whichever one of you has an altar to the semi-colon in her closet. snowballs in hell. chicks with hammers: pry up my floorboards.
cakefight, draculazombieusa east coast annex, hula cougar, hole, sleater-kinney, le tigre, arcade fire, liz phair, radiohead, madonna circa 1989, elliott smith, the postal service, eminem, cyndi lauper, george michael, all that is cheesycool, sarge, she wants revenge, yeah yeah yeahs, the magnetic fields, that dog., dressy bessy, pj harvey, nina simone, radiohead, tuscadero, johnny boy, clap your hands say yeah, beck, nirvana, broken social scene, bonnie raitt, el perro del mar, the gossip, kanye west, chainsaw kittens...
clueless, adventures in babysitting, magnolia, thirteen, trashy action flix, movies about high school...
daily show, colbert, weeds, six feet under, sex and the city, buffy the vampire slayer, my so-called life, simpsons, saved by the bell, sopranos, dexter...
3
The jacmanna was bright violet; the wall staring white. She would not have considered it honest to tamper with the bright violet and the staring white, since she saw them like that, fashionable though it was, since Mr. Paunceforte's visit, to see everything pale, elegant, semitransparent. Then beneath the color there was the shape. She could see it all so clearly, so commandingly, when she looked: it was when she took her brush in hand that the whole thing changed. It was in that moment's flight between the picture and her canvas that the demons set on her who often brought her to the verge of tears and made this passage from conception to work as dreadful as any down a dark passage for a child. Such she often felt herself -- struggling against terrific odds to maintain her courage; to say: "But this is what I see; this is what I see," and so to clasp some miserable remnant of her vision to her breast, which a thousand forces did their best to pluck from her. And it was then too, in that chill and windy way, as she began to paint, that there forced themselves upon her other things, her own inadequacy, her insignificance, keeping house for her father off the Brompton Road, and had much ado to control her impulse to fling herself (thank Heaven she had always resisted so far) at Mrs. Ramsay's knee and say to her -- but what could one say to her? "I'm in love with you?" No, that was not true. "I'm in love with this all," waving her hands at the hedge, at the house, at the children. It was absurd, it was impossible. -- To the Lighthouse