DDshoeshowz...

Fri, 25 Apr 2008 00:04:26 GMT

I don't know if anyone is interested in this, but I have a blogger account in which I review books online from Amazon. There's only two reviews up there now, (however I do have much more than that....I won't be posting those on there, however. We'll just say - they're not the best quality and, well, kind of lazy).

The link is here: http://literarycriticisms.blogspot.com/

I hope that by doing this, I can send in a "profile" basically of my writing to local newspapers and perhaps be hired as a freelance book reviewer. (That sounds so romantic and dangerous...but I'm sure really isn't. I'm sure it's just the "freelance" part.) I want the extra cash in the summer and don't hope that making salads (I work at a Saladworks close by) will be constituting the majority of my paycheck.

Work

Sun, 13 Apr 2008 00:24:30 GMT

Second chapter up! Yay!

God, it was more work than I intended. Also, why can't I write this at any other time than during class period?

http://www.fanfiction.net/s/4175589/2/Good_Luck_Has_Its_Storms

On Today

Fri, 11 Apr 2008 01:12:33 GMT

Well, I've been feeling pretty productive today. For one, I've studied for the Ap English Exam

I've also nearly finished painting for a storefront called Let's Bounce Around. And, boy am I glad I am. This project's been going on in some shape, way, or form for nearly 6 months! I'll post some pictures. Of course, it's not completely done: I need to remove the tape and do some touch-ups. Also, my sisters managed to dance all over the darn thing in their bare feet and dirty it up! Oh well, I'll just go over it again.

Disclaimer: I did not come up with the designs. They're shit and I think pretty freaking creepy. But , I just paint what I'm told. And also, it didn't take me 6 months to paint it. I was given about 12 different measurements and wrongly-cut boards. The guy's an idiot - but he is a sincere idiot. A sincere idiot willing to pay!

Also, I'm sure something like this looks good for college.

Damn! That's blurry!

Just finished this about...6 minutes ago.

Also, I've typed up about seven more pages of my Magica/Gladstone story. Next chapter's almost done!

E-Mail Update

Thu, 03 Apr 2008 19:18:44 GMT

For all of those out there that would like to know the latest ongoings of my e-mail, yes - I have been keeping up with my Spanish penpal. Unfortunately, I use to have three - now there remains only two.

And then there were none.

Sorry, I just have to throw out cheesy literary references at the most inappropriate times. Also, I've started snooping around with my Graduation Project (for shorthand, we'll just call it GP. Although, perhaps by typing all of this in parenthesis, I've negated the effects of writing it in shorthand. Oh bugger, I'm just digging myself in deeper now, aren't I?). Anyway, I've always wanted to apprentice under a local artist which is perfect seeing as how one of the topics is Career Exploration. I've found out that there does exist a local art league around here and have come into contact with most if not all artists there. Most of them (as expected) told me that they were to busy over the summer to be involved, but I have gotten a few tentatively positive replies! Yay!

Also, I've written another (godamned) DuckTales story - thanks to the effusive amounts of free time I get in my World History seeing as how my teacher loves to dole out hour long personal diatribes. Yeah, and the story is Magica x Gladstone. ...Does that even exist? Still a bit apprehensive about uploading that one.

I'm going to stop typing before this becomes a stream of self-consciousness.

Shameless Plug

Mon, 31 Mar 2008 21:21:15 GMT

Okay, I admit it. I'm a total fangirl. And due to that, I have some pictures to present you pertaining to my latest duck adoration.

First up is Panchito Pistoles from The Three Caballeros. A quick note; I wanted to draw all of the characters realistically- it was a lot more fun that way. Oh, and you should all watch this movie if you have not already. Believe me, it's not what you think it'd be.

There's something magical about a rooster with a gun.

I don't know why José is so big. If you can't tell (I accidently cropped the picture a bit. It's no fun taking pictures with a digital camera - especially when your like me and can't keep your hands still for a moment) he's supposed to be perched atop a guitar and there is an umbrella hanging off of it.

