Bloomability

I'm doing this on New Year's Eve...how mediocre.

2011-12-31T22:26:00.000-08:00

Old name. Old background. Old graphic. Why?
Well, for one thing, I never really liked the new look. And for another...I'm officially shutting this blog down. I didn't want to delete it, so I'm returning it to its old state, blowing a kiss, and letting it go. "Why?!" This blog did what I intended it to do...for the most part. It gave little Laura a place to stow her absurd ramblings and keep her "superior writing skills" up to snuff. Purpose fulfilled. Now little Laura is not so little anymore. Little Laura is Big Laura now. Pampers and everything. She's much more angsty and frustrated and silly, and wants something new. A new blog, perhaps? If that happens, she'll let you know, o ye faithful millions. But for now, she's off to discover what it is that she wants. But before she does that, she thinks it her duty to preserve this little treasure for the generations, before it completely looses it's charm and collapses into a dungheap of stupid. Bwaha.
So goodbye, adieu, Auf Wiedersehen, and simply because it seems appropriate...

Nitwit, Blubber, Oddment, Tweak!

Poem

2011-11-01T19:31:00.000-07:00

There are moments
In life
When a veil, hardly noticed before, is removed from my eyes and I am allowed to see.
Really see.
And I know that what I am seeing is not of this earth.
Not man-made.
In these moments
I am looking into the face of God.

First Sight
Watching Garrett Sherwood
Strumming and playing away
Made time pause and say
"Stop. Look."
I looked and watched as this man was transported into a new realm
By his music.
It was the tears of "Bring Him Home"
The beautiful ache of "La Vie en Rose"
And the goosebumps of "The Music of the Night"
All rolled into one.

Second Sight
Talking with my sister
Also made time stop
And I could see
The fire in her eyes
Consume her.

Third Sight
Our Town.
Our Town, Our Town, Our Town.
The one that set everyone, and everything, on fire.
"Do any human beings realize life as they live it? Every, every minute?"
Thornton Wilder had snatched the veil from my eyes
And refused to give it back.

Music.
Theater.
Flurries of passion.
Moments of sight.
All I can do is stand
And breathe
And wonder.

Funeral Story

2011-10-16T12:04:00.000-07:00

First things first: this is a story. It is not true. The main character does not in any way symbolize me. For one thing, he's a guy. I am not a guy. Get it? Good.

The absolute worst part about Mom dying is this viewing. For the better part of two hours, I’ve been standing in a corner next to Dad, Grandma, and Grandpa in some sick sort of reception line as person after grim faced person passes. Those who speak have absolutely meaningless, empty things to say. Things that comfort them rather than me, and make them feel like a compassionate and shining saint. Things like “I am so sorry for your loss” or “I know that she’s happier now”. Or that ever asinine question “How do you feel?” I never answer this query. I stare the person down, let them think about what they just asked me. I watch them blink and blush, then give a flustered apology and hurry away. Out of all the people here that I hate, the ones who ask that question take the cake. My cousins could give them a run for their money, though. The awkward ones who are dragged over by their parents and forced to stand before me, looking at the ceiling, their shoes, out the window, anywhere but my eyes or inside the casket...it takes all my energy to keep myself from punching every one of them in the face. One cousin took me by surprise, however. After a full five minutes of uncomfortable silence and a staring contest with her fingernails, this girl charged me down and threw her arms around my neck in a chokehold. My body stiffened at this attack, arms welded soundly to my sides. After a tense three or four seconds, she backed off. Our eyes met. She blushed, then whipped around and sped off after her overly distraught mother, whose sobbing was shaking plaster from the walls. I swear she was in such a hurry, she left skid marks on that floor.

I don’t know how much longer I can take this. My tie is slowly constricting around my throat, cutting off my air supply. Making it impossible to scream. I want to. Long and loud until I pass out and don’t have to feel or think anymore. I want an end, I want nothing.

I’m on the floor. How’d I get on the floor? It’s cold, it’s so cold...and my knees hurt. What’s that noise? There’s a strange ripping sound, unlike anything I’ve ever heard before...hands. Hands everywhere. Someone’s talking. “Here, I’ll take him. Let me take him.” All the hands disappear, except one on my hand. Soft and cool. Lips near my ear. Light breathing. A whispered, “Come with me.” This voice is female. It’s low enough to be a male’s, but it is most definitely female. I’ve never heard this voice in my life. I am intoxicated by it. Maybe this is the reason I get to my feet and follow this woman, this woman with the strange voice. It’s not until I’m being led slowly away that I realize the sound I’d heard earlier, the ripping, was coming from me. I’m crying. Blubbering like a baby. And I don’t care. My sobs continue as we travel down several dark hallways, this woman and me. We stop at a sofa. She releases my hand for a moment to sit, then gestures that I should do the same. Before I know what’s happening, I’m sprawled across the sofa, my head buried in the woman’s lap, and I’m shaking all over and sobbing loud enough to wake the dead. The woman doesn’t hush me or tell me “It’s ok, it’s alright...” As a matter of fact, she doesn’t say anything at all. She just lets me soil her dress with my tears, all the while combing her fingers through my hair or tracing patterns along the pinstripe of my suit with her fingers. This should all be very strange to me. I acknowledge this as I shudder and sniff childishly into the skirt that has become my handkerchief. But somehow...it feels very natural, and I’m far from bothered by what is happening.

When my sobs eventually give way to occasional gasps, and the awful shudders become tremors in my hands, I sit up and take a look at the woman whose skirt I have just ruined. My breath catches in my throat. She is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. Her skin is as white as paper, and as delicate looking as porcelain. Her hair is the blackest I’ve ever seen, and cropped short, ending at her chin. Her eyes are a deep, deep blue. Practically navy. Her dress matches her eyes precisely. Her feet are bare, and it’s not until I see her feet that I notice a certain...glow emanating from her. Very faint, like a night light, but still distinct and there, shining through her skin. I am frightened by this. Am I insane? Is it a trick of the light? It is absolutely impossible to tell.

