So, I just had my first food studies class. We read a couple articles ahead and discussed food philosophy, and we have a collective blog. It's a very small class, but the people in it are pretty serious and lucid about food, and if you have no life and want to know how I write for classes, click here (I'm maoismdoesntwork). I'm excited about this class. Really excited. And thoughts of lobster ravioli and kokoreç (Turkish grilled sheep intestines) are now crowding out the geometric sequences and logarithms that belong in my head. So, I'm listening to Suzanne Vega and Carly Simon to remedy it. Yeah, that's clever, I know.
Have I told you about the Gatsby Ball? Before judging, just listen. Because, by all accounts that I trust (there aren't many, but they come from people with excellent taste in wine and music) it will kick ass. My English teacher puts it on every year, and it's part of her American Literature course. I'm in AP Composition and therefore required to go, but I would have anyway. You go as a character from the 1920s, dressed & researched etc. I was asked to be Jeeves to somebody's Bertie Wooster, but have opted instead to stick with the dress I'd already borrowed from a friend at home. Haven't yet worked out what sort of person I'll be, but I'm looking forward to next Saturday rather a lot. Because I am a geek, and I really do love ballroom dancing.
I'm not particularly looking forward to this Saturday, though. There's a swim meet about four hours' drive away. If I don't go I'm off the team, which means I'm no longer excused from fitness classes. And I love swimming. I just don't want to spend a day on a bus feeling chlorinated and getting stingy rashes all over my thighs and dealing with damp towels in the cold and strange pools and a bad-tempered coach who, I am convinced, wants my head. I hate it when people hate me.
Here's a picture from Washington. Goodbye.