Donald Duck. With maracas. Yep.

And my favorite of the bunch (although it came out blurriest); Scrooge McDuck. This one was most fun to do. However, I was sketching it in Chemistry class and I had a bunch of people come up and tell me that it was like the Penguin from Batman. I guess I can see that a bit but...huh?

So, yeah, I've partaken in the pimpage of one's Livejournal/fanart. All I can say is...finally!

Productivity

Sun, 30 Mar 2008 00:07:59 GMT

I feel productive today. Not only did I finally sign up for my calculus summer course for community college, but I've also gotten around to uploading not one, but two (count them two) Ducktales fanfictions. Aren't I a busy bee?

Must Love Duck When an unlikely romance blossoms under the watchful gaze of Scrooge McDuck, not only are the two romantics faced with a dilemma, but the penny-pinching McDuck is too as he faces the uncertainties of love.

O Seu Amor Donald plans to ask Daisy the question, but his friends have plans of their own.

Book Review

Thu, 27 Mar 2008 20:58:25 GMT

Well despite your overwhelming amount of help (ie: nada), I've written my own review to D.F. Whipple's novel, Snooker Glen.

Of course, I have an obligation seeing as I'm his friend and all. But I'm quite unsure as to how to write a review (at least in my own opinion). So, as I post it on Amazon.com, I was wondering if any of you would read over this and see that I'm not too obvious in my admiration for this man or harsh. If I'm too easy on him, it would look like he told me to write it (which he did, but that's besides the point). If I'm too harsh, it'll make the book look bad and people may reconsider - and yes, the reviews actually do matter. Last time I posted, his sales went up; at least so far as he told me.

Also, I realize that this paragraph has horrible punctuation abuse. So, anyway, here it is:

D.F. Whipple has demonstrated once again that not only is he an impeccable eyewitness of the human condition, that not only is he an accomplished author deserving of great merit, and that not only can he compose a craftily arranged story of wide, multi-faceted themes, but he can do it all with a subtle grace that belies the great intensity broiling beneath the depths of his work.

I must admit, as a high school student greatly interested in the literary arts, I am left with a feeling hardly assessable after reading a Whipple book. The characters, ideas; the tale itself seems unable to lie contently within the pages that Whipple has so masterfully filled. There is not a word that appears haphazardly thrown in or written in as "padding". The characters lives don't end by the time one has read through to the back cover. Nor were they started on the first page; instead one gets the feeling that we are merely the observers of these people's lives who we can only begin to grasp. As in his previous novel, the story is never brought to a conclusive end. This comes not through any lack of lucidity on the author's part: no, indeed this arises more to the fact that what Whipple has constructed within the three-hundred odd pages is a large, allegorical mirror upon which we are to view ourselves.

Yes, there are the more universal themes here dealing with immigration that never fall to bland assumptions, conclusions, or otherwise clichéd and stereotyped ends. However, where some readers may not connect to such global themes (which remains unlikely - Whipple allows no connection, large or small, communal or individual to remain insignificant; we as readers are shown the impact of our moral obligations through his characters on a both a restricted and wide scale) he sticks to situations on which we all can connect: what mother has not fretted over the well-being of her own children? When have people not been incited to anger when an outside threat closes in?

It is interesting to note, though, that the truth becomes most clear in the character's greatest struggles. These "scenes" - if you will - usually involve an almost dream-like, hallucinatory sequence of events. It appears that Whipple is trying to tell us that we (as human creatures) have known the truth all along but do not reach realization until our doubts, our self-imposed trials, choke out all other knowns and only the ultimatum - that thing which we so try to ignore - becomes clear even (or especially) as all else falls apart.