After several minutes of simply studying her, mouth agape and everything, I realize something. She has been looking at me in very much the same way I’ve been looking at her. Full of wonder and interest, as if she’s never seen anything like me before. She reaches out and runs her fingers along the lines of my brow, where it is crinkled from confusion and intrigue. I open my mouth to ask who she is...but at the last moment, Mom pops into my head. And I can’t help it. Story after story, memory after memory, comes tumbling out in an avalanche of words and emotions that I am suddenly too small to contain. I don’t know how much time passes. It could be minutes, it could be hours. It could even be days, I cannot tell. The beautiful strange woman doesn’t speak or appear to loose interest. She nods and smiles and laughs. I love her laugh. I found myself searching for more funny memories in the outpouring to share, simply to hear her laugh again. It is like music. Beautiful, tinkling music. I’d do anything to hear that laugh. Die, even. I’m certain of it.

I’ve been speaking for so long I cannot speak anymore. And suddenly I feel exhausted, as if I’ve been running for miles. I’m fighting tooth and nail to keep my eyes open. The woman takes my head and her hands and guides it to her shoulder, and holds it there, stroking my hair again. I’m drifting now, I know it. I fight to keep awake. There’s something important I have to ask her. “Are you...are you an angel?” Now that I’ve asked it, it seems childish. I wish I could take it back, but it’s too late. The question has been released into the atmosphere and demands an answer. I wait expectantly. But she only laughs.

I fall into a dreamless sleep. When I awake, the beautiful woman is gone. There is absolutely no evidence of her being there. I look out the window. It is pitch black. Dad must be wondering where I am. I rise to my feet and leave.

Decleration of Stupendence!

2011-08-08T22:47:00.000-07:00

We the people of the Laura Chapman Restoration and Refurbishment co. in order to form a more perfect Laura, do desist trying to sound like the US Constitution and proceed with our demands already.

We demand the following:

Article 1: That Laura resurrect this blog, and keep it in ship shape and up to snuff. It has been horribly neglected, and we believe Laura has forsaken it purposefully. Why? Because she is afraid. Of what? We do not know. All we know is that her 14 year old self would be horribly ashamed to see her 16 year old self let her precious blog (and writing skills) fall into horrible disrepair. This abominable slothfulness must be eradicated posthaste.

Article 2 (that bears a small, cousin-like resemblance to Article 1): That she write in her journal every day. Shall her posterity have no record to show just how awesome the loins from which they came are?
...ew. Just kidding. We just believe that there are certain effing awesome experiences and thoughts and conversations that have long since been forgotten because our client failed to write them down. This cannot proceed.

Article 3: That she be kinder to people. She has ever so slowly evolved into a prideful prejudiced priggish pig. Shall she fail to evolve back into a human being (accepting and loving of everyone), this prideful prejudiced priggish pig shall be butchered into bacon, boiled, and ballooned to babbling baboons in Bangkok, if they can stomach the swine.

Article 4: That she use less alliterations....ugh.

Article 5: That she open up herself to trying new things. Food, music, exercise, waxing her legs, whatever. Saying "yes" more often may help.

Article 6: That she learn to be grateful. Less whining about her present situation or what she wants, more appreciating what she's got.

Article 7: That she look for the positive, even when frolicking through fields of negative. (Well, if she's frolicking, she'd be off to a good start already, wouldn't she?)

Article 8: That she not promptly ignore everything said in this document, which would be counter-productive and a waste of our time. And would give cause to enact the said consequence in Article 3! So maybe she should, after all. We loove bacon here at the firm. Bacon, bacon, bacon...

This concludes our presentation.
Now, go eat some bacon.
Amen.

Word Beyond Measure is Man's Greatest Treasure

2011-01-25T19:05:00.000-08:00

Snelgrove: [referring to The Count of Monte Cristo] So, then we find out that Madame Danglars and Lucien are LOVERS!

Class catcalls and "Oooh"s.

Kid: Wait, isn't Lucien the one who does Madame Danglars' stocks?

Snelgrove: That's one way of putting it.

The class sits in absolute silence for about three seconds, stunned. Then the entire room is erupts into laughter, while Snelgrove's jaw drops and his face grows red.

Snelgrove: (Grabs textbook on desk, closes it, then points at it) THAT is a closed book!!

On me mind...

2011-01-07T21:01:00.000-08:00

The Top Fifteen Films Extravaganza

2011-01-01T17:46:00.000-08:00

The challenge: List the top fifteen movies that have influenced and "stuck with you" over the years.
Sounds simple, right?
Ooooh no. -chuckles- Naive child.
This must be done without looking at your shelves and/or lists of any kind.
MWAHAHAHA! Ok here goes.

In no particular order...

1. Finding Neverland
2. Julie and Julia
3. Breakfast at Tiffany's
4. An Affair to Remember
5. Pride and Prejudice
6. The Princess Bride
7. Singin' in the Rain
8. My Big Fat Greek Wedding
9. The Hobart Shakespeareans
10. Annie
11. What's Up Doc?
12. Sense and Sensibility
13. Dan in Real Life
14. Jane Eyre
15. Sabrina

Awlright, awlright! Not bad! Not bad at all. I only had to cheat on one! Or two...orfour. But what do numbers even mean nowadays?

A Formidable and Chivalrous "Expository" Essay

2010-12-18T22:08:00.000-08:00

This just goes to show what will undoubtably happen when I am asked to write an expository essay about an emotional experience from my past. Haha.

I am a knight. I have been since age eight. Or nine. My memory is hazy. That's what becoming a knight does to you. Once that sacred sword makes contact with your being, symbolizing your advancement from peasanthood to knighthood, recalling things as trivial as dates becomes obsolete. However, the memory of my very first knighting is so vivid, so vibrant, so emotion-fused , that I could not forget it, not even if aliens beamed down and attempted to pry it from my large and tremendous mind. Would you like me to recall the occasion for you? You would? Spiffing. This is a wondrous tale that you shan't soon forget.

