Sexism in astrology, if you please.

A friend and I decided to amuse ourselves this afternoon by reading each other's Linda Goodman's Sun Signs chapters out loud.
Linda Goodman on how to keep a Leo man: 'submerge yourself'. Linda Goodman on how to keep a Leo woman: 'don't let her smother you'.
What. The actual. Fuck.

Look, horoscopes and other bullshit interest me not at all. Star signs, though, I will admit to there being something behind. ...Then again, certainly not in the way Ms Goodman says there is. Apply her reasoning to a Leo/Leo relationship and you have the woman submerging herself for the man who will not let her 'smother' him. If any woman tried to 'submerge herself' for my protagonist he'd probably either throw a fit and shake her up a little or simply silently freak and withdraw. (Ms Goodman also doesn't consider alternate-sexuality relationships, of course, but considering the publication dates that's pretty much a given.)
Her description of a Leo man fit me a lot better than the one of a Leo woman, incidentally, so basically this was one lady who talked through her dainty little sexist hat.

In happier news, I bought myself volumes one and two of Fundamentals of Flight: basic aerodynamics and aircraft structure. They are to be my recreational reading for the next couple of months.
When Cain is not Kirk, she's Scotty. Shut up.

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Say Cheese. ...Say Whiskey Tango Foxtrot.

I remember being told once that 'huge' was not a word but a cheap shortcut to 'humongous'. I still can't figure out why anyone would say that.
This was at a creative writing workshop at the British Council Library. I was five or six, had not yet realized that writing formally in the first person was emphatically not my forte, and I remember writing a piece in which I invented some sort of toy car that ran on sugar.
Science-fictional tendencies in Little Self, who knew.

(The participants were also made to think of as many words as possible using the letters in Arnold Schwarzenegger. Naturally I didn't find that as funny as I would have if I'd been somewhat older. The heartthrobs of the world have apparently never been the same as mine.)

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I Like To Torture Myself With Logic.

Dear, dear Delhi University, I'm fond of you and all (on occasion) and I do understand your intention when it came to implementing the semester system was to try and make Indian higher education more similar to that offered abroad, but you overlooked a rather important thing in connection with all that jazz: electives. There are, for instance, two compulsory physics courses for us chem honours students; the first pertains to optics and vector calculus and a fraction of mechanics, while the second is more electronics-focused. The general idea, no doubt, is to help one diversify intellectually - an admirable intention, certainly, but how about actually allowing one to diversify? I'll give you the fact that particle interactions are relevant to chemistry, but that's about it. I'll also give you the fact that our maths courses are kind of relevant, so there's that. On the other hand, there's English: Technical Writing. There's also bio. Cell theory and that whole jingbang. Whatever happened to biomolecules?

What I'm saying is, continuing from the physics angle, supposing you offered a choice of two or three courses, all of which included particle interactions but were otherwise different? I, for instance, would freakin' love more mechanics: kinematics, dynamics, hydraulics, engines; traction, torque and thrust. I'm sure there are people who would freak out on more electronics - or more optics. Or more nuclear stuff and radioactivity. Just sayin'.

As for me, engines. Give me engines.

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Oye, Cineraria, How Was Your Paper?

Semester exams are done with. I am now going to play Mario.

I am also going to get down to the various writing tasks I have. These include original fiction of several subcategories (remind me to read up on gunshot wounds and stuff), fanfiction of one category, innumerable blog posts and at least three Cain Express posts. Oh, and random poetry. Because I have to bash my head in even for random poetry.

Note to self: must experiment with David. Exposure settings, custom colours, whatnot. Tripod, possibly. He is an able camera, and I must be able to do him justice. I have things I need to photograph.

I also have a lot of reading to do, but currently writing takes precedence. I HAVE HAD ENOUGH, GODDAMNIT. I WILL WRITE NOW 'KAY THANKS.

Another note: must get self a new Pal cassette. (Dear lord, Sony BMG, why haven't you released Pal on LP yet? I would buy the hell out of that record. And hug it and stare at it and grin at it like an idiot.)

And I need to compress the concert videos. They are not actually very long (>.<), but still manage to be freaking awesome (insert steamed-up smiley here).

I also need to go through my class notes for this semester and put up a few choice snippets. Inorganic has been pretty delicious this past month. X)

Speaking of delicious, I also need to get on the Aston Martin configurator screencapping. *pokes previous post*
The Viraaage *dies*

Also when I encounter letters that come in sets of three, I suddenly have this maniacal desire to put a 'freakin'' before the last one. NC Freakin' R. BM Freakin' W. mg freakin' h. (yes, that last is the formula for potential energy and has nothing whatsoever to do with anything I've been studying for at least the past year and a half.)

Incidentally, I am damned if I'm not going to learn to drive this vacation.
please, Caffeine, stop being so sexy

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*heeheehee*

Put this video up on the 'Tube; explanation included. If you're familiar with the title track of Tum Mile, you'll get what I'm drivin' at.

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Something that flowed from soul to paper.

     Curl up in a corner. Unobserved.
     Curl up with a notebook. Follow your calling. Do not pay heed to what happens around you.
     Do not pay heed to what people say, for they have not seen you; you are curled up in the darkest corner you can find.
     Do not listen when it is said that others put words into your head; they were in your soul before they surfaced in your mind; they sometimes flow directly from soul to paper.
     Live as they say, exist mechanically, remain within the trappings of their spirits.
     False!
     Appear to do so. Do not let them know that the reality is not what they see; that you are huddled in your corner with your notebook and your Reynolds, shut off from them altogether.
     You are not of their ilk. They represent humanity; you are therefore not human. You are entirely different from them; you are intense; you are passionate; you are an individual; there is neither desire nor necessity for you to show them who you really are.
     Never let your guard down until you find one of your kind, sometimes not even then; stay detached, maintain your identity; never sacrifice your pride.
     Never let them know exactly who you are; reveal bits and pieces, tantalize them; you have a right to maintain the sanctity of the self. Your desire is one with your calling; your love is one with your lust.
     Physically you are but one; yet there are many of you, all of whom have this in common: that you are driven by intellect, instinct, and insanity.
     You are a contradiction; you are cynical; you are hallucinogenic; you are a survivor.
     Never let them know they are in your power.

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