Any of those who have read Whipple's first novel, Shadow Fields, will recognize such masterful tactics. You will not be disappointed with this great selection; not only does it display a wide range of interests (the setting is almost completely removed from the large corporations dominating his early novel) but it also documents a maturing style of this author who so far has only demonstrated genuine enthusiasm and skill for his art. Not to discredit his early work by any means, but I left this one feeling more satisfied with the depth with which he explored his world. If any of you are to recall my previous review, you would find this to be a nit-pick of mine (I wouldn't call it a complaint, I enjoyed that book far too much to have a complaint). This time around, however, I left a very satisfied, very thoughtful reader.

And I left, perhaps, just a little bit more interested and compassionate about my fellow man. When a book can do that to you, you most certainly know you have something a little bit more than a "fireside read" on your hands.

I highly recommend this book to any and all interested. I even recommend it to any who may not be interested; you will be surprised at how easily you will slip into the world of Snooker Glen and how very hard it is to leave it.

Thu, 27 Mar 2008 00:12:19 GMT

After looking at this:

http://www.collegeboard.com/student/testing/ap/biology/topic.html?biology

I have a sudden urge to go to the school library and find every damn book on osmosis I can find.I

Sun, 16 Mar 2008 15:29:41 GMT

I know that what I'm about to ask is of a slightly devious nature, but it is in the interest of my one good friend, so I feel that my kharmic (sp?) energy is roughly equaled out.

Anyway, would any of you be so kind as to leave a good, 5-star review on this book? The reviews actually do effect the sale of the book and this one is proving to be less popular than his other one. He's also looking to self-publish his third novel in the upcoming weeks and could use the funds.

http://www.amazon.com/Snooker-Glen-D-F-Whipple/dp/1419649256/ref=pd_bbs_sr_3?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1205681186&sr=8-3

And while your at it, why not leave a good review on his other book, Shadow Fields?

http://www.amazon.com/Shadow-Fields-D-F-Whipple/dp/1419645498/ref=pd_bxgy_b_img_b

I would be much obliged if any of you were to take the time to do this. Of course, this is only a request, there's no hard feelings if this isn't done.

Tue, 11 Mar 2008 00:08:33 GMT

¡Tiene una amigo de Español! Lo digo un "pen pal" en íngles.

Anyway, they're totally awesome and really, really like English (just like me!). They're more adept in my tongue, then most people here! I talk to her in Spanish, she corrects me, then she responds in English. I correct her and give her some tips about American culture. Apparently, people over in Spain think America is the land of Sex, Drugs, and Rock 'n Roll.

So, no point to this post except bragging rights.

And, yes, my icon is strangely fitting.

¡Hasta más tarde, amigos!

Tue, 04 Mar 2008 23:06:38 GMT

Oh my! What's this?

http://www.fanfiction.net/u/1514183/

That most curious thing called man.

Tue, 04 Mar 2008 00:47:50 GMT

May I make a confession?

Yes, I fully realize that this is my personal journal, but I still find apprehensiveness with this subject; perhaps it is best that I write it all out. I didn't even realize that I felt in such a way until I opened this up. Just a musing, but perhaps now I'll finally be using this thing for what it was meant for: a journal/diary of sorts. (I apologize to any who may read if this comes off as a tad convoluted and/or vague. I'm not one known well for lucidity most especially when outrightly venting my thoughts.)

Anyway, the male sex for me in general has always been a most removed topic for me. First off, I'm straight. I know I'm straight .Puberty has definitely let me know enough for me to be 100% sure that is true. Sure, there's always been a little questioning then and now, but who hasn't? That, however, is not really the concern. The concern for me lies entirely within the realm of dating.

You see, I come off as "non-threatening." I know that I'm this way with most people; I can't help it being a romanticist and all (even if I do try and rationalize everything and anything that comes my way). It's just that, generally, I like people. Due to this, I don't share many of the fatalistic views that an overwhelming majority of teenagers at my age do. What they feel is normal, yes, I just feel differently. Whereas many may have felt and certainly do say that life is a waste/they're not good enough/constantly putting themselves and others down whether intentional or not, I can not subscribe to such theories. I try to see up where others see down. It makes me sad, to say the least, when my peers/friends/family/ others put themselves at a disadvantage (even jokingly) and truly believe the negative things they are saying. It's due to this, I believe as well, that I feel a sense of removal from the social scene entirely.