Before I begin my tale, I have some 'splainin' to do. The kingdom I resided in at the time of my knighting was the great and spacious Texas. Within Texas is a small hamlet in which is a very fine school for young peasants. At said establishment, all us younglings were commanded by our Queen, Principal Fezziwig, to live the value of the month, so that at the end of said month, we may be eligible for the honor of being knighted.

Alright, I’m going to switch dialogues here. Now, I know that this all sounds fictional and somewhat ludicrous...but I am far from kidding. Everything I’ve said so far is completely factual. Except the bit about Principal Fezziwig. The name was, indeed, procured from A Christmas Carol. I used the name for one of two reasons. One: I can’t remember the Principal’s name (see paragraph one) and two: because I love the name Fezziwig and desperately wish that it was the nameless Principal’s name. But wishing gets me nowhere. Telling the rest of the story, however, might.

Dialogue switch. The value of the month, the value which led to my knighting, was that of tolerance. I was the one doing the tolerating. I was not the scum that was to be tolerated. My toleration was apparently so impressive that my elders supposed that it was high time that I be promoted from meager peasant to shiny knight. On the day of the knighting, the air was buzzing with such excitement that it was almost tangible. I felt that if I could take a bite out of the air, the taste would be the taste of...victory. I had somehow discovered, with the knightly powers I was about to attain, no doubt, that this was my day. I sat down upon the cold tile before the stage with my peers. I was one of them, yet above them. I glanced around, and saw my parents standing in the back of the chamber, their eyes aglow, beaming smiles, video cameras in hand. Yet further evidence of what was to come. I smiled to myself, and glanced around at the sea of inferiors surrounding me. Ha! Then, quite suddenly, the time had come. The names of those who were to be knighted were read. I heard my named called. Pleased, but not at all surprised, I rose to my feet, and took a step towards my destiny. As I did so, I glanced around, and saw all the little peasants whose names had not been read weep with envy. It was a miraculous thing to behold. I mounted the stage, smiled at the appointed knighter, kneeled, bowed my head, and was born again. My new life had begun. The life...of knighthood.

Dialogue switch. Again, this all sounds like a preposterous falsehood, I know. But honestly. This school was big on chivalry. A knight was our mascot. Every month, a sweaty man with a mullet showed up in fifty pounds of glistening armor, names were read, five year olds were told to kneel before him and stay still while he tapped a terrifyingly real looking sword to both shoulders. Then they were handed a medal and a coupon to McDonalds and sent home. It was a fantastic, albeit creepy system to get children to behave. And it was a incredibly potent emotional experience for all. Hence this essay.

A regular Dr. Suess, I am.

2010-12-02T22:12:00.000-08:00

My thoughts have been waxing poetic. Really. I was on the bus this morning, thinking about nothing in particular, when WHAM. I looked out the window, and saw a snow covered tree. But that's not really what I saw. I saw a thousand pairs of hands, reaching up to heaven to receive oh-so-lightly falling snow. It was beautiful. And for the rest of the day, every time I saw a tree, that was all I could see. A thousand pairs of hands. And I felt it was important. And rather trivial. But still....it made me happy. And that's all that bleedin' matters, right?

Epiphany

2010-10-31T18:56:00.000-07:00

I walk. At ease, at peace. Naive.
A flurry of motion.
A streak of hair.
Blotchy red.
Shaking shoulders.
Fingers clutching at her supporter's neck.
They disappear into the nearest bathroom. I stare, but continue to walk.
I walk. Troubled, shaken. Naive.

"Out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaks." Matthew 12:34

2010-09-23T19:00:00.000-07:00

Quote of the day:
"See the elk. See the elk run. See the elk get shot."
-Mr. Boice, Drivers Education teacher.
This beautiful peice of poetry was delivered whilst driving by a pen of elk in the wee small hours of the morning. I almost crashed the car out of hysterical laughter.

Another bit of news: I am officially in love with the theatre and having an affair with cheese rolls.

Musings of a Bibli-Music-Rickman-ophile

2010-09-15T06:56:00.001-07:00

I’d fling myself down the rabbit hole
Fly Across the Universe
Battle Lord Voldemort
For Alan Rickman

Those Green Eyes
Are the spotlight
That illuminate my pitiful existence
And those lovely, temperate, luscious locks
Make heaven drowsy with their harmony.

There is no better man
No Eggman
No Walrus
No Carpenter
That can compare
To this man
This Scrumdiddlyumptious man
Who is the wind beneath my wings.

I am grateful for...

2010-07-26T09:07:00.000-07:00

Alan Rickman
Toilets
Ice Cream
Dustin Hoffman
Mastering the Art of French Cooking
Shakespeare
Tim Burton
Pajama pants
Balloons
Rain
Spain
When the rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain.
Hugh Laurie
Monty Python's "Flying Lesson"
Harry Potter
Douglas Adams
La Vie en Rose

But most of all........The Muppets.
Yes, THE MUPPETS.

Today, I made the most important discovery I have ever made, or will make, in my whole life.
The Muppets singing Bohemian Rhapsody.
You heard me!
Prepare to burst into tears with joy.

Holy.......CRAP!!!!!!!!

2010-06-29T09:11:00.000-07:00

Oh my........what in the.........it's.......AUGH!
You know what? I'm not even gonna try and explain it. Just watch.

NOVEMBER, PEOPLE!!!!

Writer's Block Ahoy!

2010-05-28T18:07:00.000-07:00

AAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
I am willing to pay a hit man...TO PLACE A BURLAP SACK OVER THE UNRULY HEAD OF MY WRITERS BLOCK AND PITCH IT INTO THE DEPTHS OF THE CASPIAN SEA AHHHHH!!!!!
*pant pant pant pant*
Really though. If you want to try your hand at hit manning, call me. This could be your lucky break.

Anyhow, I apologize to my multitudes of admirers that have been neglected. I shan't abandon you for such an excessive amount of time again. Wait, no, I lied. I will be abandoning you. Forever. Unless, of course, my bleedin' writer's block suddenly turns into a stroke of wordsmith's genius and I can take up my pen once more without bursting into defeatist tears. *sniff*
So, until that fateful day, enjoy this sneezing baby panda.

