Silly Love Songs

Oh fudge. Just when I thought I was safe. Just when I thought I'd gotten over my bohemian ideals and found my cool hearted, firm handed, practical self together... some sod puts up love poetry along with the grades up on the Wall of Laments (and not Commerce) at uni. It's not even that good, but I have to admit I like it. I might even copy it and post it for my Spanish readers. As for the rest of you, sorry, I've always felt translating poetry is probably as useful as turning it into a crossword puzzle.

Feeling inspired myself lately too, there's a contest for short novels in the works at the moment which has caught my eye, so I might write a piece for that, especially since I'm nearly on vacation. Oh yes, I seem to have survived my first term of uni without psychological scarring and plus a few friends. All that's left is presenting this blog for an IT class and giving a talk on "Mary, Modern Woman, and the Church." It's the counterargument to a classmate's talk, which will basically be all faith and no science, but he can cry at will, which is a weapon I don't count on. But do not worry, I can make the Whore of Babylon look good, have nice powerpoint slides, etymology and animated snowflakes on my side...

Went out with the rockstar and some work people last night, they're a great bunch and I had a lovely time. I ate too much too. Played with the rockstar under the table a bit more than is proper as well, tee hee, but I couldn't help myself. Oh, and he made his first appearance in one of my dreams tonight. Now, anyone that knows me well enough can tell you my dreams are extremely important to me, that I obssess about them for days, write them down and analyze them like new lovers, and then sometimes I even dream them over on purpose. In my dreams everything makes sense, even if it shouldn't, I feel in total control of myself and I know my surroundings. I sometimes even have the sneaking suspicion that my dreams are more real than my waking life. But anyhow, thats subject matter for another post, my point is, he's made it in there, so he's doing well.

I was reminiscing with my parents today about the ups and downs of our religious life...well okay, the downs, there haven't been any ups. Mum used to be a practicing Catholic and would have probably made it to heaven if it hadn't been for Dad, who used to be bitterly cinical and disbelieving of the church and clergy in general. That is until he hit his midlife crisis and started believing in everything, from crystals and astral forces, to old men in clouds and virgin births. Too much, too late for his younger offspring I'm afraid, my little sister and brother, and myself have NEVER been baptized, so we're going straight to hell according to some sources (please, please don't let the Mormons baptize me after I'm dead!). We talked about how my aunt has a tiny minibar fridge with no food in her house, but always manges to have at least three big bottles of holy water to sprinkle and bless visits with. And we fondly remebered the time that my Dad, after I asked him to take me to get baptized, spit in his hand, dabbed his finger in it and, making the sign of the cross on my forhead with dribble said: "Okay, there, your'e baptized". This got me thinking: shouldn't everyone have the opportunity to have even a small vial of my father's holy drool? It's thicker than holy water, and it's good for baptisms, weddings, excorcisms and funerals. PLease send a sae and a donation to the usual address.

Ah and speaking of addresses, I got a lovely postcard from Rachel! Which reminds me, I really ought to get round to sending her birthday present, maybe that way, it'll get there for next year's celebration....