Art is Unalterable. Wait...

Okay. Let me just say this: nobody, and I mean nobody, has the right to alter any kind of literature. EVER. I mean, what kind of shithead would think changing a timeless work of art would be a good idea? I don’t care if an offensive article is a part of the art, it should not be changed, you hear me?

Let’s discuss this. The use of a “derogatory word” in literature. What, at the time, may have been considered vernacular, is now deemed unsuitable and, apparently, must be changed. Agree or disagree? If you couldn’t guess from the opening, I’m against changing the classics. Juuuuust slightly. I simply cannot fathom the point. The “n-word” has been vulgar and inappropriate since the sixties (if not forever). I personally don’t use this word and cringe a bit when I hear it. Thus, I can comprehend the reasoning for removing this word from the books.

However.

Literature is permanent. One cannot change it (apart from translations) or it is no longer true to its original writing. Changing a word of historical text is like erasing a section of a painting. You just can’t fucking do it.

Luckily, the new version will only have 7,500 books published. Hopefully, this will be the last edited work of art. But I highly doubt it. Meh.

One False Maneuver and BAM! Your life goes to shit.

Pardon my absence, but alas, it is finals week; the most wonderful time of the year. One more week and I'll be free willy. Until then, stay classy. :)


So I was at Target today. I was helping my mother pick out clothes for my older brother for Christmas. Apparently, he believes that Mr. Morgan Charles Stillman is impeccably sleek and has a magical flair for fashion. … Or maybe he’s lazy and didn’t want to shop for himself… We’ll go with the first choice.

Anyway.

I’m all up in the men’s section, and this girl bumps into me like mad woman. She looks very embarrassed and apologizes for her false maneuver. So I say, “It’s all good, I’m kind of in the way.” She then realizes that it is, indeed, Mr. Morgan Charles Stillman.

“OH MY GAWD, MORGAN? What are you doing here?!”

I’m not entirely sure where this outburst came from. Mostly because I have no fucking clue who she is. “Oh. I’m just shopping. Ya know,” I quietly answer in my awkward “whodafuckisu” voice.

She contunies, “Oh, silly me. Ha, ha. This is Target, afterall. Sorry, I didn’t know who you were at first. It’s been about three years since I’ve seen you.”

Then it hits me. It’s Shelby What’s-Her-Face! But I’ve never seen you before… You’re simply a friend of a friend. And you’re one of those flirtatious highschoolers that make me want to scratch my eye balls our with a teaspoon. “Yeah, me too. Freshman year?”

“Yessssssirrr!” she smiles cutely.

*Awkward pause*

“Well, I hate to end this fantastic conversation, but I have to go find my lost niece. You can never let those things off their leash! MADNESS breaks loose!”

“Oh… Yeah… Ha…”

*Awkward pause*

I chime into the silence, “That was a joke… A bad one… But, as I said, I gotta go”

“Okay, BYE! I’ll text you!””

Aw shit. Why does this always happen to me?

My Excess of Potential.

The word potential has always perturbed me. It follows me everywhere I go. My whole life, everyone has said that I have "potential." What they're saying is that it is possible that one day I will be good. In a nutshell: You're not good, but maybe one day you will be. Is this a compliment? Should I be glad that I have potential?

Occasionally my teachers will mention someone and say, "She had potential to be so good. But..." But apparently he or she didn't live up to his or her potential? Am I going to be like them and not fully bloom into what my "potential" truly is?

Columbus For the Week.

I’m staying at an Asian’s house in Columbus, Ohio. It’s awkward because I don’t really know her. I was warned that the “cleanliness [of her house] is questionable.” I’m not sure what that means—all I know is that her house smells weird.

When I got here at 4:15, we started right away with the Sleeping Beauty rehearsals. I know the ballet well, so I don’t really need that much rehearsal. The students at the ballet school here have questionable… placement… But I get paid whether the show looks good or not. I’m just excited to perform this ballet again.

After rehearsal I was sent to go shopping for myself at “The Giant Eagle” to get food for the week. I’m almost positive that I didn’t get enough food. Oh well. Maybe I’ll get skinnier this week with the lack of food.

I’m sleeping in her son’s old room tonight. It seems pretty clean to me… But if I wake up tomorrow with some kind of fatal illness, I’m suing.

Fifty-Seven in a Forty.

One thing I absolutely cannot stand are people that refuse to admit that they're wrong. Let me exemplify my anger in a short narrative concerning one of the saddest days of my life.

Wow I'm glad I I finally got away from [insert party monster friend's name here] tonight. I love her, but she's way too hardcore for me. What the fuck? It's two forty-eight AM? No wonder there's no one on the road--well except for this random car that's riding my tail. Grrr, why doesn't he just pass me? There are two lanes for a reason!

*FLASHING LIGHTS*

"shitgoddamnfuckingwhoredickshitfacefuckingbitchshit!" (direct quote)

I believe that one of the worst feelings in the world is when you're sitting in your car right after you've been stopped by a cop. You're just waiting for the evil man in the uniform to give you a little slip that will cost you more than your crime is genuinely worth.

-----"Where are you coming from this evening?" He asked sternly.
"My friends house..."
-----"Do you know how fast you were going?"
"Uhhhh.... Fifty?"
-----"I clocked you at fifty-seven."
I want to say, That's because you were riding my fucking tail, bitchweasel! But instead, I give a simply, "Ohhh..."
-----"The speed limit here is forty."
Seeing the speed limit sign infront of me I peep in, "...Are you sure?"
-----"Of course I'm sure! Sir, can I see your diver's license and registration?"
I fumble to get my wallet out of my back pocket and get my license out. This took me like thirty seconds, of course, because I need it quickly. Next I reach into my glove compartment and grab a paper. Shyly I hand it to him asking, "Is this the right paper?" He grabs it and walks back to his car. He must be thinking, What a n00b.

I know for a freaking FACT that the speed limit on this road is forty-five. I drive on this road at least twice everyday.

-----He takes his time walking back at a leisurely pace, "You have [this much time] to call [this number] and they'll tell you how much you owe for your ticket. You were going seventeen over!"
I launch into the conversation, "Do you see the sign up there? It most definitely says '45mph.'"
-----"Yes, but you just passed a sign that says '40mph.'"
fucking liar.
I finish with, "Well you're wrong, but whatever."

-.-

Good thing he was a police officer or we would have gotten into an argument.