Also, I don't want to go into this too much, but I have struggled through some intense emotional grappling - as does everyone else at some point in their lives. But I've walked away from it with a greater appreciation for those feelings; I don't want to repress them - just enjoy them. It's a "live-in-the-moment" philosophy if you will.

Now, when I say removal - I'm not referring to any sort of withdrawal from others. I talk: in fact, I LOVE to talk to to others and I find being in groups with others relaxing. But I've only come to enjoy the company of others so much after forcing myself to feel that I don't have to have an obligation to be with them. It's not about the numbers, folks. There is too an art to being alone. I feel many people have forgotten that and fall into loneliness. The two are not mutually exclusive. That realization, however, took me quite a while to come to terms with and truly be at peace with. But, now that I'm on the other side, I really never want to go back.

All of the above ^ exposition has to be laid out (as seemingly extraneous and ranty as it is) to understand why/how this issue (which will soon be laid out) is bothering me so.

As I mentioned before, this "removal" from conventional social strife has also caused me to not participate in the "boy scene". I've stayed away from it mainly because I know that I would have used men in general to fill some gaps in my life that I otherwise could have filled in a positive way. Basically, I'm confessing that I know myself well enough to not put it past myself to have had become dependent/needy on other guys in order to stay away from myself. (As I stated before, as much a romanticist as I am - I have had some trouble with facing emotions. I didn't understand them and thus came to fear them. But I have reached different conclusions now - although as they say the journey never ends). Now, however, I feel ready to jump into that "scene". I know what I want and I know the kind of guy whom I'm looking for. The only problem is I don't see him out there.

Now, again, I had stated that I'm pretty non-threatening. That seems to attract a lot of needy guys. Guys who are emotionally unstable. I know that not everyone is as stable as I would like for them to be - I really don't have any terribly high expectations. I just...don't want to get involved in that right now. I want someone who is as strong as I am emotionally (and he better be physically too if he's going to keep up with me. Hehehe) Unfortunately, however, the only guys that I am getting seem to be of the former type.

This makes me more than a bit apprehensive about the whole thing. I don't want to fall into something just because I feel obligated. I don't want to do this because society tells me.

No - not even society - it's my family. Not my sister, we both understand very well how we feel on this issue. We seem to understand each other very well on just about everything; I guess that's what happens when you're a twin. It's really just my mom. And I know that she's had issues with partners too (not at all abusive - oh god that would be quite terrible. No, it's more of me just realizing that she has little sense of self and relies on others to make herself feel good about what she does. Not that she isn't a strong woman - it is just that her want for me so badly to hook up is apparent of a need in her that hasn't been fully realized or filled by the men of her past).

I don't hate the guys that are interested as well - I just am not terribly interested. Even though I know that I'm ready, I know my sexuality, I don't want to get involved sexually. All the guys that I know - they're all friends. And I really like those relationships a lot more than the romantic ones that have been/are brewing right now.

Basically, my conundrum is that I'm ready to start dating, I know this - yet I'm not interested in a sexual aspect. It's quite difficult to explain but I suppose that I'm basically ready for a deep emotional attachment to a person of the opposite sex (one that is ready to face the trials of the world but not above changing diapers and all that fun. (Although I'm really not too keen on the whole kid idea - but that's another rant entirely))I am, however, not interested in the kissing and hand-holding that would inevitably lead to groping and hand-jobs.

Not that I have anything against sex. I love sex. Yes, I'll admit it without a smile on my face or one of those "knowing glances". No, sex is a great thing and I'm actually upset that America the great has no open public forum to discuss the topic but, again, that is another rant for another day.

I'm sure I could go on this forever but I think (ie hope) you've got the idea. Any suggestions, really, really would be appreciated.

Also, I just bought/read/finished Uncle Scrooge: A Little Something Special. All I need to say is Glomgold = Awesome.

