Excavations of Claymore: The Almond Express

We sang Christmas carols and ate candies with nougat centers as white as snow. We drank hot cocoa as thick and rich as melted chocolate bars. Outside, the lights of towns and villages flickered in the distance as the Polar Express......

Wait, wrong express. I meant the Almond Express.

It was an easy mistake to make. The Almond Express featured chocolate and almond, normally blended in a latte. However, I couldn't resist modifying the drink to include cocoa instead of chocolate syrup after what Laura taught me last week.

The result was paradoxical. The chocolate and almond were smooth and soothing - indeed, the sort of drink they might have served the children on the Polar Express - but the espresso undertone was unmistakable. Yeah, not something you'd want to give a kid on Christmas Eve.

Mnomanoms insisted that The Almond Express tasted like cough syrup. The first few sips were the best, and my enjoyment of The Almond Express progressively, ah, derailed thenceforth, making this flavor a perfect option for cough syrup: one gulp and you're done. I only wish my mom had given me such yummy cough syrup when I was a wee one.

55 fiction: Felled

Surely it’s there. Decades have bloomed, withered and died, but my feet cannot forget the trail they trod so often with him. It should be there, the sapling we (but saplings ourselves then) had claimed with ugly, abecedarian scars.

But alas! I settle my arid bones upon the darling, decomposing stump.

It, too, is gone.


I've only been meaning to try my hand at 55 flash fiction for the past half a year now. Dang! It is not easy! 55 words is about two sentences, three or four if you keep 'em short. Hardly enough to tell a story. I challenge you all to give it a try if you haven't; it really forces you to be picky about word choice and burn the chaff. Post me a link when you're done! I can't wait to see what everyone comes up with!

Peace, love, and sleep deficiency,
Miss Rex


I have been extraordinarily unproductive and unmotivated these past few days. Jesus eats my life.

...I mean the compy, not the Christ.


We know what a weeaboo is...

...and we know what a Pikablu is (this is what Pokemon fans called the second generation Pokemon Marill before the name Marill was announced in the States).

But I bet you ain't ever seen one of these:


I hate things like electric toothbrushes and GPSes because they encourage us to be lazy and stupid. These "conveniences" do everything our brains and bodies used to do themselves. The GPS eradicates our ability to solve problems in a common-sensical way. Can you read a sign? Then you should be able to find your way home. I'll forgive you if you live in or around Boston and Cambridge. I never go there without a human GPS to guide me out.

The digital clock has all but undone my knowledge of how to read an analog clock. I can still do it if I look at the thing for a minute. But then I always have to double check it against the digital clock on the stove. Even the cell phone, which I couldn't possibly do without, is a vehicle of stupidification. You know I never learned Creep's phone number? I never had to dial it. Not once. He sent the first text message, I saved the number, and I never had to worry about it again.

I think the only reason I'm not a bumbling oaf is because I'm in school and my classes don't allow me to be. I fear what transformation shall take place when I graduate.


Miss Stephanie Faris from Steph in the City gave me the Love Ya award this week! Thanks Steph! I love you, too.

I'm going to pass this one on to the quirky Kitty Lascurain at abellevie! Abellevie! is a savory stew of wit and whimsy. Kitty, if you were looking for a new tagline, I think I might have just come up with it....


Me: My nose itches.
The Addict: Then cut it off. That's probably in the Qur'an or something.

Me: The doctor said I should put Head and Shoulders shampoo on it. At this point I feel like I'd need to put it all over my body....
Mnomanoms: So it'd be head, shoulders, knees AND toes!

The Addict: Guys, some things just... don't have lips.


Consensus: 99 out of 100 people should not have mustaches. The other one is a bandit, a guru or a Frenchman. Or Earl Hickey. Note that the 1/100 does not play an instrument. He certainly does not write heartfelt lyrics. If someone does these things, he should not have a mustache.


For years I've been telling myself to stop liking Fall Out Boy. I've come to the conclusion that this cannot be done.

Excavations of Claymore: Raz-ma-taz

Sorry for the lack of archaeology last night. I was really sleepy and decided it would be wiser to go to bed than to drink coffee and stay up late. Also, half of my tasters were not able to share their taste buds when we first tried this week's drink on Wednesday. The Addict had been coffee-free for a week and didn't dare sample the Raz-ma-taz. We convinced her the smell would not be too temptatious and she gave it a sniff.

