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I love luck. Really I do.
No one tell luck otherwise. << It might desert me.
Again.
And take the children.
T-T
 reishijade · Sun Feb 03, 2008 @ 05:39am · 0 Comments |
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People are fascinated by the very concept and yet I find myself more haunted by it than anything. Gender stereotypes have driven me hither and yon over the years. I played with the boys as a child and yet I still held a sort of proto-feminism close to my heart. When I tired of having to borrow my friend's little G.I. Joes, I begged my father to let my buy one of my own. He was thrilled of course yet as I perused the tremendous selection available, I found that only one would do. The female. This was how such things often went with me. I only resorted to male idolatry when the females were weak. I was not so blind as to choose one not worthy of my childish worship based solely on gender.
As the years have passed, I've taken an interest in doing unfeminine things. My tomboy youth held like a banner above my head, I rejected that which seemed too "girlish." Despite this, I found myself torn between amusement and horror when I began to be mistaken for a male. This did not begin until I cut my hair short. Sadly I eschewed my longer locks just as I dove into the cesspool know as High School. What better way to destroy self-confidence than to be incorrectly identified on the most primal level? It took me months to realize that all the people who asked me if I had a brother who attended our school had merely seen my own poor self in clothing bulky enough to disguise my breasts.
This seems to be the point on which my gender identification hinges. If my breasts are noticeable, I am female. When they are not, I am male. Those who know me will deny this. "No, you look nothing like a guy!" This, I always patiently explain, is because they have the correct gender in their minds. They look at me and see what is feminine. If they did not know, they might see me as these strangers do. My hair is long again, but so is that of so many men my age. As winter approaches, I steel myself for the coming trial of winter clothing and embarrasment on the part of strangers. Such is life.
reishijade · Tue Oct 17, 2006 @ 07:58am · 0 Comments |
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So, while discussing the concept of blush (as in make-up) and the application thereof, I came to the realization that I have no idea how I look when I blush (as in blood rushing to face). My oh so brilliant roomie has discovered that it takes one word and one word only to cause sudden blushing.
Now I thought this was a concept true only in anime. That one could say a guy's name and BAM! redface Instant flaming blush. Turns out it's true. I personally am confused as I feel no embarrasment to cause me to blush. I don't mentally go "OMG! surprised bsess obsess:" and yet I blush every single time. Truthfully, unless she tells me I don't even know I'm doing it. In fact if she points out that I'm blushing, it gets worse. I actually watched this phenomenon of capilary action in the mirror (which also made it worse sweatdrop ) Now that she knows, she's using it against me! Damn her!
Oh and the blush itself? Perfect movie-style across the cheeks. My roomie? Everything from the cheekbones up goes red. So there. At least I blush attractively? Damn it! stressed
reishijade · Sat Sep 30, 2006 @ 04:06am · 0 Comments |
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You know how some animals seem really easy to train while others are absolutely impossible? Take my cat for instance. He's three months old and he already knows the difference between cloth and skin. Skin=no claws. So I only usually get scratched if he panics. He also knows that sitting cutely at my feet and tugging my pant leg while I cook will get him fed. ^-^0 I think that's more him training me though.
I really do seem to be quite trainable. My roomie is an excellent artist. I am not. Talentless in the world of drawing, sadly. Yet she's teaching me to do all the little things around drawing that she hates to do. Like getting it all set up in the computer, edited and uploaded. She's even teaching me to ink her pencil sketches. Roomie doesn't like to do any of that, but she wants it done. I'm so pathetically thrilled to be involved on a level other than writer that I've willing become her one-woman sweat shop. She's figured out how to push all the right buttons to get me to do it all too. Praise for learning to do things quickly, drawings of things I like, etc.
Of course this could all be to our benefit if we ever get our freaking manga off the ground. The fact that it's faltering is as much my fault as anything. I've kind of been slacking on the story. I'm hoping that the rapid approach of Halloween (the day the first inklings of the concept began to stir in my head) will push me along a bit. That and a sudden run of creativity on her part could get us up and running once more.
Hey, a girl can dream can't she? ^-^0
reishijade · Fri Sep 22, 2006 @ 11:35am · 0 Comments |
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My roomie was talking on the phone to some friend about how we were going to take the bus to the bank tomorrow. I guess her friend told her to be careful, as her reply was "Oh don't worry, I have my roomie with me." I must have looked at her real funny because she told me "No offense hon, but you're like two inches taller than me and if that doesn't scare people off, I'm pretty sure it'd be me that kicked their a**." This is true. Of the two of us, people are more than likely to look at me and go "Ack! Better not bother her!" That would be false. Elffys is far far more likely to beat the hell out someone than me. She just doesn't look it. Tragic irony.
reishijade · Tue Sep 05, 2006 @ 05:17am · 0 Comments |
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But...I don't want to wear the skirt! |
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So, I've come to the realization that my roomie is the man of the house. Even though we're both girls. If we were an anime, I'd be the housewife.
...when did that happen? She comes home from work, tells me about her day, then says she's hungry. Suddenly I'm in the kitchen making dinner. The fact that it's me is mostly because everytime I let her near a stove, terrible things happen. She almost set the kitchen on fire while I was asleep. Microwaving popcorn. sweatdrop Roomie says she wears the pants in the household. Of course I was wearing jeans at the time, so it could have been funnier. My mother asked me if I was going to start making her martinis and meeting her at the door. I told her I didn't have an apron. So much for feminism.
reishijade · Sat Sep 02, 2006 @ 05:27am · 1 Comments |
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Wait, come back! It's a musical, I swear! |
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I have a problem.
I love "The Producers." This in and of itself is not a problem. The songs get stuck in my head. This is also not usually a problem. No one really cares if some crazy girl is singing "I Want to be a Producer." Well, unless they object to the slight reduction in..um..tonal quality. Heh.
For those of you who don't know, "The Producers" is about a pair of guys who, realising that one could make more money with a flop than a hit, decide to put on the worst show in Broadway history. The show? "Springtime for Hitler."
The problem: I get the songs from that stuck in my head as well. I was singing it at work, not realising that a little old lady was right behind me. Apparently she was a little weirded out by the fact that I was singing "Springtime for Hitler and Germany, Rhineland's a fine land once more...Springtime for Hitler and Germany, winter for Poland and France...watch out Europe, we're going on tour!" (I can never keep the lines for this one in order.) Yeah. Happy Neo-nazi? I'm thinking that's what she thought. stressed She scampered off pretty fast. Ooops.
reishijade · Mon Aug 21, 2006 @ 12:14am · 0 Comments |
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