Fri, 29 Feb 2008 11:11:08 GMT

My scores for the PSAT (before I take the actual SAT saturday), stand as such:

Reading: 740

Math: 600

Writing: 620

Essay: 10

Not bad, I wish I could bring the math up a bit more, but overall I'm quite satisfied. I also really like that 740; it demonstrates just how much of an English nerd I have become.

Musings

Tue, 09 Oct 2007 10:08:51 GMT

I wrote this up after school, it was only later that I went back and typed it.

I really don't have much to say about it but that doesn't mean I'm not insanely, childishly proud about it.

This is a story of friendship...

    I’ve come to that moment in life where I question it all. You know; life, love, the meaning of existence. Men with long white bears call it philosophy - men like me call it “mid-life crisis.” Men like me acquire a gnawing fear of growing white beards and talking through our twilight years on philosophy.
    I wish I could talk to Rob. He always knew what to do. And if not, he seemed confident enough that knowing didn’t matter anyway. He was an all-American type of guy. The confident swagger- the mysterious, leering gaze, the great unfurling laugh that so utterly overtook one’s senses that they must join in too or be swept aside in its roiling wake. He had that romantic, much-looked-upon craving for adventure - manifest destiny and all that. He also had that much less romantic, not so well-looked-upon craving for food.
    Rob loved to eat. Rob loved to eat very much.
    I remember barbecues, especially, were his favorite. He and I would sit in these ridiculous lawn chairs - the ones with the outdate, gaudy prints of large, much too flamboyant flowers that the wives especially loved. We sat always under the shade of the ingrown birch tree. We would talk. Rob would turn to me, coke in one hand; a charred meat-like substance in the other, and he would spin Shakespeare.
    I swear, never has a man more nobly spoke of the delicacies on the staples of an all American diet. One would lose their way in the twisting prose donned on a slushie, in all its sublimely artificial colored glory and relive his tales of the truly harrowing experience on the drink’s curious habit to drizzle - thickly - down one’s throat. It was easy to be caught up in his epics woven entirely on the qualities that made the hotdog so gloriously an object to lust over. He would then lead one skillfully, with an unwavering passion, onto the keystone of all that was good, Christian, and American: the buffalo wing. Shakespeare, Cummings, Ginsberg, and Angelou were never so great a poet as this man. This man who could raise sickly, shriveled, possibly radioactive meat to lofty - nearly biblical - heights was my friend, and my savior. I don’t know how I would have survived that washed out town without him.
    Rob died at thirty-one.

    I was with my daughter one Sunday morning. We were laughing. She’s so cute when she smiles - she’s young enough that the dimples appear, still, on her cheeks; exasperated when they’re pulled back in that perfect, idyllic smile, yet she is old enough that most of the baby fat has spread out, lengthening her body and stretching it to proportions that hint already at a womanly figure.
    I was with my daughter one drizzly Sunday morning. We were watching television and laughing. I remember the Wiggles were on and I was intoning their silly little words along with my daughter, a silly little smile on my face. I don’t care what they say - the Wiggles are geniuses in all their multi-colored glory. Whereas I have been trying for years to give my kids the best, happiest, “Kodak picture” moments of their life, five men with an uncanny ability to dance Broadway can light a smile on my daughter face the moment the tube flashes on. The phone rang.
    I was singing along as I picked it up. I was laughing as I listened to the voice on the other line. I was crying as I put the receiver down.
    I was with my daughter one drizzly Sunday morning. We were watching television and laughing. I was picking up the phone and smiling. I was listening as the voice on the other line told me that Rob had died in his sleep at two twenty-seven this morning - in face – and could I believe it? He had gone and died in his sleep this morning and I was learning about it at seven thirty-six today as my daughter watched me - her face beaming, the dimples making her features nauseating.
    I was sitting on the couch and crying as the Wiggles informed me - in all their Broadway-inspired cheer - on the joys of friendship.

