sticks in the throat

Me: I had this really great gelato at WholeFoods the other day, it was AWESOME.

Bear: Wait, what? Like, the women's shoe?

Me:....Not stiletto. Gelato.

yuck

I don't know how I feel about this. There is nothing religious or too tree hugging about this aspect of my personality. I just feel really uncomfortable when I think about it.

I'm talking about killing bugs.

Don't get me wrong. I hate bugs. I think they're gross and creepy and if they weren't a significant part of our ecosystem and the earth's biodiversity I would be fine if they didn't exist. However, there is something unsettling about squishing a bug. I'm KILLING IT! I am ENDING IT'S LIFE. And sometimes I can't seem to shake that.

I mean, we can't be THAT arrogant to possibly think that it's okay to end a life just because they're gross. Right?

I don't know.
They are gross

in due time

Everyone is saying how boring summer is, but I feel like there's not enough time at all. I'm going to the motherland (GUATE) for a month, and that only leaves me with, well, a month more of "real" at-home summer. And this is a summer of stressful tense macroeconomic classes, so it feels like even less time. It's not like I'm entertained every second, but every time I have the opportunity to be bored, it feels kind of nice. I wonder if this is what all the rest of the summers of my life will be. I'm not complaining (ok maybe just a little bit) but it seems strange to think about. Basically, no longer will I be lounging around all summer, looking ahead into three months of complete nothingness. This is both good and bad. Mostly good, I guess.

To drive home this point, "There Is Never Enough Time," by The Postal Service:

In due time/We'll finally see/There's barely time/For us to breathe

leather-bound books and rich mahogany!

This makes me so sad.
For real, my bookcase (besides my clothes, of course) is the only thing in my bedroom that I even really consider mine, or representative of me. I don't think of my room as my room, really, it's just a place I stay in for now until I go back to school. Not that my dorm room is any homier...I just feel like it's too much effort (and too small a space) to try and make my room my own. Sure, I have posters on my walls, but I put them up knowing I'm going to take them down in a few months when I have to move again. But my bookcase is the one thing that has stayed constant ever since I moved to my current house nine years ago, and its my bookcase that I add to and rearrange with some weird sense of contentment and pride every break and whenever I'm bored. It's nothing impressive, but it's mine.
 Dreaming about my future house/apartment (I only do this SOMETIMES) I always include a small library. 
The pipe and scotch are optional. 
MAD BOOKS are not. 
Cell phones do not figure into this room one bit.

Next stop...TWITTER! JK

COMO ESTAN, BITCHES.
So I made a tumblr. Don't cry or anything. I'm still a loyal Mighty Beluga-er. It's just that my attention span is limited these days. It's the heat. I'm going to still write here. Blogger will always be in my heart to rant or talk about my day. I'm an internet woman! So don't you forget it.

Kay peas

post script: yes, I still live in this delusional world where I think people give a fuck.
GO HERE EVERYDAY:
http://junk-drawers.tumblr.com/

this coffee gives me two marginal utilities

What I've learned in my microeconomics class, and am in the process of relearning in my macroeconomics summer class:
Happiness can be measured. It's called utility. Or marginal utility? Something like that.
This is why I don't like economics. I'm also probably way off in my definition of utility but either way it sounds weird.