A girl in Switzerland. She likes video games, movies, and trips to the moon.
IM JUST TRYING TO SPELL POMEGRANATES
if no one comes from the future to stop you from doing it then how bad of a decision can it really be
Meet Ophelia from Shakespeare’s Hamlet, she is about to take her own life. This fate could have been avoided if she had a sassy gay friend.
my entire life is comprised of me deciding if i should fiesta or siesta
ain’t no party like a Gatsby party because a Gatsby party don’t stop until at least two people are dead and everyone is disillusioned with the jazz age as a whole
Nate Fick’s Fucking Lips Appreciation Post
(with bonus, Brad staring at Nate Fick’s fucking lips)
Requested by bitchpleasethereisnogod
Adventure Time style
i love this post so much.
I want to hug you, OP.
# Oh my Gallifrey # The Doctor’s face # He’s seen humans before and traveled with them for years on end # But the way he looks at Rose this early in their partnership is different # It’s the gaze of a man besotted # It’s the gaze of a man who’s done things he doesn’t believe he can ever be forgiven for and yet # This gorgeous woman standing in front of him gives him hope # She’s clever and brave and she’s here with him no matter how gruff he’s been or how he’s subtly tried to push her away (via gallifreyburning)
No Doctor will ever look at Rose like that. Ever. Nine was in complete awe of that woman, completely and totally in love. That look screams of reverence, mystification, admiration, adoration and love. He’s been turned into a lovesick teenager who writes songs on loose leaf while strumming his guitar. Inside his hearts are singing out to her, aching to be in her arms.
This was truly the Doctor who fell in love.
This was also the doctor that died for love
The only Doctor born from hatred and war
And redeemed through love
So much that the thing that he chose to die for
Was love itself.
Ten was born from love
And died half-mad.
Eleven was born half-mad
And we see where he is now.
But nine was born in fire
And love is what made him finally stop burning.
A sex ed class in 1929
this chick
she knows what’s up
Every face in there is so priceless
facial reference right here
Most Tarantino-isms aren’t printable in a family blog, but there is one phrase that Quentin Tarantino apparently says on his sets, as Stacey Sher, his longtime producer, revealed on the red carpet.
It’s such a Pollyanna-ish moment that it’s hard to believe it really happens anywhere near Mr. Tarantino, but Kerry Washington, a star of “Django Unchained,” seconded it. After a shot is finished, she explained, “He always says: ‘That was great, but we’re going to do it again. Why?’
Then everybody chants, “‘Because we love making movies!’”
This semester has certainly not been without a its fair share of excitement, but the most noteworthy event so far is without a doubt my surgery at the beginning of the month.
Let me preface this by saying, quite simply, I have a deep, paralyzing fear of three things in this world: vomit, needles and germs. I have vivid childhood memories of having to be physically restrained in order to get shots. I steer clear of people who catch stomach bugs for weeks after they recover and wash my hands until they crack and bleed. As a result, I am as fond of hospitals as I am of airports or gas station bathrooms or E. coli. I had done a successful job of avoiding them, too, until the end of this September.
I was sick. I was viciously sick. I was so sick I could barely sit up. At first, I chalked it up to a nasty stomach bug or food poisoning. It’ll go away, right? I spent my waking moments in a hypochondria-fueled haze, alternating between WebMD’s symptom checker (which declared “appendicitis” or “cancer” no matter how I typed in my symptoms) and e-mailing the school nurse. It’s going to just go away, right? I sat in a terrified fever-dream. Hours and hours later, when I couldn’t even muster the energy to play Fallout, I could ignore the signs no more. It was with great anguish that I made my way to the Ospedale Civico’s pronto soccorso (emergency room).
Wendy, my dear friend and the on-duty RA, helped me catch a cab to the hospital. With our combined Italian skills (read: Wendy did the talking), we explained my symptoms and they told me to sit in the waiting room. After about an hour, a nurse came and took my temperature and gave me some pain medicine. I was bored and my stomach was in blazing agony, but the room was almost empty and Wendy and I just sat and chatted. Two more hours later, however, and our patience (and the pain medicine) was wearing thin. Wendy had responsibilities on campus and had to take off.
