat over this beast:



which has very little purpose in real life except for - um, no, nevermind, it has no purpose. 90% of the time, the answer is yes, you'll have to flex your number muscles and prepare yourself to be neck-gutted more times than Nathan Petrelli on Heroes had been.

So imagine doing all of that and then only realizing you accidentally switched X-bar with sample variance and now you have the irritating choice of either doing the problem all over again or erase select parts (in which you must also employ the step of "finding the select parts to erase which are usually not very evident"). This? This is where I am.

That is all. Now that I've thoroughly burnt myself out, I'm going to redo said 10 pages and try and take a nap.

Uhh. So what would happen if every single spaceship/spacequest/space-is-disease-and-danger-wrapped-in-darkness related show was slammed together into say, one massive crossover semi-AU-ish realm? This darling burst of genius just burst into my mind when I was doing the dishes (conveniently cleaning out my Captain Kirk cup) wondered about what it'd be like if Kirk and Friends (tm) were cowboys. Er. Which then evolved into "space cowboys" which then blossomed into "Firefly/Bebop Crossover?" which then exploded into "every space related thing cross over. With hats." Do I spy a mindblowing fic or an awesome and perhaps short (but sweet) lived rp? WOULD ANYONE BE UP FOR THIS EPICNESS? Completely ADD thought.

I just realized I don't ever have time for anything anymore (and if I ever did I have no idea how I made it happen). By the time I start college again I'd better learn how to attend classes without breathing because even that 0.025 second function is going to take up way to much space on my schedule.

You know what scares the shit out of me? DATELINE, the newsmagazine that’s never met a story it couldn’t turn into a terrifying ‘IT COULD HAPPEN TO YOU. RIGHT NOW'. That and the 48 Hour Mystery program on television (but mostly because the mysteries never solved anyway so it sort of leaves you sitting there, frowning appealingly at the screen wondering what you just wasted an entire hour on).

So my mom has been officially hired as a teacher at Newark Academy. She is so excited she wants to buy a house. I asked her if I could get a spaceship, preferably one that looks very similar to (and/or is) the Enterprise. She has yet to get back to me on that.

Not secret: I’m incredibly egotistical and obviously, I totally love it.

Secret: I never feel (or felt) that I make the right choices. About anything. And it tears me up like nothing else.

As I grow older, I see some things a little more tragically and a little more critically, and economically then I did previous and it doesn’t help this irritating complex I have of not ever really trusting myself. For instance, I don’t really know if going to Emory was the right choice, or even the best one, for so many reasons (real or imagined) and I also don’t know if it was necessarily wrong either. I’ve been considering whether or not I should transfer after this next year. And I don’t know if that’s good/right/wrong/bad either. I really don’t fucking know anything anymore. This state of limbo is driving me off the edge.

It also bothers me that my parents have gotten nicer to me over the years but they still don’t believe in me.

It bothers me too that when someone asks me if I’m content I don’t know how to reply.

Sometimes when I suddenly desire a change in my life, I do one of three things: 1. Shop myself into a state of numbness. 2. Cut my hair in some wildly unpredictable fashion. 3. Clean my room.

I find it silly that of all times I picked now to do number three. As I'm going through old papers, worksheets, and notes that I took during my high school years, I think to myself just how odd it is that I'm spending an hour or so of my life cleaning a room I will most likely never live in for more than 4 weeks at a time at the most for the rest of my life. Most of my things are covered in 5 layers of dust, even.

( How the hell did I happen like this? )

I realize that I wrote a lot. Piles and piles of old stories and poems I wrote for classes, in between classes, and just for the sake of my own pleasure. I knew each one intimately, like they were actually people or something ridiculous like that - most of them I just had to glance to be able to remember every single detail about every single sentence, word, comma. I do end up reading a select few, merely out of what I suppose one could call a sick fascination for self-abuse.

The two things Political Science professors tell their Major students are: 1. Don't feel. We don't care about what you feel. We don't care about your opinions. 2. Don't think in Ex Post Facto about anything. It'll screw you over, make your brain go all bibbly as the history of the world and its 6 billion wretched people suddenly burst into chaos.

I am obviously not toeing either of those lines right now.