I've got a Golden Ticket!!! Ya dah dah dah dah dah dahh!

2010-03-25T20:36:00.000-07:00

Well, actually it's a purple ticket. But I've got it anyway. Yeehaw!

Expound? Certainly!

The Book Fair, which I haven't had the pleasure of going to in years, has finally returned to me. And with it: a writing contest. The dealio was to rewrite an opening/closing chapter of a favorite book. Grand prize= $20 worth of goodies at the shindig. Since I had already rewritten a chapter from Jane Eyre two months ago, I thought I'd turn it in and see what happened. I didn't think anything of it, seeing as the chapter I butchered was from neither the beginning nor the end. But, wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles, I got a magical, glowing purple note from the office, demanding my presence at the library. Terribly long story short, I won the twenty bucks, the praise, and the crown of writing glory that will set me apart from all inferior authors for the rest of my writing career. *snort* But really, terribly good fun.
So, if my story is just silly enough to win a contest, it is most certainly silly enough to post here.
While you dabble in the insanity, I shall go wet myself thoroughly (in a good way) whilst partaking of Pride and Prejudice. AND ZOMBIES!

This is an insult to Charlotte Bronte. I can hear her turning in her grave. But here it is nonetheless: the thoughts and feelings of Mr. Rochester as Jane is leaving him.

   I paced angrily about the room, using every ounce of willpower I possessed to prevent myself from destroying everything in sight. "Damn him!" echoed through my mind again and again, "Damn that vile scum of the earth to the deepest pit of hell!" I growled this repeatedly under my breath, in the foolish hope that it would indeed happen where Mason stood. "I should have let him die that night. I should have let that scourge of God tear him to pieces, so that he might feel one-thousandth of the agony that kills me now." I stormed with even more spite about the room, cursing everything in my path, while hate spread like fire through my veins. I wished every livid footstep I took were a dagger to plunge into his monstrous heart. Then Jane, as she so often did, crept into my thoughts. "I shouldn't have waited." I stopped my murderous patrol and collapsed in despair onto the sofa beside the fire, my head in my hands. "I should have taken Jane away as soon as she said she'd have me. I should have taken here where none of this could have touched her. But alas, I didn't. The chips have fallen. The deed is done. And now she can no longer love me. How can she? A wondrous creature such as she cannot dare to even look at a monster such as I, let alone love. It is against the force of nature and the power of God. But still, I hope..."
   I pondered over the previous night. That silence, my precious Jane's broken silence, was worse than tears. "I wish I could run to her, to hold her in my arms again, to tell my darling angel how desperately I love her." I wrestled with myself for a moment. "I can! I will! This very moment!" I jumped to my feet and looked around wildly for the clock. It was not past five. She wouldn't be up yet. I began to pace around the room again, each step matching the click of the clock. I paused only when I heard the creak of a floorboard outside the door. Deciding it had been Pilot, I resumed my impatient walk. Tick tick tick. Every second was agonizing, yet I did not abandon my routine. Tick tick tick.  I continued to walk and battle with my thoughts until I heard the sound of footsteps rushing down the hall. Jane! At last! I raced the door, arms wide, ready to receive my love. "George?" my arms were still aloft as the servant entered the dreary chamber. I dropped my arms. "Where is Jane?" "That's just it, sir!" George said, rather breathily. "She isn't here. She has left!" He looked at me in surprise as I laughed wryly. "Jane, gone? George, you've been at Grace Poole's rum, haven't you?" "No sir, I was most sober. I was taking a bit of breakfast up to Miss Eyre's room when I saw that she had gone!" I laughed again. "Surely she is in the library or with Adele-" "I was just in the library sir, Sophie as well. She stated she had not seen Jane and had been searching also. She is gone, Mr. Rochester! I am not mistaken-" "YOU ARE MISTAKEN!" I shouted. I watched the old man's mouth open in surprise. I was shaking with anger as I shouted again, "You are mistaken! Wake every living soul, and search all of Thornfield again and again, and don't you dare come back without her!"
   George turned and hastened out as I stood there, head pounding, blood racing. "She has not-she will not leave me." I exited the room in a sort of trance, unconscious to the bustle of servants, running about and calling a name. I found myself in Jane's room. I stood there, dazed, surveying the abandoned chamber. The cold bed, the empty wardrobe, the pale wedding dress that hung, suspended like a ghost on the wall, mocking what had never been. I removed it from it's post and held it in my arms, running my fingers over the cold, dead fabric. "Jane." I whispered her name to the dress. "Jane." Her name was a kiss, fleeing from my lips into the frosty, unfeeling dawn. I repeated the name again and again, falling to my knees, as if pleading for mercy, and crumpled onto the floor. I cried her name over and over, holding the dress that had once held my life. Hot tears fell from my eyes, onto my breast, burning there like fire on my shattered heart. "Jane." I pronounced her beautiful name, that glorious syllable once more. Then all went black, and I felt no more.

"Why is a raven like a writing desk?"

2010-03-04T17:22:00.000-08:00

Even in his freaky apparel, Johnny Depp remains ever so sexy.
Tonight.
Midnight.
"All alone on the pavement."
AAHH!

Happy Womb Emancipation Day, Alan Rickman!

2010-02-21T21:54:00.000-08:00

Oh, Allie.
You have inspired a deep, fiery love in me, that as Buttercup would put it, cannot be tracked by a thousand bloodhounds, or broken with a thousand swords. You are the cheese to my macaroni. My other half, my one coquette. The answer to my love's duet! Though age may hunch your back, or British tea drinking cause all those wondrous teeth to fall from your head, I-eeee-iiii will always love youuuu!
May you stay forever sexy.
Your dulcet, devoted darling,
Laura Perfervidly Twitter-pated Chapman

And here's to you, Mr. Darcy...

2010-02-19T18:05:00.000-08:00

Blah. I wrote this a couple of days ago for a book report. I do hope Simon and Garfunkel won't be too displeased....