I sat alone in the ER and tried not to think about the woman next to me who was periodically running out of the room to vomit. The waiting room was slowly filling up with people and there was no end in sight. I had almost reached my limit after another two hours of waiting, at which point the pain medicine was completely gone and I was completely stir-crazy. I debated just leaving. I’m probably overreacting. This is a waste of time, I thought to myself. I went up to the desk and asked the nurse for more medicine. She seemed startled so see that I was still there. Never a good sign. She just nodded and told me it would be another half an hour.
I arrived at the hospital at 14:30. I was admitted at 20:45. By that point, I was physically and mentally exhausted. The nurse hooked me up to an IV (I was so worn out at this point that I didn’t even flinch at the needle) and some glorious pain medication. I sat in a trance brought on by resignation, medication and exhaustion. Doctors and nurses came in and poked and prodded; they took a blood test, a CT scan, and an ultrasound. My doctor spoke English fluently, but many of the nurses and technicians did not. Quite a few instructions were lost in translation to some degree or another, the most notable occasion being the contrast CT scan. Before the radiologist injected the contrast dye, he pointed at me and said simply, “two minutes, very hot.” The contrast dye produces a strange hot-flash, as if someone is lighting your veins on fire or replacing your blood with boiling water. As the eery feeling spread from my stomach out through my fingers, I thought numbly, “Oh, that’s what he meant.”
The final verdict was appendicitis. By 2:30 in the morning, they had called in an anesthesiologist and a surgeon who introduced themselves to me and handed me paperwork. I still have no idea what I signed; when I asked about it, I got a noncommittal response about needing permission to do some things. They had me document the amount of money I had in my wallet so that none of it went walkabout. They let me call my family to tell them the news. Then, it was time for surgery.
“Wait,” I stopped the anesthesiologist. “I’m terrified. Absolutely terrified.”
“I can fix that,” he said. “You Americans are always so scared.”
He whipped out a syringe, shot something into my IV, and in an instant I was so content that I barely remember being wheeled into the OR.
•
I awoke, quite literally, in a blur. The nurses had misplaced my glasses, and so I looked aimlessly about the fuzzy orange room in despair. I tried shifting around and, to my great dismay, found I was connected to numerous tubes and instruments. I vaguely remember my surgeon coming in, and I remember a couple of frenzied conversations with the nurses about 1) my glasses and 2) the plastic tubing protruding from my gut. The nurses in the surgical recovery ward spoke much less English than even the ER nurses had. I spent much of the day in a silent, blurry, post-anesthesia, glassesless fog.
Later, both my uncle’s brother, Raz, and the school nurse, Chris, showed up. Chris found my glasses and Raz sat and kept me company for the rest of the afternoon. My vision restored, I was able to see that my room had 4 beds and an awesome view of the lake. I chatted with Chris and Raz as well as with the girl in the bed across from me.
Hospitals are boring. My bedrest was so uneventful that it was a thrill to be able to walk across the hall to the bathroom. In the mornings, I endured the awkward silence and then the doctors’ morning rounds. In the afternoons, Raz sat and kept me company as long as he was allowed to, and I had visits from my awesome roommates. My mama was incredible and flew on the first flight she could out Switzerland to see me. She got in the day after my surgery, and sat with me for the rest of my recovery. I chatted with the lady in the bed to my right about her job as an acupuncturist and her studies in Santa Fe. People cycled through my room fairly quickly, and I tried to ignore the sounds of pain and the smells of the bedpans of my less fortunate sisters-in-medicine.
The nurses who were on shift by my second night spoke no English at all, and so we communicated through an array of facial expressions, shrugs and single-word questions (“dolori?”). My day-shift nurse was harsh and somewhat mean. My night-shift nurse was peppy and sweet. I made the mistake of asking my night-shift nurse for some anti-nausea medicine on one occasion. She nodded cheerfully and ran off, and then in a flash returned and jabbed a needle into my thigh. I didn’t ask for any more medicine after that.
Finally, the day came when I was allowed to remove the tubing from my gut and leave my wretched plastic bed. I clutched my mama’s hand so tightly my knuckles were white as harsh day-shift nurse began to pull on the surgical tubing. She tugged and tugged and, 8 inches of agony and flared plastic later, I was free of my medical shackles. I met with my doctors one last time, got my discharge papers, and was officially allowed to leave. We gathered my things and took off (well, crept out the hall and down the stairs and then had to take a break at the benches. I had the stamina and movement capabilities of a 90-year-old).