"I give it a 3," she said.

"Out of what?"

"Ten. It smells like cough syrup."

The consensus on Wednesday was that this drink is not even close to as cool as our own Razzmatazz. There was definitely more raspberry in the smell than the taste. Part of this may be due to the fact I generally order a large with a single shot of espresso to dilute the bitterness, but that night I forgot and ordered a small with the same amount of espresso; however, Razz agreed that the amount of raspberry and chocolate was negligible. Frankly I'd have thought it was plain coffee with no flavor added.

It was not a wasted trip to Claymore, though. Oh no. We befriended the barista (can that term possibly be correct for a man? The bar...tender? The bardude? Okay well, from now on it's bardude). He played us some Lady GaGa and we had a mini dance party while the line grew behind us. For once I was the cause for the long wait and not the victim. It was a nice change. I felt worse about the fact that apparently I was being given the most exquisite, quintessential shot of espresso known to man. The bardude started gushing over how it was positively the most beautiful espresso shot he'd ever seen; just look at the foam, etc. etc. I hadn't the heart to tell him a novice like me would hardly know the difference.

Well anyway, the journalist in me knew there was more to the story than first impressions and I returned to give the Raz-ma-taz a second chance tonight. This time I ordered it right: a large with skim, one shot of espresso and an extra shot of raspberry. And instead of chocolate-flavored syrup, the barista, Laura (you see, the word barista in this paragraph doesn't make me uncomfortable), used hot chocolate mix. As it should be in a mocha, she informed us.

Mnomanoms had come along and she ordered the new drink, the Cup of Ham (name coined by Laura). For all intents and purposes it's the same drink as the Raz-ma-taz - EXCEPT that it's not a mocha and is therefore made with syrup, not cocoa powder. This novice is slowly becoming a connoisseur. Thanks for being the new thing I learned today, Laura.

So the official rule for the Raz-ma-taz is to ask for extra raspberry and use dark chocolate cocoa powder for that tingle of true razzmatazzz. "It's like being wrapped in a fuzzy blanket," said Mnomanoms. Mmmyes =)

No more whining!

I've had a few people on me about comments not working at the new Dustland Fairytale. The problem was, the layout just didn't include them.

We'll keep this long rant short. I found a layout I like(ish) that also allows comments. It doesn't have quite the Dustlandish feel I was going for, but it's a sacrifice I'm willing to make on the condition that all you people who complained about not being able to comment get your butts over there and comment! Many of the posts are duplicates of things I've posted here, but there are some that are exclusive to A Dustland Fairytale... so if you really want the nitty gritty of my life... you got it. Stay tuned to A Silvertongued Serenade for the shenanigans you know and love! ^_^

Now, I know you were all waiting for some silliness (besides the excessive use of exclamation points that has utterly saturated everything I've typed this evening), so here goes. However bad you thought the economy was, you weren't pessimistic enough. As I was oh-so-responsibly surfing the web, this ad popped up:

Forget the small intestines; every American knows bigger is better, so keep the big ones and cash in the little ones! You don't need that extra lung! We'll give you ten grand for it! I can't even accept that this ad is for serious.

Today at the caf, I asked for rice and fish and the guy serving it said, "you asked so nicely that I couldn't possibly say no." I thanked him and said I usually practiced when I was alone in my room, and he about died laughing.

And that's all I've got. Peace, love and plaid,
Miss Rex

Scatterday: life questions, life goals, and awards!

Life questions:

1. Sugar-coated marshmallows. How can something so vile in theory taste so good?

2. This one's been plaguing me for a while. What the hell is the difference between "dusk" and "twilight?" Creep (this is my new name for former Boyfriend) tried to explain it this way: Dusk is a song by some metal band. A br00tal one. Twilight is an awful tween vampire movie. This explanation did not satisfy me and I continued seeking answers.

Here is what I've decided. Dusk is that time of late afternoon when the sun is getting low and almost everything is in shadow. But, the sun hasn't gone below the horizon yet. Twilight happens after the last sliver of sun dips below the horizon and everything takes on an indigo hue.