And here’s to you, Mr. Darcy
Lizzy loves you more than you will know
Wo wo wo
Collins bless you please, Mr. Darcy
Hertfordshire holds a place for those who flirt
irt irt irt...irt irt irt

We’d like to know a little bit ‘bout why you’re such a jerk
We’d like for you to learn to drop some pride
Look around you all you see are Lizzy’s pretty eyes
Stroll around her house until you feel in love

And here’s to you, Mr. Darcy
Lizzy loves you more than you will know
Wo wo wo
Collins bless you please, Mr. Darcy
Hertfordshire holds a place for those who flirt
irt irt irt...irt irt irt

Hide it in a hiding place where no one ever goes
Put it in your pantry with your tea-cakes
It’s a little secret, just Mr. Darcy’s affections
Most of all you’ve got to hide it from Lady Cathrine

Coo, coo, ca-choo Mr. Darcy
Lizzy loves you more than you will know
Wo wo wo
Collins bless you please, Mr. Darcy
Hertfordshire holds a place for those who flirt
irt irt irt...irt irt irt

Sitting in the parlor on a Sunday afternoon
Watchin’ Ms. Bennet play
Think about it, dream about it
What have you got to loose?
Just your connections and your pride

Where have you gone Mr. Wickham?
The militia turns it’s lonely eyes to you
Woo woo woo
What’s that you say, Mr. Darcy?
Whippin’ Wick has left and gone away
Hey hey hey...hey hey hey

Also written a couple days ago for the book report:

Dear Abby,
My once seemingly amiable cousin, whom I shall call “Elizabeth” has just rejected my offer of marriage! I do not understand this refractory refusal! The very nerve of the woman! If you think this a matter of looks, have faith in my words dear woman, I am far from plain. My manners are exquisite, and my sermons, (oh my sermons, my glorious sermons,) are food for the soul from the very bosom of our Lord. It was out of pure sympathy and compassion that I expressed my affections. I felt genuine sorrow when she defied my hand. Sorrow for her! I knew the first time I gazed upon her that her receiving an offer of marriage was as likely as America winning the war! How very put-out I am! She could be toying with my emotions, but in any case, my patroness, the most highly esteemed Lady Catherine De Bourgh, will be very displeased with this situation, I am afraid. And her opinion is the only one that matters.
What is one to do?
-Harassed in Hertfordshire

Dear Harassed,
It is in my professional opinion that when one is attracted to a cousin, they should seek medical attention. Immediately. ASAP. Forthright. Have a good day.
-Abby

I've actually read a Dear Abby terrifyingly similar to the one above. Blah.

Fun with Jane and Jane...

2010-02-04T20:52:00.000-08:00

I wrote this about a month ago, but never posted it because at the time it was crap. But now it doesn't seem to be the crap I thought it once was. Hurrah!

I have switched gears from Jane Eyre to Jane Austen. Double Jane. This can't be healthy....
So, why the sudden Jane obsession? Fate. My Jane Eyre obsession happened after watching the movie and happening upon the novel at Deseret Book for about $4. The Jane Austen obsession, however, was born last night, at about 12:30 in the morning, after watching Becoming Jane for the first time. My impressions? They are as follows: *ahem*......... *giggle*, awww, GAH! *sob* THERE'S A KNIFE IN ME HEART!!!!
After I calmed down a bit and dried my tears, I laid there for a while, just observing a forming epiphany. And here she be: Decisions are everything. Every thought, every action, every blink of an eye, is a choice. The choices Jane Austen made in the film affected her thoughts, her character, her happiness, and ultimately, the entire course of her life. THE choice, the choice to leave Tom Lefory, was agony, and in the opinion of many females in America, the worst choice a woman could possibly make. But no matter how much they think so, the fact remains that Jane's choice was the right one. To quote Albus Dumbledore, "The time will come when you will have to choose between what is right and what is easy." What an awesome quote. And it's so true, too! In Jane's situation, staying with Tom, marrying him, living with and loving him until she died was a glorius, easy proposition. But she was so selfless, so in love with Tom, that she was able to do what was best for him, even though it tore her soul to pieces. Love, true love, requires sacrifice.
Which brings us to a gospel tie in. The Atonement was a choice. It was essential to the plan of salvation, yes. There would be no plan of salvation without it. But it was a choice. In Gethsemane, Christ could have walked away. He could have said "Nope, sorry, I'm done!" He was tempted to. But then love kicked in. Love for his Father, love for you, love for me, and love for all of the world. True love. True love requires sacrifice. The ultimate sacrifice. Without the Atonement, the ultimate sacrifice, there would be no love, no bliss, no anything. A bunch of mindless robots forced in a "The Giver" world. No color. No emotion. No love.
I love these kinds of movies. The gospel is so THERE and prominent in them, even if those who create them don't even realize.
How incredibly, inconceivably, almost irrationally awesome.

My Life-Altering Ingrid Michaelson Experience

2010-01-17T20:05:00.000-08:00

BLOGGING BLOCK AHH!
It just won't go away! GRRRR. So please enjoy this article I wrote for the school newspaper about my Ingrid Michaelson experience, while I go cry in the corner for my lack of creativity. *sniff*

