It's ironic that my last blog entry was titled "It's Beginning To Look A Lot Like Christmas," because they've started putting up Christmas decorations around campus, which feels ridiculous right now considering Thanksgiving is still two weeks away and it's seventy degrees outside.
I sure hope it snows sometime soon. The thing about winter in Oklahoma is that it's windy 85% of the time, so when it does snow, the wind whips the snow around like a blizzard and makes it feel colder than it really is. I remember one day in high school when the wind was practically nonexistent and the snow just fell from the sky, silently and peacefully. It felt like a scene from The Chronicles of Narnia. I wish there were more days like that.
Church choir is like going to the gym (I say that as if I actually GO to the gym): It sucks, but you know that the benefits are well worth the suffering. Yesterday we were called to both services--morning and afternoon. That meant I had to wake up at seven to get to the church at seven-thirty to sing with fifteen other equally-tired-yet-still-willing-to-scream-at-the-top-of-their-lungs-despite-not-having-warmed-up voices. It's all one big shouting match. My voice felt like someone had slit it with razor blades. But hey, at least I'm getting paid. Afterwards, I hung out with my friends Kat, Alex, and Katie for three hours straight. We did nothing but sit in talk, which is the best form of hanging out, in my opinion.
I've been listening to Imogen Heap's new album, and the more I listen to it, the more I'm reminded of why I love her so much as an artist. Her music is great, but the lyrics are what make the music. She's an amazing writer. I thought of a line from one of her old songs that I really love--"You sleep here, I sleep there... But then the heating may be down again." Her words are all about love and relationships, which by all means is the biggest cliche in the realm of popular music. It's tragically over-fantasized and painstakingly inflated so much so that it overshadows so many other amazing categories of human emotion. But I respect her poems not only because the music they're set to has merit and weight but also because of the delicately way in which they're written. Imogen Heap is skillful in creating the right balance of personal insight and relatable self-indulgence. It takes thought to decipher her words, but they're not so cloudy as to confuse the listener, like, say, 'I Am The Walrus' or something by outlandish lyricists such as Bjork or Juana Molina. On the other hand, they're not so blatantly obvious that one's intelligence is insulted just by listening to them.
Wow, I just went on a really long rant about Imogen Heap...
Meanwhile, I've been thinking about scents that I don't like. The one that sticks out in my mind right now: the cafeteria. I hate smelling like it after I've eaten there. Once you've been in the caf for more than thirty minutes, that stench is gonna stay with you. Odors are like that, though; they just don't go away. They're like bad dreams.
This weekend, I went to a Maury-themed party dressed as white trash. My two girlfriends were named Bambie and Nikkie. I had both of their names tattooed on my chest. In Sharpie, of course.
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