Agree? Disagree? Don't give a bunny's bum? Comments are VVV that-a-way.


Life goal: use the words "juggernaut" and "goliath" in the sports section before we switch editorial duties. So, this weekend.


And now... AWARDS!

Ah, my first blog award! I have awaited this day with bated breath!

K a b l o o e y gave me the One Lovely Blog award earlier this week. How lovely of her!

The rules that came with the award were not so lovely. Pass it on to 15 people? That's half my blogroll! If I give an award to all those people, what will it mean to any of them? That's communism is what it is. Now, no one get upset; I wouldn't be reading your blog if it didn't deserve an award! But as for the Lovely award, I have picked just one - count it - one Lovely Blog from the bunch.

Allow me to introduce you to Lady Sunflower. Her blog is ray of pure joy on the darkest, dreariest days (I know because today was one of them). Just the sunflower at the top of her page is enough to put a smile on my face. Mortal pessimists, meet the eternal optimist!

Cynthia@RunningWithLetters followed up K a b l o o e y ' s award with the Over the Top award. Again, many thanks! I guess I can't hide my, er, mild insanity from my fans. Good to know you crazy cats appreciate it. ^_^

Thankfully, this one allowed me to choose how many recipients I would pass it along to. But I know a lot of over the top people, so it was a tough call! I narrowed it down to these three, listed alphabetically so no one can accuse me of playing favorites:

Emily at one more thing...
K a b l o o e y
Sass at Hot Piece of Sass

Congrats, ladies! You all make my days a little more over the top. Everyone, pay them a visit and leave a little love, since we bloggers thrive on comments!

Peace, love, and Saturdays,
Miss Rex

Catharsis, or A Breakup Tale

I guess I'm obliged to try and get some of this out in writing, though I hardly know where to begin. If you're looking for something silly and whimsical, I suggest you wait for my Scatterday post tomorrow afternoon. This post is anything but. See title.

These past ten months with Boyfriend have been full of peaks and valleys. I remember going back to school after the first time we kissed, ecstatic to tell Schneckleface all about it and the *DATE* we were going on soon!

There were so many firsts for both of us, and for the most part they were exciting firsts that brought me great joy. First time I ever slept over a guy's house. First time I went behind my parents' backs (for the record, that one was more exciting than joyful). First time I'd ever thought I could stick with someone forever, and wanted to. First time I ever planned on it. Among other firsts that brought confusion and even guilt for this quasi-conservatively raised Christian young lady - but let's not think about that just yet. First, a tribute to the things that made me smile... that still make me smile, and will no matter what.

Our first month together disappeared in a flurry of snowflakes and Christmas lights, which somehow seemed brighter than they had in years past. He was so worried about my present, worried he'd offend me since I was "very religious" and he, well, wasn't. For all that, he did a fine job. He even made it to church a couple times. He was so worried I would cheat on him that first month, and I was so glad I wasn't that person, so glad I wasn't bringing more pain into his life when he'd been through so much already (but it's none of my business to go into detail here). He always made sure to tell me how beautiful I looked that day, and I melted every time.

January: I dragged him to a ska show. He teased me about it but didn't complain (even when I got a bloody nose before ever jumping into the action).

February: I got a little adventurous in the kitchen, trying to bake the perfect Valentine's day gift (which involved way more red food dye than I ever should have fed him).

March: We took a long walk in the woods with every intention of getting hopelessly lost. The only thing I actually lost was my phone. It happened during a snowball fight, which I confess to instigating. Eventually we found both the phone and our way home.

April: I made it through the semester alive - quite a feat with the amount of pressure I was under - all thanks to him.

May: We took a road trip to New York to see Mae, another band he didn't care about at all, and get their scratch and sniff EP. It became a two-day tour of the city that never sleeps. We went to the Metropolitan Museum of Art and had dinner with his godmother, who was one cool chica.

June: Our friends came home and much revelry ensued. All nighters. Rock Band. Mike's hard lemonade. Aaand the landmark 6-month anniversary, at which point I was more in love than I'd ever been.

July: His brother Dick took us on a spontaneous late-night road trip to New Hampshire for fireworks, which we set off on the beach on the fourth. I've never nearly died so many times in one night. By that statement, I meant the night of the fourth, but looking back I think I may have nearly died more times on the road trip.