It was mid September (probably on a Tuesday. Don’t all things momentous happen on Tuesdays?). I was lying around, clogging my arteries with pounds upon pounds of veggie chips and ranch dressing when I was hit by a sudden inspiration. I leapt into the air, sending the tasteless green chips (which are likened unto packing peanuts, unless ruthlessly drowned in Hidden Valley Ranch Dressing) in every direction, and bolted for the computer. I quickly googled Ingrid Michaelson’s official website, and clicked the “tour” button with the energy of a 2 year old hyped up on mommy’s secret stock of Ferro Rochers (tee hee). I quickly scanned all the locations Ingrid was going to be gracing with her presence this year. My finger froze on the cursor. I stared at the screen, beyond feeling. I couldn’t believe it. It was too perfect. Ingrid Michaelson, goddess of music, was coming to Salt Lake City on October 17. I felt giddy with euphoria. I was on the brink of insanity when I looked at the price of the tickets. They were only $15!!!!!!!!! AHHHHH!!!! This was on a level of perfection that no one, not even the makers of Barbie or the Victoria’s Secret catalog, could have even dreamed of dreaming of.
I raced to my mother, expecting her to join in on the rejoicing. “Mommy mommy guess what? Ingrid Michaelson is coming to Salt Lake next month and the tickets are cheap to the extreme can we go please please please oh mommy dearest?” I wasn’t even halfway through with my disgraceful begging when I knew it was of no use. Nonetheless, I stood there, staring at my mother in disbelief as her head slowly swung from side to side, shutting the one door that allowed a small flash of light into my poor, pitiful, dull, dark blip of an existence. This was Ingrid Michaelson we were talking about!! How could she pass an opportunity like this up?!?! Things like this only happen when wands and a magical force that makes ticket prices go unnaturally down are involved! I went into surly teenager mode, and demanded to know why she was murdering all the happiness left in the world. She gave her reasons, but I was feeling rebellious and didn’t listen.
I stormed off, in such a foul mood, I was considering kicking puppies and burning down an orphanage or two. If I couldn’t be happy, nobody else could.
Later that night, my mom found me sulking, apologized for the trauma she was causing me, and promised me a CD. This lifted my spirits a bit. She bought me the CD on the day of the concert, so I could listen to it while the actual shindig was going on. Nice, I thought. Sad, but nice.
“Be Ok” is a miracle. My limited ninth grade vocabulary prevents me from saying anything that can even begin to do it justice. Since receiving it, I have probably listened to it about three-hundred-and-five times. I wonder when the government will legalize marriage to inanimate objects…

AURGHAGRAURHGAUGHRAHHHHHHHHH!!!!

2010-01-11T16:10:00.000-08:00

That's my "I HAVE BLOGGING BLOCK" war cry. So, until my blogging block decides to take an overdue holiday in Fiji, please enjoy this knee slappin Baloonshop video.

Baytowne Heights

And this picture of George Clooney.

Merry Late Christmas To All...

2009-12-26T17:07:00.000-08:00

Ah, Christmas. The rockin' line of guitars around the Christmas tree, the majestic ear flaps, the skyping to long lost Spaniard sisters, the belly bursting amounts of Mormon Bubbly....S'wonderful! S'marvelous! I am forever grateful to Jesus for such a fantastic holiday.
On a non-related note, I have just found another superhuman author who has graced me with her words. Kate DiCamillo. The name simply drips with literary genius! It is the utmost honor to say that we are within the same species. We have all (hopefully) read/heard of "The Tale Of Desparaux" by this prodigious individual, and have merely appreciated the story, without really going on to pursue any more of the author's works. The world has been holding out on me. Where were the fanfares? The blimbs? Where were the ringing of trumpets throughout the land to announce another prestigious novel by a prestigious person? Oh, shame is the Earth! I wouldn't have wasted precious time on frivolous things such as Twilight and the like had these simple operations had been executed! *Sigh* Why must the world be so cruel to old Laura?
Well, to all you seas of people who are reading this, merry late Christmas to all, and to all a good night.

The Art of Trash Bagging

2009-12-18T15:41:00.000-08:00

I wrote this about a half hour before it was due. A bit crappily done, but amusing all the same.
It’s Friday night. Gilmore Girls is over. You have absolutely nothing to do. You are hit with the revelation: Trash bagging. There is your antidote for a boring Friday night.
Let me explain. In the art that is trash bagging, there is a very prestigious way of going about things. Pay close attention, because there will be a quiz. First, you get your trash bag. Then, simply grab your favorite pair of scissors, butchers knife, or machete and make 3 holes: two for your legs and one for your face. The face hole is most important. In the art of trash bagging, suffocating and dying is not acceptable. All violators of this vital trash bagging law shall pay the death penalty.
Next: Getting into the bag. Oops, silly me! I have forgotten a step! Before getting into the bag, you must change into a pair of shorts. This is crucial in order to achieve the optimum trash bagging experience. There now. Once you have your shorts in place, it is time to execute operation getting into the dang trash bag already. Just as you’d put on your shorts, or your favorite pair of clown trousers, place your legs into the leg holes you created previously. Ignoring the leg holes step can be treacherous. Please remember the step. Once this is finished, place your head in the head hole. Then have a dear friend, sibling, monkey, or a friendly questionable stranger tie the top of the trash bag atop your head. Then have your monkey, sibling, friend or questionable stranger drive you to any hose, but make sure it is a house you know (we here at the Trash Bagging Association of the Universe care about safety too, you know!). Then have your comrade ring the doorbell. As he/she does this, quickly sit down on the porch (back to the door), put your legs together, and look as much like a trash bag as is humanly possible. Once your unsuspecting victim opens the door, looking for carolers or a nice big, body sized package, they will see you and feel the utmost surprise. Now remember,, if this is carried out correctly, you will look like a real trash bag, and the door opener sees you, they will attempt to grab you and take you inside to show the children. This is when you act. Once they make their move, jump up, making your victim wet themselves, and run off to the patiently waiting vehicle, drive away, and don’t forget to look behind you at your prank recipient’s hilarious face.
There now, you have successfully completed your first trash bagging course. Congratulations! Now just remember: it’s all good fun, and what is funnier than a bare legged, running trash bag?

And to think it all spawned from a measly picture of a soccer game....

2009-12-14T20:47:00.000-08:00

Alright alright, so here's how it all went down. It was on Thursday. Mr. Walline decided he needed to waste our time further with his own moronic invention, which he has christened "free-writes". He said, and I quote, "It's called a free-write, *giggle* so you are free *giggle* to write about whatever you want." So, he posts a meaningless picture up on the crappy overhead everyday and we are supposed to write a whole page on it.
Did I take the man's statement a little too seriously? Possibly. Ah well, revel with me in the insanity.

Warning: This free-write is so awesome, there have been many reports of death, for it's inconceivable majesty is beyond which us mere mortals can fathom. Proceed with care, cation, and sunglasses (to shield your eyes from the unbearable hotness).

