You know, violets aren’t blue. They’re violet. It’s every bit as much a part of the rainbow as blue; why can’t we just call it what it is? Rhyme, that’s why. You see what happens when truth is destroyed in the name of poetry?
Next time, think of the violets. Think of your children. And don’t let rhyme happen to you!
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(I got this in an email from The Girl. I couldn’t not post it. Enjoy.)
An Essay on Make-up
Today is the first Spring day of 2003 on which the sunhas not only thawed Winter’s icy claws, but also madeit seem almost hot outside. This dawning of Spring isa time when many sorority girls, preps, and the likedebut their leathery, brown, and yet radiant,pre-cancerous glow that they spent a huge percentageof their time and money on during the Winter months,which they spent hibernating in tanning beds. Sinceevery aspect of this category of girl’s appearancemust be magnificent and perfect, they apply gobs ofnew make-up to accompany their new skin and newclothes and new purse that matches their new flipflops.
I, although I am not graced with the beauty and senseof style that these girls are, am blessed withunderactive sweat glands. This means that, eventhough I do not wear make-up and am therefore entitledto sweat as much as I want, I daintily keep my sweatto myself. Apparently, as I have discovered over thepast few hours on UK’s campus, the girls upon whombeauty, style, and gobs of make-up are bestowed mustrectify their “good” attributes by having overactivesweat glands. I mean, they sweat buckets-full oftacky foundation and tar-like mascara, and it isGROSS. They frantically consult with theirpocket-size mirrors to repair the damage of the sun(the damage done on their make-up, not their cancerstatus), but the hands of a prep or even the hands ofGod are not rightfully equipped to clean up a messlike that.
In conclusion, preppy girls who wear make-up lose andI WIN!
I love you, and I don’t sweat,
Audrey
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This is my 250th entry. I now have almost as many entries as the typical blogger makes in a month!
Yesterday I finally bought a hat–after all that time not wanting any of them, I decided I wanted the Ferrari hat after all, then couldn’t decide whether I wanted dark grey or red. Eventually, inspired by Neil Gaiman’s story about his daughter’s choice in colleges, I had Emily flip a coin and order it for me. I won’t know which one it is until it arrives in my mail. Adventure! The grey one would be comfortable, and the red would be exciting: right now I could go for either.
Yeah, it’s a party in here.
(P.S.: Bens boots!)
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