My mama and I stayed in a local hotel until I was strong enough to walk again. She nursed me back to health and kept me in far better spirits than I was in in the hospital. Unfortunately, she had to depart for home, and I had to get back to classes. C’est la vie. I’ll be leaving my appendix in Switzerland, and all I’ve got to show for it are a couple of scars and a sheet of paper that says “Diagnosi: Appendicite acuta gangrenosa.”
That’s right, bitches. Gangrene.
I got back from my second academic travel last weekend. This time I journeyed south into Italy, the land of Renaissance art and culture. My class this semester was an examination of the history of Italian art through the ages, looking at everything from Michelangelo to Caulder.
We left Lugano bright and early and hopped on a train to Milan. After about an hour, we changed trains in Milan, jumping onto one of the gorgeous Frecciarossa trains into Florence. The trip from Milan to Florence only took about an hour and a half, and we arrived in Florence early enough to do some sightseeing before dinner. We dumped our bags off at the Hotel Diplomat (our original hotel, the Hotel Club was “under renovations,” so we got bumped to a different–better– hotel) and took off in search of the Galleria dell’Academia.
On the way to see the David at the Academy, we stopped at the The Basilica di Santa Maria del Fiore (shorthand: The Duomo) and climbed up the belltower.
After the belltower, we headed to the Academy where we saw the David, a whole collection of Michelangelo’s statues, and a gallery exhibit of the history of musical instruments (my favorite of which was the awesomely titled hurdy gurdy.)
We wandered around Florence on our own for a while, picked up some gelato and waffles, and then just kicked it until evening. We headed to dinner that night, and ate dinner at an awesome osteria across the river.
The next morning, we got on a local train to Perugia. We arrived at Perugia station mid-morning, and waited in front of the station for about half an hour before our bus arrived to take us to the hotel.
We got to the Hotel Ilgo late in the morning, then met up with the group again to walk up to Perugia proper. Mira and I wandered around downtown Perugia for a while, ate lunch at an underground pizzeria, and met up with the group to head up to the Fuseum, the home and gallery of Brajo Fuso.
We wandered around the Fuseum for a while and had a really awesome tour guide, but our tour went a couple of minutes over and we missed our bus back down the hill. We waited for about an hour and a half for the next bus to arrive, then got off at the bottom of the MiniMetro line and took a miniature train car back up to Perugia.
Maya and I decided to break away from the rest of the group. We headed back to the hotel and ate dinner at the hotel restaurant.
I spent the next two days stuck in the hotel room coughing up both of my lungs.
The next day, we left for La Fratta, taking a pit stop at a shopping mall and then the small ceramics town of Deruta, where we learned about the history of Italian ceramic techniques.
That afternoon, we arrived at La Fratta, the art house run by artists Luca and Elisabetta. The house was surrounded on all sides by farmland, and it was a peaceful retreat in the Italian countryside.
The next morning we had our first ceramics class with Luca, where we talked about the art of Raku pottery, the aesthetic ideals it represents, and the idea of creation as a journey, not a means to an end product. We each made a bowl and a large form. I spent the afternoon, again, sick in bed, but Elisabetta called me a doctor and so I got some antibiotics. The next day, Sunday, was again a sick day, but I was feeling well enough by the day after to be able to fully participate in class activities.
On Sunday we did glaze color trials and did our first batch of raku firing.
The rest of the time spent at La Fratta was filled with awesome food, good company, and lots and lots of ceramics. We spent 5 nights in the art house, kicking it and generally having a good time.
We took a side trip to Todi while we were staying at La Fratta. It was an evening trip; we mostly headed up to Todi for dinner at the Trattoria Umbria, but it was a cute little medieval town and we had a good time exploring.
We left La Fratta on Wednesday and took a bus down to Rome. We got to Rome, dumped our bags at the Hotel Center 1-2-3, and walked to Termini station to catch a metro train to the Vatican City.
We dined in the Vatican Museum cafeteria, then wandered through the Vatican Museums for the rest of the afternoon. After three high-speed laps of the main museum circuit, we headed back to the hotel and rested until dinner. We had our last group dinner at a cute little restaurant nearby to our hotel.