August: I made and promoted the heck out of that video for that scholarship contest with a little help and a lot of support from him.

September: Not much to report, since I was back at school and he was home. We made plans to go to Sacramento for his music video premiere at the Sacramento Horror Film Festival. I was so proud! Oh, and that high school kid raising money door-to-door caught us hooking up in the hallway. Most embarrassing (but hilarious) moment EVER.

October: Well, here we are. Ten months and a break-up later. There are two things I won't say.

1. I won't say I wish I never met him. These are the things that make us who we are. The things that teach us what we need, what we want, what we can live without.

2. I won't say I wasn't in love. It would be a shameless lie.

I will say that it was time to move on. It had been some while since I'd felt the way I felt in June, when I convinced myself I was ready to give him that last piece of me that I had been saving - my virginity. But by the time I got on birth control, I was starting to notice the things I wanted that weren't there and decided not to give it up. Now I'm glad I held out.

I didn't want the darkness and fear he thrived on - the movies he watched, the movies he made, the heavy metal music and the image that went with it. It is my nature to love light and hope and beauty. I love the details that make this world so special. I love the care that God puts into them. Those weren't things he appreciated.

I wanted romance, poetry and love songs. I wanted him to bring me flowers for no reason. I wanted travels and beach days (which he disliked because of the way sand felt on his skin). I wanted adventures and asymmetry (which he couldn't stand, at least not in architecture).

I wanted to be challenged intellectually, spiritually, physically; instead I was only challenged sexually. He never forced me to do anything, yet I always had the sense that I was keeping from him the one thing that would make him happiest. For that I was, and am, sorry; or at least about the pain it caused.

I wanted him to act right around a lady, even when he was with the guys. I was sick of the rude humor and rude language, sick of the way he talked about other races and religions (even if it was only in jest, for to every joke there is a grain of truth).

I wanted to see him quit buying (or, as I saw it, wasting) time and go somewhere he really wanted to go, knowing good things were waiting to happen.

I told him that - that good things were waiting to happen - and in the end, even I couldn't stay his "good thing" forever.

I look at all that stuff I want and think, that's a lot to ask of one person. No one in the world can offer all that. No, but someone can offer some of it. From the beginning I wondered why I was so in love with someone who didn't fit a single one of my criteria, and you know what? It was a good fit. That's all I can say. I was happy, he was happy, and it worked - until now.

About a month ago I started living excuse to excuse. I was constantly relieved to find reasons to stay at school instead of coming back to be with him, because I hated it when we hooked up and didn't know how to say so. Somehow I knew it would break us and I didn't want that. I knew I was being selfish. I loved him (though maybe not quite as I had before) and needed him, so I clung to what we had, even though I knew what he needed was something I couldn't give. Time and time again I heard him talk about the people who had hurt him in the past and how he was moving past it, leaving them behind.

I didn't want to be left behind.

I hated the idea of hurting him and it seemed to me that the hurt of ending it would be greater than the hurt of staying together without having sex, but in the end only he could decide that. He finally got me to talk about what was bothering me after a month or more of knowing something wasn't right. I said I couldn't keep saying I'd be ready soon, soon, soon, when clearly it was going to be some time before I was ready to share that kind of intimacy with someone. By then I was so far into the valley that I had no desire to try and become ready. I had been trying for months. It just wasn't there. I wasn't in love anymore. I didn't say so, but that's how it was.

I left the ball in his court, and tonight he ended it. Even though I'd seen it coming, it hit me hard. I was crying. He was crying. My God, I made him cry - I didn't think I could. That was what killed me, seeing him like that and knowing I had caused it. I knew I would be okay if he was okay and made him promise he would take care driving home. I was so afraid he'd crash, accidentally or on purpose, or that he would hurt himself some other way. I couldn't live with that.

After he left I more or less dissolved into a sobbing, shaking puddle on the floor. I think part of it was adrenaline. Part of it might have even been relief. But the greatest part of it was sadness. I knew I wouldn't be hearing from Boyfriend for a while (although we're going to have to figure out the Sacramento situation, since I'm officially uninvited). I mopped myself up enough to call his dad and ask him to keep an eye on things tonight. Hanging up, I felt marginally better.