"What a terrible waste of time." Laura thought as she free-wrote on her tragic waste of a tree. "I could be doing something noble and worth my while, like curing cancer or watching a Cary Grant movie." She thought Cary Grant thoughts as she stared out of the window. "Oh Cary," she sighed, "they just don't make men like you anymore." She teared up at the thought. "Life should have more Cary Grants, Jude Laws, Johnny Depps, Mr. Rochesters, and just a smidgen of Marlon Brandos. But life, as great and sumptuous as it is, doesn't care about what I want. If it did, Cary Grant would still be alive, and my letter from Hogwarts would be here by now." Just as this thought entered little Laura's head, the ceiling opened up, and Cary Grant descended into Mr. Walline's dreary classroom, a broomstick in his hand and a sexy smile on his sexy face. "Sorry, darling!" he said, wrapping her in the most Cary Grant embrace she all but melted, "I would've been here sooner, but I had to track down this owl here. Turns out he confused 'Rexburg' with 'Iceberg', and has been lost in Antarctica for the past three years." He then produced a shivering owl from his coat. Upon seeing Laura, the owl gave an excited hoot and stuck out his leg. And there it was. Her letter. Laura removed the holy parcel, pleased but not at all surprised as she looked it over. "Alright then!" Cary said, mounting his broomstick. "Come, Laura! Magic waits for no one." Completely jazzed, Laura hopped onto the broomstick and sped off into the sunset, leaving her cheering muggle classmates behind her.

Love is a Burnin Thing...

2009-12-06T16:22:00.000-08:00

In the british excitement of the other day, I lost my wits and forgot to post a bit about Jane Eyre, dash it all! I shall repent of that sin immediately. *Ahem*
Charlotte Brontë..if you weren't a woman, I would have a serious crush on you. I mean, geez lady!!! You have cheated God with your brilliance!!! Any other author who dares place their work above yours is delusional and a complete moron, and possibly suicidal (because I WILL hunt them down. Hear me now, scum! You have been warned!). Lets reflect on her best work's magnificence, shall we?
Mr Rochester: You leave Edward Cullen, Mr. Darcey, and all those other now seemingly childish blokes behind by about a couple lightyears with your COMPLETE AND UTTER DROP DEAD GORGEOUS CHARACTERISTICS!!! AURGH!!! Let's kill Jane and you can marry me. I'm serious, my dearest fictional lover!! Whats a couple hundred years? I don't care how old you are, I want you, you sexy beast you.
Jane: You make every pretty rich girl want to be penniless and ordinary so they can get a man like Rochester. You are envied by women of all ages, shapes, forms, creeds, and tongues, including me. ESPECIALLY me. I know its wrong to put all your hope for a love life into a hunky hunky fictional character, but I can't help myself. Wanna trade lives? You get a world with Johnny Depp and toilets, dang it!
The Love: Alright, alright, I can't have Mr. Rochester, as painful as it is for me to admit it. It wouldn't be right. The love between Mr. Rochester and Jane is what makes Mr. Rochester the spectacular creature that he is. If I took him, he wouldn't be the man we all love and adore. *sighs, swoons, drools, hyperventilates, passes out.*
The love Jane and Mr. Rochester share is beautiful. It isn't for lust or for gain or relations. It is pure, honest love. Unconditional, irrevocable, it is the epitome of beauty. A girl who has nothing, no family, no gold, no anything, has this magical thing that the most wealthy, spoiled girls would kill for. To love and to be loved this powerfully, in such astonishing concentration, could leave you dying happy just thinking about it. The idea, the wonderful idea, that this love in fact exists makes life worth living.

I highly, highly, highly, clear up to high heaven recommend this book, and the 2006 version of the movie. The movie is on youtube (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2XsB22Qjz3A). Do yourself a favor: find about four hours in your day and watch this movie. Start with that link and work your way around. Tis simply incredible. You will thank me.

Good Heavens, You Boys! Blue Blooded Murder of the English Tongue!

2009-12-02T15:23:00.000-08:00

(Picture: The brilliant Monty Python comedians in "The Ministry of Silly Walks. If you have any self respect you will youtube this video now.)

Today, while not listening to my history teacher's trivial blabber, it was revealed to me in a vision that I was to make a list of all the British words and phrases I could summon in that hour. Most of these are inspired/stolen from Harry Potter, Wallace and Gromit, various BBC movies, Peter Pan, and the Harry Potter Song. Enjoy!
(Note: If any british people are reading this: I am sorry to offend you. But it's so much bloody fun!!)

Pip pip!
What what?
Spit spot! Alert the corgi!
Cheerio!
Mate
Git
Prat
Bloody
Eh?
"Ni!"
Pint
Don't go and get your knickers in a twist!
Deuce
'Arry Potter!
Rubbish
Cricket!
"You're driving on the wrong side of the road!"
Crumpets
Tartan
Bowler hat
"Uh oh! God save the Queen!"
"No, that is not a boat, that is Queen Victoria!"
"By jove!"
Cracking!
"Jolly good!"
Pompous
"Marvelous! Absolutely spiffing!"
Blighter
Monocle
"Merlin's Beard!"
"Jumpin gargoyles!"
"Simply splendid to see you, old boy!"
Ello!
"Ello guvnah!"
"Sir, please dismount the banistster."
"Odds, bobs, hammers and tongs!"
"Bangers and mash. Bubbles and squeak. Smoked eel pie!"
Haggis
Trousers
Walkies!
"Ah, well, it's no use prevaricating about the bush... "
"The bounce has gone from his bungee."
Gerroff
"Fugitive, ay? You'll be hunted down like... well, a dog."
"We've forgotten the crackers!"
"Kiss me arrtechoke!"
"That was bloody brilliant!"
"A little less noise there, a little less noise!"

*Bows, curtsies* Thank you! Oh thank you! This has been a splendid old time! Thank you! If you would like to hear the bloody brilliant "Harry Potter Song", simply place this address
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yTzKx9HfO0g
into the browser of your choice.
Don't forget to drink your tea! And eat lapel popping amounts of crumpets! G'day sir!

