My blog sans motivation.

my ability to sports is no

so my dad just called a family meeting to show us a cat video

Three point One Four One Five Nine

The first digits of pi

A number that, if written out

Would reach farther than the eye

A number so long it’s infinite

Like the circles it describes

The perfect analogy for the feeling

I also cannot transcribe

Some infinities differ from others

Some are bigger, some are small

But pi, like my feeling, is something different

Its infinity is unknown to all 

A circle has no edge, you see

No beginning and no end

Therefore it cannot be the analogy

That to my feeling itself would lend

But pi, yes, pi works perfectly

You see, pi has its proper place to start

Like how I can still remember clearly

The moment you stole my heart

Alright, so I have to write a metaphysical love poem, so I tried to write one about the Doctor.

Is this an okay poem and does it count as Metaphysical??

Let me know!! Thanks!

In a corner of a universe

           That perpetually shrinks and grows

In the galaxy of Kasterborous

            Is an empty space that no one knows

Was once the planet Gallifrey

            With, as far as the eye could see

Fields and fields of reddest grass

            And silver leaves upon the trees

It was your home once, long ago

            Before the Daleks and the Time War

Redefined Doctor to mean Warrior

            And on your two hearts closed the door

Then someone came along one day

            They opened up your deadlocked door

Again the world could hear your heart beat

            Just like the Master: OneTwo-ThreeFour

Across time and relative dimensions in space

            And the Fields of Trenzalore

You taught me of the little things too

            Even things as small as petrichor

Even without your sonic screwdriver

            You’ve managed to unlock my heart

And taught me to love everything

            Including, Doctor, who you are

Written by AL

Feedback?

piercethesleepingcarlile:

chxshire:

i’m that friend that has to walk behind the others when the sidewalk doesn’t fit a group of three

I think about this post a lot

in situations like these i am also stuck behind so sometimes i just jump onto one of the other two and make them piggy-back me until the sidewalk widens again

(via indiajarvissh)

Our grad class is playing a game which requires me to stalk people. As it turns out, I don’t know most of my grad class and I’m not good at stalking people. You’d think tumblr would have taught me better.

Written by AL

 She was tired that morning, but she got up anyways. She’d skipped her morning jog the previous day, and it would be too much of a break in routine to skip it again. She wandered around her bedroom collecting her jogging shorts and sweater, then got dressed and went to the living room. She turned on the television and flipped to the morning news. She always watched (or at least listened to) the news while she got dressed and ate her breakfast.

She sighed. The news was always so negative. Three people shot in an attempted bank robbery, one killed, two still in hospital, economy still in the pits, a fourteenth body found courtesy of the serial killer that terrorizes the city. And yet, it’s so… apathetic. At least the news people who announce everything to the world seem to be. The same enthusiasm goes into that news as goes into the weather, which was apparently not as nice as she had hoped. She went back into her room and changed into some jogging pants instead. She grabbed her bright red water bottle and filled it up in the kitchen. Red was her favourite colour, it was the colour of so many of her favourite things: cherries, roses, strawberries, Red Drive Gatorade… the list went on.

She laced up her shoes and headed out the door, water bottle in hand. She lived a bit outside the city, but still within the realm of civilization. The roads had no sidewalks, so she had to run on gravel or dirt, depending on how far along she was. Her route took her past the turnoff to a cul-de-sac, past and old factory that was long since closed down, past a newer factory that was not yet closed down, past a cemetery, and down to the river that ran through the not-quite-town.

She rarely spoke to anyone on her jogs, mostly because no one else was bold enough to be awake as early as she, and if they were, they certainly weren’t out yet. That morning was no different in that she didn’t actually speak to anyone, however she did see a man out that she’d never seen before. He was standing in the cemetery, staring down at a freshly disturbed pile of land and a clean, new grave marker. She thought it strange that he would be out so early on a cold morning such as that, but decided that she wasn’t really one to judge. It was too bad, she thought to herself, that he had lost someone; he seemed like a loyal type. Of course, she’d never interacted with him, she was just judging by his insistence on being up to keep the deceased company. Too bad, but not her concern. People die all the time. She can’t feel sad for everyone left behind.

She found that she had slowed to a walk in noticing him and decided it was as good a time as any to stop and take a drink of water. She uncapped the bottle and took a mouthful. The cold water was less refreshing on a cold morning. She continued down to the river, turned without stopping and jogged back home, not taking notice of whether the man had left the cemetery.

For the next several mornings she saw him standing there by the grave. He was always very still, she noted. She supposed that there was little else to be when visiting the dead. They weren’t known for being very responsive. One night she stayed out late and consequently slept in, but decided to go for a jog anyways. Since it was later in the day, and therefore warmer than her usual jogging time, she wore shorts. It felt nice, after a while, but it was perhaps still too cold for that. She noticed the man was not at the cemetery. He must be an early morning person, or perhaps have a job to attend during the day, she thought. The next day she was back to her usual time and he was back at the grave site.

She had developed a bit of a curiosity surrounding the man and his faithfulness to show up early every morning, so she decided to stop and ask him about who he was visiting. Of course, it would be rude to simply ask about that kind of thing, so she started the conversation with the same casual greeting anyone would use.

“Hey! How’s it going?” She thought immediately after asking that it was a poor choice of words. He was, after all, at a cemetery.

He turned and glanced at her with eyes that were lost somewhere between broken and lifeless.

“Ask me again tomorrow.” That was all he said. Then he turned back to the stone marker that was too far away to read.

She was a bit taken aback by his answer, and it took her a few seconds to collect herself and decide to continue on her jog. For the next few weeks, with the exception of the few days she slept in, it became a part of her routine to ask him how he was doing and wait for his never changing answer. It occurred to her that is was quite a sad response, but not a hopeless one. He was not willing to face what he felt yet, but perhaps some tomorrow he would be. Of course, there was no telling what it would take for him to get to that point of bravery. Perhaps only time would be able to help him. Perhaps not even time could.