The chapter ends like this. I still love him, just not the way he wants. I want nothing but the best for him and I want to be a part of it if he'll let me. I haven't written him off as a romantic possibility, but he's got changing to do if we're going to try this again, and in the meantime, at twenty, I've got people to meet before I can think about settling down. As for my first love, time will heal him, and when it does I hope that we can be friends.

At least one good thing has come of this: My sister is actually nice to me when I'm miserable. Granted, there's nothing comforting about "well, it was God's will" - it still fucking hurts. But this strange peace I feel says she's right. It was kind of her anyway, and after that she gave me music and said good night. Thanks, sis.

Until the sun wipes the sky from grey to blue,
Miss Rex

Excavations of Claymore: Stef-a-licious

No Stefs were harmed in the making of this blog... or the beverage.
"It doesn't really taste like anything, but it's good," said Mnomanoms. "It's like an old favorite the first time."

Dark and light. Sweet and earthy at the same time. The Stef-a-licious was a paradox of flavors, and a pretty yummy paradox at that. But, as The Addict explained, "there's nothing special about it." Was it good? Yes. Was it an experience? An adventure? The edible equivalent of riding a unicorn? No.

"I'm an addict," said The Addict. "I'll take whatever I can get. But you guys are looking for an interesting drink that you'd go back and buy again."


Razzmatazz wasn't around when we bought the drink, but there was a little bit left when she got back from the library and I gave it to her to smell. She liked it enough to taste it. I wish you all could've seen her eyes light up. "It tastes just like this coffee I had in the Domincan Republic!" she said. "It was made from sugar-coated coffee beans."

Well-traveled wench! First Lebanese cookies, now sugar-coated coffee beans from the DR! Next it'll be Martian bon bons.

But kudos to Claymore for replicating the flavor of the best coffee Razzmatazz had ever tasted.

Fake Plastic Trees

The US government has it all wrong. They’re trying to fix environmental problems by throwing the green stuff at the issue (LA Times article), but the kind of green stuff we need doesn’t come from the Treasury or the Federal Reserves.

I read in a different newspaper, and now I can't find the link to share it, that China is in the process of planting acres upon acres of forest. The thing is, it's not enough to just stop putting more carbon dioxide into the atmosphere. There's too much already there. We have to take measures to get rid of the stuff that's floating around up there if we want to have polar ice caps twenty years from now.

Enter my evil plan to save the world.

My new life goal is to plant trees. Maybe a whole forest is a little ambitious, but I can start with just a tree. Imagine if every person in the US planted just one tree. Just one. That's 300 million living, breathing trees! Think of the impact that could have. We could, if we worked together, literally save the world.

Takers? Anyone know where I can get that many seeds? Anyone know where I'd be allowed to plant that many seeds...?


...in which Miss Rex shares random moments of amusement, frustration, and enlightenment from her week.


The other morning, a group of men were outside my window with what sounded like a jackhammer. Turned out they were drilling holes in the soil. Lots of them. As if the groundskeepers' perpetual mowing of our ten-foot strip of lawn wasn't noisy enough, now we got drillers, too.


This year I finally won Homecoming Queen! To win, all you have to do is win more spirit points than anybody else by dressing in spirit week attire from Monday through Thursday. Last year I had 289 points and didn't win, so I made grand plans to outdo myself.

Monday: wear attire bearing the school's name or logo.

I got 50 points that day. Meh. I could do better.

Tuesday: Tartan day - wear anything plaid, or remotely checkered/argyle/houndstooth, for points.

I got 67 points. Getting better. I thank my floor for this victory.

Wednesday: Wear your class color! Ours has historically been "rust red." No one knows what exactly that means - it's sort of an orangey color that no one actually owns, so we've always just worn red. But this year some of the spirit week ads said to wear red, and some said to wear orange. My simple solution was to wear both. Unfortunately I was on my own that night, so I haven't got any pictures. I got 126 points; use your imagination.

Thursday: 80s day. This was difficult because it was less about what you wore and more about how you wore it. Shirt off the shoulder. Bra over shirt. Jacket over bra. Mismatched earrings. I did it all, somehow, but the most fabulous part of my fantabulous get-up was the boom box I borrowed from my RA. I made an 80s mix and blasted it as I made my way across campus to get my points tallied.