Ask me no questions, and I shall not unknowingly promise to play hymns that are beyond my power to plunk out in Seminary.

2009-11-30T17:07:00.001-08:00

Above: The Piano From Hell/What the Seminary building's piano is going to look like when I'm through with it.

Thoughts From a Lonely, Lowly Sickbed

2009-11-29T20:09:00.000-08:00

Thought #1: Blahhhhh....
Thought #2: Blahhh to the 1000000000000000000000000th power.
#3: Blah I am wasting so much time on MLIA. I should be finished with Jane Eyre by now, dang it!!
4: So hungry, but too lazy to get up and make something of myself.
5: I wanna hippopotamus for Christmas...
6: Nothing but a hippopotamus will do...
7: Why can't I remember the name to that dang Feist song? And why won't my ipod won't tell me?
8: Why does Nsync suck so very badly?
9: Why am I listening to Nsync?
10: Note to self: Devise slightly heinous master plan to rid the world of all Nsync rubbish. And Miley Cyrus.
11: We are sick, we are sick, we are sick sick sick...
12: MARIA! MAAAAAAAARIA!!!! Maria, say it loud and there's music playing....
13: How do you solve a problem like Maria...
14: Why was Marie Antoinette guillotined?
15: Guillotine is such a funny word. Like pudding. Or oi.
16: Oi with the poodles already!
17: If your out on the road (doo doo do doo doo) feeling lonely and so cold (doo doo do doo doo)
18: Doo do doo doo do do do do do do doo doo! (Charlie Brown)
18: Charlie Brown! To the left! Take it back now ya'll! One hop this time!
19: Well, you can rock it you can roll it, you can stop and you can stroll it at the hop. When the record starts spinnin' You chalypso when you chicken at the hop. Do the dance sensation that is sweepin' the nation at the hop!
Ah, let's go to the hop
Let's go to the hop, (oh baby)
Let's go to the hop, (oh baby)
Let's go to the hop
Come on, let's go to the hop
19: Pop goes my heart! (pop goes my heart)
20: Hugh Grant Hugh Grant Hugh Grant...
21: I wonder what Hugh Grant is doing right now....probably something awesome. Like watching Pokemon or bungie jumping.
23: I'm Julia Child! Bon Appetit!
24: When is Julie & Julia coming out on DVD, Dan Radcliffe it?!!!
25: Nap time.......

One nap later.

26: Woah. I dream weird when I'm sick. I didn't know that alcohol-less vodka existed. Even in dreamland! Or that Jacob's girlfriend had 10 crates of it. Or that Jacob likes to call Liz his Blue Baboo......
27: Must. Eat. Now.
28: I wonder when the government will legalize marriage to chicken enchiladas...Or are these turkey enchiladas? I can never tell what I'm REALLY eating when Thanksgiving comes around.
29: Ok, drinking 2 quarts of orange juice was not my most brilliant idea. *whimper*
30: Ooh! I have neglected my fans. They must be on tenterhooks waiting for me! *blogs*

What's In a Name?

2009-11-28T10:18:00.000-08:00

Bloomability, the book after which this formidable blog has been rightly christened, is, in a word, freakinawesome. Sharon Creech, the maker of this miracle, has "my permission to be empress of the universe" (quote by Sister Camilla). Honestly. I mean, listen to this:
"Two prisoners look through the same bars; one sees mud and the other sees stars."
That one little quote is pretty much what this whole book is based upon. Be happy or be sad. Live your life or don't. It's your choice. So simple, yet so powerful. AURH!!
Robert Frost's Poem "The Road Less Traveled" is also a big theme in the book. We all will be faced with choices in our lives (to state the obvious). We have the choice to follow what others before us have done, or choose our own path. Take the road less traveled. Live our lives.
Sono Libero!! Viva! Viva! Viva!

Let's Get Down to Business

2009-11-27T20:42:00.000-08:00

To defeat the huns....UH!!!

Well hey there! Thanks for droppin by. You have just clicked onto magical ground. No, this isn't Narnia, but is, however, the next best thing.

Sorry, excuse the pathetic attempt at a humorous intro. The chief is dangerously low on ice cream. And sanity. Stick around and she might just recuperate. Maybe. Probably not....

Right, so for those of you who have no idea in the holy name of crap of who I am, I happen to be the world renowned Laura Chapman. You have permission to bask in my glow. Right, enough worship for one evening.
So: the ultimate question. Why is a nice, amiable, not-so-respectable, 14 year old girl like myself blogging like a spinster because she just made one toilet cozy too many and has nothing else to do? Long story short, my school's first trimester (yes, trimester) is over, which means my high school journalism career has come to a shuddering halt, and I can't stand to loose my mystic touch, so this bloggifying is my only outlet. *Sigh*. So, in order to keep my writing in ship-shape, (and to keep from falling into the dark and dingy abyss of aspiring Stephenie Meyers) you are the lucky victim of my ruthless, eternal babbling. Huzzah! Drinks all around!
While you're a-sippin your pint, shot, Shirley Temple, what have you, let's get to know each other, eh?
What I'm drinking: a combination of mylifeisaverage.com, Jane Eyre (and ze other classics), Gilmore Girls, fantastic movies, journalistic memories, all brewed together with Ingrid Michaelson and 1/4 cup of cheer. And boy does it taste fine!

I'm usually not so awkward at conclusions. And I'm usually not this concieted-sounding either. Hmm..ah! The perfect antidote!
Pick your favorite tune, and join me in the Hogwarts Song!!!

Hogwarts, Hogwarts, hoggy warty Hogwarts,
Teach us something please,
Whether we be old and bald,
Or young with scabby knees,
Our heads could do with filling,
With some interesting stuff,
For now they're bare and full of air,
Dead flies and bits of fluff,
So teach us things worth knowing,
Bring back what we've forgot,
Just do your best, we'll do the rest,
And learn until our brains all rot.

"Ah music. A magic far beyond all we do here."
-Albus Dumbledore

The End of a rather pathetic first blog post.