    I was at a club the other night, you know, those real artsy one where everyone snaps their fingers together, drinks coffee, and speaks in low, undulating tones as if their discussions actually meant something. Well, I was listening to this one girl speak, drink growing cold in my hand, and I couldn’t stand her.
    Okay, maybe that’s not quite fair. I guess I couldn’t stand her image - that whole persona. You know, there’s those people that go to those clubs and read their generic poems or some shit like that as if it were the deepest, most insightful work that has ever graced mankind. And all it is is a collection of pretty words strung together in some abstract sense. Because who hasn’t heard a poem about love? How about hate? No? Well, I don’t know what I’ll do if I hear another “creative” look on flowers or some “deep” shit like that.
    Anyway, this girl goes on about the darkness of her soul - banging away on her bongos the entire time - and all I can think of is, Hell...I can do a better job than that. But I don’t get up. I don’t stand in front of the mike, clear my throat, and call for attention. And I most certainly do not pour my soul out in words or bong-beating. All I do is lean back in my seat and think Hell, just, hell...

    There’s this real pretty girl in the cubicle next to mine. She’s gorgeous, teasing, and has the rack of an angel.
    Unfortunately, she’s a good Christian. None of the guys get to see any output. Although, sometimes, when she bends low enough they are seen in their entire splendor, tucked neatly behind far too many layers of tightly knit tops.
    I haven’t talk to her. Not much, anyway. And mostly about business...okay, always about business. There was a time, though, when she came to me for conversation.
    “Are you alright?” there was that doleful look on her face that she assumed a lot when talking to a client.
    “Oh, yeah, of course,” A large poster print of a yellow, smiling face beamed above the left of her head. It was memorizing....and perfectly round. My eyes drifted downwards.
    “Do you want to talk? About him I mean,” She attempted a meaningful stare. My gaze continued in its downwards journey. Her eyes were two perfect orbs.
    “You mean Rob?” my eyes finally landed on two perfectly circular, bouncy orbs cocooned tightly to her chest.
    “You know he died in the middle of his sleep. Never woke up. A heart attack, I heard,” she interjected quickly, unsure.
    “Naturally,” I hadn’t known before but it seemed so natural, so obvious.
    “Well...,” she could see this wasn’t going anywhere fast, “if you want to talk about it, I’m always here.”
    And so are they, I thought with a tone of finality. I glanced once more, just in case. They were still as radiant and perky as ever. It seemed so natural, now that I look back on it. I get to talk to the hottest girl in the office and my best friend is dead. It all seemed so natural.

    My name is Hogarth Bentley. I suffered from a mid-life crisis at the age of thirty-four. My best friend is a dead man who composed the greatest literature the world has never seen in the seat of a creaky lawn chair, under the ingrown birch tree. I sing along with the Wiggles and mock the poets who wax eloquently in their basements full of snapping patrons. The first time the woman of my dreams talked to me, my best friend had died - and I got an eyeful of tit.
    My name is Hogarth Bentley, and I believe the only people smart enough to get it were the Wiggles. It’s about friendship. I guess all the poets have always been saying it - that’s why nobody listens to them anymore. And I guess there are always those women in the cubicle next door with the perfect rack that gets it, but certainly nobody listens to them. I think, though, I’ve finally got it. It was so obvious. All this time, of course. It always is. Life’s sickeningly, perfectly ironic like that - it ties up all the loose ends.
    My name is Hogarth Bentley. I believe in the philosophy of the Wiggles. I die at the age of eighty-seven of a stroke, six forty-three in the evening and this is a story of friendship.

Sat, 30 Dec 2006 18:15:58 GMT

Hi everyone. This would be my first post at this community, in fact, my first post to livejournal and I'm glad it's here. I absolutley love the icons you guys make! This would also be my first time making a few icons of my own and I'd like to see what you guys think.

A few are made from my friend but they're usable too. Just make sure to credit all!
1.2.3.
4. 5.6..
7.8. 9.
10.11.12.
13.14.15.
16. 17.18.
19.20. 21.

Not mine, but donated by friend.

21. 22.