It came out to 53.

Grand total: 298 (including bagpipe blitz points, which you earn by running to the mini-quad whenever you hear the bagpipes play.) Incidentally, that was 200 points more than the runner up (now I feel kind of bad). Apparently everyone else with spirit graduated or went abroad. I feel like it was an anticlimactic contest, even though I won.

But I DID get more points than the homecoming king! Nyaa


We had a variety show earlier. Boyfriend and I got there late and were really confused when the ushers asked us to take bags before sitting down. They were just brown paper lunch bags, filled with school paraphernalia, a program, and another, folded-up brown paper lunch bag. Umm.........kay?

But when some music majors took the stage for a round of "Piano Hero," all became clear. There were four of them playing the 1812 Overture on two grand pianos, and our brown paper bags were to be the cannons.

After popping them, we and everyone else in the balcony balled up the bags and catapulted them into the audience below us, shouting "CANNONBALLS!"


According to a local newspaper, some schools are now offering cash rewards for students who take AP classes. What total bullshit is that?! I had to pay EXTRA to take AP classes! I had to buy 20-pound college textbooks and pay exam fees come spring. Not that these kids won't have to pay for those things. It'll just get balanced out by what the school pays them to enroll.

You know what these classes will look like, don't you? Remember how my friends and I entertained ourselves during my AP English class? Teachers will have hordes of students who don't give a shit about the subject. They won't want to work hard. They won't care. The kids who actually want to learn, say, history or chemistry at an advanced level will suffer as the class is brought down to the level of those who are only in it for the money.

I know I'm an idealist, but I just think schools should be about learning, that's all.


How do blind people experience dreams? Do they have REM sleep? Are there images in their heads or is the dream world the same as the waking world for them - comprised of sounds, smells, sensations and flavors... without sight?


Note: Thanks to Cynthia@RunningWithLetters for letting me know my comment link was broken! It's all better now, so leave some love!

Excavations of Claymore: The Blondie

Le Skeptic and the beverage bunch - Razzmatazz, Mnomanoms, and The Addict - sample The Blondie! (Banana hazelnut latte)

Okay y'all, here's the rule for this post. This drink contains banana flavoring. Therefore, I talk about bananas. Let's all be mature coffee connoisseurs and not make any thatswhatshesaid jokes, okay? Okay.

I won't lie; the primary reason I picked this drink was because of the pretty title card. Well, and I like bananas.

I know you're thinking, "banana and hazelnut?? You're not the only skeptic here tonight." Oh, believe me, Le Skeptic was even more skeptical than usual about this one. Luckily, curiosity did not kill this cat, this time.

Caffeinated, liquid banana is delicious! Who would have guessed it? The Blondie was the BEST coffee drink I've ever had, hands down! I probably liked it so much on account of the 'naner flavor overpowering the espresso flavor. So, again, I cheated my way around trying an actual coffee beverage. But this week I only cheated by accident! Well, except that I got twice as much milk and half as much espresso as the drink called for... but shh! It's progress.

Razzmatazz played Switzerland this week. Mnomanoms and The Addict agreed that The Blondie would be a poor choice for non-naner-lovers, and Mnomanoms added that you'd have to be a monkey to like it.

That must make me Queen Kong; I liked it so much I went back for another the next night.

Everything in Transit

Sometimes I think my life is like The Little Mermaid.

I'm the girl who has everything. I go to a great college, where I study great subjects under great teachers. I have a great family that loves me and is not broken by divorce or sickness. I have a great boyfriend who would do anything for me. I have great friends and roommates capable of fun times and deep caring. Yet some days, and today is one of them, I just feel utterly, hopelessly miserable. I think the fact that I compare my life to a children's movie is somewhat indicative of the problem.

Everything makes sense when you’re little. All that matters is the world inside your head. Save Fantasyland from the bad guys! You’ve got all afternoon to do it, and for someone whose existence has only spanned eight years, that’s a lifetime. You can’t understand what faith is because you can’t imagine anything else. When your mind is so huge and pure and the world knows no bounds, that’s when your imagination can wrap itself around God. You can shrink him down when your mind is like that. You don’t need answers to all these silly questions before you can love him or love other people; you just do because you should, and that’s all you know or need to know.

