The Kids at Camp

They used to call me Alison Wonderland. In retrospect, it's a pretty cool nickname.

Seriously, Guys, It's an Ethical Dilemma

Sir Robo-galacticoman: But Princess Ashaleey, I love you!

Princess Ashaleey: No, Sir Robo-galacticoman, it can never be!

(It's for the love of her country! She is worried about the potential immortality = king forever issue - no one likes a metal tyrant)

ZOHMBAYHZ!

I promise not everything I draw is dead!

Skellingtons

It was a real skeleton. I touched it. It was cool.

By cool, though, I mean sad. Despite the beautifully simple lines and the awe inspiring, complex structure (evolution blows my mind), I can't help but to wonder who she was.

Anyone seen Fast Times at Ridgemont High? Do you think she was a vagrant who sold her body to science for $30? I have no idea when she was alive. Maybe she was the victim of grave-robbery in the 1800s? Did she know parts of her body that she herself had never even seen were going to be thoroughly but dispassionately scrutinized by art student after art student for decades. It's like she's being whored out. I wouldn't feel so bad about it if any of us had the talent to really render her with the passion, innovation, and loveliness that her bones deserve, but as it is, she is prisoner to our mediocrity.

In other news, I'm still jazzed about MIT. Not even art can bring me down from the cirrus (is that the very, very high one?) cloud that I have been floating on for the past 55.5 hours.

MIT '12

Yes.

This isn't l'etranger!

Part 2, Chapter 4 of Albert Camus' l'etranger is the chapter that I have been assigned to teach tomorrow. Naturally, that means that I've spent the evening puttering around the internet trying not to think about the fact that I left the wee tome in my locker. And thus, the origins of this post:

I googled some phrase in Klingon, the only result was an old livejournal. I explored the livejournal. What's this?! The fellow speaks at least 5 languages, how interesting... and then I see a string of comments, a 'conversation' in which the blogger and another non-native English speaker attack an American for using the present tense of 'to forget.' No where else in the world, they say, have they ever heard anyone say 'I forget' instead of 'I forgot' or 'I have forgotten.' The American, they say, is just plain wrong. Now, the American failed tragically in defending himself and his countrymen, and I would have gone hastily to his aid if the thread (and, in fact, the entire blog) had not died several years ago.
So, I will justify the American 'forget' here. This may be not be true of everyone, but when I say 'I forget,' I say it with the expectation that I will remember the information at some point; it has been only temporarily misplaced. I say 'I've forgotten' when I doubt that I will ever be able to drag up the lost kernel of knowledge. Chalk it up to the legendary American optimism! We of the United States refuse to acknowledge the potential endurance of any sort of negativity.

And I should go look for l'etranger again.

Uberdoodle

Wow. This is supposed to be a sketchblog. Sometimes I forget!

I will be surprised and slightly perturbed if anyone figures out what this is about.