It must have been three months of asking how he was before her curiosity finally became overwhelming, and that breakout happened to come on a late morning jog when the man was no longer there. Okay, so probably it happened because he wasn’t there. Either way, her curiosity was out and she needed to know who he was visiting so loyally for months after their death. She jogged up to the grave site, sat down on her heels, and read the name. She recognized it immediately. She stood up and kept on with her jog until she reached her home.

She took off her shoes and tossed them over by the door, not bothering to place them neatly. She changed into some clean clothes and slumped down on the sofa in front of the TV. She turned it on and flipped it to the news. They were talking again about the serial killer – the same one who took the life of the woman in the grave, along with so many other beautiful girls.

She wasn’t quite sure what to do. She could either offer him her condolences, maybe give him a muffin basket, take him out for coffee, or… yeah, the second option was probably best. She went and changed again, then went to the kitchen and made herself some lunch. She had things to do; the man would have to wait.

It was late when she went out, mostly because she loved being out at night, but also because it had been a busy day. She walked up to the man’s apartment and knocked on the bright red door whose colour made her smile.

“Just a minute.” She heard from the inside. He’d probably already gone to bed, she thought to herself. He opened the door and started at her with groggy, half-asleep eyes. “Wha- how did yo-” he stammered.

“Invite me in?” She interrupted, a disarming smile across her face.

“Uh…”

She didn’t wait for his response. She walked past him and into the kitchen where she filled up her own water bottle. He followed her in, obviously confused. She took a sip before speaking again.

“I read the name on the grave stone.” She said. “It’s a terrible thing for you to lose your wife like that, my condolences.”

“How do you know she was my wife?” He asked, still groggy but waking up.

“Because I knew her.” She said.

“Where from?”

“Oh, I just saw her walking downtown one day. She was beautiful. That’s why I chose her, you know, because her beauty stood out amongst the other people mindlessly wandering around town.”

“ ‘Picked her…?’ ”

“Yes. As my next victim. Number fourteen, I believe… yeah, definitely fourteen.”

He was confused, she could see. Understandably. She gave him a few seconds to think over what she had said while she took another swallow of water. She wondered what exactly it was he was having trouble with. Perhaps all of it? Poor, pitiful man, so confused, so lost… She was glad she’d come. It was definitely the right decision. He finally gathered enough focus to speak again.

“You killed her….”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“…Because she was beautiful?”

“Correct.”

He walked over to the couch and slumped down, defeated and still confused. He looked down, then at a photo of his late wife, at his hands, and then at her.

“Why did you come here?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t even say!” She rifled through her shoulder bag. “I came to kill you.”

“Kill… me?” He asked slowly. She managed to find both the handgun and its magazine and pulled them out of her bag. “Why?”

She slid the magazine inside the gun.

“I’m helping you, obviously! Do you not see it? You can be with her now, reunited. And how lovely will it be to be killed by the same person? Of course, I brought the gun to kill you, so no one else will know. You see, I’ve built up a specific reputation for who I kill – and of course how I kill them, but that’s beside the point here – and you obviously don’t meet the criteria. I’m not sure it feels right killing you at all, to be honest, but still, I’ve grown to like you over the past mornings, so I’ll go out of my way to make an exception.”

“Why?” He whispered, almost to himself, but still clearly directed at her.

“For goodness sake, I just explained-“

“No.” He interrupted. She gave him a bit of credit; it was a bold move to interrupt someone who has just claimed they were going to kill you. She liked him even more for it. “Why are you killing all those girls?” He whimpered.

She paused and thought for a few seconds.

“Everyone needs a creative outlet, and blood has the most wonderful colour.”

Further defeated, all he could do was stare at the ground. She wondered what he was thinking about. Was it his death? His wife’s death? Their reunion soon-to-come? It didn’t really matter to her though. She gave him a few minutes to make peace.

“I’ll make it look like a robbery rather than suicide to preserve your image.” She said coolly.

She stood up swiftly, pulled the hammer back with her thumb, and pulled the trigger three times without taking aim. She was close enough to not need to aim properly, just to point the pistol in the right direction. She watched him fall to the floor. The silencer did its job well; there was hardly enough noise for anyone to be concerned about. It may as well have been the television. Thank goodness for the popularity of violent movies and the frequency of violent news.

She stayed for a while beside his body, watching his blood flow out onto the floor. She inhaled deeply. The scent of his beautiful, thick blood was better than a fresh summer day after a night of rain. It was a better colour too. She went around the house and broke a few things here and there: a lamp, a coffee mug, the leg of a table. She took a few valuables that she would dispose of with the gun and her clothes on the way home in her usual spot. She didn’t want his things, just to make the scene more believable. She decided she would keep the cash though; no use wasting it.

She slept in the next morning (because of the late night, of course) and decided to skip her morning jog. She was out again the next morning though, and at a faster pace than usual. When she passed the grave site she almost paused to ask how the man was doing, but remembered he would not be there and continued on. A few days later there was a fresh grave beside the one the man had always visited. It was his. Her face lit up, she was quite happy that they would forever remain side by side.

If she asked him today how he was, she thought he would finally be able to answer.

She smiled to herself, then picked up her pace and continued on with her jog.

Such a happy ending, she thought to herself.

Written by AL

I just put on some ski goggles and sat down with my laptop to see what would happen. My mom walked over and said “what… nevermind i’m not gonna ask.” and walked away. I wonder what that says.

Today I went to an art gallery with a friend after going out for lunch and catching up. It was nice to catch up with her. It was also nice to go to an art museum with someone. I don’t have anyone else to go to art museums with.