So maybe my life is more like Peter Pan: I don't want to grow up!

When I'm under pressure, I regress. I try to re-become the child I once was. I can talk myself into seeing the world as if it's the first time I ever looked at the sky or the sea or a little yellow snail that anyone else would pass by or step on. People know and expect that simple things amaze me and bring me joy, but they don't know that I had to practice seeing it that way. My mind is not the place it was when I was small. I can only regress so far.

Not much makes sense anymore. I don't know who I am (even though I spent four years of high school telling everyone I did). I can't understand what faith is because I never needed to know. I can't even wrap my mind around a little piece of God because I know now that shrinking him down the way I did once is a lie, and I wouldn't want to lie about something like that.

I want the happy Disney ending. Sometimes I just forget that heroes and heroines have to fight the bad guys to get there, and in the process, they change. Belle fell in love with the Beast. Pinocchio became a real boy. I don't want to change, but my position in the world is changing and I have no choice but to change with it. I want to love the things I've always loved and do the things I've always done with the people I've always held dear, and I want them to be exactly the way I've always held them dear.

Maybe that's what heaven is like.

Does anyone else feel this way? Or, a more fun question to amuse me on this over-thought and emotional afternoon: Which Disney movie describes your life? What character do you relate to? If you could be any Disney character, who would you choose? Entertain me!


...in which Miss Rex shares random moments of amusement, frustration, and enlightenment from her week.

Things I love about fall #1: Indian summers! The last few weeks of summer were nothing short of dismal, but once fall arrived, our friend the Sun returned for an encore.

Gordon College and Chebacco woods in the fall. The leaves are just beginning to change.

Today at lunch I found a sign that said "Magic Brownies." "Magic" would not normally be an adjective I'd associate with Lane food (mutative, perhaps). I considered the amount of pot in Lane's eggplant parm and decided against the brownies.

I was walking by the quad. It was dark and rainy, but I heard a watery kind of noise that wasn't the rain and immediately thought, "You've got to be kidding me - they have the sprinklers on in this weather?" I looked over and sure enough they were watering the grass. "WHY?" I demanded out loud. The sprinklers must have realized their folly then, because they promptly shut off.

I just passed my friend Christian on the sidewalk. After greeting him "hey, Christian," it occurred to me that "Christian" is a very odd name for a child. You wouldn't name your baby "Jew" or "Muslim," would you? Then all his friends would have to say, "Hey, Jew" or "Hey, Muslim." It's like a built-in epithet, because face it: even though we speak the language of tolerance, most religions just have negative connotations in America. Even (or especially) Christian.

Barack Obama:

Excavations of Claymore: The Promised Land

I brought my trusty band of tasters with me this week. May I introduce you to Razzmatazz, M'nomanoms, and the Addict. Oh, and me - I, being the non-coffee-drinker of the critique crew, am Le Skeptic.

Introducing The Promised Land: Honey Almond Steamer
"It makes me feel warm and foamy inside!" - Le Skeptic

We all agreed that this drink was not everything its title promised. "It smells really good right before you take a sip," said the Addict. True story. As M'nomanoms pointed out, the aroma of the Promised Land is like sugar cookie dough. Take note, seekers of the holy grail.

It's flavor, though, was not-much-of-anything with a slight aftertaste of Razzmatazz's mom's Lebanese cookies. Milk has a pretty neutral flavor as is, yet the Promised Land seemed to give it even less of one. After the first few sips of sweet and creamy foam, we were (to use an Old Testament metaphor) uprooted from that place of relative comfort to be displaced in the desert for forty years.

All this implies that it was a bad drink, but all of us except the Addict agreed that it wasn't. It was the sort of drink a mommy would make for a sad or sleepy child. There's a time for a drink like that - i.e., when one is sad or sleepy and far away from mommy at college. I was not sad, nor was I sleepy, and I wasn't missing my mom any more than usual.

But I was in for a pleasant surprise. All the flavor had found its way to a magical mystery layer of foam at the bottom of the cup. I took a sip, expecting more drink, only to discover the elusive Promised Land proclaimed by that little purple piece of paper sticky tacked to Claymore's wall.

It only took 40 gulps to get there.
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